The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  “Something has happened here. Something strange.” Elsa finished her meal with the efficiency of a wildfire and stood. She walked to the window. A light glimmer of frost framed the shutters. She ran a finger along it, the ice melting at her touch. “This isn’t natural. None of it.”

  “Might the storm have something to do with the gheist?” Ian asked. He tossed the crust of his bread into the thin stew and pushed it away. “You said that the death god had come this way. Perhaps Halfic is trying to banish its presence. Or hide it.”

  “If he was hiding a pagan god, the man wouldn’t even have opened the door to us, or he would have killed us while we slept. No one would have suspected. Everyone would simply assume we were lost in the Fen.” Elsa grimaced at the howling wind. “And if he’s trying to banish it, why not ask for help? Why leave us sitting here, as much prisoners as guests?”

  “Well, we’re never going to get any kind of answer in this room,” Ian said, “and those guards follow us everywhere else.” He leaned back, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “There must be another way.”

  “Yes,” Elsa said, staring meaningfully at the shutters. “There must.”

  * * *

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “No,” Ian snapped. She looked back at him with frustration, checking the rope around his waist, tied to the bed frame and further secured to the andirons of the hearth. The fire had been out for nearly an hour, to give the anchor time to cool, and the room was turning cold.

  “You’re ready,” Elsa snapped back. She turned to the shutters.

  “No! I’m not! I’m really…”

  Elsa slipped the bar from the shutters and stepped back. The wood panels boomed open and the storm howled into the room. Driving snow swirled over the bed, rattling the door and stealing the breath from Ian’s lungs. He dropped the rope in his hand, stumbling away from the gale, gasping for air in the ice. He nearly fell against the bed, but Elsa tugged twice on the rope, jerking him upright. Then she barreled out the window, disappearing over the ledge and into the churning white wall of the blizzard.

  Ian followed. The tug of the rope pulled him to the window’s edge, nearly dragging him into the air. At the last second he grabbed the frame, leaning out over the void. Tears froze against his cheeks. The gale tried to pluck him from the tower, and forced him to grip the window tightly as the winds swirled around him.

  Elsa was crawling crablike upward across the tiles of the stable roof, her head down, the rope snaking between them. Ian took a tentative step out onto the roof, clinging to the window while he scrabbled for purchase with his feet. Elsa reached the end of her rope, paused, then tugged him forward. He lost his grip, fell heavily onto the roof, and started to slide.

  Ian screamed, but the storm stole the sound. Ice and snow gathered under his sliding feet. He scrabbled at the roof with his rapidly numbing fingers, trying to find a handhold, starting to panic as the edge got closer and closer. The rope that stretched between them swept a wide arc of snow off the roof, triggering an avalanche that rumbled.

  Elsa watched him slide, grimacing as she braced herself. Finally the piled snow beneath Ian’s feet accumulated enough that he slowed, and then stopped. Balancing on the icy slope he found one handhold, then another, then edged his way a little up the roof. She waited until he was moving surely, then continued her climb.

  In fits and starts, they made their way to the end of the stables, where Elsa swung off the roof on the block and tackle of the hay elevator, dropping into the loft. Ian watched from the edge of the roof. A few moments passed before Elsa stuck her head out.

  “I can’t do that,” Ian said. He looked from the elevator to the loft, then down to the ground twenty feet below. “No, I can’t do that.”

  “Well, you can’t stay there,” Elsa said.

  “I can lift you back up when you’re done,” Ian said.

  “You’ll freeze to death,” she said. “Just jump. It’ll be fine.” As if to emphasize her words, a strong gust of wind struck him. Ian sunk lower against the surface.

  “I’ll just stay here,” he said.

  “Have it your way,” Elsa said. Then she gathered the rope in her hand, braced herself, and gave it a tremendous pull. The force of it jerked Ian off the roof and into the open air. He didn’t have time to scream before the rope around his waist went tight. Behind him, the length that led to the distant window of their room snapped taut, squeezing the air from his belly. He dangled over the ground, spinning slowly, staring at Elsa’s frustrated face.

  Reaching precariously outward, she grabbed him, swung him into the loft, then cut the rope at his waist and tied it to a post.

  “Enough screwing around,” she said. “Come on.”

  Ian was still recovering his breath as she led them down into the stables. Nearly all of the stalls were full, the horses whickering peacefully despite the cold. Elsa marched down the center until she found their lone surviving horse. She took the time to check its feed and blanket, rubbing the beast’s nose before continuing on.

  Harthal was a small holding, with a narrow wall designed to repel bandits, and few buildings. It had no siegeworks. The tower where Ian and Elsa were being kept was tucked into one corner of the castle, bordered by the stables on one side. They were across the courtyard from the great hall, and there was only one other building within the walls, a low-slung doma that looked as old and worn as the cliffs that surrounded Houndhallow.

  Ian and Elsa huddled in the shelter of the stalls for a minute, warming numb fingers and—in Ian’s case— recovering his pride. When his bones had stopped rattling, he turned to Elsa.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked. “There aren’t a lot of buildings to search, and yet there are enough horses here to mount a company. These rooms must be full.”

  “Yes. Strange. Especially considering the fact that we know the great hall is abandoned.” Elsa crept to the stable door and looked around.

  “Well, they have to be somewhere,” Ian said. “We just need to find them.”

  “A poignant observation,” Elsa answered. “I’m glad to have you along on this journey, so you may bless me with your wisdom. Now shut up and get moving.”

  “Gods,” Ian muttered. “Who lit your candle?”

  “Sitting in bed does not agree with me,” Elsa said. “Being carried into a castle by a mulish boy because I was too weak to walk does not agree with me.” She turned and glared at Ian, and all the humor in her tone vanished. “And being kept in the shadow of mystery does not agree with me, either. Now, let us burn the darkness from this place.”

  With that, Elsa marched into the storm, straight for the doma.

  “For once I’d like to walk away first,” Ian muttered, then he hurried after the vow knight before the storm swallowed her.

  The doma was brilliantly lit, the calendar windows limned in golden light, and a heavily packed trail led from the front door to the great hall. Elsa struggled through the deep drifts until she reached the trail. Fortunately, this meant that Ian could follow in her wake without much trouble.

  Fragments of hymns reached them, snatched from the howling gale in tiny pieces, like sparks from a bonfire. When they reached the door, Elsa kicked it in as she drew her sword.

  The song stopped. Someone screamed and began crying.

  The vow knight stood in the doorway, the storm swirling around her. The pews were crowded with people, some of them in armor, others in rags, all of them staring at Elsa with fear in their eyes. Swords rattled out of scabbards. Children, gathered along the wall, scrambled to get away from the door. They caught Elsa’s eye.

  They were maimed. Not wounded, not sick, but physically changed in cruel and horrific ways. Boneless legs trailed torsos dragged along by arms as pale and slick as a fish’s belly. Mouths gaped where faces should have been. Wooden bones sprouted branches through flesh, leaves visible just beneath the surface, veins pulsing in chalky bark, hair of grass and root and soil.

  The room became very sil
ent. Ian heaved his shoulder against the door, shutting it against the blizzard. Snow melted off of the pair to drop in puddles on the cobble floor. Every candle in the doma was lit, and splinters of frairwood burned in a dozen braziers. The adults, some of them bearing lesser growths, more looking perfectly normal, started moving toward them. Those with swords held them at guard, though their hands trembled.

  “Hold!” the frair shouted from the front of the room. “Stay your blades! You must not spill the blood of a priest, any priest.” He pushed his way past the closing circle of angry parents. “Not even this priest. Not here.”

  Elsa took her eyes off the villagers to glance at the frair. He was past the bloom of youth, but not yet fallen into the frailty of age. Wiry limbs told of a life given to hard labor, and his hands were calloused and lined with dirt. Many priests of Strife served their goddess this way, saying the rites of summer and tilling the fields beside their congregation. The man reached out.

  “Stay your vengeance, sir,” he said. “They are children, after all.”

  “What is happening here?” Elsa said. Ian drew his sword and stood beside her. The malformed children cowered behind the pews, peeking out to stare at the pair of them with eyes made of stone and wood and fire. “What happened to them?”

  “We should not have hidden this,” Lord Halfic said. The earl stood up from among the pews, his hands folded penitently at his waist. “We should not have hidden our stain, but now that you have seen it, know that we will not let you destroy those we love.” He raised his hands, and the frair stepped away from Elsa. “We cannot let you do that.”

  The guards, farmers, servants and fools edged closer. All of them were armed, all watched Elsa through angry, tear-stained eyes. They were terrified, and yet determined.

  Ian and Elsa backed up. Heat blossomed through the air as Elsa drew Strife’s power through her runes. The vow knight pushed Ian toward the door.

  “I will not kill the innocent,” she said. “But if any one defies me, they will share the pagan’s fate.”

  “We are all innocent, and all guilty,” Halfic said, “but we have seen how the church deals with the gheists. None of us wants to die by your blade, but we will not let you take our children. Not like this.”

  “Blood doesn’t have to spill,” Elsa said. “Let me help. Perhaps I can burn the corruption—”

  “The north has had enough of the church’s fire,” the frair said. He slipped behind the wall of advancing men, his eyes sad. “Not in the doma, my lord. I beg you, don’t stain the floor of this holy place with holy blood.”

  “Take them outside,” Halfic called over the heads of his men. “See that no one misses them.”

  The wave of men rushed forward. Elsa knocked the first one down, striking with the flat of her blade, searing flesh and singeing hair. Another followed, and another, each scrambling to get close to the vow knight. Ian jumped forward, but was knocked flat by a big farmer with a wooden mallet. The tide of flesh passed him by. Elsa was overwhelmed, unwilling to kill, unable to keep her attackers at bay. They carried her into the storm.

  Ian lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling mosaic and trying to force air into his lungs. The frair stood over him, looking down mournfully.

  “And you, my lord Blakley? What shall we do with you?” the frair asked.

  Ian raised an arm to defend himself, but the frair struck him with the silver-tipped butt of the communion staff. Darkness took him, fringed with the sound of Elsa’s shouting, and the roar of the blizzard’s fury.

  30

  THE LIGHT FROM Horold’s brand was inconsistent. Embers fell from it whenever the child brushed against a wall, falling with a loud hiss into the muck underfoot. The corridor was too narrow for more than one of them abreast, so Noel followed Horold, with Gwen just behind. The two shamans made a show of blind-man follow, but as soon as they were hidden in the shadows, both loosened their bindings just enough to be able to see.

  Through the flickering shadows and flooded corridors, they slipped, crawled, slithered and fell. The floors of the Curse were never straight. Other than Horold, none of them could stand upright, and Cahl was often bent double as he shuffled forward.

  “Shit!” Noel hissed as she bumped into a broken column. She sat heavily on her ass, staring unhappily at her ruined clothes for a handful of heartbeats before sighing heavily. “This is a miserable place.”

  “It is, my lady,” Horold said. The child turned and tugged Noel to her feet, so enthusiastically that he nearly dragged her back into the same column. “The worst of all possible places. What glorious quest has brought you here?”

  “We have… we’re looking for something. A shrine,” she said. “A very old one.”

  “What does this shrine look like? I might be able to help.”

  “No,” Cahl said from the back, his rumbling voice carrying far in the narrow stone corridor. “You will not have seen it. It was hidden, long ago.”

  “Then how are we to find it?” Horold asked. “Do you have a map? But no, you couldn’t have a map, or it would have led you to the entrance. And I had to do that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Horold,” Gwen said. “You’ve been very helpful to us, but perhaps you had better go home now. There’s little more that you can do for us.”

  “Nonsense,” Horold chirped before Folam could protest. “I’ve taken you this far, and I will see you to the end. Now, how are we going to find this ancient shrine of yours?”

  In the shadows, Cahl and Folam turned toward each other, their heads bent low in mumbled conversation. When they straightened up, Cahl hid his eyes from the light with his hood.

  “We are close. Perhaps no more than thirty yards,” he said.

  “Is this the right path?” Gwen asked.

  “It has to be,” Horold said. “There are no other clear passages in this direction.”

  “Then we have no choice but to push forward,” Noel said, “and no further need for a guide, sir. You may go.”

  Horold looked from Noel to Gwen and back, then shrugged. “We only have the one light. I couldn’t possibly find my way back in the dark, and there’s no way you can go forward without it.”

  “That is… fine. Fine, lead the way, but stay close to me,” Noel said. She turned Horold around by the shoulders, stealing a glance back at Gwen once the boy was looking forward. “Gods know what dangers lie ahead.”

  “No fear, my lady,” Horold said. “I can keep us both safe.”

  They crawled forward, the way getting narrower and narrower, until all four of them were on their hands and knees, slipping through generations of rainwater and moss and rat shit. Horold dropped his torch several times, until only the barest illumination leaked from the embers.

  “It is becoming difficult,” Cahl whispered, though they could all hear him in the close confines. “Everything is bright.”

  “You have an odd idea of bright, my lord,” Horold said. “In fact…”

  He stumbled into silence. The light from the brand failed to reach the walls, and the close ceiling vaulted away from them. A soft glow broke out above them, as dull and gray as pewter.

  “Well,” Horold said. “Here’s something.” He stood, holding his hand out to help Noel to her feet. “I’ve seen this before. Part of the old palace’s doma.”

  The four of them spread out, stretching bruised limbs and blinking in the dull light. A half-dozen archways led off from this room, their mouths shrouded in darkness. Cracks lined the ceiling, revealing flakes of colored plaster and smooth stone. The floor was a scree of chipped marble and vegetation. Cahl felt his way around the perimeter of the room. Ghosts of light echoed from his fingertips as he plucked at the stone’s essence, causing Horold to watch curiously. Noel went to the center of the room and looked up.

  “Another well, it looks like,” she said. “Though this one has been boarded up. Do you know where this comes out?”

  “There are a dozen blocked wells in the old city,” Horold said, tearing hi
s eyes away from Cahl. The opening above them was covered with close fitting boards. Thin sunlight crept between the joins. “I can’t hear anything from up there. No merchants, no traffic… perhaps we’re outside the walls?”

  “Or inside the castle,” Folam whispered. “Wouldn’t that be a feat?”

  “Is this it?” Gwen asked. “Is this our place?”

  “No, but it is close,” Cahl said. He paused in his fingertip search, stepping back. “I need more light.”

  Horold’s torch was nearly out, casting only bare light against the wall. He drew another from his belt, lit it from the dying embers of the first, and tossed the dead torch to the ground. New light blossomed through the room.

  Gwen drew a sharp breath. “Gods bless,” she said.

  The dim light of the torch revealed a mosaic of great age. Many tiles were broken or missing, but still the faint image of a sun and field could be seen. There were figures in the sun, possibly women, dressed in flowing robes and dancing through the rays of light that radiated down. The field itself progressed from winter’s desolation through early spring, and into the riot of summer. Flames flickered at the borders of the mosaic, consuming the field.

  “The Lady Strife, blessing the earth with her light,” Horold said with awe in his voice. “I never noticed it before.”

  “It is not for every eye,” Folam said. The voidfather stood at the center of the chamber. He lowered the hood of his cloak and started to unwrap his bindings. “Just as this place is not for every soul.”

  “Voidfather, wait,” Noel said. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “You know otherwise,” Folam said. He took the length of bandage that had been covering his face, tucked it into his belt, and looked at the child. “I am sorry, boy.” Horold looked mutely at the older man, confusion dashing across his face.

  “What are you… what is this? You’re Tenerran?”

  “I am much more than that, child,” Folam said. He raised a hand to Horold, beckoning. “I am the blood of the empty tribe, bearer of the hollow rite. Not even death can fill me.”