A Cavern of Black Ice (40 page)

Kicking his stallion forward, Vaylo
made a minute gesture to Dry-bone to keep up, and the two rode ahead
along the darkened road, leaving the rest of the party to the light
of the torches. Hanro followed his father for a while, trotting
awkwardly in the middle of the two groups. Then, obviously deciding
he looked ridiculous attempting to listen in on his father's
conversation, he slipped back into the main party. When Vaylo heard
his sixth son's voice cracking orders in the peeved tone of a
slighted dance partner, he knew he was free to speak.

Leaning in toward Drybone, he said,
"The pair should have homed by now, Dry. I sent them to Duff's
Stovehouse to see if the stovemaster had given ale or warmth to Sarga
Veys."

Drybone took this information and
thought on it, the muscles on his lean beardless face giving nothing
away. "Storms?"

Vaylo shook his head. "Storms have
been to the north. Duff's is to the south."

"You think the birds were shot?"

"No. I think they were stopped."

"By Veys?"

"He's a magic user, Dry. They can
spell birds out of the sky."

The word
magic
was enough to
make Drybone sign to the Stone Gods, touching both his eyelids and
then the copper vial at his waist containing his measure of powdered
guidestone. "If he is a threat to the clan, say it, and I will
take the south road and tend his throat myself."

Hearing Drybone speak, Vaylo felt the
muscles in his old heart tighten. Drybone was not a man to make such
statements lightly, and Vaylo knew he meant what he said. "I
don't know if he's a threat or not, Dry. I don't even know what he
and his master want. I just know I don't trust either of them. And
when my two best hawks fail to home from a journey I've sent them on
a dozen times before, then it sets my mind to worrying."

It would have been easy then for
Drybone to point out that Vaylo should never have accepted Sarga
Veys' offer of help in the first place, yet if the thought was on his
mind, he didn't speak it. Vaylo was grateful for that. He needed no
reminder of his mistakes. Living with them was penalty enough.

"You think Sarga Veys met with
someone at Duffs?"

"I think it's possible. The
morning he visited the Dhoonehouse he was poking around, asking
questions of the stablehands and pot boys. He's a sly one, that Veys.
I don't trust any man whose jaw is as smooth as his arse."

"Did he ask for anything in return
for his master's help with the Dhoone raid?"

Vaylo looked at Drybone. It was a bold
question he asked. Many Bluddsmen knew that something had happened
the night of the Dhoone raid to give them an unnatural advantage;
fewer knew that their clan chief had arranged it; and fewer still
knew whom he had arranged it with. None knew the terms of the deal.
Now Drybone was asking for that confidence.

Perhaps it was the darkness and quiet
along the Bluddroad, or the thought that his grandchildren could be
out somewhere in these hills, freezing and hungry, their wagon mired
in thick snow, their fuel running low, but for some reason Vaylo
wanted
to speak. He had been the Dog Lord for over thirty
years, and at no time during his tenure could he remember feeling so
uncertain about the future. All his life he had taken what he wanted.
Now he feared the Stone Gods wanted it back.

Keeping his voice low and his left hand
resting on his guidestone pouch, he said, "Veys and his master
are up to some kind of doggery, Dry. When they first came to me six
months back, they said they wanted nothing in return for their help.
Said the clanholds needed to be united under one firm leader, and
that I, as chief of the mightiest of the clans, was just the one to
do it. Veys swore his master would never ask for anything in return.
And to this day he hasn't. Yet I know in my gut it isn't right. I
have a suspicion I'm being used, but can't for the life of me work
out how."

Drybone's expression never faltered as
his chief spoke. If he was shocked, angered, or disappointed, he did
not show it. After taking a moment to correct his gelding's path, he
said, "Then we must be watchful, you and I. All our actions from
now on must be well thought, and our priority must be to secure the
Dhoonehold and prepare for an unknown threat from outside."

Reaching over, Vaylo clasped Drybone's
arm. They were bastards together, and they knew what it was to defend
their possessions against those seeking to take them away. Just
knowing he had Drybone's support was enough to set his mind at ease.

As Vaylo's eyes met Drybone's and
recognized and acknowledged the loyalty there, a wolf howl broke
through the glassy stillness of the night. Keen and hard, it drove
through Vaylo's mind like a stave through his heart. The hairs on the
back of his neck bristled, and deep within his stomach the remains of
his last meal turned to lead. The wolf dog. Even as he took his next
breath, he heard the other dogs yipping and barking as they rushed
toward the call.

Swinging his great weight around in the
saddle, Vaylo followed the wolf dog's cry with his eyes. It came from
the north, on the wooded slope that lay above the road. Without
pausing to give orders or finish his business with Drybone, Vaylo
kicked his old stallion into a canter.

He followed the road for as long as he
could, his eyes aching with the strain of holding a path in the
darkness. The snow reached the stallion's fetlocks, and great clouds
of blue crystals shot into Vaylo's face as he rode. Dimly he was
aware of the rest of the party following, but he had no mind for
them. The boiled-leather body armor that stretched across his chest
felt as tight and constricting as a corset, and Vaylo swore curses to
the man who had buckled it. The wolf dog's howls made him mad with
fear. Three years he had owned that beast, yet he had never once
heard such a sound from its throat.

As he took the slope, a pair of dogs
sprang forward, frothing and howling and throwing their heads from
side to side, eager to lead the way. Vaylo spoke words to the
stallion, and the old beast allowed the dogs to guide him.

Limber pines, their spines bent by the
weight of newly fallen snow, shivered like caged animals as he
passed. Saplings spilled their loads as the stallion brushed against
them, snow hitting the earth like fallen fruit. The exposed pine
needles glistened with protective resin, scenting the air with the
smell of winter and ice. The cold made Vaylo's eyes water, and he
wiped tears away with fingers encased in dog's-hide gloves. The fur
around his collar was stiff with breath ice, and his woolen cloak
pulled at his throat, its fibers heavy with massed snow.

The dogs led the stallion along a cut
bank where runoff flowed in spring and through dense clusters of
black fir and stone pines. Vaylo thought he detected an unevenness in
the snow underfoot, but he couldn't be sure if it was due to tracks
lying beneath the surface or uneven ground. His heart felt too big in
his chest, as if some unknown disease had enlarged and distended it,
causing chamber walls to thicken and muscle to bloat. He could hardly
breathe.

Abruptly the dogs separated, allowing
the stallion to step ahead of them into a gently sloped clearing high
above the road. The wolf dog, with its thick-muscled neck and
metal-colored snout, stood in the center and howled one last time as
its master approached. Vaylo slid from his horse, letting the reins
fall slack over the stallion's neck. Behind him the other dogs
waited, their yelps growing increasingly softer until there was no
sound at all. The wolf dog's eyes were two coals burning in the
darkness. Vaylo stepped toward them, knowing as he did so that he
would find nothing good. He was the Dog Lord, and it had been many
years since he had last fooled himself with false hope.

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 Bludd boast echoed in the back of
Vaylo's throat. Words that had been said so many times over so many
centuries that their truth had been deadened by layers of callused
skin. Vaylo did not want to think on their meaning. Not tonight.

Bones cracking, furs shedding ice, he
stepped toward the wolf dog. The dog shrank as he approached,
crouching on all fours and lowering its belly to the ground. A soft
whine vibrated deep within its throat, and it began to lick and
snuffle at something that stuck out from the snow.

Vaylo fell to his knees. Lashing out
violently, he sent the wolf dog away. Speaking words harsher than he
had ever spoken before, he made sure it would not return for the rest
of the night. Oblivious of the creature's slow, reluctant withdrawal
and the thin, almost human cries it made as it left, Vaylo stripped
off his gloves and thrust his bare hands into the snow.

He dug until his fingers turned blue
and his skin cracked and blood rolled over flesh he could no longer
feel. He dug until his leather cuffs froze solid and his knuckles
were bared to the bone and snow driven deep beneath his fingernails
was ground into lenses of ice. He dug until his hands and wrists
swelled with frostbite, blood ceased flowing to his fingers, and
flesh died. Others came and offered help, but he would let no one
near him. Light was brought, words were spoken, but all he had mind
for was digging his granddaughter's body from the snow.

Nine, she was. The fiercest little
thing that had ever worn a braid on the Bluddhold. She beat all the
boys her age at swordplay, and she fought hard and dirty, and Vaylo
still had the sore spots to prove it. Just before he'd left, she'd
jumped him in the storeroom and stuck him in the knee with her older
brother's training sword. Vaylo smiled as he remembered her wild,
triumphant giggling.
That girl
, he thought.
That girl is
a Bluddsman through and through
.

Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was
open and full of snow. The hammer blow that killed her had not drawn
blood. As Vaylo dug and scraped and freed her body from the snow, he
spoke words, scolding her for playing in the snow. What had Granda
always told her? Never play in the snow in unknown woods.

When finally she was free, he tugged
the cloak from his back, wrapped her tightly, and carried her to
where Dog Horse could watch over her. He never kicked children; she
would be safe with him.

That done, he went back to the snow and
dug again.

It took him all night to free his
grandchildren. Others worked on the women, and more still worked on
the road, digging out the men who had fought to save the party. Vaylo
paid them little heed. His grandchildren were cold, and they
needed their Granda to warm them, and he couldn't stop until he had
lifted each tiny body from the snow.

Dawn came, bringing light that was not
welcome and a new day that was wanted even less. Clouds smothered the
sky. The snow turned pearly and gray, the color of uncooked seal
flesh. The pines around the clearing were perfectly still.

"The Sull did not do this."

Vaylo looked up from where he was
crouched by the body of his newest grandchild, a baby boy no more
than ten months old. Drybone stood above him, his face dark with
grief.

"The Sull would never kill
children."

Vaylo nodded. He knew why it was
important for Drybone to speak: He was half Trenchlander, and the
Trenchlanders were part Sull. Turning back to the frozen body of his
grandson, Vaylo began to brush the ice from the child's fine black
hair. "Clan Blackhail did this," he murmured. "And now
we must bring them war."

Somewhere many leagues to the west, the
wolf dog began to howl.

Leaving Home

Effie and Raina came to see them off.
As Raif held his sister, pushed his cheeks against her soft,
beautiful hair, he was aware of something moving in the darkened
hallway beyond the roundhouse door. Wooden boards creaked, and a
slight form slipped into the cave of shadows that existed beneath the
stairs.

"That's just Nellie Moss,"
Effie said without looking around. "She's always following Raina
about. One day she'll end up dead in the snow.

Raif pulled back from Effie so he could
look at her face. Huge blue eyes, the color of the sky at midnight,
regarded him with a level gaze. "What do you mean, Effie? Why
will Nellie Moss end up dead?"

Effie shrugged. The russet-colored
dress she wore was woven from heavy goat's wool and made her look
like a doll dressed in grown-up clothes. "I don't know. She'll
just be dead, that's all."

Oh, gods
. Raif rocked his
sister against his chest. She was such a small thing—too small
for her age. When had she learned to speak of death so calmly?

Gently he set her down on her feet. A
few strands of hair had fallen over her eyes, and he took a moment to
push them back. He had to believe she would be better off without
him. He had to.

"Effie will be safe with me and
Anwyn," Raina said, taking hold of Effie's arm and leading her
away. "And Drey will be back today or tomorrow, and you know how
much he loves her."

Raif did not speak.

Angus touched his arm. "Come on.
Dawn's cracking. We'd best be on our way." With that, he led
Moose and his own horse, a muscular bay with clever eyes, across the
court. A light snow was falling, and Angus' hood was up. The fur
around the hood was dark and glossy, and Raif could not tell what
animal it came from.

Raif turned to face Effie and Raina
Blackhail one last time. Raina had worked through the night to get
supplies together for the journey south. She hadn't once asked why he
was leaving, but she knew about the guidestone and had guessed that
something other than a battle well fought had taken place on the
Bluddroad. Like Inigar Stoop, she had refused to hear the details.
Raif didn't know why she was going out of her way to help him. It
might be that Inigar had told her he was bad for the clan. Yet
somehow Raif doubted that. Raina Blackhail wasn't the kind of woman
to act on someone else's words.