A Sword From Red Ice (11 page)

Three, he counted. And they weren't slowing. That
was something.

Vaylo ducked into the bush as the horses crested
the ridge. As he gulped air to steady himself his knees touched
Nan's. When he looked at her face he knew he was seeing a mask: firm
and fearless, calm as if she were accustomed to crouching in a
thornbush daily. Frowning, she rubbed dirt from the corner of Aaron's
eye and tucked Pasha's black hair under her hood. Her instinct with
the bairns was flawless. She knew that no-nonsense, oft-repeated
gestures calmed better than soft words and protective hugs.

Vaylo edged about slightly, presenting his back to
the children, and then slid the kitchen knife from his belt. Hammie
knew the game and did likewise. The sharp odor of newly wetted ground
acted like a drug on Vaylo's windpipe and he found himself breathing
deep, clear breaths. The riders were almost upon them. When the
pounding of hooves grew deafening Vaylo spoke a prayer to his favored
god, Uthred. Nor this time.

Almost it was granted. The riders drew abreast of
the bushes and continued southward, spraying clumps of mud against
the blackthorns as they passed. Then suddenly there was a change in
the rhythm of hoof falls, a subtle slowing, a pause as one man
swiveled in his saddle and looked back. The sludge in Vaylo's boots
curdled. Sweet Gods, the cloak! It lay there, muddy and nondescript,
soaked in the rainy colors of the night, indistinguishable from its
surrounding in every regard. Except shape.

Vaylo imagined the rider's gaze sliding across the
blackthorns. He heard the jingle of bit irons as horses' heads were
pulled about. No words were spoken, but Vaylo imagined an exchange of
wary nods. Hammie Faa looked to his chief.

The Dog Lord spun the moment, imagining all
possible outcomes. Judging from the noise made by the horses'
trappings, the riders were well-equipped. Harnesses tooled to support
the hardware of war had a certain sound to them. The unusual quantity
of buckles and rings created a percussion of sharp snaps. For a
certainty they were Dhoonesmen—they were traveling south from
the Dhoonehouse in haste—but Vaylo doubted they'd been sent to
track him. In his experience man hunters traveled light. Whatever
their purpose they were dangerous. A small group of men did not stop
to investigate a tiny discrepancy in the dark of night unless they
were confident they could deal with surprises. Vaylo glanced at his
grandchildren and then wetted his mouth. Pushing dank air from his
lungs he whistled for his dogs. A single note, diamond-sharp, ripped
through the noise of the storm. All was given away in that moment,
and while five dogs responded with a chorus of unearthly howls,
horses were spun about and kicked into motion.

Vaylo nodded at Hammie. To Nan he mouthed the
words, Stay here and do not move. For the children themselves he had
no words. Nan knew what to do.

As the dogs homed, Vaylo moved free of the brush
and caught his first sight of the riders. Three horses, three men.
Dhoonesmen, lightly armored for travel but armed with full battle
complements. They were clad in blue wool cloaks fastened with thistle
brooches and shod in stiff boar's-leather boots. Two held nine-foot
spears, and all had the sense to don battle helms before approaching.

Vaylo felt the old mix of excitement and fear as
he prepared to face them. Here I am again, outmanned and outhorsed.
The Underdog Lord, they should have named me.

Hammie Faa picked his position—three feet
back from his chief. Even now he could not give up the habit of
respect. Vaylo reckoned he was all of twenty-three.

"Who stands there?" came a hard,
commanding voice as the riders approached. Hearing the accent, Vaylo
revised his opinion. At least one of these men was Castlemilk dressed
as Dhoone.

The dogs were rapidly closing distance, and Vaylo
waited . . . waited . . . before speaking. When the first of the
dogs—the big black-and-orange bitch—came within striking
distance, stilled her with a raised fist. Immediately the bitch sank
to her haunches, her amber eyes glowing, a growl smoldering deep
within her throat. Within moments the other dogs arrived,
instinctively forming a circle around Vaylo's party and the
Dhoonesmen. One by one, they followed the bitch's lead and bellied
the ground.

The two riders bearing spears reined their horses
within striking distance of Vaylo, whilst the third, the smallest in
stature, hung back. Their thornhelms cast black shadow across their
faces and Vaylo could not see their eyes. Both spearmen's horses were
well-made and would outpace the dogs over distance, but the smell of
the wolf dog made them nervous. Both animals were flicking their
tails and tracking the wolf dog's position with their ears. The third
rider's horse was past its prime, a dun mare long in the tooth and
short-hoofed but wasn't nervous like the others. It stood its ground
well, its ears forward interested and alert, calm under its master's
hand. Vaylo immediately reassessed its rider: any man who could
command a horse to calmness in the presence of wolf musk had skills
to be reckoned with.

"Answer the question!" The Castleman
spoke again, puncturing his words with a thrust of his spear and a
forward charge of his horse. He was tall, but lacked the shoulder
breadth of a hatchetman. Dual scabbards holstered on opposing sides
of his gear belt indicated his weapon of choice.

Vaylo regarded the spear tip pointed directly at
his face. Absurdly, he thought he recognized it as one of his own.
Then again it had probably been Dhoone's in the first place, seized
by Bludd after the strike on the Dhoonehold. Such were the transitory
possessions of war. Take himself. He'd once commanded three
roundhouses, now he was down to exactly none. Which means I have
nothing but thin air to lose. Grinning savagely, the Dog Lord spoke
his name.

Negotiation

Bram tried not to shiver when the Bludd chief
spoke his name. They had all guessed the strangers identity the
moment they spotted the first dog, but it had not prepared them for
hearing the man speak. The Dog Lord's voice was savage and calm; the
voice of a man who had killed and would kill again. Bram thought of
his brother's account of the one and only meeting between himself and
the Bludd chief. "He's an old man," Robbie Dun Dhoone had
pronounced, the morning after Dhoone had been retaken. "Past his
prime and losing his edge, and if it wasn't for his hellhounds he
would never have escaped."

Hearing the Dog Lord speak, Bram Cormac knew his
brother's words to be a lie.

The dogs reacted to their master's voice by
altering the pitch of their growls. Slow thunder rumbled deep within
their throats, making Guy's and Jordie's horses blow nervously and
flick their tails. Bram squeezed the mare's flanks with his thighs,
coaxing the beast to calmness. Now if only he could calm himself.

"And exactly who do I have the pleasure of
addressing?" The Bludd chief's voice came again, cold as the
rain driving against his face. He wasn't a big man but his shoulders
and chest were well-built, and he had something about him—a
kind of iron-hard solidity—that gave him a powerful physical
presence. His linen shirt was sodden to the point of transparency,
and the woolen waistcoat he wore over it was so weighed down with
rainwater it sagged. His long gray hair was braided into warrior
queues, and grease had combined with rainwater to produce an oily
iridescence. The blade he held was a foot long and badly cankered.
Bram regarded it closely, wondering if it really could be the simple
kitchen knife it seemed.

"I'll do the asking, Dog Keep." Guy
Morloch brought the point of his spear to the apple of the Bludd
chief's throat. Immediately, the big wolf dog to Bram's right lunged
forward, hackles rising. Guy's stallion threw back its head, nostrils
flaring, eyes darting wildly as it tried to track the wolf's
movements. With a single twist of his free hand, Guy shortened the
reins, forcing the bit into the stallion's tongue. Controlled, the
creature quieted, but Bram could tell from its eye whites that it was
still dangerously close to panic. The wolf, satisfied that the spear
point was no longer threatening his master's throat, dropped its
belly to the mud and bared its teeth.

Vaylo Bludd waited for quiet. Whilst Guy's horse
was bucking he had shifted his ground slightly, moving away from the
bushes that had first concealed him. The hefty armsman at his back
quickly did the same. Bram found himself wondering about those two
movements as the Bludd chief spoke.

"If I were you I'd ride on, Milkman. My dogs
are hungry for white meat."

So he knows Guy isn't a Dhoonesman. Bram looked to
the tall Castleman and wondered what else Guy was giving away. Guy
Morloch was a crack swordsman on the tourney court, but he was
inexperienced in field combat and although he was still wielding the
spear, he had made the mistake of backing off. And while the Dog Lord
stood his ground, coldly focused on the man he correctly judged to be
the leader of the party. Guy was jumpy. Even through the deep shadow
created by his visor Bram could see Guy's gaze springing from Vaylo
Bludd to his armsman to the dogs and back again. Perhaps Jordie
Sarson saw this too, for the young blond axman walked his horse
forward a few paces and fixed the Dog Lord with a hard stare.

Vaylo Bludd didn't even glance in Jordie's
direction. Addressing Guy he said, "You could have left of your
own accord. Remember that Milkman, as my dogs bid farewell to your
throat."

With a small motion of his knife hand, he
commanded his beasts to stand. Hairs along Bram's neck flicked
upright as the five dogs rose in unison and began to close the
circle. Golden eyes glittering, fangs dripping, they snarled and
grunted like pigs.

Ride on! Bram wanted to shout to Guy Morloch.
We're not here for this. We're just traveling through.

Then Guy's horse began to buck. The big black
stallion kicked out with its back legs, throwing Guy forward in the
saddle. Guy's head snapped back. His spear went thudding to the
ground as he fought to keep his seat. Twisting the stallion's mane in
his fist, he forced its head up. At the same time Jordie kicked his
horse about face and charged the nearest dogs. They leapt back,
shaking their heads so hard their eyes bulged. An instant later they
sprang again. Sweeping his case-hardened spear in a half-circle,
Jordie attempted to keep them at bay.

Leaping forward, the Dog Lord seized the fallen
spear. With perfect violence he plunged the spearhead deep into Guy's
foot. A choked cough puffed through Guys lips as blood gushed from
the punctured leather of his boot. The dark liquid steamed in the
frigid air and for a moment Guy simply looked at it, seeming more
puzzled than shocked. His stallion, terrified at the prospect of
being caught between the Dog Lord and his wolf, lowered its head,
humped its back and unleashed a massive, twisting kick. Guy was flung
from the saddle headfirst. His thornhelm flew from his head and went
bouncing toward the snarling wolf. Guy landed hard on his buttocks,
and quickly rolled free from the stallion's hooves. Liberated from
its rider, the horse whipped its head from side to side, desperately
scanning for an escape route. When it found the way to the west
blocked by a single black-and-tan bitch it charged. The bitch moved a
beat too slow and Bram heard the sharp retort of bone breaking as the
horse overran the dog.

Jordie Sarson moved immediately to protect Guy but
was brought to a halt by the four remaining dogs forming a block
around his horse. As he tried to force his mount to ignore the
slavering beasts, the fat armsman charged him. Jordie danced back,
swinging the spear point back and forth between the armsman and the
dogs. Kept at bay, the young blond axman could do nothing as the Dog
Lord hefted his spear over his shoulder and sprang forward to impale
Guy Morloch.

"Stay your weapon!" Bram screamed. "Or
I'll run your grandchildren through."

All heads turned to look at him. He was shaking
uncontrollably, and the motion sent sparks of light bouncing off his
watered-steel blade. Don't think of the sword now, Bram warned
himself.

Forcing his chin up he met gazes with the Dog
Lord. The man's eyes were black and full of fury. He was breathing
hard and his gut fat trembled as he stilled himself. Bram watched the
spear. Only when he saw the white-knuckled grip relax did he judge it
safe to breathe.

Nothing in his fifteen-year life had prepared him
for a moment like this.

Whilst Guy Morloch and the Dog Lord had been
trading words, Bram had been watching the copse of blackthorns. The
fact that both the Dog Lord and his armsman had moved away from the
bushes had set him to thinking. Such a small but deliberate act. It
occurred to Bram that they were trying to draw fire . . . but from
what? Possessions? A wounded comrade? What exactly lay in the middle
of the dense tangle of thorns?

So Bram had watched. When the Dog Lord had lunged
forward to stab Guy Morloch's foot, Bram had spotted a movement.
Immediately the motion stilled, but it was too late. Bram was known
for his eyes. When riding out in company he'd lost count of the times
when Robbie or someone else had turned to him and said, "Tell me
what you see, boy." During the retaking of Dhoone, Robbie had
waited to give the order to charge until Bram confirmed that only one
of the Thorn Towers appeared manned. Even this very night it had been
Bram who spotted the cloak thrown over the bush, Bram who was
convinced he saw the gleam of eye whites deep within the shadow
canes. Neither Guy nor Jordie had wanted to stop. They had a task to
complete and were anxious to be done with it, Jordie was simply eager
to return to the excitement of the Dhoonehouse where Robbie had
created an atmosphere charged with gravity and purpose. Whereas Guy
had made no secret of the fact that he thought the task beneath him.
Indeed, if it hadn't been for the fact that Robbie Dun Dhoone had
asked for a personal favor, the Milkman would not be here this night,
Guy Morloch was nobody's nursemaid. When Bram had forced a halt on
the mud slope, stating his belief that someone was hiding in the
blackthorns, Guy had punched a gloved fist through the rain. "We
have no time malingering, boy. If we stop to investigate every
shepherd taking a piss between here and the Milkhouse we won't be
done until spring."