Authors: Tim Akers
“Through the Fen?” Halverdt snorted. “Yes, a brilliant thought. Why feed my knights to the gheists one at a time, when I could lose them all at once? The Fen is thick with pagan danger. No army can march through it.”
“Your men will be safe in the company of my priests,” Sacombre purred. “Whatever danger the Fen presents, the strength of Cinder will protect you. And Frair Allaister will lead the company personally. No other man is more capable of seeing you safely through.”
“What makes him so capable?” Halverdt asked. “He looks more pagan than the huntress bitch.”
“Indeed I was. Born to the shaman’s way, but I have seen the cold heart of reason,” Allaister said. “As to my knowledge of the Fen, I must admit, I have never walked those paths.”
“You would have the blind lead the foolish, Sacombre?”
“Not blind,” Allaister said. “I have in recent days been tracking a certain gheist. It was summoned by pagans in Gardengerry, and has traveled north ever since.”
“Wait a damned minute,” Lucas said. “I’ve been hunting this same gheist. Sir LaFey and I have followed it from Gardengerry, and she did battle with it outside your walls, my lord.”
“And still it roams?” Halverdt asked.
Elsa bristled and stepped out from behind Lucas.
“You ask what the frair knows of battle, but I ask what you know of killing gods?”
The room grew tense, and the light changed. Lucas turned to see that Elsa had flared her goddess, the subtle lines of sun-bright energy pooling in the runes of her dented armor. He smiled.
“My lord, my brothers,” he said. “I’m afraid that if this hunt is to travel north, I must insist on coming along.”
“So you can warn the Tenerrans?” Volent asked. “No, I think not.”
“I have no side in this war, if war this is to be. My only service is to the faithful of all Tenumbra, and to their protection.” Lucas settled his eyes on Halverdt. “This is a dangerous gheist, my lord. The town of Gardengerry lies in ruins. Disaster in Greenhall was only averted by the presence of Sir LaFey, and the brave action of Malcolm Blakley’s son. If Frair Allaister and his company are to be busy protecting your men and easing their passage, then someone else will have to see to the gheist. Sir LaFey and I will serve that duty.”
Halverdt grunted, but made no move to deny Lucas his request. The duke looked to Sacombre.
“Very well, Frair Lucas,” the high inquisitor said. “Your talents will be welcome.”
“What of the other lords?” Halverdt said. “I can’t withdraw from the border without weakening their position, or drawing the attention of the Tenerran dogs. Will they be consulted?”
“That is the gift of this plan, my lord,” Sacombre said. “You need take only a small force: several dozen, say, drawn from Greenhall, rather than from the border outposts. Gather men who have not yet been sent forward, and the other lords will never know what we do.”
“Why am I keeping such a secret from my fellow lords of Suhdra?” Halverdt asked.
“Blakley has spies among us. He must,” Sacombre whispered. “Redgarden has already betrayed his blood, and whispers speak of treachery in Roard, and DuFallion. Who else might abandon his brothers and stand with the pagans? We can’t afford to take any chances.”
“A small force,” Halverdt said. “Fair enough, but the scraps I have at Greenhall will not make much of a threat. Recruits and codgers, the lot of them. I have trouble believing they can take the Fen Gate.”
“Lord Cinder has foretold it,” Allaister said. He bent his knee before the duke. “Your victory is assured.”
“Assured, yes, but still,” Sacombre gestured to Sir Volent. “They must be led, and who better to lead them than your knight-marshal?”
Volent looked startled, as much as his numb features could show surprise. He shook his head.
“I will not go into the Fen, my lord. Not for gods or glory.”
“Do you fear the gheists, Sir Volent?” Sacombre asked.
“I fear nothing,” he said, “but my place is at the border, leading my lord’s men to victory.”
“And so you shall. Final victory.” Sacombre drifted to where Volent was huddled against the canvas wall. “It is your blade that will end this war.”
“He’s right, Henri,” Halverdt said. “They will need a true leader: a warrior to drive them, and a blade to inspire them. You are both.”
“My lord, I should not…”
“Silence. You will do this.” Halverdt turned back to Allaister. “This gheist that you track. How will it help me?”
“After the battle at Greenhall, I was able to find an artifact of its summoning. Something you should have discovered, Frair Lucas,” Allaister said sharply. “It will let me track it through the wilds, no matter where it goes.”
“How will that get you to the Fen Gate?” Frair Lucas asked. Allaister ignored him, keeping his eyes on Halverdt. He treated the question as if the duke had asked it.
“Because it is going home, my lord,” Allaister said. He drew something from his robes and held it up in his palms. It was an iron gauntlet, scarred and pitted as though by acid. The shadows of the glove slithered in the flickering light of the tent. Lucas was reminded of the corruption he had seen in the bear spirit, and the shimmering blackness that Elsa had described to him as the gheist’s main form. The gauntlet itself looked like the crest of House Adair, and could easily have come from that family’s collection of tribal icons.
“It is seeking its master,” Allaister said, “and we will follow.”
T
HEY PUSHED THE
boat into the middle of the western ford, its flat bottom grinding against the smooth stones of the river as it beached, then hung a white flag from the prow and started pouring the wine. Ian settled into the makeshift bench and table that dominated the vessel. He waited. Martin Roard splashed across the ford on his charger and swung from his saddle directly into the opposite bench. Ian smiled.
“This is hardly dignified,” Martin complained. He took his flagon of wine and squinted into it, then drained it and poured another.
“Last we spoke, you were still recovering from the peasants’ melee,” Ian said. “You have little cause to complain about dignity.”
“That was a tournament. This is war. War will always be violent, unforgiving, horrifying and messy. All in all, undignified. Which is why it is incumbent on us to maintain whatever dignity we can manage.”
“Which is why we’re sipping wine in a raft under a flag of truce, rather than rattling our swords and gnashing our teeth across a field of battle,” Ian said. “Appreciate what you get, Martin.”
“If this is what passes for wine in the north,” Martin muttered.
“You are an odd man, Sir Roard.”
“Odd enough. So.” Martin set his flagon aside and rested his hands on the table. “How’s the rebellion?”
“Rebellion?”
“That’s what they’re calling it,” Martin said. “The high inquisitor and his happy little band. They’re saying all manner of things. That Tener is withdrawing from the Celestial church. That you’ve appointed your own electors, and your own celestriarch. That MaeHerron is turning Suhdrin pilgrims away from the winter shrine, or holding them hostage, or planning on destroying Cinderfell.”
“All ridiculous,” Ian said. “Halverdt’s just trying to stir trouble in the south. Convince you to join your banners to this ridiculous crusade.”
“Why do you think I’m here?” Martin asked. He glanced over his shoulder at the ranks of spears, the rows of tents and pillared campfires spread out on the hills behind him. The banner of House Roard stirred lazily among the tents, alongside Marchand and LeGaere. “My father pressed to hold this flank alone. The high inquisitor doesn’t trust us, Ian.”
“And if Marchand and LeGaere march across this ford, will you march with them?” Ian asked. Martin drank slowly from his flagon, pausing to refill it and stare sightlessly down the river before he answered.
“Nothing is known today,” he said. “Sacombre is making a difficult case. House Adair’s actions cannot be denied, and they are deeply suspicious.”
“Suspicious in what way? That Gwen decided to stand up to Henri Volent, rather than stand aside and let him commit slaughter?”
“The gheist, the summoning, even the priest that rode with her. Apparently this Frair Lucas is something of a rogue in the inquisition. Not got the best reputation. It was his attendant vow knight who rescued you in Greenhall.”
“What in gods’ names has that got to do with any of this?” Ian sat up straight, forgetting the wine half-raised to his lips. “Martin, there was a riot in Greenhall. Not because of anything that we did, but because that monster Volent spread his lies and got Marchand to overstep the bounds of the tournament. That man tried to kill me.”
“It’s a tournament,” Martin mumbled. “People get hurt.”
“Gods, listen to you. I thought we were friends.”
“We are, and not just you and I. Our houses. Which is why I’m here.” Martin fiddled with his wine for a minute more, then set it aside and leaned urgently forward. “You need to promise me something.”
“I don’t like the way this is going.”
“Just listen for a minute. Sacombre has more than convinced the majority of the Suhdrin lords that this is the beginning of a war. Not against Suhdra, or the church, or even against Halverdt. People are starting to believe that this is a war against the gods themselves.”
“Martin, you can’t believe that,” Ian said. “You know my heart as well as any man. I’m faithful to the church, if not all of its priests. Especially not to the inquisition. But that doesn’t make a heretic of me.”
“Yet you have the tribal ink, and that pagan dog in your tombs…”
“That is a matter of tradition,” Ian snapped. “Not faith. I’m Tenerran, as you are Suhdrin. We’re not going to tear down our houses and put up white marble villas, just because our walls remind you of the old ways.”
“It makes things difficult. You must know that,” Martin said with a sigh. “There are murals of the Spirit Wars—”
“Call them what they are. The crusades,” Ian interrupted. “The pogrom.”
“Names, hundreds of years old,” Martin said dismissively. “There are murals of battles in the halls of my home. I have seen these murals since I was a child, of Suhdrin knights and godly priests fighting the hordes of the mad spirit warriors from your history. Abominations of man and god tearing through holy men, their blood painting the trees of the forest, and rank after rank of tribesmen, each face scrawled with the pagan script. It’s a difficult image to forget.”
“Men like Sacombre make sure no one forgets,” Ian said tightly. “Especially those in the north.”
“Ian, don’t take it personally. I have knelt with you at the Frostnight, drunk your health on the high days and seen your ashes on the low. I know you’re a man of the gods.” Martin paused and leaned back. He couldn’t bring his eyes to meet his friend’s gaze. “What I don’t know is the faith of your fellows.”
Ian was silent for a long time. The river flowed around them, the skip creaking roughly against the riverbed, the distant sounds of two war camps drifting over the water.
“You believe him,” he said finally.
“No, not… not entirely. Sacombre has an agenda, and there’s something else going on. I don’t know what. There were many priests, all traveling with him and his little army…”
“And I am supposed to surrender, simply because Sacombre has a couple dozen guards among your banners?”
“Half our number, maybe—but that’s not the point. Most of his priests are gone. Disappeared in the night, like bad dreams. No one’s seen Sir Volent, either.”
“Gone back to Greenhall?”
“Ian, you’re not listening to me. I think House Adair is manipulating you. All of you. I think they want a war with the south.”
“Was it House Adair that drove us out of Greenhall? House Adair that nearly killed me on the tourney ground, or hunted our host through the forests of Suhdra and chased us to the banks of the Tallow, killing our people as we ran?”
“No, but Gwendolyn Adair tossed the stone that created that avalanche,” Martin said. “And Gwendolyn Adair was waiting for you at the Tallow, ready to join your strength to hers. I think you know less of her than you should.”
“I know enough. I know her name, and I know her blood.” Ian stood, shifting the balance of the raft ever so slightly. The prow began to nose into the current. “We are Tenerran, and we will stand together.”
“There is more to faith than culture, Ian. Don’t forget that.”
“You asked for a promise,” Ian said. “What is it?”
“If we come across this ford…
when
we do,” Martin answered, “find me. I can offer you sanctuary. I’m not sure the other Suhdrin knights can make that promise.”
“When you come across this ford, Martin, you should find me.” Ian vaulted over the raft’s side and landed with a splash in the water. “But all I can offer you is my blade, and I’m sure the other Tenerran knights will be eager to make the same promise.”
A
NEW FOREST WAS
gathering at the border. It was a forest of banners, pavilion hills, and fields of spears massing along the Tallow, with another closer to the Fen, much larger. The survivors of the disastrous battle of the Tallow had reformed, reinforced by new columns from the south. An army of Suhdrin lords and their loyal men.
Gwen watched them from the limestone bluffs, an area of sheer cliffs and rough water known as the Redoubt. Her men were camped along the flat tops of the bluffs, all taken from the force alongside which Malcolm Blakley had refused to ride during the previous week’s battle. She counted five dozen good spears under her banners, most of them men-at-arms, with half that many archers and half again knights. All told, she had just over a hundred men to hold a border so long it would take five days to march from one end to the other. It wasn’t enough.
“I don’t think Houndhallow understands the task he has given us,” Gwen muttered.
“He knows it well enough,” Merret said. “Just as he knows only an Adair can hope to hold this land.”
“Perhaps, but the Suhdrin numbers grow by the day. It doesn’t seem as though Castian Jaerdin’s letters found many receptive ears.”
“True,” Sir Merret agreed. “Even spread across the whole border, there are too many.” He stood beside his lady on the bluff, supporting his weight on the banner that flew her colors. “More than enough to see us finished.”