The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  * * *

  Nessie was the daughter of a duke, raised in warm furs and plentiful food, with strong walls to protect her, and stronger guards to watch her every day.

  She woke with a start. There were loud voices in the hallway. No one had stoked the fire in her room yet, so it had to be very early. She pushed aside her blankets, shivering at the cold air, then rolled to the edge of her wide bed and lowered her toes to the stone floor. Father didn’t allow rugs, especially in winter, but sometimes when he was away mother would have the servants lay a runner from Nessie’s bed to the hallway. Now that both of them were gone, Nessie had them roll it up. She preferred the stone.

  The light that came from the shuttered window was strange. It flickered, and was too dim for sunlight, but too orange for the moon. It seemed like a campfire. A thrill of fear went through her. Nessie shuffled across the floor and threw the windows open.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t the castle that was on fire. A starfield of bright lights flowed down the hills that surrounded Houndhallow, wave after wave of torches, outlining dark shapes. Yipping shouts drifted on the wind. Nessie craned her neck, looking up at the moon.

  “It’s not morning at all,” she whispered to herself. “It’s only just night. Hm.”

  She closed the shutters and went to the door. She was nearly there when Master Tavvish threw it open. His stiff hair hung around his head like a halo, and the chain shirt and leather sash he always wore were askew. He stared in horror at the empty bed, switching to the unlatched window with increasing panic.

  “Dear gods!” he said. “Dead gods above!”

  “Master Tavvish?” Nessie asked. He turned on her with a start, hand on blade, eyes wide. Nessie fell back, a little startled. “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “Lady Ness!” he barked, then he swooped into the room, securing the window and rushing around her chamber, staring at shadows and mumbling to himself. Eventually he slowed and turned back to her. “Lady Ness!” he repeated.

  “Tavvish,” she said calmly. “What is happening?”

  “The castle is under attack, my lady,” he said. “A host of pagans is at our wall.”

  “Pagans?” she asked. “Not Suhdrin knights? Father said it would be Suhdrin knights, if he didn’t come back.”

  “Your father is coming back, my lady. He always comes back.”

  “If you say so,” Nessie answered. “I suppose if it isn’t Suhdrin knights, you might still be right.” She went to the door, pulling a quilted robe from her closet and slipping it over her head. “Well, sir. What are we waiting for? I must see to the walls, yes?”

  “The walls are in order, my lady, but we need to get you to safety,” Tavvish said.

  “If the walls are in order then I am perfectly safe. And if they are not in order, then I must see to them. Mustn’t I?”

  “But, my lady…”

  “Enough of this, sir,” Nessie said. The howls of the attackers could be heard through the shutters, and the light of their torches was as bright as the sun. Nessie waited patiently until Tavvish relented with a sigh. She moved into the hallway, and he followed.

  53

  THEY MET ON a hill overlooking the fields of the Reaveholt. The Suhdrin army, fully aware of Malcolm’s presence, detached a portion of their strength to shore up their flank. The sky above was flat and gray, and the fields were the weathered brown of late autumn. Malcolm wrapped himself in a borrowed cloak and huddled close to the fire while the others talked.

  “It is not a question of tactics or even will,” Castian Jaerdin said. “It is a matter of numbers. Of math. We are vastly outnumbered here. There is no way to overcome Bassion’s advantage of numbers!”

  “I say her numbers are a disadvantage,” Sir Harrow countered. She stood like a titan over the hastily drawn map at the center of the table. The wind that buffeted the hill blew the walls of their tent close, shrinking the space. If anything, it made the woman look larger. “Bassion is scared of being trapped on this side of the Tallow, so she tries to hold the fords at White Lake, all while placing forces to cap the Reaveholt at the north and the south. If any one of those groups is routed, the other two will come running.”

  “Come running, and send us into a rout when they arrive,” Jaerdin countered. “Even if they are so greatly separated, we haven’t the spears to face even one of them.”

  Harrow thought for a moment, her face creased in stubborn concentration.

  “The outrunners who patrol the moors between White Lake and the Reaveholt are few enough. We could…”

  “Oh, gods, yes, we could kill their messengers!” Jaerdin said. “All that would do is irritate them. Maybe rouse them enough to come up here and kill us all.” He stomped around the table in frustration. “To say nothing of the consequences at home. When this was a talking war, and a matter of honor, I had no reason to worry about my family—but now that blood has been spilled—”

  “No,” Malcolm said from his corner. “That is not what bothers you.”

  Jaerdin froze, turning slowly. “I beg your pardon.”

  “That is not why you are worried about your family, Redgarden.” Malcolm unfolded, his stiff bones protesting the cold, the weeks in the saddle, the endless jarring of hard rides and harder beds. He went to the table but didn’t spare the map even a glance. “Blood was spilled at White Lake, and again at the Fen Gate, but you did not waver. Even after the Orphanshield kicked you out of the castle, you did not rush home to see to your wife. Only now do you protest.”

  “I am not wavering, Houndhallow! I merely present the facts of our situation. There was a time when you would do the same.”

  Malcolm watched his friend for a long moment. Long enough that the other people in the tent grew uncomfortable. Eventually, Jaerdin dropped his eyes to the map.

  “It’s the inquisition,” he said quietly. “Bassion, Marchand, even Halverdt… I can handle them in the Circle of Lords. They would never set foot on my lands. But the gray priests…”

  “Yes. This I understand, Castian. They could come into your home, take your children for testing, claim your cattle as tribute, and put your wife on trial for a whim. They are a force worthy of fear, even from strong dukes and stronger blades.” Malcolm nodded slowly, looking down at the map for the first time, then taking in the rest of the room. He and Jaerdin were the only lords present. Everyone else was, at most, a knight. Most were merely soldiers, experienced enough to earn an invitation to the battle plan. Nearly all were Suhdrin. “How many of you live in that fear? That the inquisition may visit your homes while you’re away? Take what is yours, and give it to Cinder?”

  The averted eyes gave Malcolm his answer. Only Sir Harrow, as Tenerran as her braids and her blood, met his gaze.

  “Now you know what it’s like being us,” Malcolm said. “Now you understand the fear of the inquisition. And the hate. Now you are truly one with us. So, let us win this fight together. For our homes.”

  There was a murmur of assent that moved around the room, assent and courage, bolstered by his words. When he turned back to the map, Jaerdin was the first to speak.

  “There are still the numbers, Malcolm. How do we face so many?”

  “You are asking the wrong question, Redgarden,” Malcolm said. “Your estimate ignores the Suhdrin’s greatest strength. The priests. They could have five squires and a broken down mule. As long as a column of the inquisition marches at their side, we could not stand against them.”

  “That is hardly encouraging,” Harrow said.

  “No, but it gives us our question. Why now? Why have the priests joined this fight now, when they have held back for so long?” Malcolm asked. “Sacombre marched with Halverdt, but did not lend his strength to the battle. He was there only as a blessing, as well as a goad, and we all know him for a heretic. That makes it doubly strange. You would think the inquisition would be particularly careful to appear nonpartisan, following their leader’s betrayal of both Suhdra and Tener.”

  “For
that matter,” Jaerdin said, “Bassion would have to think twice before accepting that assistance. She knows what happened to Gabriel Halverdt.”

  “Yes, well, the gheist at Greenhall explains some of it, I’m sure,” Harrow said. “Perhaps the inquisition is tired of screwing around with pagans who are willing to summon gods in the middle of Suhdrin cities.”

  “And yet Sophie Halverdt has not joined her army to Bassion’s cause,” Malcolm said. “Why is that? What game is the inquisition playing?”

  “What are you getting at, Houndhallow?” Jaerdin asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, then he gestured at the map. “However, once we have that answer, I think we’ll have solved this problem, as well.”

  * * *

  The meeting broke up an hour later, with none of them closer to an answer. The columns of Suhdrin spears marched in the fields below, the slow roll of their drums echoing off the hills. Malcolm hurried down the hill, anxious to be back in his own tent, and a bowl of decent stew. There was a lot to be said for Suhdrin cooks.

  Most of the crowd that dissipated from the commander’s tent wore armor, but one figure was dressed in white silk and gold. Catrin DeBray, priestess of Strife and somehow linked to Malcolm’s wife since nearly dying outside the walls of the Fen Gate, slipped from the press and hurried after Malcolm. He walked faster, trying to outdistance her.

  “Houndhallow!” she called. Malcolm quickened his pace, but his old bones were no match for her youth. She paced along beside him effortlessly. “I may have an answer to your question.”

  “Which question is that, my lady?”

  “Why the inquisition has joined Bassion’s force, and why Lady Halverdt has not,” she said.

  “I did not know you were in that meeting,” Malcolm said. “Tell me, what qualifies a junior priestess of Strife to attend a battle plan?”

  “Well, at the moment, I have the answer to the question you seem to think may untangle the whole war,” she said at a trot. “So I guess I have that qualification.”

  Malcolm sighed heavily, finally slowing enough to allow her to keep up at a walk. His legs couldn’t have gone much farther, anyway—not at that pace.

  “And what is this answer?” he asked. “Why didn’t you speak up in the tent?”

  “Because this is not for every ear,” she said. Catrin glanced around the camp. “In fact…”

  “Yes, yes, privacy. We will find privacy. An easy enough thing to do in a crowded war camp, where all the walls are made of linen and the lion’s share of the soldiers are from an opposing country.”

  “I have the place,” Catrin said. “Your wife won’t mind helping.”

  * * *

  The river was set in a narrow gorge, the banks steep and rocky. Malcolm peered down its length with trepidation.

  “I would have been a fool to try to cross this elsewhere, especially at the gallop,” he said.

  “You would have found a way, my dear,” Sorcha said, taking her husband’s arm. “It is your nature.” Malcolm nearly didn’t flinch at her touch, and the cold of her skin, and the unnatural light. He smiled and laid a hand on hers. Nearly the same as it had been.

  “This will do,” Catrin said. She looked up at the camp in the distance, then turned. “My lady?”

  Sorcha bowed slightly and carefully picked her way down to the stream at the bottom of the gorge. Catrin nodded Malcolm forward, then followed him. By the time the two of them had reached the water, Sorcha was already knee deep in the stream, her eyes closed. The water moved strangely.

  “Where did she learn to do this?” Malcolm muttered to himself. Sorcha heard.

  “Where did you learn to breathe, Malcolm? Or the bird to fly? This is part of me. Something the witch did. It was meant to come out, when she was done healing me, but you got in the way of that. And so it remains, and gives me these gifts. She’s dead, by the way.”

  “What?” Malcolm asked, startled by the change in subject.

  “The witch. Earlier today. I’m not sure how, but I felt her leave us. Like a limb I didn’t know I had, and can only feel by its absence.” Sorcha bent to the water, her palms inches above the splashing current. “A quick trial, it would seem.”

  “Yes, well,” Malcolm said, but had nothing to add. Catrin watched quietly, as Sorcha lifted her hands, and the water came with it. The stream backed up, flowing into a dome that Sorcha shaped over her head. She opened her eyes and looked at her husband. “Quickly now.”

  Catrin gave him a little push, and together they walked across the dry river bed. Once they were beside Sorcha, she dropped the dome of water over them, then spoke a few words and closed her hands. The bubble of air around them quivered. The surface of the water shimmered like a mirror. Malcolm stood staring up at it.

  “To anyone watching, the stream is undisturbed. We’re just a bubble floating beneath it, no bigger than a breath. But we should hurry,” Sorcha said. “I can’t do this forever.”

  “It’s amazing,” Catrin said. “And you can travel like this?”

  “With the current, yes. Maybe faster, if there’s a need. I have never done it, but—”

  “I’m sorry, we couldn’t have just talked by the stream’s edge?” Malcolm said. “We had to invoke pagan rites?”

  “It’s important this remain private,” Catrin said, “and frankly, when she described it I was a little curious about this phenomenon. I’ve heard stories, but they weren’t so… beautiful.”

  “Glad to have satisfied your curiosity with my wife’s freakishness,” Malcolm hissed. “We have an inquisitor in the camp who might take an interest in this, if we’re found out. So best you say what you must and let us get back to work.”

  “Of course,” Catrin said, ignoring Malcolm’s frustration. “That’s precisely why we must meet in private. You see, there is a schism inside Heartsbridge.”

  “Naturally,” Malcolm said, “and nothing new. Strife is of summer, Cinder of winter. Their priests have never seen eye to eye. That is how the gods intended it.”

  “More than that. There has been talk in the celestial dome of replacing the celestriarch. That he should have been aware of Sacombre’s heresy, and should stand accountable for his fall.” Catrin’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Some say the High Maiden will stand for election!”

  “I’m not sure replacing the celestriarch with the chief priest of the Lightfort is going to do anything but make more trouble,” Malcolm said. “If the church shows that it can’t trust the inquisition, what will the lords think? Gods, what will the people start to believe?”

  “What do the lords believe, Malcolm?” Sorcha asked. “Why did you hide me from the Orphanshield? Surely you trust the inquisition?”

  “It isn’t the same. This is…” he motioned helplessly at his wife. “This is different. You’re different.”

  “But I’m not,” she said. “The fact is, you knew you should have turned me over to Frair Gilliam when he arrived at the Fen Gate, and you didn’t. You knew what would have become of me. How can you expect your people to feel any differently?”

  “This is all beside the point,” Malcolm said. “I have never loved Cinder, but I have served him. The gods do not ask us for love.”

  “Strife does,” Catrin said quietly. “It’s all she asks.”

  Malcolm made a harsh sound, disbelief and frustration mixing in equal measure. When neither of them said anything more, he shook his head. “What would you have me do? Throw the church aside, just because my wife has… because of this?”

  “There is more,” Catrin said quickly. “Stories from the south, from soldiers of Jaerdin who came north before Bassion cut them off. Lady Sophie has rejected Cinder.”

  “Because Sacombre killed her father,” Malcolm said. “What do you expect?”

  “It is deeper than that,” Catrin said, frustrated. “You brush off everything, out of hand, as simple human emotion. Sophie is right to end her worship of Cinder, and not merely because of Sacombre’s sin. You ne
ed to stop thinking of the high inquisitor as an exception to Cinder’s reign.”

  “What are you saying? Are you even listening to yourself?”

  “Very clearly,” Catrin said. “Are you? Cinder is the god of winter. Of death. Of judgment, when there should be joy. Cruelty, when Strife would give compassion. Why do we worship Cinder? Why would anybody?”

  “Because the world is hard,” Malcolm said. “He sacrificed his flames to give the world the peace of night, but the price was great. Without him, humanity would still be living underground, in caves, while the surface burned to ash. We owe him that worship.”

  “He asks too much,” Catrin said, becoming angry.

  “He asks what he is owed,” Malcolm argued. “Cinder’s judgment makes us strong. He tests us, winnowing the weak, stiffening the strong. The world cannot be eternal summer, child. There is sadness, if only to sharpen the joy.” He drew closer to the girl, taking her shoulders in his hands, staring down at her. “There must be night, to quench the heat of day. Give everything to Strife, and we would burn into ash.”

  “Cinder is evil,” Catrin said. Her face was stiff with anger. “He is darkness, and death, and every wrong thing in the world. He does not deserve our worship.”

  Malcolm hissed and pushed her away, as though her heresy would rub off on him. The bubble of air wasn’t large, but Malcolm stalked to the edge of it and stared out into the shimmering water. A light grew behind him. Sorcha’s hand came down on his shoulder, which twitched.

  “There was a time, my husband, that we celebrated our love. My touch was not something you flinched from. My eyes were a pool you would fall into.” She turned him around and rested her head against his chest. This time he did not react. “Why can’t we worship love? Why must we suffer this chasm between us? I am not the one pushing you away. It is Cinder. It is winter’s hold on your heart that separates us.” She pulled away just far enough to look into his face. “Please, love, stop running from me. Please.”