Free The Pagan Night by Tim Akers Page A

When they passed the high henge that marked the border between Tener and Suhdra, Blakley and Halverdt, Sir Dugan leaned over and spat eloquently.
    “Keep it to yourself, sir,” Malcolm rumbled.
    “We should have brought the dogs,” Dugan answered.
    Malcolm gestured to the banner over their heads.
    “We brought the hound,” Malcolm said. “Let’s do it justice.”
    * * *
    Greenhall lay before them, in all of summer’s glory. A young castle, it had been built in the Suhdrin style after the last crusade. It was both a promise and a threat. A promise that this was as far north as the Suhdrin lords would try to reach, now that the holy site of Cinderfell was under the protection of the Celestial church, and a threat that any attempt to reclaim this march would be met with all the violence the south could muster.
    The shining stones of the castle walls were hung with banners of green and gold, the colors of House Halverdt fluttering over the fields of the tournament grounds. Beneath the keeps but still embraced by the curtain wall, the city breathed and rippled like an old oak, raising its arms to summer’s light.
    “That’s a hell of a sight,” Ian whispered. The column behind him was tired, the end of it stretching out of sight, but the sight of the city put some fire in their blood. The same breeze that moved the hundreds of Halverdt banners reached across the plain to lift the hound. Pride swelled through Ian’s heart. He looked behind him. The whole rumbling caravan, from the men-at-arms to the several dozen knights, twisted back up the road as far as Ian cared to look. They had brought an army to Greenhall, even if half their number were cooks and servants.
    “No prettier time in the old march,” Dugan said. His family had once come from the hunting grounds around Greenhall, before the Suhdrin legions had pushed them north, and his tribe had joined with Blakley. He often spoke as though he had been born there himself, even though the loss was generations past. “If you must be in such a place, now is the season for it.”
    Malcolm snorted and spurred his horse to a trot.
    The word passed down the caravan that the city was in sight, and a collective murmur washed through them as wagons stopped and windows opened to catch that first glimpse of Greenhall’s famous doma. The Celestial faith had already spread throughout Tener, but that dome had been the first built by a Suhdrin lord on land taken from the pagans, and Halverdt had built it to impress, its snowy white bulk rising above the jagged skyline of the city, its towers hung in pennants of summer. Several men slid from their mounts to say a prayer.
    “It’s not that bad,” Malcolm allowed, “once you get used to the politics and the smell.”
    “Both of which are closely related,” Dugan muttered.
    Ian ignored them. His visits to the seat of Halverdt’s power had been rare. Though a steady peace had ruled the border for longer than any of them had been alive, it wasn’t until the Reaver War that relations improved between Tener and Suhdra. Certain relations, at least. Generations of crusade and atrocity left deep wounds and bitter memories. Because of that, most of Ian’s memories of the city were gilded in the fog of youth. To him, it was a place of stuffy rooms and stern conversations, full of quiet gardens and avenues lined with rank after rank of nervous guards.
    His father had brought him south for some negotiations, something to do with farming rights along the border, and the visit had stuck in Ian’s mind. The Suhdrin builders made their castles as beautiful as they were functional, something that was rare in the north. Ian felt that the bleak walls of Houndhallow seemed dull in comparison, an opinion he tried to hide. Yet on the wide approach to the city, on these fields that had seen so many battles, it was difficult for Ian to hide his awe.
    “Enough gawping, the pair of you,” the duke called over his shoulder. “We’ve a pavilion