The Pagan Night (27 page)

“You have put us in a difficult place, Miss Adair,” MaeHerron said. “The church has raised its banner beside Halverdt’s, and given its weight to this fight. We are all faithful Celestials, each to his own doma, but my tower rests in the shadow of the winter shrine. Half my sons are sworn to the priesthood, and half my daughters train at the Lightfort.” He shifted uncomfortably. “If this becomes a fight against Heartsbridge, then my strength will have to fall away. I can not raise my banner against the gods.”

“The high inquisitor is looking for an excuse,” Gwen said angrily. “He seeks to put the north under his banner, to raise a pogrom the like of which we haven’t seen since the crusades. Aye, we’re all faithful Celestials. The gods know this. It’s the high inquisitor who doesn’t seem convinced.”

“Fighting him is poor proof,” MaeHerron mumbled.

“Tolerating Halverdt’s crime is no more proof of our faith,” said Sorcha. “And remember, it was the high elector of Strife who sent my husband to Greenhall, to ‘make peace’ between Tener and Suhdra.” She leaned into the table, resting her knuckles against the map. “It is not the Celestial church that we fight, but Gabriel Halverdt, and if High Inquisitor Sacombre stands beside him, then it is he who defies Heartsbridge. Not us.”

“That will get you hanged,” MaeHerron said as lightly as he could manage.

“Hanged for speaking the truth,” Malcolm said. “I don’t like it, but I can’t deny it, either. Whatever Halverdt’s goal, he doesn’t stand with the church on this. Heartsbridge seeks peace, and if we must fight for that peace, then we will fight.”

“So we march?” Rudaine asked.

“So we stand,” Malcolm answered. “We must hold the border.”

“The battle lines are already drawn,” Sorcha said. “If we try to retreat across the fords, our men will be butchered.”

“There will be a battle,” MaeHerron said. “Today.”

“Yes,” Malcolm agreed, “and once it is won, we must restrain our lines. We can’t pursue them deeper into their lands. We must not give them more reason to draw their banners. We must give the southern houses time to find the nerve to oppose the inquisitor’s army.”

“Which cannot be done if we march south,” Jaerdin said. “Win today. Secure the Tallow, and then we can think about tomorrow.”

“Gwen,” Malcolm said. “The land we passed through after you rescued us: do you know it well?”

“I was born to it,” she said. “The Redoubt, it is called. I’ve hunted those cliffs since I was a child.”

“Very good. I would ask you guard that land, if you’re able.”

“And by whose will do you order me?” Gwen asked sharply.

“This army was gathered to rescue Blakley, by his lady wife,” MaeHerron said. “It is now his to lead.”

“But it is our land that was first attacked,” Gwen said. “Adair lands that lay beyond this river. The iron fist of Adair should lead us. I should…”

“Child,” Sorcha whispered. “That is not how this will happen.”

There was awkward silence around the tent. Finally, Gwen nodded.

“Very well. If that is how it is to be, then I wish to ride with you, my lord,” she argued. “To protect my father’s borders from the Suhdrins.”

“Unfortunately, your presence on the battle line will only spur Halverdt’s men to greater violence. I would rather the banner of Adair not fly over this host today, if possible.”

“Do you level this insult against my house because you wish to splinter the north?” Gwen asked sharply.

“Not at all, but because I wish to bind the north and south together. Whatever the facts around the events at Tallownere…”

“Halverdt’s monster was murdering my people like pigs!”

“Whatever the facts—” Malcolm held out a hand to still her protest “—we need to remove the insult from the Suhdrin mind. Riding beside you will only remind them of the slight, and give weight to Halverdt’s argument.”

“By hiding my banner, you give in to their fears,” Gwen countered. “If you mean to unite Tener, you can’t do it by dividing us first.”

“I’m not dividing us. I’m just playing the wise game. There is no insult in this,” Malcolm said.

“You know better than that, Father,” Ian said. “You’re bending to the church first, and your blood last.”

Malcolm clenched his jaw, then rested his hand on the table and turned stiffly toward his son.

“We must consider the church before our blood. It is the church that ties our lands together, Suhdra and Tener. If there is to be peace between us, it will be through the church.”

Gwen and Ian both replied together, their voices a babble of offended honor and sharp criticism. Malcolm waited until their rage had burned out.

“You have your orders,” he said to Gwen. “Go.”

There was silence around the table. The gathered lords of Tener stared down at the map, weighing their chances and keeping the peace.

Gwen stood stiffly, then sighed and marched out of the tent.

“Battle today,” Rudaine whispered. “Leave tomorrow to the priests.”

“Agreed,” MaeHerron said.

“Then it’s settled,” Sorcha said. “Form your lines, gentlemen.” She plucked a dagger from the map’s corner, letting the dry parchment roll up on itself. “There will be no more plans made today.”

The councilors slowly filed out of the tent, each to his or her pavilion. Ian made to depart when Malcolm took him by the shoulder.

“Where will you ride?” he asked.

“At your shoulder,” Ian answered. “As is fitting for a son.”

“No,” Malcolm said. “You tested my authority and my patience, and you’ve been carrying that damn spear around like it’s a trophy.”

“How many men can say they stood against a gheist?” Ian asked.

“As many as have been saved by someone else, and survived despite their foolishness.”

“Foolishness? You yourself set the bloodwrought spear in my hand at birth. Is it my fault that I followed through on that promise?”

“I ride with priests at my side, and knights of the vow at my fore. You are no hunter, Ian Blakley, and no warrior, to be risking your life in the charge. You will rule Houndhallow one day. Your blood and your name are more important to this demesne than your glory.” Malcolm closed his hand on Ian’s shoulder, gripping so tightly that the boy cringed. “If you haven’t the sense to protect that name, then I must do it for you.”

“What worth is my name without glory?” Ian asked, his voice turning shrill. “Who is the Reaverbane to tell me that I must sit back and watch other men gather fame?”

“A man who knows better than you. Before I hand command to your mother, I am assigning you to the flank. Our army is bounded by two fords. The main body of the army holds the eastern ford, but the western ford is beyond our battle line.”

“What difference does that make?” Ian asked.

“This,” he said, then opened the map once again. “The Sudhrin side of the western ford has already been claimed by Halverdt’s men. The river bends in such a way that we cannot reclaim it easily. If they have a mind, they could cross the river and cut off our retreat or wreak havoc among the caravan.”

“Gwen is responsible for those crossings,” Ian said.

“No, Gwen is holding the fords farther west, along the Redoubt. I want you to hold the western ford, to act as a buffer between our forces and those of Adair, as well as protecting our route of escape, should things go badly.”

“A milkmaid’s duty! An old man could hold the ford!”

“Not if our lines collapse,” Sorcha said, stepping in and giving her son’s cheek a disconcerting smudge with her thumb. “You may be called upon to oversee the rout, and that’s a bloody business.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Ian snarled. He spun and pushed out of the tent, snapping the flap closed as angrily as he could. When he was gone, Sorcha sighed and gave her husband a look.

“He only wants to be like you, you know,” she said. “He only wants to live up to your name. Why do you treat him thus?”

“I only want him to be better than me,” Malcolm said. Then he went to the hammock in the corner, laid his creaking bones in the canvas, and fell promptly and fitfully to sleep.

* * *

Hours later, Malcolm stood at the head of the inlet ford, the eastern crossing that led across the lake from the Tenerran command to the battle lines. The sky was gray, a low fog creeping through the trees and rising from the lake. The other lords had already crossed with their forces. He had waited behind to speak to his wife.

“You didn’t have to give me command,” she said.

“I didn’t give it,” Malcolm said. “It was yours all along.”

“The men will still bow to your will. If we stand together on the dais and things begin to go wrong, they will turn to you for advice. For command.”

“No,” Malcolm shook his head. “I won’t be at your side today.”

“No? Then what will you do with yourself, husband? Where will you be?”

“I will be where I belong. Where I should have been all this time.” He signaled to his squire. “Prepare my horse and my sword, and see that my armor is bright. I want Halverdt to know where I am. I want the men to see me, and the Suhdrin to fear me.”

“You mean to fight?” Sorcha asked.

“I mean to fight,” Malcolm said. “I mean to kill.”

Sorcha sat quietly for a minute before reaching up to her husband’s shoulder.

“I will move the commander’s platform to the other side of the lake, then,” she said.

“Why? If the line breaks, you will be exposed to a charge. Don’t be foolish.”

“If I’m to lead, then I must be there. Communication across the fords is too slow. Besides, if my husband falls, I would fall beside him.”

“Much too poetic,” Malcolm said. “I would feel better,
fight
better, if I knew you were safe.”

“Perhaps you will fight better if you know I am not safe,” she said. “It’s not your job to protect me. I’m the commander here. I’ve given my orders.”

“Yes, my lady,” Malcolm said with a grin.

“Very good. Now, go put on your pretty armor. There’s a battle to win.”

* * *

There was already smoke on the battlefield, hovering over the grass in cotton wisps. The Suhdrin had wheeled several wagons of hay into the middle field and set them alight. Even after the wagons were consumed, the smell clung to the air, the sting of hay and old wood.

The spear lines shifted nervously. Horns sounded sporadically over the low murmur of thousands of men and women preparing to kill each other. The Tenerran cavalry rode back and forth in front of their lines, silent but for the hammering of their spears against shields and the tattoo of hooves. Arrows arced lazily from the Suhdrin side of the valley to fall harmlessly in the trampled mud.

Scores of the Tenerran faithful stooped to the old ways, saying a final prayer to the river, offering silently to the gods that murmured beneath the water. Priests of Cinder and Strife stood in the lake, wet to their knees, sprinkling benedictions and water on the crowds that had been gathering on the shore all morning. Now that the battle was ready to begin, however, the priests had packed up their icons and retreated across the lake, to wait with the supply wagons, taking their silent gods with them.

Only the commander’s dais remained on the shoreline.

Malcolm said a final prayer, then walked over to the dais. He adjusted the clasps on his armor, struggling to get the shield to sit comfortably against his chest, testing the range of his sword arm, trying to ignore the creeping pain in his back. Sorcha had brought his battle rig, as sure of finding her husband as she was of the need to exact vengeance for the attack upon her family once they were reunited.

A thoughtful woman
, he mused.

His squire descended on him to make final adjustments that hampered his sword and pinched the increasingly angry nerves in his back. Another led a barded horse to his side and bent to help Malcolm into the saddle. He waved the boy off.

“Where’s Gray Mourning?” he asked. “I can’t ride just any horse into battle.”

“She’s spent, my lord. Weeks on the road without rest, and rough handling at that…”

“I handled her more than well!” Malcolm snapped.

“Blessings, Mal,” Sorcha called from the stairs, “but horses were never your gift. Leave the poor girl alone for a day, and ride another. This one is from the duke of Drownhal’s personal stable. A child could ride him through hell and never burn a toe. Stop being a fool.”

“I’m used to her,” Malcolm growled. “It’s a battle. I don’t want to try a new horse during a battle.”

“You pout like a child, Malcolm. Now get on the horse and get to your place. All of these nice people are waiting for you.”

Malcolm sulked, but he allowed the squires to hoist him into the saddle and secure him, then he took his lance and shield. His sword was secured, as was a quiver of throwing spears, plus enough knives to supply a kitchen.

“Drownhal likes knives, I take it,” Malcolm said.

“Never without a blade, that one.” On the stairs, Sorcha was now eye-level with her husband. Malcolm nudged the horse closer to her. The mount really was very responsive. That somehow only made it worse.

“The men will expect much of you, love,” Malcolm said. “Don’t be afraid to take their advice. Try to not overextend the line, but also don’t…”

“Hush,” Sorcha said. “I’ve read some very interesting books about this sort of thing. I’m looking forward to plunging you into some treacherous situations… letting you fight your way out.”

“So I guess I don’t need to insist that you not worry about me.”

“Worry about you? Malcolm, I’ve done nothing but worry about you for the last several months. I raised a damned army to ease that worry, and now that I’ve found you, the first thing you do is decline to sit at the back and sip tea, as is fitting for your position. You demand to ride to the front.

“You know you have nothing to prove,” she added.

“Don’t I? I’m the man the church trusted with securing the peace between Adair and Halverdt. We all know how that worked out. I’ve done everything I can to prevent this war, and it’s won me no allies. If there’s no avoiding a war, then I might as well do what I can to win it.”

“You can’t do that from the ease of the commander’s dais? Is that not an appropriate place for you?”