by Tim Akers
Kesthe, or whatever force had consumed her, threw her arms wide, cackling. Mist crept up from the ground, especially thick in the forest that surrounded them. Gwen backed away until she bumped into Sir Bruler. The Suhdrin knight was watching the elder’s performance with sword in hand.
“This has gone dark in a hurry. But I don’t think the rangers are going to like it if I just walk over there and put a sword into their elder’s belly.”
“No, no, I don’t think—”
Someone screamed in the forest. Everyone whirled around, just in time to see one of the rangers stumble from the trees, clothes disordered, and eyes white with fear.
“Hands! Hands in the mists! Gods spare us, elder, what have you done?”
Those closest to the forest stepped back, drawing swords and soothing nervous mounts. The mists were dark and thick, winding between the trees, hiding the trunks from view. As the forest disappeared around them, the mist reached into the air, blotting out the sun as well.
“Enough of this!” Bruler said. He marched over the Kesthe and raised his sword. “Leave the grave where it is, witch!”
Bruler was stopped by a tug on his foot. He looked down and saw a hand emerging from the gravel road, the skin as thin as paper, wasted to the bone. He tried to pull away, but the hand moved quickly, dragging him away from the elder. Bruler fell, screaming as he was pulled toward the forest.
All around the road, people started to scream. Horses bolted, throwing their riders, as hands, claws, and less identifiable appendages grabbed at their legs. Those who fell to the ground quickly fell silent; stone-hard hands crushed their skulls, pressed into their eyes, tore out their bellies with blunt fingers. The mists grew thicker, swallowing their screams.
Gwen threw down her spears and ran at Kesthe. The elder grinned at her approach, gesturing to the ground.
“Do you dance, my lady? Even the dead like to dance.”
The hands that grabbed at Gwen were lithe, the soft skin somehow more horrendous than the rough fingers that were digging through the rest of her cadre. They moved with liquid grace, sliding over Gwen’s legs, flitting aside when she struck at them with her axe, plucking at her heels, pinching her toes. She stumbled forward, barely keeping her feet, not wanting to fall victim to the dead.
“You have to fight it, Kesthe,” Gwen shouted. “If I can do it, surely an elder of your stature is able!”
“Why should I? This seems a fitting end for you, and those foolish enough to follow you. Oh, I’ll admit to a certain hesitation, but what is the grave but emptiness? And what is more empty than the void?”
Gwen hesitated, a little shocked at Kesthe’s pronouncement. It almost cost Gwen her foot, as one of the thin hands gripped her ankle and twisted, throwing her to the ground. She rolled into a ball, hacking at the hand and severing it at the wrist. Cut off from the ground, the strange hand turned to dust on her blade. As soon as she was free, she jumped at Kesthe, keeping clear of the ground as she flew.
Kesthe saw her coming, and raised her staff. The elder swung, but Gwen wasn’t attacking. She only needed a touch, and if she was willing to sacrifice, it was easy enough. Kesthe’s staff cracked into her shoulder, but Gwen’s hand came down on the elder’s face. That moment of contact was enough. Gwen opened the wounds of her soul.
A presence hung on Kesthe like a scarecrow, clinging to her soul, wrapping through the fibers of her being. A bad stitch in the complex tapestry of the human soul. Gwen reached through the elder, grabbed the corrupted strand, and pulled.
Kesthe went rigid, eyes rolling into the back of her head, arms out. She dropped her staff. The corruption resisted, twisted as it was into the elder’s bones, at home in a witch so accustomed to the grave. But Gwen was relentless. She drew the darkness into herself, pulling it free of Kesthe like a bad tooth.
Black veins grew around Gwen’s eyes. They shot out, creeping down her cheeks, forming a ring around her neck, burrowing into her chest. It hurt, like whiskey poured into a wound, but Gwen held on. It only fought her for a moment, a moment that seemed like an eternity, but then the corruption snapped free of Kesthe’s soul and buried itself in Gwen.
The two fell apart like lovers fainting from the effort of their embrace. They landed flat on their backs in the center of the road. Kesthe’s face faded back to its former state, young and beautiful, her skin unblemished. The veins on Gwen’s flesh receded, but only a little, their darkness lurking beneath the surface, waiting to strike. The two women lay there for a long heartbeat, staring up into the sky.
The hundred grasping hands collapsed into dust. The mists rolled back into the forest, gone as fast and unnaturally as they had arrived. Gwen sat up.
“What happened? What did you do?” Bruler asked, staggering over from the forest’s edge.
“The gheist was corrupted. Some remnant of the void spirit, woven into its soul. Whatever is happening here, the void priests are involved. I was able to draw it out like poison, but it has settled into the wounds left by Fomharra.” Gwen sat up and winced. “I don’t know how often I can do that.”
“Nor do I,” Kesthe said. “But I thank you. It was like the grave had turned sour… evil. It was a nightmare waking.”
“Only thing I know about drinking poison, it’ll kill you eventually,” Bruler said.
“Yes, it will. Don’t be there when that happens,” Gwen said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen when this thing gets out of me.”
“Where else would I be at such a moment, but at your side,” Bruler said. He sheathed his blade and looked over at Kesthe. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to treat with the Orphanshield now, huntress. You look more demon than girl.”
“I never meant to treat with him. He has taken my castle, his church has taken my gods, and his heretic has taken my family.” Gwen stretched out her hand and saw the whorls of shadow squirming under her flesh. “And the void has marked me, for good or ill. We need to move quickly.”
“What would you have us do, huntress?” Kesthe asked. There was a hint of humility in the elder’s voice.
“This changes nothing. Whether the Orphanshield has surrendered to the void heresy, or whether he has been deceived by one of Sacombre’s kin, the man has taken my home, and I mean to take it back.” Gwen stood and dusted off her trousers. The surviving rangers stared at her in horror. “Gather these men and lead them to the castle. I want you hammering on the gates in twenty minutes. Thirty, if you want to bury the dead first.”
“Where will you be?”
“Going over the opposite wall,” Gwen said. “I need to see what’s happening in my father’s house.” She paused. “My house,” she said stiffly. “My home.”
28
THAT NIGHT, LUCAS dreamt that his heart was torn from his body and replaced with a shard of ice. He woke up, gasping for breath, clawing at his chest. Martin rolled to his feet, sword already in hand, looking around frantically.
“It’s nothing, nothing at all,” Lucas said. But it was something. When Martin kept staring at him, Lucas waved a hand. “I think the weather will be changing soon. That’s all.”
True to Lucas’s vision, the next morning the weather turned hard into winter. Heavy snow fell from the moment they awoke, quickly piling up and making the road near impassable. They hunched close to their saddles as they rode, the world beyond their hoods disappearing into a veil of heavy snowflakes and dark trees, trusting the horses to keep to the road. The snowfall dampened every sound, until they were left with nothing but their own ragged breath, and the squelching clomp of their mounts.
It wasn’t until the patrol surrounded them that Lucas heard their approach. The black-clad riders overtook Martin and Lucas, wheeling to cut off their advance, riding tight beside, until their knees were touching. Lucas threw off his hood, blinking into the snow.
“Whoever you are, we are friends. We mean no harm.”
The lead rider laughed, pulling her mount close to Lucas’s side. Her shield was covered in burl
ap, and she wore a heavy cloak over her armor, so Lucas couldn’t tell whose banner she claimed. The knight leaned close, peering into Lucas’s face.
“How can anyone be a friend to all? Surely you have some loyalties, old man.”
“Only to the gods, and the church,” Lucas answered. Beneath his robes he laid a hand on his dagger. “It has always been my call to befriend everyone in Cinder’s name. Even those who would name me enemy.”
“Generous, and often fatal.” The woman cocked her head. Her hair was bound in a long plait that looped around her neck like a scarf. “You are Frair Lucas, unless I miss my guess. I saw you at Greenhall, dining with my lady.”
“You serve Sophie Halverdt?” Martin asked. The knight glanced at him and snorted.
“I am not that sort of fool. My cadre hails from Galleydeep, though Lady Bassion has led us to this foul clime. How anyone survives in this weather is beyond me, or why they would want to defend it.”
“I recognize you, Sir Tasse,” Martin said cheerfully. “We crossed spears at the Allfire, two seasons ago.” He sketched a bow in his saddle, sending an avalanche of snow tumbling down his forehead. “Sir Martin Roard, of Stormwatch.”
“Indeed we did, Sir Roard,” the woman said with a crooked smile. “A good tussle was that. The young struggle with such energy, if not much form. The last time I saw the two of you, you were escorting the heretic Sacombre to Heartsbridge. Has his justice been served?”
“Yes and no,” Lucas answered. He pulled his hood close, covering his exposed neck. “And while this meeting is fortunate, the weather is not fit for conversation. Do you have a shelter nearby where we could sit? I will explain it all.”
“Shelter? Yes, we do.” Tasse wheeled her mount. “A whole bloody fortress of shelter. I trust we can find room for you. And my lady will want to hear your explanation.”
“Fortress?” Martin asked.
“Aye!” she answered. “Lady Bassion has taken the Reaveholt! Quickly now, before the sun sets, and winter has its teeth in our bones!”
* * *
The great southern gate of the Reaveholt, never before taken by Suhdrin spears, never opened but in peace, stood wide open. The colors of Bassion hung from its walls, the banners sodden with snow. Martin and Lucas clattered across the drawbridge and into the main courtyard. The space was crowded with horses and tents and dozens of campfires. Tasse pulled them up short.
“Stay here for a bit. Lady Bassion is touring the infirmary. She will want to see you directly, I imagine.”
After she had ridden off, Lucas leaned in to Martin, whispering. “I never thought I would see this keep fallen. But there is no sign of battle, no broken walls or shattered gates. I wonder what became of Sir Bourne.”
“That man would not have given up without a fight. Unless there was treachery involved, he would have given battle.”
“Yes. And yet, here we are.” Lucas looked around the courtyard, counting banners and tallying houses. “This is the army that Bassion took north, to reinforce the Fen Gate. Seems they never made it.”
“Fewer of them. And look, priests of Cinder, and knights of the celestial guard. When did they join the fight?”
“Gods know,” Lucas said. While the priests were free to move around, their tents were surrounded by guards, all keeping an uneasy watch on their every motion. And the celestial guard had their armor, but not their arms. “But they don’t look too happy, or too well trusted.”
They were interrupted by the approach of Lady Bassion. The duchess of Galleydeep strolled out of one of the keeps, surrounded by a dozen guards and two knights of the winter vow. She wore her hood high and tight to her face, and was dressed for battle under her cloak of black and gold.
“Have they been searched?” Bassion asked Tasse as they drew near.
“No, my lady. This is Frair Lucas. You remember him from—”
“Search them,” Bassion snapped, folding her hands at her waist. Lucas couldn’t help but notice that she was shaking. “How dare you bring them into my presence without searching them first!”
Sir Tasse bent to the task, helping Lucas from his saddle and handing the reins of both their horses off to a squire before going through Lucas’s cloak and bag. He surrendered his dagger and the few remaining implements of the naether. Martin offered his sword, but Tasse seemed uninterested in it, or him. When she was done, the knight bowed to Lady Bassion.
“They are clean, my lady. It is safe.”
The vow knights flanking Bassion did not let down their guard, though, and Bassion herself seemed timid as she approached. Finally she threw back her hood, and Lucas understood better.
“My gods, Galleydeep, what happened to you?” he asked, staring at the puckered, blackened scar that covered half her face.
“I was twice betrayed. First, by my faith in Cinder and his servants, and secondly by Lord Blakley.” She related the tale of their battles, when the priests had slaughtered their own and raised gheists in the midst of her army, and then the ambush that had eventually led to the capture of the Reaveholt. Lucas suspected she was leaving much out.
“And what of you?” she asked. “What became of Tomas Sacombre?”
“Dead. Though he escaped for a while, it seems his rescuers only had so much use for him. We buried him south of Gallowsport,” Lucas said. “And then we followed Halverdt’s army north. For a while.”
“Was their departure as strange as their arrival outside my walls?”
“They’re here? Thank the gods. They have my vow knight.”
“Then she is probably lost to you,” one of the vow knights said, a tall, thin man with hair as black as night. “A heresy grips Halverdt’s force. She has swayed many loyal knights of the winter vow into her fallacy. With Lady Bassion’s help, we hope to crush it before it spreads.”
A harsh wind blew through the courtyard, causing Lucas to grab his cloak and pull it tight to his throat. The cold stole his breath away. When he looked up again, Bassion and the vow knights were looking to the sky with fear.
“I know you’re southern born, my lady, but surely a winter wind is not cause for fear,” Lucas said. “We are north of the Tallow, after all.”
“It is not the wind that frightens me. It is winter. Terrible things have happened outside these walls,” she said. “And more terrible things are to come. The wind is the least of it.”
“What have you seen?”
“Come. The words are not enough,” she said. “But stay close. There are many here who will not trust a priest of Cinder, no matter whose blessing they have. It would be best if you don’t stray from my presence. There’s no telling who might seek their revenge.”
Lucas furrowed his brow, but Bassion turned sharply and marched back to the keep. It was the northern tower, the same one he and Sacombre had ridden through, months earlier.
As they walked, Lucas kept his eyes open. The clutch of priests of Cinder watched them closely, almost longingly, as they crossed the courtyard. Most of the soldiers ignored them, beyond paying homage to their duchess, but more than a few gripped swords and scowled at Lucas. The back of his head itched, as though hundreds of eyes were boring into it, but every time he turned around, all he saw were knights looking hastily away.
“I don’t understand Bassion’s story of the battle. Why would priests of Cinder summon gheists and kill their own? It makes no sense,” Martin whispered as they passed into the keep. Even here there were no signs of struggle. Lucas wondered what had become of Bourne’s servants. He would have to ask, if Bassion ever showed any friendliness.
“It makes sense if they’re no longer priests of Cinder. You saw Sir Horne and her companions. Dressed like priests, but calling to the old gods in Gallowsport.” He paused as they started climbing the winding stairs up, waiting until the vow knights escorting them had fallen far enough behind to offer some privacy. “I imagine this is the same order, though I have no idea to whom they pray or at which altars they swear allegiance.”
; “Could they be pagans? Who else but the tribes hold a leash to the gheists?”
“If they are pagans, then they are the worst of the tribes, because they bend most of their power to destroying the old ways. Sacombre hated the tribes.”
“And Horne killed him, remember. He may have been fooled this entire time,” Martin said. He was about to continue when they came out onto the roof. The view took his breath away.
On the fields below the Reaveholt and stretching nearly to the horizon, three armies were camped. Just north of the gate lay hastily constructed trenchworks, dug through ground that should not have yielded easily to pick or shovel. Banners of the celestial church hung over the trenches, tents spotted the land beyond, and a massive bonfire twisted into the sky. The other two armies camped close together, with only a little space between them, and that patrolled by knights of both forces. The white and black of Houndhallow hung over the smaller camp, while the larger flew Halverdt’s new sigil. A great number of vow knights moved throughout that camp.
“Our new heretics,” Bassion said quietly. “Sophie Halverdt, and Malcolm Blakley. We are running out of faithful souls in the north.”
Lucas heard her words, but did not mark them. His eyes were drawn to the center of the fields, where a great battle had clearly been fought. Weapons and bodies lay strewn across the ground, but that is not what held his attention.
It was there. The emptiness he had sensed in his dreams, slowly collapsing, and drawing the world in with it. Whatever had happened here, the void it left dragged on his soul.
“It is the heart of winter,” he muttered. “Drawing in death, and darkness with it. Cinder is falling into this place. Cinder and all his graves.”
29
IAN DRESSED QUICKLY and went down to the ruined doma. Volent was waiting in the courtyard, surrounded by about a hundred nervous guardsmen, recently dragged from their sleep to watch three priests say their prayers.
“You don’t trust these three, do you?” Volent asked. “Not with all that’s happened at the Fen Gate?”
