A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (63 page)

In the gloom beneath the pines a shadow stirred. She watched it, fascinated, marveling at how it rippled and gleamed, passing in and out of sight.

“
Maeraith
.” Ark’s voice gave the shadow a name. Quick as lightning the Sull warrior was at her side, his furs shed, five feet of meteor steel balanced in his hand

“Behind me,” he commanded.

Ash found it hard to take her eyes from the shadow, harder still to move on Ark’s word. The thing was revealing itself as the shape of a man. Two red eyes glinted to life, burning mist with an electric crackle. Slowly, and with an immovable sense of purpose, the maeraith’s gaze sought Ash March. Ash felt the calmness leave her. She’d learned enough of the Sull tongue to know that
maer
meant shadow, but this thing that stood in the trees beyond the camp was no wraith of air and shade. Its mass occupied space, and when it stepped on a prostrate pine the entire tree shattered like glass.

A queer sound reached her ears, a low humming, almost like the sizzle of lightning searing air.

The thing had drawn a sword.

Naza Thani
. Remembering her lessons, Ash stepped back. “Do shadows cast shadows?” she had once asked her foster-father, smiling up at him with a child’s guile as she spoke, secure in the knowledge she had stumped him. She had been wrong. “Only in nightmares,” he had replied.

Ash felt as if she were in a nightmare now. The maeraith’s sword was forged from an absence of light. There was a gleaming around the edge, a bending of moonlight before it was sucked into the blade.

Voided steel.

The thing lurched forward. Ash’s gaze rose from the black abyss of its blade to the eerie glow of its lifeless eyes . . . and saw that it had found what it sought. Onward it came, crunching branches and pine needles, moving swiftly and heavily, a thing that could no longer be named a man.

Ark Veinsplitter raised his sword. He was speaking in his own tongue, his voice filled with an emotion she could not name. His face was dark and his teeth were bared, and the letting scars on his neck glowed white.

Meteor steel met voided steel with a shrill screech that hurt her ears. Glittering darkness sprayed from the blades like the opposite of sparks. The Far Rider took a hard breath, and Ash saw his sword arm bend. Shifting his grip on the midnight leather hilt, he made space for his second hand. The thing turned its blade, and suddenly Ash could see the edge; a switching, shimmering insubstance like the space between stars. Watching it, she realized she’d lost the image of the flame. The maeraith had snuffed it.

Swords rang as the blows fell. Ark stepped back, forward, back, falling into the rhythm he called
Ahl Halla
, the Great Game. The maeraith met him blow for blow. It was armored in black iron bossed with cabochons of onyx. Massive and untiring, it gave no ground.

A furious rain of blows forced Ark’s sword against his chest. The Sull warrior lost his footing, stumbled . . . and suddenly a gash opened up on his wrist. Blood streamed onto the forest floor. Ark spoke a word, “
Hass
,” and Ash knew he was calling to his blood brother in the language of maygi and Sull.

Ark regained his footing, but not his strength. The shadow was relentless, never slackening its attack. If Ark had opened its flesh, it did not bleed. If battle had tired it, it did not slow and make it known. As it forced the Sull warrior to his knees, the diseased pines rustled on the edge of the clearing. A figure emerged from the darkness, every bit as terrible as the maeraith itself.

Mal Naysayer, Son of the Sull and chosen Far Rider, drew his sword. “
Kall’a maer. Rath’a madi ann’ath Xaras
,” Mal whispered. “Come for me, shadows, for I stand ready in the light of the moon.”

And the maeraith did, turning from Ark Veinsplitter to the man who stood waiting in a patch of silver radiance.

Afterwards Ash would remember many things about the battle—the way Mal’s sword arced and circled and never stopped moving, how his face was grim but his eyes blazed with a savage joy, and how the plates of his horn armor snapped like snakes as he cut into the thing’s flesh—but for now she could only wonder that Mal had summoned the shadow, and that the shadow had come.

The Naysayer found a heart where she thought none had existed. He pressed the point of his six-foot longsword against armor older than the clanholds, put the weight of his body upon the cross-guards, and slid his blade into the vast, pumping darkness of the creature’s heart.

A howl sounded and the maeraith fell, black liquid spraying from the tear in its plate. Ash felt its wetness burn her face. It wasn’t blood and it wasn’t warm, yet it tasted familiar all the same.

The Naysayer pressed a foot against the corpse to free his sword. The light had left his eyes, and Ash could see that his hands and neck were cut and weeping blood. Behind his back, at the edge of the tree line, she spied a wolf carcass in the loam. Mal had been away defending the camp.

Ash felt a terrible weakness take her, and the sickle and chain fell from her grip. Ark had been in danger and she had made no move to aid him.

The Naysayer spoke her name. He was breathing hard and his face was blistered with sweat. Gobs of smoking darkness clung to his sword. “Fear is the enemy that will destroy us,” he said. “You must always seek the flame.”

Ash nodded. She thought of things to say, of how flames weren’t always enough to snuff out shadows and how the darkest shadows were cast by the brightest light, but she looked into Mal’s eyes and saw that she would only be telling him things he knew. Smiling weakly, she said, “I’ll try harder next time.”

He looked at her for a long, grim moment, and then turned to tend to his
hass
.

THIRTY-ONE

A Storm Building

T
he Dog Lord crouched on the Queen’s Court at Dhoone and tussled with his dogs. The wolf dog was on its back, trying to nip his fingers, its tail wagging madly, while the others ran in circles, hoping to be picked next. They made Vaylo laugh out loud. Their joy and eagerness lightened his heart. Thirty years ago his rivals had sought to insult him by naming him the Dog Lord, but he’d always thought they’d made a mistake. Dogs were loyal, and fierce in defense of what was theirs, and Vaylo couldn’t think of another creature he’d rather be named for.

His joints creaked as he rose to standing. Damn, but the wind was strong. Even in the walled enclosure of the Queen’s Court, it snapped back his cloak and set his braids clicking. And the sky! Dark as Blackhail and boiling up a storm. The charged air excited the dogs, for there was something primal about a storm building. It made you feel as if you had nothing to lose.

Vaylo called his dogs to heel, and leashed them. One of the bitches pissed against a dormant rose bush, and then all the rest had to do the same. Vaylo frowned at the pruned stump. Not much chance of
that
one flowering come spring.

It was a queer place, the Queen’s Court, not really clannish at all. With its paved walkways, limestone statues and rose bushes it looked as if it had been transported, flowers and all, from Spire Vanis. Well . . . almost. For the statues were half-eaten by birdlime and some of their heads had been knocked off, and since no one had tended this place in over half a year, heather and wild oats had begun to seed amidst the cracks. And as for the little man-made stock pond—Vaylo pitied the fish that wintered there, for some poisonous bright green slime floated on the surface like vomit.

Still. It was an interesting place, built for some long-dead queen by the king who had loved her. Dhoone was strange like that. It had romances, legends. Ancient white-haired scholars in Withy and Wellhouse recorded all the details and the names.

Not so with Bludd. Oh, it had its stories, tales of brave chiefs winning battles and reckless ones losing them. But there was no continuity. Entire centuries had been lost. Even the boast—
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
—had lost its meaning. The Dog Lord wondered about those borders sometimes, wondered about their limits. Did the borders end at Clan Bludd, or did they extend farther, to every last corner of the clanholds?

Vaylo let the wind blow away his misgivings. Too often these days his thoughts were turning inward, when by rights they should have been dealing in the here and now. Clan Bludd was divided, its warriors scattered over the eastern clanholds. Quarro and Gangarric were at the Bluddhouse, sitting as uneasily together as vinegar and oil, and nursing their mutual dislike. Both had crews of Bludd warriors at their command. Quarro’s numbers were substantial, and he counted many older veterans in his ranks. Vaylo didn’t place high odds on ever being welcomed back there again.

Thrago and Hanro were at Withy, feuding over command of the house. The little clanhold was notoriously vulnerable, and with Skinner Dhoone only four days’ ride away at Gnash, and Blackhail-held Ganmiddich even closer, Withy was a sitting duck.

Vaylo puffed out a great breath. His other sons were similarly scattered; Otto had taken the oath at Frees, and gods only knew where Morkir was. Only Pengo was at Dhoone. He commanded a mixed crew of hammermen and spearmen, and had been charged with securing the Dhoonehold.

But the Dog Lord didn’t feel secure. He had less men under his direct command than at any other time in his thirty-five-year chiefship. His sons had formed factions and split, taking their forces with them. And now there were two extra houses to secure: Withy and Dhoone. Not to mention the Bludd-sworn border clans, who grew nervous of the Mountain Cities and resentful of Vaylo Bludd.

Vaylo’s teeth hurt just to think of it all. Sometimes he wished he’d followed his childhood fancy and become a Maimed Man. Ruling a hole in the earth would surely be easier than ruling a clan.

Barking an order to his dogs, he headed for the gate. The clouds had begun to spit, and Nan would have his guts for bowstrings if he ruined the good cloak she’d made him.

Hunching his shoulders against the wind, he took the sandstone path that circled the roundhouse. The dogs whupped with excitement as the rain began to lash down, and he had to shorten their leashes to control them. Lightning forked over Blue Dhoone Lake and they howled like wolves, unafraid. The great rumble of thunder that followed shook the ground beneath Vaylo’s feet, and Vaylo grunted and quickened his pace.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move by the nearest gate tower. The wolf dog growled. Vaylo put a hand out to calm him. Now he drew closer he saw that the shape was a man, mounted on a horse. Waiting.

Expect me when the wind blows cold and from the North.

Angus Lok.

Vaylo didn’t bother asking himself how the ranger had managed to penetrate their defenses. He was canny, and probably knew the Dhoonehold as well as any Dhoone. And whenever stealth failed him there was always his tongue. Angus Lok had spent eight weeks at the Dog Lord’s pleasure, and he had used the time wisely, making friends.

Angus Lok raised a hand in greeting. Unlike most men faced with the prospect of meeting Vaylo’s dogs for the first time, the ranger looked relaxed. Even the storm didn’t throw him, and he managed to sit his horse as calmly as if it were a mild summer day. Vaylo couldn’t imagine how he managed to keep that ridiculous otter-trimmed hat from blowing off.

Feeling he’d been caught at a disadvantage, Vaylo let some of his aggression bleed over into his dogs. He wasn’t sure how he did this, just that it had served him well through the years. The wolf dog began to growl again, and soon all of them were fighting the leash.

Vaylo was gratified to see a slight adjustment in the ranger’s stance.

“Angus Lok,” he cried. “I see freedom agrees with you.”

The ranger acknowledged the compliment with a measured bow of his head. “It has its uses.”

Unhappy with having to shout above the storm, Vaylo said, “You’d better follow me inside. I’ll send a boy to tend your horse.”

Inside the Dhoonehouse all was calm. Nan and the other Bluddwives did a good job of keeping the key rooms well lit and comfortable. The blue sandstone walls could be cold to the eye, and they had hung them with tapestries and other fancies. Fires roared in every hearth the Dog Lord might happen to pass, and all corridors leading to the chief’s chamber were kept clean of cobwebs and dust. Vaylo handed his cloak to a boy at the door and bade him run it straight to Nan for an airing. Another boy was sent in search of food and malt, and commanded to bring it to his chief at the Dhooneseat.

The walk to the chief’s chamber was a brief one, involving the climbing of a single flight of stairs. There were grander places in the roundhouse, chambers where great blocks of cyanide quartz formed altars and platforms for kings, but recent chiefs had lost their taste for them and power had reverted to the chief’s chamber once more.

Vaylo liked it well enough. It was comfortable and the isinglass windows let in light, and the primitive lines of the Dhooneseat pleased him. This was a chair made by men who had never heard of kings.

The Dog Lord chose not to sit in it. Instead he crossed to the fire and leashed the dogs to the rat hooks. Lightning flashed through the chamber as he stirred the embers. When he was ready he turned to look at Angus Lok.

The ranger had made himself comfortable on the wooden chair behind the chief’s table. He had shrugged off his outer layers of clothing and was now running a hand through his hair. His copper-green eyes were just as Vaylo remembered them: guarded.

“Have you traveled far?” Vaylo asked him.

The ranger nodded. “That is my fate, it seems.”

A moment ticked by in silence, and then Vaylo asked, “Why are you here?”

Before Angus Lok could answer a knock came at the door. Nan herself had brought the food and malt, borne on her best pewter tray. The ranger was off his chair before Vaylo had a chance to react. Walking forward, he took the tray from Nan and thanked her. He inquired of her sister, who Vaylo knew to be ill with lung fever, and complimented Nan on the fine embroidery at the hem and neck of her dress. Vaylo was torn between pride and amazement. Was there no end to the ranger’s connections?