A Cavern of Black Ice (106 page)

The sight of his two grandchildren,
running toward him across the courtyard at Dhoone, nearly made his
hurts go away. Cluff Drybannock had taken them north two days ahead
of the raid, and they and Nan were safe. Drybone didn't say it but
both he and the Dog Lord knew that if half the Bludd force hadn't
been sent north from Ganmiddich to escort the children home,
Blackhail would have won nothing but death that day.

"You know the Hail Wolf refused to
relinquish control of the Ganmiddich roundhouse until the Crab
forswore his oath to Dhoone, and gave word to Blackhail instead?"
Spynie Orrl's dark eyes glinted like pieces of coal. Could he read
thoughts? Vaylo wondered.

"I have heard that. Tis a bad
business. Ganmiddich has been sworn to Dhoone for as long—"

"As Orrl's been sworn to
Blackhail," Spynie finished for him. The old clan chief met and
held the Dog Lord's gaze. Silence in the room deepened and stretched,
and Vaylo felt it press against each of his seventeen teeth.

Why had he come here, this chief from
an enemy clan? Why had he risked the lives of eleven of his best men
by riding east through territory that encompassed three separate
warring clans? And then there was the greatest risk of all:
presenting himself at the Dhoone border and demanding an audience
with the Dog Lord himself. It took jaw to do that. Vaylo almost
smiled to think of it. Spynie Orrl was as tough as a mountain goat.

"I haven't come here to offer my
clan to Bludd," the Orrl chief said, once again snatching the
thoughts straight from Vaylo's head. "Only a fool would do that.
I've got Blackhail-sworn clans on two sides, and playing
piggy-in-the-middle suits me about as much as a truss made of ice.
No. I'll keep my oath to Blackhail as best I can. A thousand years of
loyalty should not be easily set aside."

The look in Spynie's eyes left no doubt
as to what he thought of oath breakers. Suddenly angry, the Dog Lord
said, "Say what you came here for, Orrl chief. I will not be
preached at. The Stone Gods bred war into us, and I would not be a
clansman if I did not see an advantage and take it. Battle is in my
blood."

Spynie Orrl was not ruffled in the
slightest. Before he spoke he winked at the wolf dog. "Aye, I
don't deny it. But I did stop to wonder what you saw when you reached
the top of the Ganmiddich Tower and turned your gaze north. There
have always been wars in the clanholds, but can you honestly say you
have ever known or heard of one like this? Bludd against Dhoone,
Blackhail against Bludd, war-sworn clans fighting amongst themselves.
And now that the Hail Wolf has forced a Dhoone-sworn clan to turn,
Blackhail will have to cross axes with Dhoone." The ancient
pink-skinned clan chief clicked his tongue against the roof of his
mouth. "There are outside forces at work here, Bludd chief. I
know it. You know it. And the question that now remains is, Are you
content to let it be?"

Vaylo Bludd breathed deeply. Knowing he
needed a moment to think, he fished in his belt pouch and pulled out
a chunk of chewing curd, tough and black as Nan could make it. As he
pushed it into his mouth, he was aware of Spynie's eyes upon him.
Vaylo hated scrutiny. "Why come to me with these words? Why not
search out the Dhoone chief in exile, or the Hail Wolf himself?"

"You know why, Bludd chief. We are
the oldest chiefs in the clanholds, you and I. Together we have close
to ninety years of chiefdom between us, and that cannot be lightly
said. We come from the two opposite ends of the clanholds, and today
we meet here, in its heart.

"I know you're an ambitious man,
and no one can fault you for that, but I wonder if you sleep well at
night. You're cut from different timber than the Hail Wolf. Oh, I
know you both fancy yourselves Lord of the Clans, but you've led
Bludd for thirty-five years and he's led Blackhail for less than one.
His ambition is blind. He has not learned what it is to be a chief in
the true sense of the word, to put his clan, not himself, first. You
have
. No one stays chief for as long as you have without
learning that sword strength alone is not enough." Spynie Orrl
paused for a long moment, and when he spoke again he sounded tired
and very old.

"The cities are planning to take
the clanholds. They're behind this war, stirring the pot, keeping it
on the boil until such a time that so many of our clansmen are dead,
they can just hike straight over the Bitter Hills and shatter our
guidestones to dust. We're waging the war
for
them. And
unless we shake ourselves out of this senseless slaying, we'll
destroy ourselves for them, too."

Vaylo Bludd took breath to speak, but
Spynie waved him to silence. The Orrl chief wasn't done yet.

"And there's one last thing for
you to think on, Bludd chief, you whose clan boasts,
We are Clan
Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders. Death is our
companion
. A
hard life long lived is our reward
. The
Sull are preparing for war."

The words hung in the air like dragon
smoke, heavy and black and scented with the fragrance of old myths.
When the Dog Lord breathed he took them in. Deep inside his lungs
they worked on him, stirring memories so old he wondered if they
belonged to his father, or to
the man who had fathered him.
Fear touched him like the swift nick of a knife. No, he told himself,
quick to turn fear into anger.
Gullit Bludd passed no memories to
me. He barely spoke five words to me in all the years I grew to
manhood at his hearth
.

"How do you know this to be so?"

"I'm an old man. I do little these
days but listen and watch."

It was no answer, but seeing the
hardness in Spynie Orrl's eyes, Vaylo knew it was the best he was
going to get. "Do they mean to make war on the cities or the
clanholds?"

The Orrl chief raised the ridges of
pink skin where his eyebrows had once grown. "They're Sull.
Who's to say who or what they will fight?"

Again, fear pricked at Vaylo's neck.
"Are you playing games with me, old man?"

"Perhaps if you had wintered at
your own roundhouse and not blue Dhoone's, you might have seen the
signs yourself."

Vaylo spat his wad of curd onto the
floor. "Damn you, Orrl chief. Speak plainly. If you know more,
say
it
!"

"I know only that while the clans
are busy butchering themselves, the Sull are cleansing and fasting
and growing their proudlocks for war. Five nights back one of my
cragsmen saw two Far Riders passing west. The week before that an
Ille Glaive trader came and purchased all my stocks of opal and jet.
Opal and jet. Moon and night sky. The Sull use both in their bows."
Spynie Orrl let out a thin breath as he waited for the Dog Lord to
meet his eyes. "Tell me, Bludd chief, have you ever wondered
what your clan boast means?"

The question disturbed Vaylo deeply. He
said nothing rather than speak a lie.

Spynie Orrl watched the Dog Lord's face
for a long moment, his eyes pulling,
pulling
, at Vaylo's
thoughts. Abruptly he stood. "It's time I started my journey
back. Send for my escort. I trust you
didn't
order their
slaying. It would be quite an inconvenience to me to have to war
against Bludd as well as Blackhail and Scarpe."

Vaylo did not take the bait. Unease was
too deep upon him. "They have been treated as guests. Their
weapons were ransomed but not removed from their sight."

"Aye. I thank you for that
courtesy." Spynie Orrl reached the door. Standing, the Dog Lord
towered over him, a bear beside
a
goat. "You must
not let your hatred of the Hail Wolf poison you against Blackhail.
There are good people in that clan. Raina Blackhail, Corbie Meese,
Bailie the Red, Drey Sevrance—"

The word
Sevrance
was too much
for Vaylo Bludd, and he shook his head until his braids whipped
against his face. "Say no more, Orrl chief. You come close to
crossing bounds."

Surprisingly, Spynie Orrl nodded. "Aye.
Perhaps I do, but you cannot blame a man for the actions of his
brother."

Vaylo growled. The noise was so low and
terrible, the dogs shrank back in the hearth.

Spynie Orrl shrugged. "Think on
what I have said, Bludd chief. When an old man travels through the
darkness of four nights and three warring clans to see you, you'd be
a fool not to take note of what he said." With that the old man
left.

It would be a full five days before
Vaylo received word of his death.

*** The Naysayer spotted the clansman
first. He was crouching in the shelter of granite rocks, his back
bent over a bundle of bloody rags. Ark named him an Orrlsman, as he
was wearing the snow-colored cloak of a hunter from that clan. Well
before they reached him, the two Far Riders unmounted and entered the
ground he had claimed on foot.

Neither Mai nor Ark drew weapons. They
were Far Riders, and both knew that while there was much to fear
here, the clansman was unarmed and in no state to fight. Ark watched
as the clansman became aware of them, as his head rose and his eyes
long focused and his expression shifted between anger and fear.

Ark Veinsplitter, Son of the Sull and
chosen Far Rider, was well used to being the object of fear. He had
ridden these lands for twenty years, fought battles with men and
beasts, borne messages across frozen seas, iron mountains, and desert
floors baked as hard as glass: Fear was his due. What he didn't
expect was his own fear, fluid as liquid mercury, rising in the back
of his throat. The clansman's eyes pinned him with a look he would
remember for always. And a question he would ask himself for the rest
of his life murmured in his ears like the wind:
Have I done the
will of the gods
?

The clansman stood to meet them, his
cloak spreading in the wind, his bare hands yellow and frozen. Ark's
whole being was so completely focused upon him, he nearly missed the
carcass embedded in the snow. A full-grown wolf, big as a black bear,
with two feet of willow jammed down its throat. "Heart-killed,"
said the Naysayer, the words dropping like stones from his mouth.

Ark closed his eyes and sent a prayer
to the Sender of Storms. When he opened them he knew the world he
lived in had changed. A clansman had heart-killed a wolf.

"Help her." The clansman
spoke Common with a clannish lilt. As he spoke he jerked his right
hand in the direction of the bloody rags. No greeting. No questions.
No fear.

At Ark's side, Mai Naysayer reached for
one of his wolverine-skin packs. With a tiny jolt of realization, Ark
understood that the clansman was not alone and that the bloody bundle
of rags he stood over was a person… a girl. And Mai meant to
tend her, because that was the nature of Mai Naysayer. He would not
turn his back on a cry for help.

Ark almost cried for him to stop. Too
late he saw the pale circle of powder in the snow, too late he
realized that blood should be let and a price paid
now
, not
later, for entry into territory that had been marked by clannish
gods. Transfixed, Ark Veinsplitter watched Mai Naysayer break the
circle and drop to his knees by the girl. Already he had a sable
blanket bunched in his hands, ready to place under her.

There was nothing for Ark to do but
raise the tents and build a fire.

Snow Ghosts

Effie stayed awake until her eyes were
sore, but there was still no sign of Drey. Anwyn Bird had sworn he
would return from Ganmiddich today, but it was long past midnight now
and the roundhouse was dark and creaking, and Bitty Shank was drawing
the iron bar across the greatdoor and securing the pullstone in
place.

"Hey, little one. You should go to
bed. The storm's slowed Drey down, that's all. He'll be here in the
morning, I promise." Bitty Shank tied greased rope as thick as
his wrist around the brass claws that were sunk deep into the
stonework on either side of the door. "I spoke to him myself
only ten days ago. Said as soon as the Crab chief reclaims that tall
green roundhouse of his, he'll be back to scrub your face and pull
your hair."

Despite herself, Effie smiled. Bitty
Shank was funny. Like all the Shanks, he had a shiny red face and
pale hair. And he loved Drey. All the Shanks loved Drey.

Done with sealing the great roundhouse
door, Bitty turned to look at Effie, who was sitting at the foot of
the stairs. Bitty was the second youngest of the Shank boys, a
yearman of two winters who'd lost one ear to a Bluddsman's sword and
the tip of two fingers to the 'bite. His blond hair was already
thinning, though he swore that since he'd lost his ear it had started
growing back of its own accord. Effie didn't see it herself, but she
never offered opinions unasked.

"So. Would m'lady care for an
escort to her chamber?" Bitty flourished his arm in the air and
then bowed with exaggerated grace.

"Though I do say it myself, I have
a sword forged for guarding maidens and the kind of walk that
scatters rats."

Effie giggled. Part of her felt bad
doing so, but Bitty
was
so very funny, and she was wound up
so tightly inside with worry and fear that it sort of broke out on
its own. Like wind.
That
thought made Effie giggle even
more. All the while Bitty stood by the door, smiling and then
laughing right back. It felt good to laugh. It banished the blindness
for a while.

"Come on, little one. I best get
you off to bed 'fore you wake Anwyn and get us both spoon-bled and
kettle-whipped."

Effie didn't think such a thing as
spoon-bleeding existed, and she knew for a fact that no amount of
laughing in the entrance hall would rouse Anwyn, because the
barrel-shaped matron slept in the game room at the rear of the
building, guarding her butchered meat. Still, she stopped laughing
and rose to her feet. Bitty Shank was a yearman, wounded in battle,
and he deserved her respect.