The Pagan Night (35 page)

“And yet, the horns.”

Malcolm grunted. Someone brought his horse and shield, then several men helped the lord of Houndhallow into his saddle. Rudaine still stood on the ground. From his perch, Malcolm could see the whole Suhdrin line, as well as the western pickets, where the horns were still sounding. Ian’s position was still out of sight on the northern side of the river, and the forces arrayed against him were equally hidden.

“No, there’s nothing. If there’s an attack on the western ford, it’s led by ghosts. Sir Bray, get a rider to that picket and find out what the hell they’re on about.” Malcolm waited until the knight was on his way, then leaned down to Rudaine. “Those are your men, Duke. Are they prone to fright?”

“No man who marches out of Drownhal is prone to fright.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no movement on the southern line. Either your scouts have decided to call the hunt, or…” Malcolm turned to receive a report and his eyes drifted across the Tallow, to the supply camp that lined the northern bank. “Gods be damned,” he muttered.

A silent line of riders was scything through the camps, cutting down the few guards and securing the northern mouth of the western ford. Rudaine looked in the direction of Malcolm’s gaze, then swore and took off at a run.

“Mount a charge on that ford, Drownhal!” Malcolm shouted after the retreating figure. “We can’t afford to be cut off!”

Rudaine didn’t answer, but kept running. Malcolm whirled his horse and rode to the river’s bank. Men and horses were stirring as their commanders slowly realized what was occurring. A call drifted over the river valley, this time from the Suhdrin camps. Halverdt must have received word.

That’s madness
, Malcolm thought.
Why wouldn’t he have known of a flanking attack on the Tenerran position?
Still, there was no denying that the Suhdrin lines were only now shifting themselves.

“My lord,” Sir Bray called, “they fly Marchand and Roard banners! Scouts spotted them riding down the embankment from the direction of your son’s position at the ford, but only called the alarm when they realized the number. They thought it a ruse.” The knight stumbled up to Malcolm’s flank.

“There was no warning from my son?”

“No, my lord. We must assume that his position has been overrun.”

“And my wife?”

“She is on the northern bank, my lord. There were messengers from several uncommitted Tenerran lords. They were dining among the wagons, for safety.”

“Well, they’re involved now,” Malcolm spat. He looked up as a shout came from the western ford. Rudaine was leading an assault, a small fist of mounted knights that crashed into the water under a hail of arrows. “They have archers in the woods. This’ll be a bloody business.”

“What should our men do?” Bray asked.

“See that the eastern ford is secure. It’s unlikely that they would have circled all the way around, but gods know what’s possible. Keep an eye on the south. If the Tenerrans…”

“Riders south, my lord!” a messenger called, riding hard and fast from the front lines. “There seems little plan to it, my lord, but the Suhdrin knights are mounting.”

“We’re in for it, then. Get the pikes set. Make sure MaeHerron gets his shields to the center of the line, and don’t let them engage until the Suhdrin force is committed.” The messenger nodded to each command, edging his horse away in his eagerness to relay the orders. Malcolm reached out and took the man’s reins. “Listen carefully. Whatever is happening, Halverdt is as surprised as us. Have the commanders calm their men. Have them take time for prayers. Show no fear in the face of this. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord, but…”

“Enough,” Malcolm spat. “We hold this line or we fall.” He released the man’s horse and gave it a slap. “We fall all the way back to Houndhallow, and gods help us.”

“What of your wife, my lord?”

“What of her?” he asked. “She knows the blade.”

* * *

The Marchand banner fluttered and fell, the black spear and red rose spotted with blood. The air was heavy with smoke and the screams of dying men. The only light was the flickering fire of the Tenerran supply wagons, and the sweet stink of charred meat mingled with sweat and spilled guts.

Lord Daeven cradled the broken head of his son, his hands sticky with blood. Sorcha Blakley stared into the night, watching the last riders of the failed flanking attack disappear among the trees. She ground the shaft of her long spear into the mud and looked down at the fallen child.

“Now will you join us, Lord Daeven?”

Daeven shook, his shoulders heaving, his cheeks slick with tears and his dead son’s crimson. The Earl of Blackvaen glared up at her.

“Do not think you can twist a child’s death into another hundred spears for your heresy, Duchess.”

“His blood is on Suhdrin blades, Daeven. You will not see that avenged?”

“I will not see my other sons killed,” he said. He stood, cradling the body. The boy’s head rolled back on what remained of his neck, a fresh gout of blood freed as the flesh tore and bones ground together. “Nor my daughters raped, nor my wife widowed.”

“You came to talk banners,” Sorcha said tightly. “Perhaps to talk peace, and they brought the blade to our table.”

“You,” he said. “You brought the blade. They have only answered in kind.”

“Lord Daeven, there are thousands of Suhdrin spears clustered on our border. Even now…”

“Enough. I must bury my boy as far from this slaughterhouse you’ve built as I can manage,” Daeven said. He wrapped the child’s face in his cloak, gathering the broken pieces back into the whole, wincing as his son’s blood-streaked face disappeared behind the cloth. Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night.

Sorcha sighed and put her spear aside. She was still dressed in her dinner finery, hastily crushed beneath a breastplate and chain skirts, the whole outfit ruined with blood and sweat. The riders had fallen on them so quickly, there hadn’t been time to find shelter for her guests. Even Earl Daeven had taken up his sword, to defend his son as much as his own life.

It hadn’t been enough.

One of her maidens ran up, bow in hand. The girl was naked beneath her armor, except for a loose shift of wool. She had taken a quicker and less modest approach to the ambush, cutting her silks away when the assault had come. Sorcha almost regretted not following her lead.

The girl saluted, then bent the knee.

“Get up, child. What is happening?”

“The last of the riders have fallen back. We’re rooting the archers out of the forest now. They were children, my lady. Boys and old men.”

“They fought well, for boys and old men,” Sorcha said. “And the other guests?”

“Lord MaeFell has already sworn his numbers to us, though he hasn’t called his banners. It will be weeks before they reach us. The rest of your guests are safe enough.”

“Not all of them,” Sorcha said, looking down at the drying blood at her feet. “See that Earl Daeven receives an escort home. What of the southern side of the river?”

“Darkness and the songs of war,” the maiden said.

“I would rather not wait until dawn,” Sorcha answered. “Gather what blades you can. Are the fords open?”

“The Suhdrins hold the western ford. They were able to hold out against Rudaine’s assaults until joined by Halverdt’s spears from the south. They have built a new bridge with the dead of Drownhal, my lady.”

“You have a horrific way with words, girl.” She turned. “We go east, then, and pray that Ian has gotten away or been ransomed.”

The maiden bowed and ran away, her bare feet thumping in the grass. Sorcha freed her hair from its impractical braid and started binding it together into something her helmet could accommodate. She walked as she worked. As she approached the eastern ford, her ears were met by a cataclysm of crashing metal and shouting men.

“The fight has shifted?” she asked one of the guards who were watching the ford in horror. She didn’t recognize the man, and when he didn’t answer she took him by the shoulders and twisted him around.

There was a slash across his forehead, and blood dripped down his chest. His eyes were wide and empty. He stumbled back from her, then dropped his sword and started stumbling north.

“Home,” he muttered. “Going home.”

Sorcha snatched up his blade and looked around. Most of the men milling around this end of the ford showed some sign of combat. A steady stream of soldiers was crossing on foot, some of them carried between two or three of their fellows. Many wore the black and white of Houndhallow, but there were also soldiers in Rudaine’s green and Jaerdin’s bright yellow and blue.

The opposite bank was absolute darkness.

“Bring me torches,” Sorcha yelled, “and a shield wall! Men of the hound, rally to me!”

Those coming across the river ignored her, but several dozen men who had already reached the north side stirred from their stupor and came to her side. Her maiden joined them, with a handful of her attendants. They began to shuffle into a defensive position, their spears pointed in the direction of the ford. The battle moved, like a storm of clamoring shields and swords.

Then the storm broke. The darkness swirled, and a great company of horses thundered across the ford. They bowled through the injured and the lame. At their rear, a smaller force of knights fought a retreat. Behind them came a tide of Suhdrin blades.

Malcolm Blakley fought at the center of the Tenerran retreat. He had lost his horse, his helm, and his banner, but he was alive. When he reached dry ground, Sorcha signaled the charge. She and her spears closed the gap, sealing the ford. In the darkness, the enemy assault faltered. Quickly they fell back across the river, content at having driven Blakley’s men out of Suhdra.

Sorcha turned to her husband. He was smeared in ashes. Malcolm collapsed heavily to the ground, barely staying seated in the mud.

“Is there anyone else?” she asked.

“Rudaine sought to fight across the western ford,” he gasped.

“No one crossed in the west.”

“Then they are lost. We are all lost,” Malcolm murmured. He slid onto his back and stared up at the night sky. “Sound the retreat.”

“I am commander of this army,” Sorcha said to him. She knelt at his side, making certain he still breathed, that there was no blood seeping from his armor or broken bones in his skull. Then she stood and signaled to her maiden.

“Sound the rally,” she said, “and then the retreat. We march for the Fen Gate.”

G
WEN CLUNG TO
the mists, her group of a scant seven men snaking behind her like a river of metal, every hoof fall hushed, every word a whisper. Though this was her home, these woods her birthright, the land felt alien. Something stalked through the night. Something waited for Gwen and her men in their dreams. It was killing them. Little by little, terror by terror, heartbeat by heartbeat, and there was nowhere they could run to escape it.

A week had passed since they had rushed through Volent’s camp. At first, they had ridden hard and fast through the forests, putting as much of the Fen as possible between them and Halverdt’s pet monster. A day or two of that, Gwen had thought, and there was no way Volent would find them. She thought they would be safe.

Whatever was pursuing them, it was not Sir Henri Volent. Their hunter was not bound to flesh and blood.

They came to a river. Trees continued a few yards into the water, their roots clinging to the slick mud of the banks, moss creeping up their trunks and dripping from their branches like curtains. A blanket of fog hung silent and thick over the river, the current beneath stirring the air above.

Gwen pulled the column to a halt.

“There’s nothing to like about this,” Sir Brennan murmured. He leaned forward in his saddle like a sick man. The first few deaths had come as a shock. The subsequent disappearances, madnesses and hauntings had worn their spirits to the nub. They were following Gwen out of numb determination, and nothing else.

“Not much to like, no,” Gwen agreed. “This is the Castey? Maybe somewhere near the headwaters?”

“Gods know. I haven’t seen a familiar plot of land since…” He paused. Wellem had been the first, his silent body submerged in slick mud that bubbled from his mouth when they hauled him out. “It’s like the earth has turned beneath our feet.”

“This is Adair land,” Gwen said stubbornly. “Adair land, and Adair blood. I will not be driven to fear my birthright.”

“The land, aye,” Brennan allowed, “but the night belongs to something else.”

Gwen didn’t answer that. Truthfully, she had begun to doubt her hold over the spirits of her home. With the Allfire well past, the days were slipping closer to the equinox. Her family’s faith in the old ways was no guard against the gheist, especially when Gwen rode as the huntress. Yet she had trouble believing that the old gods would turn on her so bitterly.

Besides, the spirit hunting them didn’t feel like the old gods. Yes, the feral spirits that haunted Tenumbra were mad. Yes, they were unpredictable, and in some ways utterly incomprehensible to the mortal mind, but they rarely hunted. They were rarely so persistent. The god that followed them was clear of mind and purpose. It was driven.

It hungered.

Hungered for Gwen’s blood. She could feel it at night, stalking the edges of her dreams. Each morning she woke up to find more of her men dead, and less of her own mind in place.

“I would rather not test the horses in unknown depths. We’ll follow the bank until the fog clears, and hope we can find a ford. If this is the Castey, then we can’t be that far from the river road.”

“Then we’re farther north than I expected.”

“Which is why we’re going south. Give the men a minute to rest their mounts, then start them along the bank. We can’t be that far from midday.”

Brennan nodded and went back to the column. The men slid from their saddles and jangled through the underbrush, relieving their bladders and their fears. Food was growing short. If they didn’t find a settlement soon, Gwen would have to devote time to hunting. She might do that anyway, just to give the men something to think about, something to focus on besides running—which didn’t seem to be working, anyway.