by Tim Akers
They bore down on Malcolm’s knights. From this position, they would fall on the Tenerran flank, trapping them between the column of spear on the road and their own iron-shod hooves.
Malcolm turned back. The three had scattered, running to their mounts and riding off the second he had looked away. His thoughts turned to the priestess, worried that they had finished the deed while he was distracted. But there was no new blood on her robes, and her chest rose and fell slowly. Malcolm hesitated.
Aid the child, or warn his men.
With a grimace he tugged his reins aside and plunged toward the road. He hurried across the ruined forest through which the Suhdrin column had just ridden, pushing through the trees beyond and finally coming onto the godsroad. If he hurried he might be able to follow the road to where his men fought the Suhdrin spears. He might get there before the riders, still fighting their way through close-grown trees and soft mud. He might be able to warn them in time.
The godsroad was in ill repair—far worse than he had expected. The forest around the Fen Gate seethed with feral vitality, and the cobbles of the road were buckled beneath a carpet of vines and gnarled roots. Malcolm charged ahead, ducking beneath overhanging branches and vaulting over trees that had fallen. By the time the sound of fighting closed, Malcolm was sure he was too late.
He was wrong. The Suhdrin force was formed into a shallow arch of spear and shield, the tips bent into the forest, the base anchored in the center of the road. Two small detachments of archers sheltered behind the tips of the arch, and at the center—behind the strongest ranks of the spear wall—a handful of mounted knights watched the battle, waiting their turn.
In the shallow bowl of the arch, still encumbered by the forest and a lack of discipline, the Tenerran knights churned against the spears. They dove in like wolves, striking at the steel tips of the spears, batting them aside like blades of grass in an attempt to contact the shields sheltered beneath. But the Suhdrin troops held their ranks, so that each layer of spears was backed by another, three ranks deep. Those few Tenerran knights foolish or brave enough to fight past the first bristling grove of spears were spitted against the others.
Dead horses and dying men lay in clumps along the godsroad’s verge. Not many so far, but without a clear field to build up the charge, the knights of Tener had no chance to overcome their opponents.
“The bloody fools,” Malcolm muttered. He drew his feyiron blade, tied his reins to the pommel of his saddle, and settled into his stirrups. He could see Sir Harrow milling along the edge of the spear wall. “Harrow! Riders approach!”
The knight heard her name and looked around, only catching site of Malcolm as the Suhdrin archers also noticed the lord of Houndhallow and wheeled to attack. The archers were dressed as hunters, their tabards of House Marchand fresh and clean over hardened leather. They struggled to form a firing line, each man trying to take the best ground, clearly unfamiliar with unit tactics. Malcolm spurred his horse before they could get set. Harrow and the other knights would have to fend for themselves.
He charged.
A disciplined line of professional archers would not have broken. They would have stood their ground, drawn their bows, and filled Malcolm full of bristling fletches. But these men were peasants, probably poachers drawn from Halverdt’s jails, pressed into service. When the Duke Lord of Houndhallow—the Reaverbane, famous for killing a god and bringing the high inquisitor to justice—bent his head, raised his sword, and bore down on them with the full might of legend, these men broke.
A few scattered arrows hissed through the air over Malcolm’s head, then the ground cleared in front of him and the flank of the spear wall stood naked before him. One man could do little to move a line, but Malcolm fell on them before the nearest spear could turn, chopping down through skull and mail and steel. The line shivered as the three ranks on that side curled back to present Malcolm with their shields. Spears, too cumbersome to be brought to bear, dropped to the ground and swords were drawn.
Malcolm whirled, spun at them one more time to hammer shields and fend off the short, abortive counterstrikes that followed, and then the clutch of knights at the spear wall’s center, held in reserve against a breakout or to exploit the inevitable rout, came thundering down the road toward him. They formed a wedge of sharp steel, aimed at Malcolm’s heart.
He turned and ran, put spurs to his horse’s flanks, leaning low to the surging crest of its neck, and he fled. The rough cobbles of the godsroad pitched under his mount, slowing him, bringing the pursuing Suhdrins closer. He vaulted the fallen tree, landing with a jolt that crushed his spine and nearly threw him from his saddle. Behind him, the obstacle disrupted the knights’ formation, breaking them into a crowd of riders rather than an unbreakable wedge. At least one rider fell behind as his horse refused the jump, forcing the man to go around.
The rest drew closer. Their horses were rested, their riders furious at Malcolm’s attack. He was losing ground, and there was nowhere that he could run. Soon he would either have to turn into the woods and make for the sally port, or hope that his pursuers would drop the chase somewhere north of the castle.
There was little hope for either.
A small stream splashed under his mount’s hooves. Malcolm blinked in confusion, worried that he had already passed the castle turnoff. He didn’t remember a stream, and even though the godsroad had fallen into disrepair, he didn’t think there was a spring or creek nearby that could have formed the current. How far had he come?
Starting to slow, he twisted in his saddle, trying to get his bearings. A column of shadow flashed far to his left, arcing over the forest canopy. The inquisitor and the gheist, so he wasn’t that far from the Fen Gate. But where had the stream come from. He looked back.
The gentle stream that Malcolm had just crossed began to swell. As he watched it burbled higher, forming a mound of swirling water that lay across the road like a strap. It grew and grew, its current as clear as glass. As the first Suhdrin knight tried to cross it, the surface of the water ruptured into a geyser of foam, crashing into the mount’s broad chest, throwing it into the air. The toppled horse’s rider crashed forward, pinwheeling down the road like a discarded doll. He came to rest awkwardly on the side of the road, legs splayed and head folded against his chest.
The other riders balked. The wall of water slithered closer, a river that had thrown its banks and wandered the floodplain. Larger and larger it grew, until it filled half the road with a bulbous snake of smooth-faced water, as unreal as the gods themselves.
“Sorcha,” Malcolm whispered. “No, love. No!”
He whirled his mount around and raced down the road. The ground where the new river flowed was eroded and damp, as though the cobbles had suffered generations of water, rather than brief moments. The thrown knight was dead, and those who faced the water gheist drew their swords in the hopes of cutting a river.
The gheist smashed into them like a battering ram, breaking steel and bones, scattering the knights across the road. The river reared up like a maddened bull, rising into the air only to come crashing down in a torrent that ground the cobbles into rubble, leaving behind only mud and broken bodies.
As quickly as the gheist had risen, it disappeared. The stream seeped into the earth, a flood of blood-laced water that lapped against the trunks of trees and melted into the grass. Soon there was nothing left, of the knights, of the river, of the godsroad. Malcolm stood alone.
Sorcha emerged from among the trees. She was unchanged, or rather, still as horrifically changed as she had been the last time he saw her. The hem of her robes was damp, water and blood and something darker wicking up from the ground until it nearly reached her knees. Bright veins pulsed beneath her pale skin. Her eyes wept, but her face was still, her brow smooth. She looked around the wreckage of her work, then turned to her husband.
“Malcolm,” she said. “I have grown tired of waiting.”
35
DAWN BROUGHT AN end to the gheist�
�s hunt. Whatever spirit had inhabited the great snake’s body, it disappeared into the rising sun. Martin saw it from a distance, saw it stretch into the clouds and curl into Strife’s golden disk, like a cat in a sunbeam. He turned to Fianna.
“Now will you run?” he asked.
The witch was folded against a tree, her head slouched down between her shoulders, hands dangling in the open air. She looked exhausted. She looked dead. Life in the wagon had been hard on her, Martin knew, harder than a month in confinement should have been. The night had been just as difficult. They had followed Sir Horne into the woods when the gheist attacked, but had immediately lost track of the Suhdrin knight, and never saw her again. He and Fianna hid among the trees, praying to different gods for their protection.
Fianna’s face was drawn and slack. Dark rings circled her eyes. She smiled joylessly.
“Run?” she asked. “No, I don’t think I will run… but I may be able to walk.”
Martin held out his hands and pulled her upright. She stood unsteadily, but when Martin reached out, she stepped away as though she had been struck.
“Were they not feeding you?” he asked.
“Food, yes, but there is more than food to my body.” She slid farther away, shaking her head. “Don’t worry about me. I will recover. The high inquisitor was a difficult companion, that is all.”
“Did he hurt you?” Martin asked. “I’ve been told he’s a monster.”
“A comfortable word, monster. You name our gods such, and your criminals, but they are more and less than that.” She sighed and leaned against a tree. “Monster. No. Sacombre is just a man, like any other.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that,” Martin said. “I’ve known many men of the celestial faith, and not a few women. None of them have ever bound a pagan god to their soul. Not in my presence, at least,” he added.
“Gwendolyn Adair, of the tribe of iron,” Fianna said. “You knew her, didn’t you?”
Martin paused. “Not very well, honestly. A girl I saw at tournaments. Nothing more.”
“You seem like the sort of man who knows a lot of girls at tournaments, and nothing more,” Fianna said. Martin glanced over at her, surprised to see the witch smirking, as well. She gathered the few things she had scavenged before they fled Gardengerry. “Don’t worry. Adair was very good at hiding her true faith. It’s something we Tenerrans have perfected since the crusades.”
“That is what the south fears,” Martin said. He had taken little with him during their flight. His sword, and the bedroll he had been lying on when the gheist attacked. Nothing to eat. The witch seemed to have a bag of withered apples, but that wasn’t enough to get them to Heartsbridge. “We need to find food.”
“Perhaps the others were wise enough to gather supplies before they ran. Or we could sneak back into the city. I’m sure it’s safe, now that the gheist is gone.”
Martin shuddered and shook his head. “I’m not going back inside those walls, and as for the others, we can search, but I’m not hopeful. Better to make for civilization and hope we meet up. Nearest city is… Doonan, I think.”
“Doonan if you’re heading toward Pilgrim’s Rest. Which we’re not,” Fianna said. “I assume you won’t want to make for Greenhall.”
“Not unless you feel like being executed on the spot.”
“No, not really,” she admitted. “Though little else remains for me in Heartsbridge, I imagine. But if it’s south we go, we’ve little choice but to follow the godsroad to Noosehall.”
“Three days by horse,” Martin said, “and unless LaGaere and his men come back for us, we’re walking. I don’t like that distance.”
“There’s another choice,” Fianna said.
“Oh? I suppose you know the north better than I, but I can’t think of any domas between here and the Gallowmoors. It’s always possible, I suppose, that some knight or merchant founded Suhdrin walls in the wilds, but nothing along the godsroad. After last night, I doubt I’ll want to stray from the holy cobbles any time soon.”
“Not a doma,” Fianna said. She walked with her head stubbornly down. Martin grunted.
“What then?” he asked.
“You know the sort of village I might be familiar with. The kind of holy ground I can lead you to.” She glanced up. “Someplace the gheists won’t bother us.”
“Pagan henges and pagan hearths,” Martin spat. “What are the odds you’ll let me leave such a place alive, hm?”
“Ian Blakley walked in such places, and he lives,” Fianna said.
“Yes, I have seen what became of young Blakley,” Martin said. “Hardly recognized him at the Fen Gate. He was brother to me, once. He barely raised a word to me after the battle, before he ran off in search of your Gwen Adair.”
“He spoke of you,” Fianna said. “With love, I think. He hasn’t changed that much.”
“So you say,” Martin said. “And yet—”
He was interrupted by a sharp sound to their left. Martin froze, his hand going to his sword. The sound came again. It sounded like someone coughing.
“Gheists don’t cough,” Fianna hissed.
“No, but brigands might,” Martin said. “Stay here. If I call out, run.”
The forest here was thick, but he could see hoof prints in the thick loam between trunks. He crept forward, cursing when his chain shirt jangled sharply against the low branches of a speartree. The sound came again, but this time ended in a laugh.
“Come out, Martin Roard,” a voice called. “You couldn’t sneak up on a deaf man if you were wearing a suit of pillows. Gods pray you have some water.”
“Frair Lucas?” Martin answered. He hurried forward, coming to a narrow clearing that was trampled and scorched. The inquisitor was tucked into the shadow of a tree, appearing to have dragged himself through the mud. Martin knelt beside him, checking for wounds.
“I will recover,” Lucas said, waving him away. “My body, at least. My pride might take longer.”
“What happened here?” Martin asked.
“Treachery, or gods damned honor, or something,” Lucas said. “LaGaere is gone. He took the high inquisitor. Decided he’s going to try Sacombre at the Circle of Lords, or some such foolishness.”
“Well, he always was something of an idiot,” Martin said. He gave Lucas what little water he had with him. “The horses? Or Sir Horne? We lost track of her when we fled Gardengerry.”
“Gone. We should probably return to Greenhall and face Lady Sophie’s wrath. We’ve nothing left to take to Heartsbridge.” Lucas sighed and leaned back against the tree. “I should have seen this coming. A man of LaGaere’s stubborn faith would never allow the high inquisitor to be brought to trial.”
“A curious thing, celestial faith,” Fianna said. She stood at the edge of the clearing. “That this man would take something as true, just because it came from his high inquisitor.”
“You’re still with us, my lady,” Lucas said with wonder. “Did the gheist fail to free you from your bonds, as it intended?”
“That gheist was nothing to do with me,” Fianna said. “Not all the gods answer my call.”
“Well, whatever your reason is for remaining, I’m glad you’re here,” Lucas said. He struggled to his feet, rubbing mud from his robes and grimacing. “This is not something I can do alone.”
“I will provide what help I can,” Fianna said. “I’ve already suggested a near village where we could find shelter and food. Your companion doesn’t seem too interested, though.”
“Food and shelter?” Lucas said. “No, those are the least of my concerns. Cinder will provide, somehow.”
“Least of your concerns?” Martin said. He sheathed his sword. “We have a bag of apples, and you just drank the last of our water.”
“We have food and water in plenty,” Lucas said. “With the horses.”
“LaGaere has the horses,” Martin said.
“And more than that, LaGaere has the high inquisitor. So we can solve all of our problems
at once.”
“You mean to pursue them? But they… they’re already…”
“They have the horses, they’re already miles away, and we know little enough about which way they’re going,” Lucas said. “Yes, yes, I know. What of it.”
“Oh, purely physical things. Distance, a lack of food, the fact that even if we find him we’ll be outnumbered,” Martin said.
“As you say, physical things. The world was made to be overcome, young Roard,” Lucas said. “It’s not even winter yet. The season of trials has yet to truly start. Come, we have much to do! And all of it to the south.”
“South, then,” Martin said. He glanced to the witch. “You sure you don’t want to run?”
“Not yet,” Fianna answered. There was surprising anger in her voice. “Sacombre needs a trial. He needs to face what he’s done. To me, at least, and mine.”
* * *
The roads through the Gallowmoors were as numerous as the veins in a leaf, and the rolling hills limited sight lines and masked the sounds of hoofbeats that might have otherwise given away their path.
“Which road are we to take,” Martin asked, despairing. “They could have gone anywhere.”
“LaGaere’s action was one of opportunity, not plan,” Lucas said. “He will not have people waiting for him, and he’ll want to avoid Halverdt’s patrols—at least until he’s farther south.”
“So he’ll stay off the main roads, but he’ll still want to make haste,” Martin said. “He’s at crossed purposes.”
“The fastest route to Heartsbridge isn’t to the south,” Lucas said.
“Has the world moved since we marched to war?” Martin asked. “Heartsbridge still sits on the Burning Coast, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Lucas said, peering at the rolling horizon. “Three weeks by horse, assuming the roads are free of gheists. But a boat could get you there in half that time.”
“West, then,” Fianna said. “To Felling Bay.”
“West,” Lucas said with a nod. “On lesser roads.”