The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “The weight of blood is more than any of us will be able to pay. Not in our lifetimes, at least.”

  “I am willing to make the effort,” Clough answered, staring up at the wall.

  “They are not the enemy, Clough. Not in this.” Ian pulled his shirt back on, grimacing as the fabric pulled across the cracked flesh of his wound. “Folam would have us believe otherwise, but I am done dancing to the voidfather’s dirge. I am no longer part of his game.”

  “Aren’t you?” Clough asked. “Stories I heard out of the Fen Gate say you arrived in the arms of one of these witches, the same one taken south by the inquisition. And now we stand in the company of Gwendolyn Adair.” Clough made a slow circuit of the room as she spoke. When she reached the door, she peered outside, then pressed it shut and lowered her voice. “I don’t need to tell you what I think of House Adair.”

  “The Adairs were betrayed by our true enemy, Sacombre. It was the high inquisitor who started this war.”

  “First you blame this pagan, Folam, and now the high inquisitor. You make this hard to believe, my lord.”

  “It has been a complicated time. But Sacombre—”

  “I have nothing to say about Tomas Sacombre,” Clough interrupted. “You tell me he committed heresy, raised a pagan god of the dead, and murdered the Adairs. That he murdered Duke Halverdt and framed your father. You tell me these things, and that is all I know.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “If I did not believe you, we would not be having this conversation. But believing them and knowing them to be true are different things, my lord.” The knight came closer, bending her head toward Ian. Her features were soft, more suited for a lady of the court than a knight, but she had murder in her eyes. “And what I know to be true is this: these people attacked your home. Call them ‘pagans,’ or ‘the northern tribes,’ or whatever you like. There are men and women wearing Blakley colors who are dead today because of them. Now they walk your hallways, and eat your bread, and shelter inside your walls, and why? Because of some story about this ‘voidfather’?”

  “You were there, Clough. You saw him raise a gheist, saw it tear through the pagans just as much as it tore through our people. You know what he was capable of.”

  “What I saw was another pagan, killing priests and good celestials. When you led us into battle, you claimed to ride for all Tenumbra. That’s good enough. But you have to ride for your family first. They depend on you.”

  “And what am I supposed to do? Folam is dead, and his priests are fled. There is something in the forests, hunting any who dare leave these walls. Should I throw Gwen and her tribesmen into the forests, just as winter is falling, to be killed by feral gods? Is that what justice looks like to you?”

  “Justice doesn’t matter. Justice died with Folam, so we’ve no hope of that. What you need to do is protect your family. There has been no word from your father since Frair Gilliam drove him out of the Fen Gate. Gods know what became of your mother, or if she’s even human anymore. Your sister is here, Ian, and she’s depending on you. House Blakley, all these men and women wearing the hound and swearing to the hallow, they depend on you.” Clough looked down at the bed, where some of the witch’s tools remained. “What are they to think of their lord, keeping council with pagans, seeking a witch’s healing? Are you even their lord, anymore?”

  “My father is their lord. My father, who exiled me at the Fen Gate, and turned his back on the witch who saved his wife’s life. My mother’s life! These people shouldn’t be looking to me for leadership.”

  “But we do. Because we have no one else.” Clough took Ian by the shoulders and looked him square in the eye. “I swore a vow to your father, stood at your sister’s side, would have died to keep her alive. And that vow descends to you.”

  “For my sister’s safety, I thank you. But your vow should be to her. I am not ready for the throne,” Ian said, pulling away. “My father will return. Until then, Houndhallow will have to see to itself.”

  Clough was silent for a minute, staring daggers at Ian. When she spoke, her voice held violence.

  “What did they do to you, Blakley? Stories say you were alone with the pagans for months, and when you returned, you looked more tribesman than duke’s son. You’ve been running from your family ever since. So I ask, what did the witch do to you?”

  “Fianna saved my life,” Ian said, but even as the words left his mouth, his mind rebelled. Why did she save you, Ian? To use you against your father? Against your family? She’s Folam’s daughter! Surely she knew. He shook his head and continued. “She and Cahl led me through the Fen, and to my father’s side. Without their help, that battle might have been lost. And my father thanked her by sending her south with the inquisition.”

  “Is Gwen Adair a heretic?” Clough asked suddenly.

  “What? Yes, of course. By her own admission. But that’s not—”

  “And Sacombre? He is also a heretic, yes?”

  “Yes. And a murderer as well.”

  “Murder in war is a difficult thing to judge. Sacombre has gone south, chained to the witch Fianna, to be judged. But Gwen walks free. Why?”

  “Who are you to ask these questions?”

  “A soldier of Tener, sworn to your house. I have fought fewer battles than you, my lord, but I have seen war enough. I have lost more friends to these pagans than I care to count. I have learned to be wary, especially of the enemy who claims to be my friend. So tell me, why does Gwen Adair walk free? Is her heresy somehow a lesser one than Sacombre’s? Are the dead at her feet not deserving of life? Tell me, my lord.”

  “I don’t know. That’s not mine to judge.”

  “You are the heir of Houndhallow. We are in your halls, under your roof, surrounded by men and women who have sworn their lives to you. I have sworn my life to you. Your word is law. It is yours to judge, and no one else’s. Unless you’d rather trust the inquisition to answer that question.” Clough smiled mirthlessly and spread her hands. “Because I think we all know what they would decide.”

  “Gwen Adair and her tribes were just as much the victims of the voidfather as we were. They were tricked into this attack, and while I mourn the dead, I will not add to their number without reason.” Ian drew himself up and faced Clough. “There is something more going on here. Whatever Folam planned, he wanted us to fight—Suhdrin against Tenerran, celestial against pagan.”

  “‘Just as much the victims…’” Clough shook her head. “This is how I count, my lord: How many hundreds are dead? Suhdrin names, Tenerran names… dead at pagan hands. And you believe them?”

  “It’s not what I believe,” Ian said. “It’s what I know. I know Gwen Adair lost everything to Sacombre’s plot, and Folam’s blade. More than I have lost.”

  “Aye, Gwen Adair. Between her shaman and your witch, we all have a lot to lose.”

  “Her shaman?” Ian asked.

  “Aye. Brute of a fellow, named Cahl. Looks like a rock most of the time, and talks less. He’s the one who brought the Adair girl here.”

  “Did he?” Ian’s voice grew distant. Cahl, whose witching wife was Fianna, the very man who walked by Ian’s side through the Fen. What was his loyalty to Folam? “Did he indeed?”

  * * *

  Sir Bruler sat in a corner of the courtyard by himself, sharpening his blade. A crowd of Tenerran soldiers sat on the other side of the fire, talking among themselves and ignoring the Suhdrin knight. Bruler watched them out of the corner of his eye.

  “Nearly had them,” one of the Tenerrans said. He was a scrawny kid, with a scar that split his lip in two. “It was me and Master Tavvish, holding off the lot. Lucky for them Master Ian came back when he did.”

  “It was the heretic bitch who stopped the pagans, not you,” his friend said. “Called them to heel like dogs.”

  “It weren’t like that,” Huck answered. “No Blakley soul owes their life to Gwen Adair. We held ’em back.”

  “Hell you did,” another said.
“Master Ian gave his word, then rushed off with his southern knights, and Adair gave the pagans the order to retreat.” The man spat into the fire, his eyes passing briefly over Bruler. “Saved by Suhdrin blades and pagan whores. Better to have fallen.”

  “It was Suhdra what started this war, and pagans what kept it burning,” Huck said. “There’ll be no peace in Tener until they’re both gone.”

  “Godsbless,” they murmured as one, more than a few eyes darting in Bruler’s direction. The Suhdrin knight laughed to himself.

  “The only peace you’d have without us is the peace of the grave,” Bruler said without looking up. “And if you’re going to threaten your allies and speak poorly of the very men and women who risked their lives to save you, I would be happy enough to give you that peace.” He paused in the sharpening of his blade, cocking his head in Huck’s direction. “If you’ve steel enough in your blood, friend.”

  “Any man who draws steel against Sir Bruler draws steel against me.” Ian Blakley appeared from the shadows. He was dressed in only a shirt and the thick leather of his riding breeches, but his hand rested on his sword. The crowd of Tenerran soldiers took a long breath to recognize him, then stood as one.

  “Only words, my lord. You have our faith,” Huck said quickly.

  “Words are the sharpest blade, and the easiest to turn,” Ian said. He walked past them, standing over the fire to stare down at Sir Bruler. “I would like to speak to this man in private, please.”

  The Tenerrans were gone in a heartbeat. Bruler folded his whetstone away, then leaned back, inspecting Ian’s appearance. The young lord of Houndhallow looked sallow. His face was thin and puckered with pain, and the way he held his arm betrayed the wound hidden beneath his shirt.

  “You’re going to live?” Bruler asked.

  “Today, at least. Unless there is a dagger waiting for my back tonight,” Ian said. “The way this lot is talking, I would worry more about your back, Bruler.”

  “Children talk. As long as it stays that way, I’m not worried.”

  “I need something from you. Something only you can do.”

  “Someone killed? So you can blame it on the Suhdrin knight, and kick me out without losing faith among your subjects?”

  “I hope not. But if I give this task to a Tenerran, it will certainly lead to a fight, and we can’t afford that.” Ian looked stiffly around, then lowered himself to the bench next to Bruler. “There is a shaman among the pagans, a large man. Cahl.”

  “Elder of the tribe of stones,” Bruler said. “I know him. He’s close to Gwen Adair.”

  “I need to know what he’s doing. Whose counsel he keeps, and whose faith he holds.”

  “You have reason to suspect him?” Bruler asked.

  “I don’t know. Cahl was a friend to me, but he was close to Folam’s daughter, as well. The deeper we get into this, the less I trust those I once called friend.”

  “And why do you trust me?”

  “I don’t. But you’re alone here. You have no one else to trust, and much to lose in betrayal.” Ian smiled thinly, then stood. “Let me know what Cahl does, who he talks to. If he means to betray me, or Gwen, I must be the first to know.”

  “I am a knight, my lord. Not a spy.”

  “And as a knight, you do as you are asked by your lord.”

  “I have sworn no vow to you, Blakley.”

  “We must pretend that you have. We must trust one another, Bruler. We have no one else, you and I.” Ian glanced over at the crowd of Tenerrans who watched them still. “My own people don’t trust me, though they obey my name. The pagans see the celestial in me; the Tenerrans look at my clothes and see a pagan. And both know my father’s name, and wonder if I will live up to his story.”

  “And when they look at me, they see a Suhdrin fop. Always the enemy, even when alliances are forged.” Bruler shook his head and stood, then offered Ian his hand. “A desperate business we’re in.”

  “Desperate,” Ian agreed. “But necessary.”

  They shook hands, then Ian turned and disappeared into the night. Bruler sat back down and continued sharpening his blade. Whatever this new task would bring, he would need a sharp sword and a clear head.

  2

  THE KNIGHT WORE the colors of the celestial church, black and gold, with Cinder’s ashen moon on his chest. He rode unsupported across the churned mud of the field, bounding over the bodies of the dead. Lazy arrows fell around him. The line of spearmen at Malcolm Blakley’s side wavered. They had withstood a dozen charges from the celestials, under the Reaveholt’s watchful towers, but Malcolm didn’t think they could handle even one more.

  “Hold! Hold! Steady, and he will turn!” Malcolm wheeled his horse to face the rider, taking the measure of his intent. The loose column of celestial knights along the ridge milled about, as though unsure if they should join their comrade, or watch him die alone. The horn signaling their retreat still sounded beyond the ridge.

  The celestial knight seemed intent on dying a hero. He made no move to turn aside, instead picking up speed as he approached the Tenerran line. The steel tip of his spear was aimed unerringly at Malcolm’s chest.

  Malcolm glanced at the spearmen beside him. They were weary from the battle just ended, dragging the bodies of their slain friends back to the Tenerran battle line, surprised to be back in the fight even as the enemy withdrew. Even one charging knight could break them. He looked back at the celestial guard, then unsheathed his sword.

  “I will hold for you,” he muttered to himself, then spurred his mount forward.

  The field between them was littered with bodies and discarded steel. Malcolm gave the horse its head, trusting the beast to navigate the ground without his help. He held the feyiron blade of his sword in both hands, keeping his gaze steady on the rapidly approaching spear.

  As the distance closed, Malcolm was able to hear the guard’s voice, raised above the hammering of hooves and clatter of armor. He was singing the evensong, the dirge of daylight made rough by his battle-weary voice.

  “To evening fall,

  and ashes spread,

  end daylight’s call

  in the black embrace of Cinder.”

  It was the first time Malcolm had heard the evensong since being chased out of Greenhall by an angry mob. It struck him as strangely out of place on the battlefield. The moment of distraction nearly cost him dearly. In the blink of an eye, the celestial guard was on him. The knight stopped singing, his voice twisting into a scream of rage and retribution.

  “Cinder!” the knight howled. Their horses crashed together.

  Malcolm swung his sword. He was aiming for the haft of the spear but instead the blade glanced off its steel tip. The spear’s aim wavered, drawn off from Malcolm’s heart, cutting instead into his shoulder. It snagged the rings of his chain shirt, popping links open like the burst seam of a wineskin. The two knights collided, the force of the impact sending Malcolm reeling in his saddle. Instinctively, his horse wheeled around, again almost throwing Malcolm to the ground. The duke of Houndhallow gripped the pommel, his left arm hanging loose at his side. The impact had numbed it, but a quick look showed no blood in the gap. His armor had saved him.

  Malcolm’s sword slithered down his mount’s side, disappearing into the grass. The celestial knight wheeled to face Malcolm, dropping the shattered remnants of his spear and drawing an iron mace from his belt.

  “Do you yield to the church’s mercy, Sir Blakley?”

  “The church has forsaken mercy, sir,” Malcolm answered. His head was spinning. “I will not risk it, now or ever.”

  “Then be damned.”

  The knight spurred his horse, and it leapt toward Malcolm. With his good hand, Malcolm drew his dagger, the only weapon left to him. They met again, the knight swinging wildly at Malcolm’s head, easily dodged, and then the backstroke skated across Malcolm’s forearm. Their knees met, and Malcolm leaned into the contact, throwing his numb arm across the man’s shoulders, fouling his sw
ing.

  Malcolm dragged his dagger across the knight’s chest, the sharp edge grinding along steel and dancing off chain, finally catching beneath the plate protecting the man’s thigh. The haft of the knight’s mace caught Malcolm in the jaw, shoving his helm to the side, blinding him and pushing him back. Malcolm hung on to the dagger, driving the tip of the blade into the knight’s thigh. Screams filled Malcolm’s ears, his own and the knight’s, and possibly more voices beyond. Malcolm pitched forward, crashed into the knight, his full weight on the dagger’s hilt. There was half a breath of resistance, then chain links popped and the dagger drove home.

  Screaming, they fell.

  The ground met Malcolm with dark arms. His head buzzed, eyes swimming with colors, sweat and blood running down his face. He struggled to breathe. Still blinded by his helm, Malcolm wrenched himself onto his knees, doubling up as nausea swept through his body, biting back the bile in his mouth. With numb fingers, Malcolm twisted off his helm, throwing it aside.

  The line of his spearmen washed over him, charging in to surround their lord. The celestial knights on the ridge had finally decided to join their comrade’s lonely charge, and were even now breaking against the reinvigorated spear wall. The sound of their hooves thundered in Malcolm’s head, shaking through his bones and chattering his teeth. The spears held, spitting any rider foolish enough to meet them.

  One of the spearmen rushed past Malcolm to the fallen knight at his side. He drove his spear into the knight’s chest, leaning on it until the screaming stopped. He turned to Malcolm.

  “My lord, your blade!”

  “Yes, I…” Malcolm struggled to draw breath. His chest was tight and his vision swam. “I lost it. Dropped it somewhere. Bloody thing.”

  “At your knee, my lord.” Malcolm gaped up at the man, not understanding. The spearman knelt, scooping up the feyiron blade that was lying in the grass at Malcolm’s knee. He offered Malcolm the hilt across his forearm, as though he were a king offering a commission.