The Pagan Night (29 page)

A great shattering noise rolled down the valley. Malcolm stopped and twisted in his saddle. The fog along the right flank split open, spilling knights of the line down the field’s length. The swirling confusion of that flank resolved into an armored cavalry charge that threatened to wipe Malcolm and his men off the earth.

“Their reserves!” he cried. “They must have circled behind the foot, formed a new flank in the confusion.” It was impossible to tell their numbers, but it hardly mattered. The ranked spearmen on the left had reformed into an arc that presented shields both to Malcolm and the broader Tenerran line. Malcolm’s men would be crushed between the spearmen and this new charge. He looked back at the Tenerran forces. There was no movement, and they were too far away to run to safety.

“Form on me! Form on the charge!”

“We’ll never make it, my lord!” his sergeant yelled. There was a murmur in the ranks as the men realized their plight.

“Not back, lads.” Malcolm circled his horse a few times, drawing the Blakley knights to his side and settling their lines. The hammering descent of the Suhdrin forces filled the air and shook the ground. When the wedge of knights was to his liking, Malcolm took the place at the head of the formation. Spear and shield gone, Malcolm waved his sword over his head and pointed forward. He started the charge.

They rode down the field to its center, to the ground they had just surrendered. He thundered past the ruin of Fabron’s charge, sheering away from the Suhdrin attack, ignoring the threatening flank of spearmen to his left, abandoning the safety of his own line. Charging toward the opposite side of the field and the gathered banners of Halverdt and LeGaere, Marchand and Bassion, and above them all the coldly flickering colors of the high inquisitor.

The men hesitated only a heartbeat, then threw themselves into the charge with the wild abandon of the mad and the doomed. They vaulted the bodies at the battle’s center and started up, up, into the jaws of the Suhdrin defenses. The banner of the hound snapped loudly over their heads, rippling in the wind of their passage. A loud, bellowing cheer went up from the Tenerrans far behind them as this small pocket of knights raced toward their deaths and glory.

Malcolm was deaf to it all. He felt suspended in time, with only the horse, the banner, and his men.

The colorful lines of the Suhdrin defenses wavered. They were not prepared for the charge, expecting to watch as Malcolm was run down, shocked to be suddenly setting spears and steadying nerves as this hundred-count of horse and knight barreled toward them. Drums signaled up and down the line, horns and the screaming commands of sergeants and lords, but in the ranks there was doubt. The campaign had been built on stories of fear, stories about the dangers posed by the pagans and their mad gods.

Fear was natural. Fear was Malcolm’s best hope.

As the line approached, Malcolm’s men tightened their wedge. It took only one man on the spear line to fail, one soul to tremble at their approach, one shield to dip and pike to drop, and then his brother beside him, and then the charge would find its heart. But as they charged forward, the spears held. He was down to heartbeats now, a breath and a half before impact. He was screaming.

Then they were among the thicket of spears. The man beside Malcolm fell without a sound, a barbed tip through his throat and then he pitched up and away, the horse tumbling like a boulder. A spear skittered over the barding by Malcolm’s leg, clipping his knee as it passed, and then another dipped toward his head but broke before it reached him, its wielder lost beneath hooves and mud. There was the tremendous, rib-breaking crash of horse into shield, body into steel, flesh and bone and blade thundering as they met.

Malcolm was among the lines. One second he was charging through wavering spears, and the next he and his horse and what remained of his men were surrounded by the levy. He was weaving back and forth, striking hard to left and right with his sword, his horse trampling any foolish enough to get close. There were hundreds around them, and more beyond, but for a brief, bright moment Malcolm was reaping blood and reaving fear.

Soon the footmen beneath him were falling back. In the respite, Malcolm’s men swirled around him, their hundred down to dozens, but the banner still flew. Behind them, the cavalry that had threatened to crush them was having trouble of their own. Their mad charge had followed Malcolm for a while, until the Tenerran lines had seen their flank and formed into their own charge. The center of the valley was a mad melee, axes and archers mixing in the ruin of mud.

Some number of the Suhdrin knights had fought their way to the arc of spearmen on the left and were reforming in the shelter of the shields. Close by, the enemy line was breaking. Malcolm’s charge had taken them by surprise, and the ranks of spear and shield were peeling away like dying flesh. Their reserve had been spent in the battle at the valley’s head, and that force was now wasted, trying to recover on the left. In the gap, MaeHerron had finally roused his forces and come pouring down the field.

The Suhdrin forces wavered. They could break at any second.

And then they did. Malcolm raised his sword to strike the next skull, but there was no one around him. He looked around, squinting through the visor of his helm, and saw that the line had broken. He and his men stood alone at the edge of the forest. Between the trees he could see glimpses of men and horses in full retreat, their banners cast aside, their shields littering the floor like autumn leaves.

Malcolm stood in his stirrups and screamed at their backs. His men took up the call, and their voices reached the sky and shook the trees and lifted the hearts of the soldiers behind.

Then he collapsed into his saddle and let the pain and ache and fatigue overwhelm him. He sheathed his sword before he dropped it, then slouched against his horse’s neck and waited for someone to lead him home.

T
HERE WERE A
lot of priests in the Suhdrin army. Fully half of the soldiers who milled about the camp that settled along the southern bank of the Tallow wore the church’s colors, and there was a troupe of inquisitors and naethermancers at the core of the force who kept to themselves. Elsa was the only vow knight in the camp, and none of the other priests seemed interested in talking to her. None but Lucas.

The pair walked through the camp in silence, surrounded by ranks of knights and their attendant men-at-arms. The army was in shock, still recovering from the defeat at the battle of the Tallow. Their numbers grew day by day. There were a lot of sharp blades in camp, getting sharper each night.

“This does not feel like an army defeated,” Elsa whispered while they walked. As soon as she had recovered from her fight at Tallownere, she and Lucas had come north to see what had occurred.

“Because they are not. Those who were at the Tallow are angry at having been defeated, but these legions that have joined them…” Lucas shrugged. “They’re confident, they’re arrogant, sure that things will be put right now that they’ve arrived. Sure they would have won that fight.”

“Seems like trouble.”

“Aye. The veterans will hate the newcomers for their arrogance; the newcomers will hate the veterans for their failure. Both sides are shamed by their brethren.”

“And both are furious at the northern lords, for putting Suhdrin pride to the sword,” Elsa said. She watched a group of young knights gathered around a keg, drinking and swearing and making claims of prowess. Their armor was too bright and their voices too loud. It would be a miracle if any of them survived. “There will be no peace.”

“Not until there’s a great deal more shame, at least.”

“What of the southern lords who have joined Adair? The duke of Redgarden stands with them, I know, and there’s talk of Roard,” Elsa asked.

“Roard will stay with their blood as long as they can, but they’re not eager for the fight. Jaerdin’s loyalty is to Blakley, not the north.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Not today, there isn’t,” Lucas said. They came to a stop at the top of a small hill that overlooked much of the river valley. The fields bristled with pikes and banners. They stood in silence for a while, looking at the host of war, measuring its size, its intent. Lucas sighed. “Where do you think they’ll cross?”

“With this many banners?” Elsa asked. “Wherever they damned well please.”

Lucas snorted, then started down the hill.

“Come on,” he said. “We have a council to attend.”

The duke of Greenhall’s tent squatted at the center of his army, flanked by a canvas doma on one side and a bonfire on the other. The scent of frairwood reached their noses long before they got to the tent. The guards at the entrance scowled at Sir LaFey, but at Lucas’s insistence they let her inside. They seemed accustomed to taking orders from priests of Cinder.

Inside there were more priests than lords. Gabriel Halverdt sat glumly at the center of the tent, slumped forward in a field throne. High Inquisitor Sacombre stood at his side, hand draped casually over the back of the throne, the staff of his office leaning against his chest. A trio of lesser priests waited in Sacombre’s shadow, hands folded in meditation. To Lucas’s surprise, one of them had the tribal tattoos of Tener on his face and neck.

The only other person in the tent was Sir Volent. The Deadface lurked in the corner of the tent, as far from the priests as he could manage. Volent turned his head and looked hard at them when Sir LaFey closed the tent flap behind her.

The air was thick with frairwood and sweat. Whatever conversation had been going on before Lucas’s arrival settled into an uncomfortable silence. He took the time to look each man in the eye before speaking.

“I was told this was a council of war,” he said. “I came to advise, in hopes of peace.”

“What do you know of war, priest?” Halverdt grumbled without looking up.

“What do I know of anything?” Lucas answered. “Where are the other lords?”

“This is a private audience,” Sacombre said, “and a private matter. You were invited to give your insight into certain things, and then you will be free to leave.”

“Free, or required?”

“Do you always speak to your master in this way?” the tattooed priest hissed. Lucas looked him over again. Clearly Tenerran, and maybe a little mad. Fresh converts were always the most zealous. Lucas laughed.

“My master is Cinder, god of winter and reason and death,” he said, then gestured to the high inquisitor. “This is a man. Do not confuse the two.”

Sacombre chuckled, a low, rolling laughter that carried as much joy as threat. He stood up, casually setting his staff of office against the throne and strolling to the center of the tent, where a low brazier burned. He rubbed his hands together and held them out to the smoky fire.

“Always the rogue, Lucas. Always the wise blade. We’ve missed your wit in Heartsbridge.”

“I truly doubt that you have.”

“Some of us have. Some of us mark your absence, at least.”

Frair Lucas nodded sharply. The two had disagreed in the past, usually over matters of atrocity and justice. The high inquisitor had a keen theological mind, Lucas knew, but his approach to the north was too absolute. That, and he always seemed to be leering, even as he prayed.

“Tell your tale, priest, and be gone,” Halverdt said. He readjusted the thick cloak around his knees, in spite of the heat. “I’ve had enough of the clever words of holy men today.”

“Which tale would you hear?” Lucas asked.

“You were at the court of the Fen Gate prior to this travesty,” Sacombre said. “We would know the mind of Lord Adair.”

“You know it well enough,” Lucas said, not taking his eyes off the duke. “You have provoked him often enough. Little surprise that he has bitten back.”

“I hardly consider raiding one of my villages a
little
surprise,” Halverdt said. “Nor interfering with the justice of my rulings. Nor is the summoning of a gheist—”

“We know little enough about that,” Lucas said. “Let’s not make accusations we can’t prove.”

“The pagan bitch followed that gheist to my men,” Sir Volent said. “A huntress and her hound. What more proof do you need?”

“I find it difficult to believe that the woman charged with killing the old gods would somehow be their servant, as well,” Lucas answered. “Not unless she is doing a truly terrible job of it.”

“Let us stay to the facts we know, and the result of those facts,” Sacombre said. “There has been an unprecedented surge in gheists, wouldn’t you say?”

Lucas paused, feeling his way around what Sacombre was saying.

“This is true,” he allowed.

“And this surge corresponds uncomfortably with our recent troubles.”

“It’s more reasonable to say that the surge may be the cause of our recent troubles,” Lucas said. “After all, it was the events at Gardengerry that led to your men riding out to Tallownere. The violence that occurred there may have drawn the gheist, which then drew the huntress who was tracking it.”

“Enough!” Halverdt bellowed. He stirred beneath his embroidered cloak, standing from the throne. He was a larger man than Lucas remembered, as though swollen with anger. “Tener has raised its banners at my border, and I will defend myself. All of Suhdra stands with me. The church stands with me! I will not sit here and listen to reasonable men argue the details of my offense!”

“My lord, it was not our intention—” Sacombre began. Halverdt cut him off.

“I thank you for your support, priest, and your blessing, but this is a matter of blades, not prayer. I accept the banners you brought north, and those of your priests who are willing to fight at our side, but do not stand here and debate the justification for this war. House Adair has offended me.” Halverdt gathered his robes and settled once again onto the throne. “They have killed my men and were behind the murders at Gardengerry. I will take my justice from their bones.”

Sacombre bowed slightly, just enough to be respectful but not far enough to be kind. The trio of priests followed suit.

Lucas and Elsa didn’t move.

“As you wish, my lord,” the high inquisitor said. “That is why we have come to you. My favored servant—” he gestured to the tattooed priest “—Frair Allaister Finney has learned of a hidden road through the Fen that will allow you to fall on Adair’s castle without warning. You will be able to cut the heart from this rebellion before the north can fully rise against you.”