The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “Where am I supposed to run?” Martin asked, looking around.

  A crack of thunder drew their attention back to the boy. He was descending into the crater, his feet dragging along the scree as he floated down, arms wide, like the figure on the shrine. Burning petals spun from his open mouth.

  Martin jumped onto the opposite side of the crater, scrambling for height. Debris tumbled around his hands and feet, starting an avalanche. The crater filled with dust once again. Shafts of light, thrown by the boy as well as from the sun above, turned the air into a hatchwork.

  “You came to learn what I was, inquisitor. Why do you run even as I present myself? How can you learn as you flee?”

  “I’m not running anywhere, demon,” Lucas snapped. He threw his arms wide, sweeping his staff in a semicircle. A gust of wind flew from him, clearing the air. “Whatever you are, I will banish you. Wherever you flee, I will hunt you down.”

  “Then we will both die here. That is acceptable.” The boy touched down, balancing on one toe, the rest of his body held aloft by unseen forces. “I have many bodies. Many blossoms. More every day. This is very fertile ground.”

  Lucas didn’t waste any more time talking. He struck, wrapping naether around his fist, punching toward the boygheist. The force of his blow scattered the carpet of flower petals accumulating at the boy’s feet, but the dark lines of naetheric force broke against the gheist without moving him. Lucas set his feet and pushed harder. Stones flew from the ground, peeling away from the floor like dead skin, but still the gheist didn’t move.

  Exhausted, Lucas relented.

  “Very good. A fine effort, but your lines are too straight, your reasons too just. I cannot be pushed so easily, moon priest. And now—” the boy swept forward, his wrinkled hand snapping toward the ground “—the form must be broken. All forms. All patterns. Your pattern is just another to be disrupted.”

  The ground where the gheist was pointing swirled like a troubled pool. It rose up, turning into a whip that struck at Lucas. The priest threw up a makeshift shield, taking the force of the blow but still knocking him off balance. The whip traveled on, digging a rut up the debris-choked incline and crashing into Martin. He yelled, rolled onto his back, and slid gracelessly back down into the crater.

  “It is reasonable to defend yourself, priest. But I am not of your tribe. My elders are dead, my henges broken, and yet I remain. Because of people like this.” The boy’s wrinkled hand indicated the child-half of his body, then rose toward the lip of the crater. Thin shadows crept into the pit. A half-dozen forms rose above the crater’s edge, all dressed in the tri-flame and cross. “Broken people. Dead people. People made holy by my touch.”

  “Godsbless,” Martin muttered. He pushed up onto his feet, wincing as he stood. “We’ll have to kill our way out of this.”

  “There’s been enough killing,” Lucas said. He clapped his hands together, letting the naether compress between his palms, breaking a hole in the mundane world and drawing the shadowform. His body started to dissolve. “Take a deep breath, Martin.”

  “What?” Martin asked, startled. He looked over at Lucas just in time to see the priest rush at him, faster than an old man should be able to move. The frair’s arms encircled Martin, turning from flesh into shadow even as he ran, the force of the impact deeper than a hammer, lower than flesh, like a chiming bell felt but never heard. It swept Martin off his feet.

  And then the world was gone. Martin’s eyes were still open, but there was nothing to see, no light, not even the shifting darkness of nightfall. The air that was sucked through Martin’s teeth was frigid, thick like water, cold as ice. His lungs gave out in horror. He started to shiver. A chorus of whispering voices sang through his head, terrified and yet calm, languages Martin had never heard. Lucas’s voice came to him through his bones.

  Patience. We are nearly done, Martin. We are nearly there.

  Just as suddenly as the world had disappeared, it returned. Martin collapsed to the ground, sucking in huge gulps of air. Frost formed on his lips and in the tears streaming from his eyes. The ground under his hands burned like an oven. Martin tried to call out, but there was no air in his lungs, and the only sound he could make was a stammering whimper.

  He coughed, and then was able to breathe again. He went to wipe his eyes, but the sword was still in his hand, and he cut himself from cheek to ear. Martin dropped the sword with a yelp.

  “What the hells was that?”

  “The naether. I cannot…” Lucas’s voice was shaky and weak. When Martin looked up, he realized that the frair was on his knees, shivering. Lucas’s face was as pale as spoiled milk. “That was more than I am capable of doing. Gods, how am I…”

  Lucas spilled forward, collapsing flat to the ground, like a sack of flour dumped out. Martin jumped to his feet, the blood and frost forgotten, and grabbed Lucas’s shoulder. The frair was still breathing, though shallowly. Lucas’s eyes fluttered open, and he moaned.

  “We have to get to the horses. Where are we?” Martin asked.

  “I don’t… don’t know. I just pushed through. I can’t help you anymore.”

  Voices sounded, echoing off walls and through the rubble. For the first time, Martin looked around. They were in a narrow alleyway, the walls on either side collapsed onto each other, leaning together like drunk lovers. It didn’t look familiar.

  “We’ll have to forget the horses, unless we get lucky and stumble across them. Come on,” Martin urged. He pulled Lucas to his feet, throwing the priest’s arm over his shoulder, then bending down to retrieve his sword. Lucas weighed next to nothing, even with his staff and bag of metal icons.

  The two of them limped to the end of the alleyway, looking around. The city’s exterior wall loomed over them, shot through with cracks. The nearest tower lay flat across the ruins of several buildings. Martin stumbled toward it. He could hear the sound of hooves and horns coming from the keep.

  “Summer light. Lumen,” Lucas gasped. “In the air. I can taste… vow knights. Sophie’s zealots have our scent.”

  “How close?”

  “Close. Closer. They’re coming. We need to fly.”

  “Then pray me some wings, frair,” Martin said through gritted teeth. But Lucas’s head lolled against Martin’s shoulder. He became a dead weight. Martin hiked the priest up and hurried toward the collapsed tower.

  The hooves were getting closer. Martin could hear them, no longer an echo. He twisted around and saw the vow knights charge past the mouth of the road, red and gold fluttering with the speed of their passage. They would come back. Any moment now.

  Martin turned back to the tower and hurried on, bending his head to the ground, grunting with each step. So focused was he on moving forward under the burden of the unconscious priest that Martin didn’t see the rider until it was too late.

  The vow knight loomed over them, gilt-armor dented and worn, the tabard of the winter vow as ragged as a dishcloth. The knight’s helm was dented, but the blade hanging over Martin’s head was as bright and as sharp as the morning sun.

  “Gods damn it all,” Martin muttered. He took a step back, nearly dropping Lucas in his rush to draw his blade.

  “Peace, child,” Elsa said. She sheathed her blade and reached down. “Give me the priest.”

  “Sir LaFey?” Martin sputtered. “But you… you were…”

  “Wherever I have been, I am here now.” She grabbed Lucas by the shoulder and heaved him over the pommel of her saddle, then offered her hand to Martin. He hesitated. “Do you want to walk, Stormwatch?”

  Martin stood dumbstruck for a heartbeat. Then he took Elsa’s hand. With a strength that Martin would not have suspected of a bear, she plucked him from his feet and threw him onto the saddle behind her. As soon as he was settled, she pushed her horse on. They disappeared through the wall, and the horns of the mad vow knights followed close behind.

  5

  THE PRIEST SAT primly beside the fire, sipping tea from a cracked bowl. She w
as nearly Malcolm’s age, and clearly more accustomed to the courtyard than the battlefield. But there was steel in her voice when she looked up at the ring of knights surrounding her and spoke.

  “They joined us north of Greenhall, these priests who turned against us.” She cleared her throat, then placed the bowl of tea in her lap and rubbed her eyes. “All familiar faces. Frair Laville came up through the ranks of Cinderfell with my son. At least half their number belonged to the inquisition.”

  “Frair Rhone—” Malcolm started.

  “Ysella, please. I get tired of being called ‘brother’ all the time.” The priest allowed a thin smile.

  “Ysella, then. Why were so many priests of Cinder marching with Bassion’s army? I did not think the church involved itself in these matters, especially after Sacombre’s indiscretions.”

  “It was Sacombre’s sin that brought me north, Houndhallow. Many of us were horrified by the high inquisitor’s actions. We thought to gather him home.”

  “Frair Lucas didn’t meet you on the road? He left here months ago.”

  “We missed him in Greenhall. Lady Bassion left Heartsbridge weeks before us. We caught her up at Lady Halverdt’s court. Apparently Frair Lucas was there before us, but left in a hurry.”

  “Left?” Malcolm asked. “But why? And where did he go?”

  “Lady Bassion made some sort of deal with the young Halverdt girl. Sophie wanted Sacombre’s blood, and didn’t care to wait around for the trial. Lucas sniffed it out, and fled before the noose could be tightened.” Ysella took another drink from her tea, then shook her head. “As for where he went after that? Gods will know, but we must guess. There was strange news from Gallowsport, shortly after we arrived here, but it may be unrelated.”

  “And these inquisitors? The ones who joined you north of Greenhall? You say you knew them?”

  Ysella paused, tapping her finger against her bowl.

  “They were priests, true and sworn. But so was Tomas Sacombre. And we all know where that led,” she said. “They claimed to be traveling south from Cinderfell when they heard of the massed army at Greenhall, and thought to join us. A particular frair led them, a name known to me, but not a man I knew personally. Frair Veureux.”

  “I know Veureux,” Sir Hallister said. She hovered at Malcolm’s shoulder, torn between protecting the priest and keeping an eye on the door. “He’s no inquisitor, though he is sworn to Cinder. A man of books.”

  Ysella nodded. “Ensconced at Cinderfell, last I heard. Given his reputation, I was surprised to find him on the road. The others were more typical. A mix of thinkers and doers. They marched with a considerable number of celestial guardsmen.”

  “I thought that unusual,” Sir Tasse said. “I rarely see the black-and-gold outside of Heartsbridge, or guarding the shrines. And these did not seem the typical guardsmen. Rougher. More familiar with the saddle.”

  “Perhaps mercenaries, then, enlisted to the colors,” Malcolm said. “They certainly show a lack of discipline in their ranks.”

  “Either way, they joined in the slaughter,” Ysella said. “Cutting down those they were meant to guard, sparing Veureux and his friends.”

  “And you saw them summoning gheists? Controlling them?” Malcolm asked. The Suhdrin knights grew tense.

  “Yes,” Ysella said. “At first I thought they were trying to banish them, that the spirits had risen up independently in our midst, and that these priests were defending us. I learned the lie of that when they turned on me. Veureux himself struck at us.”

  “And how did you escape?”

  “I was with Lady Bassion’s contingent. When Veureux came for us, her guards sold their lives to protect us. I ran, expecting Veureux to pursue me, but he didn’t give me a second thought.” Ysella closed her eyes. “He wanted Lady Bassion.”

  “Did Helenne escape?” Malcolm asked.

  “For all I know, yes. Her guard died protecting her. The lady tried to stop them, even tried to charge Veureux’s line unaided, but her knights knocked her from her saddle and carried her away. The last I saw of her ladyship, she was riding hard down the southern road, gathering banners as she ran.”

  “That matches my reports,” Malcolm said. “We believe she has organized a resistance on the celestial’s southern flank. It’s the only reason they haven’t rolled over us.”

  “If Helenne Bassion lives, I am sworn to rejoin her,” Travailler said. “I should never have fled her lines.”

  “You should never have left your ship,” Hallister said sharply. “Leave horse wars to dry knights.”

  “Bassion called every anointed blade. Do you doubt my right to stand at her side, sir?”

  “Gods, Suhdrin honor,” Malcolm swore. “Both of you, keep your blades dry. We need every knight we can muster. Neither of you is good to me dead.”

  “I will not fight beside Tenerran savages,” Hallister muttered.

  “You will. If the church asks it of you, and your lady commands, you will hold Tenerran spears and wash Tenerran feet,” Ysella said. “And you’ll consider it an honor to serve Cinder.”

  Hallister struggled to keep quiet, drawing a smirk from Travailler. It was Sir Tasse who broke the silence.

  “We will fight as our lady commands. But none of us know our lady’s will, not when she’s fled the field of battle.” She turned to Malcolm. “We thank you for your protection, Houndhallow, but I’m afraid Sir Travailler is correct. We are bound to return to Lady Bassion’s side, if it is at all possible.”

  “My army could really use your blades,” Malcolm said.

  “Army? This is no army, Houndhallow,” Hallister answered. “I would struggle to call this a militia. You are reduced to raiding and praying to be ignored.”

  “Our losses have been great,” Malcolm said. “But fleeing our company will not improve that.”

  “Then let us add more than our own blades to your number,” Tasse said. “Let us travel to Bassion, and offer her your peace. If she has managed to gather those who fled south, they will easily outnumber your ranks here.”

  “You’re wagering on her listening to you, and being willing to accept my peace,” Malcolm said. “For all we know, Bassion intends to gather her banners and keep riding south until she hits the Burning Coast.”

  “If that is her plan, it will take my word to turn her,” Ysella said, standing. “She can’t doubt the sworn testimony of a priest of Cinder.”

  “I will remind you that it was the sworn of Cinder who broke her army, and betrayed her ranks,” Malcolm said. “She may trust you least of all.”

  “If her trust in the church has been lost, then there is nothing anyone can do.”

  Malcolm sighed, hooking his thumbs into his belt and gazing sightlessly up at the tent’s ceiling. He didn’t turn when the tent flap rustled, barely noticing the reaction of the Suhdrins.

  “Husband? Is all well?”

  Sorcha Blakley walked to her husband’s side. She was strange to look upon. The injury given her by the witch Fianna, while saving her life, left Sorcha changed. Her skin glowed with unnatural light, and her veins pulsed brightly with the beating of her heart. Her eyes were the color of dark water, deep pits, clear and bottomless. Strangest of all was her hair, twisting as though she swam through troubled currents. Sorcha placed a hand on Malcolm’s arm.

  The three Suhdrin knights turned as one, drawing their blades and clustering around the priest. Frair Rhone stood slowly, making the signs of Cinder and muttering beneath her breath.

  “What devilry is this?” Hallister snapped. “A gheist names you husband?”

  “She was my wife long before…” Malcolm trailed off, grimacing as he turned to Sorcha. His wife stood unmoved, smiling at the Suhdrins. “This was done against her will. She is no gheist.”

  “But if she—” Hallister started.

  “I am in the care of a priest of Strife, and guarded by a knight of the Winter Vow,” Sorcha said primly. “If you worry for your safety, you will have to speak with th
em. As for whether or not I am a gheist…” Sorcha held out her hands, palms up, light from her veins growing. “I am holy. Whether that is of the church, or the gods, or something older, remains to be seen.”

  “There is nothing holy outside the church,” Hallister said. “It is heresy to believe otherwise.”

  “I believe nothing,” Sorcha said. “I simply am.”

  The Suhdrins stood awkwardly, on their guard and unsure. Frair Rhone cleared her throat.

  “I will not accuse what I do not understand,” she said. “But I think it wise if we leave your company. To protect against our own doubt, if nothing else.”

  “Agreed,” Malcolm said. “Any of Bassion’s knights who wish to travel with you are free to go. The rest can join my forces. My scouts can get you around the celestial army, at least as far as the Tallow. After that, you must rely on yourselves to find Lady Bassion.”

  “The gods will guide us,” Ysella said.

  “I pray that to be true,” Sorcha answered.

  Malcolm cleared his throat, then bowed and left the tent, guiding Sorcha by the elbow. As soon as the tent flap closed, he could hear the hissing whispers of the Suhdrin party.

  “That was unnecessary, my love,” Malcolm said.

  “They must know who they stand with. And, more importantly, who they stand against. Their faith in the church and their fear of the pagans brought us to this war, Malcolm.” Sorcha disentangled herself from her husband’s grip and turned away. “Until our Suhdrin friends break themselves of old prejudices, we will be at risk of betrayal. Or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “We will be at risk of betraying ourselves,” Sorcha said. “See that they reach Bassion, love. We cannot stand alone. But it would be better to fall alone than trust someone who hates us.”

  * * *

  “There was a time when Helenne Bassion would have met me by a warm hearth, offered me meat and wine. Now this,” Malcolm said. He sat on his horse in a copse of trees. Sir Doone sat next to him, her back stiff and armor blackened. Night was falling rapidly, and the chill of winter sat heavy in the air.