by Tim Akers
“Then we have to get moving!” Martin urged. “Every moment we tarry here is another mile the high inquisitor puts between us and him.”
“It’s hopeless. Horne could have him on a ship heading south, or north, or even out to the Black Isle. Gods know how deep this goes. She could have stuffed him into the back of a wagon and ridden halfway to Dunneswerry by now.”
“I will start with the docks, ask some questions. See if they chartered a ship. They closed the port after I anchored that gheist in the harbor mouth, so it’s not like there are a lot of possibilities,” Martin said. “And if that proves fruitless, I’ll get us some horses. We’ll find him. We have to try.”
“Martin, listen to me.” Lucas took the boy by the shoulders. “He’s gone. Sacombre is gone. It was a fool’s errand to think the two of us could get him to Heartsbridge. I should have sought help. In Greenhall, or here, or at the Reaveholt. I was too stubborn.” Lucas’s hands fell to his side, and the old priest wavered on his feet. “It’s my fault. I should have… anything. I should have done something more.”
“You did the best you could, given everything that’s happened,” Martin said. When he touched the frair’s shoulder, Lucas nearly jumped out of his boots. “But you’re right. You need to rest. Let me handle this.”
“There will be a doma… a doma nearby,” Lucas said. “It will be safe. Gods know what Horne’s people have released in the city. Wouldn’t do to come this far only to get eaten by a god.”
Martin took Lucas’s arm and led him down the street. The city’s guards were reestablishing control, now that the most obvious gheist was gone—or at least had been contained to the harbor. He tucked his cloak over the pilfered feyiron blade, unwilling to surrender it. They were passing an alleyway when Lucas pulled them to a stop. Martin looked at him quizzically.
“Down there,” Lucas said. “Something among the rubbish.” Martin looked in the direction he was pointing, and saw a figure huddled beside a pile of crates. “That’s a body.”
“No doubt the city is full of bodies right now,” Martin said. “Including yours, if we don’t get you somewhere to lie down.”
“Nonsense,” Lucas said. Weakly he pushed Martin away, then walked down the alleyway. Martin waited in the street, looking from side to side until it was clear that no one was paying them any mind, then followed. Lucas knelt beside the body.
“Throat cut. No struggle, not even a look of surprise.”
He tilted the corpse’s head back, and it nearly fell from his shoulders. The flap of his neck was bloodless, though there was a rusty stain on his shirt. The hood of his robe was lined in fine silk and silver beads. Lucas grunted.
“An elector of Cinder. Either he was in town for a judgment, or Gallowsport will need to find a new leader,” Lucas said. He lay the man’s head back down, then started going through the dead man’s robes.
“If we’re seen…” Martin said nervously.
“We will have an excuse. I am an inquisitor,” Lucas said. “I am inquiring.” He held up the man’s limp hand. “Look here. Pale as snow. I’d be surprised if there’s a drop of blood in this man’s veins.”
“Yes, but what—”
“And here.” Lucas stood, tottering further down the alleyway. “The ground is smeared in ash. These planks look burned, but it’s only a hair deep.” He scratched at the wall and snorted. “The wood beneath is unharmed. Horne did this. Or one of her friends.”
“So she could be nearby?” Martin asked.
“Yes, or no. I still don’t think she’d be so foolish to stay in Gallowsport, but we might find some evidence of where she’s gone.” Lucas looked up and down the alley. “What is this building? A doma? An inn?”
“There aren’t a lot of wooden buildings in this city,” Martin said. He went around the corner and looked up at the signage. “It’s a coach house.”
Lucas’s brows went up. “Well,” he said. “Well then. That’s something.”
Inside they found an agitated man in black, busily polishing a leather harness. His face was heavily scarred, and when he walked to the shop’s counter, his leg bent in an awkward limp.
“What can I do for you?” he asked, then spied Martin’s tabard and face, and decided he should amend his greeting. “My lord?”
“You rent carriages?” Lucas asked.
“Did,” the man said. He continued to address Martin, though. Perhaps he was used to ignoring priests in a town like Gallowsport. “Most are out. Couple of people came in a few minutes ago and bought my last. Heading to Dunneswerry, they said.”
“Well,” Martin said, glancing at Lucas. “We can be sure they aren’t headed to Dunneswerry, then.” He turned his attention back to the proprietor. “Were they dressed as priests?”
“More or less. Perhaps more less than more,” the man said. Martin was still untangling that in his head when Lucas shouldered his way back into the conversation.
“So you’re out of carriages,” the frair said. “Do you still have any horses?”
* * *
They negotiated a price, claimed the horses, and rode out of Gallowsport as quickly as the crowds would let them. The mounts weren’t meant for riding, their broad backs and thick legs more suited for farm work than a gentle country stroll.
A short distance from the city they stopped to acquire some supplies. Food and water lent Lucas some renewed energy, and once they were on the road again, they rode hard. Though not fast, the horses made up for it in stamina.
The frair led them south.
“If we eliminate Dunneswerry, and assume they can’t return to Tener without risking the Reaveholt or whatever horror is stalking Greenhall, then south is the only option,” he explained. “It’s a long trek, but if they have a planned route through the Harper’s Teeth, they could be in Galleydeep before winter truly falls in Suhdra.”
“Perhaps they learned about the harbor closing, scuttled that plan, and are hoping to catch a ship somewhere along the southern shore,” Martin suggested. “There are other ports.”
“Yes, that’s possible, and we will pass through those towns. None are large enough to hide an entire group of priests, especially dressed as Horne and her friends. Even the high inquisitor will attract attention. If that is their plan, we will hear word of it.” Lucas sat high in his saddle, looking better than he had in weeks. “We may have struck gold, young Roard. We may catch up with Sacombre after all!”
Their day was quiet. Traffic out of Gallowsport was minimal, and the only travelers they passed were prison trains and their grim escorts. Few were interested in talking, but then they passed a lonely messenger on his way north, and learned that a carriage matching their description had been seen on this road, riding hard and looking mean. Perhaps a half-dozen riders with it. When hailed, they had not slowed.
Hearing this, Lucas drove them faster. Whatever fatigue he felt in the streets of Gallowsport was replaced with a fever of rage. He rode in silence, Martin at his side.
Sometime late in the day, Martin looked over and saw that the frair was muttering to himself. Worried his companion was slipping slowly into madness, the young prince rode closer and tugged at the frair’s robes. Lucas jumped, but kept his eyes on the road ahead.
“Talking to yourself?” Martin asked.
“Just going over the witch’s words. ‘Older than you,’ she said. Older than us, and then something about a war before this one.”
“There have been plenty of wars,” Martin said. “The Reavers, the crusades, the endless settling of debts. Even in the south we’ve had our share of disagreement. Which one do you think she meant?”
“We have had plenty of wars, but for the pagans there has only ever been one conflict. To the faithful, this is just a continuation of the crusades, of the Suhdrin migration,” Lucas replied. “One long, endless war of lost henges and new domas and murder, stretching back to the first landing of Suhdrin settlers on Tenumbra. So she must have meant something before that.”
�
��A war between the tribes, perhaps?” Martin asked. “Seems likely. Give people space, and they’ll find a reason to fight over it.”
“Between the tribes, maybe. Or against them. She said she thought they were gone, but no, they were still there. Waiting.”
“Who do you think ‘they’ could be?” Martin asked. “Other pagans? Some group who lived on the island before the tribes?”
“The Tenerran’s oldest legends claim the island was uninhabited when they arrived, a gift from the gods, prepared by the spirits and waiting to be taken.”
“So a war with the gheists themselves?”
“I don’t know,” Lucas said, and he sounded frustrated. “We know so little of those days, and what we have is kept hidden, for fear the pagans would find a way to use it against us.”
“Well, either way, if they’re killing pagans, perhaps they aren’t our enemies after all,” Martin said.
“That elector was no pagan,” Lucas answered, “and neither am I.”
“Well.” Martin shrugged. “They didn’t kill you, at least.”
Lucas settled into silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. They rode until dusk threatened. Then a shadow loomed by the side of the road. Martin saw it first.
“Frair?” he said. “Is that…”
It was a carriage, broken open.
“Godsbless,” Lucas said under his breath. They pulled up, Lucas dismounting stiffly, Martin following suit, drawing his stolen feyiron sword with one hand, palming a knife in the other. They crept forward as quietly as they could. There was no sound from the wreckage.
The horses were still in their harness, cropping contentedly at the side of the road. All the doors of the carriage were thrown open, and the leather travel satchels that lined the box hung limp and empty. The driver, if one had been employed, was nowhere to be seen. The passenger compartment was empty, though a faint stench of sulphur remained.
Lucas circled the carriage once, then kicked at something among the grasses, causing a jangle of metal. Martin reached down and picked it up. Chains, hot to the touch.
“That’s what the elector’s blood would have been for. Bloodwrought shackles, freshly formed and very powerful, but why would they need them?” Lucas asked, peering around. “And where have they gone?”
“If we’re right, and the business in the harbor disrupted their plans, perhaps this is as far as they needed to go to get back on track,” Martin said. “They came here, met some co-conspirators, and rode off into the forest.”
“If so, then they’re truly gone. But why here? And why these,” Lucas asked, taking the shackles from Martin and examining them. “Worse, why did they stop needing them?” As he pondered, Martin looked across the landscape.
“What’s down there?” he asked, pointing. The moors to the east rolled gentle and featureless to the horizon, but to the west, in the direction Martin was pointing, the land descended quickly toward the distant coast. There, among the crags and sharp crevasses of broken stone, was a twist of smoke.
“Very good, Sir Roard,” Lucas said. “Perhaps they haven’t fled yet at all, but are only resting.”
“Without setting a guard, and leaving the team and carriage unattended?”
“Yes, well. It does seem unlikely, but something is burning.” The frair tossed the shackles to the ground. “Let us take a look… carefully.”
They made the descent, though any hope of doing so quietly was shattered by the rattling scree that tumbled ahead of them. Whoever waited around that fire would know they had company. The trail of smoke emanated from a narrow ravine that was sheltered from the road. As they got closer, the origin of the smoke became clear. Lucas sniffed the air.
“Flesh,” he said. “Dinner or tragedy. Which do you think, young Martin?”
“Given the last few months of my life, it would be a startling change of pace to learn that it is dinner, frair.”
Lucas didn’t answer, but when they approached the ravine he pulled Martin back, taking the lead with his iron-tipped staff. He braced himself at the entrance, drawing naether into his robes and building a shield of shadow-dark power. When he stepped forward, it was with a rush, his motions aided by Cinder’s might. He hovered at the entrance to the furrow, staff at the ready.
He stopped, and remained perfectly still. When nothing attacked him, Martin pushed past. It took several blinking moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the ravine. When he understood what he was seeing, he gasped and stepped back.
“It would seem Tomas did not escape after all,” Lucas said. He lowered himself to the ground, dispelling the intricate naetheric rites of his armor.
The husk of Tomas Sacombre stood in the middle of the narrow ravine. He was propped up by a picket, hands tied behind his back, feet secured to the stone floor. The high inquisitor’s head was thrown back, mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly to the sky. Smoke trailed lazily from between his teeth. For all practical purposes, that was all that remained of him. The rest of his body had erupted, chest split in a single fissure that ran from neck to hips, continuing down his right leg. The shell of his skin was as shiny as coal, a char buffed clean of impurity.
Inside, Sacombre was hollow. Even his ribs were gone, somehow burned away. The ground in front of the body was scarred and dusted with soot. Long wounds criss-crossed the stones, scrambling up the steep wall until they disappeared.
59
THE SHRINE SANG to her heart, thrumming through the hound’s spine and into the matted blood on her skin. Gwen’s body felt like a bell that had been struck, and the chaos of the battle was the sound it gave.
Her bones shivered. Her soul rejoiced.
Houndhallow rose above her like a mountain, limned by the bonfires that had sprung up on the grounds around the castle, in buildings, and on the walls. The gates were open, and a heavy skirmish had developed on the approach. Three separate groups were killing and dying in the churned mud of the road.
Most of the dead wore the black and white of House Blakley, but there were pagans who died, as well. Only the strange void priests seemed to have suffered no losses. The swirl of combat added to the confusion. The Blakley troops formed a tight knot at the center of the road, the pagans surrounding them yet held at bay by a ring of spears. The void priests lurked unseen at the edges, striking at the other two parties without reprisal.
“Closer in,” she whispered to the hound. “Get us to their flanks.” The beast obeyed, but as they approached the battle, it stopped and settled into a lurking crouch, sticking to the trees. Gwen tried to urge it closer, but it refused.
“We can’t do anything from here,” she whispered. The pagans were constantly surprised when one of their shamans keeled over with darkness bubbling out of his mouth, or the spirit of a feral god fluttered and disappeared. Each time they struck, the priests fell back to the forest, and the confusion in the pagan ranks gave the Blakleys courage to venture out from their ring of steel. This drew the pagan attention back to the spears.
Frustrated, Gwen gave the hound a kick.
“We have to get in there!”
The beast craned its massive head around, staring at Gwen with an eye the color of murky water. It huffed at her, a massive gust of wind that flapped its lips, baring teeth the size of daggers. Gwen blanched and tried to pull away, but discovered that the matted iron-hard blood from her wounds had pinned her in place. She ran a hand down its jaw.
“It’s alright,” she said. “Peace, peace. We’ll find a way.”
The hound stared at her a moment longer, then turned back to the battle. Three more pagans had fallen, but some action had forced the void priests into the shadows. They were nowhere to be seen, and at least one body on the verge of the road wore the strange black and silver armor of their ilk.
“They are few,” Gwen muttered to herself, “and they spend their blood dearly. Good to know. Now, can we interfere in this slaughter?”
The hound grumbled assent and started to lope forward. Hoofbeats hamm
ered down the road in their direction, and the hound hesitated. Its ears flickered to attention.
“The Hound! The Hallow!”
Ian Blakley charged into the pagan host with two riders at his side and a small gaggle of mounted knights in his wake. The circle of pagans ducked away, parting like a wind-blown sea of grass, letting him reach the Blakley faithful. However, those spears didn’t lower at his approach. The prince of Houndhallow pulled up short, his horse rearing and kicking in protest.
This wasn’t the child who rode out of Houndhallow’s gates six months earlier, and far from the boy Gwen had last seen years ago. Her memories of the battle of Fen Gate were filtered through the Fen god’s vision.
There was a confidence to him, in the way he sat his horse, the look he gave the men arrayed before him. His clothes were nearly pagan, scraps of traditional lordly gear scattered among hunter’s leathers, silk and chain shirt under a cloak of leather autumn leaves, as was the tradition among Tenerran shamans. She briefly wondered by what right he wore that cloak, and what Cahl would think of a Tenerran lord wrapped in pagan glory.
To further complicate matters, the men who followed him were Suhdrin knights, wearing the colors of several different lords of the south. They rode close together, knee to knee, each mount feeling its rider’s nervousness and mincing delicately side to side. A cadre of Suhdrin knights led by a pagan lord.
It was no wonder Blakley’s men didn’t recognize their master’s son.
“Down your spears, friends,” Ian said. “There is no danger here.”
“Pray forgive, sir,” one of the spearmen responded, “but there’s been blood enough today. We’ll judge the threat.”
“Tenny Knox! Who gave you a spear? Last we spoke, you were wielding a fishing pole and getting whipped for catching crawfish in the village well.”
“Lord Blakley? My lord, we didn’t recognize you! Or your… host,” Knox said, looking over Ian’s shoulder. “A friendly face has been rare enough, these days.”