A Sword From Red Ice (12 page)

Bram had nodded slowly, not expecting much else.
He had used the time while Guy was speaking to study the bushes more
closely. The cloak was brown as mud, but as the rain beat down on it
some of the grime was washed away. After a few seconds he said, "I
think the cloak is red."

It was enough to turn the party around to
investigate. Red was the color of sunrise and sunset, raw iron and
raw meat, eyes stung by woodsmoke and thoughts stung by anger. Red
was the color of Bludd.

"Drop the spear," Bram shouted to the
Dog Lord. His voice sounded small and puny to his ears, and it had
clearly cracked over the word spear. To make up for it Bram stabbed
at the blackthorns with his sword. "Now!"

The Dog Lord didn't move. Bram could see him
thinking. The Bludd chief's portion of guidestone hung from his waist
in a hollowed-out ram's horn sealed with a cap of crimsoned lead. His
lore was suspended beneath it: three dog claws strung on a flax
twine. Bram wondered about that. Three dog claws, yet the Dog Lord
always commanded five dogs. Whenever one of the five died it was
immediately replaced. Bram risked glancing over at the bitch that had
been trampled by Guy's horse. The creature lay on its side in the
mud. It was seizing, its chest and front legs jerking feebly as green
mucus bubbled from its mouth. It would have to be killed, Bram
realized. The Dog Lord would need a new dog.

"I canna set the spear down, lad," the
Dog Lord said at last, "until matters are settled between us."

Bram was struck by how reasonable Vaylo Bludd now
sounded. The spear he held was still clearly trained on Guy
Morloch—one swift lunge and the Castleman would be dead—but
something fundamental within the Dog Lord had changed. He was
neither threatening nor threatened. His gaze did not stray once to
the place were his grandchildren were concealed.

Bram had maneuvered his mare so he was almost
directly above them. He could clearly see the boy and the girl,
obviously brother and sister from their striking dark looks. They
were shielded by a gray-haired Bluddswoman who clutched them tightly
to her sides. The woman held a foot-long maiden's helper in her right
hand, but Bram's new sword was four times that length and she had the
sense not to engage him. Bram could see where one of the thorns had
pierced her cloak at the shoulder. A perfect circle of blood was
spreading through the wool. Seeing it, Bram recalled the tale told
about Bluddwives: They would kill themselves and their children
rather than risk falling into enemy hands. Something stoic and
watchful in the woman's lined face made him believe she was capable
of such an act.

Oh gods. What have I started? Bram felt the
beginnings of despair. He wished suddenly to be gone, to ride away
from the frightened faces of Vaylo Bludd's grandchildren and the
jerking body of the dog, ride north as far as he could, past Dhoone
and across the Rift Valley, right into the heart of the Want.

It was the sword. The damn sword.

He could barely look at it. "Bludd chief. Lay
down your weapon or I'll cut the girl." Bram hardly knew where
the words came from, but some anger meant for his brother made them
sound like the real thing.

The Dog Lord must have heard it too, for although
he didn't drop the spear, he raised its point so that it was no
longer directly threatening Guy Morloch. "Let's not do anything
hasty, lad. We're both here to protect our own."

"Run the brats through, Bram," Guy
Morloch cried from the mud. "Don't listen to a word he says."

Bram and Jordie Sarson exchanged a glance. The
young blond axman had had the sense to keep the visor on his
thornhelm lowered, which meant that the Dog Lord perceived only one
boy in the party, not two. Jordie was barely eighteen, but you could
not tell that from his build. Executing the smallest possible shrug,
he gave command of the situation to Bram. Jordie Sarson was over six
feet tall, a sworn clansman with a third of his face covered by the
blue tattoos. He'd been trained to the ax by Jamie Toll, who everyone
called the Tollman, and he shared the fisher lore with Robbie Dun
Dhoone. Yet he was only two years older than Bram. And he didn't know
what to do.

Guy Morloch was breathing hard. Bram could not
make out his face in the darkness, but he could see that Guy was
curled up in the mud, nursing his bleeding foot. A stream of
rainwater running downhill was hitting the Castleman's back and then
forking into two to flow around him. The rain itself was finally
slacking, and a bitter cold was setting in. Bram shivered. Realizing
his arm had been pulled down by the unfamiliar weight of his new
sword, he made a clumsy adjustment. Glancing up at the Dog Lord, he
saw the weakness had been noted.

"You know what we've got here, lad?" the
Dog Lord asked in a leisurely droll. Softening a cube of chewing curd
between his fingers, he answered his own question. "We've got
what city men call an impasse. Way I see it, neither of us wants to
budge. Now that could mean we stay here all night until one of us
gets spooked or frozen and makes the sort of mistake that ends lives,
or we could come to an agreement man-to-man." The Dog Lord
looked Bram in the eye. "Which is it going to be?"

All the time while the Dog Lord had been speaking
Bram had been concentrating on keeping his features still and his
sword arm up. He had watched his brother often enough to know that
you had to keep your expression guarded during parley. Robbie Dun
Dhoone rarely let his true feeling show. So what would Robbie do
here? After he'd thought about it for a moment, Brain decided that
Robbie would never have got himself into a situation like this in the
first place. Which didn't help matters one bit. Bram took a deep
breath and held it. He felt a bit light-headed, as if he might be
sick. "I'll listen."

The Dog Lord nodded judiciously, as if Bram had
been very wise. Indicating Guy with the butt of the spear, he said,
"The Milkman called you Bram. You know my name. I'd appreciate
the rest of yours." Guy Morloch shouted, "Tell him
nothing." Bram frowned. Although he knew it wasn't very
charitable he wished Guy would just shut up. For a reason that he
couldn't quite understand he wanted to say his name out loud. If he
were to die here, on this muddy hillside in the middle of the
southeastern Dhoonewilds, his remains torn apart by dogs, then he
wanted the man before him to know exactly who he killed.

Holding his voice steady, Bram said, "I'm
Bram Cormac, son of Mabb."

The Dog Lord pushed the softened black curd into
his mouth and chewed for a while before speaking. Raindrops beaded on
his five-day stubble as the downpour finally ended. "I knew Mabb
Cormac. Your father was a fine swordsman. I fought against him at
Mare's Rock. Had two pretty blades, as I remember. Called them his
Blue Angels, on account of their watered steel." Vaylo nodded
toward Bram's "Would that be one of them?"

Bram could not reply. Looking down at the sword,
he saw his reflection weirdly distorted in the folded steel. His face
was pale and elongated and his lips had been warped to a bloody
slash. Still the same brown hair and brown eyes, though. The silver
metal would not change that. Abruptly, he looked away. The Dog Lord
had to know by now that the boy he was talking to was brother to
Robbie Dun Dhoone, yet he had made no mention of it. Bram found
himself grateful for that, but he still did not trust himself to talk
about the sword. Here, Bram, take it. Bear it across your back when
you go.

The words were too new and too painful, and Bram
spoke quickly to bury them. "The sword is my own business, Bludd
chief. We have matters here that need settling. You are an enemy to
this clan and a trespasser on this clanhold. Withdraw your dogs and
release my man."

As the final word got out, Jordie Sarson drew a
sharp breath. Guy Morloch made a noise that sounded as if he were
choking on a fish bone. Even the wolf dog stopped snarling. Cocking
its head and raising its tail, it looked expectantly toward its
master. Vaylo Bludd nodded slowly, as if such a declaration was just
what he had been waiting for. For one crazy moment Bram imagined he
saw a spark of approval in the older man's eyes.

"So you're Robbie Dhoone's brother after
all." The Dog Lord spat out a wad of curd and ground it into the
mud with the heel of his boot "Well you're young yet and have a
fair bit to learn about parley, else you'd know better than to issue
demands." A quick glance at Guy Morloch. "Robs a man of his
dignity, you see, makes him feel like a cornered bear. Now I can't
speak for you, Bram Cormac, but I've seen a man mauled by a cornered
bear. He lost his left arm and three fingers from the right one, and
even though a sawbones stanched the wounds and saved him, he never
thanked him for it. Woke with the terrors every night, you see. Drank
himself soft every day." The Dog Lord paused a moment to scratch
the rain from his stubble. "Me, I believe it wasn't the loss of
a limb that ruined him. It was the memory of the attack. An old bear,
down on his luck and baited to the brink of madness, is about the
scariest thing you're ever likely to meet."

Black eyes twinkled coldly as the sentence snapped
to a close. Bram felt the heat of the warning flush his cheeks. This
is the Bludd chief, he realized fully at last. The most feared man in
the clanholds, and I'm sitting here threatening his grandchildren.
Bram tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry and his jaw just
clicked queerly instead. At the same time he became aware that a
muscle in his sword arm had developed the queasy ache of imminent
cramping. He had to do something—now—before the heavy
blade started wobbling.

"Lay down your arms and call off your hounds
and I'll release the woman and the girl." The Dog Lord started
to interrupt, but Bram plowed on, knowing full well that if he didn't
get it out now he never would. "The three of you will walk east
with the dogs. When a hour has passed and I'm satisfied that you've
completed your part of the bargain I'll release the boy to your
armsman."

"Give him nothing!" Guy Morloch cried
from the mud. He was trembling violently; you could hear the shiver
in his voice. "As soon as he gets his hands on the boy he'll
send his dogs back to savage us."

"Not if he gives his word," Bram
answered, looking straight at the Bludd chief. "And I give
mine."

The Dog Lord watched Bram without blinking. The
strength in his right arm—his hammer arm, Bram guessed—was
so great that he held the nine-foot spear aloft with no sign of
strain. Bram had handled Guy's spear; its shaft was rolled iron and
its butt was counterweighed with lead. It had to weigh close to two
stone. Just thinking about it was enough to make Brain's weapon arm
start to cramp.

Oh gods. Clamping his jaw tight, Bram concentrated
on keeping his sword arm level. From the blackthorns below him, the
Bluddswoman watched with knowing eyes. His arm had begun to shake
minutely and she read the motion in his sword. Slowly, deliberately,
she released her grip on the two children. Her maiden's helper
gleamed wickedly as she gave herself room to move.

Speak, Bram willed the Bludd chief as wire-tight
muscle flooded his arm with acid. Speak!

The Dog Lord reached for a second piece of
chewing, curd and then thought better of it. As he returned the black
cube to his belt pouch, the moon rose above the clouds and shone cold
light upon his face. He's old, Bram thought. And tired. Worry about
his grandchildren had made his jaw muscles bulge like sparrow eggs.
Yet he still made no reply.

Bram could no longer be sure his fingers were
adequately gripping the sword hilt. A sickening numbness was pumping
through his fingertips. A foot away the muscle of his upper arm was
burning. For an instant Bram was sure he was going mad, for all he
could think was, If the numbness moves up quick enough it just might
douse the pain. Then he heard the soft click of joints as the
Bluddswoman began to rise. Suddenly he could no longer hold up the
sword and the flat side of the blade fell against the mare's rump.
"You have my word."

It took Bram a moment to realize that the Dog Lord
had spoken, and another moment to realize what he'd actually said.
The Bluddswoman knew straightaway and immediately lowered her weapon.
Discreetly, she began to ease herself back into her former position
between the boy and the girl. Her green-eyed gaze held Bram's for an
instant, conveying no rancor or sense that Bram should count himself
lucky. Instead she seemed to say to him, We have an agreement of our
own, you and I. She had kept her actions—and therefore Bram's
vulnerability—hidden from the Dog Lord, and in return she
expected him to keep his word. Bram was struck with admiration for
her. She would have killed him, this woman with the sea-gray hair who
was old enough to be his grandmother. Robbie had taught him that such
dignity was the sole preserve of Dhoonesmen. Robbie had been wrong.

Rainwater trickled from the sleeve of Bram's
jacket down along his wrist to his thumb. He could see it but not
feel it. Carefully, Bram rested the numb hand against the mare's
neck. When he looked up he saw that the Dog Lord was waiting for him
to speak. "You have my word in return," Bram said.

"You fool," screamed Guy Morloch. "No
Bludd scum can be trusted." It was difficult to ignore a sworn
clansman, but Bram knew he must. A small nod to the Bluddswoman was
all it took for her to rise, hand in hand with Vaylo Bludd's
granddaughter. The girl was beautiful, dark-haired with a perfect
oval face. When her brother began to sob she turned to him and said
quite clearly, "Aaron. You heard Nan. You must wait here until
this warrior grants your leave."

Warrior? Bram felt shamed. He did not deserve such
a title. He had not sworn a single yearman's oath to his clan. And
now I never will.