A Sword From Red Ice (36 page)

Raif glanced at the sky; still no moon, but the
stars were teeming. The seabed was lit by a dome of silver light, and
he could clearly see the salt scale that covered every rock and piece
of debris underfoot. It stopped hoarfrost from forming.

As he neared the boulder his perception of its
shape changed; one side was rounded yet he saw now that the opposite
side was curiously straight. Closer still he realized that the front
of the boulder was projecting forward, the curve and straight line
meeting at a point. It was a boat, he understood quite suddenly,
fallen on its side and sunk partially into the seabed. A small
fishing boat or rowboat with a simple hull that had once consisted of
steamed planks. It was quartz now, petrified by ash and mud into
flaky iron-colored plates. Raif knelt and ran his hand across the
crumbling ridge that had once been its keel. Chips of quartz broke
off and fell to the seabed without a sound. Inside, the seats and
most of the gunwales had collapsed and lay like blocks of cut stone
in the bottom of the boat.

Abruptly, Raif stood. It would be spring in the
Hailhold now. The oaks would be budding in the Oldwood, the sword
ferns uncurling above the snow, the first bluebells would be peeping
up around the basswoods, and the air would be vibrating with the
sound of bird calls: geese, ducks, pheasants, ptarmigan, chickadees,
cardinals, horned owls. Life—not stony, desiccated deadness—and
he wanted some of it for himself.

He walked for several hours, holding the setting
that he'd picked with the aid of the boat. The seabed rolled out
before him, flat and unchanging, a landscape of dry ghosts. As the
night grew darker his vision was reduced to the shadowy pendulums of
his feet. If the moon rose it did so behind the thick tide of clouds
that had washed across the far edge of the sky. Raif scanned for
ravines as he walked, but as long as he remained on the seabed he
wasn't hopeful. Few cracks split the earth here. The entire seabed
was one vast depression, easily deeper than most canyons. When he
stopped to drink he knew that he wouldn't find the mist river that
night. An almost imperceptible lightening of the sky in the left
quarter told of the inevitability of dawn.

Deciding he would walk until morning he continued
on course. As the light grew his spirits fell: every increase in
brightness revealed more seabed. Nothing else. When the sun finally
pushed free of the horizon, it was tempting to carry on walking—put
in some distance while he could. For a while he sprinted, aware as he
did so that he was making a lot of noise. Each footfall echoed like
the chunk of a chopped log.

Finally out of breath, he halted. Hot-faced and
sweating, he put a hand on each knee as he waited for the hammering
in his heart to subside. Peering through the gap between his legs he
saw the path he had taken outlined with clouds of salt dust: one for
each step. The sky was a piercing blue and the sun rode pale and low,
like the moon. Looking ahead he realized that the long run had got
him nowhere. All he could see was the flat chalk-colored plain of the
seabed. Not even a boulder in sight.

"Only in darkness can we find a way through."
Recalling Tallal's words, Raif sat. No point looking for cover or a
suitable place to camp. Although he didn't much feel like it, he
pulled out his bedroll and set about making preparations for sleep.
He had no fuel for a fire and wondered if that was good or bad. Clan
had no rules to govern sleeping by day. Deciding he probably
wouldn't sleep anyway, he lay down and covered himself with the lamb
brothers' blanket.

Aware of his vulnerability, he rolled and circled,
straining his neck to keep watch in all directions. Hours passed. The
sun shone. Nothing moved. Of all the empty places in the Want this
seemed the emptiest. Nothing even pretended to grow here. There were
no mountains on the horizon, no ice lenses to refract the light,
nothing except shimmering air and seabed. Raif stared at the
shimmers. He was sure that he would not sleep.

When he woke it was dusk and the final slice of
sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Feeling vaguely stupid, he
checked the seabed for changes. If the landscape had changed it was
in subtle ways he could not discern. Kneeling, he stowed his supplies
and ate a light meal of dried fruit, bread and nuts. The water tasted
of the lamb brothers' spices and charred wood. After he'd taken his
fill he cupped some in his hand and let it trickle over his face.
Hoping it was a luxury he would not come to regret, he broke camp and
headed out.

This night would be different, he could tell that
straightaway.

Warmer and darker, insulated by clouds swiftly
moving across the sky from Want-north. Within an hour it was full
dark and he could barely see his feet. Raif walked cautiously at
first, gradually moving faster as the ground beneath him remained
unchanged. Soon he was jogging in short steps, his waterskin, daypack
and longbow thumping against his back. He had to get off the seabed.
It was a good night for mist, but this was not a good place to find
it. The salt would suck it right back. He ran faster. Hours passed
and he covered leagues. Twice he stopped to drink and catch his
breath. Both times he studied the sky. Clouds were consolidating into
a mass in the Want-north and it was getting difficult to spot even
the brightest stars. He hurried on. The visual world was shrinking.
He couldn't even see his fists as he ran.

When the ground dropped beneath him, he felt a
moment of indignant surprise—there was no place to land his
foot—and then went plunging into the black.

He lost time. Pain roused him and he opened his
eyes, blinked, and then opened them again. The difference between
eyes open and eyes closed was nonexistent. The blackness on both
sides was absolute. He was lying on his back, with his left leg
twisted at the ankle beneath him. Something jagged and stony lay
beneath his thighs and buttocks. Beneath his back the waterskin was
slowly deflating; he could feel its water soaking his cloak and
sealskins. It had probably saved his spine.

A breeze was blowing gently against his face, and
he wondered how long he had been unconscious. If he'd had to guess he
would have said less than a minute, yet his perceptions couldn't be
right for even in the Want the weather didn't change that quickly.
The air had been still and now it was moving.

Rolling onto his side, he removed the pressure
from his bent ankle. Pain made him woozy. Gods, may it not be broken.
Grasping his booted shin with both hands he straightened his knee and
foot. Once both legs were laid flat he sat for a moment and thought,
unwilling to test the ankle just yet. The only thing he could hear
was the sound of his own breath. If the sky was still overhead he
could no longer see it. He had no visual way of telling how far he'd
fallen, but the fact that he was alive and could move his back and
hips had to be a sign that the drop couldn't have been more than ten
feet.

He checked his weapons next. The longbow had been
loosely cross-strung against his back and had ridden up during the
fall. The string was now around his neck and the bow was on top of
the ledge created by daypack and waterskin. It was sound. He exhaled,
relieved.

The Forsworn sword had been suspended from his
gearbelt by a G-shaped brainhook and had landed beneath his right
leg. Inadequately holstered in uncured sealskin, the sword hadn't
fared as well as the bow. His weight must have come down hard on the
flat, for the blade was bent at the midsection. As he ran a hand
along the badly warped steel, the old clan joke shot through his
mind. What do you call a man without a sword?

Bait.

Raif stood. Splinters of pain exploded in his
ankle as his foot accepted weight. Inhaling sharply, he bit back a
cry. Tears welled in his eyes as he pushed his left foot into the
correct position beneath his hipbone. He'd heard somewhere that if
you could wiggle your toes then your foot wasn't broken.
Concentrating hard, he forced messages along his nerves. He'd be
damned if they weren't going to wiggle.

It was hard to tell, but he thought his toes were
moving. Something down there was responding—he couldn't see
what—but he thought it might be the toebox of his boot. To test
the foot, he applied more pressure. At about seventy pounds the
ankle gave, bucking like a horse refusing a jump. It was probably the
ankle then, not the foot. That was good.

That was very good. What next?

For a few second after that he blanked. He was
awake and conscious, aware that he should marshal his thoughts but
temporarily incapable of doing so. Think, he ordered himself, pushing
a hand through his hair. Think.

The hand came away damp. Inanely, he turned his
palm toward his face and looked. Pure darkness stared back. Frowning,
anxious about the sword, he tried to formulate a plan. He was in a
hole. Did he need to get out or was he better staying put? He could
probably walk as long as he didn't put too much weight on his ankle,
whereas climbing one-footed in the dark was a skill he'd never
mastered. That was settled then: he had no choice but to stay here
until daylight. If it was a ravine he could navigate it using his bow
as a stick, and there was always a chance it could lead to something
deeper where the mist river flowed.

Raif shivered. The cold down here was different,
more penetrating. The breeze kept forcing it against his skin.
Reaching behind his shoulder, he unhooked the Sull bow. The familiar
glassiness of the lacquered horn calmed him as he untied the string
and let the bent stick rest in his hand. Shifting his weight onto his
good right ankle, he sent his left foot sliding across the ground.
Stones and uneven rock pushed against the side of his boot. It was
rough, but seemed walkable.

Come to us.

Raif's head shot round, tracking the noise. Every
hair on his skin swayed as if his body were floating in water. He
listened, but could hear nothing except silence buzzing in his ears.
"Who's there?" he challenged. Detecting a break in his
voice he didn't like, he tried again. Harder. "Who goes there?"

Nothing. Seconds turned to minutes as he stood,
motionless, in the dark. The breeze, which earlier had seemed cool
and reviving, crawled against his skin like silverfish. His teeth
started chattering and the noise they made echoed weirdly, batting
back and forth against the rock. Quite suddenly he remembered the
leaking waterskin and shucked it off his back. It came away dripping,
close to two-thirds of its contents drained. Running his hand along
the bottom, he probed for leaks. Only part of his mind was on the
job, the other part was listening. Afraid.

Unable to detect the leak, he settled for upending
the skin so that the remaining water settled against the spout. His
hands shook as he strapped the wet skin awkwardly against his back.
Perhaps he was still reeling from the fall. Perhaps he'd just
imagined the voice.

His left ankle burst into pain with its first
step, but Raif gritted his teeth and forced it to take the weight.
Swinging the longbow before him, he moved forward. Tap. Tap. Tap. The
ear of the bow knocked against rocks, stones, hard earth? He couldn't
say. It revealed a path forward and that was enough. Some critical,
logical part of his brain knew that he was no safer on the move than
he was staying in one place, but he'd been brought up at Tern's
hearth as a clansman . . . and a clansman always met his enemies
head-on. The breeze was blowing at his back now and he could feel it
chilling the bare skin of his neck. Oddly enough he seemed to make
good time. The ground was flat here and there was a little push to
the breeze that kept him moving.

Come, Twelve Kill. We await you.

Raif froze. Instantly the silverfish were back,
scuttling over his face and eyeballs. "Who's there?" he
roared.

His words echoed in the darkness, breaking up and
growing weaker and weaker until all that was left was the word there.
It came back sounding like a direction.

There.

Crazily Raif swung around. Forgetting his damaged
ankle, he put all his weight on his left foot. Pain made him see
light as the ankle buckled and he dropped to his knees.

The echo returned and this time it sounded like an
admonishment.

There.

Raif breathed deeply as he searched for the will
to stand upright. The breeze was stronger here, a persistent light
wind dampening his skin. He wondered what was left of the night. It
seemed more than ten hours since the sun had set. Surely the darkness
couldn't go on much longer? Smiling grimly, he reminded himself that
this was the Want. The darkness could continue for as long as it
liked. How had the voice known his name? That was what he wanted to
know. Twelve Kill was his Rift name, the one given to him by Yustaffa
the Dancer. Who else would know that beside the Maimed Men?
Suspecting he was better off not thinking too long about the answer,
Raif hauled himself to his feet. His left foot felt so loosely
connected to his ankle that he wondered if it might fall off.
Something perverse in him made him force his weight back onto it and
stand, teeth bared, as the pain subsided.

After that there was nothing to do but continue
walking. The darkness rode on, black and oily, providing no traction
for his vision. Underfoot, the rockbed grew smooth and he had an
overall sense that he was descending. Slowly, the path's course began
to curve. Raif became aware of a second breeze blowing against his
back. It hit at a different angle than the first, and it smelled of
frozen kills set by the stove to thaw. Raif knew the smell well, all
hunters did: fresh blood, black blood and ice. He turned his head,
tracking the scent. Two breezes now and they met here, where he
stood.

Aaaaagggghhhh.

Raif jumped at the sound of a faraway scream. It
had come from directly ahead, where the two breezes commingled and
became one. As he waited, listening, something brushed against his
right arm.