The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “Good story, but we don’t have a choice!” Noel’s face was pale, the sweat running down her brow like a river. “It is no longer my god to bid!”

  With a snap, the knot burst apart. Thin lines of burning gold splashed across the walls, turning the inside of the doma into a geode shot through with summer light. Tendrils of liquid flame crawled between the calendar windows, setting wood and rope to flame, burrowing into the domed ceiling like veins of fire.

  “The Allfire, and Ides of Light,” Gwen said. She followed the trails of flame, tracing the gheist’s progress through the doma. “Summer Tide. All the way to the station of the Winter Vow. It is following the days of Strife. Gathering her power, maybe.” As they watched, the gheist pooled around the calendar icons of the bright lady, flowing like liquid gold toward the western side of the doma. There, tucked into a nook, was the reliquary of the Winter Vow.

  “What is happening?” Morcant asked, coughing. The old man sat up, staring at the corona of fire that had settled around the grim altar to the setting sun. “Elder bones, what have you done to me?”

  “Saved you from the grave,” Kesthe whispered. “Now silence. Something is happening to Noel’s god.”

  “No longer my god,” Noel said. “The doma has claimed her.”

  The last of the scattered flames died down. The only light in the doma was the crown of flame that surrounded the reliquary of the winter vow. The fire turned from bright red and orange into a steady white, the color of the winter sun. The altar’s carvings filled with silver, etching the story of Strife’s mission to bring the light of hope into the desolation of winter, to remind those who suffered under Cinder’s judgment of the promise of spring and the coming dawn. It was this aspect of Strife that guided the knights of the winter vow, those who walked with the inquisitors and hunted the feral gods of the north.

  From the heart of the altar, a sword rose, carried by a hand clad in shimmering armor. A knight followed, towering over the crowd, its head brushing the ceiling of the doma. The black sun and twisted, burned tree of the knights of the winter vow stood stark on its chest. Eyes that burned with cold fire stared down at Noel, and the rest of the pagans.

  “You are a corruption of truth,” it said. Its voice sounded like the chiming of church bells, distantly heard. “Purify yourselves in sacrifice, or face the judgment of winter.”

  “I’d say the same about you,” Noel said. “You’re nothing but a reflection of the true gods. A fragment of the glory that was.”

  “Purify!” was the gheist’s only answer. It rushed forward, burning blade sweeping through the air in wide arcs, throwing embers when it struck.

  Noel collapsed out of the way, the blade passing mere inches above her head. The sword’s heat drove Gwen back. She shielded her eyes, staring down at the stone as the shadows passed. She could feel the holy energy of the gheist plucking at the wounds in her soul, the scars left by the Fen God, and later by the god of flowers. It felt like fishing line stitched into her bones, drawing tight.

  “Morcant! Do something!”

  The elder of tides groaned to his feet, leaning heavily on Kesthe and her staff of bones. Half of his face hung slack, the eye on that side swimming with black ink, but Morcant raised his arms and drew on the power of water.

  The river that flowed at the base of Houndhallow was old and deep, its source far to the north, in the jagged mountains of the Elderspine. In time it fed the Tallow, and later the Dunne, finally finding its way to Heartsbridge to flow beneath the hundred bridges of that distant and holy city. Its waters ran from the crown of Tenumbra to the feet, gathering the rain and snowmelt of a hundred mountains, the blood of a thousand young springs. It was a river of ages, and at the will of the elder of tides, it rose.

  Silver water appeared in the cracks of the stone floor, mingling with the blood spilled in battle, and the ash of the fire god’s passing. Quickly these elements dissolved into pure water, as clean as rainwater and as cold as the ocean’s depths. Soon frigid water lapped at Gwen’s ankles, rising swiftly to reach her knees. The dead floated in the sudden tide, bumping limply against the walls. At the feet of the bright gheist, the water roiled into steam, hissing in clouds of mist that shrouded the burning figure of the knight.

  Morcant drew his arms together, and the tide ebbed, gathering into a swollen pillar in front of the elder’s frail form. The burning knight slashed at the pillar, but its sword passed through it without leaving a mark. As it struck, Morcant flinched back, the water’s pain passing through the elder like a shockwave. Kesthe took his elbow.

  “Steady, elder,” she said. “I have faith in you.”

  “I will not die here,” the old man said through clenched teeth. “Not so far from the tides.”

  “Gods willing,” Kesthe whispered. “Now end it!”

  Morcant motioned, and the gheist of water responded. The pillar rose up and arced forward, crashing into the burning knight in a torrent of cold water. The knight stumbled back, shielding itself with the forte of its blade, but the current washed over it. Sputtering flame flickered through the outflow, bits of burning steel and swirling embers quenched as it tore away from the knight.

  The flood wrenched pieces of armor from the knight, exposing the bright light of its essence to the smothering stream. A pauldron tore free, clattering across the floor before crashing into a window, shattering it. Its flames winked out, leaving only a cold husk behind. The burning knight’s flames were eroded, its form growing smaller and duller under Morcant’s assault.

  Finally, only a whisper of its essence remained, no taller than Morcant, no brighter than a candle. With a final rush, the gheist collapsed into the flood, disappearing like a snuffed torch. The doma was engulfed in darkness. Whatever holy force was keeping the pillar of water together withdrew. Gwen was once again awash in frigid water up to her knees. Detritus bumped against her legs.

  “Light!” she yelled. “We need light!”

  The door burst open, and the waters started to drain into the courtyard. Half a dozen pagan rangers, wielding torches and spears, stood in the entrance to the doma. The flickering light from their torches cast stark shadows across the surface of the water. The flood quickly receded.

  “What the hell happened here?” the lead ranger, Deidra, asked. She was a tall woman, the sides of her head shaved, the rest of her hair drawn into long plaits that clung to her head like a ram’s horns.

  Gwen looked around the room. Bodies and broken pews, the damp ruin of pillows, and half the pagans who had first been ambushed. In the chaos of the gheist’s attack, the Tenerrans had fled, disappearing into the castle.

  Of the elder of tides there was no sign. The receding waters had taken him away, delivering Morcant to the depths.

  “He went home,” Gwen answered. “He died as he wished.”

  “Noel?” Kesthe asked hesitantly. The elder of the sun was staring at the altar of the winter vow, her face slack.

  “I lost control,” Noel said. “I lost the hand of my god.”

  “We never control,” Kesthe said. “We only pray, and hope.”

  “Not even hope,” Noel answered. “Not any longer.”

  11

  THE THREE SUHDRINS were not alone. While Malcolm gawked at Helenne’s ruined face, another half-dozen knights trotted out of the forest. They were a rough crowd, for noble blood, like a holiday party put off their celebration by bad food and a rude host. Their clothes, still finer than anything Malcolm owned, were wrinkled by weeks on the road and a lack of change. Their perfume did not conceal the stink of sweat, and many wore bandages under their silk. Sir Hallister sat calmly, her anger propping up her honor, never taking her eyes from Malcolm. Behind her rode a brace of knights from the Black Mountain, men sworn to Emil Fabron, whose head Malcolm had taken at the battle of White Lake. Sir Tasse waited quietly nearby, her head angled to one side, staring intently into the darkness.

  It was hardly a welcoming committee.

  Besides Sir Doone, Malcol
m was joined by Grant MaeHerron, and several other knights he had grown to trust since the war started. The grim lord of the Feltower had appeared from somewhere in the days after Malcolm’s rout, reunited with the Tenerran force and joining his gathered knights to the effort, an unexpected ally. Grant had grown silent since his father’s death, the battle-joy lost in his dark eyes. He hovered at the edge of the meeting, cradling his axe and staring daggers at the Suhdrin knights.

  The other Tenerrans were hardly better off. Franklin Gast still stood for the forces of Rudaine. That man was earning his way to a title, though Malcolm doubted if he did any of it for fame or glory. Lesser knights of Daeven, Swanston, and Thyber joined them, the only blooded names still in their company. Malcolm had ridden to White Lake in the company of dukes and earls, but the long grind of war left him standing with knights and common soldiers. There was more to nobility than blood, though. And these were all noble men and women, whatever their names held.

  Only Helenne Bassion stood separate from the crowd. Her dark robe melted into the night air, and the harsh mauling of her wound turned half her face to black. She seemed to have aged a lifetime from the carefree and flirtatious noblewoman Malcolm remembered from his days in Heartsbridge.

  “So,” she said, when pleasantries and threats had been exchanged, and the conversation stalled. All heads turned toward her. “What of these gheists, and the priests who command them. What can you tell me of our enemy?”

  “I would ask you the same,” Malcolm said. “They rose from your ranks. Frair Rhone said they joined you on the road north.” The priest made to speak, but Helenne silenced her.

  “This is true. Traveling priests, stirred from their books at Cinderfell to join the war effort. When they heard we rode to face you, they could not hitch their wagons to our train quickly enough.” Helenne stirred uncomfortably, glancing at one of the knights behind her. “Some of us know them better than others.”

  “We met them earlier,” the man said quickly. His features were sharp, and his beard narrowed to an oil-bright point. “My men and I were fasting at Cinderfell in preparation for the equinox celebrations when word of Lord Fabron’s death reached us. We rode even before we broke our fast.”

  “And you are?”

  “Sir Yves Durand, of House Fabron. I have the command of twenty knights, all holy men. We will see the end of this heresy, Houndhallow.”

  “And the priests came with you?” Malcolm said, ignoring the knight’s burning glare. “The priests who killed your fellow knights, and wounded your lady?”

  “They had just arrived themselves. There was some talk in Cinderfell at their coming—the inquisitors were not sure of the newcomers’ place in the holy orders. Some of the new-arrived priests were known to Cinderfell; some were not. With Sacombre’s heresy, the inquisition is asking a lot of questions.”

  “The inquisition is always asking a lot of questions,” Gast said with a curling smile. “It’s in the name. Perhaps you’re just not used to having them directed at you.”

  “Only pagans fall under the inquisition’s gaze,” Durand answered, bristling.

  “We have seen the lie of that,” Gast said. “Unless you name us pagans? We can end this meeting quickly, if you like.”

  “Will this godsdamned argument never end?” Malcolm snapped. He stepped between Gast and Durand, both of whom had hands on hilts. “The enemy true has shown himself, and still we throw accusations back and forth like children at play. This fight is over! Neither Suhdra nor Tener will stand against this threat if we’re going to be at one another’s throats the whole time!”

  “When I am about to fight a battle, and a dagger appears in my back, it is only natural that I look across the field at my enemy,” Helenne said. “No one benefited from this betrayal more than you, Houndhallow.”

  “That is what you name me now? Enemy? Why meet with me here, if your only offer is a threat?”

  “My lord?” Sir Doone whispered. Malcolm waved her off.

  “Haven’t you seen enough, Galleydeep? By your own man’s admission, these priests of Cinder joined his party, and later turned the cloak. What more do you need?”

  “They summoned gheists,” Durand said, “the feral gods of Tener. Who but pagan witches can do that?”

  “You’re saying witches now walk the earth in Cinder’s robes. Is that what you believe?”

  “I believe what I’ve seen. A Tenerran army defending the heretic Adair, led by your hand. Tenerran gheists murdering my people when we march against you. And a Tenerran god nearly destroying Greenhall, to keep Sophie Halverdt from joining us here. How do you explain these things?”

  “What happened at Greenhall?” Malcolm asked. Bassion paused.

  “Pagan treachery. An unleashed god, unknown to the vow knights stationed there. It nearly destroyed the city.” Helenne frowned at him. “This keeps happening around you, Houndhallow. Unknown gods defeating Suhdrin armies, and you as innocent as a dove.”

  “They’re trying to keep this war between our countries going, Helenne. Surely you see—”

  “If that was the case, why didn’t they let us fight one another? Hm? Why stab me in the back when they could have simply held back and let us destroy each other? As I said, no one benefited from this more than you.” Her eyes flickered to Sir Tasse, then into the darkness where the woman was staring. Bassion hesitated, then flicked her reins and rode into the forest, calling back over her shoulder as she went. “You can play the victim all you want, Malcolm. Your ink is on your face, and your guilt as well.”

  Hallister and the Fabron men sneered and followed their lady. Sir Tasse hesitated for a long moment, for the first time tearing her eyes away from the darkness to look at Malcolm. Then she, too, followed in Bassion’s wake. Only the priest, Frair Rhone, remained.

  “She is scared, Houndhallow. Scared and quick to accuse. You must give her time.”

  “Did she come here to betray me?” Malcolm asked. “Are her men surrounding us even now?”

  “She was ready to act, if you attacked, but she wanted to talk. She still wants to talk, it’s just…” Rhone struggled for words, finally shrugging. “She does not trust you. She does not trust anyone, anymore.”

  “I can’t blame her. Still—”

  Malcolm’s voice caught in his throat. He was staring at Frair Rhone, the woman’s pale face and black robes framed in the moonlight. The arrow in her throat was just as black, and spouting blood.

  “To arms!” Malcolm shouted. The priest’s horse bucked, nearly throwing the dying woman to the ground. Rhone was clawing at the shaft of the arrow, eyes wide, mouth gaping. A flight of arrows fell into the trees before them. Men and women started shouted. Rhone’s horse finally bolted, darting back into the forest whence it had come.

  “We must run!” Doone yelled. The arrows weren’t aimed at them, but the distance was close. “Back to the camp, quickly!”

  “Did you see that woman? The Tasse knight, who first brought the offer of peace from Lady Bassion? That arrow came from the direction she was looking in. She knew! She knew we were about to be ambushed!” MaeHerron snapped.

  “Why would one of Bassion’s knights shoot at Bassion’s priest? No.” Malcolm turned his mount. He could see the shadows forming behind them now, the trees of the distant copse bristling with spears. A section of horse came out of the trees and started trotting in their direction. “We must follow Galleydeep. There’s no other way.”

  “She won’t believe us,” Doone said, but she spurred her horse and launched herself into the forest. The rest followed.

  This copse was thin, not more than thirty feet of woods before it opened onto grasslands once again. Evidence of Bassion’s supporting force was everywhere. The grass was churned into mud, and a handful of weapons lay strewn about. Looking more closely, Malcolm saw the bodies, torn and lying in the grass. The ground was thick with arrows, like a fletched thicket.

  What remained of Bassion’s force hurried up the hill. Most were mounted,
but a few staggered up the incline, throwing down shields and swords in their haste. The rain of arrows stopped, but the rumbling sound of a great many horses trembled through the ground. When those on foot turned and saw Malcolm, they screamed and ran faster.

  “We must speak to Helenne! She must know we had nothing to do with this!” Malcolm leaned low to his horse’s neck, lashing it forward. He could hear Doone and MaeHerron behind him. The Suhdrin party had quite a lead already, and the terror of pursuit sped them on. They would crest the hill long before Malcolm reached them. Then he spotted something along the ridgeline, and pulled up.

  A small party of mounted celestial knights accompanied three riders dressed in dark vestments. They came over the ridge at a trot, as casual as hunters who have cornered their prey. The air around them was thick with mist and twisting shadows.

  The lead priest raised his staff, and a flash of light crackled through the air. A wave of fog fountained from the staff and slowly rolled down the valley, sweeping aside the tall grasses and creeping toward the Suhdrins. It enveloped them in a heartbeat, shielding Bassion’s retreating party from Malcolm’s eyes.

  Figures rose out of the fog. A dozen loping forms grew like tumors in the mist, larger and larger until they towered over Malcolm’s head, taller on foot than the Tenerrans were mounted, arms bristling with sharp talons and gaping teeth instead of faces. Their flesh was pale, but the cruel edge of their claws glowed as bright as freshly fallen snow, and their misshapen bodies capered down the hill with liquid grace. Inside the fog, the Suhdrins began to scream.

  “Into the gods! Spears into the pagan gods! For Strife! For Tenumbra!” Malcolm yelled. He drew the black steel of his feyiron blade. His knights gave a ragged yell, then they were hammering forward, their charge a panicked, tumbling gallop. Tendrils of fog whipped around their hooves.