The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  “We will stay in Gallowsport long enough to regain our strength and supply our bags, and then we continue south along the coast.”

  “Not by ship?” Martin asked. “Surely that would be faster, and speed is becoming an attractive alternative to trudging through the wilds.”

  “We will be spotted in Gallowsport. Once that happens, Sacombre’s allies will assume that we travel over the water. The ports from here to Godsmouth will be watched, and the canals, as well. We will have no chance of arriving in Heartsbridge unheralded.” He gave Martin a meaningful look. “Stealth is more important than speed, for now.”

  “Still, once we don’t arrive on any of the expected ships, surely—”

  “I am not here to discuss plans with you, Martin,” Lucas said abruptly, the last of his strength mustered. “You have proven yourself a worthy friend, and a fine sword, but the high inquisitor’s transport is my charge, and mine alone. We will follow the coastal road until the high ridge, and then turn toward the mountains. I know certain roads among the hills that will not be closely watched.”

  “Those mountains belong to Marchand,” Martin said. “Most of his army sits in siege around the Fen Gate. If any lord cannot be trusted…”

  “I am familiar with those mountains,” Lucas said sternly. “Perhaps more familiar than Highope himself. We will pass safely to Heartsbridge by those roads. I promise.”

  “As you say. And what of our prisoners?” Martin asked. “Will they behave once we are in the city? It will only take a word from the high inquisitor to draw attention. Without an escort, we will be hard pressed to protect them from a mob.”

  Lucas was silent for a long moment. Martin thought he had drifted off again until the frair stretched his arms and rolled his knuckles together. In that brief moment the old man looked like a pit fighter. When he spoke, his voice simmered with undisguised anger.

  “It will be a difficult thing, my friend,” the inquisitor said, “but sometimes Cinder asks us to do difficult things. That is the nature of winter. Winter, and the gray lord’s will.”

  43

  AS SOON AS the fight ended, the storm passed. The gray fury had hammered the walls every day since they arrived at Harthal, but now it lifted and a clear blue sky moved in to replace it.

  Less than an hour after the combat concluded, the sun turned the fields of snow into brilliant ivory. A slow melt began, creating a thousand singing streams of water trickling down the stones of the keep. The people of Halfic’s tiny realm emerged from hiding. Even the children, maimed and horrific.

  Elsa burst out of the doma, slamming the already-broken doors against the stone. The earl followed meekly in her wake.

  “Do you know the business of a vow knight, Harthal? Are you familiar with our duties?” Elsa snapped. “Have I come far enough north that oaths of the Lightfort have been forgotten?”

  “No, my lady,” Halfic said. The earl was the color of sour milk, and he kept his eyes averted when Elsa whirled around to face him. When she said nothing, he ventured more. “The order of the vow is respected in my halls, my lady. As it is in all the north.”

  “And yet, when you had a gheist infesting those halls and a vow knight to hand, it never occurred to you to seek that knight’s aid,” Elsa said. Behind the earl, Ian crept silently out of the ruined doma. Elsa ignored him. “Instead, you sought to deceive me. When discovered, your people attacked me, and your frair led that attack. Tell me why I shouldn’t try you for heresy right now, Harthal? Tell me why I shouldn’t draw this blade and pronounce judgment on you and every godsloving idiot in this castle?”

  Halfic didn’t answer at first. He was quiet, his shoulders slumped, his hands knotted at his waist. Elsa’s fist grew restless on her scabbard. She was about to draw and ask her questions again when he spoke.

  “They were defending their children, sir,” Halfic said. “We all were.” He looked up, a resigned frown on his face. “People do foolish things for their children.”

  Elsa stood quietly for a long moment, her shoulders heaving with the fight that had so recently ended, the blood still on her lips. She flexed her fingers around the grip of her sword one more time.

  “Very foolish things, Harthal,” she said. “Very foolish, indeed.”

  “Leave the man in peace,” Volent said. He was still in the doma. All she could see of him was the fractured mask of his face, and his shoulders, broad and dark.

  “You stay out of this,” Ian snapped. The prince of Houndhallow stood just outside the door, his arms crossed, face creased in a furious frown. “Since when does the Deadface argue peace?”

  “That is a broken name, and one to which I no longer answer,” Volent said. He came into the light. His maimed features made it hard to read his emotions, but the man spoke gently. “This is the north, LaFey. Vow knights have earned a reputation for slaughter.”

  “That’s rich, coming from you,” Elsa said stiffly. “The knights of the vow are sworn to protect these people from the gheists. What sort of reputation do you mean?”

  “You just threatened to murder every person in this village because their lord lied to you,” Volent said. When Elsa didn’t answer immediately, he continued. “Why do you think the people of Gardengerry abandoned their homes, the places where they and their parents and their grandparents have lived and done business for generations? For fear of the inquisition—and don’t get precious with the difference between an inquisitor and a knight of the vow,” he said, cutting her off before she could speak. “They both come wielding the church’s justice. To these people, there is no difference.”

  “You don’t understand the danger of what was done,” Elsa said. She was largely ignoring Halfic now, her attention entirely on Sir Volent. “This man, untrained in the naetheric arts, shrouded this place in wards. That alone could have destroyed this village and created a blight on the landscape that would have taken generations to scrub clean.” She turned to Halfic. “Did you know that, my lord? The wards of naether can draw the gheists just as easily as repel them? The consecration of holy ground is a skill best left to the inquisition.”

  “I only wanted to keep my people safe, and the books…”

  “The books. Gods save us from curious lords and their books,” Elsa said. “Speaking of which, I will be taking those with me. Or, no, they should be burned. Either way, you had no business with them.”

  “Of course, sir,” Halfic said. “I will gather them.”

  “No,” she said, and she gestured. “Ian, go to the earl’s chambers and collect everything made of paper. See that nothing is left behind.” She turned back to Halfic. “Go with him. Demonstrate your good faith by turning over any scrap that might be heretical. You have lied once to a vow knight. Do not make me ensure you are incapable of lying ever again.”

  Halfic bowed and rushed away, his robes shushing through the snow.

  “What of the frair?” Ian asked.

  “Find him, if you can, but see to the books first,” she said. Ian nodded and slipped off after the earl. Volent watched her closely.

  “You won’t find the man,” he said. “Unless he has a death wish, that priest will have gone over the wall the moment the altar cracked.”

  “I will still hunt.” She waited until Ian and the earl were well gone, then turned toward him. “Young Houndhallow asks a good question. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at Greenhall, learning the will of your master’s heir?”

  “Tomas Halverdt was my master, and a poor one at that,” Volent said. “I will not answer to his child, nor to any other master, ever again. As to how I came here, that is simple enough. I followed you, because you were following her.”

  “Gwen Adair,” Elsa said. Volent nodded.

  “The same. Though what led you to this cursed hall is a mystery to me.” Volent looked around at the ruined courtyard, the stables already crawling with workers salvaging horses and wood. “Gwendolyn isn’t here. She has never been here. Your hunt has gone astray, sir.”

/>   “That thing, the gheist that came out of the altar… that was it. The gheist Gwen dragged to the witches’ hallow. The one your high inquisitor bound to his soul. The god of death.” Elsa loomed closer to Volent. “That it is what drew you, Volent. You have always been drawn to death.”

  The knight smirked and pushed himself away from the doma. Though his blade was sheathed, Elsa subconsciously shifted her guard, ready to defend herself against an attack. He ignored her, strolling out into the middle of the courtyard, where he tugged his gloves off and fastidiously tucked them into his belt. Volent’s hands were a jumble of scars.

  “Look what they make us do, sir,” he said quietly. “The church. The gheists. Our masters. Gardengerry abandoned, its priests murdered by angry peasants who were led there by a priest of your inquisition. Tener and Suhdra at war, and my lord dead at the hand of the god he loved most. The steps we dance, all to their song.”

  “The world isn’t a dance, Volent,” Elsa said. “It’s not some kind of pageant, and if we don’t like our part we just throw away the pages. The church is harsh, yes, but rightly so. The people fear us, but when the gheist comes, those same people sound the horn and stand aside while we ride to battle. To save them.” She set herself firmly between Volent and the doma, hands on hips, cloak thrown back so her armor glittered in the newly revealed sunlight. “That is what the church asks of us, and I answer its call.”

  “As did Sacombre,” Volent said. “Look where that got him.”

  “I never thought I’d hear heresy from a servant of Greenhall. What would Duke Halverdt say to that?”

  “My lord is dead,” Volent said sharply. “By Sacombre’s will, and still Suhdra raises a flag of war in his name. The lords of the circle know that they were deceived, but pride keeps them fighting, and for what?”

  “Sacombre will see justice,” Elsa said. “If any priest can bring the high inquisitor to trial, it is Frair Lucas. Have faith in that.”

  “In the man, perhaps, but not his god,” Volent said.

  Elsa drew her blade. Volent turned around, the faintest amusement framing his broken face.

  “That brings your sword out? After everything the earl has done, and his frair. With a shaman freshly fled into the wilds and the wayward son of a Tenerran lord in your company, the thing that tips you into violence is my unwillingness to bow to a god whose servants murdered my lord and manipulated this land into war,” he said. “That’s a tricky faith you have, sir.”

  “Why are you here?” Elsa demanded, grinding her teeth. She moved closer.

  “As I said. I am pursuing Lady Gwen.”

  “But why? It was Sacombre who betrayed your lord. House Adair has fallen. What good is the girl to you?”

  Volent squared himself to the vow knight, tilting his head back. His fingers brushed the hilt of his blade, though he made no move to draw.

  “I have my reasons,” he said. “Same as you.”

  “I would know your reasons,” Elsa said.

  Henri Volent was very still for a long time. When he moved, it was as quick as wind and just as quiet. In a blink his sword was in his hand.

  “Do you think to judge me, Sir Elsa? To decide if my actions are justified, to shackle me if I am out of line, and to aid me if I am in the right?” His words were quiet, reminiscent of the still voice he spoke with in the past, when his face was dead. “By what authority do you claim that right?”

  “I am sworn to the gods. I took a vow to see Strife’s light shine in winter.” Elsa dropped into an easy guard, her sword stretched in front of her, knees low. The snow around her glistened with melt water as she wove summer’s invocations into her blade. Volent laughed.

  “You will need to threaten someone else, LaFey,” he said. “I do not recognize that authority. Leave me to my hunt, and I will leave you to yours.” As quickly as he had drawn, Volent sheathed his sword and turned away. He walked to the keep, disappearing inside despite the protests of the servants. Elsa remained in her guard position in the center of the courtyard until he was gone, then slowly lowered her sword, still scowling.

  * * *

  That night the fire burned brightly. Halfic had a healthy collection of naetheric tomes, gathered from around the island over a great many years.

  To be safe, Ian gathered up every book of folklore, pagan medicine, and tome of mythology he could find in the earl’s extensive library. He took them down to the courtyard, and set flames to them, the old paper and leather bindings curled into embers, floating up to the join the stars above. Halfic did not attend the bonfire, but watched from his rooms above.

  “Was this really necessary?” Ian whispered. They stood apart from the workers who tended the fire. The maimed children watched from the shelter of the doma’s stoop, the light flickering off their twisted forms.

  “It is,” Elsa said. “They could have done great harm to themselves. They may have, already. The earl possessed these long before that gheist appeared.” Her eyes flicked up to the window where the earl was watching. The man’s face was mournful. “He was up to something. Whatever it was, he may have drawn the gheist inadvertently. When this is all over, I will return to Harthal. Have a conversation.”

  “Dreadful,” Ian said. He looked up from the fire, blinking into the darkness beyond. Volent rested just inside the gates. The man had brought his horse inside the walls at some point, and now fed the beast from his hand as he watched the fire. “What are we going to do about the Deadface?”

  “A simple choice. We can travel with him, or we can have him following us from a distance.” Elsa shrugged. “Which would you prefer?”

  “Neither. Can’t you send him away? Send him back to Greenhall?”

  “I have no authority over him,” she said. “Short of killing the man, I don’t see a way around it.”

  “Then do that,” Ian said. “He murdered all those children at Tallownere, and started the war. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  “The church does not involve itself in the crimes of mortal flesh,” Elsa said quietly, as though reciting something nearly forgotten. “I hunt the gheist. Nothing more.”

  “That man is half gheist, I swear it,” Ian muttered. “Gods, what happened to his face. It was bad enough before, but now—”

  “That is no reason to kill.” Elsa shifted, tension draining out of her stance. “Those children did nothing to deserve their condition. Would you have me take the sword to them?”

  “Something will need to be done,” Ian said. Unconsciously he scanned the little faces watching from the doma’s shadows. Young eyes, broken bodies, their expressions creased in fear. He looked away. “Gods have mercy. Something.”

  “Cinder knows nothing of mercy,” Elsa said, “but I am of Strife. They will live. Though it won’t be much of a life.

  Even so, I wouldn’t take it from them.”

  “It’s almost more of a mercy to end their suffering,” Ian said. Elsa tensed up again, turning sharply to stare down at him.

  “Your mother would disagree,” she said. Ian was about to answer, then bit down on his tongue and returned his gaze to the fire. The flames crackled, the pages burned. The memories of the old gods disappeared into cinders, and their histories went with them.

  Only the gheists remained.

  44

  THE VILLAGE WAS abandoned, the residents driven away either by drought or the firestorm that stretched across the eastern horizon. Gwen didn’t care. She had been breathing smoke and drinking ash-choked water for days. All she wanted was a clean breath. All she wanted was to escape.

  They had gotten out of Greenhall well enough, their flight masked by the chaos of the vernal god’s ascension. The gheist tore its way through the city walls, leaving Gwen, Cahl and Noel a clear route out of the city.

  Once they were in the surrounding villages, however, word of the tragedy spread quicker than the panic. They were spotted on the outskirts of Daewerry. Halverdt’s hunters were on them before the night was out, followed by enough knights t
o start a war. They were cut off from the henge that had brought them south. All they could do was run and hope Halverdt’s spears lost the trail.

  Then the feral god caught their scent.

  Gwen wasn’t sure what attracted the spirit, the unspoken fear was that it was following her. For the first day it was a dark storm on the horizon, prehensile lightning lashing the sky, its voice flickering through their thoughts—waking or asleep.

  On the third day the feral god manifested as fire. The drought-starved forests west of Greenhall kindled in a flash, and the smoke that rolled down on Gwen and her companions was as black as boiled pitch, and nearly as hot. Their food was already spent, and the water they drank tasted like ash. It left their tongues and throats coated gray.

  Still they ran.

  * * *

  Gwen stood at the top of a gentle hill, looking down at the abandoned village. Cahl loomed next to her, one arm wrapped around Noel, the other gripping a broken log he was using as a staff. All three of them looked like burn victims. Their clothes and skin were smeared with soot, eyes bloodshot, tears streaking down their cheeks. Noel still limped from whatever injury she had picked up during the flight, and whatever magic Cahl was using to guide them left him drained. They were close to their end.

  “This is the place?” Gwen asked. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “It has to be,” Noel said. “We’ve seen no other sign of civilization.”

  “Ancient pagan sites are rarely found in places of civilization,” Gwen said. “Not in my experience.”

  Noel started to answer, but a fit of racking coughs seized her. She fell against Cahl, who grunted and also nearly collapsed. When she was finished, Noel’s only response was to shake her head sadly.

  “I can check,” Cahl said. He shifted Noel like a baby, propping her against a tree, then started to kneel. “The ley lines are tangled this far south, but I should…”