by Tim Akers
“Where will you bend it? I should leave the priest and the vow knight here if I’m to keep them from discovering it,” Gwen said.
“You will need them, Huntress. You will not be able to kill this demon on your own. We have tried to tame it, to feed it, to return it to its cycle—but they have broken this god, Gwen. Broken it beyond hope. So you and your friends must kill it.”
“Then where?” she asked. The witching wife was fading, her form slipping into the tree at her side. The wives could shift through the forest this way, wrapping tree bark around their skin and sliding from sacred grove to holy branch, covering great distances in the space of a thought. The wife’s body was losing definition, her face melting into the bark. “Where will you drive the gheist?”
“Here, child. We will bring the god to you, and you must kill it before the corruption spreads.”
“How…” Gwen started, but the woman was gone. The tree where she had been standing creaked and shifted, raining leaves. They shuffled off her shoulders, velvet and soft, to gather at her feet.
She returned to camp. Sir LaFey never moved, and when Gwen settled back into her tent, the vow knight shook herself and then came to wake the huntress for her turn at the watch.
Gwen considered warning LaFey about the coming threat, but to do so she would need to reveal the presence of the witching wife—something she dared not do. No life—not even her own—could be worth the risk to the hallow. It was her life’s work to keep its secret safe. So she spent the rest of the night watching the trees, and wondering when the little god would find them.
33
THE SHADOWS OF an unnatural night followed them north. The darkness between trees loomed deeper, and each sunset brought shivering terror to Malcolm’s bones. He stopped sleeping. The men and women around him followed suit, the whole ragged mob shambling forward without thought to formation or discipline. They were running. They were in a rout, easy pickings if the Suhdrin bothered to follow. It was Strife’s blessing that they didn’t do so immediately.
Sorcha was among them, though her eyes were hollow and her fire broken. She rode beside Malcolm during their long retreat. He didn’t ask where the others were. In the sharp madness of the attack, each had looked to his own. He cursed himself for leaving her side. At least she had survived. Her death would have sealed his own madness.
They didn’t speak for days, but even her silent presence was enough to give Malcolm hope. They held hands at night, though neither of them slept. There were dreams waiting for them in the darkness that neither wanted to face.
The one thing they didn’t discuss was their son. Both knew that Ian had been with the forces that fell at the western ford, knew by the presence of knights of Marchand and Roard in their flank that his position had been overrun. Few of the men assigned to that post counted among the survivors, and none had news of the heir of Houndhallow. Malcolm continued asking, each night, searching the camps of stragglers for some sign of his son.
Sorcha stayed quiet, and a faint spark of anger began.
A week on the road, gathering survivors as they fled and giving them some direction, pulling broken men from the forest and goading them north. This had given Malcolm some purpose of his own. North had been the natural direction, the way the horses had run, the direction soldiers and knights and attendants had taken when their lines broke, and the way they kept walking when the rout had ended. It was the path home.
After the initial flight ended, and the days continued with no sign of Suhdrin pursuit, Malcolm began to form a plan. It took time for it to settle in his mind, and more to work up the courage to speak of it.
“We must hold at the Fen Gate,” he said finally. Sorcha gave no hint of having heard him, so he repeated himself. She looked over. Those hollow eyes. They would spark again, he promised himself. They would be bright again. “We don’t have a choice,” he added.
“The men are scattered,” she replied. “The shields are crushed and the spears broken. You can’t make them whole, Malcolm.”
“If I don’t, the winter will break them. Most of these men are weeks from their homes. Months, in their current condition. The storms will come before they reach any destination. They’ll die on the roads.”
“So you would have them die at the Fen Gate, instead,” she said. “What’s the difference?”
“They’ll die fighting, and maybe we’ll hold. We have to,” he said. “If we run, there will be nothing to stop Halverdt. If these men freeze along the road, the strength of the north dies with them.”
“They will find friendly hearths along the way. Thyber. Runninred. Dunneswerry. There will be shelter from the storms.”
“Those, yes, and Houndhallow, as well. If the Fen Gate falls, do you think Halverdt will stop there? You brought the armies of the north to oppose him. Will he rest while those armies still exist?”
“I came to find you,” Sorcha muttered angrily. “He was merely in the way.”
Malcolm smiled, glad to see a little of his wife’s fire still smoldering. He laid a hand on her knee. She slid her fingers into his, and they rode in silence.
“So,” she said at last. “The Fen Gate?”
“If we mean to fight, rather than crawl home and hide until the high inquisitor comes for us.”
She nodded, squeezed his hand, then split off from the road to start gathering the men. Malcolm watched until she disappeared into the trees, then turned and went the other way. The army was spread thin and wide. They had to be formed up. They had to be given a direction.
* * *
They found most of the banners. Thaen’s crown of frost and splintered sun, white against the blue and gray of his field, was tattered but proud, flapping beside the flaming crescent moon of MaeHerron and the hart and harrier of Dougal, each stained with blood and the filth of a week-long rout. Even a few battered knights in Drownhal’s multi-green filtered in from the forests, trailing slowly behind the rest of the column.
At the column’s head stood the hound of Blakley, the white now the dirty color of sleet, the beast’s snarling jaws torn and tired. Sorcha rode beneath the banner, with Malcolm beside her and the remaining strength of their force behind. What remained of the army was moving again—marching, rather than fleeing. It was enough to bring a smile to her face.
The one presence that discomforted them was that of Lord Daeven. The mourning earl of Blackvaen marched with the ruins of the army, carrying the blanket-bound corpse of his young son in his arms. Malcolm wasn’t sure how the man managed, though madness could bring strength. Daeven talked to no one, acknowledged no one. It was as if he traveled the mourning road alone.
The Fen Gate lay slightly west of the main road that cut through Adair’s territory, the same road that led to Houndhallow, splitting to find Dunneswerry to the east and the river Wyl. A good part of their army had fled into the Fen, never to return, and many more likely were making for Houndhallow and points north. Nevertheless, the Blakleys had managed to gather enough spears and knights to present a respectable force to Lord Adair for the defense of his walls and his name.
To the west lay the Fen. There were stories about Suhdrin forces in its murky depths, but so far the scouts had seen nothing. Other stories told of gheists, many more than should be expected, even this close to the equinox. None of them attacked. Somehow that worried Malcolm more than if the old gods had been ravaging the landscape. There was a stillness in the air that promised great snow and greater cold. The season was turning against them.
Sentries patrolled the borders of orderly camps, scouts ranged into the lightening forests, rangers brought game to the spit and reported troop movements at the duchess of Houndhallow’s nightly council. Big Grant MaeHerron, having taken command of his father’s forces when the baron disappeared in the rout, showed up each night and silently honed the edge on his axe while Lord Dougal and Sorcha Blakley talked about the coming defense of the Fen. The soldiers seemed alive for the first time since they had been forced across the
Tallow in the dead of that bloody night.
A week brought them to the Fen Gate. No fires burned in the village that huddled at its foot. The surrounding fields hung heavy with unharvested grain, but there were no farmers in sight. At the castle, the famous black gate was sealed, and the walls bristled with archers. Two banners flew from the keep, one from each of the black towers of the castle: the crimson flag of House Adair, and a black banner of mourning.
“Not the reception I was expecting,” Sorcha said.
“They look ready for war,” Malcolm answered. He rode beside Castian Jaerdin, whose men of Redgarden had broken free of the rout and ridden hard to reinforce his allies of Blakley. The Suhdrins spent the nights grimly discussing whether they would be welcome back in the south when this was all over.
“Such readiness is fortunate, given the circumstances,” Castian answered. “Look, the sally gate has opened.”
Malcolm squinted, but couldn’t make out what was happening at the gates. A few moments later a rider came into view, galloping from the castle under a white flag. Malcolm smiled when he recognized a familiar face.
“Sir Merret!” Malcolm called when the rider came into range. “I’m glad to discover that you weren’t lost at the Redoubt!”
“One of few who survived, I’m afraid,” Merret said. He reined in his mount beside Malcolm and Sorcha, keeping the Blakleys between himself and Jaerdin. “We depended on the river for our defense, but they came at us from the woods. Gwen had thinned our ranks to pursue her own glory, and when Volent fell on us from the east we were ill equipped to defend.”
“Volent? I thought he rode with Halverdt’s army. How did he get behind you?”
“Gods know,” Merret responded. “Is Gwen Adair among your ranks?”
“The huntress is missing?” Sorcha asked.
“Aye, she went reaving to the south, thinking to take the fight to Halverdt’s flank. A few survivors stumbled back to the Fen Gate three nights ago. They ran into a Suhdrin force deep in the Fen, led by Sir Volent and accompanied by a host of inquisitors. They tell incredible stories.” Merret paused, his eyes flickering to Jaerdin. “Unbelievable stories. And we must believe that Gwen has fallen into Suhdrin hands.”
“Better that she died, rather than find herself in the Deadface’s care,” Sorcha said. “That explains the banner of mourning flying from your walls.”
“What I don’t understand is how any of this happened. Gwendolyn Adair was to hold the western fords. She should never have ridden south of the Tallow. And failing that, if she discovered a Suhdrin force within the Fen, her first priority should have been to send warning to our flank.”
“My understanding is that the huntress had other priorities,” Merret said.
“Other priorities? What in gods’ names is that supposed to mean?”
“I know not, and can answer no further,” Merret said. “Before you get too indignant, however, I would remind you that her choice cost me my command, and many of my friends.”
“As well, I would remind you that her choice may have cost me my son,” Sorcha said evenly. Merret paused, struggling between anger and regret. Finally he bowed his head.
“This is a time of much loss, my lady. You have my sympathy, and my prayers for the boy’s safe return.”
“It’s a pity Gwen Adair isn’t here to answer for herself,” Sorcha answered. “I would have her explanation… as well as her regret.”
“We pray that she is well, of course,” Malcolm said quickly. “Perhaps any further discussion should wait until we’ve had a chance to speak with Colm Adair. We have a defense to plan.”
“We see that your gate is already secured, and your peasants gathered,” Castian broke in. “Were you expecting an immediate assault?”
“The peasants saw your approach and assumed you were the vanguard of Halverdt’s army. They don’t know banners from words, I’m afraid.”
“Well, raise the gate and summon your lord,” Malcolm said. “We’ve ridden long, and have much to discuss.”
Sir Merret bowed, then turned his horse and started down the road. Malcolm signaled the advance and was about to follow when Sorcha pulled him aside.
“I will not forget the girl’s betrayal,” she hissed. “Whatever her reason, her decision lost us that battle.”
“Be as that may, the mistake is made and the battle gone,” Malcolm said quietly. “We must prepare for the next fight. As long as House Adair is our ally, it might be best to not blame their dead child for the loss of our son.”
“Pray that she is dead,” Sorcha answered. “Pray that she never has to answer to me for her failure.”
* * *
The Sedgewind throne was not ornate. Carved from a petrified trunk of gnarled ironwood, the ancestral seat of House Adair was bent and twisted, with spiny branches hanging over the throne room, swept all in one direction by generations of harsh wind. The conquered banners of the enemies of House Adair hung in tatters from those branches, intermingled with leather-bound icons of the old tribes. The trunk itself was rooted as though the entire structure had erupted from the floor of the castle. Legend had it that the Fen Gate had been built around the throne, slowly accreting over generations of tribesmen and lesser lords, until it became the seat of Colm Adair.
The baron sat, attended by a dozen knights of court, all dressed for war, and a single priest. Malcolm led his bedraggled entourage into the room. Every mile he had spent on the road weighed on his shoulders.
“Houndhallow,” Colm Adair said quietly. His black armor was plain, though he draped it in crimson silk and ebon chain. His eyes flicked to Castian Jaerdin. “I did not expect a Suhdrin lord in your army.”
“The duke of Redgarden has stood with me since the Reaver War, and will stand with the faithful sons of the Celestial church, regardless of their blood,” Malcolm said.
“Doesn’t he know that it is the church marching against us?” Colm asked.
“The inquisition is not the church, my lord,” Castian answered. “While the difference may count for little in Heartsbridge, on the field of battle and in my heart, they are not the same.”
“No, they are not,” Colm allowed. “The inquisition is far more dangerous.”
“As we have seen,” Malcolm said. “I have it from Sir Merret that a host of shadow priests aided Sir Volent in his assault upon the Fen. What more can you tell us?”
“Nothing much. They moved through the night, defended against the humbled gods of the Fen and, when the time came, they haunted the souls and hunted the hearts of my men.”
“We were wondering,” Malcolm said, his voice brittle with care, “why your daughter did not ride to warn our flank of their peril. I understand that you lost a great many men on the Redoubt.”
“As you lost many at the Tallow,” Colm said stiffly. “Both our houses have paid a great price for Gwen’s foolishness. If what Sir Brennan reports is true, then we may never know what my daughter had in her heart. Personally, I think she was riding home to warn the castle.”
“The castle’s walls were safe as long as we held the Tallow,” Castian said.
“You could not have held the Tallow if Sir Volent had led his force here, and taken this stronghold. From here he could have harassed your rear and cut off all supply from the north.”
“He chose instead to fall on our flank, and rout us utterly,” Malcolm said, “as any wise tactician would have done in his position. Perhaps Gwen was not up to the task of command. She is, after all, simply a hunter.”
“You will not question my daughter’s right to lead,” Colm said sharply. “Especially not while her mourning banner still flies over my head.”
“I will question it,” Sorcha said. “To the end of my days, I will regret giving command to that huntress.”
“I will remind you that I have lost a daughter,” Colm hissed.
“And I have lost a son,” Sorcha replied. “Not in glory, not in honor, but for the foolish mistake of a girl. So do not speak to me
of her right to lead. Do not speak to me of mourning, nor of death!”
The chamber was quiet for a minute. The dozen knights of House Adair shifted on either side of the throne, tension traveling through their hands to the hilts of the swords. It was the priest who broke the silence.
“You are right, of course, Duchess, but we must not let our common tragedy lead to our common downfall.” The man fiddled with the icons at his neck, and drew out a crescent moon, the sign of Lord Cinder. “The winter god is harsh. His judgment is sharp, and his season unforgiving. This is his war. A war meant to separate the faithful from the fallen. Let us not falter in his gaze.”
“I am afraid, gentle frair, that all I can do is live through winter, and pray for spring,” Sorcha said bitterly.
“That is all that is left for any of us, my lady,” the priest answered.
Sorcha had nothing more to say. The anger had burned through her.
“Whatever has come between us,” Malcolm said, stepping slightly forward, his hands well away from his blade, “we must not let it divide us. Halverdt rides north with an army of some thousands. We have our hundreds, and you have your walls. Together we may stand against him.”
Colm Adair leaned back in his chair, resting an arm on the sword by his side. The room waited in silence. When he leaned forward, the banners that hung over the Sedgewind throne stirred quietly, but there was no other movement.
“Well we might,” Colm said with a nod. “And we must.”
34
THE FIRST SOUND was a slithering crackle that stretched out beneath a morning sky the color of tarnished pewter. Gwen stood and drew her sword, staring out into the bare dawn light, able to see little more than tree trunks and shadows. Her heart was hammering through her ribs.
“Sir LaFey!” she hissed.
The vow knight was beside her in an instant, the veiny scars on her cheeks thrumming like molten gold. The woman pulsed with heat, and the air around her smelled like boiling sweat and hot leather. The shadows in the forest shrank from her.
