Authors: Tim Akers
Gwen backed herself against the side of a meager wooden building, then rolled around it, dragging her leg, though she couldn’t feel it any longer. She looked it over, and found blood streaked down the torn leather of her hunting gear. Was it hers, or had it come from one of those farmers, lying out there on the yard?
Her hands were shaking with anger, with the blade-itch and hunter’s rush, but she had lost her spears, and the dead-faced man was tearing through her men like the plague.
She scanned the yard for a dropped weapon.
It was the growling that brought her back. It was coming from the wrong direction, from near the wall. She looked up and saw the gheist, its hunched back of rough bark and stone quivering. It was staring at her with eyes that looked like shards of frozen sky. Its teeth were nothing more than broken rocks, a mouth full of grinding, splintered stone.
She scrambled in the hay for a fallen spear, fingers digging through cold mud, finding nothing. All she could do was watch as the beast crept toward her, stony claws sinking into the mud, a low, rolling growl vibrating from the creature’s throat.
Her attention shifted as the priest’s old nag stumbled into the pigsty, mud smeared across its chest. Frair Lucas slid easily from the saddle, landing smoothly between Gwen and the beast. He held up his staff, and Gwen saw that it was splintered like a tree struck by lightning. Then she noticed blood and cuts all along the frair’s arms and face.
He had fought his way through.
How had he known where she was? And what sort of priest drew blood as easily as prayers?
Lucas raised what remained of the staff and started a blessing. A skein of whispering shadow gathered around his shoulders, drawn like moths to a flame, the energy slowly coalescing into a web of power. With a shout, he swung the staff toward the gheist like a fisherman throwing his line. The web of darkness settled over the beast’s shoulders, dragging it to the earth.
An inquisitor. The priest was sworn to hunt pagans. Gods damn him!
“This isn’t your fight, my lady,” Lucas said. He kicked at the hay, and her spear hopped into the air and found its way to her hand. “Get your men out of here.”
“The gheist…”
“Mine to handle,” he said. “Gather your men, before you start another war.”
Abruptly the web broke, snapping like taffy. The gheist loped slowly forward. Straight for Gwen. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t support her. She braced herself against the farm building, spear at the ready. Lucas stepped forward, putting himself between Gwen and the demon, holding the shattered staff in front of him like a dueling rod. Lucas started chanting, drawing the shadows from the sky.
The creature didn’t even look at him. A stony shoulder barreled into his hip and the priest was over on his side, fighting to regain his feet as he slipped in the mud. The gheist pushed his rough snout into Gwen’s face, shoving her to the ground.
She lay there, looking up at that mouth of grinding teeth, waiting for the bite. Waiting to die. She couldn’t even summon the breath to scream.
The creature stared at her, eyes of frozen sky hovering inches from her face. Its breath smelled like burning moss.
Then it snuffled at her, a heavy, earthy breath equal parts growl and sigh. It raised its bark-encrusted snout and trotted off, leaping the low wall easily. It disappeared into the woods without looking back.
Lucas helped her to her feet with a skeptical eye.
“You’re lucky it lost interest,” he said.
“Strife be good,” Gwen answered.
“Indeed.” He pulled her to his horse. They had to lean on each other to keep from falling. They mounted quickly and looked around.
Gwen’s men were rushing toward the gate. Many of the knights in Halverdt’s colors were down, but the dead-faced man stood at their middle, blood on his sword and his face. He spotted Gwen and gave her a slow nod.
The priest whipped his mare around and barreled out of the village and over the bridge. The last of Gwen’s hounds joined them, their confused barking mingling with the sounds of the river and the moans of the dead behind them. The air was thick with burning wood and the stink of slaughter.
Gwen gripped the priest tightly, squeezing her eyes shut as they hammered their way toward home.
M
ALCOLM FOLDED HIS
helmet back into its box, securing the laces and padding the visor to keep the delicate scrollwork from becoming damaged. The previous day’s Allfire celebration had left him feeling unsettled.
Not half as unsettled as the tempestuous environment of the tournament, the rising tide of bad feelings that were growing between Tenerrans and Suhdrins. Gabriel Halverdt was continuing to put him off, leaving him waiting in the doma, the throne room… a never-ending parade of empty chambers and offended pride. So that morning Malcolm had withdrawn his name from those who would enter the lists, though several of his knights were still planning to ride. He wasn’t willing to risk it.
Something had changed in the bearing of the Suhdrin knights. Many of them whispered about the Tenerrans, even in their presence, about the gheist’s pagan followers and what the demon might have been seeking. It was an ugly shift in the tournament grounds, like the heavy air that preceded a storm, or the silence of a forest when the predator was hunting.
“Are we leaving already?” Sir Dugan asked. He was standing at the tent’s entrance, helmet in hand.
“Not yet.” Malcolm knelt beside his trunk and began fastening the hinges. “But I would rather be ready, should we need to do so in a hurry.”
“Things are getting rough out there.”
“Things are always rough at the Allfire tournament. Half a city full of drunk knights, sword in one hand and cock in the other. Even the women are murderous. It’s a damn miracle anyone walks out of these things with their skin intact.” Malcolm stood, wincing as his knees protested. “Much less their honor,” he added.
“Still, it’s rougher than usual,” Dugan said. “Round of the melee got called when a Tenerran boy got his skull cracked open by a gang of Suhdrin lads. His brother’s looking for blood.”
“Doubtless his brother will find it,” Malcolm said. “His own or someone else’s. Gordon, my friend, there’s nothing we can hope to do about that. As long as it doesn’t become anything more than back alley fights and the settling of scores.”
“Big fights start in a small way,” Dugan said.
“And we must do the best we can to keep things from getting out of hand. Let the boy have his revenge. If we pen him in, he’ll grumble into his cup and complain to his comrades, and eventually they’ll do something worse. Something organized.” Malcolm ran his hands through the basin of cold water beside his bed, then rubbed the sweat out of his eyes. “Keep it small, get through the Allfire, and go home. It’s the best we can hope for.”
“Ian has said he will enter the lists.”
Malcolm paused, his palms cupped over his eyes, cold water running down his cheeks and into his beard. He sighed as he dried his hands.
“Yes, I know. Once he faced the gheist, there was little chance he would stand aside while others gathered glory to their names.” Malcolm tossed the rag onto his bed. “The city is buzzing with his story. It couldn’t be prevented.”
“But you forbade it.”
“Let’s not pretend that was going to stop him,” Malcolm said, smiling. “If anyone asks, I gave the boy my blessing.”
“And if your son asks?”
Malcolm didn’t answer, but the silence was enough. He finished with the basin and put on a loose tunic, the breast and sleeves of houndstooth, then buckled a blade onto his belt.
Sir Dugan shrugged to himself. “I have guards at the entrance to the tents, and more wandering the lanes. If there’s trouble, we’ll see it coming,” he said.
“Good,” Malcolm answered. “Have the men prepare to leave should things get out of hand. If Halverdt’s hospitality turns sour I don’t want to wait around while the lads pack their breeches.”
“Yes, my lord,” Dugan said. He looked as if he meant to say something more, then slipped through the tent flap and walked away.
* * *
Ian’s head was still pounding. It had been several days since the gheist’s attack, and he hadn’t stopped drinking in that time. Regardless, on the morning of the final melee he stood on the sidelines with a mug of ale in one hand and a poultice on his head, cheering as Martin Roard was drubbed by a heavy man in a leather apron, wielding a hammer clad in wood. He wouldn’t have missed Martin’s humbling for anything.
When it was over and the young Roard heir had been prized out of the mud, Ian met his friend by the exit. Martin smiled shakily, but took the mug of wine he was offered, gripping it in both hands as he drank. Half his body was covered in a cold, thick smear of grime.
“That went well, my friend,” Ian said.
“I felt there were good moments,” Martin answered gingerly, “but I’m not fond of the ending. Could have done with less hammer.”
“So have you lived the moment thoroughly enough? Did you learn something valuable from our peasant farmer with the hammer?” Ian asked.
“Yes,” Martin said, wincing as he raised the mug to his lips, coughing around the bitter wine. “Don’t fight a man with a hammer. I’m sure there’s a bigger lesson there. Something about archers, or not getting off your horse.” He grimaced at his friend. “You know, you don’t have to be so damn jovial about this.”
“As I recall, I was the one who said you shouldn’t be in this melee to begin with, so yes, I will be as jovial as I please.” Ian put an arm around Martin’s shoulders, flinching back when his fingers touched cold muck. “Your current condition is the inevitable result of your poor decisions, Martin.”
“Shove it in your mouth, Ian Blakley. And choke.”
Ian laughed, and after a quiet moment of pained indecision, Martin joined him in a fragile chuckle. They were walking down a street already crowded with the traffic of people just arriving for the day’s tournament, and those who had never bothered to find a bed the night before. The event was scheduled to start that afternoon. Most of these people would maintain a rolling drunkenness through the rest of the week, but for men like Ian and Martin—knights who intended to enter the lists—the previous night had been the final chance for celebration.
They found their way to the ladies’ field, picking up a carry-breakfast of belly and eggs at a butcher’s block, and trading their mugs of wine for some hot coffee. The coffee cut through the fog of their hangovers like a knife, and they took places on the benches as they ate, watching the ladies of the court going through their morning sword forms as they prepared for the gentle tournament.
“How is little Nessie?” Martin asked. “It’s a pity she wasn’t able to make the tournament.”
“My father forbade it.”
“Your father is in the habit of forbidding things,” Martin observed. “What will he do when Nessie is no longer at the age where she will bend the knee so easily?”
“I believe she’s at that age right now. It was Mother who convinced her to stay behind.” Ian sighed. “And the tournament doesn’t hold much interest for her… not yet.”
“Not even the gentle tournament? She seems like she’d be good with the blade.”
Ian shook his head.
“Father won’t allow it,” he said. Martin snorted. “Or at least he discourages it.”
“Why so? It’s safe enough.”
“It’s not a proper Tenerran practice, Martin,” Ian said, rolling his eyes. “‘Women of the tribes do nothing gentle.’ Those were his words when Mother brought the subject up last Allfire.”
“So she’ll be taking up the bastard sword, then?” Martin asked. “Very good. She certainly has the figure for it.”
“I don’t know how to take that, Martin, so I will ignore it. It’s just that Father wants us to do the proper Tenerran things. He has her studying medicines, hunting, training to the bow. He wants to promote the peace, but not at the cost of having his son learn poetry, or his daughter wearing a dress while she pretends to hunt.”
“And what of Hannah Thaen, hm?” Martin sat forward and gestured to the field. The oldest daughter of Duke Ewan Thaen was just entering the field. She was dressed in her family’s blue and gray, the strange padded armor of the gentle art looking more like tapestry than protection. The girls were pairing off, the metal of their target discs flashing in the sun as they began the spear stage of the competition. “She’s a fine Tenerran lass, isn’t she?”
“Aye, and Thyber, too, and MaeHerron and Finnen, as well. You don’t have an argument from me. Besides, it’s not like the men of the tribes bound themselves in metal and rode at each other with lances.” Ian slumped back on the bleacher, resting his back on the step behind. “Nessie doesn’t seem to mind, and it’s none of my business.”
“Her husband might mind,” Martin noted.
“Enough of this,” Ian said. “You ask too many questions about my sister. I have the right to be uncomfortable.”
Martin snorted, slapping Ian on the knee.
“We’ll all have to take wives eventually, Ian—even you.” When Ian frowned, he quickly changed the subject. “I hear your father has ordered his men to pack. Are you leaving early?”
“I’m here for the joust,” Ian said. “Father worries. That’s his right, but he listens too closely to Sir Dugan. The gheist should have reminded us of our common enemy, and our common faith. Instead Dugan is jumping at shadows and fingering his knife every time a Suhdrin knight walks past.”
“Some of Halverdt’s men do the same when they see a Tenerran,” Martin answered. “More than one idle conversation has ended with blades in bellies.”
“It’s the Allfire.”
“It’s more than that,” Martin said. “Have you seen the Deadface?”
“The monster of Greenhall? No, neither hide nor hair.”
“That’s because he isn’t here.” Martin leaned forward, lowering his voice to a rough whisper. “Halverdt sent him out, the night after the gheist attack. There was too much confusion for anyone to notice. Took a full column of knights with him.”
“To hunt the gheist?” Ian asked, and Martin shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he answered. “That vow knight, Sir LaFey—the one who drove the demon off—did not accompany them.”