The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

“We are not,” Malcolm said. He settled his helm on his head, ratcheting the visor shut. “Form up into three wedges, strongest in the center. We will split their ranks and crush them between us.”

  “Or splinter against their steel and die,” Jaerdin said, then wheeled his horse around and trotted to the waiting knights. “May Strife’s fury guide your sword, and Cinder’s justice lead your soul to the quiet house, Houndhallow.”

  “And you, Redgarden. Sir Doone, I want you to lead the left wedge. I will take center.”

  “My place is at your side, my lord.”

  “You swore to keep my wife safe, and I’ll hold you to that. Their numbers are thinnest on the left, and there is a clear line of escape. Once we’re engaged and Lady Bassion is safely on her way, you’re to break off and return to our camp. My wife must be informed if I fall. This is her army now.”

  “And if Bassion does not flee? If she decides to die here?”

  “Then none of this will matter. Godsbless, Doone.”

  “The Hound. The Hallow,” she answered stiffly, then rode off.

  They came down the ridgeline at a gallop, horses surging like steel-capped waves, banners streaming behind them, the speed of their charge closing the distance quickly. The celestials saw their approach, and were wheeling to meet them, but Malcolm had the advantage of speed and the audacity of their attack. The celestial line had counted Malcolm’s numbers and assumed he would wait for reinforcements. But Malcolm did not wait.

  The Tenerran wedges struck like lances, shattering the steel of the celestial line and punching through. As soon as they were in the clear, the three prongs of Malcolm’s attack came together, destroying the thin resistance between them. The celestial soldiers were surprised by the ferocity of the Tenerran assault, falling easily under their blades.

  “They thought their priests had taken care of us,” Malcolm said, wheeling. “Before they regroup! Again!” He charged back into the fray.

  The long line of the celestial mounted forces began to splinter. Those closest to Malcolm’s wedge peeled back, trying to get away from the Tenerran swords. The distant ends of the line curled forward, turning their face to Malcolm while denying their flank to the cluster of Bassions at the center of the valley. But the field of battle was too small, and their ranks too thin, to allow this. Eventually, both sides of the line had to expose their flanks to the huddled Bassion defenders.

  Helenne Bassion saw her chance, and took it. Sounding the charge, the few remaining knights in her host broke free of their defenses and slammed into the western tip of the celestial line. Her dozens sent the celestial hundreds into disarray.

  “This is our chance!” Malcolm shouted, rallying the Tenerran spears to his side. “Lances into the celestial line! Lances with me!”

  Without waiting for a response, Malcolm spurred his mount hard into a charge, galloping over the uneven valley floor. The first Suhdrin blades he met scattered at his approach, and soon the thunder of Tenerran riders joined his side. They formed a long wedge aimed right at the heart of the northern half of the celestial position. Bassion’s force struggled on the other side of the celestials, wheeling in tight circles to keep from being flanked and to protect the block of foot spearmen who were slowly marching west, out of the valley.

  For a while, Malcolm and the Tenerrans were able to keep up the pressure. Their charge kept the celestial attention away from the retreating Suhdrins, though the threat of Bassion’s knights prevented the celestials from committing fully to the attack on Malcolm. It was a delicate balance. A balance that could not be maintained.

  Finally, the southern half of the celestial banners involved themselves in the fight. Other than the lightly armored archers, they had no mounted elements, and were forced to press the attack slowly. Rather than march directly into the attack, though, the line of spears at the southern half of the valley curled their flanks inward to cut off Bassion’s escape route. Inexorably, they closed ranks with the northern columns, forming a pocket of celestial banners, with Bassion’s force at the middle. The Suhdrins were stranded.

  Once Bassion was no longer able to threaten the celestial north, they turned their attention to the Tenerrans. Malcolm and his cadre had been making some progress against the celestial forces, but that ended suddenly and completely. Malcolm found himself at the tip of a dissolving spear, his banners peeling away under celestial pressure. The three columns of the original Tenerran attack had fallen out of formation, crushed together into a single lance that was quickly blunting.

  Malcolm lost sight of Helenne Bassion. She disappeared in a sea of waving spears and crashing horses. The banner of Galleydeep, held aloft throughout the battle, spun to the ground. He set his spurs and wheeled.

  “Fall back!” Malcolm’s voice was lost in the battle, but his command merely confirmed the retreat that was already happening. Those closest to him tightened around their lord. Sir Doone, theoretically in command of the left flank, pushed herself between Malcolm and the celestial assault.

  The retreat was madness. Sensing the collapse, the celestials crashed forward. The knights of the celestial forces rode fast around Malcolm’s force, joined by the mounted archers, while the ranks of spear kept the Tenerrans engaged to the front. They were trying to surround Malcolm, and they were succeeding.

  Malcolm slowed. There was just as much resistance to the north as to the south, and lances of knights wheeled to either side. The Tenerran retreat stalled, and the shattered column was pressed into a square. Arrows rained down on them, and their numbers dwindled. Malcolm found himself on the ground, with Sir Doone dragging him out from under his dead horse. When he got to his feet, all Malcolm could see were rank upon rank of celestial blades surrounding them.

  “You wanted a good death, my lord,” Doone said. “You will have it.”

  “Bassion didn’t get away,” Malcolm answered. “I lost sight of her.”

  “She may survive. They may take her prisoner, for ransom, or leverage against the south.” A sudden push of celestial blades drew her attention away, and for a handful of heartbeats there was nothing but fighting and the crash of swords on steel. When a lull came, Malcolm laid an arm on Doone’s shoulder.

  “This enemy has no interest in leverage. I don’t know what they’re after, but they have yet to show mercy. I expect none. But you must get away. You must beg whatever mercy you can, swear whatever promises they ask. You must get to my wife. She needs to know that this wasn’t Bassion’s betrayal.”

  “My blood will spill before yours, my lord,” Doone said. “Your wife is Tenerran. She will know what to do.”

  A yell went up from the celestial lines. For a brief moment, Malcolm thought it was the final push, as the ranks of his enemy pressed forward. But rather than surging in attack, they were pushing against the Tenerran line in blind panic. A horn sounded over the melee, answered by another, and a third from the south.

  The celestials fell away. The field cleared as the enemy line retreated, leaving dead and broken bodies in its wake. Malcolm was in shock. A riderless horse cantered past, and he caught up the reins, swinging into the saddle.

  The Reaveholt’s gates stood open, and a solid column of mounted knights was charging out. Dozens of banners, nearly a thousand spears, with the waterwheel of Sir Bourne flying at their head.

  Another army formed up, much farther south. He could see the colors of half a dozen Suhdrin houses, including the golden barque of Galleydeep. Bassion’s reinforcements had come north, though they were too few, and too far away.

  Bourne’s attack, though, had turned the tide. He must have ridden out with the full strength of the Reaveholt, scraping the walls of every capable blade. The celestials melted before him; their attention had been on Malcolm’s force and their flank was exposed. Bourne punched a hole through the celestial line, right toward the Tenerran position. As the celestials retreated west, Malcolm tried to get a glimpse of the Bassion force. He could see nothing among the collapsing ranks of the church.
r />   “Hold this line. Don’t pursue. Doone, you have the command!”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see if Lady Bassion lives.”

  Malcolm charged off, quickly joined by a handful of knights who thought the rout was on. The remaining celestials avoided him. The church was in full retreat to the west, pouring out of the valley like wine from a spilled jug.

  Where he had last seen Lady Bassion, Malcolm found only churned mud and the ragged remains of the Galleydeep banner. The dead were unrecognizable. Any of them could be Helenne Bassion. He wheeled back and forth, looking for some sign of the duchess of Galleydeep.

  “My lord, there!” one of the knights shouted, pointing. Malcolm looked in that direction. A bare half-dozen knights in Suhdrin colors rode south across the valley floor, toward the approaching Suhdrin army. Helenne’s black dress fluttered at their head. Malcolm let out a sigh of relief.

  “Thank the gods. She may have her reasons to mistrust us, but she can’t deny our efforts on this field. She would be dead without us.”

  “We would all be dead without Bourne’s intervention,” the knight said, and Malcolm could only agree. As they watched, Helenne reached the advance elements of the Suhdrin army.

  “We will need to set up a parlay. In the sunlight this time. There have been enough midnight meetings,” Malcolm said. He turned his mount back to where Doone waited. “I will need to speak to Sir Bourne, as well, to thank him for risking his garrison. We all owe him our lives.”

  A scattering of horns sounded to the south, doubtlessly signaling the duchess’ return. Malcolm was riding lazily north when the knight who accompanied him started swearing. Malcolm turned.

  The Suhdrin army was wheeling, turning away from the battlefield, charging hard along the Tallow’s northern bank. Malcolm’s brow creased.

  “What in hells are they doing?” he muttered. And then he saw.

  As he watched, the Suhdrin army charged into the open gates of the Reaveholt, which was practically undefended now that Bourne’s sally had stripped the walls. There was a brief fight on the drawbridge, but in moments the Suhdrin army had the gatehouse. The rest of the column fanned out, retreating slowly into the castle. Bourne’s forces were fully engaged in routing the celestial army, and couldn’t react even if they had noticed the betrayal. And Malcolm didn’t have enough men to even challenge Bassion’s claim to the walls.

  Eventually, the gates closed. Shortly after that, the Tenerran banners that flew from the Reaveholt’s many towers started to fall one by one. The golden barque of Galleydeep billowed out from the main keep. For the first time in its history, the Reaveholt had fallen to Suhdrin blades.

  18

  SNOW TURNED THE black trees of the forest white, and muffled the usual sounds of beasts and wind. Ian’s breath fogged the air in front of his face. He crouched by the base of a pine tree, its heavy branches brushing the top of his head, peering over the snow bank that surrounded the trunk. Other than his breathing and the hammer fall of his heart, there was only silence.

  The gheist crept into the clearing on hundred-finger claws, so many joints and claws and pads that its paws poured like liquid wax over the ground. It was long and lean, a ribcage that flexed with every breath, backbone poking through fur as black as tar and just as smooth. It moved deliberately out of the trees, pausing to scent the air and touch its frilled jaw to the snow.

  The bait lay in the middle of clearing, a child’s toy by the side of a track in the snow, discarded as the child fled her nightmare. Or at least, that’s the effect Ian hoped it left. The gheist buried its head in the lane, breathed deeply, then snorted. When it looked up, it was watching the trees to either side.

  Ian held his breath, afraid that even the silky puff of his breath would give him away. The gheist stood frozen in place, the sinuous wave of its ribs as subtle as a breeze. It slipped liquidly forward, placing a prehensile tongue on the doll, leeching the fear off the dirty burlap bundle. Ian glanced down the line. The hunters were ready, coiled to spring. He raised his hand, then jumped out of his hiding place and threw.

  A hail of spears joined his, springing out of the undergrowth with a shush, arcing down to bury themselves in the gheist’s rippling hide. The creature howled, then leapt from the clearing, disappearing among the snow-capped trees. The forest canopy shivered at its passing, dropping snow in heavy piles from the branches. The gheist was gone in a heartbeat.

  “That false trail isn’t going to scare it away for long,” Volent whispered.

  “It doesn’t have to keep it away forever. Just long enough for us to prepare. To secure the walls, maybe for a knight of the winter vow to reach us.” Ian shook the loose snow from his shoulders and went to retrieve his spear. “It’s just one gheist, Henri.”

  “There have been too many,” Volent answered. “Even for winter.”

  The rest of the hunters squirmed out from their hiding places. None of them were trained to hunt gheists, much less kill them. But all their priests were dead, and Volent was right, there were more feral spirits stalking the woods around Houndhallow than Ian could ever remember there being. His people couldn’t hide behind the walls forever.

  The hunting party turned and made their way back to Houndhallow. None of them said what they knew to be true; that the gheists were following them, hunting them, waiting for them to slip up. They all visibly relaxed when they passed through the outer gate of the castle, even though Cahl had proved the walls were not proof against gheists.

  “What are we going to do when they start coming inside?” Volent asked. “When they stalk our halls, rather than the forests?”

  “One problem at a time, Volent.”

  The repairs to the doma were going well, though there was no priest to sanctify the grounds even if they managed to restore the sanctuary. But the work made the people feel useful, and that was better than nothing. So much in Ian’s life these days was better than nothing.

  “My lord,” a messenger said as Ian dismounted. “Your sister asks to speak with you.”

  “Does she? Well, tell her I will be there as soon as I can,” Ian said. Volent shook his head when the messenger went away.

  “You can’t avoid her forever,” Volent said.

  “No.”

  “Tavvish was her friend. Her ally. He kept her safe while you were gone,” Volent said. “You can understand her anger.”

  “Yes,” Ian said, but that was all. Volent shook his head again and walked off.

  Ian rubbed at his chest, wincing as his fingers pressed against the hard flesh of his scar. It didn’t really hurt, not in any normal way, but the wound left by the voidfather’s pendant was deeply unsettling. It pulsed warm against his heart. Something else he would get used to, with time.

  When he had marched south with his father to Greenhall, Ian never imagined it would be the last time he left Houndhallow in glory. In the months since, he had not given his home much thought, and now it seemed as lost to him as youthful innocence, even as he stood in its courtyard. This was not the home he had grown up in. Then again, he wasn’t the child who once played in these grounds, or prayed in this doma. Perhaps it was best that they both changed with time. He looked around at the walls, the shell of the doma, even the keep and its barricades, all of them swarming with workers. They felt distant, as if he were seeing them from a great distance, or an even greater time later. Even the stones felt foreign.

  That wasn’t true of these people, though. With the exception of Henri Volent, most of the workers, soldiers, and servants hustling through the castle had lived their entire lives within sight of the walls of Houndhallow. Even his young sister, Ness, knew little of life outside their family lands. And now he was leading them, all of them.

  This was not the life Ian had once imagined, nor the war he had spent his young life dreaming about. The glory his father had gained during the Reaver War, the legends of his forefathers during the crusades and the long-gone battles between tribes that came before…
all of it seemed so distant. So impossible. Ian couldn’t imagine his own tale ever being the stuff of legend. What had he done, other than disappoint his father and chase after spirits? And what was he to do now?

  He walked up to the parapets that overlooked the front gate. The village below was abandoned, much of it ravaged by the pagans, and later the void priests. Now shadows stalked those once familiar streets, even as the villagers huddled inside the castle, praying for protection from an enemy against which stone walls and sturdy steel were no proof. How long could Ian hold out here? And if Gwen decided to come back and take the hallow, would he even try to stop her? Could he?

  And where was his father? Gone from the Fen Gate, surely, and doing battle somewhere to the south. Ian should be there, but he couldn’t bear to leave his sister behind, and didn’t really have the strength of arms to matter. He could barely hold these walls against the cold, much less an army.

  A spear of pain went through Ian’s chest, and a great weight pressed down on him. The sensation passed as quickly as it had come, but when it was gone Ian couldn’t help but feel that eyes were watching him from the abandoned village. He couldn’t see anyone, or anything, but he ducked behind the wall and hurried to the keep.

  19

  FRAIR LUCAS HAD never felt such pain. It was as if his veins had turned to brambles, and each beat of his heart was slowly dragging the thorns through his body. The agony of moving was unbearable. He lay there, looking up at the sky and wondering what the quiet house would look like. If it would be cold, as he had always dreamed.

  Martin Roard’s face appeared above him. Lucas tried to smile, but the pain turned it into a grimace. Martin’s expression was grim.

  “We have to move you,” he said. “They’re coming around again.”

  “Whoever it is, leave me to them,” Lucas whispered. “I’ve done enough in this life. Let me move on to the next.”

  “You’re not even hurt, you fool. I swear, I haven’t heard whining like this since my sister Bella lost her baby teeth. Now get up.”