The Pagan Night

by Tim Akers

  Then they were among the thicket of spears. The man beside Malcolm fell without a sound, a barbed tip through his throat and then he pitched up and away, the horse tumbling like a boulder. A spear skittered over the barding by Malcolm’s leg, clipping his knee as it passed, and then another dipped toward his head but broke before it reached him, its wielder lost beneath hooves and mud. There was the tremendous, rib-breaking crash of horse into shield, body into steel, flesh and bone and blade thundering as they met.

  Malcolm was among the lines. One second he was charging through wavering spears, and the next he and his horse and what remained of his men were surrounded by the levy. He was weaving back and forth, striking hard to left and right with his sword, his horse trampling any foolish enough to get close. There were hundreds around them, and more beyond, but for a brief, bright moment Malcolm was reaping blood and reaving fear.

  Soon the footmen beneath him were falling back. In the respite, Malcolm’s men swirled around him, their hundred down to dozens, but the banner still flew. Behind them, the cavalry that had threatened to crush them was having trouble of their own. Their mad charge had followed Malcolm for a while, until the Tenerran lines had seen their flank and formed into their own charge. The center of the valley was a mad melee, axes and archers mixing in the ruin of mud.

  Some number of the Suhdrin knights had fought their way to the arc of spearmen on the left and were reforming in the shelter of the shields. Close by, the enemy line was breaking. Malcolm’s charge had taken them by surprise, and the ranks of spear and shield were peeling away like dying flesh. Their reserve had been spent in the battle at the valley’s head, and that force was now wasted, trying to recover on the left. In the gap, MaeHerron had finally roused his forces and come pouring down the field.

  The Suhdrin forces wavered. They could break at any second.

  And then they did. Malcolm raised his sword to strike the next skull, but there was no one around him. He looked around, squinting through the visor of his helm, and saw that the line had broken. He and his men stood alone at the edge of the forest. Between the trees he could see glimpses of men and horses in full retreat, their banners cast aside, their shields littering the floor like autumn leaves.

  Malcolm stood in his stirrups and screamed at their backs. His men took up the call, and their voices reached the sky and shook the trees and lifted the hearts of the soldiers behind.

  Then he collapsed into his saddle and let the pain and ache and fatigue overwhelm him. He sheathed his sword before he dropped it, then slouched against his horse’s neck and waited for someone to lead him home.

  23

  THERE WERE A lot of priests in the Suhdrin army. Fully half of the soldiers who milled about the camp that settled along the southern bank of the Tallow wore the church’s colors, and there was a troupe of inquisitors and naethermancers at the core of the force who kept to themselves. Elsa was the only vow knight in the camp, and none of the other priests seemed interested in talking to her. None but Lucas.

  The pair walked through the camp in silence, surrounded by ranks of knights and their attendant men-at-arms. The army was in shock, still recovering from the defeat at the battle of the Tallow. Their numbers grew day by day. There were a lot of sharp blades in camp, getting sharper each night.

  “This does not feel like an army defeated,” Elsa whispered while they walked. As soon as she had recovered from her fight at Tallownere, she and Lucas had come north to see what had occurred.

  “Because they are not. Those who were at the Tallow are angry at having been defeated, but these legions that have joined them…” Lucas shrugged. “They’re confident, they’re arrogant, sure that things will be put right now that they’ve arrived. Sure they would have won that fight.”

  “Seems like trouble.”

  “Aye. The veterans will hate the newcomers for their arrogance; the newcomers will hate the veterans for their failure. Both sides are shamed by their brethren.”

  “And both are furious at the northern lords, for putting Suhdrin pride to the sword,” Elsa said. She watched a group of young knights gathered around a keg, drinking and swearing and making claims of prowess. Their armor was too bright and their voices too loud. It would be a miracle if any of them survived. “There will be no peace.”

  “Not until there’s a great deal more shame, at least.”

  “What of the southern lords who have joined Adair? The duke of Redgarden stands with them, I know, and there’s talk of Roard,” Elsa asked.

  “Roard will stay with their blood as long as they can, but they’re not eager for the fight. Jaerdin’s loyalty is to Blakley, not the north.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  “Not today, there isn’t,” Lucas said. They came to a stop at the top of a small hill that overlooked much of the river valley. The fields bristled with pikes and banners. They stood in silence for a while, looking at the host of war, measuring its size, its intent. Lucas sighed. “Where do you think they’ll cross?”

  “With this many banners?” Elsa asked. “Wherever they damned well please.”

  Lucas snorted, then started down the hill.

  “Come on,” he said. “We have a council to attend.”

  The duke of Greenhall’s tent squatted at the center of his army, flanked by a canvas doma on one side and a bonfire on the other. The scent of frairwood reached their noses long before they got to the tent. The guards at the entrance scowled at Sir LaFey, but at Lucas’s insistence they let her inside. They seemed accustomed to taking orders from priests of Cinder.

  Inside there were more priests than lords. Gabriel Halverdt sat glumly at the center of the tent, slumped forward in a field throne. High Inquisitor Sacombre stood at his side, hand draped casually over the back of the throne, the staff of his office leaning against his chest. A trio of lesser priests waited in Sacombre’s shadow, hands folded in meditation. To Lucas’s surprise, one of them had the tribal tattoos of Tener on his face and neck.

  The only other person in the tent was Sir Volent. The Deadface lurked in the corner of the tent, as far from the priests as he could manage. Volent turned his head and looked hard at them when Sir LaFey closed the tent flap behind her.

  The air was thick with frairwood and sweat. Whatever conversation had been going on before Lucas’s arrival settled into an uncomfortable silence. He took the time to look each man in the eye before speaking.

  “I was told this was a council of war,” he said. “I came to advise, in hopes of peace.”

  “What do you know of war, priest?” Halverdt grumbled without looking up.

  “What do I know of anything?” Lucas answered. “Where are the other lords?”

  “This is a private audience,” Sacombre said, “and a private matter. You were invited to give your insight into certain things, and then you will be free to leave.”

  “Free, or required?”

  “Do you always speak to your master in this way?” the tattooed priest hissed. Lucas looked him over again. Clearly Tenerran, and maybe a little mad. Fresh converts were always the most zealous. Lucas laughed.

  “My master is Cinder, god of winter and reason and death,” he said, then gestured to the high inquisitor. “This is a man. Do not confuse the two.”

  Sacombre chuckled, a low, rolling laughter that carried as much joy as threat. He stood up, casually setting his staff of office against the throne and strolling to the center of the tent, where a low brazier burned. He rubbed his hands together and held them out to the smoky fire.

  “Always the rogue, Lucas. Always the wise blade. We’ve missed your wit in Heartsbridge.”

  “I truly doubt that you have.”

  “Some of us have. Some of us mark your absence, at least.”

  Frair Lucas nodded sharply. The two had disagreed in the past, usually over matters of atrocity and justice. The high inquisitor had a keen theological mind, Lucas knew, but his approach to the north was too absolute. That, and he always seemed to b
e leering, even as he prayed.

  “Tell your tale, priest, and be gone,” Halverdt said. He readjusted the thick cloak around his knees, in spite of the heat. “I’ve had enough of the clever words of holy men today.”

  “Which tale would you hear?” Lucas asked.

  “You were at the court of the Fen Gate prior to this travesty,” Sacombre said. “We would know the mind of Lord Adair.”

  “You know it well enough,” Lucas said, not taking his eyes off the duke. “You have provoked him often enough. Little surprise that he has bitten back.”

  “I hardly consider raiding one of my villages a little surprise,” Halverdt said. “Nor interfering with the justice of my rulings. Nor is the summoning of a gheist—”

  “We know little enough about that,” Lucas said. “Let’s not make accusations we can’t prove.”

  “The pagan bitch followed that gheist to my men,” Sir Volent said. “A huntress and her hound. What more proof do you need?”

  “I find it difficult to believe that the woman charged with killing the old gods would somehow be their servant, as well,” Lucas answered. “Not unless she is doing a truly terrible job of it.”

  “Let us stay to the facts we know, and the result of those facts,” Sacombre said. “There has been an unprecedented surge in gheists, wouldn’t you say?”

  Lucas paused, feeling his way around what Sacombre was saying.

  “This is true,” he allowed.

  “And this surge corresponds uncomfortably with our recent troubles.”

  “It’s more reasonable to say that the surge may be the cause of our recent troubles,” Lucas said. “After all, it was the events at Gardengerry that led to your men riding out to Tallownere. The violence that occurred there may have drawn the gheist, which then drew the huntress who was tracking it.”

  “Enough!” Halverdt bellowed. He stirred beneath his embroidered cloak, standing from the throne. He was a larger man than Lucas remembered, as though swollen with anger. “Tener has raised its banners at my border, and I will defend myself. All of Suhdra stands with me. The church stands with me! I will not sit here and listen to reasonable men argue the details of my offense!”

  “My lord, it was not our intention—” Sacombre began. Halverdt cut him off.

  “I thank you for your support, priest, and your blessing, but this is a matter of blades, not prayer. I accept the banners you brought north, and those of your priests who are willing to fight at our side, but do not stand here and debate the justification for this war. House Adair has offended me.” Halverdt gathered his robes and settled once again onto the throne. “They have killed my men and were behind the murders at Gardengerry. I will take my justice from their bones.”

  Sacombre bowed slightly, just enough to be respectful but not far enough to be kind. The trio of priests followed suit.

  Lucas and Elsa didn’t move.

  “As you wish, my lord,” the high inquisitor said. “That is why we have come to you. My favored servant—” he gestured to the tattooed priest “—Frair Allaister Finney has learned of a hidden road through the Fen that will allow you to fall on Adair’s castle without warning. You will be able to cut the heart from this rebellion before the north can fully rise against you.”

  “Through the Fen?” Halverdt snorted. “Yes, a brilliant thought. Why feed my knights to the gheists one at a time, when I could lose them all at once? The Fen is thick with pagan danger. No army can march through it.”

  “Your men will be safe in the company of my priests,” Sacombre purred. “Whatever danger the Fen presents, the strength of Cinder will protect you. And Frair Allaister will lead the company personally. No other man is more capable of seeing you safely through.”

  “What makes him so capable?” Halverdt asked. “He looks more pagan than the huntress bitch.”

  “Indeed I was. Born to the shaman’s way, but I have seen the cold heart of reason,” Allaister said. “As to my knowledge of the Fen, I must admit, I have never walked those paths.”

  “You would have the blind lead the foolish, Sacombre?”

  “Not blind,” Allaister said. “I have in recent days been tracking a certain gheist. It was summoned by pagans in Gardengerry, and has traveled north ever since.”

  “Wait a damned minute,” Lucas said. “I’ve been hunting this same gheist. Sir LaFey and I have followed it from Gardengerry, and she did battle with it outside your walls, my lord.”

  “And still it roams?” Halverdt asked.

  Elsa bristled and stepped out from behind Lucas.

  “You ask what the frair knows of battle, but I ask what you know of killing gods?”

  The room grew tense, and the light changed. Lucas turned to see that Elsa had flared her goddess, the subtle lines of sun-bright energy pooling in the runes of her dented armor. He smiled.

  “My lord, my brothers,” he said. “I’m afraid that if this hunt is to travel north, I must insist on coming along.”

  “So you can warn the Tenerrans?” Volent asked. “No, I think not.”

  “I have no side in this war, if war this is to be. My only service is to the faithful of all Tenumbra, and to their protection.” Lucas settled his eyes on Halverdt. “This is a dangerous gheist, my lord. The town of Gardengerry lies in ruins. Disaster in Greenhall was only averted by the presence of Sir LaFey, and the brave action of Malcolm Blakley’s son. If Frair Allaister and his company are to be busy protecting your men and easing their passage, then someone else will have to see to the gheist. Sir LaFey and I will serve that duty.”

  Halverdt grunted, but made no move to deny Lucas his request. The duke looked to Sacombre.

  “Very well, Frair Lucas,” the high inquisitor said. “Your talents will be welcome.”

  “What of the other lords?” Halverdt said. “I can’t withdraw from the border without weakening their position, or drawing the attention of the Tenerran dogs. Will they be consulted?”

  “That is the gift of this plan, my lord,” Sacombre said. “You need take only a small force: several dozen, say, drawn from Greenhall, rather than from the border outposts. Gather men who have not yet been sent forward, and the other lords will never know what we do.”

  “Why am I keeping such a secret from my fellow lords of Suhdra?” Halverdt asked.

  “Blakley has spies among us. He must,” Sacombre whispered. “Redgarden has already betrayed his blood, and whispers speak of treachery in Roard, and DuFallion. Who else might abandon his brothers and stand with the pagans? We can’t afford to take any chances.”

  “A small force,” Halverdt said. “Fair enough, but the scraps I have at Greenhall will not make much of a threat. Recruits and codgers, the lot of them. I have trouble believing they can take the Fen Gate.”

  “Lord Cinder has foretold it,” Allaister said. He bent his knee before the duke. “Your victory is assured.”

  “Assured, yes, but still,” Sacombre gestured to Sir Volent. “They must be led, and who better to lead them than your knight-marshal?”

  Volent looked startled, as much as his numb features could show surprise. He shook his head.

  “I will not go into the Fen, my lord. Not for gods or glory.”

  “Do you fear the gheists, Sir Volent?” Sacombre asked.

  “I fear nothing,” he said, “but my place is at the border, leading my lord’s men to victory.”

  “And so you shall. Final victory.” Sacombre drifted to where Volent was huddled against the canvas wall. “It is your blade that will end this war.”

  “He’s right, Henri,” Halverdt said. “They will need a true leader: a warrior to drive them, and a blade to inspire them. You are both.”

  “My lord, I should not…”

  “Silence. You will do this.” Halverdt turned back to Allaister. “This gheist that you track. How will it help me?”

  “After the battle at Greenhall, I was able to find an artifact of its summoning. Something you should have discovered, Frair Lucas,” Allaister
said sharply. “It will let me track it through the wilds, no matter where it goes.”

  “How will that get you to the Fen Gate?” Frair Lucas asked. Allaister ignored him, keeping his eyes on Halverdt. He treated the question as if the duke had asked it.

  “Because it is going home, my lord,” Allaister said. He drew something from his robes and held it up in his palms. It was an iron gauntlet, scarred and pitted as though by acid. The shadows of the glove slithered in the flickering light of the tent. Lucas was reminded of the corruption he had seen in the bear spirit, and the shimmering blackness that Elsa had described to him as the gheist’s main form. The gauntlet itself looked like the crest of House Adair, and could easily have come from that family’s collection of tribal icons.

  “It is seeking its master,” Allaister said, “and we will follow.”

  24

  THEY PUSHED THE boat into the middle of the western ford, its flat bottom grinding against the smooth stones of the river as it beached, then hung a white flag from the prow and started pouring the wine. Ian settled into the makeshift bench and table that dominated the vessel. He waited. Martin Roard splashed across the ford on his charger and swung from his saddle directly into the opposite bench. Ian smiled.

  “This is hardly dignified,” Martin complained. He took his flagon of wine and squinted into it, then drained it and poured another.

  “Last we spoke, you were still recovering from the peasants’ melee,” Ian said. “You have little cause to complain about dignity.”

  “That was a tournament. This is war. War will always be violent, unforgiving, horrifying and messy. All in all, undignified. Which is why it is incumbent on us to maintain whatever dignity we can manage.”

  “Which is why we’re sipping wine in a raft under a flag of truce, rather than rattling our swords and gnashing our teeth across a field of battle,” Ian said. “Appreciate what you get, Martin.”