A Cavern of Black Ice (16 page)

Raif stared at Drey's bent head. This
time his brother refused to look up.

Mace held open the door. With his back
turned to the clan, he sent Raif a look filled with malice. Go, he
mouthed, his eyes shrinking to two black-and-yellow strips.

"I say he stays." It was
Raina Blackhail, standing as she spoke. "Despite what you say,
Mace Blackhail, Raif Sevrance is hardly a boy. If he wants to have
his say along with the rest, I for one won't stop him." She
looked her foster son straight in the eyes. "Would you?"

In the seconds it took Raina to speak,
Mace Blackhail's face changed twice. By the time he had turned back
to the clan, the only trace of the anger her words had caused him was
the rapidly diminishing lines around his mouth. He let the door fall
closed. "Very well. Let the boy find a place at the back."

Raif held his position a moment longer,
then edged sideways, joining a group of crofters behind the door. His
gaze did not leave Mace Blackhail for a moment.

"I warn you, boy," Mace said
softly, weighing his words. "We're not here to rake over what
happened at the badlands camp. You're upset about the loss of your
da—we all saw that the other day. But we're in mourning for
others besides Tern Sevrance, and you'd do well to remember that. You
weren't the only one who lost kin." Mace made a swallowing
motion with his throat. "Others did, too. And every time you
speak up rashly without thinking, you injure their memories and wound
the grieving."

Mace Blackhail's words stilled the
clan. Many looked down, at the floor, at their hands, at their laps.
Several of the older clansmen, in eluding Orwin Shank and Will Hawk,
nodded. The tied clansman by Raif'sside, a pig farmer named Hissip
Gluff, edged minutely away.

"Let's get back to the matter in
hand." Shor Gormalin spoke in an even tone. He was standing by
the hearth, his fair hair and beard smoothly cut and tended, his
swordarm resting on the mantel. "I daresay the lad knows himself
when's right and proper to speak."

As always when the small swordsman
spoke, people agreed. And those men and women who had given Raif
sharp glances seconds earlier now found other things to look at. Raif
said nothing. He was beginning to realize just how clever Mace
Blackhail was with words.

"Well," Bailie the Red said,
stepping forward into the cleared space in the center of the room.
"Mace is right. We must decide upon a clan chief and quickly.
Dhoone is weak, and its sworn clans are suffering from want of
protection. We all know the Dog Lord's been sniffing around the
Dhoonehouse like the hound that he is—the man has seven sons,
and each one of them craves a clanhold of his own. Yet now it seems
to me as if the Bludd chief craves more. I think the man has each and
every one of us in his sights. I think he has a fancy to call himself
Lord of the Clans. And if we sit on arses and do nothing, then it'll
only be a matter of time before his Bluddsmen come calling with
swords."

Shouts of "Aye!" chorused
around the Great Hearth. Corbie Meese took his hammer from his back
and pounded the wooden butt against the floor. Several yearmen, Drey
included, began pummeling their fists against the bench. Many
clansmen stamped their feet or hammered ale jugs against the walls.
Mace Blackhail waited until the noise was at its greatest before
speaking.

Raising an open hand, he shouted over
the clamor, "Aye! Bailie has the right of it! The Dog Lord would
have our land, our women, and our roundhouse. And when he's done he'd
turn around and shatter our guidestone to dust. He slaughtered our
chief in cold blood, in the no-man's-land of the camp. What worse
will he do when he comes west to raid our clan?"

Mace Blackhail curled his hand to a
fist. The noise had died now, and the only person moving was the
luntwoman Nellie Moss, who was busy carrying shredded sprucebark from
torch to torch. The fire in the Great Hearth roared like wind from
the north, and all around the room bloodwood beams creaked and
shuddered like timbers in a storm.

Raif felt the heat leave his face. The
world was shifting beneath everyone's feet on the word of just one
man. He couldn't believe how quickly it was happening. It was like
watching a dog round up a herd.

"My father died at Vaylo Bludd's
hand," Mace Blackhail said, letting his voice tremble along with
his fist, "killed by a hell-forged sword, left to rot on frozen
earth. I say the Dog Lord must pay long and hard for what he did. We
are not Clan Dhoone to stand by and let someone steal our guidestone
while we lie in bed with our women atop us. We are Clan Blackhail,
the first of all clans. We do not hide and we do not cower. And we
will
have our revenge."

The clan thundered to life. Everyone
stood. Axmen and hammermen pounded their weapons against the stone
floor, yearmen began chanting "
Kill Bludd! Kill Bludd
!"
and those standing by tables took out their handswords and thrust the
blades into the wood. The women tore the sleeves from their dresses,
baring their widow's weals for all to see. Corbie Meese hefted a skin
of hard liquor over his head and sent it crashing into the fire. The
skin exploded in a ball of pure white flame, scorching the hair of
all who stood close and sending out a wave of heat that hit everyone
in the room.

As smoke rolled from the hearth in
black storm clouds, Bailie the Red aimed his bow. Shaped from a
single piece of heartwood yew, strengthened with plates of horn, then
curve-dried over sinew, the longbow drew as smoothly as the setting
sun. Bailie held the string to his cheek, kissed his arrow's
fletchings, and let it fly. The arrow parted smoke like a knife
slitting throats. Shooting into the red heart of the fire, it severed
the tops of flames and shattered the glowing embers like a rock
smashed into ice. Hot coals rained onto the hearthstone, dark and
ashy, their red eyes flashing.

"That's for the Dog Lord,"
Bailie the Red shouted above the uproar, tapping imagined dust from
his bow.

Even as Raif found himself envying the
sheer force of Bailie's shot, his gaze was drawn away to the opposite
end of the chamber, where Drey stood chanting at the top of his
voice. He and smooth-cheeked Rory Gleet were shouldering and pushing
each other, seeing who could shout the loudest. Drey had his hammer
in his hand and kept turning to pound the bench behind him. Briefly
he met Raifs gaze, then quickly looked away. A muscle twisted in
Raifs gut. That wasn't Drey. His face was so red, it didn't even look
like him.

Kill Bludd! Kill Bludd!

Edging back against the door frame for
support, Raif looked away. He felt physically sick. Noises pushed
against his face like blows.
We don't know Clan Bludd did it
,
he wanted to shout. But Mace Blackhail had ensured that anything he
said would be dismissed as the immature rantings of a boy who had
lost his da. Raif scored his fist along the door frame, daring the
splinters to draw blood. Why couldn't anyone see Mace Blackhail for
the wolf that he was?

As he raised his knuckles from the
wood, he was aware of someone's gaze upon his back. Assuming it was
Mace Blackhail, he spun around to face him. But it wasn't Mace; it
was his foster mother, Raina. Raif let his fist fall to his side. In
a roomful of people straining, shouting, and clamoring to be heard,
Raina Blackhail was an island of quiet calm. The bandages around her
widow's weals had been torn away, revealing the fierce red flesh of
new wounds. No scabs would be allowed to form over the cuts as they
healed. Instead her skin would be held together by tightly bound
sinew, until bands of hard flesh had been raised around her wrists.
These she would carry with her until death.

For the first time, Raif realized what
Raina was wearing over her shoulders: the black bear pelt that Dagro
Blackhail had died scraping. Yet the pelt looked clean and newly
washed, and the flesh side was creamy and bloodless. Raif felt the
ground shift beneath his feet one more time. Drey must have carried
it back. He must have bundled it into his pack, brought it home from
the badlands, finished scraping the flesh, then lime-washed and
softened the inner hide. All done quietly and without fuss, so Raina
Blackhail could have her husband's last token.

Sobered, Raif unclenched his fist.
Sometimes he hardly knew his brother at all.

As if aware of Raifs thoughts, Raina
Blackhail pulled the bear pelt close around her shoulders. Tears
shone in her eyes. She made no motion to speak, made no gestures with
her hand or head, simply held Raifs gaze as surely as if she were
holding his arm. Her husband was dead, and she meant for him to
remember that fact.

Kill Bludd! Kill Bludd!
'Hold your cries!" Mace Blackhail cried, raising the
Clansword above his head as he stepped upon a table close to the
center of the room. His black dogskin pants and tunic had been
slashed by his own hand, and his wolf lore lay on the outside for all
to see. With his dark hair, dark clothes, and yellow wolf tooth
shining against his skin, he looked fierce and full of rage. The
Clansword fit his grip perfectly, and already he had its weight and
balance judged.

The clan quieted. Thanks to Bailie the
Red's arrow, the fire now gave off a flickering uneven light. Dark
smoke vented from the cooling embers in thin plumes. Around the walls
of the Great Hearth, torches burned with the crackle and putter of
things just lit.

Mace Blackhail waited for perfect
silence. The Clansword gleamed like black ice as he spoke. "We
must make raids and make war—we know that now. Our warriors
must ride east and meet the Bluddsmen full on. Now more than ever we
need a strong man to lead us. War is never solely about battle. We
must make alliances, mass ourselves, know our weaknesses and use our
strengths. We can never replace Dagro Blackhail, and I for one will
fight anyone here and now who claims otherwise." Mace brought
the Clansword down and swept it in a half circle around his chest.
For a fraction of a second his gaze rested on Raif, then his lips
twisted minutely and he looked away.

Finding none who would speak up against
the dead, he continued. "Yet choose a leader we must. All here
have the right to draw the Clansword and claim the Blackhail name. As
a Blackhail by fosterage, I have more rights than some, but that's
not what I called you here to say. What I mean to state here, before
all clansmen and yearmen and women with due respect, is that I will
pledge myself to any man who is named clan chief and follow him until
I die."

Mace Blackhail's words stunned the
clan. Mouths fell open, breath was inhaled. Old Turby Flapp lost his
grip on his spear, and it went clattering to the floor. The crofter
to Raif's side pulled up his chin and whispered to his companion that
it was "a fine thing for Mace Blackhail to do." Raif
waited. Like everyone else he was surprised by Mace Blackhail's
words, yet he knew it wasn't the end. Even as Mace Blackhail lowered
the sword, the chorus began.

"A Blackhail is as a Blackhail
does." Corbie Meese stepped into the center of the room, the
boiled hide of his coat armor embellished only by his hammerman's
chains. "Mace has shown himself to be a true clansman like his
father before him, and I for one would be proud to follow his banns
into battle." With that, Corbie laid his great iron-headed
hammer on the ground beneath Mace Blackhail's feet.

"I'll second that." It was
Bailie the Red, stepping forward with his braced yewwood bow. "The
moment the badlands raid happened, Mace Blackhail's first thoughts
were for those who were left at home. Now I don't mean to speak ill
of the two Sevrance lads—all here agree that what they did was
right and fitting—but to my mind Mace Blackhail acted like a
clan chief from the start."

Raif closed his eyes as calls of "Aye!"
circled the room. He heard Bailie the Red lay his bow by Corbie
Meese's hammer, and when he opened his eyes again Orwin Shank and
thin-bearded Will Hawk were doing likewise with their axes and
swords. Along the east wall, yearmen shifted restlessly against their
benches. It wasn't their place to move before full clansmen and women
with due respect.

Other clansmen came and laid their
weapons by Mace Blackhail's feet. The twins Cull and Arlec Byce
crossed their matching limewood axes on top of the growing pile.
Still, some men held back. Shor Gor-malin was the most notable.
Standing close to Raina Blackhail, he watched the proceedings with
glinting eyes, not a muscle on his lean face moving. Others, many
older clansmen like Gat Murdock and the fierce little bowman whom
everyone called the Lowdraw, took his lead and did the same. Raif
noticed several clansmen and most of the clanswomen looking to Raina
Blackhail.

When it was obvious that all the full
clansmen who were prepared to come forward had done so, Mace
Blackhail pressed the flat edge of the Clansword to his heart. His
black hair and close-trimmed beard made his skin look as pale as ice
formed around a window at night. His teeth were strong and white. A
few had the sharp-edged look of fangs.

Turning, he addressed his words to
Raina alone. "What say you, Foster Mother? I did not ask for
this, and in truth I am not sure that I want it. And no matter how
much my fellow clansmen's support stirs my heart, what you think
matters more."

Raif ground his teeth together to stop
himself from crying out. Mace Blackhail wasn't even a full clansman!
He was a yearman, like Drey, pledging himself one year at a time to
his clan, until he married or settled and was ready to commit himself
wholly and for life. Most yearmen pledged to their birthclans, but
some married elsewhere, or fostered elsewhere, or found themselves
better needed and more valued at a foreign roundhouse far from home.