by Tim Akers
Shock stopped Elsa in her tracks. The nearest army, the one camped at the foot of the Reaveholt, flew the colors of the celestial guard. Thick mists clung to the camp, and the army that held it was bound in shadow and darkness. Elsa sensed something terrible deep inside the camp, lodged there like an arrowhead festering in the wound. She took a step back.
As Elsa stood there, she realized what she was seeing. Even in this form, she recognized the god in the valley. It was the same as the one she had fought at the Fen Gate, and a splinter of it later in Harthal, when she and Ian had met Henri Volent. The god of death, Sacombre’s corrupted heresy, and now it was here. She looked up at the army camped across the valley from it, preparing for battle.
“Houndhallow. Redgarden. The Drownhal and the Feltower,” she whispered to herself, counting the banners. “Malcolm Blakley’s army. But what are they doing here? What are we doing here?”
A horn sounded behind her, and Sophie’s army quickly formed up. Ranks of spearmen lined up at her side, and the cavalry she had watched gallop through the flowers made up the flank.
“Now do you see why we must all sacrifice? What sort of enemy we face?” Sophie asked. Elsa whirled around to see the girl standing beside the spears, most of whom were gawking at her in shock, and ignoring their formations. When Elsa flinched away, Sophie frowned and held out her hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. The opposite, in fact. How’s your hand?”
“You healed it? I have trouble feeling grateful, considering it was your zealots who broke it in the first place.”
“Your hand, yes. But that’s not all that’s broken about you, is it, Sir LaFey?” Sophie took another step forward, and Elsa matched it by backing further away. “Look at who you’re running to. Do you really want to join them?”
“Malcolm Blakley will have me. I have served his son well.”
“His son isn’t with him. Ian is north of here, fighting for his home. The home Malcolm has apparently abandoned, and the church along with it. And I have heard tell that Malcolm Blakley has the blood of an inquisitor on his hands. So before you go running to him, consider that Houndhallow might not be the man you once knew.”
“How do you know these things?”
Sophie gestured to the sky. “The sun shines on all things.”
“That’s such crock. I know how informants work. Does Malcolm know the vow knights at his side have sworn to you? Does Ian? What other trusts have you betrayed, Halverdt?”
“They have not sworn to me, but to Strife. The true expression of Strife, not the pale candle clutched tight in the Lightfort all these years.” Sophie folded her hands at her belt and smiled benevolently. “The Lightfort’s flame can flicker and die. As you know all too well, Elsa.”
Elsa scowled. “What do you know of me, child? I swore the vows before you were off your mother’s lap. I walked the wilds of Tenumbra while you sheltered in a convent, praying to be safe, protected by people like me. And now you think to lead the vow knights? What arrogance! No wonder your father went mad.”
“Do not speak so lightly of the dead,” Sophie snapped, her pristine composure momentarily cracked. “If you and this inquisitor, this Lucas—” she spat the word “—if you had been better at your jobs, my father might not be dead.”
“If your father wasn’t so scared of the dark, maybe he could have learned to truly stand in the light, rather than cowering behind the cloaks of better men.”
A column of mounted knights thundered past, deafening Elsa. She turned to watch them go. They rode down the valley toward Blakley’s camp, flying the now-familiar tri-flame and cross that Sophie had adopted upon her conversion to the vow. Elsa shook her head. When she turned around, Sophie was close.
“Why are we fighting, sworn sister?” Sophie whispered in her ear. “We have a common enemy, and a common vow. You may not agree with my methods, but surely you agree with my goals. To rid Tenumbra of the gheists. Forever.”
“It can’t be done. The inquisition has been trying to do that for ages.” Elsa shrugged Sophie’s arm away. “The gheists can only be held back. I have fought that war my entire life. I should know.”
“You should, and yet you don’t. What if I told you there was a way? A way that you and I could do that, together?”
“I would say you’re a fool, or mad. Probably both. And even if you had such a method, I would be no good to you.” Elsa felt something break inside of her. “The goddess has left me. I can’t reach her, no matter what I do.”
“You can’t reach your pale goddess, no, but that’s not what I’m talking about. True power. Bright power.” Sophie grew warm beside her, the heat coming off her skin making Elsa wince and step away. “The real power of Lady Strife!”
Sophie’s skin had turned to golden light, and her cloak rustled ominously. The pupils of her eyes were tongues of flame. She drew her blade, and the steel sizzled with molten energy.
“I can restore you, Elsa LaFey. I can make you not merely a knight of the winter vow, but the will of the goddess herself. Join me, and wreak havoc in summer’s name!”
Elsa was silent. But she did not run.
* * *
The vow knights camped under the open stars, lying with their feet facing one of the dozens of bonfires Sophie had conjured into flame, which spread outward like rays of the sun. After her talk with Sophie, no one bothered Elsa, or seemed to be keeping a watch on her. She could have left at any time. She didn’t.
When she woke up the next morning, someone had brought replacements for her armor and returned her sword, newly sharpened and resting in a fresh sheath. The armor was mundane, but there wouldn’t have been a point in wearing bloodwrought steel, anyway. Not since Strife had abandoned her. Still, Elsa felt strange settling the plain breastplate over her head, as though she were wearing a disguise.
As Elsa struggled to affix her pauldrons, a young squire stepped out of the crowd to help. She wore the tri-flame and saltire, but also a light gold band around her head, common with initiates to the Lightfort. She buckled the straps of Elsa’s shoulderplate, then held it in place while Elsa adjusted the fit. Before Elsa could protest, the girl bent and started fitting the greaves.
“I do not need a squire,” Elsa said. “I have spent years in the wilderness, donning and doffing my plate with nothing more than the verbal assistance of my inquisitor.”
“Beg pardon, sir, but I think you do,” the girl said. She worked efficiently around the greaves, laying them flat and then wrapping them over Elsa’s knees. She glanced up briefly, catching Elsa in green eyes and golden hair. “Vow knight, eh? You don’t look it.”
“What is a vow knight supposed to look like?”
“You know. Golden armor, charred hair, zealous eyes.” She stepped back, viewing her work, then knelt again to make adjustments. “Strife knows you have the build, though. Mistress LeViere says I’m too slight for vows, but what does she know, cooped up in the Lightfort like a chicken still scared of foxes.”
“LeViere has been teaching initiates longer than you’ve been alive,” Elsa said. “Nearly as long as I have been alive. She has been culling gheists and burning blood since my mother was a knight, and she’ll be doing it long after you and I are gone.”
“That doesn’t sound right.” The squire bounced up again, looking Elsa over with a crooked smile. “Maybe she’s changed. Poor girl just sits in her solarium and reads old books. She’s lost the flame. Maybe that’s what happens when you get old. Are you sure you’re a vow knight?”
“I have distinct memories that lead me to that conclusion, yes,” Elsa said. She picked up her new sheath and buckled it onto her belt, then drew the sword. The girl’s eyes widened.
“That has to be the biggest bloodwrought sword I’ve ever seen! Gods in heaven, how do you wield that thing?” She bent close, running a hand over the fuller. “They’ve got us training with long swords and mercy daggers. Gentleblades, even. And these runes are so fine! Where did you get it?”
“The holy for
ge at Hollyhaute,” Elsa said, and couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice. “A season I was there, bleeding into the coals. The elector said he thought I would die in the effort.” She turned the blade to catch the sun, letting the light play over the deep rust icons of the runes. “But I was stronger than he thought.”
“I just don’t see the point, though. Any bloodwrought blade will do, right? It’s the might of Strife that kills the gheist, not the blade itself. So why such a large sword?”
“Northern gods take more than faith to kill,” Elsa said with a frown. She slid the sword home in its new sheath, wincing at the rasp. “What would an initiate know, anyway?”
“I know enough to see that everyone here is afraid of you,” she said. “Enough to see that you don’t really belong with us. The other vow knights haven’t welcomed you. The priests and their followers are avoiding you. Even the crazy little half-boy wants nothing to do with you.”
“So why are you talking to me?”
“I’m curious what has them all so scared,” she said, then stepped forward and curtsied. “Morganne, if it pleases. Morganne Rouler, initiate of Strife. My teachers didn’t want me to leave the Lightfort, but when I heard an avatar of Strife was holding court in Greenhall, I had to come.”
“Avatar of Strife,” Elsa said with a snort. “Is that what she’s calling herself?”
“It’s what everyone is calling her. Who do you think she is, if not the blessed of the bright lady?”
“A child, in over her head. She doesn’t understand what she’s facing, or why.”
“And you do?” Morganne asked. “Then maybe that’s why everyone is scared of you.”
“Maybe.” Elsa looked down at where she had been sleeping. There was nothing to take with her. Everything she owned or cared for had been left south of the Tallow, along with Frair Lucas. She wondered where he was, what he was doing. And Martin, as well. Surely they would be all right. When she looked up, Morganne was watching her closely. “You said the vow knights have not welcomed me into their company. Do they have some sort of secret meeting place?”
“Secret? No. But they rest and stand watch at the third flame, always between Sophie and the enemy.”
“Take me to them. I will make my own welcome, and see what sort of heresy has settled on their hearts.”
“Oh? And if you find them to be heretics, what will you do?” Morganne asked.
“This blade will cut more than gods, child.” She rested her hand on the hilt. “Now lead the way.”
23
MALCOLM STOOD AT the edge of his camp and watched the last shower of bright color as it drifted slowly to the ground. An army had fallen out of the sky, and was now forming up in opposition to the celestial army. A column of knights was risking the open ground, riding hard and fast toward Malcolm’s position. He didn’t recognize their banners, but they wore the armor and confidence of vow knights. The celestial army was already adjusting, trying to cut them off.
“Friend or foe?” Jaerdin asked.
“Gods know. But if they’re friends, we’ve just about got an even fight on our hands.”
“And if they’re foes?”
“Then we are still helplessly overmatched, and doomed to die in glory,” Malcolm said cheerfully. He clapped the duke of Redgarden on the shoulder and smiled. “So the more the honor, and the better the tales will be told of our bravery.”
“You have a touch of madness, Houndhallow.” Jaerdin tugged his cloak closer to his neck, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “I’m not even sure which you’re hoping for.”
The riders reached them. They were led by a young woman, her long hair drawn back in a tangle of braids, her armor as bright as the day it was forged. She waved at them, then drew her riders to a halt.
“Lord Blakley, Lord Jaerdin! It is good to meet you on such a glorious field!”
“That remains to be seen,” Malcolm answered. “For whom do you ride, and for what purpose do you greet us?”
“I am Sir Galleux, knight of the winter vow. I ride under the banner of Sophie Halverdt, lord of Greenhall, and true avatar of the Lady Bright. She has taken the winter vow, and sworn to rid the north of the gheists, and finally avenge her father’s betrayal at the hands of the heretics of Cinder. And as to my purpose, I was ordered by my lady to seek your alliance, so that we might join our forces, and crush the apostate scum!”
Malcolm turned to Jaerdin, beaming. “See, Redgarden. We might not die gloriously after all. A pity.”
* * *
Malcolm marched to the head of his lines and surveyed the battlefield. The celestial army had taken on a surreal quality since the arrival of Halverdt’s force. A constant mist hung over their ranks, and among the bristling squares of spears and proud banners of knights, other shapes loped and howled. Whatever pretense of holiness the celestial army had previously maintained was gone. They were an army of demons, bound to flesh and sworn to dark forces.
“You see now what we face,” Sir Galleux said. She had stayed at Malcolm’s side since the alliance with Sophie Halverdt had been signed, acting as Halverdt’s representative in the Tenerran army. “Their true selves are revealed. Is any sacrifice too great to counter such a threat?”
“I get nervous when people start asking questions like that,” Malcolm said. Before Galleux could say anything more, he continued. “But it’s good to have them out in the open. If Sacombre had worn this face in Halverdt’s court, I don’t think any of us would be standing here today.”
“Sacombre depended on the shadows, and the dark god’s mask, else his task would have been incomplete. This type works best in darkness. We will expose them to the light, and see how flame fits their guise!”
“Yes, well. Has Sophie Halverdt made her preparations?”
“See for yourself.” Galleux pointed to the south, where Halverdt’s glittering forces lay. A steady pulse of light was gathering in their ranks. The celestial ranks were trapped between Halverdt’s troops and his own, waiting to be cut in half. “Dawn has come to winter, and Strife’s fury with it.”
Malcolm didn’t answer. Galleux and her companions seemed fond of lofty talk, and it made him uncomfortable. They spoke of summer and Strife as though they were endless, and winter as a pox to be cured. Worse, they never named Cinder anymore, calling him the dark god, or the god of masks, or simply the grave.
Malcolm worried at how far the heresy had come. But he had an inquisitor’s blood on his conscience, and perhaps because of that, the questions Catrin DeBray had once asked him came to mind: What was wrong with hating the grave? Why venerate winter? He couldn’t remember the answers he had given her.
The faithful celestial in him shivered at these thoughts, but he couldn’t deny them. Love of his wife had brought him here, and yet he wasn’t sure Sorcha would approve of this company.
“Gods grant that you’re right,” he said finally. “It makes me uneasy that they are willing to act so openly, though. There must be some trap in it.”
“They only reveal themselves now because they’re desperate. Because they know they are up against a true man of faith, and the lady bright. Their time is at an end, and so they draw all their power. They can no longer hide.”
“Or because they no longer wish to hide,” Malcolm said wearily. “Because they know their strength is enough to crush us utterly. Because the deception is no longer necessary.”
“You need to learn to trust in the light of Strife,” Galleux said.
“And you need to learn what you’re truly up against. You haven’t faced these monsters in battle before. I have.”
“I am a knight of the winter vow, Reaverbane. I have killed more of these feral gods than you will ever see,” Galleux answered confidently. “I know how this battle will go.”
“Facing a single gheist, lost and unworshipped, is not the same as meeting a column of mad gods directed by a mortal soul. And before you answer, I will remind you that every gheist you faced, you did so with an inqui
sitor at your side, to guide and temper you.”
“We no longer need the harness of the dark god,” Galleux said. “We are free to burn as we must. My knights and I will see to the flank. Be bathed in summer’s light, Blakley.”
“Burn well, sir. And pray you are not consumed.”
“If that is what the goddess requires, then so shall I give,” she answered with a laugh. When she was gone, Malcolm turned again to the misty ranks arrayed against them.
“What are you still hiding, you bastards? What lies under that cloak of fog?”
He was still musing when the battle horn sounded. On the opposite line, the growing light of Halverdt’s army turned into a steady glow. Ranks of shields glimmered like small suns, and the knights wheeling on their flank left trails of embers in their wake. Between Malcolm’s line and that of Halverdt, the thick mass of the celestial army shifted, ready for battle.
“I suppose we’ll find out in the charge,” Malcolm muttered. He waved to his squire, and spurred his horse forward. “Form the lines. Prepare for the charge.”
A ragged cry went up as Malcolm joined his few remaining knights. Their plan was simple. Advance, hold the celestials in place while Halverdt fell on them with her full strength, then provide the anvil against which Halverdt would crush the celestial line. If they were lucky, they would smash through the celestial line and cut them off from retreat into the Fen. Halverdt and Blakley would form a crescent, pinning the celestial army against Bassion’s forces in the Reaveholt. He could only hope that Bassion would fight on their side, once she saw what was unfolding—that her fear of the celestials would overcome her hatred of Tenerrans.
If it didn’t work, the celestial army could disappear into the woods, and gods knew where they would go. Malcolm didn’t like the idea of tromping through the Fen all winter, looking for mad priests and bound gheists.
“Sir Bourne, Sir Doone, you are with me today,” Malcolm said. Most of the mounted knights he was bringing to this battle were actually Bourne’s sworn riders. Rather than split them up, Malcolm kept them at the core of the battle line. They were flanked by ranks of spear and axe. “Remember, our job is to threaten, but not fully engage. Leave the killing to Halverdt.”
