by Tim Akers
“I will not,” Ian said. He reached down and brushed the hungry veins of his hand against Volent’s shoulder. “You are needed, Volent. Come when you are called.”
The black roots latched onto Volent’s shoulder, squirming across the armor toward his neck. Volent’s eyes snapped open. He thrashed against the stone, trying to batter the black lines before they reached his flesh. But the darkness was drawn to Volent like metal shavings to a lodestone. They poured into his scars, running between the cracks in his face, quenching his tears. Volent screamed, but slowly his face grew still. The jigsaw ruin of his flesh flowed together, leaving only dark veins under the skin. He stood and turned to Ian’s hovering image.
“You do not know what you have done, Ian Blakley,” Volent said.
“I have done what was necessary. And now it is your turn. Go, disrupt the ritual, and bring this tree down.”
“You misunderstand our relationship, Ian.” Volent looked around the platform, finally spying his sword, and retrieved it. “You have given me the corruption meant for the god of winter. Do you think that makes me indebted to you? Worse, do you think it makes me subservient?” Volent’s dead voice had returned, as soft as a whisper and as sharp as knives. He stalked toward the courtyard, testing the weight of his blade. “I don’t think so.”
“What are you doing?” Ian asked. He followed Volent, hovering just beyond his shoulder. The courtyard came into view, and Cinder’s gaunt form, long fingers tangled with the black tree below.
“What I want. And I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” Volent came up next to Cinder and looked him over. “Hello, old friend. What do you think they’ll make of this?”
Cinder only glanced at Volent before turning his attention back to the tree. Volent shrugged, drew back his sword, and cut Cinder in half at the jaw. The blade sliced cleanly through the gheist’s pallid skull, leaving chin and jowls but severing the rest of his head. Cinder’s hands shot up in shock, snapping back to their normal size, rustling the tree in their hasty retreat.
“No!” Tession screamed. The frair fell back from the tree, shielding his face, howling. “We were so close!”
“And you will never be closer,” Volent said. He turned back to Ian. “As for you…”
The blade came so fast that Ian didn’t even have time to be surprised. He felt it in his gut, then there was darkness and a pressing weight all around him, as though he were drowning. Ian tried to scream, but it came out in a creaking groan that never left his lips. He dropped, and when he opened his eyes, Ian saw that he was hanging from the black tree, tangled in the straps of leather and pagan icons. The bindings cut into his flesh, squeezing him black and blue. He swung there painfully, unable to move. Frair Tession cowered at the base of the tree, iron staff twisting in his hands, staring at the shadowed entrance of the doma. The Deadface still stood in the doorway of the doma, but of Cinder there was no sign.
“I expected more,” Volent said, almost casually. “Kill the god of winter and gray lord of the quiet house… you’d think there would be more to it than that. Poof, and he’s gone. No cataclysmic tide of spirits, no flames, no cracks in the earth. Just silence. But maybe that’s all we can expect of the grave. Anyway—” he hefted his sword and started walking toward Ian “—who will be next? Which of you will be the first to find out what death is like, now that Cinder is no more?”
Frair Tession turned and ran for the keep. Volent shrugged and turned to Ian.
“Looks like it’s you, Ian. A fitting end for a troublesome child, don’t you think?”
33
THE ARMOR FELT right. It wasn’t her armor, her blood wasn’t forged into the steel, and there were no runes across the chest or pauldrons to focus her holy fire, but it still felt right. In fact, Elsa no longer needed runes to draw Strife’s flames into her blade, or to wrap herself in summer’s protective light. The flames came at a thought, almost as though they were eager to consume.
Elsa drew her sword and shifted her mind to the fire lurking in the blade, waiting to be summoned. It called to her, and she answered. Flames sizzled across the steel, throwing sharp shadows and heat through the tent.
“Godsbless!” Morganne yelped. The squire jumped aside, covering her face as the flames grew. Elsa chuckled, then tamped the sword and sheathed it. Morganne blinked in the sudden darkness. “Is that really necessary?”
“If you knew the joy of it, you would not ask that question,” Elsa said. “To have lost this power for so long, and to have it back.” She laughed and flexed her hand. Fingers of flame danced across the gauntlet. “It is like a lame man being able to walk once again. No, not walk! To fly!”
“I would be content with walking,” Morganne said. She turned back to folding up Elsa’s new robes, gifted by Lady Halverdt from her personal wardrobe. “LeViere would not train me. She said I lacked the discipline.”
The tent flap opened and Sophie Halverdt came in. She was beaming as she looked around Elsa’s humble quarters.
“Discipline is for joyless Cinder. Strife’s gift is joy, abundant and full,” she said. “Sir LaFey, where are the ornaments I gave you? This place is nearly as drab as an inquisitor’s festival!”
“I prefer a simple room, though I thank you for your generosity. What is the enemy’s disposition this morning? Has Malcolm Blakley answered your summons?”
“The lord of Houndhallow does not simply answer my every call. But we have come to an understanding. Our forces will join together this glorious day, with the heretics dying between us! Malcolm Blakley and I will sign our alliance in the blood of evil men.”
“My place is with the vow knights. If there are gheists among the heretic’s host, we will need to cut them down before they can engage the rank and file.”
“Actually, your place is at my side. Sir Voight is anxious for you to join them, but it is my will… it is Strife’s will, as well, that you remain with me.”
“My lady, you do not keep an arrow at your side and throw a knife across the room. Use each weapon as it needs to be used. The power Strife has gifted to me should not be left in the sheath!”
“Your zeal is admirable, sir. Have no fear, it will be rewarded. Sir Voight and his men have been distributed throughout the battle line, in anticipation of widespread heresy. We will see many gheists, many opportunities for glory.”
“Then why am I being wasted in the back lines, rather than meeting the gheists on the field of battle?”
“You are being held in reserve. Voight can handle whatever small demons the heretics are willing to throw into the fray early on. Summoning and controlling these creatures costs them much. They will not draw on their greater powers until they must. It is Voight’s job to ensure they are forced to make that choice. And when they do, when they show their true power—” Sophie stepped close, tapping Elsa in the chest “—it is your job, your destiny, to destroy them. Completely.”
Elsa tilted her head and smiled. “I will answer that call, my lady. I was born to destroy the gheist.”
“Forged,” Sophie said. “By Strife herself.”
* * *
As night fell, Elsa was growing impatient. The churning wall of mist that concealed the far side of the battlefield had receded to a narrow column, leaving the forces of the celestial heretics exposed to Strife’s burning light. The celestials were formed up in a narrow V shape, with the point grounded in that column of mist, and the two arms spread down the valley. The shorter arm faced Malcolm’s army on the ridgeline opposite, while the longer, thicker arm lined up against Sophie and her radiant hordes. Elsa couldn’t see much of the far battle; Malcolm’s banners would occasionally sway and swirl, but for the most part the duke of Houndhallow seemed to have recovered from the initial ambush in his flank. Elsa was strangely relieved.
As for the armies of Halverdt, Elsa wasn’t sure what to think. Sophie was fighting with disengaged calm, allowing her forces to grind individually against the celestials, with little real advantage. Knights charg
ed and fell back, ranks of spears and halberds surged forward, held ground, were flanked and eventually surrendered their positions. Every once in a while a gheist would erupt from the celestial lines, and Sir Voight and his knights of the winter vow would throw themselves into the melee. Every time that happened, Elsa’s blood stirred. She wanted to be down there, reaping glory and sowing discord in the enemy ranks. That was her place. Not here.
“My lady, night is falling. If we are to end this battle with Strife’s glory, we must move decisively, and soon,” she said. Sophie sat placidly by, watching the fight, not answering. Elsa rode closer. “We cannot let night drive us from the field of battle. Our strength is in the sun.”
“Tell me about your vows, Sir LaFey,” Sophie said.
“My vows? What are you talking about?”
“The winter vow. To carry the light of Strife into Cinder’s realm, to remind people that even in the darkness, there is hope in the dawn. That vow.”
Elsa looked helplessly down at the battle, then back to her strangely complacent commander. “There’s not much more than that. Protect the church, aid the weak, stand firmly by…” She paused, because she had sworn to stand firmly by Cinder, and her inquisitor. Where was Frair Lucas? Hopefully safe on the other side of the Tallow. Surely Martin could see to him. “Mostly we swear to shine brightly in the darkness, to bring summer into winter’s hearth.”
“Then why does nightfall frighten you? Look up. All the stars, sir, and none of them beholden to Cinder’s pale light. Have you ever wondered whose host they are, if not his?” Sophie raised a hand to the sky, motioning to the few pinpricks of light that pierced the dusk. “Might they not be children of Strife, holding her light in the darkness?”
“This is… Why are we discussing theology, my lady? The heretics are before us. We have the strength to crush them, but you hesitate. Why?”
“Sometimes darkness must grow, so that light’s full glory may be shown.” Sophie peered across the battlefield, intent on Blakley’s distant banners. “Not long now.”
Elsa fidgeted uncomfortably. The fire of Strife burned inside her, itching to get out. She wasn’t sure how much more patience she could manage. Lucas had always been the patient one, lending a few calm words whenever Elsa’s temper was up, listening while she vented her anger, her fury. Without him around, Elsa was pretty sure she would start chewing iron and spitting flame pretty soon. She hoped he was—
A sharp light pierced Elsa’s mind. She threw her head back, flame coursing from skull to spine, light clouding her vision. She could feel the fire being drawn from her, like sparks fuming from a forge. The heat grew and grew, until it was a glorious pain that stretched through her entire body. Even in her shock, Elsa could hear herself whimpering.
Finally it stopped. She slumped forward in her saddle. Sweat drenched her brow and the long curls of her hair. She sat there, shoulders heaving, eyes swimming in the sudden darkness.
“And so we begin,” Sophie whispered.
“What was that?” Elsa whispered. “I felt it entering the world… a terrible light… an anger…”
“Anger is Strife’s gift, sir. And through you, it has been given to my army. Their sacrifice will be worthy of the bright lady.”
A distant light grew on the horizon. Elsa looked up and saw pillars of light shooting into the sky from the field opposite. Three became a dozen, became a solid wall of sharp flame where Malcolm’s army must be. Elsa sat up.
“What is happening?” she asked frantically. “What have you done?”
“Have faith,” Sophie said. “This is not of them, but of us. Of you.” She turned to Elsa, smiling. Her eyes swirled with amber sparks that drifted down her cheeks, tangling in the golden strands of her hair. “We are bringing true faith to the north.”
A great cry went up over the battlefield, like a thousand men screaming their last defiant breath. In the ranks of the celestial army, banners swirled and horns sounded. They pulled away from Sophie’s lines, realigning themselves to Malcolm’s forces.
“Have reinforcements come to Malcolm’s line? Did you know this was going to happen?”
“His line has been strengthened. Given the gift of Strife. You asked what I was waiting for.” Sophie stood up in her stirrups and signaled to the herald nearby. “Close the ranks and seal the ends of the valley. None of our enemy can be allowed to escape, no matter what happens.” As the horn sounded, she turned back to Elsa. “I was waiting for the will of the goddess.”
“We’re not going to advance?”
“We will not have to,” Sophie said. “Our enemy will come to us. With me, sir.”
Sophie led her small escort forward, gathering stray knights and bannermen as she went. Elsa stayed at her side. As they approached the front lines, Elsa saw that there was increasing chaos in the celestial ranks. Points of light appeared among them. The wall of flame was gone, but bright lights filled the battlefield, throwing strange and frantic shadows into the forest, and across Sophie’s lines. It looked almost like a lightning storm was chewing through the celestial army, flashing and sparking and disappearing once again, only to burst into new light somewhere else. The ranks of Sophie’s army were absolutely silent, watching the light show in rapt attention.
“Steady, everyone,” Sophie called out. “Steady and they will come.”
On the far flank, near the twisting pillar of mist, a skirmish broke out among the columns of celestial spearmen. A tangle of soldiers spilled into the open ground between celestial and Halverdt lines, some men running in panic, others wheeling around to face whatever disturbance had broken their ranks. A single figure burst into the open, a man made of light and fury. He wielded two swords, one in each hand, and was hacking madly into the celestials, wheeling and spinning, cutting through shields and chain as if they were made of cloth.
The celestials turned on him, holding him at bay with spears and calling for their friends to help. Anyone foolish enough to engage him was cut down. Finally they fell on him as one, hacking and stabbing, driving spears through his belly, pinning him to the ground. And still he fought, breaking spear shafts and stumbling forward, still swinging those flaming swords.
Finally he stumbled. A celestial knight lunged forward and struck him in the back of the head with an axe, getting a sword in the knee for his trouble, but soon after, the soldier of light dropped flat to the ground and died.
A cloud of sparks wafted up from his body, dancing in the fresh night, until they disappeared up among the stars.
“What manner of spirit was that?” Elsa asked. She looked over at Sophie. The duchess of Greenhall sat attentively, leaning toward the battle. The girl had an impish grin on her face. “What have you done?”
“Brought the light of Strife into the night,” she said. “That her glory may be revealed for all to see.”
There were a dozen burning figures among the ranks of the celestials. No, a hundred. They tore through the dark-clad ranks of the heretics with mad abandon, attacking recklessly, dying gloriously. Most were on foot, though they wore the shining armor of mounted knights, as though their abandoned horses could not keep up with their zeal. The cloud of embers was joined by another, and another, until the air over the battlefield was thick with dying sparks. But for every cloud, there were dozens of celestial dead.
The long, steady wall of the celestial army finally broke, tumbling across the empty ground like water spilling over an eroded dam. They threw down their weapons, shields, and banners, breaking toward Sophie’s lines in desperation.
“Cut them down,” Sophie said. “And be careful of the radiant ones. They will not be easy to stop.” Then she turned and rode away.
Elsa stayed and watched the slaughter.
34
THE ONLY GLORY was bloodshed. The only need was destruction. The only light was the fire burning from Malcolm’s heart, and the only fear was in the eyes of his foes. Malcolm Reaverbane cut a swathe through his adversaries, singing as he killed.
; The enemy collapsed around him. Malcolm remembered riding a horse, a dim memory that seemed unnatural to him now. Why ride when he could run? Why run when he could fly! The speed of his blade propelled him through the crowded battlefield. Wherever his foot touched the earth, it left ash and boiling stone.
“Come to me, blade-prey! Come to me, corpses-walking! Come to me, you who have not yet seen the light of Strife, that I may deliver you from your wretched lives!” Malcolm spied a banner and its attendant shieldguard, and sped toward it. “Offer me your steel, and I will take your blood!”
The shieldwall turned in his direction. Beyond the scared faces of the men-at-arms, huddled behind their shields, Malcolm saw one of the priests—Cinder’s priests, or heretics like Sacombre; he didn’t care. They were opposed to the light, and he was light’s greatest champion, its brightest flame. He trotted in their direction, howling.
Malcolm struck the shieldwall like a comet, jumping in the air and landing with both feet on iron-bound faces. One man’s shield crumpled, knocking him flat, and then his two companions were pressing their shields against Malcolm, trying to drive him back. He set his feet and shoved, putting his shoulder into one man while striking with his sword at the other. The flame-chased edges of his blade cut through steel and wood and flesh, leaving an edge of smoldering pitch. On the other side, his shoulder blow knocked the man flat. Malcolm sliced through the fallen soldier’s belly, then turned back and drove his sword straight through the first soldier.
By now the rest of the shieldwall was in a panic. They split apart, leaving their fallen companions to die in the open. The priest stood alone, staring at Malcolm with a look of annoyance.
“There is more to this fight than blades,” the priest spat.
“The sword serves me well,” Malcolm roared. “It will do for your death.”
The priest laughed and drew a vertical line with his staff, slamming the head into the ground. The air split in its wake, opening up into darkness. A pallid fist reached through, feeling out the earth before being joined by another arm, a third, and then a whole gheist crawled through the rift. It looked like a hound, but with human arms instead of legs, and hands as long and spindly as giant spiders. Its fur was thin and wispy, the pale flesh beneath riddled with scabs and pus.