The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  She turned and went to her sleeping mat, leaving Lucas by the fire. The night was growing cold, but she went as far from the fire as she dared before setting her blankets down and wrapping up.

  * * *

  The next day, the number of Halverdt’s scouts roaming the countryside tripled, clogging the roads so badly that Lucas and Martin rode with Elsa, to avoid being split up. They rode in silence, listening for approaching hoofbeats and scenting the air for campfires. What they heard were drums, coming from the road behind them.

  “That’s not a parade,” Martin said nervously.

  “Definitely not. Into that farmhouse,” Lucas answered. “We’ll just have to pray they pass us by.”

  The house seemed to be abandoned, so Lucas and Elsa dismounted and led the horses through the door while Martin inspected the rest of the house.

  “Blankets still on the beds, and ashes in the fireplace. Whoever lived here, they went in a hurry, and traveled light.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Close the door and secure the shutters. Let’s not give them any reason to get curious about what’s inside,” Lucas said, going around the main floor and closing every window and door. The horses snorted nervously in the middle of the room, their ears brushing the ceiling. Between the three mounts and the domestic setting, the scene was almost humorous.

  The drums sounded again a short time later. Lucas and Elsa left one window open, covering it with a blanket that was thin enough to peer through.

  “You might have been wrong about that parade, Sir Roard,” Elsa whispered. Lucas shushed her, but through the cacophony there was little chance of them being heard.

  The column that came around the corner was the living embodiment of chaos in motion. Marchers in motley uniforms followed a wagon of musicians, none of them playing the same song, all caught up in the rapture of their performance. The marchers were armed with everything from spears to pitchforks, halberds to blacksmiths’ hammers, wearing armor drawn together from the three corners of Tenumbra and beyond. A small troupe of women waved multicolored flags, with swords strapped to their belts and marching boots under their ragged skirts. A cloud of children wafted around the column, carrying daggers and pitchers and clubs, whatever their chubby hands could find.

  Behind the head of the column came another wagon, pulled by draught horses and festooned with banners of every color in the dawn. Shields hung along the side as if it were a Reaver raiding ship. In the center of the wagon was a throne, and on the throne sat a child. Or half a child. His other half was old and withered, with white hair framing a face that hung slack with age, or bright with youth, depending on which profile was facing you. He wore simple garments, and rested his hands, one young, one palsied, on a wooden sword. The half-boy stared straight ahead.

  “Gods above, it’s the boy. The one who chased us out of Greenhall,” Lucas said. “How did he get north so fast, and with so many people?”

  “That’s not the half of it,” Elsa said. She nodded back to the road. “Look.”

  After the wagon had passed the farmhouse, there was a gap, then the army proper started to march by. Rank upon rank of spears, followed by proud knights on their steeds and smart columns of crossbowmen. A solid corps of vow knights brought up the rear, each one still dressed in the ashen tree and sun tabard of their order, but with the addition of Halverdt’s newly adopted sigil, the tri-flame and saltire, usually on one of their pauldrons or draped over their shields.

  Sophie Halverdt rode at the head of the vow knights. She was in golden armor and cream, as neat and fine as you would expect from a Suhdrin duchess at a ball. There was a black mark on her forehead.

  “She’s taken the winter vow,” Elsa whispered. “Gods, what is happening?”

  “How can you tell?” Martin asked.

  “On her forehead, the ashen brand. Not a brand, really, but harking back to darker rituals,” Lucas answered. He glanced at Elsa, but when she didn’t volunteer anything further, he continued. “All vow knights take it with their oath, wearing it through their first winter in Strife’s service. I didn’t know it could be applied anywhere other than the Lightfort.”

  “It cannot,” Elsa said. “What new heresy is this, I wonder?”

  “Gods know,” Lucas answered. They watched as Sophie’s army passed, keeping silent and counting their breaths. More men-at-arms followed the vow knights, and finally came the supply wagons. It was at least an hour before the last horse disappeared around the corner, and the last drumbeat disappeared into the forest. Dusk was falling.

  “What do we do now?” Martin asked. “They’ll surely have cut off the northern routes now.”

  “What I want to know is how they got so far north, so fast. We three have been traveling fast. It takes time to gather that kind of army, and longer still to get it down the road. Unless they left Greenhall before us—”

  “Which we know they didn’t, as we fled that terrifying child in the old town,” Martin said.

  “Right. So how are they making such good time?” Lucas asked.

  “There is only one way to know,” Elsa said as she opened the door and started the slow process of disentangling the horses from the furnishings. “We join the train. I can pass as a guard, and you two could be common soldiers.”

  “These old arms haven’t carried a sword in decades,” Lucas said.

  “All the more convincing, given the company. Come on. We need to get there before they camp for the night. We won’t go any further than the hangers-on, hoping for service. Unless Sir Roard fancies joining the dancing corps?” Elsa threw Martin a pack and smiled. “I’m sure his Suhdrin feet miss the ballroom.”

  “It would be impossible to find a proper partner in that rabble. Present company excluded, of course,” he said, bowing stiffly to Elsa and presenting his hand, as though to promenade. “Would my lady care to saunter?”

  Elsa shoved him away, ducking her head at his chortle. She didn’t look up until they were on the road, and then only to give instruction. Lucas only smiled when she wasn’t watching.

  * * *

  It was easy to get lost in Halverdt’s train. Hundreds of desperate farmers, merchants, even whole families flocked to the army as it passed. They whispered about gheists haunting the fields and forests of the north, believing that only the true heir of Greenhall could keep them safe. That Sophie boasted a strong cadre of vow knights, and had herself taken the winter vow, lent credibility to this belief.

  “These people have lost hope,” Lucas muttered, several days after they had joined the train. The whole army moved at a snail’s pace northward. “Foolish enough to put their faith in Halverdt.”

  “All else has failed them,” Martin said. “Why are they fools for trusting the only true power they see in the north?”

  “Power given by madness is not power. It’s poison.”

  “Keep it down,” Elsa said. “We’ve got eyes enough watching us without your muttering.”

  The three of them did stand out in this mass. There were soldiers enough in the train, hoping to be hired on to Halverdt’s army, though few were willing to swear the oaths Sophie required. But no matter how much Martin slouched, or how little care he gave his armor, the heir of Stormwatch had a noble air about him. People were regularly calling him “my lord,” and more than a few of the women in the train had taken to following him everywhere.

  If Martin was conspicuous in his nobility, Elsa and Lucas stood out for different reasons. It was decided that each should play their opposite part, so Elsa had stripped off her armor and lent the few pieces that would fit Lucas to the frair. The rest, especially those pieces that identified her as a knight of the winter vow, were wrapped in burlap and hidden in sacks. But Lucas did not look comfortable in Elsa’s massive chain shirt, and the sword buckled to his belt kept tangling in his legs or fouling in the saddle whenever he tried to dismount. And Elsa, even in linen, walking alongside her horse with a quarterstaff, could never be mistaken for anything other than a wa
rrior. And of course, Elsa could not bring herself to part with her bloodwrought sword. It hung over her shoulder like a cross. Even wrapped in strips of cloth, it was clearly a great blade. She gathered her own following among the children of the train.

  Despite this, no one marked them for what they truly were: priests of Cinder and Strife. Even when Sophie’s vow knights rode by, none of them paused at the sight of these three strange travelers—there were simply too many people in the train.

  In this humble and slow way, they traveled to within sight of the Reaveholt. The great fortress on the banks of the Tallow loomed on the horizon. As soon as it appeared, the army came to a halt, encamping on the same grounds where dozens of besieging armies had camped previously. The civilian train scattered into the surrounding woods, outside Halverdt’s picket but within sight of her sentries. Lucas found a spot on a low ridgeline, on the very edges of the train. As soon as night fell and suspicious eyes were resting, he doffed his borrowed armor and huddled by the fire, shivering under a blanket.

  “I don’t know how you wear that all the time,” Lucas said. “My shoulders are worn raw, and if I’m ever able to stand straight again it will be a godsdamned miracle. I can’t even feel my hips!”

  “There is comfort in steel,” Elsa answered quietly. “I’ve spent the last week waiting for a blade to sink into my naked back. My skin itches in anticipation.” She picked up the chain shirt that Lucas had cast aside, rubbing it between her fingers like fine silk. “A well-wrought shirt of rings, and plate above. No greater comfort.”

  “I would settle for a warm fire and decent bedding,” Lucas said. “I think it’s finally happened. I’ve grown old enough to hate the road.”

  “So what happens now, do you think?” Martin said, interrupting their reverie. “Will Lady Halverdt try to go through the Reaveholt? No army has taken that citadel in generations.”

  “No army has brought three score vow knights to the effort,” Elsa said. “If that is the path she wishes to follow, I fear the consequences. You cannot ask people to trust a priesthood that has turned to reaving.”

  “The crusades were not peaceful affairs, Sir LaFey, and yet the north eventually took the faith. Time passes. People forget horrors,” Lucas said. “And gods know what thoughts rest in Sophie’s young head.”

  “No matter how fast she moves, she’ll still have to go through the Reaveholt,” Martin said. “There’s no other way north. Not if she’s making for the Fen Gate.”

  “Reaveholt or the blight. Or west to some port and then around.” Elsa squinted at the fire, then gave Lucas a quizzical look. “Are you well, frair?”

  “I’m fine. Truthfully, my shoulders feel fresh, and my hips…” Lucas paused, staring down at his legs. He hopped up. “My hips feel like a young man’s.”

  “The grass is growing,” Martin said. He leapt to his feet, bouncing from one foot to the other, as though he were afraid to touch the ground.

  Elsa stood slowly, turning her eyes to the main camp.

  “The air is warmer, and clean in my lungs. Fresh. The grass is growing, and our pains are eased.” The tone of her voice changed, becoming a chant. “Cinder’s House is closed. Winter’s bite is cut. All sun’s promise has been kept and moon’s cold gaze is ending.”

  “The spring rite,” Lucas said. He looked around. “Trees blossoming, the earth’s frost softening, and our bones restored. What is she doing?”

  “Bringing summer into the cold night of winter,” Elsa said. She looked at Lucas, and her eyes were glazed over with tears. “As a vow knight must.”

  10

  THE DOMA WAS a terrible place for a fight, and the elders had long outgrown the custom of battle. But the disgruntled mob led by Frair Daxter was not made up of the castle’s finest warriors, and their weapons were scavenged from the scrapheap. Still, they fought with the conviction of hatred, swarming Gwen and her companions.

  In the first heated moments of battle, Gwen grabbed one of her attackers and stripped him of his blade, drawing it across his throat before dropping him to the ground. The man’s blood sprayed across her face, mingling with the rust-stain and soot that seemed a permanent part of her flesh. The others hesitated before swarming forward, giving the elders time to circle up.

  “I was born in the sea, and I shall die there,” Morcant said. He drew a ceremonial knife, forged to look like a conch shell, the whirls of steel that twisted around his fist shimmering in the dim light. “No crowd of peasants is going to change that.”

  “The gods do not always give us the death we demand,” Kesthe said. The elder of bones held the stone-tipped staff of her station across her chest like a quarterstaff. Other than Gwen, she was the youngest of the lot, and the least patient with the Tenerran celestial faithfuls of Houndhallow. Gwen had no doubt she would die before giving way to Blakley’s frair and his mob.

  A heartbeat, and then there was no more time for talking. The rest of the Tenerrans closed the distance, jumping over their dead companion to attack. Gwen laid into them, slicing with the rust-pitted blade of her stolen sword. The hilt hummed in her hands, the tang loose and rattling, stinging her flesh with each blow. Blood started to leak around the hilt.

  Kesthe proved her worth to the god of graves. The young elder smashed bones and shattered knees, sweeping her staff around her head in an endless dance of pain. The Tenerrans fell away from her, tentatively prodding at her defenses with their swords, holding her at bay without pinning her down.

  For every skull that Kesthe cracked, though, three more waited among the pews. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in sheer numbers, and soon both Gwen and Kesthe were bleeding from a dozen cuts.

  The other elders were of no use. Morcant growled and hissed, but whenever one of the Tenerrans got close, he would fade back, wincing. Noel, the Suhdrin elder of the tribe of flames, hid in the center of the elders’ circle. She had seen her share of violence in the ruins of Greenhall, but never with blade or club. The few tribesmen who had followed them into the doma fought hard, but they were soldiers of the forest, accustomed to ambush and maneuver, not the pitched struggle of the city fight.

  They were being overwhelmed. Morcant disappeared among the swirling robes of the Tenerrans, tumbling behind a broken pew. Kesthe screamed when she saw him fall, but there was no further fury in her attack; she was already fully committed, at the limit of her prowess. The dozen of their followers became single digits, and that was soon cut in half. Only Gwen and Kesthe stood strong, with Noel hidden in the wreckage. Dozens of Tenerrans lay dead at their feet, but it wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough.

  The air began to howl at the center of the doma. Among the ruined pews, the swirling frairwood incense turned bright, and then ignited into fire. Smoke crisped in Gwen’s nostrils. Noel stood from her hiding place, arms raised to the sky, eyes turned to light. Fire wove its way through her hair like glittering snakes. A slowing swirling nimbus of flames twisting beneath the domed ceiling, centered on the elder of the sun. The light from Noel’s eyes cast harsh shadows among the pews.

  “Enough of this! Enough madness!” Noel said. “I have suffered enough from betrayal and the zealot’s hatred. Leave us! Leave, or face the fury of the gods!”

  “You profane holy ground!” It was Hines, the guard from the door, shielding his eyes from Noel’s fire. “The gods will deal harshly with you!”

  “This is the harshness of a true god,” Noel said. She motioned toward the cowering guard, and a lash of fire swept toward Hines. It burrowed through the prayer cushions and broken pews of the doma, turning wood and silk to ash. It swallowed Hines whole, enveloping him in tendrils of bright flame. His scream echoed through the chamber, cut suddenly short as the flames crawled down his throat. For a brief second, the man’s flesh turned to kindling, and his bones stood stark against the flames, like the shadow of lightning. Then he was gone. Not even ash remained.

  Noel withdrew her hands, her fingers trembling. She looked around at the remaining
Tenerrans. One by one, they dropped their blades, steel clattering against stone like hail. The surviving pagans slowly stood, looking around in shock.

  “There is more mercy among the tribes than hatred,” Noel said, lifting a hand to the collected Tenerrans. “You have forgotten your gods, but they can be remembered. There is no need to—”

  “Noel!” Gwen shouted. The elder of flames looked to her. “Stop it, elder! Stop your burning god!”

  As one, they turned to look at the spot where Hines fell. A knot of flame churned over the stones, digging into the floor and throwing sparks into the air. Noel tightened her brows, motioning to the flames, trying to dispel them with her will. The knot remained. It even started to grow.

  “There is something wrong,” Noel said. “The air… the earth… it is resisting me.”

  “Holy ground,” Gwen muttered. “Worse, ground dedicated to Lady Strife, the very goddess of flames. Morcant!”

  “He is fallen,” Kesthe said. The young elder of bones stood slack-jawed, watching the flaming knot swell.

  “Then raise him! Deny your god’s hold on his soul, child! We need the tides!”

  Kesthe snapped out of her reverie, kneeling by Morcant’s side. The elder of tides was bleeding from the shoulder, his frail frame shivering as Kesthe ran her hands over him. He blinked unseeing at the ceiling.

  “I am not a healer,” she muttered. “I know nothing…”

  “You know enough to keep him with us,” Gwen said. “You must. It is necessary.”

  Noel ignored them. She walked closer to the burning knot, bending her will in concentration, hands spread wide and eyes narrowed. The flames fluttered away from her, but the core of the knot burned brighter and brighter. Embers crawled across the hem of her robes, and her face flushed. Cinders floated through the nimbus of her hair.

  “It is flowing… away from me!” she shouted. Her voice vibrated with the strain of holding the gheist. “Gwen! We need to run!”

  “If we lose this gheist as we lost the god of flowers in Greenhall, we will lose all of Tener with it!” Gwen shouted. “The story that will be told is of witches destroying faithful castles with their mad gods. All of Tener will turn against us!”