The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  “That’s ridiculous!” Gwen said. “Malcolm Blakley is the man who drove the demon out of Sacombre’s flesh! Without his deeds, the high inquisitor could well have killed the defenders of the Fen Gate, and overrun the strength of Tener. If anything, the pagan lands owe Blakley a debt of gratitude!”

  “Perhaps, but once we were here, Folam went out to scout the castle. He and his whole party were taken.” Judoc paused, looking meaningfully at Noel. “Killed by inquisitors. A dozen, if there was one.”

  “The inquisition doesn’t move in groups like that!” Gwen said. “I’ve worked with them my entire life. They travel alone, or with a knight of the vow. The only reason to gather in any kind of numbers…”

  “Would be to wage war,” Judoc said. Gwen hesitated, then nodded.

  “Yes. For war, and nothing else.”

  “And the others? Do they still intend to attack Houndhallow?” Cahl asked.

  A horn sounded in the distance, harsh against the peaceful night air. Judoc didn’t answer, but turned to face the distant walls of the ’hallow.

  “We have to stop them,” Gwen said. “Blakley’s strength is at the Fen Gate, along with his wife and son. Only the child remains! Young Nessie will have no idea how to lead a castle’s defense.”

  “We will do what we can,” Noel said, “but it will be like trying to turn the tide. The elders are decided.”

  “I’ll go,” Cahl said. The shaman started clearing the ground at his feet, finding bedrock stones, feeling out the path to the battle line. “The rest of you will have to catch up.”

  “None of you are going,” a voice said from the woods. Dark shapes surrounded them, emerging from the trees as though they stepped out of shadows. They wore dark purple and black, the chains of their belts worked in silver. Inquisitor robes, but corrupted somehow, as though the vestments had been turned into soldier’s uniforms.

  Cahl stood and faced them. The small company came together, standing back to back. Judoc’s bone cloak rattled. The priest in front came closer. He threw back his hood and smiled. It was the first time Gwen had seen Folam smile.

  It was an ugly sight.

  50

  THE COLUMN OF knights was in tight formation, shields facing outward, their spears bristling overhead. Their horses banked skittishly beneath their rider’s spurs, following the road like a snake, slithering forward. There weren’t as many of them as it first appeared. Their core was hollow, their strength arrayed in long columns to hide their numbers.

  They slowed when Elsa came around the corner, her companions slightly behind. Ian rode with his face in shadow. Volent’s hood was thrown back, the ruin of his skin bold under the sun.

  “Halt,” the company’s sergeant called. The column came to a sporadic stop, some thinking the man was addressing Elsa, others obeying the command for themselves. The column stretched out along the road, drawing harsh words from the sergeant. Finally he turned to Elsa again, making his words clear.

  “Riders approaching, halt!”

  In the confusion, the trio rode close enough to count the straps on the sergeant’s cassock. Elsa nodded to her companions, and they ambled to a stop. She sat her mount with one hand on the reins, the other pressed into her thigh, throwing her cloak over her shoulder and revealing the gold and crimson of her tabard.

  “You’re far north for Suhdrin souls,” she said, “and too far west to be headed for Cinderfell. Are you lost, or foolish?”

  “Hunting,” the sergeant said. “The traitor Malcolm Blakley has fled the Fen Gate, but not before seeding it with pagan gods.”

  “Oh? The man who exposed the heresy of both Adair and Sacombre has turned feral overnight?” Elsa asked. “That will come as some surprise to his wife.”

  “The stories of his heroism are overstretched,” the sergeant said. Elsa’s eyes strayed across his company. Other than the banner of House Marchand, none of them wore house colors or carried crests of the southern lords. They could be bandits, though bandits never rode in such force, or with such discipline. The commander continued, his voice sour with contempt.

  “There are many questions about Sacombre’s deeds, but all agree that Blakley was involved with Adair. Why else would he rush to stand at the heretic’s side, and offer his blood in defense of a pagan’s castle? As for his battle with the high inquisitor, well,” the man waved a dismissive hand. “Tall tales and fabrication. I was there. I saw Sacombre drive the gheist out of Adair’s castle, only to be struck down by Houndhallow before he could finish the demon off.”

  “Brave words, and foolish, for one so far from home,” Ian growled. The sergeant squinted at him, but Elsa edged closer, drawing the man’s attention.

  “The words of better witnesses than you tell a different story, sir,” she said.

  “As I said, I was there…”

  “As was I,” Elsa answered. “In the keep, and at Blakley’s side. I saw Colm Adair fall, and Sacombre rise. I saw the god of death in his eyes, and witnessed Houndhallow’s feat of will.” She held out her hand, as though offering a drink from her palm. “Or do you question the word of a vow knight, as well?”

  The column shifted uncomfortably, the sergeant backing away, though his face was set in stony silence. Finally he looked over at Volent, who had thus far escaped his attention.

  The sergeant recoiled. “Sir Volent?” he gasped. “But you were… they said…”

  “I live,” Volent answered. “If anything, I am less dead than I was—in spirit, if not in flesh. Which lord claims your loyalty, sir?”

  “That is not, we were…”

  “Stop stammering, man!” Volent snapped. “We are three and you the dozens, and still you act like you’re facing off against an army. You are a military force, on military patrol, and yet I see no colors on your chest nor sigil in your ranks. Are you ashamed of your lord? Mine led us into false war, and died a fool’s death, and yet I would never forsake his name. What coward do you serve, that you lack such pride?”

  “Our orders are to ride without colors, so as not to startle Lord Blakley, should we come upon him. It’s also thought…” the man paused again, glancing at the vow knight. “It is believed that the gheists of this land are drawn by Suhdrin crests, as commanded by their witch lords.”

  Elsa let out a laugh so brisk and loud it startled the horses all down the line, and set off a few moments of panic as the riders tried to bring the beasts back under control. When they were calm, she spoke again.

  “As a priest of Strife and an agent of the celestial church, I demand to know your loyalty. Whose colors do you fly?”

  “Douglas Marchand, Duke of Highope and lord of the southern range,” the sergeant said. He bowed his head only briefly. “And I am Sir Harold Tombe, sworn to his service.”

  “Sir Tombe, your lord has led you far north, perhaps farther than he has a right to claim,” she responded. “But in asking that you cast off your colors, he has made a grave mistake. One I am afraid I must rectify.”

  “Sir?” Tombe asked with some trepidation. “We are agents of war, not bound by laws of chivalry.”

  “I would never accuse you of being bound to chivalry, sir,” Elsa said sharply. “No, in surrendering your colors on the field of battle, you have brought your loyalty into question. You may turn your coat, or worse, flee the field entirely.”

  “We are not on a field of battle,” Tombe said with a harsh laugh.

  “Are we not?” Ian asked, drawing his sword. Tombe stared at him with disbelief, but Ian did not yield. Tombe kept looking between Ian and Elsa, occasionally glancing at Volent.

  “What is this?” he said. “Has Strife thrown in with House Blakley?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Elsa said. “Blakley has thrown in with Strife. His loyalty is to the church, as is the loyalty of all holy men and women of Tenumbra. He has renounced his household, and answers now only to Heartsbridge.”

  “More like his father has thrown him out on his ass,” one of the knights murmured. Ian bristle
d, but Elsa held him back with a glance.

  “This is my question, men of Marchand,” she continued. “I have need of you. We are following a pagan of great power, and a gheist of dire intent. I ask you to renounce your Suhdrin loyalty, and answer to the call of Strife. Ride with me, and rid these lands of the gheist.” She nodded to her companions. “As have Ian Blakley, and Henri Volent.”

  Tombe was silent for several moments. He glared at the vow knight for a long time before shaking his head.

  “I will not ride with such company,” he said.

  “We should take him,” one of the group growled. It was the knight who had spoken earlier. “Take them both. Highope will pay well for Blakley’s whelp, and surely there is a ransom in the Deadface’s blood. Gods know he’s done crime enough.”

  “You take them only through the shedding of my blood,” Elsa said, “and you will find that hard to accomplish.” She didn’t touch her blade, but the violence in her voice was enough to cut stone. Tombe didn’t move.

  “I’ll ride with you,” one of the knights said. He rode forward, breaking formation and trotting to Elsa’s side. He was old, his weathered face calm under a helm of steel. “Lady Strife never has to ask me twice.”

  “And I,” another called. He was joined by a half-dozen others, each man and woman pulling out of formation to stand beside Elsa. Ian smirked at Tombe’s growing rage.

  “You will be reported,” Tombe said. “All of you. Your families will hear of this.”

  “Gods pray my family serves the church as well as it has served me,” the weathered knight said. “This news will be met with favor back home.”

  “This is a mistake. You’re all making a terrible mistake,” Tombe insisted. His reduced column drew tight, collapsing on the gaps in their ranks. They looked much smaller, as though a stiff breeze could send them running.

  “You should go,” Volent said. “Before my service to the gods includes knocking you off that damned horse.”

  Tombe hesitated as long as his nerves could manage, but not as long as his pride would want. Then he turned and led his column back the way they had come, moving quickly, if not with greater poise.

  “That will be trouble,” the weathered knight said quietly. “Tombe always had more pride than sense.”

  “The world is little else but trouble these days,” Volent answered. He turned his horse back toward the moors. “I’ve stopped letting it bother me.”

  “And what of you, young Blakley?” the knight asked. “Does it bother you that your father has broken, his numbers scattered to the winds?”

  “That is not my fight,” Ian said. He turned to follow Volent. “Not anymore.”

  * * *

  They rode in relative silence for most of the afternoon. The eight Suhdrin knights who had joined them stayed together, speaking quietly on occasion, the young deferring to the weathered knight whenever there was disagreement.

  Ian and Volent rode ahead, knee to knee, never looking back. Elsa negotiated the distance between these two groups, only speaking when they strayed from whatever invisible path led to the pagan god.

  They found traces of its passing. The skittish herds of silver deer that roamed these moors stayed well away from them, but more than once they crossed a corpse torn apart by human hands, the wounds seared in ash, only the heart and lungs consumed. Elsa stopped long enough to breath a prayer into the dead creature’s flesh. The Suhdrin knights grew quiet, and began to ride closer to the vow priest.

  As the afternoon waned, the weathered knight broke free from his companions and rode to the front of the column. He brought his mount even with Volent, keeping the Suhdrin between him and Ian. After a few quiet moments, he turned and addressed the broken man.

  “You are not what I assumed you would be,” he said.

  “The stories of a man travel farther than the man himself,” Volent said, “and often change in the going. Even so, I am not the man the stories were told about.” The knight seemed satisfied with that, nodding curtly. He offered his gauntleted hand, not in a handshake so much as a benediction.

  “I am Sir Bruler, recently of House Marchand, but…” he smiled, his face cracking into a thousand wrinkles, the lines around his eyes light with joy. “I seem to have broken that commitment. Do you think this makes me a holy man, perhaps?”

  “It makes you a strange man, at least,” Volent said. “Why did you answer Sir LaFey’s call?” Bruler shrugged, an elaborate gesture that encompassed his entire body.

  “She seems a dangerous sort,” he responded. “The sort that is worth getting into trouble with. I have followed worse lords for lesser causes.”

  “You’re not a zealot, are you? I have never trusted zealots.”

  “No? That is unusual, coming from you—but as you say, stories travel, and men change.” Bruler blew his nose. “I am not given to great enthusiasm for the gods, if that is what you mean. For anything, really. That itself makes me unusual these days.”

  Volent turned and looked at the man, up and down. He tilted his head.

  “How do you mean?” Volent asked.

  “There is something wrong in the south. In all of Suhdra, and Tener besides, I imagine, though perhaps they have merely caught it from us.” He glanced back at his seven companions. “They will never know it, the way things were during the Reaver War, when our lands stood united.” He glanced past Volent, addressing the still silent Ian. “When your father rode with us. When the banner of the hound flew at the head of our battle line, and the blood of Tenerran and Suhdrin flowed together.”

  “That was apparently not enough to save him at the Fen Gate, sir,” Ian said, his head buried in his hood.

  “No. No, it was not,” Bruler said, shaking his head sadly, “but when the priests tell us that House Blakley has fallen to heresy, that the Reaverbane is colluding with pagans and his son has taken up with witches, well… that is a story I have trouble believing.”

  “Stories change,” Ian said. “Men change.”

  “They do, and so when this golden lady came to me at the end of a long and thankless journey and offered me the opportunity to know for myself, to see and judge the son, and perhaps learn more of the father, I could not turn it down.” Bruler spoke out over the moor, his eyes roaming the grassy hills and peering into the mists that clung to the horizon. “I could not believe what I was told, so I determined to follow the church’s call, to know for myself.”

  “It’s not often that unbelief leads to service with the church,” Volent muttered. This brought another laugh from Bruler, a hearty sound that seemed to cut through the fog and bring a little sun to the grassy hills.

  “No, it is not, but that is my path,” Bruler said. “That is the road I must travel, and you will travel it with me, Sir Volent. Sir Blakley. We will arrive at our destination together, or not at all.”

  “Are you always this talkative?” Volent asked. “Or can we look forward to brief moments of silence?”

  “Brief, yes,” Bruler answered, “but never dull.”

  Without untangling what that meant, the three continued down the unmarked path, Elsa nudging them north or south as they wandered, the young knights following quietly after. Bruler continued his stories, and Ian his silence.

  51

  “WHAT THE HELL are we doing, frair?” Martin asked sharply. The flow of traffic slowed momentarily, as the passersby in gray and black frowned at Martin’s abuse of a priest. He ducked his head and rushed after Lucas. So easy to lose the man in this crowd, one more gray-hooded frair among multitudes. When he caught up to Lucas, Martin forced him to the side of the road.

  “Lucas? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Hardly,” Lucas said. He reached down and gently pried Martin’s fingers away from his chest, then nodded amicably to the dozen or so priests and guards who were watching them nervously. “It may be better to take this conversation inside.”

  “And we’re just going to leave them there?” Martin said, pointing angrily back
to the inn. “Just like that?”

  “Enough talking,” Lucas said with a sigh. He led his companion into a bar. The room was dark and dingy and full of desperate drunk sailors, none of whom noticed their entrance. Lucas hurriedly closed the door behind him, then went to the shuttered window and peered out between the cracks. “Hopefully they’ll have followed… yes, here we are.”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  “You’re going to excite the clientele, and this lot doesn’t seem in the market for excitement,” Lucas said. “We have been followed, sir. Since the Fen Gate, I suspect, but certainly since Gardengerry. Attacks like that don’t just happen.”

  “You said it was a rogue gheist. That you should have searched more closely.”

  “I did search more closely. I blanketed that city in wards, but each and every one of them was looking outward. Which either means our attacker was already waiting for us in the city, or…” he drew Martin closer, whispering in the boy’s ear as he pointed outside. “Quietly. Our hunter was already in our midst.”

  Through the narrow crack in the shutter, Martin was able to see a slice of the road outside. Most of the traffic blurred past, gray robes and dingy armor, shot through with the grim faces of the residents of Gallowsport. The only solitary figure was a man in black and silver, his garb not too out of place, but it carried the dust of the road, and the chain mail that peeked out of his shirt was clean and well-oiled. Before he could speak a second figure appeared.

  Martin recognized her immediately.

  “She’s dead,” he whispered.

  “Apparently not,” Lucas said. Out in the street, Sir Horne spoke briefly with the lookout, who nodded to the door of the bar in reply. Another few words and the scout directed her to the inn where Sacombre and Fianna were waiting. She set her face into a scowl and marched off in that direction.

  “No,” Martin said. “You misunderstand me. When I get my hands on her, she’s fucking dead.”