Authors: Tim Akers
His blade fell away.
Slowly, Sir Leon ambled forward, picking up the hammer and resting the head against Ian’s chest. The weight pressed Ian deeper into the mud.
“Enough of this, Blakley,” the knight said. “Confess your heresy. Seek the counsel of the gods.”
“The gods… the gods…” Ian struggled to get air into his voice. The hammer pushed him back. “The gods damn you, Eduard Leon.”
“Sharp to the last,” Leon said. “Well, your father would be proud.” He removed the hammer from Ian’s chest and lifted it high over his head. “A death worthy of the Reaverbane’s son.”
“I think not,” Ian said, then he rolled aside. The hammer buried itself into the mud. Ian grabbed the haft and levered himself up, driving his back into Leon’s chest. The knight lost his grip, growling as Ian wrestled the weapon from his hands. Before the man could pull away, Ian slammed the hammer’s head into his shoulder—only a short, sharp swing that dented armor, but couldn’t break the bones beneath.
Still, the arm hung nerveless.
Ian drew a blade from his belt, then shoved Sir Leon back and to the ground. The knight landed with a terrible thud, his head snapping back. Ian drew the knife once across the thick leather and chain at the man’s neck, his full weight behind the short blade, roughly severing the armor and exposing the flesh.
With the knife in both hands, he stabbed down into the neck, once, twice, over and over until the flesh was a ruin of spouting blood, and the tip of the knife broke against his opponent’s spine.
Then Ian stood. He was drenched in the knight’s blood. His pagan braids dripped red, the runes on his face were lined in gore, the rough leather of his armor slick and bright. He tossed the knife aside and grinned fiercely at the circle of Suhdrin spears all around.
“The hound,” he whispered. “The hallow.”
They roared and charged at him, reckless in their fury. He closed his eyes and waited to enter the quiet.
The charge was interrupted by the ranks of Roard faithful. The sound of battle erupted around him, and Ian opened his eyes again to see yellow cloaks and the flash of blades. He stumbled back. A hand settled on his shoulder, pulling him free of the melee. He looked up into Martin’s mud-flecked face.
“Fall back to the castle,” Martin said. “Leave some glory for the rest of us.”
* * *
“Your son fights well, my lord,” Sir Doone said. Malcolm grimaced and spat on the floor.
“He fights like an animal,” Malcolm replied. “Like a pagan.”
Regardless of Malcolm’s disapproval, however, Ian’s attack had cleared the space around the gate and broken the brunt of the Suhdrin assault. However the group of Suhdrin fighters that had snuck through the sally gate and broken into the gatehouse was still there. The gatehouse was isolated from the rest of the castle defenses, a tower with its own arrow-slits and heavy door, so that if the walls were scaled the defenders of the gate would be able to hold the gate and keep the courtyard from being flooded. In this case, however, this design worked against the defenders. Now that the gate was open, the small group that had gained the gatehouse was able to repel the defenders who were trying to reclose the portcullis. Cut off from any support, they barricaded themselves inside, and had crossbowmen among their ranks.
“Sir Doone, gather a small group of hard men. Keep eyes on the walls and the sally gate. We don’t want to thin our ranks along the perimeter, but I need a number of good swords at my side.”
“I can be blade enough, my lord. They’re only Suhdrins,” she said.
“I like your faith, but I lack it, as well. No more than a dozen should do—and a wagon.”
“A wagon, my lord?”
“Yes, with high sides and fine walls. The baron should have something appropriate in his stables. And have them fill it with hay.”
“Are we seeking to escape?” Doone asked sharply.
“No. I want only to reclaim the gatehouse.”
Sir Doone nodded and disappeared into the press. Ranks of Tenerran soldiers milled about the courtyard. Malcolm sent them to the walls and to defend the lesser gates. He organized a patrol to search the corridors and chambers, as well. There were tales of shadow priests among the stones. He wanted them flushed into the open, if possible.
When Doone returned with her dozen he nodded and led them to the perimeter of shields that surrounded the gatehouse.
“The wagon?” he asked.
“One of Adair’s men is bringing it around. Will we need horses?”
“You and I can manage without them.” Then there was a sound of wheels on stone. “Ah, here it is.”
The crowd behind them parted, and a team of six men pushed a carriage up to the shield wall. In typical Tenerran style it was plain and solid, the only ornamentation an engraving of the Adair arms. But the sides were thick and the leather springs reinforced. The wheels sunk into the mud.
“Well, we may need a hand,” Malcolm allowed. He signaled to the men around him. “Back it up a bit. We’ll need some speed before we clear the protection of the shield wall.”
“You mean to ram the gatehouse?” Doone asked.
“I mean to put those crossbows out of commission,” Malcolm answered. “If we can cover the arrow-slits in the door, we can hopefully breach the gate. Now come on.”
Together with the men from the stable and Doone’s dozen volunteers, they sent the wagon rambling across the courtyard and into the gatehouse. Arrows bristled from its surface, but the dozen men hidden behind escaped unharmed.
As soon as the entrance to the gatehouse was covered, Malcolm called for a torch. The hay stuffed inside the carriage lit quickly, and soon black smoke was rolling up the sides of the gatehouse, choking the occupants.
“They’ll be flushed in no time, my lord,” one of the dozen said quietly.
“They won’t have the time,” Malcolm said. “Quickly now!”
With a final heave and under the cover of the smoke, Malcolm shoved the wagon aside just enough to let his dozen men through. He led the way, shield high and sword bare.
Instantly the room beyond was chaos and blood.
T
HE RIVER WAS
dying. Whitecaps frothed and roiled onto the banks, and the once calm current had turned into a turbulent chop. Cinder’s light was as bright as beaten silver, casting stark shadows and giving everything an otherworldly glow.
The tree line on the hallow side of the river thrashed as if caught in a tornado. Branches whipped against Gwen’s face and shoulders, leaving welts on her skin and tearing her tunic. She was glad for the iron of her armor. Stumbling onto the mossy bank, she hefted a spear and scanned the waters for whatever was attacking.
“Don’t run off like that,” Elsa said from behind. The vow knight had better survived the trip through the trees, but the metal of her armor was scratched, and her tabard was nearly shredded. The remnants of an invocation whispered over her head in an aura of flame. “I thought the wards were down?”
“They are, but the gheists remain—and something is trying to kill them.”
“What? I don’t see… Oh.” Elsa’s eyes went wide, and she shifted along the bank, pushing herself between Gwen and the surging waters.
What remained of the guardian gheist was plowing toward them, an amorphous humanoid blob that vaguely resembled a woman, foam and mist cascading off it in sheets of black, infected water. Bound to the fallen god was Frair Allaister Finney. He hung in the center of it, a dagger limp in his hands. Blood leaked from his palms, blood that swirled through the gheist in a veinwork of corruption. He was naked under the water, his body stitched in strange tattoos and blood.
“The Glimmerglen…” Gwen said. “We can’t let her fall. We can’t let that bastard corrupt her. She can’t die like this, not after standing guard for so long.”
“Gheists can’t die,” Elsa said. The vow knight was prowling the bank, testing the grip on her blade and preparing for the fight. “Kill them and they reform in the everealm. I’ve dealt with my share.”
“They can die
here
. Anything can die here. We’re too close to the everealm.”
“You expect me to wade out into that?” Elsa asked, gesturing to the surging froth.
“I expect you to get out of the way,” Gwen snapped. She pushed the knight aside and ran toward the bank, heaving her spear back and letting fly. The spiraling head of the shaft arced over the water and landed with a satisfying crunch against the gheist that rode Allaister. The bloodwrought tip tore into watery flesh, ripping through it.
The gheist flinched, then raised its terrible head and scanned the bank. When it saw Gwen and Elsa, the demon roared with a tortured voice and rushed forward. The river gave one last try at preventing the shadow priest’s assault, the fragments of the guardian spirit that remained in the waters binding together to throw up a wall of silent mist. Allaister bulled into it, the mists wrapping around him like a blanket. He slowed, he stumbled, the river strained beneath him.
Then the priest-bound god broke through the barrier. The river burst in a final surge of power, then the whitecaps collapsed, the current slowed, and the river calmed. The Allaister-gheist, withdrawing from the corpse of the fallen god, bellowed its victory.
As the river fell silent, the forest behind them sent up a wail so shrill it threatened to knock Gwen to her knees. The demon hunched forward and continued across the becalmed waters.
Gwen screamed and charged into the water now calm, slow, and shallow. Her boots crunched across a bed of smooth river stone. She drew another spear from her quiver, taking it in both hands and raising it over her head, howling as she ran.
Allaister loomed over her.
She struck. The spear bit into the demon’s knee, water-skin tearing and reforming like molasses. Allaister seemed unfazed. He slapped her aside, sending her tumbling through the water, her quiver of spears rattling open, scattering shafts into the current, where they floated away like sticks. The demon reached for her.
Before Gwen could get to her knees Elsa charged forward, invoking the rhythms of the sun and Strife. The heat of Strife’s blessing in her blood turned the water to steam at her feet. There was a terrible pressure in the air as she passed, and an intolerable fire. When Elsa brought her sword down on the demon’s arm—the arm that was reaching to crush the life from Gwen’s body—the sound of the blow echoed like thunder through the valley. The sword severed gheist flesh and sent a great wallop of dead god into the river.
Allaister reeled back, severed arm flapping in the air. The gheist lost form for a moment, its vaguely humanoid shape slipping into a chaotic pillar of water, then Elsa had a brief glimpse of the fallen Glimmerglen, the woman’s face startled and angry and alone. At the core of the gheist, Allaister’s face twisted in concentration. The body bubbled, sprouted an arm no larger than a child’s, then swelled, formed another hand around that one, and then a dozen more in quick succession.
Arms lashed out, a head, the legs split and collapsed and split again. And then the gheist’s body was regrown, as whole as it had been before Elsa’s blade fell. Allaister smiled in his tomb of water, then crashed the entire gheist down into the river, looking to bury Gwen among the stones.
Gwen was on her feet again, and swung out of the way. A plume of water erupted from the impact, raining on them as they crawled up the bank.
“Cinder and fucking Strife,” Elsa swore. The pair of them backed away, seeking dry ground. “This is going to get interesting.”
“
Going
to get?”
“Yes, well, the deadly sort of interesting.”
Gwen edged along the bank, eyes scanning the water. She fumbled her sword out of her belt—a blade meant for mortal work, for killing men, not fighting the manifest gods of the old religion. The edge wasn’t even wrought with her blood.
“My spears are in the river,” she snapped. “Draw it away, and I can—”
Allaister surged up from the river like a flood, right at her. Whatever else had been taken from the shadow priest, beneath the corrupted waters of the gheist his hatred survived. Elsa danced to intercept him, but managed little more than deflection. Gwen looked back.
They were nearly at the trees.
* * *
“The river’s lost,” Elsa said. “The shore as well. Go find the frair, if you want to do something other than die needlessly.” She swung through a series of counterstrikes and soft ripostes. Allaister struck with the river’s force, great concussive slams that cratered earth. It was only the god-touched power of the vow knight’s blade that kept her alive.
Elsa’s shoulders wrenched with the effort of deflecting the blows. Her blood burned holy and hot. Tiredly, regretfully, she tapped deeper into Strife’s blessings. Her veins flooded with molten power. Ashes filled her mouth and her blood.
“With my spears—” Gwen protested.
“RUN!” Elsa howled. Strife’s blessing gave her voice the resonance of hammered bells. Gwen ran.
With the child out of the way, Elsa settled into the serious business of not dying. She had given up her holy mission, her vow to protect the godsroads and domas of Tenumbra. Following Frair Lucas all these years had warped her sense of purpose in some ways, but in other ways she carried with her a clarity that she had never known before.
Here and now, that clarity meant she needed to stay alive. The huntress was no match for this demon, and the frair had higher tasks ahead of him. So it was left to Elsa to stand against the madness that Frair Allaister had become—to stand and to fight and perhaps to die.
The flickering giant that contained the shadow priest lurched to shore. Its footsteps created ripples in the smooth pebbles of the beach, waves of piled stone that washed away from it, as though its very presence created shivers in the earth. Whatever injury Elsa had managed to inflict on the demon was already repaired. It towered over her. Allaister hung limply at the demon’s heart, like a hooked fish.
It started toward the forest, ignoring her.
“Hey! Godfucker!” she yelled, waving her sword. Glory wicked off her blade, leaving bright shadows in the air. “This is as far as you’re going! This is your grave, you bastard!”