by Tim Akers
He leaned his forehead against the symbol of the moon at the junction of the crossbar, the crescents leaving dimples on his skin. He looked asleep, or in deep prayer. His robes, wine-red and decorated with ancient knotting that indicated his position in the court of the moon, swam with shadows that defied the bright sun of summer. The fingers of his right hand twitched, and his mouth moved.
“I’m coming back,” he whispered.
A dozen men were gathered around him. Three stood in a tight circle, facing away from his relaxed form, swords drawn and at guard, eyes on the surrounding trees. They wore the colors of Cinder’s sect, black and gray, their closed helms decorated in the symbols of winter. The other men stood nervously to the side, tending their horses or leaning on ashwood spears, all but one dressed in the generic black and gold of the Celestial church.
A woman wearing the gold and crimson armor of a vow knight stood casually in front of the frair, arms folded. Taller than the other guards, thick at shoulder and hips, she wore plate-and-half that had been traced in gold and set with matte red stones the color of dying embers. The tabard tied loosely over her breastplate was inscribed with the holy symbol of the winter sun—a gaunt, black tree, branches twined around a sun in eclipse, with stars instead of leaves and roots twisted and grim. Her sect, the knights of the Winter Vow, was dedicated to bringing the light of Lady Strife into the dark places of the world, to serve as a reminder that even in the darkest days of winter, the dawn still comes. Her face was laced with scars along the cheekbones in the pattern of a lightning strike, and her hair was brown twined with gold, the color of harvest heavy and ready to be gathered.
Her name was Sir Elsa LaFey, hunter of gods and scourge of heretics throughout Tenumbra. Her blood had forged the armor on her back, and her sword was tempered with the souls of darker spirits.
The air around Frair Lucas grew cold, and strands of black naether twisted into existence around his shoulders, vibrating like a spider web with a fly at its center. For a brief moment the frair was the center of a storm of black lightning and ghostly frost, and then all the tendrils slithered into his still form. He jerked upright like a man waking from an unpleasant dream.
“Are you well?” Elsa asked. Lucas was pale, even more than usual, and his fingers trembled on the staff.
“Yes, yes. That was just on the edge of my range. I am heavier in my body than when I was younger.”
“Did you frighten the girl?” Elsa asked.
“How would I know? Children scare easily,” Lucas said as he began to unwind the linen cloth, reaffixing it to the staff in intricate knots. “I assured her of the faith of the church, and then her father tried to strike me with an axe.”
“It’s a wonder these people go to church at all. You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“Tried to strike me, Elsa. Tried. I put the fear of Cinder in him, I did.” Yet Frair Lucas grimaced at the memory of his encounter, as if he had been forced to eat something sour.
“So what of Gardengerry?”
“There’s nothing left. The scryers were right enough. There was a gheist, at least, maybe more than one.”
“This close to the Allfire?” Elsa asked.
“Don’t let the calendar blind you,” Lucas said. He stood and rolled the staff between his palms. “The demon’s path leads north. Nearly straight north, in fact.”
“We should send a rider to Cinderfell.”
“No, not yet.” Lucas looked around the road, counting his men and weighing his options. “Greenhall is in much greater danger than the ’Fell, and there are the survivors of Gardengerry to consider.”
“There are survivors?” Elsa asked. Lucas shrugged.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know.” He turned to the column of guards in their Celestial colors. These men were little more than soldiers, armed with blood-wrought steel and a handful of prayers. “Sir Grie, take your men into Gardengerry. Find what survivors you can, secure the doma for sanctification, and then send a rider to Cinderfell requesting support. High Inquisitor Sacombre will want a report.”
Lucas had run afoul of the high inquisitor too often for comfort. The frair valued his independence, and if it took sending riders all the way to Cinderfell to keep Sacombre happy, he would do it. No matter how inconvenient it was.
“And what of us?” Elsa asked. “Are we to kick our heels in the forest, hoping this demon comes back?”
“Not at all. Take a spare horse and ride hard for Greenhall. You will need both mounts to make it in time. Warn them of what’s coming, and prepare to defend the city in case the gheist strays in that direction. Halverdt will have a few vow knights on hand, but I doubt he’ll want to let them out of his walls, especially if there’s a gheist on the prowl. It will fall to you to protect the surrounding villages.”
“Halverdt’s guardians are weak, cowed by the fear of their master. I will enjoy humbling them.”
“Try to avoid the politics of the situation, if you can. Kill the rogue god and get out.”
“Easily said, delicately done,” she answered. “What will you be doing?”
“Hunting the gheist from here. You will be able to travel to Greenhall faster by the roads, but I want to stay on its trail, in case it turns, or can be caught before it reaches the innocent.”
“You can’t do that alone.”
“I can, I have, and I will.” Lucas pulled off his robe of office and folded it into his saddlebag. Beneath the vestments he wore simple colors, the drab clothes of an itinerant priest. “Now, go. This is a dangerous spirit. I know of no pagan god given to manifesting in this land, nor in this way. We mustn’t delay.”
Elsa bowed and turned to Sir Grie and his men. She gave a few simple instructions, reminding the soldiers of their responsibilities and tasks, then mounted her horse, reined the spare mount beside her, and rode back down the road the way they had come. She never once looked back.
“A woman of duty,” Lucas said quietly. He secured his staff across his saddle, then mounted painfully and with much complaint. By the time he was settled, the column of soldiers was already riding toward the ruin of Gardengerry.
“Now to hunt,” he said with little enthusiasm. He turned his tired courser toward the woods. She nosed delicately between the trees. It was only a few minutes before he came upon the gheist’s path. The ground was trampled and torn, charred by the demon’s passing. With a sigh, Lucas wrapped himself in bindings of sight and deception, then followed the mad god into the woods.
3
THERE WASN’T MUCH of the log left. The leather overwrap was shredded, and the heart of the wood was badly splintered. Ian adjusted his grip on the broadsword and swung in, hard. The blade buried itself deeply into the wooden frame of the target, and then stuck. He wrestled with it for a few seconds, trying to free the blade, but the steel of the sword wouldn’t budge.
“You’re too damned earnest, boy,” Sir Dugan, master of guard to Blakley’s keep, muttered quietly, so the impromptu audience that had gathered around the training yard couldn’t hear. “You miss that first stroke and the fight’s over.”
“Well, I didn’t miss the first stroke! I hit the damn stroke, but now the blade is stuck!” Ian paused, jerking hopelessly on the hilt. The log creaked, and the sword settled deeper into the soft, splintery wound of the wood. “Damn it all, Dugan, how is this supposed to help? A man isn’t made of broken wood, is he?”
“No, but a man would object to you practicing on him. Especially with a blow like that.” Sir Dugan looked uncomfortably up at the balustrade, where Ian’s mother and sister were waiting. The women were elegantly dressed, in anticipation of the guests who would be arriving soon. “To hell with your honor, boy, get that sword free.”
Ian grunted irritably. He wasn’t small for his age, but he was no brute, either. His shoulders were starting to hurt with the effort. The elegant scrollwork of his birthday tattoo wrinkled as Ian scrunched his face in concentration. Lifting a boot, he planted it against the log, a
nd then heaved back. His fingers slipped free of the hilt and he began to fall. Horrified, he scrambled for a better hold, but his hands went too far forward and fell against the blade.
Hot pain arced up his arm.
With a gasp, he let go and fell backward.
“Damn it!” he yelled. A titter went up among the audience, and Ian scrambled to his feet. “Damn it all, Dugan, your damn sword bit me.”
“A sword is born to bite, my lord,” Dugan said smoothly. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Ian said crossly. He held up his hand to look at it. The chain mitt of his practice glove was bent, several of the rings burst and digging into the flesh of his palm. Nothing serious, but painful. He shook the glove free. One of the rings had broken the skin, and he sucked the blood off his hand. “It’s these damned gloves, Dugan. I can’t get a proper grip with them.”
“Those damned gloves just saved your fingers, my lord. Now…” Sir Dugan took the sword in hand and, with a twist and a shake, drew it from the target. “What is the lesson?”
“To not practice the blade when there are women watching,” Ian muttered. Dugan chuckled and shook his head.
“There will be greater stakes than a woman’s notice, my lord.” Dugan rested the tip of the broadsword in the dust and leaned the hilt toward the young man. Ian took it, his face flushing. “Now, tell me what went wrong?”
“The bloody sword got stuck. I’d imagine that if that happens on the battlefield, it will be more my opponent’s problem than mine.” Ian rested the sword against his chest and started fiddling with the chain gauntlets. “I think it’s the grip I’ve got wrong. Third finger of the left hand over the first of the right.” He left the tip of the sword on the ground as he wrapped his hands around the hilt. “But when I transition to the back stroke, it’s the second finger, and I’m not sure what to do with my thumbs. Does this look right to you?” he asked, glancing up.
“I have no idea, my lord. I never think about it.”
Without warning Sir Dugan stepped back, smoothly drawing his own sword and presenting a high guard. Ian looked puzzled, but then Dugan’s blade was coming at his head. A gasp went up from the audience.
Ian backed away, lifting the broadsword into a high guard. Dugan’s weapon skittered off the steel of Ian’s blade, then danced around and came at him again. Ian shifted his stance, holding the tip steady but sliding the cross-guard to meet the arc of his instructor’s attack.
Steel met steel, and as Ian thrust forward, Dugan skipped back. The older knight came at him with a quick series of overhead blows, and it was all Ian could do to keep his steel in the way. Finally, he saw an opening. He shuffled forward, putting Dugan off his balance, then swung the broadsword over his head, gathering speed and chopping across his body.
Sir Dugan jumped aside. The heavy blow of Ian’s sword struck the target log squarely. He twisted it, leaned against the hilt and then drew it free in a long, rattling cut that sliced off the top of the log.
Dugan sheathed his sword and nodded.
“And what did you do with your thumbs, my lord?”
“I’m not sure,” Ian said. He was gasping from the effort of the assault, staring at the wide gash in the log. “I would have to think about it.”
“I strongly urge you to not do that, my lord. You’re a fine swordsman, when you leave your head out of it. You’re too serious. You study the blade too much. Leave your mind out of it, and let the blade find its path.”
A smattering of applause came from the audience. Ian had forgotten about them, and turned to see his sister and her friends beaming down at him. His mother looked less amused.
“You’ll catch hell from my mother for that,” Ian whispered to the knight. Dugan shrugged.
“Better that than catching hell from your father for not giving you the training a duke’s son deserves,” he said. “Better than sending you into battle unprepared, my lord, and watching you cut down by some lordless knight who practiced the blade every day. As a knight should.”
“There’s more to a lord’s duty than the blade, sir,” Ian said.
“If you say,” Dugan replied. “I would not know, as I am not a lord.” He drew his sword again, picked up an oiled cloth, and ran it down the length of the blade. “You aren’t either,” he added.
“When my father dies, I will be duke of Houndhallow, and lord of the Darkling March,” Ian said sharply, forgetting the audience. “Best that I prepare for that day, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. Though for now you are merely the son of a duke, and the heir to a throne. There are worse things for heirs to prepare for than battle.”
Ian was about to respond when a horn sounded from the battlement. Dugan glanced up at the gate.
“Our guests will arrive soon, my lord. Your mother will want you properly dressed.”
“There’s no time,” Ian said. “I will meet the high elector in my sweat and in my blood, as befits a lord of the north.”
Dugan chuckled. He drew the gloves from his hands and tucked them into his belt.
“I can train you for battle, my lord, but I cannot advise you on a mother’s anger. Time is no excuse. The high elector is a large man. It will take his wagon an hour to make the approach. A lord of Tener should be able to change his shirt in that time.”
Ian didn’t say anything, but slid the long blade of the broadsword into its sheath and hung it over his shoulder. Then he glanced up. His mother had already disappeared from the balustrade, leaving Ian’s sister and her friends alone. Doubtless the duchess of Houndhallow was on her way to the training field, to have words with Sir Dugan.
Best to be gone before that happened.
“I do not love this blade, Sir Dugan. It’s too large, and too clumsy. Next time I will practice with the dueling steel, I think.”
“That is the Suhdrin style, my lord. You are Tenerran born.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said,” Sir Dugan answered. He sheathed his sword and grimaced. “That sword is the blade your father carried into battle, and his father before him, going back to Black Kirk of the tribe of hounds. It may not fit your hand, but it fits your blood.”
“These are not the days of Black Kirk, sir,” Ian countered. “Times have changed.”
“As I am constantly reminded, my lord,” Dugan said, sounding tired.
“Tomorrow we will practice with the dueling steel,” Ian said.
“Yes, my lord,” Dugan answered. “Now be on your way. The high elector will be here. Eventually.”
“And my mother will be looking for you. Best we both make ourselves scarce.”
“I will not run from my battle,” Dugan answered, a sharp smile on his face. “Though your mother is a harder foe than the high elector, I’d imagine. Go on. Find your books. Leave the sword in the armory. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can make the dueling steel into a real weapon, and not just a nobleman’s toy.”
Ian snorted and hefted the heavy sword higher on his shoulder, then left the field. When he looked back, Sir Dugan was collecting the pieces of the target dummy and muttering to himself.
* * *
Ian was unbinding the locks of his hair from the leather strap that kept it out of his eyes, shaking out the few thin braids that he had earned, when his mother swept out of a corridor and fell on him. Her blond hair, unusual in Tenerran blood, flowed around her head like a torch. She was much angrier than even Ian expected.
“What were you thinking?” she said sharply, and he thought she might strike him. “What in the hells were you thinking?”
“Shouldn’t you be yelling at Sir Dugan?” Ian asked. “After all, he’s the one who attacked me.”
“Attacked you? Attacked? You idiot, you could have killed him. How would that have looked, with your sister watching, and the high elector on our doorstep? And look at your hand!”
“I was trying to get a quick practice in before the high elector arrived,” Ian replied, a hint of anger i
n his voice. “Just because the church is visiting…”
“Hush,” Sorcha Blakley answered. “You need to get that temper of yours under control, child. What would your father say to Dugan’s family if you had put that damn sword through his gut, rather than into the log? Hmm?”
“Oh, I think Dugan was in little enough danger from me,” Ian said. “Besides, that was the point of the exercise, wasn’t it?”
“Little enough danger? Gods, what an idiot you can be.” Sorcha grabbed the sword belt and twisted it off her son’s shoulder, lifting it with ease. “This is not a dummy blade, child.”
“I am well aware what sort of blade it is, Mother.”
“Are you?” Sorcha clattered the tip of the sheath to the ground and grabbed her son’s hand. With a yank she freed his hand from the chain mitt and then drew four inches of blade from the scabbard. Before Ian could react, she laid the meat of his palm against the blade. His flesh parted like fine silk before shears, and blood washed across the steel.
Ian yelped and snatched his hand back.
“What in hells is wrong with you?” he cried out. Sorcha sheathed the sword and then, stepping forward, slapped Ian across the face.
“It’s blood, child. Tenerran blood.” She grabbed his wrist and held the wound in front of his face. “Become accustomed to blood. There will be more, unless you start taking those lessons seriously. Pray the next time it isn’t yours.”
“But…”
His mother shook her head. “Enough. Go and dress properly for our guests.” Then she swept away, leaving Ian alone in the hallway. She stormed down the corridor toward the training yard, probably to tear an equal chunk out of Sir Dugan. Ian wrapped a loose cloth around his hand.
“Too serious, not serious enough,” he muttered. “At least Sir Dugan lets me fight back.”
He sighed and pulled the cloth tighter. The high elector’s visit had everyone on edge. The Allfire was approaching, the highest holiday of Lady Strife, goddess of sun and summer and war. Tension along the border between Suhdra and Tener—never soft—had grown in intensity. His father’s court was filled, day after day, with common folk complaining about abuse from Gabriel Halverdt, the duke of Greenhall, to the south.
