Pagan Night E-Book

Tim Akers

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Seitenzahl: 776

Beschreibung

Ruling with an iron hand, the Church has eliminated the ancient pagan ways. Yet demonic gheists terrorize the land, hunted by the Inquisition, while age-old hatreds rage between the north and the south. Three heroes—Malcolm and Ian Blakeley and Gwendolyn Adair—must end the bloodshed before chaos is unleashed.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Tim Akers

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

1: A Gathering of Heretics

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

2: Blood and Iron

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

3: Fire and Shadow

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Coming Soon from Titan Books

COMING SOON FROM TIM AKERS AND TITAN BOOKS

The Iron Hound (January 2017)

The Winter Vow (January 2018)

THE PAGAN NIGHTPrint edition ISBN: 9781783297375E-book edition ISBN: 9781783297399

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: January 20162 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 Tim Akers. All Rights Reserved.Maps and illustrations copyright © 2016 David Pope. All Rights Reserved.Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For Jennifer.Forever.

1

A GATHERING OF HERETICS

1

THEY WAITED IN the gloom. Six men in a small stone hut, warming their hands over the fire pit in the middle of the floor, well armed, well frightened. They didn’t look at one another.

An unexpected cold snap, not uncommon this far north even in the heart of summer, gave them a morning more like autumn. Their breath fogged the air, mixing with the smudgy wood smoke to fill the closed hut with haze. Each man’s face was stitched in the traditional tattoos of the Tenerran spirit warriors of legend. The markings were painted on, muddy blue ink that wrinkled and flaked when they talked.

They were on the south side of the border between Suhdra and Tener, the wrong place to be wearing the ink. They all had friends who had died just for being Tenerran, and family, cold and buried in the mud, who had been murdered by the duke of Greenhall’s men. All risked the same with that ink on their face, even if it was false. A last vestige of the crusade that had taken their religion from them and replaced it with the church, unifying the island under the celestriarch’s rule, putting a doma in every village and priests of Cinder and Strife at every altar.

While the rest of the island had settled into uneasy peace, the marches still saw more than their share of blood and hatred.

“Later than usual,” one of the men said. He was thick, with little neck and an excess of beard.

“He’s always late. You be calm, Tunnie.”

“I’ll be calm when he’s here. Till then, I’ll damn well be what I please.”

“You nag like my mother.”

“Your mother nags like she screws, Mancey,” Tunnie replied. “Everyone.”

They laughed, but it wasn’t a settled laughter. Their voices were blunted by their accents. Deep Tenerran brogues muddied their vowels. They were dressed like farmers, but there was a bundle of clothing on the ground between each man’s feet. A sword lay across each bundle. They didn’t look at those, either. The freshly sharpened steel of the blades danced in the light of the fire.

The men waited, and they stared at the flames.

The door opened, revealing a cloaked man. When he came into the room, they all started to stand, then remembered themselves and settled back onto the bench. He was tall and thin, with delicate wrists and long, narrow fingers, each tipped with a musician’s callus. The man who had grumbled before, Tunnie, spat into the fire.

“Late enough,” he said.

“Early enough, you mean,” the newcomer said. His voice was crisp, the twist of the rural accent more like the notes of a song. It was the kind of voice women loved, and bards cultivated. “Moon’s only now up—and we’re about the moon’s business.”

“You talk like a priest,” Tunnie said.

“No need to be cruel,” the newcomer said. “Now. Let’s get about it, shall we?”

Grumbling, the men stood and lifted their bundles, revealing cloaks like the newcomer wore. All but Tunnie. He kept his hands to the fire.

“I mean it, Allaister. You talk like a priest.” He looked up. “The place we’re going, we don’t need priests.”

“You accuse me of something, Tunnie, but I don’t know what.” Allaister picked up his own bundle and began to unpack it. “Are there things you feel need saying?”

“Just this. You’ve been here four months. We don’t know anything about you, other than that you escaped from Greenhall’s dungeons. We don’t even know what put you in there, much less what broke you out.”

“I broke myself out,” Allaister said. “The gods broke me out. What does it matter? And what does it matter what I was doing there?”

“No one breaks out of that place,” Mancey mumbled, but Allaister ignored him. Tunnie nodded.

“People don’t go to Gabriel Halverdt’s prison for nothing,” he said, “and people don’t just walk out. You could be anyone. A murderer, a rapist… we don’t know enough about you, Allaister.”

“Oh, I assure you. I am a murderer,” he said with a smile and a nod. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I’ve never seen you at the Frostnight keg. Never seen you drink at the Allfire, and yet you’re the one leading us. I wonder how that happened.”

“You wonder? Have I been anything but honest with you?” He threw back the hood of the traveler’s cloak that he’d been wearing. Allaister’s face was a maze of traditional Tenerran markings, his name and the promises of the Seers etched in woad across his cheeks. True ink, permanent and profane. His face was handsome under the crude markings. His goatee was well trimmed, and his eyes were black. But his voice was calm.

“You’ve been grumbling against Duke Acorn for how long? Years? How often have his men raped your wives? Your daughters? How many of your harvests have gone to his stores, how many young calves pitted for his table? While you starved?” He turned from one man to the next, and then stopped. “This land is occupied, Tunnie, held by a Suhdrin lord when it’s good Tenerran blood that works its fields. We were born on the wrong side of the border, and for that our brothers have died. I came, and I’ve done something about it.”

“Something. You’ve gotten a lot of us killed. We’ve spilled a lot of our own blood for you.”

“Blood is the price,” Allaister answered. The other men nodded and whispered the same phrase in response, like a prayer. It was an old phrase from the liturgies of the shamans—mystical words, words that carried meaning down from the ancient days, their edges worn smooth by repetition and hope. Tunnie grimaced. He had walked into that. Still, he rubbed his hands over the fire and made no move toward his bundle of clothes. By that time the other men had donned their cloaks and penitent’s masks, to hide their ink and identity.

“I know the words, priest. My family has been bleeding into this ground longer than anyone here. Longer than the church. Don’t think you can preach to me.”

“Tunnie.” Allaister tightened the cord of his belt and picked up the simple sword at his feet. “We go tonight to clean the land. We have bled in different soil, you and I. Our families have knelt to different spirits, but they are honest spirits nonetheless, and not the bookish gods these bastards put over us after the crusade. So I ask—” he raised the sword and fitted the tip of the blade into the scabbard, then slapped it home “—what the hell is your problem?”

“I don’t know you,” Tunnie said. “I haven’t prayed with you. Your fathers didn’t sit the midnight vigil with my fathers, nor your sons with my sons. I don’t know what sort of man you are, nor how you bleed when the spirits call.”

“My brother, tonight you will know.” Allaister fastened the blade and scabbard beneath his cloak, and then raised his hood. The weapon disappeared completely beneath the pilgrim’s robes. Allaister folded his hands into the sleeves of the robe and stood up straight. “Though you must judge the Suhdrin blood I will be spilling, and not my own.”

The others laughed. Tunnie sighed, but he stood and started to put on his cloak.

“I damn well hope so,” he muttered. “My brothers have sacrificed much since you showed up.”

The others ignored him, though they finished their preparations quietly while he got dressed. Allaister stood by the door, staring out into the night. When everyone was ready, they flipped their hoods up over their heads and filed out into the darkness. The last man dumped sand onto the fire, leaving darkness and ash and the stink of fear in the air.

* * *

Gilliard stood atop the guardhouse and looked down at the moon-washed ruins at Gardengerry. The banner of House Halverdt, a triple acorn and a cross, stirred sluggishly in the breeze over the gate. This place had been old when the first Suhdrin traders had found it, shunned by the tribes of Tenerran savages—stone walls surrounded by offerings of burnt flowers and totems of pagan power.

The water here was fresh so the traders had settled and Gardengerry became a major stop for the pilgrims on the road to Cinderfell, populated entirely by faithful Suhdrin and their kin. They had never fully repaired the ruins, however. In the moonlight, Gilliard imagined he could see the old city that had once stood here, tall and bright under the starry sky.

“You’re looking the wrong way.” The voice came from below. Gilliard turned around. There were pilgrims, seven of them, standing outside the gate. They were wearing full mendicants’ robes, hood and mask covering their faces. In the darkness it was impossible to tell more about them.

“Ah, sorry,” he said. “It’s a beautiful place.” Gilliard scratched his head and started the slow walk down the outer stairwell. He was wearing heavy chain mail and a pair of awkward plate gauntlets, along with boots of good steel. The whole kit was heavy, though, and made him nervous when he had to take the stairs in the dark. “Bit late to be outside, don’t you think? You’re close to the savage lands,” he said, gesturing broadly to the north, where the border between Tener and Suhdra lay.

“Really?” the lead pilgrim said a bit tensely. “I was under the impression that most Tenerrans were friendly to the church.” Something about his voice sounded odd. “Hard to walk all the way to Cinderfell without crossing through a few Tenerran fields, hm?”

“It’s Tenerrans from here to the winter god’s shrine, boys. The tame type, mind you, but still. Stick to the godsroad and you’ll be fine. Stray far, and it’ll be mad gods and murderers for you.” Gilliard smiled beneath his helm. “But surely you know that. This your first time traveling to Cinderfell?”

“It is,” the pilgrim answered. The rest of them were awful quiet, and Gilliard still didn’t like this fellow’s voice. He leaned against the wall and peered down.

“Like I said. Bit late to be out, isn’t it?”

“Travel from Pilgrim’s Rest has taken us longer than we expected, but we’re glad for your hospitality.”

“Ho, now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Gilliard paused at the cupola that overlooked the road. This outer wall wasn’t much good in a siege, but it served well enough for collecting tolls and keeping out vagrants. The guard rested his spear against the wall and leaned down for a better look. “Healthy lot, for pilgrims.”

The men looked among themselves, and the lead one shrugged.

“Should we have been starving ourselves?”

“Traditionally, yes,” Gilliard said, “and Pilgrim’s Rest is quite a distance from here, if that’s how you came. Where’d you stay last night?”

“Doonan. Came up the godsroad.”

“Doonan’s a good walk, but aye.” There was something about these fellows that Gilliard didn’t like. Only one of them talking. “The rest of you taken some kind of vow of silence, then?”

“Uh, yes. They have… and loving kindness, as well. Which is why we’re willing to keep standing here and chat politely, when you really should have opened that door by now.”

“Oh, aye. You’ve taken no vows then, have ya?” Gilliard smiled broadly. “But you’re not worried about running into any Tenerrans, I don’t think. Because you’re of the tribes, aren’t ya? I can hear it in your voice.”

The man sighed. When he answered, the brogue was distinct, though certainly less heavy than the filthy rural types who lived in the outer villages.

“Aye, the sun and moon blessed us with that name, but we’re good little kneelers, my lord. We’re going east, to practice bending the knee in Cinderfell for the Allfire.”

“And why do you travel to the moon’s temple to celebrate the festival of the sun, hmm?” Gilliard liked this group less and less. There were few tribesmen inside the walls, but it was still more than he preferred. “I’m not going to let you in here if you don’t start talking your station. Now, first, why is a group of Tenerran converts traveling through Pilgrim’s Rest? Up Dunneswerry, by the river, that’s the way for lads like you. Thought you lot avoided the ’Gerry.”

“We aren’t from the grasslands, nor the lakes. We live in Lac Leure, down Heartsbridge way,” the pilgrim answered, a hint of anger appearing in his voice. “Just as if we were real people.”

“Not with an accent like that, you don’t. You know,” Gilliard stood straight and snatched up his spear. “I think you can sleep outside. Just for tonight. Lord Cinder will appreciate your sacrifice.”

“Bloody Suhdrin and their bloody accents,” the man mumbled, exasperation leaking through his tension. “Tunnie?”

* * *

The big pilgrim in the back, who had kept his head down for the entire exchange, glanced upward, and then rolled his shoulder. His arm came up in a lazy arc, like he was stretching, and then four inches of cold iron dart was sticking out of Gilliard’s forehead.

The guard collapsed, clattering down the remaining stairs and out of sight of the seven nervous men. His limp body struck the wall and pitched over, landing with a crash at Allaister’s feet. He made a terrible commotion as he went, all that chain and plate, battering against the stone.

“Not ideal,” Allaister hissed. “Joer, get up there. Tunnie—” he turned to the man “—that blood enough for you?”

“Not near enough,” Tunnie rumbled.

“Good,” Allaister said.

Joer clambered smoothly up the wall, finding finger holds in the vine-cracked stones. The defenses hadn’t been maintained well enough to keep men out, hadn’t even been built for such a mundane purpose—something the Suhdrins had never really recognized in their rush to settle the ancient ruins.

A minute later the gate swung open.

“Surprised no one heard that,” Mancey said.

“Oh, I’m sure someone did,” Allaister answered. “Which is why we need to keep moving.” He hurried the six of them through the gate, then lingered over the fallen guard. Allaister knelt beside the corpse, drawing a blade from his sleeve.

“My apologies, brother. Your sacrifice will be remembered, and your blood counted. Go now to the quiet house.” Allaister muttered something quietly under his breath, using one hand to draw the blade across Gilliard’s neck while making the sign of the moon with the other. A plume of frost whispered out, melting quickly in the summer night. The blood on his blade was sticky and black. Allaister used it to draw a symbol on the dead man’s forehead, smearing blood around the wound.

Gravel crunched behind him.

“You coming?” Tunnie called from the open gate. Allaister closed his eyes in frustration, but hopped up and trotted inside.

“Of course, of course. Making sure the bastard was dead,” Allaister said as he passed the big man. “Didn’t want him talking.”

Tunnie stared at the dead guard and the smear of blood on his forehead. For a second he thought it might be a Celestial death rune, the kind of thing their priests burned into the skin of the departed.

Surely not.

Torches appeared on the upper wall, and the voices of guards drifted down. Grimacing, Tunnie gripped the sword beneath his robes and hurried after the others.

* * *

These men were farmers. Their work was the earth, mud and stone and water, the slow cycle of the year’s planting and harvest. They were not born to killing, but some of them had acquired a taste for it.

The doma at Gardengerry was dedicated to Lord Cinder in his aspect as judge and the long winter. At the festival of the Frostnight, the flood of pilgrims traveling north to pay homage to the gray lord brought crowds of ash-robed worshippers through its doors. The door to the temple was polished frairwood bound in silver, a testament to the doma’s wealth. The torches that illuminated the passage were fine silver, the tapestries silk and cloth of gold. The twin-horned altar of Cinder and Strife at the building’s center was carved from a single block of marble.

The blood that spilled from Allaister’s blade soaked into silk robes. The skin the blade parted was soft, unaccustomed to hard work. The frair stood in front of the altar, calling down judgment on them. He clung to his staff, somehow staying upright as Allaister put a sword into him, over and over again. The frair eventually settled to the floor and was quiet.

The celestes put up more of a fight, screaming as Allaister’s men cut them down. The stone walls of the doma were thick and quiet. No alarm was raised.

When they were finished, Allaister’s men gathered around the altar, their chests heaving. Crimson spotted their robes. Tunnie’s eyes were wild and free, a bloody sword gripped in each fist, one that he had brought and one plundered from the ceremonial instruments of the winter god. The others were a little more hesitant, unsure if they were excited or terrified, or simply scared of how much they enjoyed the blood.

They had a lot of potential, this group. Allaister looked around the room, at the slumped body of the frair, the celestes all crumpled in one corner, blood streaked on the granite floor and pooling beside the altar.

A good night.

“Well done, lads. A fine harvest,” he said with a smile. He kicked the frair’s staff, sending it clattering across the room. “We’re almost done.”

“Almost?” Joer gasped. “We have to get out of here. There were horns sounded when we were at the wall. It’s only a matter of time before they come here. We need to leave.”

“We can’t go empty-handed, my friend.” Allaister swept a hand across the doma. “The priests are dead, but the church can send more. It would just be a matter of days before prayers are said again, and blessings are given. Seems a waste, don’t you think? To come this far, and leave so much behind?”

“Not part of the plan,” Tunnie said, but his eyes were eager.

Special potential in this one, Allaister thought. “Not part of your plan, maybe,” he said aloud, “but I’ve thought this through. There’s good silver in these cabinets, and jewels in plenty.” He pointed at an ornate knife that lay upon the altar, its handle ivory and jet. “How many pigs will this buy, do you think?”

“They catch us with these things, it’ll be our lives. Our families,” Joer said nervously. “They’ll grind our bones and salt our fields.”

“There’s already blood on your hands, friend. Why not gold in your satchel as well?”

A short wave of concern went through the group, but Allaister had them. Even if they ended up dumping most of it in the river, there was wealth enough here to see them in comfort for the rest of their lives, and theft was an easier crime than murder. Allaister sent them into the doma’s outer chambers to scrounge what they could. Anything that would burn was brought to the altar.

He kept Tunnie at his side.

“How’re we to get this stuff back home?” Tunnie asked as the pile of loot grew. The men were falling to their task with enthusiasm, splintering the wooden rings of the orrery, prizing sconces from the walls while leaving enough to light their way. It was considerably more than they could carry.

“Let them have their fun,” Allaister answered. He plucked the frair’s staff from the floor, using a silk cloth to wipe the blood from its icon, then leaning it almost reverently against the altar. “Do you know why we came to Gardengerry?”

“To kill priests.”

“Yes, but there are priests throughout Tenumbra. Hell, there are priests in Tener itself—we could have crossed the border into Adair’s land, or Blakley’s, and done our reaving in relative safety.”

“Halverdt land is our land. It was taken from us.” Tunnie was watching him with a measure of confusion. Allaister shrugged.

“Yes, yes. All true,” he agreed, “but really, the whole island was taken from the tribes—Gardengerry was just taken most recently. No, my reasons are older than that. The old city, the one that was here before, was unoccupied when the Suhdrin lords came north. The ruins of a grand temple. Empty.”

“It’s a cursed place,” Tunnie said. “Cursed by the gods.”

“No, not exactly. Even the few shamans who remain in the north have forgotten the story of this place.”

“What are you getting at, Allaister?” Tunnie asked. The twin swords in his hands hung limply now, the thrill of killing ebbing away.

“There was a henge here—a temple, to a different god. One the pagans saw fit to lock away.”

“Here?” Tunnie looked around.

“Exactly here. This room.” Allaister swept a hand over the doma. “A shrine before it was a temple. Holy before it was sanctified.” They were alone, the rest of the men scattered to the outbuildings. The town guard would arrive soon. He had to be fast. “It was a place of sacrifice long before the Celestial prayers haunted the air.” With that he swept the ornate knife off the altar and put it into Tunnie’s heart. The blade, thin and sharp, punched straight through.

“Gentle, now… gentle.” The dying man struck out, but his blows were weak, and Allaister fended them off. He eased him to the stone floor, supporting his neck until Tunnie’s eyes were sightless. It was a quick death. Better than the celestes were allowed.

“My apologies, friend. This is a complicated time in my life,” Allaister whispered. “I have a lot of things I’m trying to figure out.”

The holy knife snapped, the blade buried in Tunnie’s body. Allaister dropped the handle and took a hatchet from his belt. He used it to split the man’s chest open. The ribs cracked one at a time, until the heart and lungs appeared. Whispering an endless stream of prayer and invocation, Allaister drew out the organs, arranging them on the ground.

There was a sound behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Joer gasped. He had just come into the room, a double armful of candlesticks pressed against his chest. These clattered to the stones as he drew his blade. “What the hell is going on?”

“Something holy,” Allaister answered. “You should be happy about this.”

Joer didn’t have an answer. He started to call out… then stopped, horror stealing the voice from his throat.

Allaister rocked back on his heels, squatting over Tunnie’s steaming body. He sprinkled a handful of dirt, gathered at another henge, blessed by certain heretics he knew.

Something happened to the air. The shadows that hung beneath the altar, trapped there by the flickering light from sconces, grew heavy. They crawled between stones, leaking as black as ink through the cracks, until they gathered against Tunnie’s still form. The shadows stitched together and spread like a web over the dead man. They reached into the cavity of his chest. Allaister took a step back, a smile ghosting over his mouth.

Tunnie stood. His veins pulsed with shadow, and his eyes leaked a greasy fog. He turned to Allaister, dragging the wreckage of lung and heart across the floor, dangling from his chest like afterbirth. One hand still held a blade.

“Hunt,” Tunnie’s mouth said, but his voice was grinding bones and tearing flesh.

“Hunt,” Allaister answered, “but first, this place must be sanctified.” He stepped aside, gesturing to Joer. “These men have profaned your holy ground. They must be cleansed.”

Tunnie turned to Joer.

“Cleanse,” he said in that unholy voice.

“I would run,” Allaister said to Joer. “Though there’s little point in it.”

Joer ran.

Tunnie took a single step toward him, and the shadows that flashed through his veins splashed down into the cracked stone. They sped across the floor like lightning, tangling into the fleeing man’s feet. Joer screamed. Tunnie’s blade ended that. Then the tendrils of shadow swirling through doorways and crawling up the walls, seeking out the others.

A scream echoed in the distance. Tunnie lumbered toward it, dragging his heart behind him.

Allaister waited by the altar as his servant-god cleansed. And then it was time to hunt.

2

THE ROAD TO Gardengerry was quiet. There was no other traffic but Artur’s fruit cart, and no sound but the birdsong from the woods and the creaking of the cart’s wheels. Little Marie sat on the bench next to him, humming quietly to herself. The cart was full of apples and not a few peaches.

They were on their way to the Allfire festival, hoping to make a little coin before the summer turned, but Artur had left a little early, and was riding a little fast, because no one in his hamlet had heard anything out of the ’Gerry for more than a week. Artur had a brother in Gardengerry, and he was worried. So he loaded the cart, made some excuses to his wife Catha about getting in before the competition, and set out.

Along with the fruit, he hid the rusty old wood-splitting axe under his seat, wrapped in burlap to keep his wife from seeing it. Didn’t want her to worry, which was why he didn’t have an excuse for not bringing Marie. The wife had promised their daughter that she could go to the next Allfire, and Artur had no way of breaking that promise.

He kept telling himself that he was being silly about nothing, that Gardengerry had a good, strong doma, that gheists didn’t go near holy ground, and certainly not this close to the Allfire. Holy days made for safe roads, the priests always said. Still. He would rather have left the girl at home.

Marie was oblivious. She hopped off the slow-moving cart and plucked a handful of wildflowers from the side of the road with her chubby hands, stuffing some of them behind her ears before she clambered back up onto the cart. The rest she piled into her lap, twisting the stems and tying the tiny flowers together into random shapes, humming all the while. Artur looked down at her and let his nervousness soften.

“What ya got there, lady love?” he asked.

“My favor. I’m going to give it to a knight at the market, and he’ll be my lord husband and kill bugs for me.” She had a thing about bugs, putting them at about the same threat level as wildfire and bad pudding. “We’ll live in a castle, like Uncle Teodre.”

Uncle Teodre was Lord Hastings Teodre, Artur’s sworn master, though to be honest he was just a minor baron in a minor holding, and his castle was a motte in the mud. Marie treated him like the celestriarch in Heartsbridge. Teodre, for his part, treated his sworn men like family, especially during the holidays. Artur patted her on the head and smiled.

“There’ll be no knights at this market, love. Gardengerry has no tournament to bring them in. Just peasants and merchants and maybe a priest or two. Do you know who will be there?”

“Uncle Connor?”

“Yes, Uncle Connor, but also the sweets man. Do you remember the candy apple you had last Allfire?”

Marie nodded enthusiastically, the flowers forgotten in her tiny fingers.

“Well, if you’re good and quiet, there will be another. What do you think of that?”

Marie stared at him, her mouth firmly clenched shut, her little cheeks quivering.

“Well, you don’t have to be quiet yet, lo—”

“I would like that very much!” Marie yelled in a burst of childish joy. Artur erupted in laughter, leaning over in the seat and shaking, until he realized that the cart was slowly drifting off the road. He corrected the mule and then gave Marie a warm hug with his free arm.

“Well, love, we’ll see to that. Now, you’ve dropped all your flowers on the road. Gardengerry is close, and you wouldn’t want to get there without the proper favor to give your lord knight, would you?” He gave her a little shove and she squealed. “Better mend that.”

* * *

Marie squirmed off the bench and hopped down to the road to look for more. When they had started their trip, it had been a muddy track through the woods, branches hanging down to brush against their faces. This close to town the road was hard-packed dirt and pebbles, with a verge of grass that pushed the forest far from the cart. They were going uphill, near the summit, so the mule strained against even the half-load of fruit.

There were no good flowers here, just a scattering of budding clover that made terrible favors. Marie peered into the forest, then saw a patch of goldengem up near the top of the hill, just on the border of the forest. She ran ahead, ignoring her father’s shouts to stay close.

Goldengem was a beautiful flower. One of her mother’s favorites. Maybe, if she got enough of it, Marie could make a necklace to give her when they got home. She could tell Mother that it was a gift from a handsome mage that they met at the market, who had given it to Marie in exchange for three kisses, three promises, and three songs. She had started to pull the flowers up by the stem, tearing great patches of golden flowers up out of the ground, when she looked up and saw that they really were quite close to the town.

Her memory of the place was fuzzy, but Marie wondered why so many of the townspeople had pulled the roofs off their houses, or why they had blackened the stones of their walls with ash, like the hearth of Uncle Teodre’s magnificent home in the mud. Town folk were silly, she decided.

There was a rustle among the trees to her right. Marie ignored it at first, and when she turned to look, she gasped and dropped the golden petals to the ground. She could hear her father yelling as if he was at a great distance. He was off the cart and fumbling with a bundle of burlap as he ran toward her.

There was a man of shadow and darkness crouched sternly by the edge of the woods. He was barely there at all, a mere shell of dark lines like the veins in a leaf, wrapped into the shape of a man. Marie could see through him to the forest beyond, could see trees and goldengem and the bright sunshine. He pulsed with dark energy and stared attentively down at the town, his hands wrapped around a short staff that was tipped with a cruel blade. A cloak like a spider web shivered on his back, writhing in a gale that Marie couldn’t feel.

Finally he glanced down at her. The shadowman looked as startled as the little girl.

“Have faith, child. The lord of winter is with you.” His voice was like the echo of tombs, and when he hunched toward her a chill ghosted across Marie’s face. The flowers at his feet glittered with frost. Marie took a step backward. “There is a little girl here,” the shadow said to no one in particular. “Are you from Gardengerry, my dear? Is this your town?”

Marie stood shivering.

“No, I’m not frightening her,” he said. “You’re not… little girl, don’t be afraid, I’m a priest of your Lord Cinder, husband of Strife, and the light of winter.” The shadowman peered carefully at Marie, as if measuring her reaction. “She doesn’t seem to understand me… hello?”

Artur came roaring up, the axe half-unwrapped in his fists, his face red and furious. The shadowman spared him a glance, then sketched a shape in the air between them. A wispy blue knot appeared, trailing behind the priest’s rapidly moving fingers. When he was done, the shadowman breathed into the knot. It frosted like a window in winter, and the air around him crystallized into dark frost.

Her father stumbled to a halt, his fingers turning blue. It was so cold that Marie was afraid her nose was going to fall off, as her mother often promised it would when she went out in the snow without her hood.

“Know the servant of Cinder, your god and judge, sir,” the shadowman snapped, a hint of irritation leaking into the bone-deep echoes of his voice. “Doesn’t anyone go to church, anymore? Cinder and Strife, man! Are you citizens of Gardengerry?”

Marie and her father stood shivering in the sudden iciness, the flowers at her feet withering, the cart behind them creaking forward. The shadowman grimaced and turned back to his view of the town.

“Never mind. It’s at least as bad as we thought.” He became distracted, tracing the air with a ghostly finger, as though he was running it across the ruin of distant Gardengerry. “I’m coming back.”

He disappeared without a sound, the warmth and light of summer returning with a violent snap. The strands of the shadowman’s form, the dark veins of his shell, writhed and then slithered together before they evaporated. The ground where he stood, glittering with frost, was the only evidence the strange apparition had been there at all. The circle of white shrank rapidly, leaving only the crushed imprints of two boots, the mud beneath them tinged with ice.

Gasping for breath, Artur dropped his axe and gathered Marie up in his arms. He felt her all over for wounds, for patches of cold, for anything out of the ordinary. The child was struck dumb, staring at the withered flowers on the ground. Once he was sure his daughter was as safe as she could be, Artur glanced down at the town.

It was ruined. Huge swathes of the town were blackened by fire, the roofs burned away, the stones dark as coal. Wisps of smoke drifted through its streets. At the center of town the doma stretched stony steeples over the wreckage. Every wooden shutter and stained-glass window had burst open, the glass like brittle teeth in the sunlight. Only the dome appeared intact.

Artur tucked his daughter against his chest and ran back to the cart. They wouldn’t get home until near dark, but he didn’t want to waste another moment of light. Behind him, Gardengerry sat quietly and waited, smoke twisting in the breeze between fire-blasted walls and the wreckage of ash.

* * *

Frair Lucas, inquisitor of Suhdra and holy brother of the celestial church, hung limply against his darkwood staff, the blessed linen straps wrapped loosely around his arms and chest, his elbows resting on the crossbar of silver and darkly polished wood.

Lucas was a weathered man, old but still spry, his limbs strong from seasons on the hunt, though the years were starting to take their toll. His hair was as white as the snowy crown of the winter god, shot through with gray and black. He was handsome and humble, sacred and strong.

He leaned his forehead against the symbol of the moon at the junction of the crossbar, the crescents leaving dimples on his skin. He looked asleep, or in deep prayer. His robes, wine-red and decorated with ancient knotting that indicated his position in the court of the moon, swam with shadows that defied the bright sun of summer. The fingers of his right hand twitched, and his mouth moved.

“I’m coming back,” he whispered.

A dozen men were gathered around him. Three stood in a tight circle, facing away from his relaxed form, swords drawn and at guard, eyes on the surrounding trees. They wore the colors of Cinder’s sect, black and gray, their closed helms decorated in the symbols of winter. The other men stood nervously to the side, tending their horses or leaning on ashwood spears, all but one dressed in the generic black and gold of the Celestial church.

A woman wearing the gold and crimson armor of a vow knight stood casually in front of the frair, arms folded. Taller than the other guards, thick at shoulder and hips, she wore plate-and-half that had been traced in gold and set with matte red stones the color of dying embers. The tabard tied loosely over her breastplate was inscribed with the holy symbol of the winter sun—a gaunt, black tree, branches twined around a sun in eclipse, with stars instead of leaves and roots twisted and grim. Her sect, the knights of the Winter Vow, was dedicated to bringing the light of Lady Strife into the dark places of the world, to serve as a reminder that even in the darkest days of winter, the dawn still comes. Her face was laced with scars along the cheekbones in the pattern of a lightning strike, and her hair was brown twined with gold, the color of harvest heavy and ready to be gathered.

Her name was Sir Elsa LaFey, hunter of gods and scourge of heretics throughout Tenumbra. Her blood had forged the armor on her back, and her sword was tempered with the souls of darker spirits.

The air around Frair Lucas grew cold, and strands of black naether twisted into existence around his shoulders, vibrating like a spider web with a fly at its center. For a brief moment the frair was the center of a storm of black lightning and ghostly frost, and then all the tendrils slithered into his still form. He jerked upright like a man waking from an unpleasant dream.

“Are you well?” Elsa asked. Lucas was pale, even more than usual, and his fingers trembled on the staff.

“Yes, yes. That was just on the edge of my range. I am heavier in my body than when I was younger.”

“Did you frighten the girl?” Elsa asked.

“How would I know? Children scare easily,” Lucas said as he began to unwind the linen cloth, reaffixing it to the staff in intricate knots. “I assured her of the faith of the church, and then her father tried to strike me with an axe.”

“It’s a wonder these people go to church at all. You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“Tried to strike me, Elsa. Tried. I put the fear of Cinder in him, I did.” Yet Frair Lucas grimaced at the memory of his encounter, as if he had been forced to eat something sour.

“So what of Gardengerry?”

“There’s nothing left. The scryers were right enough. There was a gheist, at least, maybe more than one.”

“This close to the Allfire?” Elsa asked.

“Don’t let the calendar blind you,” Lucas said. He stood and rolled the staff between his palms. “The demon’s path leads north. Nearly straight north, in fact.”

“We should send a rider to Cinderfell.”

“No, not yet.” Lucas looked around the road, counting his men and weighing his options. “Greenhall is in much greater danger than the ’Fell, and there are the survivors of Gardengerry to consider.”

“There are survivors?” Elsa asked. Lucas shrugged.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know.” He turned to the column of guards in their Celestial colors. These men were little more than soldiers, armed with blood-wrought steel and a handful of prayers. “Sir Grie, take your men into Gardengerry. Find what survivors you can, secure the doma for sanctification, and then send a rider to Cinderfell requesting support. High Inquisitor Sacombre will want a report.”

Lucas had run afoul of the high inquisitor too often for comfort. The frair valued his independence, and if it took sending riders all the way to Cinderfell to keep Sacombre happy, he would do it. No matter how inconvenient it was.

“And what of us?” Elsa asked. “Are we to kick our heels in the forest, hoping this demon comes back?”

“Not at all. Take a spare horse and ride hard for Greenhall. You will need both mounts to make it in time. Warn them of what’s coming, and prepare to defend the city in case the gheist strays in that direction. Halverdt will have a few vow knights on hand, but I doubt he’ll want to let them out of his walls, especially if there’s a gheist on the prowl. It will fall to you to protect the surrounding villages.”

“Halverdt’s guardians are weak, cowed by the fear of their master. I will enjoy humbling them.”

“Try to avoid the politics of the situation, if you can. Kill the rogue god and get out.”

“Easily said, delicately done,” she answered. “What will you be doing?”

“Hunting the gheist from here. You will be able to travel to Greenhall faster by the roads, but I want to stay on its trail, in case it turns, or can be caught before it reaches the innocent.”

“You can’t do that alone.”

“I can, I have, and I will.” Lucas pulled off his robe of office and folded it into his saddlebag. Beneath the vestments he wore simple colors, the drab clothes of an itinerant priest. “Now, go. This is a dangerous spirit. I know of no pagan god given to manifesting in this land, nor in this way. We mustn’t delay.”

Elsa bowed and turned to Sir Grie and his men. She gave a few simple instructions, reminding the soldiers of their responsibilities and tasks, then mounted her horse, reined the spare mount beside her, and rode back down the road the way they had come. She never once looked back.

“A woman of duty,” Lucas said quietly. He secured his staff across his saddle, then mounted painfully and with much complaint. By the time he was settled, the column of soldiers was already riding toward the ruin of Gardengerry.

“Now to hunt,” he said with little enthusiasm. He turned his tired courser toward the woods. She nosed delicately between the trees. It was only a few minutes before he came upon the gheist’s path. The ground was trampled and torn, charred by the demon’s passing. With a sigh, Lucas wrapped himself in bindings of sight and deception, then followed the mad god into the woods.

3

THERE WASN’T MUCH of the log left. The leather overwrap was shredded, and the heart of the wood was badly splintered. Ian adjusted his grip on the broadsword and swung in, hard. The blade buried itself deeply into the wooden frame of the target, and then stuck. He wrestled with it for a few seconds, trying to free the blade, but the steel of the sword wouldn’t budge.

“You’re too damned earnest, boy,” Sir Dugan, master of guard to Blakley’s keep, muttered quietly, so the impromptu audience that had gathered around the training yard couldn’t hear. “You miss that first stroke and the fight’s over.”

“Well, I didn’t miss the first stroke! I hit the damn stroke, but now the blade is stuck!” Ian paused, jerking hopelessly on the hilt. The log creaked, and the sword settled deeper into the soft, splintery wound of the wood. “Damn it all, Dugan, how is this supposed to help? A man isn’t made of broken wood, is he?”

“No, but a man would object to you practicing on him. Especially with a blow like that.” Sir Dugan looked uncomfortably up at the balustrade, where Ian’s mother and sister were waiting. The women were elegantly dressed, in anticipation of the guests who would be arriving soon. “To hell with your honor, boy, get that sword free.”

Ian grunted irritably. He wasn’t small for his age, but he was no brute, either. His shoulders were starting to hurt with the effort. The elegant scrollwork of his birthday tattoo wrinkled as Ian scrunched his face in concentration. Lifting a boot, he planted it against the log, and then heaved back. His fingers slipped free of the hilt and he began to fall. Horrified, he scrambled for a better hold, but his hands went too far forward and fell against the blade.

Hot pain arced up his arm.

With a gasp, he let go and fell backward.

“Damn it!” he yelled. A titter went up among the audience, and Ian scrambled to his feet. “Damn it all, Dugan, your damn sword bit me.”

“A sword is born to bite, my lord,” Dugan said smoothly. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Ian said crossly. He held up his hand to look at it. The chain mitt of his practice glove was bent, several of the rings burst and digging into the flesh of his palm. Nothing serious, but painful. He shook the glove free. One of the rings had broken the skin, and he sucked the blood off his hand. “It’s these damned gloves, Dugan. I can’t get a proper grip with them.”

“Those damned gloves just saved your fingers, my lord. Now…” Sir Dugan took the sword in hand and, with a twist and a shake, drew it from the target. “What is the lesson?”

“To not practice the blade when there are women watching,” Ian muttered. Dugan chuckled and shook his head.

“There will be greater stakes than a woman’s notice, my lord.” Dugan rested the tip of the broadsword in the dust and leaned the hilt toward the young man. Ian took it, his face flushing. “Now, tell me what went wrong?”

“The bloody sword got stuck. I’d imagine that if that happens on the battlefield, it will be more my opponent’s problem than mine.” Ian rested the sword against his chest and started fiddling with the chain gauntlets. “I think it’s the grip I’ve got wrong. Third finger of the left hand over the first of the right.” He left the tip of the sword on the ground as he wrapped his hands around the hilt. “But when I transition to the back stroke, it’s the second finger, and I’m not sure what to do with my thumbs. Does this look right to you?” he asked, glancing up.

“I have no idea, my lord. I never think about it.”

Without warning Sir Dugan stepped back, smoothly drawing his own sword and presenting a high guard. Ian looked puzzled, but then Dugan’s blade was coming at his head. A gasp went up from the audience.

Ian backed away, lifting the broadsword into a high guard. Dugan’s weapon skittered off the steel of Ian’s blade, then danced around and came at him again. Ian shifted his stance, holding the tip steady but sliding the cross-guard to meet the arc of his instructor’s attack.

Steel met steel, and as Ian thrust forward, Dugan skipped back. The older knight came at him with a quick series of overhead blows, and it was all Ian could do to keep his steel in the way. Finally, he saw an opening. He shuffled forward, putting Dugan off his balance, then swung the broadsword over his head, gathering speed and chopping across his body.

Sir Dugan jumped aside. The heavy blow of Ian’s sword struck the target log squarely. He twisted it, leaned against the hilt and then drew it free in a long, rattling cut that sliced off the top of the log.

Dugan sheathed his sword and nodded.

“And what did you do with your thumbs, my lord?”

“I’m not sure,” Ian said. He was gasping from the effort of the assault, staring at the wide gash in the log. “I would have to think about it.”

“I strongly urge you to not do that, my lord. You’re a fine swordsman, when you leave your head out of it. You’re too serious. You study the blade too much. Leave your mind out of it, and let the blade find its path.”

A smattering of applause came from the audience. Ian had forgotten about them, and turned to see his sister and her friends beaming down at him. His mother looked less amused.

“You’ll catch hell from my mother for that,” Ian whispered to the knight. Dugan shrugged.

“Better that than catching hell from your father for not giving you the training a duke’s son deserves,” he said. “Better than sending you into battle unprepared, my lord, and watching you cut down by some lordless knight who practiced the blade every day. As a knight should.”

“There’s more to a lord’s duty than the blade, sir,” Ian said.

“If you say,” Dugan replied. “I would not know, as I am not a lord.” He drew his sword again, picked up an oiled cloth, and ran it down the length of the blade. “You aren’t either,” he added.

“When my father dies, I will be duke of Houndhallow, and lord of the Darkling March,” Ian said sharply, forgetting the audience. “Best that I prepare for that day, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. Though for now you are merely the son of a duke, and the heir to a throne. There are worse things for heirs to prepare for than battle.”

Ian was about to respond when a horn sounded from the battlement. Dugan glanced up at the gate.

“Our guests will arrive soon, my lord. Your mother will want you properly dressed.”

“There’s no time,” Ian said. “I will meet the high elector in my sweat and in my blood, as befits a lord of the north.”

Dugan chuckled. He drew the gloves from his hands and tucked them into his belt.

“I can train you for battle, my lord, but I cannot advise you on a mother’s anger. Time is no excuse. The high elector is a large man. It will take his wagon an hour to make the approach. A lord of Tener should be able to change his shirt in that time.”

Ian didn’t say anything, but slid the long blade of the broadsword into its sheath and hung it over his shoulder. Then he glanced up. His mother had already disappeared from the balustrade, leaving Ian’s sister and her friends alone. Doubtless the duchess of Houndhallow was on her way to the training field, to have words with Sir Dugan.

Best to be gone before that happened.

“I do not love this blade, Sir Dugan. It’s too large, and too clumsy. Next time I will practice with the dueling steel, I think.”

“That is the Suhdrin style, my lord. You are Tenerran born.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said,” Sir Dugan answered. He sheathed his sword and grimaced. “That sword is the blade your father carried into battle, and his father before him, going back to Black Kirk of the tribe of hounds. It may not fit your hand, but it fits your blood.”

“These are not the days of Black Kirk, sir,” Ian countered. “Times have changed.”

“As I am constantly reminded, my lord,” Dugan said, sounding tired.

“Tomorrow we will practice with the dueling steel,” Ian said.

“Yes, my lord,” Dugan answered. “Now be on your way. The high elector will be here. Eventually.”

“And my mother will be looking for you. Best we both make ourselves scarce.”

“I will not run from my battle,” Dugan answered, a sharp smile on his face. “Though your mother is a harder foe than the high elector, I’d imagine. Go on. Find your books. Leave the sword in the armory. Tomorrow we’ll see if we can make the dueling steel into a real weapon, and not just a nobleman’s toy.”

Ian snorted and hefted the heavy sword higher on his shoulder, then left the field. When he looked back, Sir Dugan was collecting the pieces of the target dummy and muttering to himself.

* * *

Ian was unbinding the locks of his hair from the leather strap that kept it out of his eyes, shaking out the few thin braids that he had earned, when his mother swept out of a corridor and fell on him. Her blond hair, unusual in Tenerran blood, flowed around her head like a torch. She was much angrier than even Ian expected.

“What were you thinking?” she said sharply, and he thought she might strike him. “What in the hells were you thinking?”

“Shouldn’t you be yelling at Sir Dugan?” Ian asked. “After all, he’s the one who attacked me.”

“Attacked you? Attacked? You idiot, you could have killed him. How would that have looked, with your sister watching, and the high elector on our doorstep? And look at your hand!”

“I was trying to get a quick practice in before the high elector arrived,” Ian replied, a hint of anger in his voice. “Just because the church is visiting…”

“Hush,” Sorcha Blakley answered. “You need to get that temper of yours under control, child. What would your father say to Dugan’s family if you had put that damn sword through his gut, rather than into the log? Hmm?”

“Oh, I think Dugan was in little enough danger from me,” Ian said. “Besides, that was the point of the exercise, wasn’t it?”

“Little enough danger? Gods, what an idiot you can be.” Sorcha grabbed the sword belt and twisted it off her son’s shoulder, lifting it with ease. “This is not a dummy blade, child.”

“I am well aware what sort of blade it is, Mother.”

“Are you?” Sorcha clattered the tip of the sheath to the ground and grabbed her son’s hand. With a yank she freed his hand from the chain mitt and then drew four inches of blade from the scabbard. Before Ian could react, she laid the meat of his palm against the blade. His flesh parted like fine silk before shears, and blood washed across the steel.

Ian yelped and snatched his hand back.

“What in hells is wrong with you?” he cried out. Sorcha sheathed the sword and then, stepping forward, slapped Ian across the face.

“It’s blood, child. Tenerran blood.” She grabbed his wrist and held the wound in front of his face. “Become accustomed to blood. There will be more, unless you start taking those lessons seriously. Pray the next time it isn’t yours.”

“But…”

His mother shook her head. “Enough. Go and dress properly for our guests.” Then she swept away, leaving Ian alone in the hallway. She stormed down the corridor toward the training yard, probably to tear an equal chunk out of Sir Dugan. Ian wrapped a loose cloth around his hand.

“Too serious, not serious enough,” he muttered. “At least Sir Dugan lets me fight back.”

He sighed and pulled the cloth tighter. The high elector’s visit had everyone on edge. The Allfire was approaching, the highest holiday of Lady Strife, goddess of sun and summer and war. Tension along the border between Suhdra and Tener—never soft—had grown in intensity. His father’s court was filled, day after day, with common folk complaining about abuse from Gabriel Halverdt, the duke of Greenhall, to the south.

He smiled, knowing Halverdt’s court was likely choked with complaints of untrustworthy peasants and pagans in the night. On top of that, the summer had brought another drought, and the fields were yellow with dry wheat and ashen soil.

The celestriarch had invited Ian’s father to celebrate the Allfire in distant Heartsbridge, holy seat of the Celestial church, and Malcolm Blakley had declined. None of the Tenerran lords had accepted that invitation, but quickly thereafter had come word of the visit from the high elector.

The timing was more than coincidence. Ian was certain of it. The church was always willing to let the Suhdrin nobility run roughshod over the north, but recently the people had begun talk of calling banners and riding south. It was half of why Ian had wanted to practice that morning. He wanted to greet the high elector with blade in hand.

The blood from his hand was running in rivulets down his fingers, spotting the floor in crimson. Again Ian pulled the linen tighter, cursing his mother’s will. He would need to visit the apothecary before he dressed.

He hoped the high elector didn’t ask the source of his wound.

* * *

Malcolm Blakley waited patiently in the courtyard. The massive wains of the high elector’s caravan rumbled through the front gate, surrounded by men-at-arms dressed in the colors of the church, joined by a few vow knights. There were a lot of blades inside his castle that had no loyalty to him. Even though they were all gods-sworn men and women of the church, it made him nervous.

His own guard spread out behind him, their armor bright and spears tipped in bloodwrought iron. His wife, Sorcha, stood at his side, and the rest of the family lined up beside her. Ian looked nervous, almost anxious, his fingers plucking at the place on his belt where a sword usually hung. Even Nessie appeared cross. He would have to speak to them later about their manners.

As for Malcolm himself, he wore the armor of his station. Dukes in the north always carried the threat of war, even in a council of peace. He was a heavy man, the muscle of his younger days just beginning to fade away into fat. His braids of coarse black hair were shot through with silver, and the naming day tattoos that ringed his eyes were obscured by wrinkles. The heavy hands that rested on his scabbard were scarred from years on the hunt and the tournament, not to mention the violence of the Reaver War and the unkindness shown him in the court of Halverdt in the days before. He was a gentle man in eye and voice, but his body spoke of war.

The wagons rumbled to a halt and their esteemed passengers got out. The first wagon was full of lesser priests and administrators, their fingers stained with ink and blood. The second wagon disgorged the higher servants of the church, clustered around the bulk of the high elector, his own little court of scryers dousing the air with frairwood incense before he descended. The stinking smoke made Malcolm wince. Did they really trust him so little, that they would sanctify the ground before they risked their precious elector’s skin?