The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “Bassion has withdrawn to the tower, and her most loyal knights with her. Something has happened beyond the walls that has her doubting the wisdom of her choice, but the die is thrown. There’s no backing out now.” Elsa walked with authority. Martin noticed her footsteps scorched the stone of the walkway, and when she gazed out at the courtyard, sparks swirled in the depths of her eyes. He glanced back at Frair Lucas. The inquisitor was watching his former vow knight with hooded eyes. “We need to secure this castle, in case the loyalists need somewhere to retreat. Are you capable of that?”

  “We’re not, clearly,” Lucas said. “But you may be.”

  Elsa turned sharply, then smiled. “Yes, I may. I think I may. In fact.”

  A jolt of heat went through the air, and the distant sound of wood cracking. Elsa’s eyes widened, then she stumbled to a halt. She stood at the edge of the walkway, teetering precariously. Martin grabbed her arm, then whipped his hand back. His fingers were blistering from heat that his brain was only now registering. Martin’s eyes, too, went wide.

  “You’re burning up! I’ve touched coals that were colder. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Elsa didn’t move, just stood still, gritting her teeth. It looked like she was putting all her energy into merely staying upright. There was a second wave, this one visible as strands of light that twisted through the air overhead. Martin’s heart beat faster, but Elsa felt it harder. She drew her sword and stood there, blade resting gently on Martin’s chest. Her hand was shaking. Lucas handed Sir Trueau into Travailler’s care and stepped forward.

  “Elsa? Dear girl, do you have control of it? Do you need me—?”

  “I don’t need anything,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I have it. I… have it!”

  Whatever supernatural urge gripped her, in a moment Elsa relaxed, withdrawing the sword and staring at them with wide, blinking eyes. Finally her gaze rested on Lucas.

  “She’s gone again. I thought she was back, that I had reclaimed her… but no. I knew that wasn’t right. Whatever Sophie brought, it was not the will of Strife.”

  “I’m glad you finally see that, though I shudder to think what it must have cost you to learn.” Lucas went to her side and put an arm around her. “Elsa, we have to face Helenne Bassion. Can you? Even without Strife?”

  “Yes. Yes, I can. If Strife will not answer, then I will do without her strength,” Elsa said. A tear rolled down her soot-stained face. “I will face Bassion alone, if I must.”

  “You don’t have to do that. We are here. All of us,” Lucas said. He motioned to Martin, Sir Trueau, Sir Travailler, and finally himself. “We will stand with you.”

  “Then let us go, and end this woman’s betrayal.”

  56

  THE LINE COLLAPSED in on him, celestial shields pressed against his chest, restricting Ian’s movement. He slashed down at them, sword banging off helms, rough voices shouting insults. Ian fell, and the guards swarmed on him.

  “Stop! He belongs to me!”

  The guards fell back, leaving Ian on the ground. The battle had been going so well, but he had once again pushed too far forward, and been surrounded. He looked around at the silent ring of black steel. He got up onto his feet, wincing in pain. The celestial line parted, and a pagan ranger walked out.

  He wore dark leathers and a cloak that looked like it was made of winter leaves, each one trimmed in frost. His face was covered in a complicated tattoo of oak leaves. He carried two wicked knives, each one shot through with black scars along the runnel, as though the metal had been burned. The man’s crooked smile did not fit on his grim face.

  “Who are you?” Ian asked. The man smiled and spread his arms.

  “I am Aedan Spearson, elder of the tribe of hunters, and chosen by the voidfather to carry on his legacy. I have been following you since the Fen Gate, sometimes closely, sometimes at a great distance, through servants and slaves. Your fame is growing, Ian Blakley. Tession underestimated you. But I will not.”

  “It is strange to see a pagan elder at the head of an army of the celestial guard. What lies have you told to enslave these fools to your monsters?”

  “They are your monsters as well. Where do you think they come from, these misguided fools? I served in your father’s army in the Reaver War, before I returned to the old ways. To the true ways. These priests are holy men and women of the church, who found the celestriarch’s will a burden, and the inquisition’s methods insufficient. The tribes condemn us, but these are their gods we wield.” Aedan kicked at one of the bodies at his feet. “We have simply traded their zeal for a more reasonable solution.”

  “If you served my father, you know he will never give up until he defeats this heresy.”

  “I know your father well enough, Ian, to not be afraid of him. He will go far, but not far enough. Not as far as I have.”

  “Is that why you left the celestials? Why you rejoined the pagan tribes?”

  “No, child. I am just a man who got fed up with the church, and tired of kneeling to men and women who thought me their betters. I saw power, and I took it. You can call pagans heretics all day, but they gave me a freedom you will never understand.” The battle that raged around them shifted, their moment of peace rapidly fleeing. Aedan shook blood off his knives and dropped into a loose guard, crossing his blades in a salute, or an insult. “And now you never will. Either it dies with me, or you will be in the grave yourself, and incapable of learning.”

  Before Ian could say anything more, Aedan dashed forward, bringing his blades over his head and dropping them, one then the other, on Ian’s shield. The strength of the blows drove Ian to one knee. Ian jabbed forward, but mistimed the strike, blade skating wide of the pagan’s chest. Aedan hooked Ian’s forearm in the cruel barb of one knife, then hacked down with the other. Ian was forced to jab his shield into the man’s striking arm, upsetting the swing just enough to spare him. He twisted free, coming to his feet just as the pagan’s backswing whistled into his helm. Ian fell flat on his back, dazed.

  “Lords always die like this,” Aedan said. “On their backside in the mud, wondering where they went wrong. I’ll tell you, Ian bloody Blakley, your mistake was being born smart enough to rebel, but too weak to carry through.”

  At the last word, he held his knives together, blade to blade, and thrust down at Ian’s throat. Ian barely got his shield in the way, but the sword pierced the steel and punched into Ian’s forehead, tearing his helm apart. Ian rolled away, shaking off the cracked remnants of his helm, stumbling up off balance. Aedan laughed.

  “You look drunk, Ian Blakley. Like a child drinking his first cider! Ah, what a pity your father isn’t here to see you die. No matter. Once I’m done with you, I’m going to hunt down the Reaverbane and send him in your wake.” Aedan trampled forward, kicking Ian’s helm away, then laying into him with a series of sharp swings that had Ian backing away. Without his shield, Ian was barely able to keep his opponent at bay, and each blow stung his hand and wrenched the sword in his grip. Finally, a strong downward stroke tore the sword from Ian’s hands. He watched helplessly as it pinwheeled away.

  “You see, Ian? Hopeless, and helpless. And now you’ve lost your sword. So, do you want to die standing, or would you rather be on your knees, like a good celestial?”

  “I will stand,” Ian said. He drew his father’s sword. Aedan’s eyes lit up.

  “There it is! The famous feyiron blade. You know, I’ve always wondered where your father got it. Not a common weapon for a holy man, you know. Touched by the gods, those blades had to be, and carried only by their closest disciples.” Aedan grinned, falling once again into the fluid-smooth twin-knife guard stance that looked so much like dancing. “Will it even answer to a heathen like you?”

  Ian shouted, swinging hard. He was still unbalanced from the blow to his head, but the sword flew true, crashing into Aedan’s guard and driving him back. The pagan slid away, skirting sideways as Ian drove forward. At first, Aedan was able to block Ian
’s attacks easily, but the harder he pressed, the further he went, Aedan’s expression changed. Glee became respect, respect became concentration, and concentration became fear. Ian’s face twisted into a sharp grin.

  Malcolm’s sword sang in Ian’s hands. The feyiron bit chips off Aedan’s knives, the black steel humming through the air, as light as wood, as strong as old hatred. Aedan tried to counterattack, but Ian slipped aside and sliced into the pagan’s shin. The ranger growled, limping back. Ian pulled up short.

  “Where are your promises now, elder of hunters? Where is your victory?” He jumped forward, slashing at Aedan, drawing sparks from the pagan’s knives. One of the barbed blades cracked down the center, sending steel splinters into Aedan’s hands. Blood laced its way down Aedan’s fingers. Ian smiled. “You have already had your chance to bow. I don’t think I’ll give you another.”

  Ian lunged, blade dancing off Aedan’s knife, then swung back and caught the ranger on the iron of his bracer. The man tried to jab but Ian blocked it easily. The ring of watching celestial guards shifted uneasily. Ian started to think about how he would fight his way out of this, should he manage to kill the pagan.

  He shouldn’t have worried.

  “Enough of this!” Aedan snapped. He backed away, then threw his knife into the ground, where it stuck into the frozen mud. “I am through playing with you, boy!”

  Aedan’s arm turned into an expanding cloud of dust, as though he were a statue disintegrating before Ian’s eyes. Black tentacles flickered through the cloud, as fast and indistinct as lightning. Aedan’s chest opened, and then he was rising off the ground, spurting new clouds that were quickly replaced with slithering appendages and talon-tipped wings. His legs burst into a forest of thin spears, held together by membranous webbing, as thin as smoke, and dripping with black ichor. Aedan was nearly twenty feet tall, and growing with each heartbeat. His body was gone, swallowed by shifting chitin and sharp, clawed scythes. Ian took a step back.

  “I fear no gods, of this world, or the last,” Ian said. He held his father’s blade in both hands. “This sword has destroyed you once before, when you wore Sacombre’s skin. It will do so again.”

  “No, Ian, it will not.” Aedan’s voice rumbled over the battlefield like thunder. “Tomas Sacombre was a priest. I am a hunter.”

  A whip-thin tentacle shot out from Aedan’s chest. It struck Ian in the chest, drawing tiny barbs through his chain mail and into his flesh, and knocking him to the ground. His sword went flying, and his breath along with it. Ian lay there, gasping for breath and hope.

  “You made two mistakes, Aedan. The first was not killing me the day we met.” Gwen Adair leapt out of the crowd to stand at Ian’s side. Her skin was a whorling madness of black lines, twisting and turning just beneath her flesh, and her left eye was a pit as black as coal. “And the second was coming here, when you could have run and run and kept running.”

  She drew a spear from her quiver, the last spear wrought in her blood, and held it across her chest. Gwen’s shadow squirmed with sightless mouths. Ian rolled over and started crawling slowly away. Gwen didn’t give him a second look.

  “You know that you face the god of death and the void, don’t you?” Aedan rumbled. “The very god who destroyed your parents?”

  “You are corruption. A disease on the gods of this world, and nothing more,” Gwen said. She rested the spear on her shoulder, merely a wrist-flick away from throwing it. “And I mean to free the gods from your foul touch.”

  She leapt into the air, spear poised for the kill.

  Aedan rose to meet her, just as the longest night finally fell.

  57

  IT TOOK A long hour, spent in bloodshed and hard melee, but they had the courtyard. The betrayers of House Bassion retreated to the northern tower, leaving Elsa, Lucas, and their companions to hold the main gate. An unsteady rain of arrows fell on them from the northern tower, but for the most part, the Reaveholt was secure.

  “We have the walls. We need to rejoin the battle,” Sir Travailler said. “The Blakleys are getting slaughtered out there.”

  “Not until Bassion is dead,” Lucas answered. “No heretic must be left.”

  “You are letting your offended honor guide you,” Elsa said. “You are an inquisitor, yet you never suspected this woman. You must be reasonable.”

  “I have had enough of being a reasonable man,” Lucas said. “Reason has won me nothing but grief. It’s time for a dose of vengeance.”

  They marched through the twisting corridors of the northern walls, closing in on the tower. This whole area was littered with bodies, mostly wearing the blue and yellow of House Bassion, though a few priests of Cinder lay among them. Lucas paused at each holy corpse and said a prayer.

  “How could I not have seen this?” Travailler muttered as they walked. “She has been a good duchess since I was a child. How could she betray her sworn blades? Her own people?”

  “Those are questions we won’t have answers for if we kill Helenne Bassion,” Elsa said. “Vengeance doesn’t suit you, Lucas. Leave that to the priests of Strife.”

  “Don’t preach to me, LaFey,” Lucas snapped. “We have tolerated enough. Forgiven enough. Sometimes knives are necessary.”

  “And when the Circle of Lords questions her death at an inquisitor’s hands?” Elsa asked.

  “Let them come. Let every silk-laced courtesan of Heartsbridge don his well-wrought armor and ride north. I will crush them in the jaws of winter. I will send them home to their lovers in caskets, or pieces, or both!”

  “That’s enough!” Elsa snapped. She grabbed the inquisitor by the elbow and spun him around. “Don’t let Sophie’s madness reach you. Don’t fall victim to a god of vengeance and selfish pride.”

  “This is my heart speaking, sir. Not some corrupted gheist speaking through me, not the echo of a mad god whispering through my bones. I am tired of blaming gods for my mistakes, and different gods for my enemies. For once I will take the burden myself. Helenne Bassion betrayed me. Tomas Sacombre betrayed me. The church is better than these people. If I must restore its name in blood, then so be it.” Lucas paused, twisting his face in anger, breathing deeply until he had control of his heart once again. “We have fought greater gods than this.” He jerked his arm out of Elsa’s iron grip. “Now either join me, or oppose me, or get the hell out of my way.”

  Elsa reared back and punched Lucas in the face. The inquisitor sat down heavily, blinking away the tears that suddenly filled his eyes. She squatted in front of him, lifting his chin to look at the damage.

  “You will be fine. But not if you act like this. Yes, the church has failed in this, as it has failed in so many other ways. Our lives, dedicated to destroying the northern gheists, might have been a sham. Worse, we might have been destroying the land we love. But tearing everything down is not the way.”

  “I know no other,” Lucas said quietly. “What will be left, after this? Who will have faith in us?”

  “The faithful,” Elsa said. She dabbed at the blood dribbling down Lucas’s forehead with a bit of cloth, then helped him to his feet. “Now, put away that talk of murder. We must deliver justice to Helenne Bassion, but we must also deliver peace. To her, and to the rest of Tenumbra. Come on.”

  They went down the hallway and through a door, inquisitor and vow knight once again. No matter that Elsa could barely feel Strife’s power, and Lucas wanted a turn at vengeance, they were together again, finally, as they must be.

  A patrol of loyal Bassion men-at-arms confronted them, standing in front of a barricaded door. When they spotted Lucas and Elsa, they fell into a shieldwall, bristling with spears. Elsa waved her sword at them.

  “Do you stand with or against Helenne Bassion?” she asked

  “Our loyalty is with Galleydeep!”

  “That doesn’t answer… listen. Lady Bassion has betrayed the church. She’s betrayed you. I thought her an ally, and now I’m fighting my way through this castle trying to bring her to justice, wh
ich is not how I planned on spending today. So if your loyalty is with the duchess, then gods damn you, and I will pray for your souls.” Elsa gripped her sword in both hands and marched forward. “Though the only priest of Cinder I know might not be willing to do the rites anymore.”

  The barricaded door swung open before Elsa reached the shieldwall, and Helenne appeared in the doorway. The blackened ruin of the right side of her face was spreading, as though the corruption in her heart was eating her flesh from the inside. She waved in their direction.

  “Still on this crusade, priests? I thought you would have learned the error of that by now. Oh, well. Never mind.”

  “My lady, return to your chambers. These are—”

  “I know who they are, dear child,” Helenne said. She raised her chalice in both hands, smiling. “I assure you, I am perfectly safe.”

  Mist bubbled out of the cup, and lines of red light burst from the guards protecting Bassion. They screamed, higher and higher, flesh withering as their blood drained into Bassion’s cup. With a final gasp they fell to the ground. Shields and spears clattered to the stone and were still, mingled with the flayed dust of the soldiers. Helenne saluted Elsa with the cup, then drank.

  “What have they made of you, Helenne?” Lucas whispered. “What price have you paid?”

  “I’m not sure which I want to answer first. The price? Everything. I have given them everything. And in return?” She drank again, but when she pulled the chalice away from her lips, a long, knotty strand of dark liquid trailed from cup to lip, glistening in the half-light of the hallway. “In return I have gained so much more.”

  “We don’t mean to kill you, Bassion. But we will, if we must,” Elsa said, marching forward. She kicked the huddled remnants of the guards aside, causing them to burst into husky clouds of gray ash. “Surrender to us, or try to kill us. Make your choice.”