The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “I am not a man of battle. All I know is that the threat below us calls for no quarter, and will offer none in return. If we do not stop it here, holding the Reaveholt, or the Tallow, or any other damned barrier you wish to name, will not matter. None of it will.”

  “Your advice has been noted, inquisitor. If I need it again, I will ask,” Bassion said. “Now take a seat, please. You’re making me nervous.”

  Lucas sighed and turned back to the battlefield. Something had changed.

  “What is happening?” he asked. Martin followed his gaze, then stood and leaned against the parapet.

  “Halverdt’s forces are dividing. Sophie’s banners are drawing close… no, they’re falling back. Malcolm’s lines are overwhelmed. He’s falling back. The whole line is falling back!”

  Lucas whirled on Bassion. “Now is your moment, my lady! Surely if you mean to have a say in this battle, you must do it now!”

  “Malcolm’s forces are attacked from behind!” Martin said. All heads turned to follow his arm. Among the tents of Halverdt’s camp, a battle was breaking out. It was much too far away to see any details, but a line of troops moved along the ridge, and fights consumed the neat rows of tents. “If Malcolm retreats now, it will be directly into the teeth of that assault.”

  “Lady Bassion, the time for games is past. Open the gates of this castle and let your allies inside.”

  “I do not take orders from a priest,” Bassion snarled. “Especially a priest of winter. And I won’t risk this castle to save Blakley’s pagan hide.”

  “Then you have failed them. You’ve failed them all.” Lucas gathered his robes and motioned to Martin. “Come on, Martin. I will not stand by and do nothing while the Blakley banner falls.”

  “Sit down, priest. Or face my wrath.”

  “Your wrath? Ha! What will you do, execute me? Throw me in prison? There’s nothing you can do that can frighten me, my lady.”

  “You may be surprised,” she said with a smile.

  “What do you mean by that?” Sir Trueau asked. She had removed the lace veil that usually covered her face, and was not dressed for battle. Curiously, Lucas noticed that all three vow knights were wearing silks and leather, rather than chain and steel. Before he could ask, the vow knight repeated her question. “I was privy to your discussions, Lady Bassion. I delivered the missives to Malcolm’s hand. You promised him aid. Do you now mean to leave him hanging?”

  “I am tired of this,” Bassion said. “Be silent, and watch the battle unfold. For all your words, victory is far from lost. Lady Halverdt has powers you would not imagine. I have seen them. I fear them, even, and if her loss means those powers disappear as well, I will not complain.”

  “At what cost?” Lucas said. “If Halverdt falls but the celestial heretics remain, we will have put down one madwoman and replaced her with a whole pantheon of mad gods. If you don’t—”

  “I said enough!” Helenne Bassion rose from her throne and walked down the short steps. She set her wine glass on the parapet. “You are ruining a perfectly good battle. This audience is over! Return to your rooms, and I will call for you when the matter is decided. Until then…” She swept her arm wide, as though she could scatter all of them like bowling pins. Her hand clipped the wine glass, knocking it onto the stone. “Be gone!”

  The glass shattered, spraying fragments across the narrow floor. What spattered from the cup, though, was not wine. It seeped black and thick into the cracks of the walls. Blood, and something darker. The largest vow knight stared at the stain as it spread.

  “My lady?” he whispered. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “She is one of them!” Martin shouted. “That is why she hesitates!”

  “Damnation,” Bassion muttered. She turned to Lucas. “You are endless trouble, Gillem Lucas. I should have let Horne finish you the first time.”

  Trueau was the first to move. All she carried was a mercy knife, but she drew it and leapt toward the duchess of Galleydeep. The other two vow knights were still staring in wonder, and the circle of guards was too far away to act. Trueau closed the distance in a heartbeat.

  Bassion was faster. She flashed a palm at Trueau, muttering twisted words, the veins of her ruined face growing dark as she spoke. A wave of light shot out from her hand, passing through Trueau. It threw the vow knight back, knocking the knife from her hand and leaving her curled in a ball on the ground. As the light passed through Trueau, it took something with it, a heavier brightness that leaked from Trueau’s bones and eyes, spilling into the air and dissipating like mist.

  Trueau’s screams cut through the larger vow knight’s shock. He drew his knife and took a step forward. The web of light echoing from the duchess washed over him, and when he fell it was against the parapet, and then over the wall. His tumbling body dashed against the ground far below. The other vow knight slowly raised his hands, dropping his knife.

  “Guards,” Bassion said, turning her attention to Lucas and Martin, “seize these four and restrain them. They are no longer a threat. And it would be a pity for the frair to not see this game played out to the end.”

  49

  BRANCHES WHIPPED AGAINST Ian’s face, and a tangled mist pulled at his hair, chilling his skin. At first he thought it was just the trees, that the enemy was still far ahead, but then a tree leapt out at him, forcing him to swerve to the side. A twisted face peered out of the bark, eyes as black as stones, acorn teeth and a mouth that spewed rot. A dozen branches descended on Ian, crashing against his armor.

  He raised his sword and started chopping. The gheist shattered like an empty shell, bark scattering into dust, wood splintering, the withered leaves rustling against his skin as gnarled fingers scrambled for Ian’s throat. He jerked back, punched the whimsical-mad face with the pommel of his sword, and reeled away when the visage burst and a hive of flying ants poured out of the wound. They swarmed over Ian, biting, hissing, stinging, crunching loudly in the joints of his armor whenever he moved. When Ian screamed, they poured into his mouth. They tasted like sour honey. Bile raced up his throat, down his chin, across his chest.

  “Push through!” Sir Clough shouted as she raced past. A sprite of tangled vines clung to the back of her saddle, sinking nettle-thin stingers into her mount’s thick flesh. She disappeared among the trees. Ian followed, spurring his horse and leaving the hissing cloud of ants behind.

  The trees closed in. Ian wheeled past a tangled wall of grasping vines, smashed his mount into an elm that crumbled at the impact, then swung his sword into the rotten trunk of an oak that had been dead for years before the gheist had claimed it. The sharp steel of Ian’s sword bit into the soft wood, but the rotten flesh closed around the blade. The hilt jerked out of Ian’s hand. He tried to turn back, but the oak rumbled on, and another tree crashed into his face. Ian grabbed the iron haft of his banner in both hands, fought off the assault, and pushed through. The underbrush clung to his boots, and his horse screamed as sharp spines picked at its legs. A tendril of thornwood whipped around Ian’s hand, biting through the chain gauntlet before he could pull free.

  So surprised was Ian to run into a human on foot that he did not at first realize what he had found. A man stood in a clear space, hands spread wide, eyes closed in concentration. He was dressed like a farmer, but his beard was carefully trimmed, and his hands had never seen a day of labor. Ian glimpsed a flash of iron at his chest, an icon dangling at the end of a leather cord. Ian’s horse screamed again, and the man opened his eyes.

  The second he saw Ian, the man clapped his hands together and punched in Ian’s direction. A sound like a swarm of hornets buzzed past Ian’s ear, shredding the air like rent cloth, but when Ian flinched away he saw a cloud of tiny teeth disappearing into the sky. The man drew his hand back to his chest and whispered into his palms. He was watching Ian with tight, angry eyes.

  Ian jumped from his horse, planting one foot on the saddle and leaping across the space between them. His opponent’s eyes went wide, and he
threw his hands forward again, but whatever incantation he had been forming was incomplete. A thin mist of black shapes, amorphous and sobbing, hung between them. Ian fell through it and brought the hound banner down hard on the other man’s skull. It cracked open like an egg.

  The trees closest to Ian collapsed, keeling over with startled roots in the air, arms and cruel faces frozen in place. They cracked as they fell. Branches tore open, trunks split, shaggy jaws turning to splinters. Horses screamed at the sudden obstacles, balking and throwing their riders, or stomping in place as they wheeled, trying to find a safe passage.

  The rest of the forest was closing in on them. Trees crawled over the shattered husks of their brethren, reaching for Ian, moaning as they came. Ian swung back into his saddle, raised the blood-speckled ruin of his banner, and shouted at the top of his lungs.

  “Find the priests! They have to stay close, and their death destroys the enchantment!”

  The nearest knights wheeled away, diving into the underbrush, chopping through the tight-knit arms of the forest. A cloud of angry teeth shot up from nearby, then another, and then that section of the forest fell apart. Ian started hacking at the closing circle of living trees, hewing limbs and crushing trunks. Something about the enchantment ate the heart out of the trees, leaving them thin and brittle. He was quickly covered in sawdust. The iron haft of the banner was bent, his fingers ringing from the constant, humming impact of iron into bark, but he was able to keep the gheists at bay.

  There was a shout, and Sorcha appeared, surrounded by frightened halberdiers. They flowed through the fallen forest like a river of steel, chopping and cutting, clearing a path for the rest of the army. Sorcha saw Ian and waved. Ian answered with the banner, then turned and plunged deeper into the melee.

  Except there was nothing deeper. The trees thinned, the ground pockmarked with gaping holes where the gheists had ripped themselves out of the earth, trailing roots and clods of dirt. Only a few narrow saplings remained, dormant for winter. Beyond the clearing the ground descended before opening onto the field of battle. They had been fighting in the woods for hours, and the sun had climbed well into the sky, giving Ian a good view of the battle on the plain below.

  What he saw terrified him. The delay in the forest had kept him from delivering his forces into the celestial flank during the planned collapse of Halverdt’s line. It was much too late for that. The celestials had pushed Halverdt’s army, and Malcolm Blakley along with it, all the way to their own camp. The burning tree at the camp’s center was surrounded by a mad melee. Gheists lurched among the collapsed tents, and the ground around the camp was littered with bodies.

  Beyond the camp, another line of troops stood at the edge of the forest, preparing to receive the charge. Ian couldn’t make out their banners, but they certainly weren’t of Greenhall, or Galleydeep.

  “Friend or foe, do you think?” Ian asked his mother as she reached him, pointing in that direction.

  “We will find out when we cross blades with them, if it comes to that,” Sorcha said. “For now, our concern lies elsewhere.”

  She drew Ian’s attention to the center of the field. While the near flank of Halverdt’s army had completely collapsed, there were still elements in the middle that held. The celestials washed around them, breaking against their shields like waves against the cliffs of Stormwatch.

  “There, look! Your father!” Clough said. Sure enough, the ducal banner of House Blakley flew at the center of the formation, near that of House Halverdt, the new red and white flaming banner of Sophie’s zealots. Ian’s heart jumped to see his father was still fighting, that his forces hadn’t joined the rout. He was in a dire place, though, his position surrounded and Sophie Halverdt at his side.

  Farther away, the gates of the Reaveholt were just opening.

  “Bassion is late to the fight as well, I see,” Ian said. “So there is still hope.”

  “No,” Sorcha said. “Not for Bassion, at least.”

  Ian wrinkled his forehead in confusion. His mother’s sight was recently beyond mortal ken, another effect of her transformation, but he saw nothing to worry him. Blocks of knights rumbled out of the castle, unfurling the blue and yellow banner of Galleydeep. They started toward the center of Halverdt’s remaining line, speeding up until they were in a full charge.

  “That will break the celestial hold,” Ian said happily. “All we’ll need to do is clean up the stragglers, and…” His voice trailed off as the celestial formations split open, letting the knights of Galleydeep pass unhindered. Bassion’s forces did not stray from their path, picking up speed. Ian could hear the rumble of their charge from where he stood. “What the hell is she doing?”

  “Breaking her enemy,” Sorcha said. Her words were just dying in Ian’s ears when the charge smashed into the Halverdt shieldwall. The forces buckled and broke, scattering under the weight of Bassion’s heavy horse. The celestial guard pounced. A thick melee ensued, engulfing the ordered ranks in a mad battle. The banners of Blakley and Halverdt wavered and then fell.

  “We have to save him,” Ian said. He grabbed a horse and swung up into the saddle, snatching a spear that was lodged in the ground. “Clough, gather the ranks.”

  “That is not our mission, Ian. Bassion has betrayed us. We can’t just ride down there and—”

  “To hell with Bassion, and to hell with you.” Sorcha urged her horse down the hill, followed by a handful of eager knights.

  “You heard my mother!” Ian surged forward, not looking back to see if the rest of his column was following. The thunder in his ears told him they were.

  Ahead of him, Malcolm’s forces disappeared under a wave of mist. Ian bent close to his mount, whispering in his ear, urging him on, faster and faster. The mists closed, and Ian lost sight of where his father had fallen.

  50

  THE CIRCLE OF Bassion’s guards drew their blades, stepping forward. Martin grabbed Lucas and pushed the frair behind him, drawing his own sword as he did.

  “There’s no reason to die, Martin,” Lucas whispered. “She’s not interested in you.”

  “I can always find a reason to die,” Martin said. “Now be quiet. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  The guards edged forward, five of them, still wary in their approach. That was disappointing. Martin had hoped they would underestimate him, rush in confidently. Now he would have to pick them apart one by one. He stole a glance at Lucas. The frair looked utterly drained. Whatever Bassion had done to the vow knights, it had hit Lucas as well.

  “I have always admired your spirit, Roard. Your father made a good ally in the Circle, and your house has a long history of serving Suhdra well,” Bassion said. She walked casually to Sir Trueau, pressing a forefinger into the vow knight’s forehead and pushing her over. Trueau flopped to the ground, eyes wide in shock, gasping for breath. Bassion laughed, her voice lilting through the air. “Do not make a foolish decision now that could ruin your fine heritage.”

  “How could you do this? How could you betray your fellow Suhdrins? The void priests killed half your men!” Martin asked. He danced toward the circling knights, driving them back, but his attention was on Helenne Bassion.

  “The void priests killed the troublesome half. The ones too honest to their gods, or too sentimental for their own good,” Helenne said. “I had to round a few up myself, and even then, my purge is not quite complete. But I have to thank you. I’ve been looking for an opportunity to rid my company of these troublesome priests. You and your friend have finally given me the will necessary.”

  “I don’t understand! Sacombre, Folam, the whole lot… they’re pagans! They’re heretics!”

  “Visionaries. Prophets. What does it matter what you call them?” Bassion carefully placed a foot on Trueau’s throat and began to crush the life out of the helpless knight. “They are a convenient path. The right blades for necessary murder.”

  Martin edged toward Trueau, but the guards intercepted him. In his distraction, Martin had let
them surround him, and now he was hard pressed to keep his head attached to his shoulders. The five guards attacked in unison, forcing Martin to fall back, bullying his way past one guard while frantically blocking and riposting the other four. He grabbed Lucas and shoved the priest toward the stairs, but a quick glance into the courtyard told Martin there was no escape in that direction. A block of spearmen stood formed up in the mouth of the gates, and several dozen more knights and men-at-arms gathered around. There was frantic discussion going on among the soldiers of Bassion. Apparently their lady’s betrayal was not universally known.

  “Well done, Martin. But you have struggled enough. Surrender, and I will make you my champion,” Helenne purred. “I can offer you more than skill with a blade. More than glory and wealth. I can offer you power. Such power as you’ve never seen, and never imagined.”

  “What will you do when Heartsbridge comes for you, Helenne? Galleydeep lies at the foot of its power. They will grind your walls to dust, and turn your halls into catacombs!”

  “Why don’t you ask Sir Trueau what she thinks I’ll do?” Helenne answered. She smiled down at the vow knight, whose face was turning blue. Trueau pawed at the ground, her movements growing weak. Martin’s heart raged, but he couldn’t get past the guards. Helenne looked up at him. “The church is easy enough to deal with, if you hold the right knife to the right back. Trust me. The pagans don’t understand half of what they’ve forgotten of the old gods. They don’t even know their own history!”

  Beneath them, the gate boomed open. A thrill of victory went through Helenne’s face.

  “The charge has begun, Martin. Even now Halverdt runs back to her camp, her precious tree, and her false god,” Helenne spat. “And now you must choose, Roard. You will be amazed at the power of the void, Martin. Power that could be yours, if you are willing to swear the vow to my throne.”