Free The Pagan Night by Tim Akers

glory.”
    “Who’s to say you haven’t?” she asked with a smile. He squeezed her, and they stayed there for a while, silent in the presence of the old god, listening to the torches sputter and watching their shadows dance across the walls.
    It wasn’t long before a servant came to fetch the lord and prepare him for his journey. Malcolm slid his wife to the bench beside him and, without looking back, left her there.
    He was off to end a war before it started.

6
    “T HIS TOURNAMENT IS a waste of time,” Ian grumbled. He rode beside his father at the head of their column with the banner of House Blakley shifting lazily over their heads and a dozen good knights and their attendants following. Sir Doone and Sir Dugan rode to either side, hands loose on the reins, their backs as straight as pikes. To them, Greenhall was enemy territory.
    “You have no interest in glory?” Malcolm asked.
    “I can find glory enough without riding all the way to Greenhall. There are tournaments in Dunneswerry, the Fen…” Ian leaned closer. “There’s no reason for us to get Suhdrin dust on our boots. I don’t know if you noticed, Father, but they were making preparations for the Allfire at Houndhallow as we were leaving. We could have stayed home, maybe ridden the tilt against Master Tavvish.”
    “Tavvish would not have ridden an honest tilt against you, boy,” Malcolm said dismissively. “A lord’s knights would never embarrass the heir on his own field. It doesn’t matter, though. You will not be riding the lists. That hand of yours is excuse enough. There will be no dishonor in sitting out the tourney.”
    Ian flexed the injured hand. “It has nearly healed. I am certainly well enough to ride against Suhdrin knights.”
    “Do not underestimate the southern blade, son,” Malcolm said. “Nor my will. There will be no tournament for you.”
    “Then why am I here?” Ian asked.
    “To watch a war end before it starts, in ink, rather than in blood.”
    Behind them, Sir Dugan gave a short laugh. He nudged his way forward to ride beside Malcolm. Houndhallow’s master of guard was cut from the old cloth, with hair in thin braids and ink around his eyes. He sat slouched in his saddle, more huntsman than knight. Ian always thought his father kept Sir Dugan around to remind him of the house’s heritage, of the tribe they used to be and the history they shared. The rest of the court treated Dugan like a feral child, curious and dangerous in equal parts.
    “Be glad, young Ian. At Greenhall you’ll find more than a challenge,” Dugan said. “Be happy if one of Halverdt’s tame monsters doesn’t try to run you through in your sleep.”
    “That’s not helpful, Sir Dugan,” Malcolm muttered. “Try to keep that sort of talk to a whisper while we’re the duke’s guests, and please don’t run anyone through yourself.”
    “If my honor…” Dugan began.
    “Honor? You’re starting to sound like a true knight,” Ian said with a smile. “Will you be in the joust, finally?”
    Sir Dugan grumped and sank deeper into his saddle.
    “No matter,” Malcolm interjected. “The point, Ian, is that we are here to improve relations with Greenhall. The Reaver War brought Tenerrans and Suhdrin closer together, and the high elector has asked us to remind Halverdt of that heritage. Let’s not ruin all that with misplaced honor or an impatient blade.”
    “And keep your prick buttoned,” Sir Doone added from over Ian’s shoulder. For a woman and a knight, Sir Doone had many opinions about the buttoning and unbuttoning of pricks. A ripple of laughter went through the column behind her.
    “Well, yes,” Malcolm agreed, and his voice caught. “Yes, that as well.”
    Ian had no answer for that, nothing beside a blush and muttered assurances. They rode in awkward silence for a few miles, passing by the icons that kept the godsroad safe from the gheists, the graven images of Lord Cinder and Lady Strife watching them with stony eyes.