by Tim Akers
Contents
Cover
Also Available from Tim Akers and Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1 Lost Causes
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
2 Mad Gods
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
3 Demon Nights
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
Coming Soon from Titan Books
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TIM AKERS AND TITAN BOOKS
The Pagan Night
The Winter Vow (August 2018)
THE IRON HOUND
Print edition ISBN: 9781783299508
Electronic edition ISBN: 9781783299515
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP
First edition: August 2017
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Tim Akers. All rights reserved.
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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This book is dedicated to the readers who have followed me from the earliest days of Veridon, into the city of Ash, and finally onto the mad and rolling hills of Tenumbra. Here’s to a thousand adventures, and a thousand more.
1
LOST CAUSES
1
THEY FELL LIKE a pair of suns, black and amber. Their tails curled with smoke and the burning cinders of autumn leaves. Their fall tore a wound in the sky, and in the world itself. The impact shivered the trees with a wall of air that thundered down the valley, whipping branches and stone and earth.
The river that bounded the witches’ hallow hissed with steam and frost, and the stones that formed a dozen henges scattered throughout the forest rang like bells beneath the hammer. Where they struck, their landing left a deep gash in the ground.
Gwen Adair climbed out of the trench.
Her hair was a wild mass of orange light, with sparks of red and black shimmering throughout, and her skin flickered gold and amber. She dragged a black mass behind her. Its talons dug at the earth, scraping wounds in the grass that bled shadow. The creature screeched in frustration. Gwen turned and gave it a solid kick.
“Shut up,” she hissed. “You’ve caused enough trouble. Just shut up for a moment so I can think!”
The gheist responded with a growl. “I am not your tame dog, mortal. I am the grave, the sunset, winter’s fury and summer’s fear! All mortal life ends in my embrace, just as day ends in night! I will never…”
“Shut! Up!” Gwen howled. She bent her will toward the gheist, summoning the power of the Fen god coursing through her blood to send a wave of glittering light into the mass of shadows at her heel. The gheist shivered in pain, squealing as sparks of glowing energy danced through its bones. Gwen withdrew the lash, and the demon’s cries subsided. It settled down, collapsing into a slowly swirling darkness, the bright tips of its claws clicking quietly together. An eye, slate gray and endless, blinked open.
“You can not hold us forever, iron girl,” it whispered. Its voice was like a whetstone, sharpening the air. “Already I feel you dying. Whatever you have become, whatever understanding you have with Fomharra, I will be free once again.”
“We’ll see,” Gwen muttered. The name was unfamiliar to her, though the spirit in her bones thrilled at the word. She gave the gheist another kick and started dragging it forward once again. The broken hill at the center of the hallow loomed in front of her, its peak a ruin of stone and torn sod. Her feet dug into the grass as she pulled the gheist uphill.
There was something else holding her back. The god bound in her heart recognized this place, and did not want to return. She didn’t blame it. The witches’ hallow had served as its prison—or sanctuary, or tomb—for generations. Silent centuries spent in darkness. She could feel its isolation in her blood.
Gwen reached the crevasse that led into the hill, and paused. Sunlight drifted peacefully into the tomb. The body of one of the inquisitors lay halfway down, his skin dry and leathery, his life consumed by the power of the god’s awakening. There was no sign of the others. From her perch, Gwen was able to see the distant shimmering of the river, and the blooming fields of flowers that marked the final resting spot of the hallow’s guardians.
Something moved among the trees, a herd of creatures very much like deer, only made of wicker and stone. They pranced nervously among the shadows. The scattered henges, once used to focus the wards that protected this place, lay abandoned.
The hallow was a ruin, its power fled. Hopefully there was enough of its ancient force left to perform one final task.
She started down into the tomb. The death gheist gave one last mighty struggle, wings flapping and talons scrabbling at the stone, its voice silent in the effort. Gwen dragged it under, and as soon as they landed among the scattered stones of the Fen god’s cairn, the death gheist collapsed into silence. Gwen dusted her hands—purely a habit, as her sun-bright skin seemed impervious to dirt—and looked around.
A lot had changed, and yet nothing. Here the Fen god was once buried. Here the pillar that held its spirit, cracked like an egg, Gwen’s bloodwrought dagger still embedded in its heart. The smooth stones of the cairn lay tumbled around the sanctuary. The air smelled like dry leaves and wet roots. The crystals that had illuminated the tomb flickered dimly in the sunlight.
“So this is your plan,” the gheist whispered as she released her grip. “Bury me as they buried Fomharra. Hide me away from mortal eyes, that my power might be contained.” The demon curled i
n the dark corner, eyes and claws glinting in the bare light. “It did not work before. It will not work now. Especially with your house fallen.”
“I’m not a fool,” Gwen said. “The witches’ hallow was only able to shelter the Fen god because of the wardens. Now the wardens are all dead.”
“You could replace them,” the gheist said. “You could become my true guardian, and stand eternal watch at my tomb. Your family served that role. You could assume it, become the true guardian of the pagan watch.”
“Given eternity, I’m sure you’d find some way to trick your way to freedom,” Gwen answered. “Hells, given eternity, I might let you go just to get some peace from your damned whispering. No, that would never do.”
“Then what? Will you raise an army of pagans to hold me here? Negotiate with Heartsbridge to imprison me? Surely the inquisition can’t be trusted again?” The gheist slithered away, the coiled strands of shadow that formed its body tightening into a fist. “Face it, huntress. You have no plan, and no hope. Release me, and spare yourself the corruption I will bring.”
“I don’t have a plan… yet,” she allowed, strolling to the cairn and starting to arrange the stones. “But I figure there’s enough power here to hold you for a while, and in the meantime I can come up with something. Or someone will. You really—”
The gheist struck her from behind. A swirling cloud of shadow-tipped claws spun out of the boiling mass of its form, clattering off the stones before cutting into Gwen’s back. Black wounds appeared across her body. She fell forward, skinning her hands so that they bled on the stones.
“You are as soft as all the children of blood,” the gheist hissed. It rose, its snapping tendrils looming against the hollow shell of the hill. “So wise. So clever. So bright… but you all die, eventually. You all come to me, no matter how fast you run.”
“You will find more than blood in my veins,” Gwen answered. She pushed herself up, her hands slipping on the blood-slick rock. She turned slowly, drawing the autumn gheist around her like a cloak. Her eyes turned to gold, and a mantle of sun-bright leaves settled across her shoulders, turning her skin the color of beaten copper. The dark wounds filled with glowing light. The darkness leached away, spattering to the floor like burning pitch.
“I will let others run,” she said. “I mean to stand against you.”
“Stand and fall. Run and fall,” the gheist said, slate gray eyes narrowing into slits. “It matters not.”
They crashed together. The impact sent sparks flying through the empty tomb, sizzling out in the damp earth, leaving only the flashing light of their struggle to illuminate the damp air. The gheist struck, fell back, struck again, each attack a sweep of talons that appeared out of its shadowed body and then disappeared just as quickly. Each time Gwen turned to face the demon, its form melted into the surrounding shadows, only to reappear somewhere else in the damp confines of the tomb. Every time she blocked its attack, a small fragment of her divine light dissipated.
Suddenly the assault ended, leaving a musty silence.
“You will not escape, demon,” Gwen panted. She turned slowly in the center of the room, gathering her strength and her courage. “I won’t let you.”
“Let me?” The gheist’s voice slithered in from the shadows. “As if you have the strength to oppose the god of death!”
“Sacombre held you. A mortal man, and without ancient rites.” Gwen drew herself up. The mantle of the autumn god glistened around her shoulders, shining brighter, filling the tomb with light. The dark gheist crouched in the corner. “If that fool can contain you, surely the huntress of Adair, holding the power of the god of autumn, can do no less.”
“I was invited by the gray priest, not compelled, and when he was used up, I discarded him,” the gheist replied. “For all your piety, you are no shaman. The autumn god is not yours to command, any more than the ocean bows to the will of the ship, or the storm to the fluttering leaf!”
“Test my strength, and you will see your error, demon!” Gwen shouted, her voice echoing off the walls. She reached out to the autumn god, drawing light into a bright spear of power that materialized in her hands. Something stirred beneath her soul, beyond the ken of her mind. She pushed it back, and howled her fury. “I will bind you, or destroy you, or both!”
“She flinches from your touch, child,” the gheist said. The pool of shadows that formed its body spread thin, leaking out into the cracked walls of the tomb. “Your tame god will burn her leash, and taste the blood of her master.”
“Do not think to flee!” Gwen shouted. She whirled around, trying to keep her attention in every corner of the damp room, burning still brighter to illuminate the lurking darkness. “Do not make me hunt you.”
“I have never been prey,” the gheist whispered. A column of barbed shadow launched out from the darkness, crashing into Gwen’s bright shield. She resisted for a moment, then the gheist’s oil-black body lapped around her defenses, cutting deep.
With a sudden impact the demon threw her through the crumbling shell of the hill, punching her body through stone and sod until she flew free of the tomb. Gwen rolled as limp as a rag through the rough grass of the hallow, coming to rest among the poisoned flowers where Frair Lucas had nearly died. She lay there, the autumn god swirling around her. The spirit that was pinned to her soul thrashed like a fish on the line.
The death god blossomed from the hill, rising into the sky on shadow-torn wings. It swept down the hill to where Gwen lay, settling on the edge of the clearing and grinning with its legion of teeth.
“It will not need you much longer,” the gheist murmured, cocking its head curiously. “Your precious god will discard you, as I discarded that fool Sacombre. Give in to it. Surrender. Why would you hold a god you don’t understand?”
“Not understanding is part of it,” Gwen muttered. “I have Elsa to thank for that.” She struggled to her feet. The bright red petals of the poisoned flowers burst at her touch.
The autumn god fought to get free. She could feel it pulling at her deepest flesh, at the tattered shards of her soul. Nevertheless, Gwen faced off against the swirling darkness at the edge of the field, wondering if it had been a mistake, bringing death to this place. Maybe it would be her last mistake.
“Poor, foolish child,” the gheist hissed. It grew over the clearing, its thin limbs weaving together into a canopy of night. “You were not this god’s chosen avatar. It must have been an act of true desperation, for the witches to sacrifice one so dreadfully unprepared. Have they fallen so far?”
“You talk too much,” Gwen snapped.
“I’ve been caged far too long, and that priest had nothing interesting to say. All damnation and vengeance and war.” The gheist continued to uncoil, reaching dark arms around the clearing, occulting the forest and cutting Gwen off from the rest of the hallow. “There is plenty to enjoy, certainly, but butchery is bland. Tasteless.” It crept closer, black tendrils drifting into the clearing like drops of ink in water. “Nothing as exquisite as the cultivated murder.”
“It’s clear why you and Sacombre got along so well,” she responded, “and surprising that you left him behind.”
“Death is not meant to be leashed, child,” the gheist answered. “Sacombre should have known that, but you mortals, always dancing away from the darkness, thinking you can cheat the final tally. Summer always becomes winter. Birth is only the first step toward death.”
“As winter becomes spring,” Gwen hissed. “You seem to forget that, demon.”
“Demon? You should name me god, not demon.” The gheist swelled to its full height, glaring down at Gwen. “Have you abandoned the faith of your house so quickly? Has the death of your family shaken your beliefs?”
“Death of my…” Gwen shrank away. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. You suspected, didn’t you, but that is different from knowing. Here,” the gheist whispered, withdrawing a little, drawing a spindly arm back as though pull
ing aside a curtain. The air split, and shadows filled the sky. “I brought them with me, so that you might say good-bye.”
A door opened in the shadows, and through it walked Gwen’s father. He was fractured, like a statue roughly hacked apart and then haphazardly rebuilt. Colm Adair’s face was bloodless, the wounds that crossed his body puckered and raw, the skin peeling back like a toothless smile. When he saw his daughter, Colm tried to speak, but no words left his mouth. Only a painful, grating sound.
“What have you done to him?” Gwen demanded. Something began to break inside of her, a pain as real and cold as a knife wound. She took a step forward. “What have you done to my father?”
“What have I done?” the gheist echoed. “Nothing. This is Sacombre’s work… and yours, as well.” It waved another sinuous arm, and two more figures appeared in the shadows. “Your mother and brother fared no better, I am afraid, though their deaths were quicker. Lady Elspeth barely had time to scream, I think.”
Elspeth and Grieg looked much as they had the last time Gwen had seen them, except for scarves of crimson blood that spilled from their throats and onto their breasts, the wounds in their necks still weeping. Young Grieg looked startled, but there was only fear in Elspeth’s eyes.
“The silence is the worst part,” the gheist said, motioning to Elspeth’s flopping lips, the only sound a wet gurgle that bubbled from her severed throat. “Hardly fair. But I can remedy that, and give them voice. Here.”
The gheist floated behind them, the inky tendrils of its body caressing Lady Elspeth’s pale corpse. A shadow passed through her skin and stitched shut the wound in her neck. Gwen’s mother twisted around and took a startled breath, blood dribbling from her lips. Then she turned to Gwen and raised her hands.
“I could do nothing,” she said. “Nothing! Sacombre stepped from the shadows and snatched my son up like… like… as if to hug him. He turned my boy toward me and ran a blade across his throat.” Elspeth’s eyes turned wet, tears spilling down her cheeks. She bent to Grieg, who stood swaying in the field, staring up at Gwen. Elspeth ran lily-white fingers over the sticky wound in her son’s throat, as though she could close it with her touch. Her fingers trembled. “He killed my boy. He killed my son.”
