The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  There were dozens in line behind her, and dozens more riding in the horse-drawn van. Small groups had been joining their path throughout the morning, coming in fives and tens. Sometimes it was just a knot of shamans in the company of their witch, other times it was the witches alone. For every face that wore the holy ink, a dozen lesser servants ghosted through the forests, simple worshippers answering to the call of the old gods.

  How many are in this caravan? she wondered. How many more await us at this conclave?

  “There are more of us than you think,” Aedan said, appearing suddenly at her side. She jumped, and suffered for it. “Among the trees. Beyond the shadows. Is that a surprise to you? Our numbers?”

  “Surprised to see so many,” Gwen answered, “when so few came to my family’s aid.” The shaman unsettled her, but she wasn’t going to let him get under her skin. “Or does defending Tenerran land mean so little to you?”

  “We are free people,” Aedan said. “Your title means nothing to me, nor your border. The true faith has suffered at Tenerran hands, as much as we have suffered from the actions of the Suhdrin.”

  “At least you could have saved the wardens of the witches’ hallow,” Gwen said. “They died to protect Fomharra.”

  “As was their duty,” Aedan said. “It is your duty, as well, and yet you live, and the Harvester is lost to us. Celestial blood fouls the hallow.”

  “I am tired of making excuses to you!” Gwen snapped. She stopped walking, waiting until the shaman paused and turned to look at her with hard eyes. “You are not my judge, nor my lord. We have guarded the hallow for generations, while you hid among your precious trees and sulked about the crusades. My only sin is action, and I will not be condemned by those who refused to act when it was needed!”

  Aedan stood and stared at her for a long time. Then he stepped closer, his bulk looming over her, the darkness of his face like a cold fire pit.

  “Three children have I lost, and two wives,” Aedan said. “It was a priest that took them from me, in Cinder’s name and with Strife’s fire. When the priests came for them, scrying their souls against the song of ancient gods, what did House Adair do? Where were the spears of the Fen Gate, or Houndhallow, or Farwatch?” There was anger in his voice, but also a weight of loss that even Gwen found staggering.

  “Those priests found warmth at Tenerran hearths, and were born of Tenerran blood,” he continued. “So if there’s judgment to be handed out, or vengeance to be sought, it will not be mine.” He gathered up his cloak and turned away. “The gods will judge you. The gods will weigh you. And the gods will take their vengeance.”

  Gwen was about to answer when a low horn sounded from the trees. A change went through the caravan, caution traded for excitement. The outriders poured onto the path, and from the front of the van Cahl scampered up a gnarled trunk to respond to the horn with his own deep-throated howl. Yipping replies came back through the trees. Aedan looked Gwen up and down with distaste in his eyes.

  “I should kill you here,” he said. “Before you contaminate the hallow.”

  “I think Cahl would have something to say about that,” Gwen said cautiously. Her hand brushed her belt, where her weapons should have been. “And the conclave, as well.”

  “The conclave!” Aedan said. “So like a Suhdrin lord, depending on the council of lesser souls. No, child, I will not kill you, but know that you don’t belong here. That you will never belong with us.”

  “And where are we?” Gwen asked. “This place where I do not belong?”

  “Someplace truly holy,” Aedan said. “Holier than your blood should foul.”

  “I’ve walked the witches’ hallow, and worn a god,” Gwen answered. “It’s not your right to tell me where I may or may not walk.”

  “I will leave it to the gods,” Aedan replied sharply, then lurched closer, his smile cold. “May they judge you true.”

  9

  THE AIR IN the stables was thick with incense, the smoke hanging in the narrow space like pulled molasses. A collection of young priests stood solemnly around, busy with the mundane tasks of making the place livable. An older man stood next to one of the stalls, twisting his large hands together nervously. Inside the stall, the hay had been burned away and the stone floor beneath scoured clean.

  There were five priests, but only one who mattered. The inquisitor. He was tall and thick, a tree of a man with iron-gray hair shot through with silver and a neat beard that almost covered the scar that ran from the apple of his throat to his temple. He wore the robes of his office over a suit of fine chain, and stood with his palms resting on the hilts of two feyiron long swords.

  Malcolm recognized him immediately.

  “That’s the Orphanshield,” he whispered to Sir Doone. “Heartsbridge is taking this seriously.” The other four priests were barely of age to take the vows. The man was known as the Orphanshield for his habit of gathering the unfortunate—those who had been cast off—into his doma, seeing to their health and education. From these children, the frair selected the brightest to enter the priesthood. They served as his attendants in the doma and his companions on the road. Of the four he had brought to the Fen Gate, two were of Cinder, and two were dedicated to Strife.

  “In my experience, rogue gods tend to summon the attention of the inquisition,” Doone answered. “He has already started taking a toll.”

  Curiously, Malcolm looked around.

  “What became of the horses?” he asked. Sir Doone shook her head sadly.

  “Dead,” she answered. “The inquisitor did it himself. The Adair beasts, anyway. Ours are still stabled outside.”

  “So it might have been a mistake, you’re saying, housing him in the stables,” Malcolm said. “Whose idea was that?”

  “There’s nowhere else to put him. At least here, the air already smells of shit.”

  Malcolm stifled a snort, which drew the attention of the inquisitor. The man turned and loomed closer, his hands extended.

  “Houndhallow,” he said, his voice deep. “I am Frair Felix Gilliam, sent by the inquisition to bring Cinder’s judgment to this place. Winter’s blessing be upon you.”

  “Frair Gilliam,” Malcolm said, shaking the inquisitor’s hand. The grip was strong. “I know your name, though I am surprised to find you outside Heartsbridge’s holy walls. I thought your days on the road were at an end.”

  “I walk whatever path Cinder requires of me,” Gilliam said, “and this is a serious business. There is deep corruption here, Houndhallow. I am sorry about the horses.”

  “They weren’t my horses, and I don’t think Adair will have much use for them anymore,” Malcolm said. “Though if you find the need to spill any other blood, please let me know first.”

  “Of course,” Gilliam said. “Unfortunately, the girl was dead before we got here. Her father may live, though.”

  “What girl?” Malcolm asked.

  Gilliam grimaced, then drew something from his robes. It was a bit of metal, black with char, as though it had been lying in flames. The inquisitor held it up. It was a blade, wickedly barbed and carved in pagan runes. The handle had burned away, leaving only the tang.

  “There was a child hidden here, along with her father. When the…” Gilliam made a broad gesture, taking in the castle, the sky, the gods themselves. “When whatever it was that happened during your battle came through here, it changed them. They were tucked away in some kind of heathen pocket, a glamour of some sort. Pagan trickery, but it burst. Like a pipe trying to carry too much water.”

  “That sounds horrific,” Malcolm said.

  “Yes. I feel bad for the child.”

  “And the father?” Malcolm asked.

  “The father made his own mistakes. There is no room in my heart for sympathy, not for such a man. That he lives is mercy enough. But I did not summon you to discuss the man,” Gilliam said, turning to the stall.

  “You did not summon me at all,” Malcolm said sharply, but the inquisitor ignored him.
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  “What we found here is cause for worry,” Gilliam continued. “This was the work of a powerful witch. I thought at first that Adair’s crime was one of knowledge. The secret of a hidden god, while terrible, does not carry power with it. There are those in Heartsbridge who believe the pagans who remain are nothing more than peasants singing in the forests. That only the memory of the gheists has sustained them.”

  “The feral gods are not threat enough?”

  “They are predictable. Manageable. It was thought that the ability to bend them to a human will was lost. We hunt the pagans because their worship sustains the gheists, but few believe that they could actually control their gods.”

  “Few in Heartsbridge,” Malcolm corrected. “It’s common knowledge in the north.”

  “Well, in the north, there can be no accounting for the superstitions of…” Gilliam paused, glancing uncomfortably at Malcolm before continuing. “As you know, the knowledge of Tener is not held in high regard in Heartsbridge.”

  “Why would it be? We’re savages, right?”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” the frair said. “There are many things that, as you say, are common knowledge in Tener yet are clearly false.”

  “Perhaps the celestriarch can ask the high inquisitor about superstition. In particular, the bending of a god’s will to your heart,” Malcolm said grimly. “Sacombre found that one more than true.”

  “Dangerously so,” Gilliam said. “But it is not my place to judge him. My point, Houndhallow, is that there was a powerful witch here. Perhaps it was one of Adair’s blood— the wife or the daughter. Perhaps the baron himself.” He waved the charred blade in his hand, then tossed it on the ground, where it struck a spark. “Most likely the child’s mother. In which case we must find her.”

  “If she lives, wouldn’t she have fled?”

  “Whoever she may be, the witch is still here, or someone just as powerful. There is still a corruption within these walls, Houndhallow,” Gilliam said. “When I came through the gate, I could taste it in the air. Your men can sense it. The guards I passed were harried. They are tense, nervous, on edge. The pagan taint of this place haunts them.”

  “They are on edge because not a month ago, two gods ripped open the sky over our heads, and now the remnants of a Suhdrin army camp outside our gate,” Malcolm said.

  “There is more to this than the fear of violence,” Gilliam said with great certainty. He turned back to Malcolm, resting his wide hands on the hilts and looming close. “They fear for their souls,” he growled. “They fear the night.”

  Malcolm sighed. They fear the church, you fool. It was your high inquisitor who brought this war. Yet there was no use trying to explain. The blessed of Cinder saw only what they wished to see.

  “Our journey was too long,” Gilliam said, “and we were delayed by those Suhdrin fools. We will start searching the grounds immediately. In his reports, Frair Lucas mentioned chambers that lie beneath the castle.”

  “Yes. Hidden beyond the crypts.”

  “We will begin there. I want a pair of guards assigned to each of my acolytes, good men and women of Suhdrin birth, and…”

  “You may not have noticed, Inquisitor, but there are few Suhdrin blades within the walls of this castle.” Malcolm did little to hide his anger. “Do you not trust my Tenerran faithful?”

  “Forgive me, Houndhallow, but I can’t be sure of them,” Gilliam answered. “They may have been corrupted by Adair’s heresy.”

  “Tomas Sacombre is Suhdrin born.”

  Gilliam shrugged.

  “I am not going to argue this with you, Houndhallow,” he said. “I will not risk the blood of my children on the faith of Tener. We have been deceived once. You trusted Colm Adair, and look where that has gotten you.” Gilliam brushed past him. “This is a godsdamned mess, this business. I’m charged with making it right, and I shall. With your help, or with the help of those Suhdrin blades you seem to hold in such high contempt.

  “Catrin!” he snapped. One of the priests of Strife, a young girl with silk-white hair and frail features, looked up nervously. “Send a messenger to Duke Marchand, have him provide us with a dozen men-at-arms, and a knight if he can spare one.”

  “Redgarden has men in this castle,” Malcolm said crossly. “Castian can spare your dozen. There’s no need to seek aid in Halverdt’s host.”

  “Lord Halverdt is dead, Houndhallow, and frankly, I have had enough of the spat that cost him his life!” Frair Gilliam rounded on Malcolm, pointing angrily. “I will have guards from the Suhdrin camp, and from your host as well. You will learn to stand together with the church, or we will know why you stand against us.”

  Malcolm clenched his jaw and ground his fist against his thigh, but he kept his mouth shut. Once his initial rage had passed, the duke of Houndhallow bowed.

  “As you wish, Frair Gilliam,” he said. “I will select my best men for your service. But know this—if Marchand’s men spill an ounce of blood…”

  “Put your threats away, Houndhallow. I am done listening to them.”

  Malcolm collected himself, then turned and left the stables. Sir Doone was waiting in the yard.

  “We are going to have more visitors,” he said. “The inquisitor wants Marchand’s men helping guard his precious acolytes.”

  “Well, that’s a joy,” Doone answered.

  “Indeed,” Malcolm answered. “Today has been a source of endless happiness.”

  * * *

  MaeHerron gladly volunteered a dozen of his own men to share duty with the Suhdrin, and another dozen to watch their backs. Wherever the priests went, a long string of tense swordsmen followed close behind, their attention split between their wards and one another.

  Once everything was arranged to the inquisitor’s satisfaction, Malcolm personally led him to the underchambers of the Fen Gate. The crypts had already been scoured, the stone floors as free of dust as the day they had been formed. Gilliam noted this.

  “This is the cleanest crypt I have ever been in,” he said. “Adair must have frequented these halls.”

  “It’s clean because we cleaned it,” Malcolm said. “There were a half-dozen bodies between here and the kitchens, all butchered. We’re pretty sure that was the high inquisitor’s work. The manners of their death seemed like his handiwork.”

  “His handiwork?”

  “Sacombre acquired a taste for drama,” Malcolm said. “He took to tearing his victims limb from limb. He took Colm Adair apart like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “Gods be good, that must have made it difficult to bury the baron.”

  “Not at all,” Malcolm answered. “The body was gone when we went looking for it. His and the rest of the family, as well. Assuming they truly died, as Sacombre claimed.”

  “A bloody business,” Gilliam muttered.

  “Precisely. Which is why these crypts have been scoured— but those that lie beyond are another matter,” Malcolm said. “You’ll see.”

  They came to the stairs leading down. The smell of death drifted up, as sharp and bloody as a slaughterhouse. The inquisitor struck flint to his lantern, then led the way down. The children stayed behind.

  It was a long descent, made worse by the increasing stink and an uncertain feeling in the air, a horror that clung to Malcolm’s skin like cobwebs. The inquisitor slowed, raising his lantern, examining the walls, and muttering to himself.

  He’s delaying, Malcolm thought. I wonder if the old man has gotten soft in Heartsbridge.

  The first tangible sign of trouble was the blood. It was spattered against the stones, a pattern of handprints that crawled from stair to ceiling to wall as though they flew through the air. At the edge of the lantern’s light, the room opened up. Gilliam paused again, peering at the prints.

  “Leaves,” he said. “I thought at first it was hands, but no.” He beckoned Malcolm closer. “Though it looks devilishly like a hand. Some kind of ritual marking, I think. Nothing to do with the attack.”

  “Unle
ss the hand itself was made of leaves,” Malcolm offered. The inquisitor shrugged, then turned to the open chamber. The room was narrow and high, the ceiling lost in shadow. Niches striped the walls, each holding a small collection of tools that twinkled in the light. An altar nestled against the far side. There was blood and a body and shadows that seemed to move on their own.

  “The evil is sharp in the air. We must shrive this place, before it can be uprooted.” Gilliam rested his lantern on the altar and produced a small satchel from his robes. He began sprinkling the contents around the room. The air immediately filled with the overwhelming stink of pine and roses and heat. Puffs of smoke curled up wherever the poultice landed.

  Malcolm examined the body.

  “This must be the stable girl’s mother,” he said. The cold stone had preserved the horror of her death, despite the time that had passed. There might have been some magic to it, as well. “She has no ink.”

  “The pagans sometimes deceive us with their guise,” Gilliam said. “The savage markings of the old ways speak too truly of the heretic’s heart. It is no wonder that she is unmarked.”

  Malcolm rubbed the tattoos on his cheeks. “I will see that she is buried,” he said.

  “The body must be burned. Here. Corruption of spirit might remain in her flesh. We daren’t risk infecting the castle. Once I have sanctified these walls we will fill in the chamber and seal the stairs. That is the only way to be sure of ending the danger.”

  “I can’t imagine she will rest easy, sealed forever beneath the stones of the Fen Gate.”

  “A witching wife has not earned the peace of the quiet house,” Gilliam said. “She made her choices.”

  “Frair Lucas was of a more merciful mind—” Malcolm started.

  “And by the reports I’ve read,” Gilliam said, “Frair Lucas could have prevented all of this, if he’d been of a stricter disposition. He had young Gwen Adair in his hands, even followed her to the witches’ hallow, only to let her slip from his fingers. He was merciful, but winter is not a season of mercy, Houndhallow, and I am here on winter’s business.”