by Tim Akers
“And if she dies?” Ian shouted.
“Then she will be buried,” Malcolm spat. “Either way, we’ll need a priest.” Sir Brennan drew his sword and splashed through the pool. Ian moved to intercept him.
“No,” Fianna said to him. “The knight has lost too much today. Leave him his life.”
“They can’t just take you like this!”
“They can,” Fianna said. “They have.” She stood and walked toward Brennan. The fountain of water coming from Sorcha stopped. The pool became still, then rapidly disappeared into the muddy stones of the courtyard. Ian’s mother lay gasping in the dirt, her eyes wide and white with terror.
Brennan led Fianna back toward the dungeon. Two of the knights lifted Sorcha Blakley and headed toward the keep. Malcolm watched them go, then turned to his son.
“The high inquisitor has betrayed us, and possibly Lord Adair, as well, though his trial belongs to the church.” He stared warily at his son. “I thought to be glad, if ever I set eyes on you again this side of the quiet. But instead I find you dressed as a savage, and in the company of a witch. What do you mean, coming to me this way?”
“Sacombre must be stopped. He did something… something awful. In the tombs below the castle,” Ian said. “Let me fight with you. Let me avenge what was done to my mother.”
“No,” Malcolm replied. “You came here in pagan garb, in the company of a witch and moon knows what else. When the story of this battle travels south, it will be a story of Tenerran faith in the face of the inquisition’s corrupt persecution. I will not have that tainted by your presence.”
“That witch saved my life!”
“Better to have died faithful,” Malcolm snapped. “For both of us. The river should have taken you, if this is what you were to become.”
“How can you—”
“Stop! We can discuss this later, after this witch has been properly dealt with, by the true inquisition.”
“Father, if you reject me now, you reject me forever. I won’t turn my back on these people, just because they were foolish enough to help you.”
“Then be gone before I return. I won’t suffer your mother’s wrath for putting my own son on trial for heresy. Leave now. I have a castle to secure.”
Ian stood dumbfounded while Malcolm called his knights and marched away. The knights circled quickly around Ian—he recognized many of their faces, faithful knights like Sir Baird and Sir Drugh, dukes like Rudaine, and a rough youth who must have been a MaeHerron. They were few enough, and they looked down at Ian with a mix of spite and pity.
Then they turned and followed Malcolm, leaving him behind.
48
SUDDENLY THE GATE boomed open, and a cheer went up from outside. The Suhdrin army was upon them.
A line of yellow cloaks formed, their backs to the courtyard as the men of Roard defended the sally gate against their own countrymen. At their center, riding a charger of dirty mud, was Martin, holding aloft the banner of Stormwatch and rallying his men. He glanced back at the unexpectedly open main gate. His face flashed irritation, then determination. He wheeled around to face it.
“We must hold the main gate!” he shouted. “Men of Stormwatch! Hold!”
The courtyard quickly became a maelstrom of confused steel. Soldiers of Adair and Blakley went rushing around, trying to organize the defense. Malcolm had disappeared into the castle. Ian grabbed the moment.
“The hound! The hallow!” he yelled. The cheer was taken up in small groups around the courtyard. Slowly, a force began to gather around him. He took up a sword that had been dropped in the trample, and a shield as well.
“They have brought their swords to our gate, but not honestly. They have taken our walls, but not with blood or honor! Men of Blakley, of Adair. Men of Tener—Roard, Jaerdin, MaeHerron! Much has divided us!” More and more were coming to his side, until a copse of spears bristled at his command. Ian waved his sword in the air. “Yet let this join us. Let us find our bond in battle—fight our way to brotherhood, to clan, to tribe and house and honor! Let them remember our blood in Heartsbridge, and honor our deaths at the highest henge. Let us fight, for the gods!”
A cheer went up, and he lunged toward the breached gate.
The army of bonded Tenumbra followed him.
* * *
Malcolm heard the gate boom open, and the shout that followed from the Suhdrin massed on the approach. The knights at his side hesitated.
“Get her inside,” he said urgently, pushing Sorcha’s escort forward. “Somewhere secure. Not the family quarters. I have a feeling Halverdt’s men will be seeking their revenge.”
“The frair’s chambers, then,” Sir Baird said. “I will guard her with my life.”
“Bless you, sir.” He laid a hand on Sorcha’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed and her breathing gentle, but a steady course of water streamed out of her mouth and down her cheeks. He couldn’t believe that she still lived.
What had the witch done to her?
He turned. “The rest of you, follow me.” Then he started toward the courtyard.
* * *
The ground in front of the gate was a churned mass of the dead and dying. The thin line that House Roard had won on the approach was clogged with their fallen.
Ian and his companions charged across this ground heedlessly, trampling anything in their path. They crossed the line of yellow-cloaked soldiers and crashed into the Suhdrin forces beyond. The spearmen of Roard fell back to take a much-needed rest and attend to their wounded.
With a fury born of rage, Ian struck the wall of Suhdrin shields. He hammered his buckler into the first face that presented itself, crushing the man’s nose guard with the edge of his shield and drawing blood through his eyes. As that one fell, Ian shoved into the gap created by his death, battering aside spears from the deeper ranks.
The Suhdrin forces were so anxious to storm the gate that they were crushing their own lines together, leaving the spears no room to maneuver. He stood in the gap and stabbed out, over and over again, splitting ribs and severing flesh as easily as poking holes in a sheet.
The enemy fell away like wheat beneath the scythe. The Tenerrans at Ian’s side pushed forward, widening the breach and reaping the dead. The Suhdrin line peeled open. He pushed and pushed again, driving farther away from the gate.
Then he pushed too far. There were a dozen sworn blades at his side, and then half a dozen, and then three: nameless soldiers of the hound, their colors torn and ragged, their faces desperate as they followed him into the charge. They were surrounded. The Suhdrin force closed around them like fat around a blade.
The four men stood back-to-back.
The man to Ian’s left fell. A mace arced out of nowhere, crushing his throat and the first two rows of his ribs, plowing a furrow in his chest and spewing blood from the ruin of his jaw. He was closely followed by the soldier on the right. Ian never saw what killed him, but there was a scream, the sound of bursting flesh, and then a spray of blood that turned the air into red and the taste of iron.
Ian backed up, only to bump solidly into the soldier behind him. The man laughed loudly.
“The moment of our glory, my lord!”
“I will leave the glory for the dead,” he replied. “Stay true and we’ll—”
A spear tore past Ian’s hip from behind. It carried the man’s gore on its blade. He felt the body slide down his back, to settle noiselessly at his feet. Then Ian was alone among the blades.
A knight pushed his way through the press. He wore the golden barque of Bassion across his chest and carried a high-hammer crafted to look like a ship’s mast, gripping it in both hands. He lifted his visor to reveal a face as red as blood.
“Yield, young Blakley, and we’ll give you a heretic’s trial,” the knight said. The Suhdrin ranks pressed away from him, leaving a clearing around the two men.
“How is that better?”
“You may find redemption under the law of Cinder, and your father may be g
iven the chance to renounce your sins and save his own good name.”
“At the cost of suffering a brand down the throat before being drawn and quartered?” Ian shook his head. “I will take the battle, and let the gods judge me.”
“As I hoped,” the knight answered, then he lowered his visor. He hefted the hammer into both hands, testing its weight. “I declare myself Sir Eduard Leon, sworn to House Bassion and the holies of the Celestial dome. I challenge you to combat, and let the gods be our mercy.”
“For certain,” Ian said, and he dove forward. His blade skittered off the fine etching of Sir Leon’s breastplate, the strike strong enough to push the man back a step.
“Godswind!” Leon howled, claiming the words of his master’s house for himself. Then he raised the hammer above his head and swung down. Ian dodged, danced to the side, then was forced to dodge again.
The hammer was too slow to catch Ian as long as he kept moving, but Leon was very adept at its use. Each swing brought it over and around the knight’s head, carrying the momentum with it, weaving an endless circle of whistling steel. Ian was hard pressed to stay clear of it, without falling into the mob all around.
The ground they fought across was littered with bodies and discarded weapons, the earth trampled to mud. Ian slipped in the filth and barely rolled aside before Leon’s hammer cratered the ground beside his head.
“The hound can dance!” Sir Leon bellowed.
Ian twisted to his feet, kicking at the haft of the hammer and throwing Leon off balance before punching with the forte of his blade into the man’s neck. Leon ducked his head just in time, taking the force of the blow on the crown of his helm. It staggered him, but didn’t draw blood.
“You have quite a storm in you, Sir Leon,” Ian said breathlessly, “but I’m afraid I find it all wind and little worth.”
“Lightning need only strike once,” Leon answered, shaking his head. He resumed his attack, but there was a wobble to his orbit. The hammer’s head kept striking off the ground, crushing the bones of the fallen and digging troughs in the bloody mud.
Ian danced back and then forward, striking hard blows across Leon’s chest and the joints of his armor. He had no hope of slashing through the chain links at elbow and neck, but the flesh beneath still bruised, and the joints still stung. It wasn’t long before Leon slowed.
“It seems you are all thunder, Sir Leon,” Ian gasped, smiling through his own exhaustion. “Have the gods let the wind drop from your sails?”
“Enough!” Leon snapped. Ian dodged forward, planting his feet in the mud just as the arc of Leon’s upward swing had begun. Leon stopped the swing abruptly, letting the haft of the hammer slide through his hands. The released weapon slammed into Ian’s chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and his body into the mud.
His blade fell away.
Slowly, Sir Leon ambled forward, picking up the hammer and resting the head against Ian’s chest. The weight pressed Ian deeper into the mud.
“Enough of this, Blakley,” the knight said. “Confess your heresy. Seek the counsel of the gods.”
“The gods… the gods…” Ian struggled to get air into his voice. The hammer pushed him back. “The gods damn you, Eduard Leon.”
“Sharp to the last,” Leon said. “Well, your father would be proud.” He removed the hammer from Ian’s chest and lifted it high over his head. “A death worthy of the Reaverbane’s son.”
“I think not,” Ian said, then he rolled aside. The hammer buried itself into the mud. Ian grabbed the haft and levered himself up, driving his back into Leon’s chest. The knight lost his grip, growling as Ian wrestled the weapon from his hands. Before the man could pull away, Ian slammed the hammer’s head into his shoulder—only a short, sharp swing that dented armor, but couldn’t break the bones beneath.
Still, the arm hung nerveless.
Ian drew a blade from his belt, then shoved Sir Leon back and to the ground. The knight landed with a terrible thud, his head snapping back. Ian drew the knife once across the thick leather and chain at the man’s neck, his full weight behind the short blade, roughly severing the armor and exposing the flesh.
With the knife in both hands, he stabbed down into the neck, once, twice, over and over until the flesh was a ruin of spouting blood, and the tip of the knife broke against his opponent’s spine.
Then Ian stood. He was drenched in the knight’s blood. His pagan braids dripped red, the runes on his face were lined in gore, the rough leather of his armor slick and bright. He tossed the knife aside and grinned fiercely at the circle of Suhdrin spears all around.
“The hound,” he whispered. “The hallow.”
They roared and charged at him, reckless in their fury. He closed his eyes and waited to enter the quiet.
The charge was interrupted by the ranks of Roard faithful. The sound of battle erupted around him, and Ian opened his eyes again to see yellow cloaks and the flash of blades. He stumbled back. A hand settled on his shoulder, pulling him free of the melee. He looked up into Martin’s mud-flecked face.
“Fall back to the castle,” Martin said. “Leave some glory for the rest of us.”
* * *
“Your son fights well, my lord,” Sir Doone said. Malcolm grimaced and spat on the floor.
“He fights like an animal,” Malcolm replied. “Like a pagan.”
Regardless of Malcolm’s disapproval, however, Ian’s attack had cleared the space around the gate and broken the brunt of the Suhdrin assault. However the group of Suhdrin fighters that had snuck through the sally gate and broken into the gatehouse was still there. The gatehouse was isolated from the rest of the castle defenses, a tower with its own arrow-slits and heavy door, so that if the walls were scaled the defenders of the gate would be able to hold the gate and keep the courtyard from being flooded. In this case, however, this design worked against the defenders. Now that the gate was open, the small group that had gained the gatehouse was able to repel the defenders who were trying to reclose the portcullis. Cut off from any support, they barricaded themselves inside, and had crossbowmen among their ranks.
“Sir Doone, gather a small group of hard men. Keep eyes on the walls and the sally gate. We don’t want to thin our ranks along the perimeter, but I need a number of good swords at my side.”
“I can be blade enough, my lord. They’re only Suhdrins,” she said.
“I like your faith, but I lack it, as well. No more than a dozen should do—and a wagon.”
“A wagon, my lord?”
“Yes, with high sides and fine walls. The baron should have something appropriate in his stables. And have them fill it with hay.”
“Are we seeking to escape?” Doone asked sharply.
“No. I want only to reclaim the gatehouse.”
Sir Doone nodded and disappeared into the press. Ranks of Tenerran soldiers milled about the courtyard. Malcolm sent them to the walls and to defend the lesser gates. He organized a patrol to search the corridors and chambers, as well. There were tales of shadow priests among the stones. He wanted them flushed into the open, if possible.
When Doone returned with her dozen he nodded and led them to the perimeter of shields that surrounded the gatehouse.
“The wagon?” he asked.
“One of Adair’s men is bringing it around. Will we need horses?”
“You and I can manage without them.” Then there was a sound of wheels on stone. “Ah, here it is.”
The crowd behind them parted, and a team of six men pushed a carriage up to the shield wall. In typical Tenerran style it was plain and solid, the only ornamentation an engraving of the Adair arms. But the sides were thick and the leather springs reinforced. The wheels sunk into the mud.
“Well, we may need a hand,” Malcolm allowed. He signaled to the men around him. “Back it up a bit. We’ll need some speed before we clear the protection of the shield wall.”
“You mean to ram the gatehouse?” Doone asked.
“I mean to put thos
e crossbows out of commission,” Malcolm answered. “If we can cover the arrow-slits in the door, we can hopefully breach the gate. Now come on.”
Together with the men from the stable and Doone’s dozen volunteers, they sent the wagon rambling across the courtyard and into the gatehouse. Arrows bristled from its surface, but the dozen men hidden behind escaped unharmed.
As soon as the entrance to the gatehouse was covered, Malcolm called for a torch. The hay stuffed inside the carriage lit quickly, and soon black smoke was rolling up the sides of the gatehouse, choking the occupants.
“They’ll be flushed in no time, my lord,” one of the dozen said quietly.
“They won’t have the time,” Malcolm said. “Quickly now!”
With a final heave and under the cover of the smoke, Malcolm shoved the wagon aside just enough to let his dozen men through. He led the way, shield high and sword bare.
Instantly the room beyond was chaos and blood.
49
THE RIVER WAS dying. Whitecaps frothed and roiled onto the banks, and the once calm current had turned into a turbulent chop. Cinder’s light was as bright as beaten silver, casting stark shadows and giving everything an otherworldly glow.
The tree line on the hallow side of the river thrashed as if caught in a tornado. Branches whipped against Gwen’s face and shoulders, leaving welts on her skin and tearing her tunic. She was glad for the iron of her armor. Stumbling onto the mossy bank, she hefted a spear and scanned the waters for whatever was attacking.
“Don’t run off like that,” Elsa said from behind. The vow knight had better survived the trip through the trees, but the metal of her armor was scratched, and her tabard was nearly shredded. The remnants of an invocation whispered over her head in an aura of flame. “I thought the wards were down?”
