The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  The serpent dove into another house, the impact sending up sparks and setting fire to the piled thatch that remained, its long body slithering through the air for several seconds before it disappeared.

  The rattling sound returned.

  It was all around them.

  “Enough conjecture,” Lucas said. He grabbed his staff, jabbing one of LaGaere’s men to life. “Gather the horses! Grab what you can and leave whatever you can’t carry. We’ll make for the hill.”

  “What’s to say it won’t follow us?” he asked as the others began to stir.

  “My prayers, and yours as well, if you’re wise,” Lucas snapped. He prodded the men again, and then they were up and running, weapons to hand, staring wildly at the surrounding courtyard.

  “Lucas, my friend,” Sacombre said, raising his shackled hands and nodding to the chain that held him captive to the rust-pitted stocks. “Surely you won’t leave us behind.”

  Swearing, Lucas fumbled through his robes for the keys. The rattling sound grew louder. Then the serpent broke free of the stones of the courtyard and vaulted over the doma, its belly brushing the shattered dome, striking sparks from the marble. Martin could see long, wispy tendrils on the creature’s face and down its sides, and its scales looked like saucers of hammered light.

  The serpent itself appeared to be made of shadow, and it was wearing its scales like a shirt of mail, each individual link linked to the next. The scales made a thunderous noise as the creature passed by, clattering together and against the stones. It turned a languid eye in Martin’s direction, an iris of shapes like twisted antlers hanging suspended in the dark fluid.

  “To hell with this,” Lucas spat. He drew his staff above his head, whispered an incantation, then struck Sacombre’s chains. The icons on the manacles flared brightly, then the cuffs snapped open. After a second’s hesitation, he did the same to the witch’s bonds. Lucas snatched Sacombre to his feet and drew him close, hissing. “One misstep, and Cinder’s judgment will not wait for you, Tomas. I will burn you down myself.”

  “If we both survive this, yes,” Sacombre said. The ground began to shake, grinding loudly as the cobblestones began popping up, first across the open courtyard, then closer and closer as the serpent burrowed below, faster than seemed possible.

  They ran. The man sent to fetch the horses cut them loose, swinging onto the last one before leading the charge out the front gate. LaGaere bellowed at him, but the panicked mounts were gone before anyone else got a chance to mount.

  Sir Horne tarried, letting Martin grab Fianna as he tumbled down the road. The three of them watched the serpent approach, but the gheist seemed drawn to the high inquisitor. Frair Lucas erected a hasty barrier of shadow, which seemed to turn the gheist aside for a brief moment, giving them the opportunity to flee.

  Sacombre and the witch were still hobbled, and their progress was greatly slowed, dragged behind Frair Lucas and Martin Roard respectively. By the time they reached the exit to the courtyard, LaGaere was already at the gate. The duke of Warhome grabbed his remaining men, giving orders. Two of them rushed off, and the rest formed a nervous shieldwall across the gate.

  “We will hold,” LaGaere shouted. “Get into the woods! Those fool horses disappeared among the trees!”

  “We are safer… upon… the godsroad,” Lucas gasped as he stumbled past, Sacombre in hand.

  “We are safer on horseback,” LaGaere countered. “Now go!”

  Lucas didn’t question. He ran into the woods, towing Sacombre behind him. Horne and Martin followed. LaGaere and his men formed a skirmish line across the gate, half of them in full armor, the rest nearly naked but wielding their blades. The gheist slithered toward them.

  “Steady!” LaGaere said. “We protect the high inquisitor. The will of Cinder will protect us!”

  The gheist flickered its tail, crushing a house that stood beside the gate, sending stones and splintered wood across the road. Those unfortunate enough to wear only cloth and faith were struck down, screaming as broken rock cut through their flesh. The others went to their knees as the force of the impact stunned them.

  LaGaere was the first to recover. He shook loose scree from his shoulders and rushed forward, swinging downward with his sword. The blade glanced off the shimmering plates of the gheist’s body, ringing like a struck bell. The creature turned to face him, opening its mouth wide and hissing.

  “On your feet, fools!” LaGaere ordered. The handful of men who still lived stood slowly. The gheist’s attention focused entirely on LaGaere, and none of them seemed interested in drawing its gaze their way.

  LaGaere spat. “I am cursed with cowards,” he muttered. “I pray you serve better when it’s mortal flesh you face.”

  With a shriek, the gheist launched itself again, plowing forward with its snout. LaGaere spun to the side, striking at its eye as the creature passed, barely missing the mark. He struck the hard earth with a grunt.

  Seeing their lord thrown to the ground roused the knights, and they ran forward. The strong plates of the gheist’s flesh turned aside their blades, but the men wielding maces shattered scales and drew blood. The gheist howled and rippled his body, knocking them aside with a thick coil.

  “This is worthless,” LaGaere said, coming again to his feet. “Gods pray the others have gotten away. Move the injured, if there’s any hope of life, and leave the rest. Save your lives.” He backed away, grimacing at the twisting body of the feral god. “We will fight another day, if we must.”

  The men didn’t need a second order. They hauled their injured companions to the tree line, drawing moans and shrieks of pain. Once they were clear, LaGaere followed.

  The gheist ignored them now. It passed the gate and coiled up like a rattlesnake in the center of the road, its dazzling scales glinting with internal light, its beard of shadow tendrils tasting the air.

  Then it dove into the ground. A brilliant glow came up from the cobbles like sunlight seen through heavy clouds, brighter in the cracks between stones. Martin tugged the witch close, then ducked behind a tree. Horne hesitated, then came back to kneel beside them.

  “It is hunting for us. Or one of us, at least,” Martin whispered. The gheist swam down the road, its light flickering off the canopy of trees like lightning. “What do you think…”

  “Hush,” Horne said. The creature paused, then dove into the forest, breaching the ground in an arc of sharp scales of sunrise light for half a breath before disappearing among the trees. They watched it go.

  “I think we need to find those horses,” Sir Horne said. “And our inquisitor.” She glanced at Fianna, grimacing. “Keep a close hand on that one. This is likely her doing.”

  “The gods do not come when I call,” Fianna protested, but Horne was already up and running. The witch looked to Martin, then nodded to her hobbled legs. “You will have to trust me not to flee. There’s no way we can escape so hampered.”

  “I prefer to take my chances with the gheist,” Martin said. He hauled her up, and the two of them followed Sir Horne into the whispering night.

  27

  THE SUHDRIN FORCES camped outside the Fen Gate had built a barricade across the road. It was nothing more than a picket with shields strapped to the wicker, and behind it a tower of barrels. Suhdrin eyes peeked out from behind the barricade on occasion. Behind them, the southern camp held the crossroads and fields, setting up in the ruins of Fenton. From inside the Fen Gate, Saph and Dunce watched.

  “How long will they stay, you think?” Saph asked. The other guards ignored him. The boy wasn’t comfortable in the silence. He shrugged narrow shoulders to ease the discomfort caused by his mail shirt, and asked again, “When you think these buggers’ll leave?”

  “When they’re tired of us kicking their asses,” Dunce mumbled. “Or they get tired of kicking ours. Either way.” The big man sniffed loudly, drawing enough mucus into his lungs to drown a horse. “Not soon enough.”

  “Yeah, but…” Saph said. He edged closer to
Dunce. “But don’t you think the winter’ll break them? All that soft southern skin? All that silk? Nae good for winter, yeah, you think?”

  “I think you need to shut up, Saphon,” Mallie said. “Shut up and keep your eyes on that soft southern skin, before they put some of that soft southern steel in our bellies, all while you’re running your mouth.”

  “Ain’t nothing happening,” Saph said. “Ain’t nothing ever happening…” His eyes had trailed to beyond the barricade, into the camp that surrounded the crossroads. There was a commotion along the northeastern road. A thicket of spears had grown up from the tents, and shouting could be heard, even at this distance.

  “There’s something,” Saph said quietly, but it drew all of their attention. As the guards watched, the spear wall buckled, even though there didn’t seem to be any attackers. A square of sharp steel, pointing inward, surrounded a figure that was entering the camp. Quickly the scene disappeared behind the intervening barricades, but a rising chorus of shouts and whispers could be heard.

  Saph turned to Mallie. “Should we do something about that?” he asked.

  “Not yet. Don’t want to disturb Sarge if it’s nothing more than nervous Suhdrins. Couldn’t really see what it is they were panicking over, could you?”

  “Nah. One guy, maybe in black, maybe just covered in shit,” Dunce said. “You think maybe those southerners ain’t seen shit before?”

  “Course they have, Duncie,” Mal said. “They gotta eat something.” The three laughed half-heartedly, a mirth that dried up as the chorus of shouts reached the barricades.

  “Yeah,” Mallie said nervously. His narrow eyes danced across the barricade. There was movement along the makeshift wall. “Yeah, this is starting to matter to us. Saph, you get the Sarge. Tell him… well, I’m not sure. Tell him to come down here fast-ish.”

  “He’s going to want more than that,” Saph complained.

  “Gods pray it’s nothing,” Mal said. “Just…”

  He stopped talking as the barrels at the center of the Suhdrin barricade opposite them started to shift. The old wood of the staves ground together, and then the first barrel collapsed, bursting inward like a soap bubble. Another popped, and another, and then the whole structure collapsed like a house of cards. The shielded barricade twisted once then tore apart.

  A child stepped into the gap. He wore the savaged robes of a priest of Cinder, but his skin was rumpled and pale. The boy’s hair hung like a thatch over his face, and his clothes were grimed with the forest floor. Strands of dark energy drifted from his eyes, his hands, from the folds of his clothing, arcing slowly into the ground like soft lightning. He looked up at the broken doors of the Fen Gate and opened his mouth. His teeth glittered like diamonds in a pool of oil.

  “I have come to speak judgment against Malcolm Blakley,” the child said in a voice that was a whisper, each person hearing it as though the speaker’s lips brushed the soft flesh of their ears. “Bring him to me.”

  The guards huddled behind their makeshift gate, staring at the dead child.

  Above them, the gheist horn sounded.

  * * *

  A bristling square of pikemen clustered just inside the gate of the castle. Repairs on the portcullis had continued steadily for most of the week, and while the gate was defensible, it was hardly secure. This led to the constant vigilance of those inside the walls.

  As soon as the gheist horn sounded every able-bodied man, woman, and child rushed to the walls or took a place in the courtyard where the hedge of iron-tipped pikes wavered like heavy wheat in a breeze.

  “Get these fools into shelter,” Malcolm ordered as soon as he saw the disorganized mess. “I won’t risk women and children in pitched battle. If this is some ruse of the Suhdrins, we’ll face it with trained steel. And get those fools down off the walls!”

  “My lord, if the Suhdrin forces take advantage of the chaos and attack, we’ll be defenseless,” Baird said. “At least leave the sentries at their posts.”

  “Fine, but any soul not wearing the Blakley colors is to be hidden away. I’ll risk my own, but that’s it,” Malcolm said. Plus, he thought, if this is something to do with Sorcha, and she tries to return to the castle, at least my people will recognize her. Anyone else is likely to shoot her on sight— especially with the gheist horn in their ears.

  “Where are those damned priests?” he demanded.

  “They have returned to their stable, my lord,” Baird said. The pair of them stood at the foot of the keep, looking out over the seething chaos of a castle gripped by fear. “The horn has taken them by surprise.”

  “All of us, it seems,” Malcolm said. He had been at breakfast when the horn sounded. He could see the priests moving around inside the stables, their shadows darting back and forth. “It would be a damned help to have an inquisitor up here, calming the people’s fears.”

  “The Orphanshield isn’t much for comfort,” Baird said. “I swear to gods I’ve seen more calm in a rout!” He turned to a gaggle of messengers standing nearby, relaying Malcolm’s orders and threatening the youngest with a good walloping if he didn’t stop crying. Malcolm watched quietly. Sir Baird had stepped into Sir Dugan’s role as master of the guard after the man had been killed in Greenhall, but he lacked Dugan’s touch with the servants. When the red-faced knight turned back to his lord, Malcolm took him by the elbow and drew him close.

  “This castle has just survived an attack by the two greatest gheists in memory. You cannot blame them for a few tears or a little panic. Not even the priests were prepared for this. Gods know I’m not, either.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Sir Baird said, looking ashamed. “Just seems like this is the time for calm heads. Panicking is a good way to get killed.”

  “The world is full of good ways to get killed, Baird. Let’s not stand here and list them all.”

  Baird dipped his head, then rushed off to see to the evacuation of the courtyard. Malcolm sighed and turned his attention to the walls. There was a great deal of rushing about, but no one seemed to have spotted a gheist. He headed to the Hunter’s Tower, where the horn was housed to see what had caused the alarm. Soldiers milling about in the courtyard pressed back to let him pass.

  The Hunter’s Tower had survived the gheist’s attack unharmed, its narrow height now the tallest structure in the Fen Gate. The lower levels, which once housed the barracks for the castle’s guards, were now stuffed to the rafters with the various peers of the Tenerran nobility and their attendants. This area was bustling with activity, with knights strapping on armor, pages searching frantically for bloodwrought blades among the luggage, and at least one duke of Tener in a state of undress. Malcolm ran past them all.

  The platform that held the gheist horn had seen some changes since House Adair fell. The tiny space now held a rough lean-to and fire pit, along with several travel cases salvaged from the Tenerran army’s baggage train. One of Rudaine’s displaced knights, a lanky man by the name of Sir Havar, had claimed the roof for himself, only to be crowded into the corner by the constant changing of guard necessary to man the gheist horn.

  Sir Havar sat miserably in the shelter of his lean-to, muttering to himself and struggling to secure his breastplate. A round woman in the red-and-black of House Adair—most likely the guard currently on watch—stood nervously next to the horn, working the bellows with her foot. Her clothes were in disarray and her face was as red as a beet.

  Watching them all was the child priestess of Strife, making both the knight and the guard highly uncomfortable in her presence. As soon as Malcolm emerged from the stairwell, Sir Havar jumped to his feet, upsetting the precarious lean-to.

  “My lord!” Havar yelped. “You must do something about this… this child! This impudent child!”

  “That child is sworn to Strife, sir,” Malcolm responded, “and therefore carries the full authority of the celestial church, despite her age.”

  “Yes, yes, but she can not simply burst in here and demand that the horn be sou
nded! It is the duty of the guard, as well as…”

  “Enough,” Malcolm snapped. He turned to the priestess, and recalled her name as Catrin DeBray. The girl was standing calmly at the center of the platform, staring toward the front gate, with her arms folded across her chest. “Is this true? Have you sounded the horn without a sighting?”

  “There is a sighting,” Catrin said. “It just hasn’t been reported yet. Your men are panicking, Houndhallow.” She was infuriatingly placid, even condescending.

  “Because you have panicked them!” he said. Malcolm tried to step into the girl’s gaze, but she shifted to the side, her eyes stubbornly focused on the gate. “Look around, child. The forests are quiet. And my guards…”

  “My lord!” a voice shouted from the courtyard, thin against the babbling voices of the castle’s host. Malcolm grimaced and went to the tower’s edge. “There is someone at the gate! We think it’s the missing priest!”

  “Very well,” Malcolm returned. “I will meet him in a moment. See that the inquisitor is notified.”

  “My lord, he is… changed,” the messenger called back. Malcolm shot a look at the priestess, and when he looked back down into the courtyard, the messenger was gone. A surge of soldiers in the black-and-white of House Blakley rushed the gate, spears and shields in hand.

  “Well, there you have it,” Malcolm said, turning back to the young girl. “Your brother-priest is found, and is manifesting some aspect of Cinder, and it has frightened my guards.”

  “No,” she said. “He is not the same. Marcel is gone.” The girl closed her eyes and reached out her hands. A soft corona of summer light graced her shoulders, settling on her face like snow. “He is gone, and yet returned. He comes for you.”

  “Well, then I must meet him,” Malcolm said. “Before anyone gets hurt in this panic.”

  “No, he is…” she paused, Strife’s light shivering on her face. Her eyes opened, startled. “He has passed beyond the veil of death,” she said. “He waits for you there.”