The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “They know what they are to do. I haven’t had more than a moment alone with them since the last fight, Halverdt’s hawks watch them so close. Doone nearly dropped her jaw when I told her the plan.” Malcolm threw his mug in the snow, then collected his cloak and signaled for his horse. “But they are Tenerran born. They will be ready.”

  They stood in silence for a while as the squires collected their mounts. Finally, Jaerdin turned to Malcolm and lowered his voice. “Your visitor the other night. He is well?”

  “I wasn’t aware his visit was widely known,” Malcolm said.

  “Do you honestly think the heir of Houndhallow could walk into my camp and not be recognized? I had to set a guard around your tent to keep the curious away, and even then, the lanes were unusually busy for the middle of the night.” Jaerdin paused, staring off into the distance. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be carrying one or the both of you out of that tent on your shields.”

  “He did put a sword to my throat,” Malcolm said with a laugh. “But we had a good talk. I may be more of a heretic than he is, when the scales are weighed. The middle of war is no time to solve a father’s sins against his son. We will settle things more clearly once we’re all back in Houndhallow.”

  “Once you’ve settled the peace here, persuaded Sophie Halverdt to give up her new heresy, and determined the claim on the Fen Gate, and restored the church—”

  “Enough,” Malcolm said grumpily. “Let an old man dream of better days. Let him hope a little, will you? It’s not like you’re getting back to your sun-drenched vineyards until these same things are resolved.”

  “Eh, yes. Well,” Jaerdin answered, collapsing a little. “Fine. This battle first, and tomorrow for tomorrow. I must see to my ranks, Houndhallow. Gods keep you.”

  “And you, Redgarden.” Malcolm clasped the man’s hand, then drew him into a close embrace. “You have been a good ally, Castian, and a better friend. There have been few enough of both these days.”

  “Who would I be, if I didn’t return the love you and your family have shown me, Malcolm? Be safe.”

  The men parted, going to their separate forces. There was much to be done before the battle was joined, and little time.

  * * *

  Sophie Halverdt was waiting for Malcolm at the head of his column. He winced when he saw her, but forced cheer into his voice.

  “Greenhall! We ride to Strife’s victory, and her honor!”

  “We do, Houndhallow. I’m glad you accepted this burden. It stirs the souls of my troops to be led into battle by the Reaverbane himself.”

  “Not long ago their blades were turned against me,” Malcolm said. “But no matter. We are united in Strife’s will. Let’s show these heretics what becomes of those who oppose the light of summer!”

  “You have caught the zealot’s rhythm, if not his heart,” Sophie said. “No matter. Fight like you believe, and Strife will grant you victory.” Malcolm was about to protest, but Sophie only laughed. “Fly my banner, Houndhallow, and the troops will follow.”

  “And where will you be, my lady?”

  “To your right, in the shadow of the Reaveholt. A pity Helenne Bassion never responded to my overtures, but hardly surprising. That woman was always a coward.” Sophie rode away, waving to Malcolm as she went. “Go with Strife!”

  Malcolm didn’t answer. Sir Doone rode up to report.

  “The corps from Houndhallow can’t number more than a hundred. The rest of this lot belong in stocks, or a madhouse. Not counting the vow knights, of course.”

  “I would take a dozen from Houndhallow over the rest combined. A hundred is more than enough,” Malcolm said. He eyed the steady ranks of Tenerran knights in his service, wearing the black hound of his house, many watching his every move reverently. He was risking their lives, as well as his own, on a very dangerous plan. All he had to do was keep them alive during the rout, then turn them against Sophie in the confusion. He nodded. “Very well. Prepare the lines. We advance on my command.”

  3

  THE LONGEST NIGHT

  45

  THE LAST MILES were the slowest. Ian rode at the head of his little army, with Sorcha on one side and Sir Clough on the other. He kept thinking he saw Henri Volent in their company, skulking among the infantry or riding just beyond the outriders, but each time he went to check, the man wasn’t there. Ian couldn’t decide if they were visions or just his imagination playing tricks on him. Worse, he didn’t know which he preferred.

  Their force was a motley collection of Suhdrin knights who had joined his force following the siege of Houndhallow, Tenerran soldiers from the garrison, and the few refugees from Houndhallow who were capable and willing to carry a spear. More willing than capable, most of them. A good number of pagan rangers had joined them on their trip south, drawn to the young hound’s banner, and the shining light of Sorcha Blakley. They told him their people had sent them to enforce the Blakleys’ place as the unifier of Tenumbra. It was something even Ian didn’t fully believe, but it drew banners to his side, and earned him vows of loyalty from those who marched behind him. Looking back at the gaudy colors of the Suhdrin knights, the grim plate of the knights of Houndhallow, the varied arms and armor of the volunteer foot, and the dark leather of the pagan outriders, Ian was amazed that all these people were following him. If only he knew what fate he was leading them to, he might be able to sleep at night.

  They marched in narrow column through the forest, angling toward the northern flank of the celestial forces. Ian was alert for outriders or scouts, though his own rangers reported there was nothing ahead of them, not until they reached the main force of the celestial guard. Still, Ian was careful. He didn’t want to spoil his father’s plans, or tip his own too quickly.

  “You look thoughtful,” Sorcha said. Ian shook his head, but she persisted. “Your father looks that way, when his heart is heavy.”

  “It is not my heart that is heavy, Mother,” Ian said. He glanced over at her. Even in the grinding cold, Sorcha refused to change from her formal silks, or wear more than a light cloak. She insisted that she didn’t feel the weather. Still, it made Ian feel like he wasn’t caring for her properly. Though if his mother had proven anything this last year, it was that she could look after herself.

  “I finally march to battle,” he said, “to join my father’s side, and restore the name of Blakley in the north.”

  “Then what is bothering you, son?”

  “I wonder at the world this battle will leave behind. What does victory even look like? Can the church be restored, when it has lost so much faith among the people? I will no longer stand by while the inquisition hunts the gods to extinction; my time among the tribes has taught me that much. But I’m not sure all the houses of Tener will follow suit. And if they don’t? Is that another war we have to fight?”

  Sorcha laughed, a strangely human sound from her inhuman throat. It reminded Ian of his childhood, the moments of joy sprinkled throughout his youth. Sometimes he found it hard to see his mother in this spirit riding beside him, with her glowing veins and the mad tangle of living hair. But Sorcha Blakley was still in there.

  “These are the things your father would worry about, as well. The things he’s probably worried about right now, even as he rides to battle.” She leaned back her head and closed her eyes, as though lost in memory. “His burden has never been light. I fear that not even the grave will give that man the rest he deserves.”

  “Let’s leave talk of graves for some other time,” Ian said. “Not while we’re riding to battle.”

  “There is no more fit topic,” Sorcha said. “Sailors sing of the sea, farmers of the soil, and the warrior’s song is for the grave.” She paused for a long moment, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the forest. “I had a young priest with me for a while. Catrin DeBray. She believed the time had come for the church of Strife to shun the house of Cinder, to reform the celestial church into the church of summer, and the sun. ‘Why worship a god
of darkness and death?’ she would ask. But I know. Life always leads to death. Without the grave, the cradle is nothing but a promise unfulfilled. We live to lay down the burden of life, so that someone else may pick it up. Summer is joyful, as is birth. But winter…” She pulled her mount to a stop. Ian slowed, watching her. “Ian, we have been seen.”

  “By whom?” he asked, looking around. Gray trees stretched in all directions, and there was no noise out of place in the early-morning forest. “I see no one.”

  “Neither do I. But I feel them, searching my waking dreams. Form the ranks and prepare to advance.”

  “Now? We’re miles from the battlefield. If we rank up now it will be hours before we reach the celestial flank. The battle will have already been decided, and likely lost.”

  “It may already be,” Sorcha said. “Ranks, Ian. It is not the celestial flank that we will be meeting.”

  “Who are we fighting, then?” Ian asked.

  The forest creaked around them. To the south, along a gully that wound its way through the snowy underbrush, a handful of figures appeared. Ian strained his eyes. Priests, for certain, but he couldn’t see what they were doing. Even as he watched, they raised their arms, chanting to the sky. The trees shifted and came alive. There was almost no change, but immediately a wall of gray trunks and shifting boughs began marching toward them in a steady line.

  Faces peeled open in their bark, and gnarled branches curled into arms. Trunks split, widening into skirts of twisted roots still damp with mud, oscillating like a wave as they swept across the snow. The forest came alive.

  “We fight the gods,” Sorcha said quietly.

  “Signal the ranks,” Ian shouted over his shoulder. “Sir Greau, Sir Hollard, swing west and anchor our line. Do not charge! We don’t know how wide this attack is, nor how quickly we will be flanked. Dugan, try to form a shieldwall among this bracken.” The horn beside him sounded, answered by confused signalmen up and down the line. The column slowly split, filtering into the trees, tired soldiers fumbling spears into a wall. He looked back at the approaching trees. “They are coming too fast. We don’t have time to hold a line.”

  “Our only way out is through,” Sorcha snapped. “They weren’t expecting us. We have to punch through.”

  “I like her way of thinking,” Sir Hollard said. He and Greau hadn’t moved yet, were staring glumly at the advancing enemy. “I am no good at holding lines. I was born for the charge.”

  “But the foot, the archers,” Ian protested. But even he saw the impossibility of the situation. “How do we know how many there are? How far we’ll have to pierce before we’re through them?”

  “Look around, Ian. We are in a forest. That’s how many of them there are.”

  Ian grimaced, then set his jaw. He nodded.

  “Knights with me, Suhdra and Tener. Mother, organize the foot brigades. We will punch a hole; you’ll have to drill through it. A fighting march is the best we can do.” He turned to the squire. “Signal it.”

  “I don’t have a signal for that, my lord,” the boy said nervously.

  “March, march on the double.” Ian grabbed the hound banner from the squire’s saddle and quickly unfurled it. “Follow the colors!”

  The horn started, and the confused ranks of marching soldiers behind them milled about for a long moment. Outriders from the tribes were collapsing to the main column to see what was going on. Sorcha spun her horse and hammered back to the column of foot, screaming and filling the air with her light. There was no time for better plans.

  “May the gods see you through,” he said to the knights of Suhdra and Drownhal who had gathered around him. “Otherwise I will see you in the quiet. Advance!”

  The knights cheered, spurring their horses. As they surged forward, lances lowered, dodging between trees and over shrubs, they shouted out the individual oaths of their various houses. “Light in darkness!” “Against the night!” “In iron, truth!” “This mountain stands!” “The tides always rise!” “Neither peace nor war!” Ian gripped the banner in his left hand, drew his sword, and charged.

  “The hound!” he screamed. “The hallow!”

  46

  THE BATTLE STARTED in a short exchange of bowfire between Halverdt’s left flank and the celestial right. Ranks of archers emerged from the celestial lines, huddling behind huge wheeled barricades to launch flight after flight into Halverdt’s line. Castian Jaerdin commanded that flank, at least in theory. Malcolm could see the duke of Redgarden ordering a counter charge with light horse that scattered the archers, but exposed them to a brief sally of pikemen, supported on both sides by heavy horse. It was a short fight, with both sides leaving behind their dead.

  “Jaerdin knows better than that,” Malcolm grumbled. “He should have held his line and waited for return fire to clear them out.”

  “Castian Jaerdin is trying to lose this battle,” Sir Doone answered. “As are you, my lord.”

  “Right, right. Hard to keep that in mind.” With a shudder, the entire Halverdt line began to advance at the pace of their slowest troops, the ranks of long spears that held the center left and right, on either side of Malcolm’s column of knights. Arrows sowed the ground in front of them, like feathered grass springing up from the snow.

  “We’ll need to split our force, to keep them from annihilating us all in the initial charge,” Malcolm said. Looking across the field, a block of celestial guard on foot, nearly as wide as the entire army of Halverdt, held the center. It was flanked by mounted knights, and further supported by smaller blocks of halberdiers. Archers waited behind the central block, sending arcing fire high into the air. It was inaccurate, but reminded Malcolm and his allies to keep their heads up. “Signal Greenhall to pin those mounted knights. We’ll have to trust our spear to deny the charge, and see what we can do about those guards in the center.”

  The horns sounded, signals passed back and forth, and Sophie started her slow, rolling charge at the celestial line. The black-clad knights across the field answered the challenge, and left their lines. It was better than Malcolm expected.

  Light glimmered through Sophie’s cadre of knights as they charged across the field. Malcolm couldn’t help but feel a thrill at the flames sparking from her horse’s hooves, the flowing ash trailing from her cloak, the bright arcs of lightning dancing around her blade. Halverdt may have taken her father’s mantle of zealotry, but she was doing it in grand style. She crashed into the celestial knights with a shout. The two columns came together like lances, splintering apart, crashing steel on steel, horses toppling into the snow, only to wheel around and pass again. The sound of it was incredible.

  Other columns of knights streamed out of Halverdt’s lines to follow suit. They charged whatever opponent they faced, slamming into spear lines, blocks of pikes, other knights. One cadre even dodged between the abandoned barricades to attack the archers as they fled. The celestial line wavered.

  “Gods help us, we may win this damned thing,” Malcolm said. He held his own riders back in reserve. On either side, the blocks of supporting spear murmured nervously, itching to get into the fight. For now it was only a cavalry charge, lances shattering shields, horses crushing any who fell before them, whether they were friend or foe. The wide block of celestial spear loomed closer. Along the edge, individual shields turned to face the nearer threat—Sophie Halverdt and her zealot knights of the winter vow. The line bubbled and flexed, then a column of foot broke free and wheeled to slam into Sophie’s flank.

  “That’s our signal,” Malcolm said. “Advance! Knights at the trot, foot at the double! Advance!”

  “Against the night of winter!” The call was taken up along the Halverdt line, and soon the whole ragged block of zealots was shambling forward. It was all Malcolm could do to keep them from running, and then only because his own mounts were in the way. Slowly they closed with the celestials. “Remember, Doone: enough damage to ensure their collapse, but we want to pull away intact. Stay alive! Let Halverdt’s rab
ble take the brunt.”

  “Easy enough,” she barked, raising her sword. “Charge! Charge! Spears to the front! Charge!”

  A ragged scream broke loose from the foot troops. They broke into a run, their shieldwall foundering, spears getting tangled and quickly abandoned as the ranks mixed. Those in front lowered their weapons, but tips quickly dragged against the ground, shattering under the inertia of the charge, or slipping from frenzied hands. Spears were discarded for swords, shields thrown aside. Light flashed through their ranks. Flames licked up from screaming mouths. Their armor started to glow, each ring in their mail shimmering with inner light.

  Malcolm fell back, reining in his remaining knights of Houndhallow. The mob lapped around them, smashing madly forward, heedless of the danger. The light grew. The flames reached toward the sky.

  As they crashed into the celestial shieldwall, a wave of flame washed over them. The heat was startling. Shields cracked, spears leapt into flame, sweat-soaked leather caught fire, terrified screams joined by the exultations of the zealots.

  Malcolm felt it in his bones. The cinders of his own madness glowed to life, bloodlust etched into skin, the very screams like music in his ears. Without thinking about it, he spurred his horse forward. Doone took his shoulder.

  “My lord? What are you doing?”

  He turned on her, eyes wild, face twisted into a rictus of fury. “Release me!”

  “If we just throw ourselves—”

  “Release me!” he screamed, then charged, howling, into the fray.

  The flames crackled around his head like a crown of fury. Malcolm grinned, riding the madness into the enemy lines, and scattering them with his sword.

  * * *

  In madness they fought, grinding through the celestial ranks like a millstone. The joy of war seized Malcolm. He galloped across the churned snow of the battlefield, sword held high, trailing flames like a banner. The flickering forms of the rest of his cadre loped beside him, knight and horse sheathed in light, their screams lost in the din of war. The enemy came at him like a cliff face, and Malcolm the tide. A black wall of shields rose up before him, spears bristling, tiny helms filled with terrified eyes. It was all so clear, so close. He struck.