by Tim Akers
Lucas tried to protest, but Martin grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. The pain didn’t change, no better and no worse. Lucas blinked down at his body. No blood, no ash. Nothing to reflect the agony in his veins.
“Peculiar,” he said through gritted teeth.
“What’s peculiar is that you keep talking when vow knights want us dead,” Martin said. “Now let’s go.”
For the first time since his blackout, Lucas looked around. They were in a narrow clearing, tucked between tall stands of fir trees. The snow on the ground was brittle, and flames flickered through the tree branches. He could hear voices in the distance, along with the jangle of chain mail. It was difficult to focus on anything through the haze of pain. Martin reappeared.
“Come on, frair,” he whispered. “They’re just beyond this copse. I think they can smell you or something.”
When Lucas didn’t move immediately, Martin came over and took him by the hand and led him through the trees. The feeling of pine needles on his cheeks was refreshing, a sensation that wasn’t pain, wasn’t agony. Lucas closed his eyes and breathed the piney air.
“I always liked the forests up here. So much nicer than along the coast.”
Martin glanced back at him with a worried look, but only shushed him before moving on. They passed through a dozen smaller copses, each broken up by snow-covered clearings. They scrambled up a ridge of loose rocks, Lucas struggling to keep his balance, Martin holding him up from behind. A rabble of stone rattled down, causing Martin to freeze and stare into the darkness.
“If they can smell me, it doesn’t really matter, does it?” Lucas asked quietly. “We shouldn’t even bother running.”
“I’ve run too far with you, old man. I’m not stopping now.”
When nothing appeared from the forest, Martin urged him on. They climbed a short incline and settled into a copse, burrowing together into a blanket of fallen leaves. Lucas was barely settled before he drifted off into restless, dreamless sleep.
Martin shook him awake. At first, Lucas thought the brambled pain was still with him, but as he slowly came to his senses, he realized he was simply freezing to death. Lucas pushed himself up to his knees, dislodging a thin blanket of leaves and snow, then blinked around.
“We’re alive,” he muttered.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” Martin said. “You were acting strangely back there.”
“I must have been in shock. Every time my shadowform is destroyed, it’s very disorienting. But I’ve never passed out before.” He held up his hand. No scars, but every time he clenched it into a fist, there was a twinge of pain deep in his bones. “I’ll be fine now.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re back to yourself. Best I could come up with was to hide in the snow, and that nearly killed us.” Martin stood up and began stomping his feet, hugging himself tight. “I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.”
Lucas stood and stretched. The pain was definitely still there, but only an echo, scratching at his bones. It was most peculiar. The cold cut through him like a knife, though. The morning was clear and bright, the sun shining off the snow, and his breath puffed into small clouds. The remnants of unnatural spring lay dead all around them.
“I wonder what became of our pursuers,” Lucas mused. “Hardly likely they just gave up and went back to camp.”
“Camp’s abandoned. The whole place is empty. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember being in the naether, and seeing Elsa…” Lucas looked up sharply. “Where’s Elsa?”
“She was in the camp, and you were shadowing her, and then there was a bright light and you screamed and fell down. Shortly after that, vow knights started combing the forests, I assume looking for us. I carried you as far as I could, hid you in some trees, and went to watch.” Martin knuckled his forehead nervously. “I thought about fighting them, but I didn’t see—”
“You would be dead, and I with you. If they were able to capture Sir LaFey, then you and I would pose no true threat. There was something about a bonfire?”
Martin nodded. “I could see it burning in the middle of the camp. Went out shortly after we got up here. I haven’t seen any vow knights since.”
“Then we have only one choice. Into the camp, and hope the danger has passed.”
“And if it hasn’t?”
“Then we’ll get to find out what became of Sir LaFey the hard way,” Lucas said. He stood up, dusting the snow off his robes with shivering hands. “Maybe we’ll find our horses, too. Gods only know.”
* * *
Despite what Martin said, the camp was not completely abandoned. Many of the followers who had been trailing after Halverdt’s retinue and had scattered during the sudden change in season had now returned and were going through the army’s leavings. Most seemed to shrug off Halverdt’s disappearance, treating it as a miracle, or a temporary absence. The whole camp had the feeling of ecstatic confusion, like disciples left in the wake of their unexpectedly absent prophet.
Lucas and Martin made their way through the camp and directly to the site of the bonfire at the center. There was a wide burned spot that covered the ground in ash. Lucas walked up to the edge and knelt.
“The fire was hot enough. There’s no remnant of whatever they were burning, no logs or anything.” Lucas paused as a clear image drifted through his mind, of people walking into the flames, their heads held high. He looked around. “No bones, or bits of armor. Very strange.”
“It couldn’t have been that hot,” Martin said. He rubbed the ashes, pulling up chunks of green sod. “The grass beneath is unharmed. Even the detritus feels wrong. More like incense dust than bonfire ash.”
“But if not a fire, what was it?” Lucas was having trouble focusing, the memories of the night before slipping through his fingers like ice. “What the hell happened here?”
“Was a miracle, of course,” a woman said. She was pulling down a nearby tent, folding the linen neatly into a pile. She already had three or four reams of canvas on the mule waiting nearby. “Sophie Halverdt, the bright lady incarnate. Who would have thought we’d see days like this?”
“Who, indeed. Were you here last night?” Lucas asked.
“For a bit. Was trying to sell my wares when they closed the camp, hustled all the merchants out, and started that fire. Left some things behind, so I came back. No one at the gate, so I just walked right in. You wouldn’t believe what I saw.”
“You may be surprised at the depth of my belief,” Lucas said. “Tell me.”
“Whole army, standing around like they was in a daze, and Lady Halverdt, bless her, at the front talking like a priest. And then, one by one, they just walked into the fire. Slow as you pleased, eyes straight forward.” She nodded smartly, then went back to her tent. “Ascended to a higher plane, to do battle with them moon people. That’s what I think. Either way, they won’t need these anymore, and it’d be a fool waste just to leave them here.”
“Yes, that’s right. I remember now. Elsa said the army was marching rank on rank into the fire. But…” Lucas looked around. “Where did they go?”
“We’ve been wondering how Halverdt got all these troops so far north so quickly,” Martin said. “Maybe we have our answer. This woman claims they walked in slowly, eyes forward. I don’t know about you, but if I was asked to walk into a bonfire, it would take some force to get me to do it.”
“Unless you had done it before. Unless someone else showed you the way.” Lucas nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that. But how does it work? How is it even possible? There’s nothing in the rites of Strife that allows this sort of magic. The pagans have similar powers, but I’ve never heard of any knight of the winter vow perform anything similar.”
“The obvious answer,” Martin started, then glanced over at the woman folding linen and lowered his voice. “The obvious answer is that Halverdt is under the influence of some kind of gheist. If the pagans can do this, and she just did it…” He trailed off with a shrug.
“I doubt all those vow knights were so easily fooled,” Lucas said, then remembered the floating spirits he had seen at Greenhall, and the fountain of flowers spinning from the keep. “Elsa said there were flowers, falling from the sky. Yes, I think you’re right. I think there’s something of the pagan about this.”
“Which means we can add Sophie Halverdt to our growing list of heretics, along with half the vow knights in Tenumbra. There aren’t many faithful celestials left. Where do you think they went?”
Lucas turned north, peering at the distant walls of the Reaveholt.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Find us some horses, and maybe some supplies. No telling how long until we’ll be in friendly territory again. But be quick about it.”
20
THEY BUILT THE pyre far from the walls of Houndhallow, under the clear and holy sky. Since his witching wife was not present, Gwen laid the foundation for Cahl’s pyre herself, stacking log upon log until it reached her shoulders. Then she stepped aside while the tribe of stone brought his body, wrapped in bark, and laid it on the pyre.
The new elder of the tribe of stone, an older man by the name of Wrent, came to stand beside Gwen, his bent frame and wrinkled skin at odds with Cahl’s youth and strength. If Wrent had ever served in the rangers, his days of tracking and hunting were long behind him. The ink on his cheeks was blurred with age.
“Why do we not send him back to the earth?” Gwen asked. “Isn’t that the appropriate home for your tribe?”
“For most, yes, but the elders must always go to the sky.” Wrent’s voice was high and thin, and when he talked his head shook with the effort. “It is the last honor. To separate souls from flesh, and let them mingle with the stars. I must admit, I’m glad for it. I have grown old fearing a tomb of stone and mud.”
Gwen didn’t answer, and Wrent seemed content to stare blearily at the flames as the attendants brought torches and set the pyre ablaze.
“I hardly knew him,” Gwen muttered to herself. “Yet there is no one living I knew better. I owed him so much.”
“And still do. He kept you alive in your early days with us. Aedan was not alone in his desire to see you dead.” The elder glanced at her and shrugged. “Including me. I saw no reason to trust a failed huntress, so comfortable with Suhdrin ways, and Suhdrin gods.”
“And now?”
“Now I see what he saw. A girl faithful to her tribe, even though they are all dead. And faithful to the gods, as well. All that remains to be seen is if her faith will lead her true, and us with her.”
“I am no leader. The elders ignore me, the rangers mistrust me, and the witches despise me. Even the gods abandon me. Folam used my gift to destroy Greenhall, and the void priests betrayed us all.” Gwen clenched her fists, remembering. “If Cahl trusted me, well, he trusted Folam Voidfather too.”
“Cahl was a man, and all men fail.” As though to emphasize the elder’s words, a crash of flame swept through the pyre, lapping at Cahl’s body. The fire burned away the bark covering and started on his flesh. The smell of burning meat filled the clearing. “If he trusted too much, it was Folam who failed him, and us. Not Cahl. Maybe his trust in you was misplaced. But that is not for Cahl to decide.”
“Gods, you sound like Mother,” Gwen muttered, and Wrent laughed. Gwen lost herself in the flames, wondering what Cahl would have thought of her decision to leave Houndhallow and try to retake her home in the Fen. She just didn’t see what was to be gained in the slaughter. Ian had done what he could to keep his people safe.
A dissatisfied murmur went through the crowd that had gathered to see Cahl into the next life. Wrent grunted.
“Having him here does not help your cause, huntress,” Wrent whispered.
Gwen turned to see Sir Bruler standing at the edge of the crowd. The pagans gave him a wide berth, though more than a few rested hands on hilts and grimaced in his direction. Bruler was impervious to their hatred. Gwen admired that about him. She had been surprised when he had refused to stay at Houndhallow with Ian, and instead had joined her exodus. His wounds had been superficial, and Bruler had gone out of his way to convince her that he was innocent in Cahl’s death.
“He answered my questions. Cahl’s death was not at his hand.”
“That does not make him a brother, or even Tenerran. He will always be Suhdrin. He marched north to war. How many—” Wrent fell silent at Gwen’s impatient gesture. He sniffed. “If you want to win the faith of the tribes, you could go far by banishing that man. Or hanging him.”
“That is always the solution with the elders. It’s a wonder anyone survives your attention.” Gwen raised a hand to Bruler, who nodded and came closer. She turned to answer Wrent’s concerns, but the elder of stones had already shuffled away. Gwen smiled to herself.
“I have been less popular at parties, but that was usually due to my poor manner, and ill standing,” Bruler said as he approached.
“This is the wake of the man you were accused of killing. Calling it a party is not the best way to ingratiate yourself,” Gwen said stiffly.
Bruler winced. “You understand what I mean, then. I’m always putting my foot in it. What do you think? Will they wait until I sleep to string me up, or merely jump me as I walk back to the keep?”
“Keep this up and they’ll take you now,” Gwen said. “With my blessing.”
“Bah. Cahl was a good man. No friend, but no enemy, either. You know I didn’t kill him. And until we find who did, your people want my hide.”
“Why didn’t you stay in Houndhallow? I’m sure Ian would have been glad of your presence.”
The Suhdrin knight shrugged elaborately. “I was called north for war, and found friends among my enemies. I wondered what I might find among even worse enemies, farther north.”
“The Fen Gate is south of here,” Gwen said. “And the best that you’ll find is far from a friend. The elders want you dead.”
“The elders wanted you dead, and here you are. So I think I’ll stay close to you. So, we return to the Fen Gate? It is much changed from what you remember.”
“That’s right, you’ve been there more recently than I. What can you tell me of its defenders?”
“That they are friends of mine, some of them. Though LaGaere and his lot are just bastards, through and through. They were too eager to lead the battle against your father and Malcolm Blakley at the White Lake. It won’t do you any good to talk to them.”
“I wasn’t planning on talking,” Gwen said.
Bruler snorted. “Then what do you intend to do? Lure them out of the castle walls and hunt them, one by one? This is a fine army, Adair, but it will never be able to lay siege to a citadel like the Fen Gate.”
“We took Houndhallow.”
“With the void priests at your side, and treachery. Who inside the Fen Gate will you turn? What spirits will you bind to breach the walls? Remember that the Orphanshield sits your father’s throne now, with a whole cadre of priests at his side.” Cahl’s pyre settled, and Bruler watched the shower of sparks twist up into the stars. “This will be a different business than you think.”
“May aye, may nay,” Gwen said. “Now leave me with my thoughts.”
Bruler seemed about to speak, but instead walked off, disappearing into the crowd. Gwen didn’t expect him to survive the night, not with the likes of Kesthe and Wrent watching his every move. But it had been Bruler’s choice to come. She couldn’t keep everyone safe.
One thing bothered her still. Bruler insisted that Cahl’s murderer had dressed like a pagan, but no one in her company fit his description. This meant that there was another group of pagans out there, trailing them, needling them. Hunting them. Or might they truly be in Gwen’s company, protected by one of the elders? It wouldn’t be hard to hide one girl in this roving column of rangers, witches, shamans, and scavengers. Hell, it was days before Gwen had found out Bruler was with them, and then only because someone had tried to kill the man and Gwen had been forced to interve
ne.
Bruler was right. Gwen wasn’t sure what she would do once they reached the Fen Gate. But she had to free it from the church’s grip. She had lost the Fen God, and her family. Seeing Ian defend Houndhallow gave her new hope, and new determination. She would reclaim her home, and the gods long buried in its stones.
2
THE FICKLE FLAME
21
SIR HAMMISH BOURNE was a bear of a man. He rode a draught horse instead of a destrier, ambling through the battlefield, laying waste with his double-bitted axe. When the celestials broke and ran, he watched their retreat like a lord watching the hunt from a distance, at his ease, unattached. Then he turned and rode toward Malcolm, who was with Sir Doone in the middle of the valley, among the ruins of the Bassion stand, surrounded by dead and dying soldiers. Most of them wore the black and gold of the celestial guard.
“Houndhallow,” he said evenly. His accent was thick, even for a Tenerran. “You lost me my castle.”
“I will add it to the list of grievances, Sir Bourne. Is there any hope of resistance inside?” Malcolm asked.
“Not likely. I didn’t ride out sooner because I was gathering my full strength. Naught left in those walls but scullery maids and stable hands.” Bourne hefted his axe, resting the bit on his shoulder. The runes of Strife ran down one edge of the blade, and the holy icons of Cinder down the other. Both sides were smeared with blood. “If Bassion wants to butcher that lot, she can manage it. Though it’ll cost her a few dead.”
“More than a few,” Doone muttered, drawing a laugh from Bourne.
“Aye, more than a few.” Bourne shook his head sadly, then peered at Malcolm. “I only rode out because I thought Bassion was your ally. From my walls it looked like you were fighting to free her from those damnable priests.”
“We were. But only to correct a misunderstanding. She believed we laid an ambush for her, that we had something to do with the betrayal of Sacombre, and the rest of the priests of Cinder, those that followed the high inquisitor in his heresy.”