The Pagan Night (2 page)

“My brother, tonight you will know.” Allaister fastened the blade and scabbard beneath his cloak, and then raised his hood. The weapon disappeared completely beneath the pilgrim’s robes. Allaister folded his hands into the sleeves of the robe and stood up straight. “Though you must judge the Suhdrin blood I will be spilling, and not my own.”

The others laughed. Tunnie sighed, but he stood and started to put on his cloak.

“I damn well hope so,” he muttered. “My brothers have sacrificed much since you showed up.”

The others ignored him, though they finished their preparations quietly while he got dressed. Allaister stood by the door, staring out into the night. When everyone was ready, they flipped their hoods up over their heads and filed out into the darkness. The last man dumped sand onto the fire, leaving darkness and ash and the stink of fear in the air.

* * *

Gilliard stood atop the guardhouse and looked down at the moon-washed ruins at Gardengerry. The banner of House Halverdt, a triple acorn and a cross, stirred sluggishly in the breeze over the gate. This place had been old when the first Suhdrin traders had found it, shunned by the tribes of Tenerran savages—stone walls surrounded by offerings of burnt flowers and totems of pagan power.

The water here was fresh so the traders had settled and Gardengerry became a major stop for the pilgrims on the road to Cinderfell, populated entirely by faithful Suhdrin and their kin. They had never fully repaired the ruins, however. In the moonlight, Gilliard imagined he could see the old city that had once stood here, tall and bright under the starry sky.

“You’re looking the wrong way.” The voice came from below. Gilliard turned around. There were pilgrims, seven of them, standing outside the gate. They were wearing full mendicants’ robes, hood and mask covering their faces. In the darkness it was impossible to tell more about them.

“Ah, sorry,” he said. “It’s a beautiful place.” Gilliard scratched his head and started the slow walk down the outer stairwell. He was wearing heavy chain mail and a pair of awkward plate gauntlets, along with boots of good steel. The whole kit was heavy, though, and made him nervous when he had to take the stairs in the dark. “Bit late to be outside, don’t you think? You’re close to the savage lands,” he said, gesturing broadly to the north, where the border between Tener and Suhdra lay.

“Really?” the lead pilgrim said a bit tensely. “I was under the impression that most Tenerrans were friendly to the church.” Something about his voice sounded odd. “Hard to walk all the way to Cinderfell without crossing through a few Tenerran fields, hm?”

“It’s Tenerrans from here to the winter god’s shrine, boys. The tame type, mind you, but still. Stick to the godsroad and you’ll be fine. Stray far, and it’ll be mad gods and murderers for you.” Gilliard smiled beneath his helm. “But surely you know that. This your first time traveling to Cinderfell?”

“It is,” the pilgrim answered. The rest of them were awful quiet, and Gilliard still didn’t like this fellow’s voice. He leaned against the wall and peered down.

“Like I said. Bit late to be out, isn’t it?”

“Travel from Pilgrim’s Rest has taken us longer than we expected, but we’re glad for your hospitality.”

“Ho, now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Gilliard paused at the cupola that overlooked the road. This outer wall wasn’t much good in a siege, but it served well enough for collecting tolls and keeping out vagrants. The guard rested his spear against the wall and leaned down for a better look. “Healthy lot, for pilgrims.”

The men looked among themselves, and the lead one shrugged.

“Should we have been starving ourselves?”

“Traditionally, yes,” Gilliard said, “and Pilgrim’s Rest is quite a distance from here, if that’s how you came. Where’d you stay last night?”

“Doonan. Came up the godsroad.”

“Doonan’s a good walk, but aye.” There was something about these fellows that Gilliard didn’t like. Only one of them talking. “The rest of you taken some kind of vow of silence, then?”

“Uh, yes. They have… and loving kindness, as well. Which is why we’re willing to keep standing here and chat politely, when you really should have opened that door by now.”

“Oh, aye.
You’ve
taken no vows then, have ya?” Gilliard smiled broadly. “But you’re not worried about running into any Tenerrans, I don’t think. Because you’re of the tribes, aren’t ya? I can hear it in your voice.”

The man sighed. When he answered, the brogue was distinct, though certainly less heavy than the filthy rural types who lived in the outer villages.

“Aye, the sun and moon blessed us with that name, but we’re good little kneelers, my lord. We’re going east, to practice bending the knee in Cinderfell for the Allfire.”

“And why do you travel to the moon’s temple to celebrate the festival of the sun, hmm?” Gilliard liked this group less and less. There were few tribesmen inside the walls, but it was still more than he preferred. “I’m not going to let you in here if you don’t start talking your station. Now, first, why is a group of Tenerran converts traveling through Pilgrim’s Rest? Up Dunneswerry, by the river, that’s the way for lads like you. Thought you lot avoided the ’Gerry.”

“We aren’t from the grasslands, nor the lakes. We live in Lac Leure, down Heartsbridge way,” the pilgrim answered, a hint of anger appearing in his voice. “Just as if we were real people.”

“Not with an accent like that, you don’t. You know,” Gilliard stood straight and snatched up his spear. “I think you can sleep outside. Just for tonight. Lord Cinder will appreciate your sacrifice.”

“Bloody Suhdrin and their bloody accents,” the man mumbled, exasperation leaking through his tension. “Tunnie?”

* * *

The big pilgrim in the back, who had kept his head down for the entire exchange, glanced upward, and then rolled his shoulder. His arm came up in a lazy arc, like he was stretching, and then four inches of cold iron dart was sticking out of Gilliard’s forehead.

The guard collapsed, clattering down the remaining stairs and out of sight of the seven nervous men. His limp body struck the wall and pitched over, landing with a crash at Allaister’s feet. He made a terrible commotion as he went, all that chain and plate, battering against the stone.

“Not ideal,” Allaister hissed. “Joer, get up there. Tunnie—” he turned to the man “—that blood enough for you?”

“Not near enough,” Tunnie rumbled.

“Good,” Allaister said.

Joer clambered smoothly up the wall, finding finger holds in the vine-cracked stones. The defenses hadn’t been maintained well enough to keep men out, hadn’t even been built for such a mundane purpose—something the Suhdrins had never really recognized in their rush to settle the ancient ruins.

A minute later the gate swung open.

“Surprised no one heard that,” Mancey said.

“Oh, I’m sure someone did,” Allaister answered. “Which is why we need to keep moving.” He hurried the six of them through the gate, then lingered over the fallen guard. Allaister knelt beside the corpse, drawing a blade from his sleeve.

“My apologies, brother. Your sacrifice will be remembered, and your blood counted. Go now to the quiet house.” Allaister muttered something quietly under his breath, using one hand to draw the blade across Gilliard’s neck while making the sign of the moon with the other. A plume of frost whispered out, melting quickly in the summer night. The blood on his blade was sticky and black. Allaister used it to draw a symbol on the dead man’s forehead, smearing blood around the wound.

Gravel crunched behind him.

“You coming?” Tunnie called from the open gate. Allaister closed his eyes in frustration, but hopped up and trotted inside.

“Of course, of course. Making sure the bastard was dead,” Allaister said as he passed the big man. “Didn’t want him talking.”

Tunnie stared at the dead guard and the smear of blood on his forehead. For a second he thought it might be a Celestial death rune, the kind of thing their priests burned into the skin of the departed.

Surely not.

Torches appeared on the upper wall, and the voices of guards drifted down. Grimacing, Tunnie gripped the sword beneath his robes and hurried after the others.

* * *

These men were farmers. Their work was the earth, mud and stone and water, the slow cycle of the year’s planting and harvest. They were not born to killing, but some of them had acquired a taste for it.

The doma at Gardengerry was dedicated to Lord Cinder in his aspect as judge and the long winter. At the festival of the Frostnight, the flood of pilgrims traveling north to pay homage to the gray lord brought crowds of ash-robed worshippers through its doors. The door to the temple was polished frairwood bound in silver, a testament to the doma’s wealth. The torches that illuminated the passage were fine silver, the tapestries silk and cloth of gold. The twin-horned altar of Cinder and Strife at the building’s center was carved from a single block of marble.

The blood that spilled from Allaister’s blade soaked into silk robes. The skin the blade parted was soft, unaccustomed to hard work. The frair stood in front of the altar, calling down judgment on them. He clung to his staff, somehow staying upright as Allaister put a sword into him, over and over again. The frair eventually settled to the floor and was quiet.

The celestes put up more of a fight, screaming as Allaister’s men cut them down. The stone walls of the doma were thick and quiet. No alarm was raised.

When they were finished, Allaister’s men gathered around the altar, their chests heaving. Crimson spotted their robes. Tunnie’s eyes were wild and free, a bloody sword gripped in each fist, one that he had brought and one plundered from the ceremonial instruments of the winter god. The others were a little more hesitant, unsure if they were excited or terrified, or simply scared of how much they enjoyed the blood.

They had a lot of potential, this group. Allaister looked around the room, at the slumped body of the frair, the celestes all crumpled in one corner, blood streaked on the granite floor and pooling beside the altar.

A good night.

“Well done, lads. A fine harvest,” he said with a smile. He kicked the frair’s staff, sending it clattering across the room. “We’re almost done.”

“Almost?” Joer gasped. “We have to get out of here. There were horns sounded when we were at the wall. It’s only a matter of time before they come here. We need to leave.”

“We can’t go empty-handed, my friend.” Allaister swept a hand across the doma. “The priests are dead, but the church can send more. It would just be a matter of days before prayers are said again, and blessings are given. Seems a waste, don’t you think? To come this far, and leave so much behind?”

“Not part of the plan,” Tunnie said, but his eyes were eager.

Special potential in this one
, Allaister thought. “Not part of your plan, maybe,” he said aloud, “but I’ve thought this through. There’s good silver in these cabinets, and jewels in plenty.” He pointed at an ornate knife that lay upon the altar, its handle ivory and jet. “How many pigs will this buy, do you think?”

“They catch us with these things, it’ll be our lives. Our families,” Joer said nervously. “They’ll grind our bones and salt our fields.”

“There’s already blood on your hands, friend. Why not gold in your satchel as well?”

A short wave of concern went through the group, but Allaister had them. Even if they ended up dumping most of it in the river, there was wealth enough here to see them in comfort for the rest of their lives, and theft was an easier crime than murder. Allaister sent them into the doma’s outer chambers to scrounge what they could. Anything that would burn was brought to the altar.

He kept Tunnie at his side.

“How’re we to get this stuff back home?” Tunnie asked as the pile of loot grew. The men were falling to their task with enthusiasm, splintering the wooden rings of the orrery, prizing sconces from the walls while leaving enough to light their way. It was considerably more than they could carry.

“Let them have their fun,” Allaister answered. He plucked the frair’s staff from the floor, using a silk cloth to wipe the blood from its icon, then leaning it almost reverently against the altar. “Do you know why we came to Gardengerry?”

“To kill priests.”

“Yes, but there are priests throughout Tenumbra. Hell, there are priests in Tener itself—we could have crossed the border into Adair’s land, or Blakley’s, and done our reaving in relative safety.”

“Halverdt land is our land. It was taken from us.” Tunnie was watching him with a measure of confusion. Allaister shrugged.

“Yes, yes. All true,” he agreed, “but really, the whole island was taken from the tribes—Gardengerry was just taken most recently. No, my reasons are older than that. The old city, the one that was here before, was unoccupied when the Suhdrin lords came north. The ruins of a grand temple. Empty.”

“It’s a cursed place,” Tunnie said. “Cursed by the gods.”

“No, not exactly. Even the few shamans who remain in the north have forgotten the story of this place.”

“What are you getting at, Allaister?” Tunnie asked. The twin swords in his hands hung limply now, the thrill of killing ebbing away.

“There was a henge here—a temple, to a different god. One the pagans saw fit to lock away.”

“Here?” Tunnie looked around.

“
Exactly
here. This room.” Allaister swept a hand over the doma. “A shrine before it was a temple. Holy before it was sanctified.” They were alone, the rest of the men scattered to the outbuildings. The town guard would arrive soon. He had to be fast. “It was a place of sacrifice long before the Celestial prayers haunted the air.” With that he swept the ornate knife off the altar and put it into Tunnie’s heart. The blade, thin and sharp, punched straight through.

“Gentle, now… gentle.” The dying man struck out, but his blows were weak, and Allaister fended them off. He eased him to the stone floor, supporting his neck until Tunnie’s eyes were sightless. It was a quick death.
Better than the celestes were allowed.

“My apologies, friend. This is a complicated time in my life,” Allaister whispered. “I have a lot of things I’m trying to figure out.”