Authors: Tim Akers
“That’s as may be,” Malcolm said. “We have the spears that the gods have given us. We must not pray for more.”
“Hope is never worth much on the field of battle, anyway,” Ewan muttered. “So easily lost, and so falsely given.”
“I look forward to fighting at your side,” Castian said grimly. “It will be an uplifting experience, I’m sure.”
“Enough,” Sorcha hissed before an argument could take wing. “There are riders ahead.”
A crown of banners crested the next hill. There were few riders for the number of pennants that flew—no more than three dozen knights, with nearly a dozen colors aloft. When the riders sighted the Tenerran party, two of them trotted to the lead together and unfurled another flag. White, the banner of truce and parley.
“Perhaps your scouts only counted their banners, and not their spears,” Grant MaeHerron rumbled. They were the first words he’d spoken since they had ridden out of the Fen Gate that morning. Ewan Thaen didn’t answer.
“DuFallion, Marcy, even Bealth,” Castian said, counting off the banners that flew over the small contingent. “I hoped they might join our cause.”
“They seem to have decided otherwise,” Ewan said.
“We hoped that Roard would treat peacefully with us as well,” Sorcha said. “All know how that turned out. And their banner is before us as well.”
“Yes,” Malcolm craned his neck to see the riders beneath the yellow of Roard. “It is the father, but not the son.”
“Whatever that portends,” Sorcha said.
“I see Marchand, LeGaere… gods, the colors of all Suhdra fly in that contingent!”
“Not all,” Castian pointed out, but the others ignored him, for the sky was crowded with the banners of most of the great houses of Suhdra—the golden barque of Bassion, the peaks of Fabron, alongside Galleux, Thoussert, Maison… and the tri-acorn and cross of Halverdt rode above them all.
Malcolm let out a long and withering sigh.
“I don’t like this,” he said.
“You advised us to stand together,” MaeHerron said. “Did you think the lords of Suhdra would do any differently?”
They rode in silence until the lead riders of the Suhdrin contingent were close enough to hail them. The pair drew to a halt, signaling back to the Suhdrin knights, who also stopped.
“Stay here,” Malcolm said, then he turned to his wife. “If they draw steel, return to the Fen and prepare the walls. Do not wait for me.”
“I came all this way to rescue you, husband,” she replied firmly. “Do you think I will leave you to their care?”
Malcolm shook his head, then trotted forward. The rest of the lords and their guards joined him.
* * *
The man holding the banner of peace was a knight of the church, his house and name cast aside to serve the celestriarch, though he hadn’t taken the winter vow. He was clearly Suhdrin, though. The rider beside him was Marcus Beaunair, high elector of Lady Strife.
“Houndhallow,” the high elector called. He had lost some weight, and his smile was lacking the brilliance it had carried when Malcolm last saw the man. “We have come far, my brother. Farther than I wanted, I must admit.”
“High elector,” Malcolm greeted him. “Things in Greenhall did not go as we hoped.”
“No, they did not, and they have only gotten worse.”
“Why are you riding under Halverdt’s banner?” Malcolm asked. “Has Heartsbridge finally given its blessing to this madman’s war?”
“There is no madness in honor, sir,” the Celestial knight hissed. Beaunair gestured to him dismissively.
“Ignore Sir Gissert. He is freshly sworn, and still has the zealot’s fire in his belly. I ride with Greenhall because I wish to finish the task I set you to, Malcolm.”
“You still seek peace?” Sorcha asked.
“Many of us do,” Beaunair said. He nodded back to the riders on the hill. “You will not find allies among them, but you will find mercy.”
“What if we are not seeking mercy, but justice?” Colm Adair hissed.
“Then you may lose both,” Beaunair answered. “Come, speak to them. They will not harm you in my presence.”
Malcolm looked among his fellow lords. Ewan Thaen shrugged, then spurred his horse forward. They signaled for their guards to wait, then rode together in a line with Beaunair slightly ahead, and Sir Gissert trailing behind. The Suhdrin lords awaited them at the crest of a sharp hill, their number spread across the road and onto the verge on either side, nearly to the trees. It was a subtle reminder of their number.
Such subtlety didn’t last long, though. As the Tenerrans reached the crest of the hill, the valley beyond came into view.
“Sweet and blessed gods.” Malcolm whistled.
“Where have they… how…” Colm muttered.
“Now we know what kept Halverdt at the Tallow for most of a week, I suppose,” Castian said. Beaunair twisted clumsily around in his saddle.
“Yes, my lords. You see, while you may find mercy in the south, if you reject that mercy, you will not like the justice they provide in its wake,” he said.
The valley was full of spearmen, archers, hosts of knights and the endless streams of wagon trains and marching columns of pike and axe and sword. The land bristled with the weapons of war. A ceaseless drone drifted up from the valley, the clattering rush of thousands upon thousands of boots hammering the ground. It was the inexorable sound of war.
“They have brought peace,” Malcolm said to himself, his voice distant and lost in the spectacle before him. “And the blades to force it.”
* * *
It was agreed that a Suhdrin delegation would travel to the Fen Gate the following day. Then the Tenerran lords returned to House Adair as quickly as possible.
Colm spoke to his manservant, then saw to it that Blakley and Thaen were comfortable in their quarters. When an appropriate amount of time had passed, he slipped through the kitchens and descended the hidden stairs to the depths of the castle.
The witch was waiting. Only a single candle flickered in the darkness. She sat impatiently on the altar. Colm entered the room and knelt in the middle of the floor.
“I do not like the things I’m hearing, apostate,” she said.
“I have no choice, my lady. The Suhdrins have arrived in such force that they will not be denied. I can’t ask the other lords to die defending something they no longer hold holy.”
“Most of them would turn you over to the inquisition, rather than say the rites in this place,” the witch replied. “What of the hallow?”
“This castle may fall, and my name be burned from the peerage, but if we keep their attention here, they will never find the witches’ hallow,” Colm said. “Or at least that is my hope.”
“The hallow does not stand without this castle, nor without this family.” The witch crossed her arms and frowned. “We require your authority among the lords to ward against the church’s influence, as well as your right to appoint the huntress of this march. A huntress who answered purely to the church would ruin the balance of the Fen.”
“We live to serve, my lady.”
“Of that there is no doubt.” The witch stood and circled the room, trailing a hand over Colm’s shoulders as she passed. “Who is coming? Who will be part of this delegation of peace?”
“The duke of Greenhall, as the offended voice, and his attendants. Lorien Roard and his son, representing the lords of Suhdra who seek peace beneath the church’s banner, and a couple voices from Heartsbridge.”
“Priests,” the witch said with a frown. “That Frair Humble sleeps beneath this roof is bad enough. The spirits bless us that he’s enough of a fool to ignore the heresy under his nose. Let’s hope these representatives are as easily deceived. No inquisitors, I trust?”
“The high inquisitor, I’m afraid, along with the high elector of Strife.”
“Well…” The witch slumped against the wall. “Fuck.”
“Aye,” Adair agreed. “We can only hope that they will be occupied enough with the negotiations to stay away from these chambers. You may want to leave the village while they’re here.”
“No, you may need me,” she said. “Pray that you don’t, but if matters become that dire, it’s better that I am here than not.”
“It will not come to that,” Colm answered.
“Only the gods know for certain, and they have not seen fit to make things easy on us.” She pulled him to his feet. “Listen closely, Colm of the tribe of iron. Your family has worked hard to preserve the hallow. Generations of witches and their shamans are in your debt, and now the weight of your debt may be lifted, but only if a final price is asked.”
“Final price?”
“Yes. If the high inquisitor is in danger of discovering this place, or any evidence of the god that we all keep close, you must do anything you can to prevent that from happening.”
“Of course,” Colm said. “We have always—”
“Listen,” she said. “
Anything
. You must be willing to die, and to kill, and to betray those who are closest to you. Even your family.” The witch lifted the single candle from its nook in the wall and held it close to her face. “If the gods ask it, you will burn this castle to the ground and sow the earth with the blood of every man, woman and child within its walls.”
Colm stood silently, staring at the flickering flame. The witch remained impassive.
“I have lived to serve,” he said finally, “and will die to serve, as well.”
“Yes,” she answered. “You will.”
Then she blew out the candle, plunging them into absolute darkness. He heard neither footfall nor rustle of clothing, but he knew he was alone in the shrine. He stood there a long time, listening to the quiet of the stone, breathing in the remnants of smoke.
T
HEIR CAMP WAS
wrecked, but one of the mounts, Frair Lucas’s stubborn and self-serving mule, had torn free of its bridle and watched the carnage from the next ridge. As soon as the gheist was dead, the mule trotted down the hill and resumed his morning meal among the rough grass of the Fen. Lucas laughed when he saw the beast.
“He’s seen a lot,” Lucas said. “Can’t blame him for being alive.”
Elsa had said little since the fight’s end. She hovered over the frair and kept a sharp eye on Gwen. The vow knight had taken everything from her that resembled a weapon, from her spears to her table knife, along with the crystals hidden in her belt and the minimal jewelry on her arms. Anything that might be an icon of the old faith.
Between them they were able to get the frair down the hill and onto the mule. They gathered what little remained of their camp and started east. Lucas urged them to hurry, though he wouldn’t say why. They went as fast as his injuries would allow.
The frair’s face was gray and slack, and a swollen knot of blood and bruise squeezed one eye shut. He slouched forward in his saddle, both hands gripping the pommel tightly, swaying with each step. Even the mule seemed concerned for his rider, slowing on inclines more than was his habit. Elsa walked by the frair’s stirrup, one hand on the mule’s ribs, moving her gaze rapidly between Lucas’s pale face and Gwen, who led them through the forest.
Gwen was surprised that they let her walk unbound, and was just as surprised that she didn’t run the first chance they gave her. She wondered if there was some sort of mystical compulsion binding her to the priest and his knight. The ways of the inquisition were little known and mythically powerful. Nothing about Lucas’s reaction to her attack made any sense, though.
They didn’t speak through the afternoon, except for Elsa’s occasional warning for Lucas to take care. Night found them closer to the hallow than Gwen preferred, but far enough away that the pagan wards had stopped blurring their path. Elsa chose a sheltered valley between two rocky hills. She and Gwen eased Lucas from his mount and set him on a log. The saddle was sticky with blood from some hidden wound, the sight of which sent Elsa into a furious tirade about his health. Lucas waved her off, leaned against a mossy tree, and dozed off.
“Stay with him,” Elsa said tersely. “If anything further happens to him, I will take it out of your flesh.”
Gwen nodded wearily. The vow knight disappeared into the gloomy trees, returning some time later with an armful of kindling.
“Should we be making a fire?” Gwen asked. Elsa didn’t answer. Once the flames were going, she took a kettle from the frair’s bags and began mixing an earthy tea that seemed more dirt than leaf. She brewed in silence, pouring a cup for the frair and putting it under his nose.
“Is there enough for everyone?” Gwen asked quietly.
“You wouldn’t want it. Tastes like hoof.”
“Never had hoof,” Gwen said.
“There’s a reason for that,” Elsa said. Frair Lucas started as the smell reached him, then took the cup and forced the tea down.
“So I’m not dead,” he said. His voice was rough, as frail as he looked. “That’s nice.”
“How do you feel?” Elsa asked.
“Not dead. I’m not sure I can commit to more than that.”
“What are we doing?” Elsa asked.
Lucas didn’t answer for a little while, swirling the dregs of his hoof tea in the cup and eyeing it maliciously. He sipped some more, held it in his mouth, then leaned forward and spat it into the fire.
“Running,” he said.
“From what? The gheist is dead, and Frair Allaister is to our south. We have to do something with her,” Elsa said, barely indicating Gwen.
“I’m not sure. Not exactly.” Lucas closed his eyes and leaned back again, breathing deeply, as though he was tasting the air in his lungs. “As the gheist attacked, I could sense Allaister’s presence. He drove that demon toward us.”
“You said he held sway over the demon,” Elsa said. “So why are we running? Why not face him?”
“They are strong enough to crush us, Sir LaFey. You may be fit for battle, but I’m not.” He opened his eyes and peered at her. “In fact, I suspect you are less fit than you would allow.”
Elsa didn’t answer. She looked uncomfortable for a while, then went back to the fire and busied herself disassembling the kettle and stowing things back into the frair’s bags. Gwen watched her for a minute, then turned back to Lucas. The frair was eyeing her closely.
“What will you do with me?” she asked eventually. “I’m the one Frair Allaister wants. If they catch us together, they will demand my head.”