The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “Another hound for your hallow, Blakley.”

  “Another body for the grave,” Malcolm spat. He kicked a fallen spear into his other hand, then charged forward.

  The hound snapped at him, following the spear with swollen jaws, finally catching the barbed tip between its teeth. Malcolm leaned into it, pushing the gheist’s head back, and brought his sword down on the creature’s neck. Thick muscle parted, but the gheist thrashed its head, shattering the spear and catching Malcolm on the knee. He went down, but rolled to his feet just as the gheist pounced. Strong hands gripped his shoulder and arm, the beast’s chest plowing against Malcolm, forcing him down. Teeth snapped just above Malcolm’s head. He shoved the forte of his blade into the creature’s mouth, driving the sword back until it was in the crook of the demon’s jaw. The gheist continued to try to bite down, cutting itself deeply in the process.

  The air that rolled out of the gheist’s mouth was thick and fetid, washing over Malcolm in a miasma of death and decay. Bile filled Malcolm’s throat, but he held on. The hands on his shoulder tightened, straining steel and pinching chain. With his left arm pinned against his chest, and his right straining to keep the gheist’s jaws away, Malcolm was nearly helpless.

  “It is good that your lady has learned to use her gifts,” the priest purred, not ten feet away. “Not like you, Blakley. Such a waste.”

  The sound of the man’s voice infuriated Malcolm. His eyes swam with rage, his blood boiling. He screamed his anger, and pushed up with the sword. The blade started to pull free of the gheist’s jaws, and the creature bit harder, twisting the steel in Malcolm’s hand. But at the same time the gheist’s head tilted up, exposing its throat. Malcolm stopped screaming and clenched his jaw, then drove his helm into the gheist’s soft throat.

  Flesh collapsed, the gheist pulled back, but Malcolm had lost none of his frenzy. He butted his head into the gheist’s throat again and again, grinding the metal of his helm against soft skin, blood spattering into his eyes, his mouth. The gheist yelped, then choked and screamed at the same time. Something snapped under Malcolm’s brow. The gheist released him and rolled away, head lolling back and forth as it struggled to breathe.

  Malcolm got to his feet. The blood splattered across his chest began to sizzle and cook away. He took his blade in both hands and drove it into the struggling gheist’s chest. It snagged against a ribcage, punctured a lung, slid through muscle. Still the gheist fought. Malcolm leaned his chest into the hilt, putting his full weight on the sword. Suddenly, it punched through, piercing heart and back, burying itself in the dirt beyond.

  The priest stared down at the dead gheist, disbelief in his eyes. Finally, his jaw set, he looked up at Malcolm.

  “You will need better gods than this,” Malcolm raged.

  “And you will need another sword!” the priest yelled, drawing a blade from his belt. It was long and narrow, a Suhdrin dueling foil, but more than sharp enough to pierce chain and slither its way into Malcolm’s flesh. The man stabbed forward, driving Malcolm back, struck again and again as Malcolm stumbled away.

  But Malcolm was gifted of Strife, and had no reason to fear this foolish man and his gentleman’s sword. The next time the priest struck, Malcolm caught the blade in his hands. The razor-sharp edge sliced through the chain of Malcolm’s gauntlets, but he barely felt it. He snapped the blade in half, then lunged forward and grabbed the priest by the neck, lifting him up so that his feet dangled in the air, kicking at Malcolm’s shins. The priest slashed at Malcolm with the fractured haft of his sword, scoring Malcolm’s arms and face.

  “A better god!” Malcolm roared. Strife’s fury filled him, turning the sparkling light that shone from him into flame. The fires coursed up Malcolm’s arms, consuming the priest, turning his robes into a banner of living flame, rushing down his throat and cooking the meat of his lungs. Malcolm held him aloft until the crackling fire died down, then threw him aside and bellowed his rage.

  The celestials threw down their weapons and ran.

  * * *

  Malcolm came to himself hours later. The flame passed from his sword, the heat from his flesh. He fell to his knees and began to shiver. There were bodies everywhere. Many were those of his own soldiers. He looked down at his hands. Deep cuts scored his palms, the wounds now clogged with dirt, until the blood that seeped into his chain gauntlets was black.

  “What has happened to me? What have I been?”

  There was no one to answer him. Slowly, Malcolm got to his feet with the aid of his sword and limped back toward his own lines. He dragged the sword behind him, trailing the tip through the mud. Mists rose from the ground, turning the first light of morning into spun gold, obscuring his view. Horses passed just at the edge of his vision, knights dressed in gold and crimson, flying the flame and saltire of House Halverdt. They thundered through the fog like lightning in distant clouds. One of them noticed Malcolm and wheeled in his direction.

  “Pagan or celestial?” the knight shouted. When Malcolm didn’t answer right away, he circled and lowered his spear. “Answer me, vagrant! Are you one of Cinder’s heretics, or a blessed celestial of Strife?”

  “I stand with the gods, to be judged,” Malcolm said. He raised his head and threw his helm aside. The bloody knots of his hair hung like rope around his face. “You have no right to weigh me. Neither you nor any mortal born.”

  “With ink like that, you didn’t ride here in Halverdt’s train. That makes you either a pagan of Cinder’s heresy, or one of Blakley’s tame northern curs.” He poked at Malcolm with his spear, drawing a grunt. “So which is it?”

  “Neither answer satisfies my blood,” Malcolm said. “Which are you? A true knight of the winter vow, or one of Halverdt’s murderous zealots?”

  “Pagan it is,” the knight spat, then drew back his spear to pin Malcolm to the ground. “The gods have mercy on your soul.”

  “Hold, friend,” Castian Jaerdin called. The duke of Redgarden rode through the fog, his armor clean and his silks spotted with sweat. He glanced down at Malcolm before addressing himself to the vow knight. “This man is Malcolm Blakley. Your lady signed an alliance with him. I trust you are not going back on that arrangement?”

  The knight froze in place, looking unhappily down on Malcolm. For a moment, Malcolm thought the man might strike anyway, and alliances be damned. But finally, slowly, reluctantly, the knight stood down.

  “My apologies, Houndhallow. We did not think to find the lord commander of our Tenerran allies in the thick of battle, and without escort.”

  “We lead differently in the north,” Malcolm spat. He lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it. “Thank you for your consideration. Good day.”

  The vow knight hesitated, looking from Malcolm to Jaerdin, then jerked his reins and wheeled away. Jaerdin laughed as the man disappeared into the mists.

  “Not satisfied with killing half the celestial army, Malcolm? Thought you’d wet your blade with Halverdt’s blood, as well?”

  “Castian?”

  “Yes, my friend?”

  “I lost my horse. And I cannot let go of my sword,” Malcolm said. Then he collapsed to the ground.

  * * *

  Soft light drifted in through the canvas. At first Malcolm thought it was a layer of fog blocking out the sun, but then a stiff breeze shifted the tent, and the sky fluttered overhead, and he understood where he was.

  More than that, Malcolm understood what he was. He was freezing to death. He sat up in his cot. Furs slid from his shoulders, sending him into deeper shivers. His hands and feet were numb, even under the furs, and his breath puffed into fog. Malcolm looked down and saw that he was naked, his body the same tangle of scars and patchy gray hair it always was, though his skin felt thinner, and his muscles older. Even his bones were cold.

  Gathering the furs that had fallen away, Malcolm sat up and looked around. There were two cots and a table, along with a small stove that sat on a bed of stones, its chimney slipping through the canvas in a leathe
r cuff. The coals were dead. Even the rug that covered the floor was stiff with frost. He shook his head and stood up. There were voices outside.

  Castian Jaerdin and a handful of knights huddled close to a fire, warming their hands and talking, while a thin stew boiled in the pot. A thick blanket of snow covered everything else. Dozens of low humps stretched out into the fog; other tents, and other campfires. Even the lanes between the tents were clogged with snow.

  “Houndhallow!” Castian called, and the rest of the knights looked up, then stood. “We assumed you were dead, but the nurses kept insisting you would live.”

  “You both may be right.” Malcolm shuffled through the snow and settled onto the bench, accepting a mug of mulled wine. Even as he drew it toward his mouth, frost formed a skin on the surface of the liquid. Malcolm wasn’t sure he had ever been so cold. “What has happened during my slumber? How long have I been out?”

  “Three weeks,” Jaerdin said. “And winter, in all its glory.”

  “The celestials?”

  “Those you and your fellow madmen failed to kill have retreated north of the Reaveholt. They are backed against the Fen, though something keeps them from going any further. We think they are in negotiations with Lady Bassion.”

  “Negotiations?” Malcolm asked. Jaerdin only shrugged.

  “Messengers have been seen going between the two. We can only guess at this point. Godsbless Sir Bourne never saw this day; he would kill every Suhdrin soul in camp, out of spite.”

  Malcolm didn’t say anything, just stared into his mug and tried to breathe. Memories floated through his head, memories of killing, of murder, of death. Worse, the memory of his fury, and the thrill he felt when each life snuffed out at his hand.

  “What did she do, Redgarden? What did Galleux do to my men?”

  “Ahem, well. We were hoping you could tell us. We were still in reserve, and apparently too far away for—” Jaerdin’s voice trailed off, and he looked nervously among his companions “—for whatever happened. By the time we reached the lines, you and the rest of the Tenerran army were gone. Busy butchering celestials, and getting butchered in turn.”

  “How many of my men are left?”

  “A hundred, at best. But none of them are worth a piss. Most are lying in Halverdt’s ward, moaning and chattering their teeth and talking about the dead. We had to pry you out of her hands, and then only with the promise we’d let her know as soon as you woke up.” Jaerdin took a long drink. “I don’t think she’s done with you yet.”

  “I’m well done with her. Whatever that was, whatever demon she gave us over to, it was not of the church.” Malcolm drew his furs closer, gripping them so tight he thought he might break his fingers. “I am not a priest, or a prophet, but I know my gods. And that was no spirit I wish to bend the knee before, ever again.”

  One of the knights beside Jaerdin gave a deep sigh of relief, and bent to whisper to his friend. They exchanged looks with Jaerdin, who nodded. Both men stood and left without another word.

  “They were worried it still had you. Not a few of the survivors have risen from their beds only to kill, with teeth or hands or whatever else they could get hold of. It is good to see you have control of it.”

  “I do not. Did not. It was a spirit of pure rage, pure murder, and I was the sword and the flame it wielded. I am only myself because it has passed me by.” A deep shiver shook Malcolm’s core, and he dropped the cup of wine. It hissed into the snow, turning it red. “Gods, if I’m myself at all. I’ve never been so cold.”

  “That’s not just you. Winter rolled a heavy hand against us the morning after the battle. Almost like all that flame and heat offended it. The storm has raged all these three weeks. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Jaerdin was quiet for a long minute, watching his friend closely. Finally, he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Malcolm, what are we going to do? Which is the greater evil: Sophie Halverdt, or the celestials? How are we to do good, with allies like this?”

  “Gods know,” Malcolm said. “But I will not be Halverdt’s sword any longer.”

  “She outnumbers us, has her agents throughout the camp, and has your few remaining men locked in fever in her tents. If you were to raise a hand against her, they would be the first to die.” Jaerdin poured the dregs of his wine into the fire, watching as it hissed and spat on the logs. “And we would follow soon after. We don’t have the men to destroy her.”

  “No,” Malcolm said. “We don’t. But I know who does. The celestial heretics. And Bassion, if she’ll lend a hand.”

  35

  GWEN THREW HER spear at the void priest, then ran back up the stairs, away from the shrine. Metal struck stone. She must have missed. No time to worry about that now, though, as she took the steps two at a time.

  “There’s nowhere to run, huntress!” Morrow shouted. His voice changed pitch, screeching words in a tongue she had never heard. A flash of light traveled up the staircase, following the bloody handprints like trace lightning, shooting past Gwen in a bolt of crimson and black. The air changed, and the stones of the walls started to come loose. One by one they slipped free and tumbled onto the stairs. The passageway cinched shut in front of Gwen, closing off her escape.

  Gwen skidded to a halt. The staircase simply disappeared into a rough stone wall, pebbles still tumbling free to bounce down the steps.

  “We have wrested the tribe of stone from the tribes.” Morrow’s voice came from all around her, echoing through the rocks. “Even if Cahl were still alive, he would not be able to stop us. What hope do you have?”

  Before Gwen could answer, stony hands sprouted from the walls, grabbing for Gwen, one of them snagging her cloak and tearing it free. She screamed and struck at them with the last of her bloodwrought spears. The hand shattered, but another replaced it. She was about to strike again when she felt movement under her feet.

  The stairs were eroding in front of her eyes. The smooth stone steps, cut in the years before the crusade, formed by the oldest of tribes and protected by ancient spells of deception, fractured and split. Stone turned to sand and began to slither down the passageway, back toward the shrine. Gwen tried to keep her footing, but then one of the stone hands bashed her in the shoulder. She fell, and kept falling, sliding head first down the corkscrewing passageway.

  Frair Morrow was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He stood with his arms spread and a hooked knife in each hand. Sand piled up around his feet, and his arms were too widely spread to protect his belly.

  This man is a priest, Gwen thought. Not a fighter.

  Digging her foot into the sand, Gwen slowed her descent enough to get her left hand under her. Sliding down in a controlled fall, she directed herself right at Morrow’s feet. The priest laughed in anticipation of the kill, even threw his head back. Gwen jumped, stabbing forward with her spear, putting the full weight of her body behind the strike.

  She was lucky enough to surprise him, lucky enough to get on her feet and into the air without falling, or losing her handle on her weapon, or simply banging against the wall. Unfortunately, sliding down a hill of sand is a difficult place to attack from, and Gwen’s luck didn’t hold. She got into the air, but her attack fell short, and she wobbled on her feet as she landed.

  Morrow’s joy turned to surprise, then rage. He batted her speartip away, then swung with his other blade, trying to take Gwen’s head off. She spun the blocked spear and struck him in the temple with the butt, then they slammed into each other and both went tumbling into the chamber. Gwen landed with a thud against the Sedgewind altar, rocking the iron box. As she struggled to her feet, Gwen saw that Gilliam hadn’t moved. The Orphanshield was staring sightlessly ahead, his hands at his side, fingers slightly curled.

  “At least there’s only the one of you,” she spat. She snatched a sacrificial knife off the altar, its barbs and hooks fitting strangely in her hand, and turned to face Morrow.

  The void priest had fallen at the base of the stairs, his feet buried in
sand, and now his legs were slowly getting covered. Gwen wondered for a moment if the avalanche of sand would eventually fill the chamber, but then realized she had more pressing concerns. She rushed forward, knife in hand.

  Morrow saw her just in time to throw his arm up, taking the blow to his wrist. He screamed in pain, but when Gwen pulled the knife back its complicated barbs hooked into Morrow’s flesh, and came out of her hand. The void priest sat up, staring at his bloody arm.

  “Damned witch! I’m going to tear you to pieces for this!”

  “Not before you bleed to death,” Gwen snapped, then punched him hard in the jaw with her left hand.

  “You know, for a heretic, you’ve done a terrible job,” she said, straddling the blubbering priest. “You kept the inquisitor here alive, and you know that’s not going to go well, not when Heartsbridge gets its hooks into you.” She bent down, twisting the blade out of Morrow’s arm, drawing more blood and more frantic screams. “It doesn’t take more than a passing glance to see that something’s not right here. You’ve got to learn to hide a little better. At least, until you’re stronger.”

  Something slammed into the back of Gwen’s head, knocking her into the hissing avalanche of sand. Grit filled her mouth and eyes, choking her, blinding her, joining with the numb shock that was spreading through her head. Gwen could feel the sand covering her, but she couldn’t summon the strength to move. Slowly, she rolled onto her back.

  Frair Gilliam stood over her, hands still clenched into fists, but hanging limp at his sides. His eyes were unfocused and staring at nothing. Even his breathing was shallow. Frair Morrow grunted as he stood, cradling his bloody arm in his other hand. There was blood all over his face, and tears running down his cheeks.