by Tim Akers
Smiling wryly, Malcolm took the sword, then used it to stand up. The spearman remained kneeling for half a second, then scrambled to his feet and rejoined his comrades.
The skirmish rolled around them, until finally the knights tired of wheeling and broke back to the ridgeline. Malcolm gathered his spearmen, counted the newly dead, and signaled the retreat. They marched wearily back to the Tenerran lines.
* * *
Castian Jaerdin was waiting for him on the Tenerran battle line. The duke of Redgarden had waited calmly during the battle, receiving reports from the scattered bands of fighters who made up Malcolm’s makeshift army. They had told him that when Lady Bassion’s forces had been split up, betrayed by the priests of Cinder and the ranks of celestial guard, they’d flown in all directions. Some had found their way to Malcolm’s line, others had fled into the woods, and the majority had run back to the south. The celestials had pursued, creating a confusing battlefield of small skirmishes, limited engagements, and sudden conflict. They had also told him that Malcolm’s forces had spent the day rushing around trying to save elements of the shattered Bassion force while still avoiding a direct fight with the celestials. The betrayal of the priests of Cinder had thrown the entire battlefield into disarray, from unclear loyalties to murky battle lines, and it was up to Jaerdin to sort it all out.
“Houndhallow. What news from the front?” Jaerdin asked. He was still in battle armor, though he had exchanged his helm for a farmer’s sun cap, and removed his greaves to better handle the maps and written reports.
“My only news is that the front’s all over the bloody place. We engaged a small patrol just this side of the Tallow, but they were reinforced by mounted knights and a small cadre of archers.” Malcolm accepted a bowl of water from a servant, drinking deeply before dumping the remainder over his head. Dirt and blood washed down his face. “They withdrew in short order, but not before one of their number decided to die a zealot’s death.”
“Another story for the Reaverbane’s legend,” Jaerdin said. “No wonder the Suhdrins fear you so.”
“It wasn’t my kill. I dropped my sword and very nearly my head. Had to be saved by some farmer’s son.”
“Then a story for that man’s grandchildren, Godsbless.” Jaerdin rifled through his reports, grimacing. “It’s the same everywhere, Malcolm. Small battles, small deaths. We’re staying away from the celestials as best we can, but sometimes the fight can’t be dodged.”
“What of Bassion’s forces? Have any more sued for our aid?”
“Some,” Jaerdin said. “It would help if their fellows would do the same—a few of them are still trying to fight us. Half these reports are of skirmishes fought between our men and Bassion’s, with the priests of Cinder—the very ones who attacked them—watching from afar.”
“Gods. We kill each other, and the wolf waits at the door. Has there been any sign of Lady Bassion? Or any of her command?”
“Not yet. A few knights have joined us. They tell of Lady Bassion falling back along the road, toward the Reaveholt. Perhaps Bourne offered her sanctuary.”
“Not bloody likely. That man was as loyal to Adair as any in the north. I doubt he’ll suffer Suhdrin guests at his table, not unless they force the door. We’ll have to pray she lives. These Suhdrin knights: are they fighting for us, or merely tolerating our company?”
“I thought it best to keep them off the field, at least until the fog of war has passed. They’re gathered in a tent, back in camp. The vow knight is watching them.”
“Trueau? Very well. I should speak to them, before she poisons their minds any further.” Malcolm slid from his saddle, landing with a wince. His legs and back were as brittle as dry wood, and just as stiff. “Godsbless, but war is a young man’s business.”
Malcolm made his slow way back to the makeshift camp. The sudden addition of Suhdrin rank-and-file from Bassion’s shattered army had thrown the camp into disarray, and the once straight lines of tents and wagons looked like a game of scatterjacks now. Order would have to be reestablished if they were going to face the celestial army with a united front.
He was able to find the tent holding the Suhdrin knights easily enough. An informal ring of Tenerran guards circled it, none of them assigned to stand watch and yet all unwilling to allow Suhdrin nobility to roam freely through the camp. Malcolm nodded his way through their salutes, then ducked into the tent and closed the flap behind him.
The Suhdrin knights were gathered tightly at the center of the tent, holding a whispered conversation. They fell silent when Malcolm entered, turning as one to face him. The dim light inside the tent prevented him from identifying any of them. Malcolm tried to laugh, but managed only a dust-choked croak and a cough.
“Sirs,” Malcolm said, “some of you I know from tournaments, some I have not had the honor of meeting.” He threw his gloves down on a camp stool, then held out his hands. “I am Lord Malcolm Blakley, duke of Houndhallow, and by Strife’s grace the commander of this force. I have—”
“We know who you are, Reaverbane.” One of the inky shapes in the center of the tent stepped forward, resolving into a tall knight in simple armor. She held her helm in the crook of her arm, and rested a hand on the hilt of a northern-style broadsword. Malcolm didn’t need to see her face to know her; he recognized her voice.
“Sir Tasse, we have not crossed blades since the Allfire tourney at Heartsbridge, three seasons past,” Malcolm said. “I am sorry today’s meeting is under less glorious conditions.”
“Save your words,” Tasse answered. “We want to know how you bent those shamans to your will, and how you snuck them into our ranks. The north has never stooped this low before. Killing priests! Summoning demons in open battle! I thought you better than this, Houndhallow!”
“I know less than you, Tasse.” Malcolm held his hands away from his blade, though he needn’t have bothered. The sound of Tenerran guards moving outside the tent was threat enough. “The first we knew of the priests of Cinder’s attack upon their own army was when a group of your knights told us of it and threw themselves upon our mercy. It came as a complete surprise to us. They said the inquisitors themselves were using words of ancient power to kill.”
Tasse snorted and turned away. Two other Suhdrin knights took her place. They could have been sisters, or even twins, but sported different tabards and had distinctly different accents. They wore their golden-red hair in thick plaits, and held their thin noses aloft, as though the air itself offended them.
“I am Sir Tabathe Hallister, sworn blade of the earl of Dellspont, here to avenge the honor of Suhdrin sons and daughters, dead at pagan hands. Whatever happened out there, it was the work of gheists and pagan trickery. I have heard well of you, Reaverbane. But the hearts of men change, as well as their loyalty.”
“You swear you had nothing to do with this?” the other woman asked. She wore two blades, each half the length of a regular sword. They were favored by captains in the navy, short enough for close-quarters work and fit for cutting ropes and heavy board without turning their edge.
“You have my word, and my heart, Sir…” Malcolm inclined his head.
“Sir Travailler. Gabrielle Travailler. I ride at the pleasure of Duke Bassion, though I am often abroad. I came home from two years at sea to find my beloved Tenumbra torn asunder. There are many who say I have you to thank for that.”
“Sir Travailler, I am as sundered as our shared island. There has been treachery within the church, a betrayal that strikes at both Tener and Suhdra. We have all lost sons and daughters, sometimes to honest battle, sometimes to a knife in the dark.” Malcolm paused, remembering Sir Dugan’s possession and death. He shivered. “Sometimes worse. Now is not the time for accusation.”
“And yet you accuse members of the holy church. When it was your man Lord Adair who betrayed us all!” Sir Hallister said, bristling. “Or do you deny his heresy?”
“I do not. But his betrayal is nothing compared to that of Tomas Sacombre. An
d now the high inquisitor’s heresy seems to have spread. Your fellows report the attack upon your army came from the ranks of inquisitors, from your own allies. I believe that we are fighting the same enemy as struck down both Colm Adair and Gabriel Halverdt,” Malcolm said.
“It was no agent of the church who raised the gheist in Greenhall. That was pagan work, and a pagan god,” Tasse said from the side.
“You’ll forgive me, but I was there when Halverdt died. I saw—”
“Not that,” Tasse said, cutting Malcolm off. “I speak of the devastation of Greenhall. A god rose from the stones of the city, destroying buildings and killing untold innocents. It took all of Lady Halverdt’s strength to put it down. The only reason she hasn’t joined us yet is because she is still trying to secure her broken walls.”
“I have heard nothing of this. How do you know it was pagan work, and not the same treachery that laid low the Fen Gate?”
“We are arguing distant treachery, when there is a knife at our throat,” Sir Hallister said. She shouldered Travailler out of the way and punched her finger into Malcolm’s chest. “How did those pagans get in our ranks?”
“They weren’t pagans.” This new voice came from behind the Suhdrin knights, low and quiet. Malcolm looked over Travailler’s shoulder. There was a fourth figure, huddled on a camp stool. “They were my brothers. My friends. Or so I thought.”
“My lady, you saw the attack?” Malcolm asked. The woman stood. She was a priest of Cinder, though her robes were muddied, and her face smudged with ash.
“Gods save me, I did,” she said. “Priests of Cinder summoning pagan gheists, and using them to murder their brethren. A dark blade, turned against itself.”
3
HE WAS A young man, barely old enough to shave, certainly young enough to be Gwen’s age. He had the Tenerran look about him: dark hair, darker eyes, pale skin that was marred with grime from the prison cell. He was dressed in priestly robes, though not of the celestial church. Gwen could almost see her younger brother in his eyes, could see what Grieg might have become if Sacombre hadn’t killed the boy, along with her mother and father.
She tightened her grip on the spear, then nodded to the guards. They unlocked the young man’s cell and stepped aside.
Gwen knew she made a frightful sight. Her face and arms were slashed with the wounds sustained in the siege of Houndhallow, but the thin flakes of iron that had formed from her blood had turned to rust, disintegrating in the weeks after the battle. Her skin was stained red and black, especially around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Even her hair had taken on the look of ruined iron. The priest looked unfazed, though. No doubt he had seen his share of horror in Folam Voidfather’s company.
“Are you here to kill me, witch?” the priest asked.
“What is your name?”
“My name. So you can conjure with it? Put a curse on my eyes and wither my heart while I still live? No, I don’t think I’ll be telling you my name.” He sat up, neck bent against the rune-inscribed iron collar, chains rattling. “But I know yours: Gwendolyn Adair, witch of the Fen Gate. Only, the Fen Gate has fallen, hasn’t it?”
“Look, I need to call you something, so I’m going to go with ‘idiot.’ Is that okay with you?” The boy grinned and was about to speak when Gwen continued. “So, idiot, what brought you to Houndhallow? You haven’t broken out, so you’re clearly not one of those void priests we’ve heard so much about. You’re too scrawny to fight, and too dumb to give orders. So why the hell are you here, idiot?”
“What do you know, witch? I could be one of the acolytes. Your shamans wouldn’t have put these spellbound chains on me if you didn’t think it was a possibility.”
“The chains are for me,” Gwen said. “They’re to keep me from killing you. Idiot.”
The boy’s smile faltered, and one hand drifted instinctively to the iron at his neck, but he kept talking.
“Death is just another form of emptiness, witch. Another aspect of the one true god. You can’t threaten me with that. I go where the voidfather has walked already.” His smile deepened, confidence returning to his words. “I go where I was destined to go.”
“Maybe. But I can make the journey there a hell of a lot less pleasant than you imagine.” She dropped the tip of her spear down to the boy’s throat, sliding the razor-sharp tip up his jaw, until it drew blood at the lobe of his left ear. “You’re a zealot. I know the type. Anxious to die, not so anxious to suffer. Especially if none of your fellow zealots are around to witness your sacrifice. They’re all gone, idiot. Your void priests, Folam, the pagans you lured to your service, and the priests corrupted by your heresy. All dead.”
“Do you believe that? Good.” He leaned gingerly back, avoiding Gwen’s spear, until his head rested against the stone wall of the cell. “Rest safe in your bed, Gwendolyn Adair. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
“No, no, I’m not falling for that. I’ve figured out your type. Creepy and self-assured. I should never have trusted Folam, I see that now, and that other one… Aedan. The one who went to kill Sir LaFey and never came back. He was one of yours, too. I’m sure of it. I won’t fall for that trap again.”
“Won’t you? You certainly weren’t able to protect yourself from Folam Voidfather, or his witch-daughter. You weren’t even able to protect your family from themselves, and here you are asking questions of an idiot, apparently not powerful enough to defend himself. Tell me, witch, why am I still alive? Why do you need me?”
Gwen snarled but didn’t answer. The priest adjusted himself on the floor, sitting up a little straighter, smiling a little brighter.
“Because you don’t know, do you? You don’t know anything. Folam took you into his trust, then used you to strike at Greenhall. They blame you for that, by the way. You, and dead Sacombre, and all the priests of the celestial church. Suhdra is tearing itself apart trying to decide who is more responsible for their dead sons and broken thrones. And Tener can’t field an army to defend itself without first being accused of heresy by the church, betrayal by their own brothers, or worse. Poor Malcolm Blakley has fled the Fen Gate…” He trailed off, seeing Gwen’s reaction. “Surely you knew that? Your home is in celestial hands, witch. Our hands. What secrets will they find? What new heresies will the inquisition lay at your family’s feet?”
“I care nothing for the church’s condemnation, or Suhdra’s trouble. They’ve earned their discord, and may the gods usher them to it. I am here for Tener, and the old gods.”
“I am of the old gods, witch. Are we allies, then?”
“Whatever god you serve, it has nothing to do with the spirits of this world. Folam may have commanded respect among the tribes, but I’ve seen enough to know that he served a different kind of god.”
“So sure, and yet so foolish. And you name me idiot.” The priest stood, shoulders slumped under the weight of his chains, but as he shuffled toward Gwen she took a step back. “Do you think I’m alone, witch? I am never alone. Not here, nor in Heartsbridge, nor Cinderfell. Send me to any court in Tenumbra and I will count my brothers and sisters hidden in their ranks. The true faith is coming through.”
“If you swear to the old gods, why do you kill our shamans? Why do you threaten the tribes? If we’re both fighting against the celestial church—”
“There is no difference, witch. Your feral gods, and the bound gods of Heartsbridge… there is no difference. They are all just whispers before the shout. Lightning before the thunder, and in the end, emptiness.” The priest laughed, then grabbed Gwen’s spear. She twisted it out of his hands, swearing. He held up his hands, palm first, to show the blood she had drawn. “Threaten me all you want, but I am not your enemy. You’ll see, in the end. You’ll understand.”
“This is all I need to understand: Folam betrayed me. Sacombre betrayed me. The tribes betrayed me, my family is dead, and my friends have abandoned me as a heretic. All I have left are these few who stand with me. So if you want to make threa
ts, you’re going to have to come up with something better.”
“Look at your allies, witch. Ian Blakley, whose father led Halverdt to your gates, and whose army hunted you through the Fen. There are Suhdrins within the walls of your sanctuary, brought to Houndhallow by Ian. And who was it that counseled Ian in the wilderness, and brought him to the Fen Gate just in time to play the hero? The witch Fianna, and the shaman Cahl. Fianna, daughter of Folam. And isn’t Cahl still at your side? It seems convenient that Ian and Cahl both survived the inquisition’s hand, just to stand with you now.”
“You will not have me questioning my allies.”
“You’re a stubborn girl. Join us, and be assured of victory. Be assured of your revenge against those who— Oh…” He looked down at his belly, and Gwen’s spear protruding from it. “I thought we were talking.”
“I am done talking,” Gwen spat. The priest slid to the floor, staring up at her with eyes wide in pain and shock. “Bury this one with the horses, and see that his name is forgotten.”
“I die in the house of my sword,” the priest murmured. He grimaced, forcing the words out. “Forged under your nose, and—”
Gwen twisted the spear and withdrew it. The priest’s belly came with it, spilling out across the floor. The boy gasped, eyes fluttering, then fell silent.
“Never mind,” Gwen said. “Just burn the body with the rest of the shit. I won’t have him poisoning my water.”
“What did he mean, my lady?” the guard asked. Gwen looked at him askance. He was one of Ian’s bannermen, wearing the Blakley hound on his chest. “Dying in the house of his sword? What was that about?”
“Damned if I know,” she said. “Tell your master I need to speak with him—if you can find him. Ian and I have much to discuss.”
* * *
Cahl waited until the light from Gwen’s torch was gone, then stood from his corner. The stone pulled away from him like a cloak, forming back into the wall that had concealed him. He had been on his way to question the priest when Gwen arrived, and barely had time to hide before the huntress of Adair was upon him. He went to stand over the dead priest.