The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  Malcolm sighed, then drew his blade.

  “The only way out is through!” he shouted. “Blades, blades, brace for charge! Spears to the fore! Blades and shields!”

  “The Hound!” his men responded. “The Hallow!”

  “The Hound!” Malcolm answered, and raised the dull black edge of his sword toward the Suhdrin host that was forming at the mouth of the bridge. “The Hallow!”

  The Suhdrin force made hasty preparation. There weren’t that many, but they were knights of spear, all in armor and prepared for battle. Perhaps they had known Malcolm was coming this way after all. He glimpsed bright color among their ranks, a single figure in red and gold who dismounted smoothly and strode a few feet down the road toward Malcolm.

  A knight of the vow. Malcolm searched the rest of the host and found the knight’s companion, an inquisitor in dark robes, weaving naetheric shadows into the air. The rest of the Suhdrin force fell back from the pair—all but one man, who was digging desperately through his saddlebags.

  “Are we going to ride through a vow knight?” Sir Doone shouted.

  “If we must,” Malcolm said. He glanced back at Catrin, but the priestess was in a fugue state, her eyes closed and face lifted to the sky. It was a mystery how she hadn’t toppled from the saddle. He turned back to the bridge. Strange lights began forming around the vow knight, a circle of gold that twisted up into the air, forming a dome.

  The knight’s armor crackled with power, and her blade was a splinter of the sun given form. Malcolm squinted into the brilliance, and couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he was meant to die. It seemed strange, to face down Sacombre’s heresy and Adair’s betrayal, only to fall at the hand of a servant of loving Strife, the only god he seemed to understand anymore.

  Well, Malcolm thought, if this is what the goddess asks of me, it is what she will have. Sacrifice, and glory.

  A shadow passed in front of the vow knight’s glare. Malcolm shielded his eyes, peering at a lone figure who had ridden in front of the light. It was a man on a horse, waving some kind of rumpled banner. The fool was going to be trampled.

  The light changed, and the banner became clear. Malcolm signaled the halt. In the glaring light, it took Doone and the others a while to realize they were stopping. The column slid around Malcolm before stomping to the canter and finally stopping completely. He rode through them, easing their worry and ordering swords into sheathes before he emerged from the churning chaos of his troops. He rode toward the man with the banner.

  “Redgarden,” he called. “I did not think to find you so far north.”

  “Nor you, so far south,” Castian Jaerdin answered. Behind him, the vow knight spun down her invocations, the lights winking out one by one.

  Malcolm rode to Jaerdin’s side. They clasped hands. He nodded toward the vow knight and inquisitor. “Visitors from Heartsbridge?” he asked.

  “We came upon them on the godsroad. They were recalled from their hunting to the north to handle matters in Greenhall. Is your wife…” Jaerdin craned his head, his eyes widening when he picked Sorcha out of the column. Lady Blakley’s head was crowned with light, and her eyes shone like stars. “Ah,” he said.

  “Yes,” Malcolm said, staring down the inquisitor. The man marched down the road, stern face scanning the Tenerran force, fists clenching a mace as big as his head. “Ah, indeed.”

  * * *

  Jaerdin’s force had joined with sympathizers from the south, Roard and Bealth chief among them, to form a small army. They tarried in southern Tener following their expulsion from the Fen Gate, but mostly because the way south wasn’t clear.

  “Surely Sir Bourne would let you pass,” Malcolm said as they rode up the bluff to Jaerdin’s camp. “Your stand at White Lake is well known in Tener.”

  “Bourne has no say in the matter,” Castian answered.

  “So the Reaveholt has fallen, then,” Sir Doone said. “Gods pray Bourne gave them hell in the process.”

  “No, no, the ’holt still stands, but it is surrounded. Bassion has marched north with enough force to circle around White Lake, hold the fords and the Redoubt, and cut Bourne off from both directions.” The camp was alive with activity. Jaerdin signaled to the guards, letting them know to stand down. “This is as far south as we dare to go. Any further and we may draw Bassion’s attention. We’ve been expecting an attack for days.”

  “From Bassion? Here?” Malcolm asked. He looked around. They were on a war footing—even the pages and cooks were wearing loose chain shirts and carrying swords awkwardly at their sides. “Why would Bassion attack you?”

  “Because of you,” Castian said, “and because of Greenhall.”

  “That was months ago,” Malcolm said. “By now Frair Lucas will have delivered Halverdt’s body and told the story of Sacombre’s treachery.”

  Castian slid from his horse, handing riding gloves and rumpled banner to a page. Malcolm followed suit.

  “Come see for yourself, Houndhallow,” Castian said.

  The pair made their way through the camp, to the southern picket. The bluff here was slightly higher than the rest of the grounds, providing some cover from the southern approach, as well as a superior lookout. Several rangers sat casually along the line, nodding to Jaerdin as he approached. None of them moved to stand or salute. They wore no house colors, and had the look of bandits.

  “You’ve become lax in your recruiting standards,” Malcolm muttered as they passed the men.

  “Any blade in a war, Houndhallow, and this is truly a war.”

  “It has been for some time,” Malcolm said.

  “Yes,” Castian answered. “But now…”

  He paused at the tip of the bluff and motioned to the south. From this distance, the Tallow was a winding shadow in the grasslands, the Reaveholt a flat black disk at the intersection of road and river, the air above it smudgy with wood smoke. An army camped along the northern road, and another to the south. Their banners hung in the lazy air, the colors of Suhdra.

  “I have seen many armies since this all started, Redgarden,” Malcolm said. “This is another one, no larger than most, and no smaller. It certainly doesn’t equal the force currently camped around the Fen Gate.”

  “Not in number, but in composition, it varies greatly.” Castian produced a looking glass, unfolding it and handing it to Malcolm. “Look closer, Houndhallow. See what is arrayed against us.”

  Malcolm took the glass and sighted down the valley. He recognized the banners and ranks of Bassion, Marchand, and other southern houses, all arranged in classic military order. They were prepared for a long siege. But he saw nothing extraordinary about their disposition. He was about to hand the glass back to Castian when a shadow loomed across his vision. He quickly pulled back, found the dark void in his view, and refocused on it.

  A group of inquisitors stood in a loose circle, outside the boundaries of the Suhdrin camp. They were engaged in some sort of ritual, their hands and minds joined by lines of naetheric force. The space between them shimmered in blackness. A creature loomed out of the void and the background darkness vanished, like a window snapping shut. The inquisitors quickly fell on the beast, lashing it to the earth with bonds of naether, sealing it into the waking world.

  Malcolm dropped the glass. His mouth was agape.

  “Yes, Houndhallow. Exactly. The house of Cinder has sworn to the enemy. They have put their vows aside, and joined the Suhdrin crusade against the north,” Jaerdin said. His face was grim. “And they have brought their god with them.”

  49

  THE HENGE NESTLED among a peaceful copse of trees, tucked deep in the forest. The stones were old and worn, but their roots reached all the way to the bedrock, their power true. It was a forgotten place.

  Despite the bright autumn sun, fog began to form between the stones. At first it was just a gray whisper, but slowly it gathered, thicker and thicker until dark mist billowed up from the mossy rocks, forming a cloud that engulfed the henge. Cinders licked
through the fog in curls of light that sparkled in the mist. Then, with a thunder that shook the dry leaves still clinging to the trees, a column of ash and ember crashed out of the henge and washed through the forest.

  Gwen was the first to emerge. She stumbled out of the fog bank, her eyes pressed closed, arms outstretched, face smeared with soot. Bits of her clothing were on fire, and the short stubble of her head was singed. Her fingers brushed a lichen-shrouded tree and she stopped and looked around.

  “We made it,” she called. “We’re somewhere else.”

  “Quietly,” Cahl cautioned. “Until we know where we are.” The big shaman loomed out of the mist, Noel on one arm and a broken log in his other hand. He limped into the open. The witch settled into a coughing fit, then blinked up at the sun and smiled.

  “A gracious sight,” Noel said. “I thought I’d never see the sun again.”

  “We’re farther north, for sure,” Gwen said. “Gods pray far enough.”

  “Well, there’s no smoke in the air, and this henge is in good enough repair.” Cahl put a hand against one of the stones. “We are away from Suhdrin influence, at least.”

  Noel disentangled herself from his arm and limped to a nearby stump. She sat and began rubbing her eyes. “So what now?” she asked. “I’m assuming this henge can’t take us anywhere else?”

  “Gods, no. It barely got us here,” Cahl said.

  “We will need food and shelter,” Gwen said. “Water, and then we have to get back to the conclave. They must know of Folam’s betrayal.”

  “We don’t know—” Noel began.

  “Gods hell we don’t,” Gwen snapped. “I’ve had enough of you defending that man. I expect it of Cahl, but you, a Suhdrin born and raised… you should know better.”

  “There are so few friendly voices in the south,” Noel said sadly. “It is hard to find betrayal in the north, as well.”

  “Yet betrayal found us,” Cahl said. Wincing in pain, he limped up a nearby hill and looked around. “Grace Steading,” he called down. “North and east of the Fen. North of the hound’s lands, as well. The conclave is not far.”

  “Do we return to them?” Noel asked. “If Folam has already reached them, there is no telling what lies he has told.”

  “And there was already little love for me in their ranks,” Gwen said. “He won’t have to weave a strong tale to convince them of my betrayal.” She sat down heavily beside Noel. The witch put a hand on Gwen’s shoulder and rubbed it.

  “Even if he’s there first,” Cahl said, “we have to warn them. If you don’t want to take that risk, I won’t ask it of you. But I must go.”

  “I’m not staying here,” Gwen said, “and there’s nowhere else for me. Besides, the bastard used my hair and blood in the ritual. Used my body to summon that gheist.” She drew her knife, then slid it under her shirt. A short time later her hand emerged with the linen she had used to bind her chest. “It seems like my debt to pay. At least in part.”

  “There is no debt among the gods,” Cahl said. “Nevertheless, your company would be welcome.”

  “Fine,” Gwen said. She stood, then helped Noel to her feet. “To the conclave, but we’d best be on our way. Gods know how Folam travels, and we’ll be walking.”

  “No,” Cahl said. “You did not hear. We are on the hound’s border, and I have walked with his heir.” He closed his eyes and raised a hand, his palm cupped. A drop of blood nestled in his hand, like a crimson bead. “Ian owes me this much at least.”

  In the distance, something howled.

  * * *

  The pack was a fury through the trees, moss-gray trunks whipping past so quickly that Gwen lost count, speeding by until their arching canopies blurred into a long, sun-dappled tunnel that shifted overhead.

  She lay across the creature’s back, its spine flexing beneath her belly, ribs scraping her legs, her fingers tangled in a mat of fur so thick it seemed like iron chain. The smell of the beast filled her lungs with musk. Whether these creatures were gods or spirits or merely wild, Gwen didn’t know. They carried her through the forests like a wind.

  They skirted distant Houndhallow, the pack falling toward the sanctuary of their grounds like a stone, only pulling away from it at Cahl’s urging. Gwen briefly glimpsed the black stone walls of the castle before they were swept away. The sun moved but didn’t move.

  When they came to a halt, it was dusk, and the valley below them sparkled with campfires.

  “I can’t believe Blakley would tolerate such a gathering so close to his walls,” Noel said. The witch sat on her mount comfortably, as though riding feral dogs through the forest was a regular exercise for her.

  “The lord is away, and his eye does not reach far into the woods,” Cahl said. “Even so, this is a little close for my comfort. Something must have driven them here.”

  “Fear, perhaps? Or rage. Are they hunting something?” Gwen asked. “We left them in some disarray.”

  “All part of Folam’s plan, no doubt,” Cahl said. He slid from the hound’s back, running a hand through the creature’s fur and scratching its ears. The beast curled back a lip and let out a bone-shuddering rumble that might have been pleasure or rage. “The conclave will be on edge.”

  Noel laughed and shook her head. “They talk so much of sacrifice and faith, but put them within a day of a doma and the northern elders shake like children in a thunderstorm. You would think the smell of frairwood burned their precious noses.”

  “The inquisition does not hunt in Suhdra as they hunt here. You have only to wear decent robes and learn the words to the evensong to pass undisturbed, Noel,” Cahl said. “These people live in fear of being dragged from their beds and hanged in the village square. It is not the same.”

  “So you say,” Noel answered quietly, “but I have seen my share of hangings—for a word spoken wrong to a neighbor, or the fortune of having a child not fall ill when the rest of the village takes sick. Even cooking a decent loaf of bread when your neighbor’s burns can bring the church’s attention. We may not have as many inquisitor’s, shaman, but we have gossips, jealousy, and spite.”

  “So how do we approach the conclave?” Gwen asked, brushing the conversation aside before it could get out of hand. “Do we know an elder who can be trusted? Someone who won’t have fallen to Folam’s spite?”

  “Morcant will be too involved with his own people to listen to the voidfather, though he may not listen to us, either,” Cahl said. “Aedan is consumed with his hatred for you. Anything Folam says that aligns with that hatred, the elder of the hunt will lap up. Tammish and Vilday will wait to see what the others do, though Tammish might be moved.” He turned to Gwen. “His tribe was close to your family, before the crusades. As elder of the depths, he may be willing to welcome the last child of the tribe of iron into his fold.”

  “I’m not looking for political alliances, nor friendship,” Gwen said. “I need someone I can trust to stand against the voidfather. Against the elder of elders.”

  “I have a name,” Noel said. They turned to her, and she shrugged. “Honest enemies make honest allies.”

  “Judoc,” Cahl said. “Elder of bones.”

  “If we can’t trust the dead,” Noel answered, “who can we trust? They have nothing to hide, and less to gain.”

  “Very well,” Cahl said. “Judoc.” He turned to the forest, his limp barely noticeable now in his long stride. “I will speak with him.”

  “Let me,” Noel said.

  “He will trust you?”

  “No.” Noel bent and whispered to her hound, and the beast loped toward the campfires below, still carrying the witch. She turned back to them. “But he will do as I ask. If only to see me ruined.”

  * * *

  She returned some hours later, without her mount. Judoc walked beside her, his cloak of bones clattering like birdsong. He and Noel were engaged in deep conversation, their heads bent close, their hands gesturing madly. Cahl waited until they were close before he cleared his t
hroat. Judoc jumped.

  “Gods, elder. Did you lose your way in the woods?” Cahl asked with a smile.

  “I have lost my way with this woman, perhaps, but that is nothing new,” Judoc said. The grim elder of the tribe of bones settled onto a stump, folding his legs and hands awkwardly, until he looked like a vulture waiting for someone else’s death. “Elder Cahl. We thought we lost you in Greenhall.”

  “So Folam has returned to you,” Gwen said. “What has he been saying?”

  “Folam is dead. Following the failed ritual in Greenhall…”

  “That was not—” Gwen started. Judoc raised a hand to stop her.

  “…following the failed ritual in Greenhall, he returned to us, gravely injured. He said you were betrayed by men of the hound, conspirators who dined with Lady Halverdt and walked the streets with inquisitors,” Judoc finished. “Noel has had much to say about your time in the voidfather’s company. I would not trust her with my death, but I would never accuse her of trying to undercut Folam’s command, at least not without good reason. Still, I would rather have it from Tenerran lips. Cahl?”

  “There were no conspirators in the city. No men of Blakley, nor inquisitors,” Cahl said. “If anything, the place has become a refuge for Lady Strife, despite winter’s approach.”

  “And the only betrayal was Folam’s,” Gwen said. “He tricked me into helping summon the vernal god. He tricked us all.” Judoc listened to Gwen’s accusation, then turned to Cahl for confirmation. The shaman nodded sharply, and the elder of bones sighed.

  “His tale didn’t feel right,” Judoc said. “Several of the others rallied to his side, though, mostly of Fianna’s kin. They wanted vengeance. Folam hesitated at first, but eventually agreed to lead us here.”

  “He led you to Houndhallow?” Gwen asked. “But to what purpose?”

  “They intend to attack House Blakley,” Noel said, her face drawn. “They think they will find evidence of Houndhallow’s complicity in Sacombre’s plot. The Duke of Greenhall died in his company, after all. If Greenhall falls, and Adair with it, Blakley would have claim to much of that land. Especially as a spoil of war.”