by Tim Akers
“Best pray she doesn’t make it through to our lines,” Bourne said grimly. “I can’t swear I’ll stay my hand if Colm Adair’s murderer presents herself.”
“Your lord was killed by Tomas Sacombre,” Malcolm snapped, “the same man who tricked Lord Halverdt into war and then, by the gods, murdered him. I know your family has generations of grief against Greenhall, but for today, at least, try to keep your mind on the task, and your axe away from the necks of our allies.”
“Aren’t they calling it Flamehall now, anyway?” Doone asked with a smirk. “We can come up with a whole new series of reasons to hate them once this is all over.”
Bourne grunted but gave no other answer. Malcolm signaled to the squire.
“All advance. Slow advance!” he called. The horn went out, and Malcolm’s thin line began marching toward the celestial forces.
“I would feel better with support,” Doone muttered.
“Aye, but we don’t have enough archers to disrupt their lines. Best to keep them in reserve. Godsbless, the celestials don’t seem to have archers of their own.”
“They do. Just not facing our direction,” Bourne said. “They know the true threat. We’re not even worth their arrows.”
They continued the slow march toward the celestial mass. The line of dark shields was obscured by strands of mist, rising from the ground even though the sun had burned the rest of the valley’s gloom away hours ago. Malcolm watched the line and waited. Horns sounded inside the mass. Black shadows rose and fell, pallid skin glimpsed between waves of fog, a jagged mouth wide enough to sunder a horse, bristling with black teeth. Beyond the celestial lines, Halverdt’s forces rolled forward, their whole front glimmering with light.
“How you think they do that? The light?” Bourne asked.
“I’m assuming they’re on fire,” Doone said. “Dipped their heads in pitch and lit the wick. Pretty much what I’d expect from these sorts of zealots.”
“Don’t say that sort of thing with Galleux around,” Malcolm warned. “She has a low threshold for heresy.”
“Don’t we all, these days?” Doone twisted to watch their own right flank. Galleux and her band of vow knights trotted impatiently toward the celestial line, as neat and prim as if they were on parade in the streets of Heartsbridge. “You think that one takes a pass at us, before this is over?”
“She is the least of our problems, Doone. Eyes forward, please. There is movement in the darkness.”
The movement was confusing at first. The mists had closed over the shieldwall, hiding it completely from sight, and now the wall of fog was churning like a waterfall. Unbidden, Malcolm’s line faltered and slowed, until they came to a stop. The horns repeated the call for advance, but no one moved.
“We’ll be in it soon,” Bourne said eagerly. “I will see the pair of you in the quiet, gods willing.”
“Gods willing,” Malcolm said. Cold fear gripped his heart. Standing a charge of steel and blood was one thing. Waiting for the gods to pour their wrath on you was quite another.
With a snap, the fog receded, leaving only grass behind. The line of shields had disappeared. The banners and columns of knights, only hinted at beneath the mist, were nowhere to be seen. The mist traveled quickly west, toward the Fen.
“They’re running!” Bourne shouted. “With me, lads!”
He spurred his mount forward, sending the lumbering brute into a rolling trot, as fast as the beast would go. Malcolm hesitated, trying to figure out what had happened, how the whole celestial line could have just disappeared.
“Unless they were never there,” he whispered to himself. “Bourne, hold! Steady, all lines, hold steady!” The horns echoed his call, but there was chaos in his ranks. Some of Bourne’s knights followed him, staying even with their leader, while among the blocks of spear and axe, the urge to charge was offset by a lack of targets.
The last of the mist coiled on Malcolm’s right flank, churning like a storm. Doone pointed in that direction.
“They must be there! Trying to break through to the Fen! We must charge, my lord!”
“If they got so far afield while our scouts watched, surely they could have gotten away before we advanced,” Malcolm said. “Why wait until we’re marching closer to disappear? Why?”
“We charge, or they escape! You must signal the charge!”
The squire stood behind Sir Doone, the trumpet tentatively at his lips. Malcolm shook his head.
“It’s not right. Hold the line. If they’ve made the Fen, we’d be fools to rush in after them. We join with Halverdt and combine our strength, then send scouts after. It’s the only way.”
Bourne was still loping forward, his axe held high as he skirted the front of the Tenerran line. Seeing his approach, Sir Galleux raised her golden sword and howled, then charged the coiling mass of fog that hovered a few hundred feet ahead of her. Her group of vow knights followed, pouring out of the Tenerran line like golden wine from a shattered bowl. They disappeared into the gray clouds of mist.
The sounds of battle rose up from the mist. Steel sang against steel, and brilliant light shot through the fog. Doone turned and looked at Malcolm with irritation.
“It’s not right… it’s not right,” Malcolm muttered. He looked across the field at Halverdt’s lines. They, too, had stopped when the mists disappeared, and now seemed at a loss. He shook his head. “Wheel and advance. On the double. Wheel right and advance. Riders, with me!”
A ragged shout went up from the Tenerran line as the flanking blocks of foot turned slowly to their right, shuffling over the uneven ground. Malcolm spurred his riders forward until they were clear of the footmen to their right, then started to wheel them around as well. It was a messy formation, but it was the best he could do.
As they turned, Malcolm looked to his left at the field where the celestial lines had been. The grass was churned up, as though hundreds of feet had marched over it. So they had been there, at one point. But how then did they get so far across the field, and in so short a time?
As soon as his riders were aligned, he called for the gallop, hoping to catch up with Bourne before the big knight and his scattering of followers crashed into the mists unsupported. If he hurried, he might—
Screams rose up to his left. Malcolm turned just in time to see wide piles of grass flip up like shutters. Creatures came out, demons, with skin of stone and root. They pushed through the earth like fish in water, leaving a rut in the ground behind. In their wake, the celestial army rose up, like corpses from massed graves. The nearest of them were practically in Malcolm’s flank before he realized what was going on.
“Flank, flank, flank!” he shouted, and the squire struggled to match his urgency. Malcolm cut across the line of his riders, dragging several along with him as he changed direction suddenly. One knight went down, tangling three more in his wake, and now the center of Malcolm’s column of mounted knights was in chaos without a single arrow being loosed.
The demons crashed into the bloc of spearmen behind Malcolm, the flanks of which were trying to turn to meet the charge. Spears broke like twigs against their stony skin, and soon the sound of tearing flesh and screaming, dying men filled the air. Before Malcolm could absorb that thought, a wave of enemy spearmen met his riders.
He wheeled to face them, throwing down his spear and drawing the black feyiron of his blade. Malcolm could hear Sir Bourne ahead of him, howling like a madman, and the panicked screams of his fellow knights as they tried to wheel. The momentum of their charge had already been broken, and now they were set upon by rank after rank of massed spears.
Malcolm had time to scream his fury before the celestials closed, and then there was only the breaking of steel and flesh, and the roaring sound of his heart beating in his head.
24
IAN STUMBLED THROUGH the great hall, drawing concerned stares from his servants. He waved them off. The pain in his chest swelled, branching through his ribs like lightning, until he was sure his heart was
going to burst. He reached the stairs to his private quarters, but was waylaid by Sir Clough. The young knight, her eyes narrowed and brow creased, took Ian by the arm and led him into a side chamber.
“What is wrong with you? These people are frightened enough without their lord stumbling drunk through the halls.”
“I’m not drunk, it’s just…” He knuckled his wound, pressing until the pain subsided. “It’s nothing.”
“Folam’s wound?” Clough said. “I thought it was no longer bothering you.”
“It wasn’t. But since Gwen left, there have been fits. Nothing I can’t push through, but worrying.” Ian straightened gingerly. “What I wouldn’t do for a priest of Strife. Or even an inquisitor. Someone with godly power.”
“Nothing rest won’t fix. Come, I will see you to your room.”
“No, there’s no time. I must speak to the foreman of the doma, and ensure the repairs are on schedule. No one is going to rest well until there is holy ground within the walls of Houndhallow.”
“Let the foreman worry about the foreman’s work. You must rest.” Before Ian could protest, Clough strong-armed him up the stairs and into his chambers. He was still blinking away the pain as she laid him on his bed. “Now, stay here. I won’t be a minute.”
“Where are you going?”
Clough didn’t answer, but went to the door and opened it with a bow. Nessie nodded to her as she stepped inside.
“This was a trap, wasn’t it? Getting me away from the repairs so she could…” He gestured at his sister in frustration. “You’re in on this together!”
“I had nothing to do with your pain, my lord,” Clough said with a smile. “Though I think the gods sometimes work in ways we can’t understand.” She bowed again to Nessie, whispered a quick, “My lady,” and left, closing the door behind her.
Nessie waited a long minute, staring at her brother and listening. When the outer door to Ian’s rooms latched shut, she came to his bed.
“You’re hurt?” she asked.
“An old wound. It will pass,” Ian said stiffly.
“There are healers in the village. Nothing magical in their herbs, of course, but if they can ease your discomfort—”
“Why are you here, sister?” Ian snapped.
Nessie paused, folding her hands together. She was still very young, but Ian could see their mother’s steel in her face, in the way she held herself. Nessie went to the end of the bed and folded a blanket over Ian’s feet, then sat down.
“You’re avoiding me,” she said.
“I’ve been busy. In case you didn’t hear, there was a battle inside our walls. We’re only alive because I was able to negotiate a peace with Gwen Adair. Even then, our losses were great. The damage to—”
“The damage to this castle is being repaired. By masons, by stonecutters, by carpenters… they don’t need your help. They need you to get out of the way. That’s most of what leadership is, you know. You never noticed it in Father, because you were too busy with the sword, but he was best when he was elsewhere.” She turned awkwardly on the bed, young eyes piercing his. “Why did you kill Tavvish?”
“He rebelled. He disobeyed my orders and took matters into his own hands. He had to be punished.” Ian crossed his arms and looked out the window, flushing. “A lesson had to be taught.”
“And how is he to learn that lesson if he’s dead?” Nessie raised her hand to silence Ian’s protest. “Yes, yes, the lesson wasn’t for him. Tavvish thought he was doing the right thing, the thing our father would have wanted him to do. You weren’t here, at the battle. Master Tavvish stood by my side, descending into the keep only to add his strength to the last lines of defense. He took a terrible wound, trying to protect me. So you can’t blame him for mistrusting the pagans, after all that. You can’t blame any of us.”
“You too? Nessie, the tribes were deceived by Folam, you know—” She motioned him to silence once again, and he swallowed his words. Nessie slid from the bed and paced the room.
“I know your arguments, and I believe them. But you’ve been so hung up on being right that you couldn’t see the trouble you were creating. Perhaps the tribes are truly our allies. But they were never going to find peace here, not so soon after killing so many of our friends. You can’t ask a mother to trust the man who killed her son, just because he was deceived. The tribes wanted to believe Folam. Just like your servants wanted to believe Tavvish.”
“This is not the sister I remember,” Ian said lightly. “Weren’t you playing with dolls when I left for the Allfire?”
“Weren’t you faithful to the church, last we spoke? Did you swear to guard me from any harm? Promises die, brother. People change.”
Nessie leaned against the door, crossing her arms. Where he saw their mother in her before, Ian now saw their father. “What matters now is that the tribes are gone, and the castle is ours. Make it ours, truly. These people need a lord, not an apologist for the pagans. If you wanted to make a case for the tribes, then maybe you should have gone with them.”
Before Ian could answer, she opened the door and left. He lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if she was right.
* * *
It was well after midnight before Ian was able to get to sleep, and even then his dreams were troubled. When he woke up, it was to the unshakable feeling that someone was watching him from the window. He slid from his bed, snatched his sword from the post and crept through the shadows. The air outside was crisp, the winds still, but there was no one to be seen. Ian was about to return to bed when a pulse of agony went through his chest, spreading out from his wound like the roots of an old tree. He rubbed at it, squeezing his eyes shut until the pain passed. When he opened them again, the guards were opening the sally gate in the outer wall. By the light of the guardsman’s lamp, Ian saw three riders enter the castle. They were in dark robes, and carried the black staves of Cinder.
“What the hell?” he muttered. Grabbing his robe, Ian hurried out of his chambers, startling the guard at his door. “Find Clough, have her meet me in the courtyard. And then be sure my sister is safe.” He hurried off before the man could move, rushing down the stairs and stopped in the passageway outside the great hall. The three newcomers were already inside.
They were priests of Cinder. All three looked haggard, as though they had been on the road for a long time. Their leader was perhaps the tallest man Ian had ever seen, though his gaunt frame gave him a look more like a siege ladder than a giant. His gray beard was neatly trimmed, and when he looked around the hall, the priest’s eyes lit up at the sight of the hearth. His companions were unremarkable, each deferring to the giant’s presence. Their robes were tattered and their eyes sunk deep in their faces. Servants scurried around them, offering wine and bread, both of which the priests accepted gratefully.
“They came up the southern road, my lord,” Henri Volent whispered in his ear. Ian jumped and turned to find him wrapped in the darkness of his cloak, skulking in the shadows. “They were riding like the world was on fire behind them. Clough wanted to ask your permission to grant them entrance, but your sister ordered the gates opened.”
“So Clough knows they’re here. Where is she now?”
“Hiding Nessie, much to your sister’s consternation. Your sister trusts too much. Especially when it comes to the church.”
“Well, we just evicted a whole bunch of pagans. I guess we have to trust someone. Do you know these three, from your days in Greenhall?”
“Tall one’s Veureux. A scribe at Cinderfell, last I heard. The other two are strangers, though they could be from the winter shrine as well, for all I know. Veureux was good to my master, but so was Sacombre.”
“I imagine the church of Cinder is scrambling to cover themselves after Sacombre’s heresy. Strange that a scribe would be on the road, though. Ah, they’ve noticed us.” Ian strode from the shadows, still dressed in his robe and carrying the naked blade of his sword like a walking stick. “My frairs,” he said,
raising his voice. “To what do we owe this late visit?”
“The hour is late, though hopefully not too late,” Veureux said. He bowed, introducing himself and his companions, Tession and Macre, all hailing from Cinderfell. “The woods have become almost impassable, with gheists and pagan marauders. We hoped to find friendly patrols on entering Blakley lands, but instead had to fight our way through countless vile spirits before we could win your walls. And even then, we were nearly turned away.”
“As you say, the hour is late. We have recently suffered a treacherous ambush within our own walls, and barely survived the attempt. If our patrols have not met your expectations, frair, it is only because most of my warriors are either dead, watching these walls, or south with my father, fighting the heretics.”
“Dangerous times, my lord. I pray your father is well. Is your mother here, to see to our hospitality?”
“I am your host, and this is your hospitality,” Ian said, waving to the empty hall and his brandished sword. “Now speak your piece.”
“We heard that Houndhallow had fallen, and we felt its doma fall to corruption,” Tession said. “We came to bring it a blessing.”
“From Cinder? Or from the church?”
“They are the same, my lord,” Veureux said stiffly. “Unless you’ve lost your faith in Heartsbridge?”
“Heartsbridge has nothing to do with this. The seat of the celestriarch is hundreds of miles away, and it might as well be on a different star, for all the good he has done us. The celestial church has done nothing to ease the suffering of the north, other than send more soldiers, half of whom fall to heresy as soon as they cross the border. We find our faith in actions, my frairs. So what is your blessing?”
“We wish only to see Houndhallow restored to its holy glory, Ian,” Veureux answered. “Whatever your faith, do not deny that your people deserve some comfort. The comfort the church can provide, even if you will not seek it.”
