A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (64 page)

Nan was gracious, and slipped quickly away. Vaylo could tell she had been pleased.

The ranger deposited the tray on the chief’s table. “Shall I?” he asked, indicating the jug of malt and two wooden thumb cups laid there. Vaylo nodded, and watched as Angus Lok poured the sweet golden liquor Dhoone was known for. They struck cups, and downed their measures in one.

Angus smacked his lips in appreciation. “A pity you don’t serve that in your holding cells. A prisoner might never want to leave.”

“But you did leave,” Vaylo said. “At my pleasure and in my debt.”

“I know it, Dog Lord. That is why I have come.”

Vaylo did not like the strange lightness in the ranger’s voice. “What is it? Is Robbie Dhoone about to pound on my door?”

Angus Lok rested his booted feet on the chief’s table. “He might be. Though I imagine he’s still a few men short of an invading force . . . unless, of course, Castlemilk has been generous with her manpower.”

“He’s asked the Milk chief for warriors?”

“That’s what I’d do if I were him.”

The Dog Lord let that sink in. He’d learned to ignore Angus Lok’s assessments at his peril. He said, “Do you have any more intelligence on Robbie Dhoone?”

The ranger shrugged. “Skinner’s losing men to him. He’s moved out of the Milkhouse and into the broken tower, supposedly to accommodate his greater numbers. His men ride as far south as Ille Glaive on raid sorties, and he’s developed a fancy for wearing fisher fur like a king.”

Something in the ranger’s manner disquieted Vaylo. He took a deep breath. “None of this is the reason why you are here.”

It was not a question, and Angus Lok didn’t bother to nod. He swung his feet down from the table and said, “An army left Spire Vanis two days ago. They’re heading north, to the clans.”

Thunder boomed through the chamber, making the flames in the hearth shiver and the dogs jump. Vaylo touched the pouch of powdered Bluddstone at his waist.
Oh gods. And to think I imagined I had troubles enough.
Out loud, he said, “What are their numbers?

“Eleven thousand. They were assembled in haste. Mercenaries. Grangelords. Hideclads. A mixed bunch.”

The Dog Lord nodded, his mind engaged. “Who leads them?”

“Marafice Eye, the one they call the Knife.”

That gave Vaylo pause. He had met Marafice Eye, looked into his face and seen a hard man capable of hard things. He had been well respected by his men. “What is the purpose of this army?”

The ranger poured himself another measure of malt. The Dog Lord declined a second cup. “Well, that’s the unclear thing. Have you ever heard the legend of the Leper King?”

Vaylo shook his head, impatient.

“Well,” Angus Lok continued, unruffled. “The Leper King was a great ruler in the Far South, brilliant and greedy for more land. He set out on a campaign to annex the surrounding states, and he was successful for many years. Then one day he learned he’d contracted leprosy. That was when the campaign became something else. He still fought, but his motives had changed. He blamed the opposing armies for his illness and punished them for it. And he feared that his declining health made him vulnerable to members of his family who sought to overthrow him. So he sent his sons and brothers to fight in the vanguard and then ordered a sudden withdrawal to cut them off.” The ranger smiled. “They were all killed. Horribly, I believe. And the Leper King went on to rule his empire for many years.”

Vaylo thrust a cube of black curd into his mouth as he thought on this. He didn’t like legends. They were all warnings in disguise.

Angus Lok stood and moved toward the fire. “What I’m trying to say is that while Penthero Iss may have planned to take control of the clanholds, his priorities have since shifted.”

“I know what you’re saying, ranger. I’m not a fool.”

The ranger turned to look at him. “I never thought you were.”

The Dog Lord tried hard to detect signs of mockery in Angus Lok’s face, but could not find any. “So,” he said after a moment. “Iss is sending his rivals to war.”

Angus nodded. “At least three that I can count. Marafice Eye. Garric Hews. Harald Crieff. Not to mention every grangelord’s son old enough to know one end of a sword from another. Spire Vanis is a cold-blooded city. Surlords rarely die of old age.”

“So Iss is worried?”

“Living in Mask Fortress, surrounded by statues of slain surlords: It’s enough to make anyone consider their mortality.”

Vaylo crossed over to his dogs. Although he had been in the same room with them, in plain sight all the while, they strained their leashes to greet him. “You’re telling me this army might not be well supported?”

“Exactly. They have fair numbers, but they’re not a cohesive force. And they have a long trek north in foul weather. My bet is that Iss will wait and see. If things are looking good—a few roundhouses sacked, riverways taken—he’ll keep the supply lines open and bask in all the glory. If things turn soft he’ll withdraw his support and leave them high and dry—all the while praying to the spirits of the Bastard Lords that his rivals get slain by you clannish fiends.”

Vaylo barked a laugh. Angus Lok was nothing if not succinct. He sobered quickly when he thought on what all this would mean to his border clans. Haddo, HalfBludd, Frees and Gray were all vulnerable. Even Withy. The northern giants were safe, at least for the time being, but that could all change if the campaign was a success. Thinking out loud, he said, “They’ll strike Ganmiddich first.”

“Why do you say that?”

It was gratifying to have Angus Lok ask a question of
him
for a change. “Because Marafice Eye knows its layout and defenses. He’s been there. He came to claim the girl, Asarhia March.”

Something happened to the ranger’s face when the girl’s name was spoken. The guard dropped from his eyes, and Vaylo Bludd saw a pain he recognized there. A moment later Angus Lok’s guard was back up, and a question asked to redirect Vaylo’s attention.

“Do you think it can be taken?”

Vaylo nodded, though he wasn’t yet ready to put the subject of Asarhia March aside. “I heard Marafice Eye ran into trouble in the Bitter Hills. All his men died. Do you know what became of the girl?”

Angus Lok shook his head slowly, in a movement that meant
Don’t ask me to speak of it.

Vaylo knew something of the grief he’d glimpsed briefly in the ranger’s eyes so he said no more. He poured two more measures of malt, and placed one in the ranger’s hand.

“Will you go to Blackhail with this intelligence?”

“I must warn those at the Crabhouse. My nephew is amongst the Hailsmen who defend it.”

“Drey Sevrance?” Vaylo didn’t bother to hide the venom in his voice. A Sevrance had slaughtered his grandchildren. That name would always be damned.

The ranger nodded. “You’d do well to warn Haddo and HalfBludd.”

“Aye.” But there lay trouble of its own. Once word got out that an army was on the move every Bludd warrior in the roundhouse would be chafing at the bit to ride south and meet them. Vaylo almost smiled. To think he’d wanted to be Lord of the Clans!

Just at that moment voices sounded at the door. A child’s voice cried, “Da!” and another one said, “Da’s listening at the door!” A male voice
shussh
ed them angrily.

The Dog Lord and the ranger exchanged a glance. The ranger inclined his head toward the door. “Company?” he asked, barely able to keep the smile from his lips.

Annoyed, Vaylo crossed to the door and threw it open. His two grandchildren stood there, grinning up at him, while their father slunk away.

“Pengo!” Vaylo roared. “Get back here!” And then, to his grandchildren: “You two. Over to the hearth. And place yourselves in the custody of my dogs.” He tried his best to look stem, but Pasha had him figured out and her grin just got wider. Grabbing her younger brother by the wrist, she dragged him toward the hearth. The collective sound of six dogs groaning very nearly made Vaylo laugh out loud.

Then he was faced with his second son. Pengo’s cheeks were so red it was a wonder they didn’t steam. His eyes were unrepentant.

“You’d better come in,” Vaylo said.

Pengo snarled. Striding past his father he placed himself in the ranger’s view. “Is it true? Is Spire Vanis coming to destroy us?”

Angus glanced at the children who were busy attempting to tie five dogs’ tails into one big knot. When he spoke his voice was very low. “An army has left the city. Yes. Is it a danger to this clanhold? I don’t believe so, not in the immediate future.”

“Immediate future!” Pengo mocked. “Save your fancy phrases for my father—I have no use for them. An army’s heading north, and you say it’s not a danger. What would you know of dangers, ranger man? You just ride that fancy horse from one clanhold to another, gossiping with our women, and living off our fare. And I tell you something else—”

“Enough!”
cried Vaylo, shaking with fury. “You will be civil to my guest or leave this chamber.”

Pengo’s lip curled. “Civil to my guest! Gods, he’s got you speaking his citified tongue. He’s no guest. He’s a parasite, feeding off the trouble he stirs. And if he thinks I’m going to sit on my arse and do nothing while an army attacks our Bludd-sworn clans then he’s a fool. I’ll have a force raised and on the move before he can wipe that knowing little smirk off his face. Spire Vanis won’t find Bludd absent from this war.” Finished, Pengo snapped around angrily, sending his black braids fanning out from his skull, and strode toward the door.

The Dog Lord thought of halting him, but didn’t. As the door slammed he closed his eyes. It was a cruel trick the gods had played, reincarnating Gullit Bludd in the bodies of his grandsons.

Vaylo calmed himself. The children were pale and quiet at the hearth, the dogs forgotten. Sitting himself on the Dhoonechair, he called the bairns to him. He could feel their bodies shaking as he crushed them to his chest.

Angus Lok stayed silent through this. He resumed his seat by the chief’s table, and after a time he pulled something brightly colored from his buckskin tunic and began to manipulate it. Glass beads and tiny wooden blocks knocked together with little
chinks
.

Pasha and Ewan raised their heads from their grandfather’s chest, curious. Angus continued toying with the thing, a puzzle by the look of it, one of those ingenious playthings they made in the Far South. Without looking up, he said, “You can come and take a look at it if you like.”

The children looked at their granda, and their granda nodded. Sliding off the Dhoonechair, they went to investigate. Angus was good with them. He showed them how the puzzle worked, informed them there was no possible way to break it, and then told them they could keep it—but only if they agreed to share. Pasha and Ewan nodded fiercely, already half in love with him, and carried the thing toward the hearth with all the ceremony and gravity of high priests bearing a crown. The giggles started not much later, as the dogs pushed their noses in for a sniff.

“Thank you,” Vaylo said simply.

Angus shrugged. “It’s nothing, just a bit of wood and tat. I got it for my youngest, but I can pick something else up along the way.”

“So you’re heading home?”

“After I’ve stopped off at Ganmiddich, yes.” The ranger’s copper eyes far-focused for a moment. “It’s been a long time.”

The two men sat in silence and nodded. Outside the storm was passing overhead and rain beat against the isinglass windows. Lightning flashed, and thunder hit straight afterward like a hammer blast. Absorbed with their new plaything, the bairns barely noticed.

“I’ll be heading out,” Angus said, rising. “I’ll come again in late spring.”

They clasped hands. “I’m grateful for the warning,” Vaylo told him. “I’ll have to keep an eye on that damn son of mine, make sure he doesn’t march south with half my men.”

Again, Angus Lok was succinct. “Do as you must,” he said.

THIRTY-TWO

The Game Room

R
aina moved around the Great Hearth, making sure that the returning warriors had hot food and ale. Anwyn Bird had arranged for trays of bannock and blood sausages soaked in heavy gravy to be brought upstairs. Hearty food for weary men. Warriors had returned from Ganmiddich and they were exhausted and soaked to their skins. When the heat of the Great Hearth reached them, their cloaks and furs steamed.

Ballic the Red was amongst them, his stout archer’s legs bowed from hours in the saddle, his hands busy setting out arrows and bowstrings at a careful distance from the hearth. They must be dried out, but slowly, else the wood warp and the twine stiffen. He accepted a jug of ale from Raina, taking a moment from his task to smile his thanks.

“Did Drey stay at Ganmiddich?” she asked him.

Ballic grunted. His beard was grown so bushy that you could no longer see his lips. “Aye. He must. He defends it for the Crab chief now.”

Raina nodded, wanting to ask more but stopping herself. Mace had been informed that warriors had returned and some were wounded. He would be here any minute.

“It’s not as bad as you might think,” Ballic said, reading her face. “There’s a few skirmishes, usually with crews out of Gnash. But we’re holding. Drey Sevrance is seeing to that.”

“Did he send word to Effie?”

Ballic looked her straight in the eye. “Doesn’t he always?”

Raina felt her stomach squeeze tight. A swift courier had arrived from Dregg two days back, bearing messages from Xander Dregg to the Hail chief. Raina had taken the boy aside and questioned him. No cart bearing Effie Sevrance had ever reached the Dregghouse. Raina had tried to rationalize it—the weather had been bad, Druss Ganlow might have taken a detour—but she was struck with the sense that she should never have sent the girl to Dregg. Effie was gone. Lost.
And I’m responsible. Gods help me when I have to tell Drey.

“Raina,” Ballic said, cutting into her thoughts. “You worry too much.”

She smiled at him. Ballic the Red had once spent an entire summer protecting her and Dagro as they rode the length of the clanhold, visiting every farm, village and stovehouse in Blackhail. He had earned the right to scold her.