by Tim Akers
When Kara struck the water, she fell through it, as though a great depth were contained in the shallow cistern. She sank in slow motion. The light of the shrine reflected off the surface of the water, flickering oil lamps and the dispersing cinder from the ash cloud that had killed her love. The bare outline of the black-and-silver figure appeared in the water above, leaning against the cistern’s edge, staring down into the depths. Kara watched him as she fell, deeper and deeper, until the portal to the hound’s shrine closed.
Then she turned and swam hard against the current. She had to get back to the camp. She had to warn the others. The Blakleys had inquisitors with them. They had been prepared.
The house of Cinder was waiting for them.
* * *
Nessie watched the destruction from the central keep. Master Tavvish insisted she wear a chain shirt, but it was so big on her that it looked like a silver dress. She had belted it at the waist, and tossed aside the helm and greaves.
“Mother has one of these, but it fits better,” she said, holding out the hems of the skirt. “It’s very heavy.”
“Yes, well, we were supposed to have you fitted for one this spring, but your father didn’t allow it. He did not want his daughter going to war,” Tavvish said. The man stood awkwardly behind her, one hand always on her shoulder, replacing it each time she shrugged it off. “That seems to have been a mistake.”
“Why are they attacking?” she asked.
“They are pagans. They follow the call of their gods, and the madness of their blood,” Tavvish said. Nessie shrugged off his hand, and he laid it once again beside her neck. “They’ve never needed a reason to attack in the past.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” Nessie mused. “Father always said that the pagans are just like us. Trying to worship their gods, only their gods don’t come to doma or follow the calendar. And some of them are crazy—the gods, that is, not the pagans.” She rubbed her nose on her sleeve, forgetting about the chain shirt and hurting her face with the cold, slithery metal of its links. This caused more of her face to itch. She shook her hands free of the over-long sleeves and rubbed her face with both palms. “He always said we were safe enough, long as we didn’t evoke them.”
“Provoke,” Tavvish said. “Your father never wanted to provoke the pagans. He never wanted to provoke anyone. Always making peace, making friends. Never acting alone. Gods know what good it did us.”
“Father always said it’s better to greet a man as a friend than to treat him like an enemy,” Nessie said quietly. “That’s what he said.”
“Yes, well.” Tavvish clapped her shoulder, pushing down on sore muscles, already exhausted from the chain shirt. “That advice would not serve well tonight.”
Nessie didn’t answer, because for her whole life, her father’s advice had served well enough. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t right, even now, even tonight. Then again, father wasn’t here, and these men and women didn’t seem like friends, no matter which way she looked at them.
The walls were a patchwork of fire and smoke. The scaffolding that usually served as guardwalks and archer platforms had taken to flame, which prevented the Blakley guards from defending the heights and hindered the pagans who had scaled the walls. Men fell to their deaths every few minutes. They looked like bottles that had been tipped off, spinning end over end until they smashed into the courtyard.
Nessie wished her brother were there with her. Ian had always been better at the sword stuff. She liked her dogs, and her dresses, and the silly songs Friar Daxter used to sing on the Allfire. She wondered where Frair Daxter was. She turned to the doma, and immediately wished she hadn’t done so.
Daxter and all the celestes had been dragged out into the courtyard. Their clothes were bloody, and most of them were lying down. Daxter stood over them, hands bound behind his back, arguing with one of the pagan men with the dark eyes. Even at this distance, Nessie could see the man’s face looked like a tree of leaves. They were both very angry.
Then the tree-faced man hit Daxter, and the old frair went down in a heap. There was blood. Nessie was okay with blood, except when it was her blood, and then she didn’t like it. She decided she didn’t like it when it was Frair Daxter’s blood, either. She liked his songs. She liked the way he smiled during his services, especially in summer. Frair Daxter lay on the ground outside his doma.
“What are we going to do?” she asked. Tavvish didn’t answer, so she turned to look at him. His face was streaked with sweat and tears, his eyes reflecting the flames from the walls. She tugged at his arm, the one he had clapped firmly against her shoulder, and he jumped.
“It’ll be fine, dearie,” he said, barely taking his eyes off the fight long enough to look at her. “Everything’ll be fine, soon enough. Your father will sort this. Or Ian. It’ll all get sorted out. Eventually.”
“That’s a shit answer,” she said. Master Tavvish looked almost as bothered by her profanity as he was by the wholesale slaughter of the men and women in the courtyard below. “My father might do a lot of things in this situation, but stand on the tower and wait for someone else to fix it? No, that’s not one of them.”
“Yes, but, my lady… your father is the Reaverbane.”
“He didn’t become that by waiting around,” Nessie said. She slipped a knife from her belt and cut free the straps that held her chain shirt in place. “Do you think the castle is lost, Master Tavvish?”
“I don’t… I think, maybe, if we hold here we can stop them. But if not…”
“If not, we’re all dead,” Nessie answered. “Who remains of our strength?”
“Those here. A sizable number in the great hall below, waiting for the main hall to be breached.” Tavvish gestured hopelessly to the courtyard. “Some scattered few, holding out in whatever bolt hole they could manage.”
“I will not have my father’s men stranded like rats in a trap,” Nessie said. “We will open the doors, and we will save them.”
“But, my lady, the pagans…”
“Will die if they stop us. Or they will kill us,” she said. “That is the nature of war.
“Father always said.”
* * *
Gwen woke in motion. The long, rolling stride of the hound beneath her was like a wave through the forest. She lifted her head and was surprised to find her face stuck to the beast’s matted fur. When she pulled free, a tangle of dark fibers on her cheek writhed briefly in the air before laying flat against her face once again. They felt like fingers closing over her cheekbone, a part of her and yet not. She reached up to touch them and found cold iron, as much a part of her body as her veins and hair.
She glanced down at the hand she was using to explore her face and jerked away. She was wearing a gauntlet, roughly forged, the fingers as narrow and nimble as her own, the wrist spiraling into smaller and smaller rings until it burrowed into her flesh. Black iron, glinting with rust red, so like her hair that Gwen had to touch it again to convince herself that it was hard and cold as stone.
Her attention was snapped away from her strange condition by the battle going on around her. Small gaggles of shadowy figures struggled among the trees, fighting with fire and sword, others lying dead on the ground. The beast shifted suddenly, nearly knocking Gwen from its back. She grabbed on and saw that it was dodging away from one of these small skirmishes. A half-dozen pagans, dressed in the green and leather, faced off with a pair of black-clad strangers. They looked like priests, but weren’t.
They were the voidfather’s followers.
Gwen hauled on the hound’s neck, turning it back toward the fight, finally convincing it to stop while she watched. The void priests were outnumbered, but the pagans were holding back as though they were scared. At some unseen signal the pagans rushed forward. The priests stood firm. The nearest pagan began to manifest some kind of spirit, small tongues of flame wreathing her head and hands. One of the priests gestured toward her, and Gwen saw another of those blood-smeared runes on his palm.<
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The wreath of flame grew. Her arms caught fire—not her clothes, but the flesh itself. The pagan started screaming, a mad, panicked, animal sound that tore at Gwen’s heart. The other pagans stepped back, staring in horror at the living pyre of their companion. The priest stepped forward, waving his hands, each motion shoving a chunk of burning skin off of the burning woman and hurling it at her companions. The fire spread quickly, hot enough to scorch stone. The pagans scattered.
The void priests turned their eyes to Gwen. The hound beneath her started to growl, low and deep. She bent to its neck.
“Get us out of here.”
The hound hurled away into the night. There were dozens of fires in the forests all around, and the air smelled of scorched flesh and boiled blood. Gwen held on with all her might. She strained to reach the hound’s ear.
“To the castle,” she said. “To your home.”
56
THERE WAS A moment of surprise on the inquisitor’s face. Malcolm stood in the middle of the river, water flowing around his knees, sword held at the guard. Sorcha and Catrin stood behind him, hands twisted together. On the bank, the Suhdrin force stood in a loose crescent with the inquisitor and vow knight at their center. No one moved.
“Think before you speak, Houndhallow,” the inquisitor said. “You have been faithful to the church, as has your family going back for generations. The peace of Tenumbra depends on that faithfulness. Would you throw that away for—?”
“Yes,” Malcolm said simply. “I would. I should have, long ago. This is not a peace worth holding.”
“I knew Adair for a heretic, but I would not have expected that of Blakley. Not after all you have done for Heartsbridge.” The inquisitor shifted, leaning his darkwood staff against his shoulder and taking something out of his sleeve. It was a rag, just a scrap of linen he used to wipe the sweat from his face. “When the celestriarch needed a Tenerran lord to argue the peace, High Elector Beaunair personally recommended you. And now, this.”
“Leave us in peace, frair. This war is none of the church’s business. You should not be involved. In the war, or in my family,” Malcolm said.
“All business belongs to the church,” the inquisitor answered. “The celestriarch speaks for all of Tenumbra!”
“But you do not speak for the celestriarch,” Catrin said sharply. The girl came around Malcolm, her fists balled at her side, the white linen of her robes soaking up the stream’s cold water. She was shivering. “You have murdered enough of these people, frair! You and your ilk have taken their children and their lands and sacrificed them on winter’s cold altar! Leave them in peace, or leave in blood.”
“Such words from a child of the church,” the inquisitor said. He was a large man, soft in all the ways Malcolm was firm, but a cold fury burned in his eyes. Not much of a fighter, but the battles fought in Cinder’s name were rarely won with physical might.
He shifted slightly, his attention split between Catrin and Malcolm. “But heresy comes from all quarters these days. Have you fallen in with them, Catrin DeBray?”
“This man saved my life, and this woman, my spirit,” Catrin said. “So if I have to give both again to protect them, it will be a debt justly paid.”
The inquisitor laughed, a deep, rolling sound that didn’t get close to joy. He signaled to the Suhdrin guards at his sides.
“See that the girl is not harmed, but do not let her interfere in this. I do not wish to explain to the Orphanshield why I broke one of his pet vagrants.”
“That is the problem with the faith of Cinder,” Catrin said. “It must be forced with steel. The truth of Strife never has to be shoved down anyone’s throat.”
“We can’t all worship debauchery and madness, child,” the frair said evenly. He took a menacing step forward, his staff held in front of him, the iron tip radiating. “Now, Houndhallow, a final warning. Cinder can forgive, but he is not inclined to forget. Surrender now, and we will end this nonsense. Without blood.”
“I cannot do that, frair,” Malcolm said. “I must stand with my wife. If that means standing against you, and the whole celestial church, then I shall.”
“Very well,” the frair said.
“The warning was given.” The inquisitor leapt forward with speed that belied his build, his boots splashing into the water as he attacked. Naetheric light swelled around his shoulders, cloaking him in steel-hard shadow and wind. He drove his staff toward Malcolm. The duke of Houndhallow parried, the ancient metal of the feyiron sword dancing off the barb of naetheric power. The footing was unsure, and both men stumbled through the current, their weapons spinning.
“You could just kill me, frair,” Malcolm said through gritted teeth. “I have seen it done. Surely you have the skill.”
“Not all priests are as bloodthirsty as Tomas Sacombre,” the man said. “I will not bend my god to your death. Not yet.”
They exchanged blows again, Malcolm stumbling under the frair’s assault. The spear of energy that swirled around the priest’s staff cut cleanly through Malcolm’s tabard, but the steel of his shirt turned its barb.
“You have done this before,” Malcolm said.
“Dueled? My life before the church was one of honor, Houndhallow, but honor did not pay my debts, and I went to the church to even the account.”
“I have never known a debt that honor could not settle,” Malcolm answered. “Nor did I know that the church was accustomed to giving gold for their vows.” He swung in, the dark edge of his blade skittering across the supernatural armor of the priest’s shoulder, the ancient iron cutting into the shadows and drawing blood. The inquisitor laughed, grasping the wound and shaking the blood from his fingers. Malcolm retreated, measuring his opponent.
“There are debts that demand more than honor and gold. Know the gods, and you may one day understand.” The frair dealt a series of arcing blows, his staff spinning in dark circles overhead, Malcolm only barely keeping upright. The attack pushed him to the far bank, where he sat heavily on the muddy shore. He glanced up at Catrin and Sorcha.
“The two of you are just going to stand there, I take it?” he asked.
“You heard the frair,” Catrin said. “We are to remain unharmed.”
“Well, sure. You wouldn’t want to force the issue, would you?” Malcolm pushed himself up, grimacing as mud squished through his fingers. “Is this really the fight you want, frair?”
“No,” the man said, “but it is the fight the gods have given me, so I will not shirk from it.” He lunged forward, nearly spitting Malcolm on the twisting energy of his spear. Malcolm only barely escaped, and then gracelessly. He splashed back into the creek, nearly falling. Sorcha watched her husband closely. Malcolm was sure he could feel the water stiffen under his feet, keeping him sure.
“That bloody honor again,” Malcolm said. “What were you before a priest? A knight? Some lord’s personal trainer?”
“A brigand,” he said. “A thief and a murderer. Only the right people, of course—those who earned a cold murder in their beds, or a notch taken out of their purses. Still the spirits of my crimes stalked me for a long time before they hunted me down. When they did, it was only Cinder who could save me. Cinder, and no other.”
“So you escaped judgment once, and for that you have sworn to see others held accountable for their sins,” Malcolm said. “Typical Suhdrin thinking.”
“Better than expecting endless tolerance,” the frair answered. “Besides, as I said, Cinder has forgiven me, but he has not forgotten the debt.”
“Forgiveness without love,” Malcolm said, buying time while he sucked air into his lungs and steadied his legs. “What god is that?”
“The god who gives justice without mercy,” the frair said. “The unblind god.” His next attack was earnest, a concentrated effort that took all of Malcolm’s will to resist. The two spent several minutes in frenetic action, naether and steel spinning, clashing, countering, whistling menacingly inches from flesh and then coming back around to
strike again. The sound of their battle rang out through the creek bed. The watchers edged slowly away, afraid of being struck.
When they separated, both men stood wearily, their lungs heaving, arms weak.
Malcolm smiled.
“A good fight,” he said. “If this is how I’m to go, you’ve made a good show of it.”
“Thank you, but I ask again, Houndhallow. Surrender. Even if you defeat me, the inquisition will find you. You can not stand forever against the whole church.”
“It is not the whole church he stands against,” the vow knight said quietly. She was a slight woman, hardly larger than Catrin. The sword she held was of Suhdrin design, narrow and fine, the pattern of bloodwrought runes running down its blade a wavering script of great beauty. Her other hand rested on a main gauche, the dueling dagger still seated firmly in its scabbard. Like most vow knights, her hair was short, though hers shone with an inner light. The inquisitor hesitated, turning slightly toward her.
Malcolm took advantage of the moment and drew in gulps of air, gathering himself for the inevitable resumption of combat.
“What the hell do you mean, Trueau?”
“What are your brothers doing in that camp, frair?” the vow knight asked. She ambled down the steep shore, stepping lightly into the water. “Why has Cinder raised his banner against the north? Are we crusading, again? Is that the vow I swore?”
“That has nothing to do with me,” the frair said. He gestured to Malcolm. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Doesn’t it? Would the faithful duke of Houndhallow rebel if the inquisition doesn’t lead an army against his friend, Colm Adair? Heretic or not, they were bound by blood and honor. Two things you know enough about.”