The Pagan Night (40 page)

“Better that she died, rather than find herself in the Deadface’s care,” Sorcha said. “That explains the banner of mourning flying from your walls.”

“What I don’t understand is how any of this happened. Gwendolyn Adair was to hold the western fords. She should never have ridden south of the Tallow. And failing that, if she discovered a Suhdrin force within the Fen, her first priority should have been to send warning to our flank.”

“My understanding is that the huntress had other priorities,” Merret said.

“Other priorities? What in gods’ names is that supposed to mean?”

“I know not, and can answer no further,” Merret said. “Before you get too indignant, however, I would remind you that her choice cost me my command, and many of my friends.”

“As well, I would remind you that her choice may have cost me my son,” Sorcha said evenly. Merret paused, struggling between anger and regret. Finally he bowed his head.

“This is a time of much loss, my lady. You have my sympathy, and my prayers for the boy’s safe return.”

“It’s a pity Gwen Adair isn’t here to answer for herself,” Sorcha answered. “I would have
her
explanation… as well as her regret.”

“We pray that she is well, of course,” Malcolm said quickly. “Perhaps any further discussion should wait until we’ve had a chance to speak with Colm Adair. We have a defense to plan.”

“We see that your gate is already secured, and your peasants gathered,” Castian broke in. “Were you expecting an immediate assault?”

“The peasants saw your approach and assumed you were the vanguard of Halverdt’s army. They don’t know banners from words, I’m afraid.”

“Well, raise the gate and summon your lord,” Malcolm said. “We’ve ridden long, and have much to discuss.”

Sir Merret bowed, then turned his horse and started down the road. Malcolm signaled the advance and was about to follow when Sorcha pulled him aside.

“I will not forget the girl’s betrayal,” she hissed. “Whatever her reason, her decision lost us that battle.”

“Be as that may, the mistake is made and the battle gone,” Malcolm said quietly. “We must prepare for the next fight. As long as House Adair is our ally, it might be best to not blame their dead child for the loss of our son.”

“Pray that she is dead,” Sorcha answered. “Pray that she never has to answer to me for her failure.”

* * *

The Sedgewind throne was not ornate. Carved from a petrified trunk of gnarled ironwood, the ancestral seat of House Adair was bent and twisted, with spiny branches hanging over the throne room, swept all in one direction by generations of harsh wind. The conquered banners of the enemies of House Adair hung in tatters from those branches, intermingled with leather-bound icons of the old tribes. The trunk itself was rooted as though the entire structure had erupted from the floor of the castle. Legend had it that the Fen Gate had been built around the throne, slowly accreting over generations of tribesmen and lesser lords, until it became the seat of Colm Adair.

The baron sat, attended by a dozen knights of court, all dressed for war, and a single priest. Malcolm led his bedraggled entourage into the room. Every mile he had spent on the road weighed on his shoulders.

“Houndhallow,” Colm Adair said quietly. His black armor was plain, though he draped it in crimson silk and ebon chain. His eyes flicked to Castian Jaerdin. “I did not expect a Suhdrin lord in your army.”

“The duke of Redgarden has stood with me since the Reaver War, and will stand with the faithful sons of the Celestial church, regardless of their blood,” Malcolm said.

“Doesn’t he know that it is the church marching against us?” Colm asked.

“The inquisition is not the church, my lord,” Castian answered. “While the difference may count for little in Heartsbridge, on the field of battle and in my heart, they are not the same.”

“No, they are not,” Colm allowed. “The inquisition is far more dangerous.”

“As we have seen,” Malcolm said. “I have it from Sir Merret that a host of shadow priests aided Sir Volent in his assault upon the Fen. What more can you tell us?”

“Nothing much. They moved through the night, defended against the humbled gods of the Fen and, when the time came, they haunted the souls and hunted the hearts of my men.”

“We were wondering,” Malcolm said, his voice brittle with care, “why your daughter did not ride to warn our flank of their peril. I understand that you lost a great many men on the Redoubt.”

“As you lost many at the Tallow,” Colm said stiffly. “Both our houses have paid a great price for Gwen’s foolishness. If what Sir Brennan reports is true, then we may never know what my daughter had in her heart. Personally, I think she was riding home to warn the castle.”

“The castle’s walls were safe as long as we held the Tallow,” Castian said.

“You could not have held the Tallow if Sir Volent had led his force here, and taken this stronghold. From here he could have harassed your rear and cut off all supply from the north.”

“He chose instead to fall on our flank, and rout us utterly,” Malcolm said, “as any wise tactician would have done in his position. Perhaps Gwen was not up to the task of command. She is, after all, simply a hunter.”

“You will not question my daughter’s right to lead,” Colm said sharply. “Especially not while her mourning banner still flies over my head.”

“I
will
question it,” Sorcha said. “To the end of my days, I will regret giving command to that huntress.”

“I will remind you that I have lost a daughter,” Colm hissed.

“And I have lost a son,” Sorcha replied. “Not in glory, not in honor, but for the foolish mistake of a girl. So do not speak to me of her right to lead. Do not speak to me of mourning, nor of death!”

The chamber was quiet for a minute. The dozen knights of House Adair shifted on either side of the throne, tension traveling through their hands to the hilts of the swords. It was the priest who broke the silence.

“You are right, of course, Duchess, but we must not let our common tragedy lead to our common downfall.” The man fiddled with the icons at his neck, and drew out a crescent moon, the sign of Lord Cinder. “The winter god is harsh. His judgment is sharp, and his season unforgiving. This is his war. A war meant to separate the faithful from the fallen. Let us not falter in his gaze.”

“I am afraid, gentle frair, that all I can do is live through winter, and pray for spring,” Sorcha said bitterly.

“That is all that is left for any of us, my lady,” the priest answered.

Sorcha had nothing more to say. The anger had burned through her.

“Whatever has come between us,” Malcolm said, stepping slightly forward, his hands well away from his blade, “we must not let it divide us. Halverdt rides north with an army of some thousands. We have our hundreds, and you have your walls. Together we may stand against him.”

Colm Adair leaned back in his chair, resting an arm on the sword by his side. The room waited in silence. When he leaned forward, the banners that hung over the Sedgewind throne stirred quietly, but there was no other movement.

“Well we might,” Colm said with a nod. “And we must.”

T
HE FIRST SOUND
was a slithering crackle that stretched out beneath a morning sky the color of tarnished pewter. Gwen stood and drew her sword, staring out into the bare dawn light, able to see little more than tree trunks and shadows. Her heart was hammering through her ribs.

“Sir LaFey!” she hissed.

The vow knight was beside her in an instant, the veiny scars on her cheeks thrumming like molten gold. The woman pulsed with heat, and the air around her smelled like boiling sweat and hot leather. The shadows in the forest shrank from her.

“Should we wake the frair?” Gwen asked.

“He’s already out there, somewhere,” Elsa answered. Confused, Gwen looked back at the priest’s tent. The old man sat in the mouth of it, legs folded under him, chin resting on his chest. “The line between dreaming and searching can be strange with him,” the woman said. “Not that he doesn’t trust you. I think he’s more comfortable like this.”

The sound grew closer and faster. The hill at the crest of the next valley shivered, its carpet of trees swaying and then buckling as something massive moved beneath their boughs. A trench opened in the distant tree line. Gwen caught a glimpse of the gheist rolling languidly forward like a boiling fist of tar.

“It got bigger,” she said.

“Aye,” Elsa agreed. “We need some space.”

Suddenly Frair Lucas stood up like a dead man summoned to life by some dark god, his lips quivering as he drew frenzied breath.

“We need to get higher,” he said.

“I just…” Elsa started, but Lucas cut her off.

“There’s a ridgeline south of here. Some boulders. We need to get among those,” he said, then started off in that direction. Sir LaFey pushed Gwen after the priest.

“Your armor?” Gwen asked. The vow knight had shrugged it aside before she went to sleep. Gwen had considered warning her of the gheist’s imminent approach so that the vow knight might prepare, but couldn’t see a way to do so and still keep the secret of the witching wives.

“I have my faith,” Elsa answered, but there was worry in her eyes. “Or my sword, at least.”

Gwen took quick stock of her own supplies. She had her blade and wore her plate-and-half. Now that she was running through the woods, though, she wished she had pared down to the leather armor she usually used to hunt. A quiver of three bloodwrought spears banged against her back.

“Do not stop,” Elsa said from behind. Gwen turned to answer, but in so doing again saw the gheist as it topped the hillock. The night was still hanging on to the sky, and the sun was well below the horizon, but Gwen had all the light she needed. The thing was enormous, its rolling bulk clutching dozens of bodies in the shadow-black ribbons of its form—men and women, horses, bears, the wretched and the dead.

Gwen stumbled to a halt. She was beginning to regret not warning her companions. Then Elsa grabbed her roughly by the cloak and pushed her on.

Ahead of them, upon the ridge, was a jagged line of boulders, some twice the height of a man, with mossy channels cut between them by years of rain and the patient work of roots. A bristling crown of trees topped the largest boulder, roots and trunks spilling down its sides like melted wax running down a bottle. Frair Lucas stood in the gap between that rock and the next, peering past them at the gheist.

A shriek reached their ears.

“We’re going to need new horses,” he said as Gwen pushed past him. Her heart ached at the thought of the beasts, tethered and unable to run. She only hoped neither she nor her companions would share their fate.

They ground to a halt just beyond the frair. The gap he had chosen offered just enough space for them to move around and swing a sword. A great place to hold against a charge, or to wait in ambush. Not so good against a gheist. Gwen went to the far side of the gap and looked down. The ground tumbled away in a shallow decline dotted with rocks and jagged roots—difficult to retreat across. The gheist was close enough now that running was out of the question anyway.

She went back to stand beside Lucas.

“What do we do?” Gwen asked.

“Fight, I suppose,” Lucas said. “Elsa?”

“It’s the same gheist,” LaFey answered, “but it’s been adding to its hosts.”

“Could it have split?”

“That’s a miserable thought,” Elsa said. “And it’s best left for later. Can we just kill the god that’s here, please?”

“Hopefully,” Lucas said, and he turned sharply. “Gwendolyn, keep them away from us, and try to not get killed.”

All this time the gheist had been rolling up the hill toward them. It seemed confused, casting back and forth through the trees, like a hound that had lost the scent. Gwen wondered if the witching wives had done as they hoped, if the gheist was still under their influence. She had a momentary panic that it might slip its leash and dart away. With their horses gone, there was no way they would be able to catch up with it.

She calmed her nerves and focused as it came closer, grew larger, sticky ribbons of shadow lashing forward to pull it up the hill. The wreckage of their horses stuck to the outside of the roiling ball of umbral energy, slowly dissolving into the demon’s flesh.

“Here we go,” Elsa whispered as it got close. Standing beside the vow knight, Gwen suddenly realized that Lucas had disappeared. She glanced around and found the priest behind her, sitting cross-legged on the ground, the short staff resting on his knees, hands folded over it as if he were in prayer. Elsa grabbed Gwen’s shoulder and pointed.

“He’s helpless when he’s like that,” she barked. “Keep them away from his body.”

“Then what—” Gwen began to ask, then a twisting helix of dark power swirled up from the ground, a lightning strike in reverse, static energy dancing across the priest’s skin and lifting the loose folds of his robe in a tearing wind. Leaves and loose gravel clattered into a whirlwind, scouring the boulders and forcing her to squint.

The storm settled down, and a ghost of the frair hung in the air above his unconscious head. The edges of his shadow form were frayed and wavering, lines of force that trailed in the air like tattered banners. The priest’s shadow held its staff like a mast.

“And now we fight, perhaps to die,” Lucas said. “The will of the gods be done.” His words echoed through both forms, the voice of the shadow all gravel and doom, his mortal voice little more than a whisper, spoken as though in a dream. The shadow form flickered over Gwen’s head.

He flowed like a swallow through the air, darting and striking at the gheist, harassing the much larger demon among the trees. The demon seemed startled by this, at first, and for the briefest moment it stopped and huddled in on itself, the lesser entities of its body circling tight to protect the core.

Frair Lucas scythed past the demon, cutting with shadows as sharp as knives. The flickering specter dancing through the trees was a far cry from the timid man sitting on the ground beside her. She looked from one to the other, wonder etched on her face.