The Pagan Night (26 page)

“I’m as good as any, and better than most,” said a gaunt man in Blakley colors. He was dressed in loose linen, worn and sweaty, though the tabard belted to his chest looked fresh. He had a patchy beard, though it was still soft and thin. Gwen smiled.

“A squire?” she said. “Surely there is a knight among your number who would be better able.” She looked at the dozen or so swordsmen standing in the young man’s wake. A few of them wore bits of armor, and at least one—a woman—was dressed for war.

“The mud hides my honor, but such is the way with war. I am Lord Ian Blakley, son of Malcolm, heir to the Hunter’s throne and the hallow of the hound.” Ian stood straight. “And you?”

“Gwendolyn Adair. I wouldn’t have recognized you, Ian. Last we met, you were still putting arrows into haystacks. Have you trained to the lance, now?”

“He’s done more than that,” the woman said. She came to stand beside Ian. “Faced a gheist at Greenhall, and entered the lists against Chev Bourdais.”

“And lived? Well, that’s something to report. You lead this host?”

Another came up the hill, this one without color or armor or fear. Gwen almost didn’t recognize him, until he smiled.

“My lady,” Sir Merret said. “You should be kind to the boy. I would be dead without his help.”

“Everyone can stop calling me ‘the boy,’ please,” Ian said tightly.

“Yes, yes…” Merret waved him aside and went to stand beside Gwen’s horse. “I have a lot to report, but you’ve probably guessed at the worst of it.”

“This is all that remains of the Tenerran host from Greenhall?” she asked.

“This, and an equal number dead in the trees below.”

“And the duke is not with you?”

“My father is alive and well, and spent this night in better service to his land than you, I suspect,” Ian said. “He is below, seeing to the wounded and preparing to ride.”

“Then you have horses. Excellent, because we have few to spare. Those scouts of Greenhall will find support long before we reach the Fen.” She nudged her horse closer to Ian. “I was hoping that you would be able to ride in strength from Greenhall. We are few along the border.”

“Halverdt took most of our gear and an equal measure of our strength before we were free of his walls,” Ian said. He wavered on his feet, looking for a moment as though he would fall from fatigue, then put a hand on Gwen’s boot to steady himself. She ignored it. “It has been a difficult ride. My father will be thankful you have come.”

“We came to help, and to get help. There is much to discuss. Come.” She offered him a hand. He took it, and Gwen pulled him up to the saddle, to sit in front of her. He stank of the road and battle, but it wasn’t a terrible stink. “Let’s find your father. We must reach the Tallow before night. Sooner, if we can.”

“He’s below. Hopefully dressed by now.”

“Dressed? Surely…”

“They came at us in the night. Father was killing them before he found his boots, much less his dignity.”

“Well, then,” Gwen said with a smirk, “we will ride slowly, and hope the duke has found at least one of those before we arrive.”

* * *

They crossed the Tallow in strength, the ragged remnants of Malcolm’s force happy to be on Tenerran ground once again, despite the loss and tragedy that had brought them here. Malcolm Blakley paused at the river’s shore to bathe, joined by a dozen men and women from his train, all of them lame from fatigue. They turned the churning water to rust.

When he emerged, though, it was as though Malcolm had left a great weight of worry in the river’s current. The war had come, and there was nothing he could do to avoid it. So he would be ready.

“You say my wife has ridden to the Fen Gate?” Malcolm asked as he donned fresh robes.

“Aye, with some number of riders. When she heard of the troubles in Greenhall, she sent word to the northern lords and their bannermen,” Gwen said. “Your wife is preparing for war.”

“She should not have come to the Fen Gate,” he muttered. “She should be guarding Houndhallow.” He mounted without armor and signaled the advance. They crossed the river in column.

“Will you leave us to guard the border alone, then, and return to Houndhallow?” Gwen asked. She had to yell as they splashed across the water.

“We have a border with Halverdt, as well, you know,” Ian said. “If he decides to cross the Tallow, there’s nothing to keep him from riding there instead of here.”

“We will not abandon our alliance with you,” Malcolm said crossly. “Blakley and Adair have stood against Suhdrin aggression since shadows first stretched over Tenumbra. This time will be no different. It just would have eased my mind to have the duchess behind our walls. That is all.”

“The defense of Houndhallow will be seen to,” Gwen said. “If we defeat Halverdt here, however, there will be no need.”

“You speak of defeating him here, and making a stand on the border,” Malcolm said, “but where will we stand? A skirmish with scouts does not make or break a war, my lady. I know you are huntress of your house, but battle is not joined in the hunter’s way, by creeping through the woods until you find your prey. There must be open ground, and a meeting of armies. We may have no army to meet: for all we know, Halverdt has contented himself with throwing us out of his keep, and will not stir from his walls.”

“Oh, I assure you he has stirred,” Gwen said. “As you shall see, if you follow me.”

She refused to say anything more. Malcolm frowned, but he followed.

* * *

They proceeded east, until in time they reached the edge of a narrow lake, called White Lake. There was a ford at the point where the river entered the lake, and another on the other side, where the river Tallow again flowed out of the lake. A Tenerran army had made camp in Suhdrin land along the lake’s southern shore, and now spread out in a crescent. Their banners hung lazily in the air, but tents and wagons and temporary forges crowded the shores of the lake, and rank after rank of armed men waited. Gwen led them across the nearest ford to join the army.

The plain to the south rose slowly to a gentle ridge anchored by a wooded hillock. Along the ridge and down the slope bristled the gathered armies of Suhdra. Among the bright banners of the houses of Suhdra, fully half of the spears arrayed against them flew the black and gray of the inquisition.

The south had marched against them. The war was joined.

“You’ve already crossed?” Malcolm asked in disbelief. “The armies of House Adair cannot decide to invade Suhdra on a whim! We’ll have a war, certainly, but if we’d stayed on Tenerran soil we would at least have had the advantage of land and heart. Any negotiation we undertake—”

“Two things,” she replied, cutting him off, “before you get in over your head. First, any negotiation that we undertake will be from the victor’s chair, and not while begging for Suhdrin mercy.” She sat straight in the saddle and waved her hand to indicate the encampment. “And, perhaps most importantly, that is not an army of House Adair.”

Malcolm turned again to view the army. A smaller congregation of Tenerran lords was gathered on the near bank, and there the banners rested. To his surprise, he saw the gray and black of the Feltower, the multi-green of Drownhal, both of them from Tener. But there was also a Suhdrin banner: the blue and white of House Jaerdin. Castian Jaerdin, duke of Redgarden, had ridden with him during the Reaver War, and often opposed Halverdt in the Suhdrin Circle of Lords. He was the only Suhdrin in the host. Malcolm was pleased to see him.

“You would take commands from a Suhdrin lord?” Malcolm asked. “I grant you, Castian is as fine a general as the south has raised, and a true friend, but it would suit better if Tenerran nobles asked for Tenerran blood.”

“I agree,” she replied. “Which is why the central banner flies.”

The banner at the center of the commander’s encampment was lazy, large and heavy, its edges frayed with golden tassel and the seals of a dozen campaigns. Then the wind rose, and the banner stirred. The Blakley hound, a black shadow against its white field, lifted into the air. Soon it was cracking like thunder in the breeze.

Malcolm spurred his horse and charged down to the banner-hold. A line of spearmen formed to meet his charge, until someone recognized the riders and blew a horn, and they parted. He hammered toward the commander’s dais, from where the council would watch the coming battle. When he got close, Malcolm slid from his saddle and stumbled forward. There was a murmuring from the gathered lords. He ran toward the stairs.

Standing at the front of the commander’s dais, sword at her hip and chain over her dress, was his wife, Sorcha Blakley. She looked down at the stumbling madman who had just appeared at the flank of her army and, when she recognized her husband, gave a little start. Then she rushed down the stairs and into his arms. The rings of her mail gave a
shing
ing sound, like a handful of coins let slip to the floor.

“It’s good to see you, husband,” she said when she had finally pulled away. With one hand she brushed a tear from his eye, putting it to her lips.

“And you, my love,” Malcolm answered very quietly. “What brings you to the Fen?”

“I came looking for my husband—and see? I found him.” She smiled sheepishly, an odd look on her face. “I brought you an army, dear.”

“It’s good that you did,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe this woman sometimes. He hoped he never finished with being surprised at her. “We’re going to need it.”

T
HE AIR IN
the tent was close and hot. The white linen panels of the walls were dazzlingly bright from the sun’s radiance. Malcolm and the other lords of Tener were crowded around a narrow table at the center, squinting down at a ragged parchment map that showed a rough approximation of the battlefield outside. The sound of drums and horns and the slow, rolling clamor of hundreds of soldiers echoed over the lake.

Malcolm was losing his temper.

“This battle, yes,” he said, “
this
battle we can win, but the border is broad and loosely held. If we commit our full strength here, there will be Suhdrin banners hanging over the Feltower by winter.”

“Your only worry is Houndhallow,” Duncan Rudaine said. The duke of Drownhal was an uncommonly quiet man, given to sour moods and swift anger. He stood at the verge of the council’s circle, hands folded into his belt, thumb resting on his ever-present hand axe. “We all have a stake in keeping this fight off of Tenerran land. Which is why we must commit here.”

“Is it wrong for my father to defend his home?” Ian asked. He stood opposite Malcolm, dressed for war, but also carrying the spear he had used to face the gheist. It kept banging into camp chairs and generally getting in the way. “We are here to protect Tener, are we not? Is Houndhallow less worthy of that protection than the Fen Gate?”

“It is not a question of worthiness, but reality,” Gwen said. “The Suhdrin army is here.” She pointed to the map, then to another location nearby. “The Tenerran army is here. We are where the fight will take place.”

“Unless it occurs to Halverdt that there’s more to be gained in taking the halls of your allies, and drawing us away from the defense,” Lord MaeHerron grumbled.

“The Suhdrin lords are more worried about running afoul of gheists in the savage north than we are of getting lost in the south,” Rudaine answered. “But we should keep in mind that we are in Suhdra, even if Tener is just across the river. I’m sure the Circle of Lords finds that an aggressive stance.”

“The presence of this army on Suhdrin soil has rallied southern banners,” Castian Jaerdin agreed. The only Suhdrin in their number, his silk and silver looked painfully out of place in the crowd of leather and steel, but his voice was even and calm. Malcolm was glad the man was there among them, to remind his fellow lords that the enemy wasn’t all Suhdra—that Halverdt’s actions were not universally approved of in his own land.

“Outrage at the trouble at Greenhall has drawn the closest of Halverdt’s allies,” Jaerdin continued, “but those farther south are taking the time to think things through. If this is to be a defensive battle, the lords along the Burning Coast will not be drawn into the fight.”

“May aye, or may nay,” Rudaine said sharply. “If we sit here and wait, it’s possible Halverdt will draw even more forces to his banner, until they have enough to crush us. And so we’ll fight.”

“As I’ve said time and again, this is not the fight we need to have,” Malcolm said. “We should secure the border, make sure Halverdt’s men stay on this side of the Tallow, and wait for the fire of his anger to burn off. To hold the Tallow, we will need reinforcements, and not just Tenerrans. Castian has sent riders south already. We should count on help from Roard, from DuFallion, from Marcy and Bealth.”

“No offence to the duke, but I’d rather have a pack of dogs at my back than Suhdrin knights by my side,” Rudaine grumbled. “We’ve steel enough to win this fight. Why are we waiting?”

“Because we will spend our strength against this force, and have nothing left for his reserve. If we…”

“If we break him here, his reserve can squat!” Rudaine said sharply. “We must strike while the opportunity presents itself. There is no value in waiting.”

“There is great value in not overreaching ourselves,” Malcolm insisted. “Yes, this is a fine opportunity, but blood may be spared and steel kept sharp if we fall back today, only to face him with greater strength tomorrow. Perhaps with allies enough to avoid the fight altogether. If more Suhdrin lords join the duke of Redgarden in opposing this action, Halverdt will be forced to stand down.”

“Halverdt’s committed, in mind and body,” Rudaine pressed. “He and the high inquisitor have been spoiling for this fight for quite a while. Right now I’m of a mind to give it to them.”

“I came at the duchess’s call, to stand by her husband,” MaeHerron answered, “and here stands the duke of Houndhallow. Seems to me the seed of this fight rests with Adair, and the Fen Gate. If Halverdt was spoiling for blood, then it was Gwendolyn Adair who gave it to them.”

“Steady, now,” Gwen Adair said, stepping in. “Halverdt’s crimes against Tener reach far beyond our border. Don’t think he would settle for the Fen Gate, if the whole north sits open to him.”