The Pagan Night (56 page)

“Gods damn it, child,” she swore. Then she tore great clumps from the ground and began smearing the cold mud and crushed grass on her face. The dirt stung when it touched the blistering wounds on her cheeks, and she blinked back tears of pain and frustration.

“Gods… fucking… damn,” she said, then pressed her face into the pillar and felt her breath and her skull disappear in an endless depth of gritty, stony sand.

T
HE DOOR WAS
broken, but three Suhdrin men with shields stood in the way, spears pointing out into the corridor. The dead of Tener lay at their feet. Malcolm knelt at the end of the hallway, a half-dozen men behind him, all waiting for his word. The rest of the gatehouse was secured. Only this final room—and the mechanism that controlled the portcullis—remained.

“What hope do they have of holding out against us?” he muttered.

“They have the stubborn will of doomed men,” Sir Doone answered. She had been champing at the bit to put sword to Suhdrin flesh, and when the alarm had sounded, she had been the first to answer. “I will be glad to free them of it.”

“In a Tenerran you might call that bravery, Sir Doone,” Malcolm answered. “Though it seems like foolishness, either way.” The men at the end of the hall shifted their spears. A face peered out from between the shields, pale skin and hair beneath a chain coif, disappearing before Malcolm could react. He raised his voice and addressed them.

“You have no hope of relief,” he said. “Surrender, before we fetch the oil, or the dogs.”

“Bring your dogs!” a voice answered. “We’ve grown fond of killing pagan dogs.”

“My lord, we must secure the portcullis before it is too late,” Doone growled. “Let me…”

Malcolm gestured for silence.

“Do you know who stands against you?” he called down the hall.

“The heretical gods of the north, and the heathens who grovel at their feet! It is the true gods of Suhdra who stand with us. What do we fear?”

Malcolm sighed, then slowly stood, pulling himself up with the wall, his knees creaking and grinding every inch of the way. He gestured for Doone to hand him her shield, his own lying abandoned by his bed, left behind in the clamor of the alarm.

“No, not heathens,” he said, “but true and faithful Celestials. Men and women of Cinder, and of Strife.”

“You bleed like pagans. You die like pagans,” the voice answered. “And you smell like pagans.”

A small chorus of laughter came from the room. As he marched down the corridor Malcolm twisted his grip on the sword, swung the shield to his side.

“Then you must make my acquaintance,” he boomed. “I am Malcolm Blakley, duke of Houndhallow, lord of the Darkling March and true heir of the Hunter’s throne. But men and gods and a legion of the dead know me as Reaverbane!” He began cutting the air with his sword, letting the sound of its feyiron blade sizzle through the hall. The tip of the blade clattered off of a wall, striking sparks and cutting stone.

“I stood with Tomas Bassion at the defense of Heartsbridge. I fought beside Castian Jaerdin to retake the ports of Galleydeep, as I fight beside him today. At the end of this blade, I have drawn the heart’s blood of a great host of enemies, Suhdrin, Tenerran, reaver, and god!”

The men didn’t answer, but closed the gaps between their shields and pressed their spears farther into the hallway. Malcolm batted aside the spear tips with disdain, cutting through the ashwood shafts and then kicking the nearest shield. A gap opened, and he thrust his blade into it. Someone screamed, the shield wall slipped more, and then they fell back, drawing swords and trying to make room in the crowded machine room to fight.

“The hound! The hallow!” Sir Doone shouted from the other end of the corridor, and then she and the rest of Malcolm’s men rushed around their lord to flood the chamber with their blades, their blood, and their anger.

* * *

The Suhdrins in the machine room died quickly. There were only four of them, and all showed signs of having been previously wounded.

“They had no chance,” he muttered. “The fools died for no purpose.”

“Close the portcullis,” Sir Doone yelled, drawing the remaining soldiers to the great windlass and counterweight. Malcolm grabbed her arm.

“Not yet,” he said loudly enough that they all could hear, then he ran up the winding stairs to the gatehouse roof. He leaned between the crenels, Doone’s shield still in his hand. Arrows rattled off the metal and pricked the stone around him.

On the field below, Roard’s tight fist of spears and swords continued their hopeless fight. Malcolm shouted down at them.

“Stormwatch! We have the gate!” He continued shouting until he got Lorien Roard’s attention. The duke of Stormwatch nodded, then called the retreat. His men, Martin among them, fell back into the courtyard. Malcolm returned to the stairs and shouted down into the gatehouse. “Sir Doone, eyes on the murderhole. When the last of Roard’s men is inside, drop the iron!”

A handful of breaths passed, and then the windlass and chain released. He could feel the great weight falling beneath his feet, and the portcullis landed with a crash. Outside, the Suhdrin army surged forward, crushing themselves against the iron grate. With the gates still open, it would only hold them for a time.

Malcolm ran to the courtyard side of the roof.

Someone… his son Ian was organizing the defense. He was covered in blood, dried gore flaking around his face as he commanded the men of Blakley and Adair. They were dragging wagons and other barricades in front of the gate, to keep the Suhdrin archers from firing through the grate and turning the courtyard into a killing field. It was the best that could be done, for the moment. Malcolm ran back down into the gatehouse.

“Secure the walls,” he snapped at Sir Doone. “Get someone to prepare my mount. We will need to be ready to ride.”

“The castle is not secure, my lord,” Sir Doone said. She motioned to a page standing in the doorway. The boy was as pale as a ghost. “Priests of Cinder have been seen inside the walls. Inquisitors.”

“We do not fight the church, Sir Doone. That is of little concern to us.”

“These priests were responsible for breaching our walls and opening the gates,” Doone persisted. “They are not acting alone.”

“Meaning?” Malcolm asked.

“The high inquisitor is still in the castle—he was seen in the crypts first, and most recently in the great hall. He is using the powers of Cinder against any who oppose him.”

“But…” Malcolm looked from the terrified page to Sir Doone. She was red with anger and the fight. “Those powers are meant to defend the realm against gheists. Surely he wouldn’t bend them against mortal men?”

“I can only report, my lord,” Doone said, “but it would appear that, whether you wish it or not, our fight is with the church.”

“Or at least the inquisition,” Malcolm muttered. “Fine. Speak with Duke Roard. Offer my thanks.”

“Where will you be?”

“In the great hall, apparently,” Malcolm said. He handed Sir Doone back her shield, made the sign of sun and moon, and sheathed his feyiron sword. “To speak with High Inquisitor Sacombre.”

* * *

The battle was still fierce when Colm Adair left his men in the courtyard and rushed to his chambers. Wounds puckered his skin, blood seeping into his robes and matting his hair. Blakley might still retake the gate, but Colm didn’t want to take the chance. That, and he had felt Maeve’s death. The walls were no longer relevant. The true threat was already inside. His long deception was discovered, his heresy found out.

He moved swiftly around his chambers, hiding the icons. Then he turned to his wife.

“Elspeth,” he said, “take Grieg and a blade. You must run.”

“Surely not yet?” Elspeth answered. “Blakley will secure the walls.”

“The walls are irrelevant. The high inquisitor has made his move. I felt the witch’s death in my blood. Our worst fears have been given form.” He pushed a pack into her arms, then threw a robe over her and led her to the door. “A servant has prepared Grieg. There is food in that satchel. Make for the hallow, and pray that the wardens can help you.”

“Don’t be foolish, Colm,” Elspeth said. “I’m not going to leave you here. Surely you know that.”

“I am not asking, love—you must do as I say. We don’t know Gwen’s fate, and mine has already been written. That die is cast, and now I must answer for it, but you and Grieg can escape. The secret of autumn must be kept. Go.”

“Love…” Elspeth pulled away from Colm’s insistent hands, dropped the pack, then turned back to him.

“Quiet,” he said. “Quiet. We will meet again, in the everealm or elsewhere, gods be good. Elspeth, don’t make this any harder than it is. Go, quickly, before the shadows find you.”

She nodded, and they hurried into the corridor beyond. Grieg stood outside his room, a servant at his shoulder. Colm dismissed the woman, who fled down the stairs. The sounds of battle raged in the courtyard below. The portcullis fell with a resounding boom, but that would only buy so much time, and the high inquisitor didn’t care about gates and walls, anyway. At the end of the hallway he pulled aside a tapestry of Cinder’s ascension to reveal a hidden door. Colm took a deep breath, then turned to face his wife and son one last time.

“Now, bravery. Strength. Remember the iron in your blood,” he said, struggling to keep the tremor out of his voice. He tousled his son’s hair, pinched his nose. He stood and looked gravely at his wife. “Keep him safe, but keep the knife close, if it becomes necessary.”

“How can you ask that of me?”

“You know that the inquisitor can use our lives to scry the location of the hallow. We must not fall to the church,” Colm said quietly. “None of us. Better that the hallow be lost than our living blood lead Sacombre to it.”

Elspeth blinked back tears, squeezed her husband’s shoulder, took her son by the arm, and disappeared into the hidden passage. Colm let out a huge breath, then turned his back on the door and started walking back to his chambers. To prepare to fight.

Then he froze.

The scream from the passageway was sharp and short and full of terror. Grieg never called out, though Colm felt his death as sharply as Elspeth’s. A thread in his heart snapped. Something crashed against the walls once, twice, the sound of bones breaking and flesh bursting like soft fruit. Colm stood in the corridor, unable to move, to act.

The door at the end of the hallway creaked open. Sacombre stepped out, wearing the blood of his wife.

“Lord Adair,” the high inquisitor whispered. “We must have words before you leave.”

“Go to hell,” Colm hissed, then drew his sword.

“Hell is for the fallen,” Sacombre answered, drifting down the corridor like a gheist. “I am rising. Rising, forever risen, forever…”

The rest of his words were lost as Adair threw himself at the priest. His roar of pain and anger filled the air, only to be lost in the sound of metal breaking as his sword shattered, then his armor.

Colm Adair gave his blood and his soul to avenge his dead. He fell against the walls, his body scattered about the room like leaves in the wind.

T
HE SANCTUM WAS
in silence. The ceiling was tiled in bone and root and the jagged underside of stones as old as time itself. The floor was covered in a scattering of dead leaves so dry that Gwen’s footsteps turned them to dust. She stood just inside the entrance and took a deep, rusty breath. The air scraped her lungs clean and dry. Jade-green light filled the room, leaking from veins of luminous quartz in the ceiling.

The center of the space was a tomb. There was a cairn of smooth stones, each the size of a fist or larger, piled in subtle patterns of natural order. It rose to the height of Gwen’s forehead. Each stone was scribed with one or more runes that swirled from rock to rock, forming a continuous loop of blessings and bindings that served to keep the god in place. Ancient hands had formed these spells, ancient voices spoke the promises that buried the god of autumn under this hill, during the waning days of the crusade.

Gwen placed her hand on the nearest stone. It hummed at her touch, a song that carried through her blood, seized her heart and washed through her brain with honey-sharp beauty. The dead leaves scratched away from her across the floor, as though a gust of wind whipped from her skin.

“Is this what we’re meant to be?” Gwen asked the air and the god who rested at her feet. “Have we forgotten too much?”

The stones of the cairn creaked in response. It brought her impatience, not enlightenment. A chill flowed into her skin, numbness she hardly noticed, so caught up in the thrill of communion with the god her family had protected for so long. When it began to sting Gwen snatched her hand away, shaking her fingers warm.

“They’ve fallen,” she said, hoping for some kind of response, some denial. “The wards, the wardens, my family—I’m the last one. This isn’t what I wanted. I don’t know what their plan was, the wardens, back when they brought you here and sang you down, but this couldn’t be it.

“I wanted to keep the secret,” she continued. “
Your
secret. But I can’t anymore. So tell me what to do. Tell me what the wardens would have done, if they hadn’t died.”

Nothing. Gwen sighed and began to pace. The carvings on the tomb swirled under her eyes. They were as much story as spell, recounting the names of the god they hid. The dual nature of its identity and season, the transition from summer to winter, the gifts of comfort and bounty given by autumn, along with the warnings of what was to come. The advent of winter and the death of warmth.

“Father never revealed that you were the god of autumn, though it’s so obvious now. The fact that the Celestials grow in power at the solstices, die away at the equinox. It never occurred to me that the same sort of pattern would hold for the pagan powers. I see that now.” Gwen brushed the flaky residue of a crushed leaf off the cairn, wiping it with her fingers until the grit rubbed into her skin. “But if you’re autumn, there must be another. Spring, right? What became of spring?”

The cairn shifted ever so slightly, a realignment of the spiral stacks of stone, more of a flexing than a settling. Gwen nodded.