A Sword From Red Ice (73 page)

Hammie Faa and white-haired Mogo Salt stepped
forward to pay their respects to the dead. No one spoke. All were
warriors here. Mogo was young to have the white hair and Vaylo
wondered if he minded it. Not all Salt men had it—Cawdo's hair
had been thick and brown—but it was a trait the family was
known for.

"Come," Vaylo said to them after some
minutes had passed. "Let us away to look at the Rift."

They mounted their horses and rode north until the
land ceased rising. Vaylo enjoyed the high-sprung nature of his
horse, was glad he had to fight it. He thought about the Dog Horse,
his mount for nearly a decade, and wondered what had become of it
after it had broken free from the burning stables at Dhoone. He had
loved that horse, but doubted anyone else could, and he hoped it
hadn't been slaughtered for meat. No Dhoonesman would have been able
to master it, that was for sure.

Forcing the stallion into a skidding halt, Vaylo
squinted into the far distance. His old, hardened lenses were not
what once they were and it took a moment for the Rift to come into
focus. You couldn't see the hole itself, just the raised cliffs on
the other side of it and the horizon-long shadow that told of
something . . . missing.

"It's a sight," he said as Hammie and
Mogo rode abreast of him, "But not one to warm a man's heart."

Hammie stood in his stirrups and whistled. He too
was kitted with a new cloak and a borrowed horse. The cloak was
maroon and trimmed with marten and intended for someone taller. The
horse had big nostrils and a powerful neck.

"I was there six days back," Mogo said.
"An entire roundhouse could fall in and you wouldn't be able to
find it."

Silence followed as Hammie and the Dog Lord
contemplated this fact.

"Where are the Maimed Men?" Hammie
asked.

"East of here. Sometimes we see their smoke."

Hammie thought about this. "How do they get
across for their raids?"

Mogo brought his white eyebrows together in a
frown. "Da told me there was a bridge only no sworn clansman can
see it."

Cawdo Salt was dead, killed several months back at
Ganmiddich, so Vaylo did not speak up to contradict his wisdom. The
Dog Lord did not believe in such things as bridges that could only be
seen by select people. He believed in trickiness and subterfuge, and
imagined they played some part in the Maimed Men's ability to cross
into the clanholds. "You know what I think?" he asked. Both
Mogo and Hammie earnestly shook their heads. The Dog Lord put on his
most serious chief's face. "Even if I give you a five-minute
start I'll still beat you back to the fort."

Hammie, who knew how these things worked took off.
Mogo Salt sat there in the saddle and looked confused. "Go,"
Vaylo told him, not unkindly. "It's a race."

The boy got the idea soon enough. As Vaylo
listened to the drum of horse hoofs he finally felt free to breathe.
To the west of him he spied the wolf dog, worrying a piece of fox.
Turning the stallion, he looked south at the Copper Hills. He thought
he could see the broken turret of the fort's watchtower, but couldn't
be sure.

What were Bluddsmen doing here? And why were they
staying?

This was Dhoone—and a godforsaken corner of
it at that. How long before Robbie Dun Dhoone rode north to reclaim
it? How long before whatever monstrosities had slain Derek Blunt and
his men stirred for a second feeding? Vaylo could not get the sight
of the barrows out of his mind. Men dead and entombed in stone but
still fighting.

They had been buried to the north, not to the
south to protect against attacks from rival clans. Had the Maimed Men
ever warranted such a display of fear and bravado? Vaylo thought not.
The Maimed Men were outcasts, left-behinds. Freaks. You could fight
off ten of them with a decent crossbow.

Vaylo breathed the icy air through his mouth,
punishing his teeth. He did not like it here, and wondered how long
he could stay. Kicking the stallion into motion, he raced south.

As he descended the slope into the valley, the sun
broke out for a while and its scrawny warmth improved his spirits. He
had to remember that here was better than nowhere. Chief of a moldy
hillfort was better than no chief at all. Hunkering low against his
horse's neck, Vaylo switched paths so he wouldn't have to pass the
Field of Swords and Graves. Might even be quicker this way, always
supposing he didn't run into rocks and ponds concealed by the snow.
The territory was still new to the horse so it didn't have much of an
opinion on the route. It didn't like the scent of the wolf dog, that
much was certain, and Vaylo thought it a pity that he hadn't trained
the hound to chase his horses—he'd get some real speed from
them that way.

Hope of catching Hammie and Mogo dwindled as he
found himself on the wrong side of a melt creek that had sprung on
the valley floor. Of course, Vaylo chided himself, he should have
kept an eye to the seasoned man. Mogo Salt had been here the longest;
his route would be the best. Irritation made Vaylo force jump, and
the stallion stumbled on the upslope, panicked, and tried to throw
him. The Dog Lord hung on grimly, knees clamped to the horse's belly,
knuckles white around the reins. It occurred to him that he could end
the race—simply trot the horse back and congratulate the
winner—but it seemed a petty kind of act. Give up now and he'd
deprive either Hammie or Mogo of the satisfaction of beating his
chief.

Shaken and with the old pain nagging at his heart,
Vaylo galloped back to the hillfort. For a wonder Hammie Faa won.
Those big nostrils had meant more air, which made for a faster horse.
Both men assailed him with their stories. Hammie's saddle had slid
off-center, his mount had thrown a shoe. Mogo had taken the lead, hit
a pothole, had a near miss with the offending shoe. Vaylo grumbled at
them, told them he'd taken time midway to boil himself a cup of tea.
Hammie beamed, his cheeks as red as only a Faa man's could be.

"Inside," Vaylo ordered. "And no
telling this to the bairns." As he spoke he looked up at the
drum-shaped war terrace that extended out from the fort's north ward.
Cluff Drybannock stood there speaking to someone Vaylo recognized and
knew.

The surprise of it chilled him. He had thought
himself at the end of the earth here, yet there was his third son.

It was difficult to keep his mind in the moment.
Stirring himself, he frowned skeptically at the hoof that was missing
a shoe, told Mogo he'd more than likely ducked horseshit, not iron,
and steered his small group onto the path that led to the western
door.

The hillfort no longer boasted viable stables and
all horses were kept belowground in the western ward. Someone had
done a fair job of boxing and partitioning the space, and Vaylo saw
that sheets of scrap copper had been molded into troughs. He forced
himself to unsaddle and brush down the stallion. Hammie knew
something was up and offered to take charge of the feed and watering.
Vaylo let him. "For a man with a new horse," he told him,
"you didn't do half bad."

Hammie pressed his lips together, nodded, and then
said, "Chief." Vaylo took that word up the stairs with him
and into the north ward. The big double doors were open and the air
outside blew in. Bluddsmen were sitting on benches and leaning
against walls, keeping up the pretense of oiling swords, mending
tack, scraping rust from chainmail. One man was actually taking a
swipe at the mold on the walls with a cloth soaked in lye; Nan's
circle of influence was growing. They were quiet as he walked through
the room and onto the war terrace.

Cluff Drybannock and Gangaric HalfBludd were the
only men on the balcony. They were standing close to the stone
balustrade, off-center to avoid the gazes of the Bluddsmen in the
ward. Neither man was speaking. The distance between them was a
fraction too great to allow relaxed conversation. They turned to him
as he stepped outside. Gangaric looked relieved.

"Father," he said. "It has been a
long time."

Vaylo clasped his son's arm, and was surprised to
feel an equal pressure in return. "Son."

Gangaric HalfBludd had made himself an axman and a
HalfBluddsman in memory of his great-grandfather, Thrago, and he wore
a fine crimson cloak overmounted with a heavy collar of woodrat skins
in the manner of the border clan. His mighty war ax was cradled
across his back. The limewood handle rose above his left shoulder for
ease of draw. The fierce oyster-shell-shaped blade was protected by a
bloodstained mitt. Such was the price of warriorship in HalfBludd,
Vaylo recalled: You had to dress in your own drawn blood.

"Have you ridden from the Bluddhouse?"

Gangaric's large head was bare and his scalp
featured alarming bands of part-shavings. "I've been on the hoof
for thirteen days. The snow slowed me."

Vaylo unpinned his heavy sable warcloak. It would
need to be aired to dispel the stench of panicked horse. Laying it
over the balcony he asked, "What news?"

This was the question Gangaric had been waiting
for, the one Cluff Drybannock had doubtless asked only to be answered
coldly, I await my father's return.

Vaylo knew all about his sons.

"Pengo has possession of Ganmiddich,"
Gangaric said. "He won it from the Spire's army, and is now
under fire from Blackhail, Bannen and Scarpe."

Sweet mother of all bastards. This news was so
startling it rendered Vaylo speechless. Pengo, his worthless second
son, in command of one of the great prizes of the clanholds? How had
this happened? How many flukes of fate and pigs escaping from pokes
had it taken to bring this piece of good fortune to bear? Ganmiddich
taken from city men? Finding his voice he asked, "The Spire
routed Blackhail and Ganmiddich?"

"Aye. Pengo rode in at battle's end.
Blackhail was beaten, and the city men were set to claim the Crab
Gate. Then the city men split their army. Half stayed to shore the
gate, and half withdrew."

This just kept getting stranger, "Why would
the city men do such a damn fool thing?"

Gangaric shrugged. The skin on his face and neck
was deeply ice-tanned and wormed with broken veins. "The half
that withdrew crossed the river and headed back to Spire Vanis. The
half that Pengo saw off headed west."

Vaylo nodded, thinking. West was good. West was
away from Bluddsworn clans. Turning his back on his son, the Dog Lord
gazed north across the gray and snow-mounded valley. From here you
could not see the Field of Graves and Swords, and he was glad of it.
Glad also that the hundreds of Bluddsmen and women Pengo had led from
Dhoone all those weeks ago had found a home. And as yet come to no
harm.

"Ganmiddich can be held by small numbers as
long as the gate remains sealed." It was Cluff Drybannock
speaking, the words his first since Vaylo had arrived.

Gangaric challenged them. Pushing his hand against
the air that separated him from Drybone, he cried, "Gates
sealed! What sort of Bluddsmen would we be if we hid behind closed
doors like frightened maids?"

"Live ones," Vaylo said flatly, spinning
about. He was surprised by how closely his third son's words echoed
his own thoughts of earlier that day. Hide. Sit and wait. The
complaints were almost the same. To distract himself he asked, "What
of Withy?"

Gangaric threw a defiant glance at Cluff
Drybannock before speaking. "Withy suffers. Hanro took harm
when Skinner Dhoone attacked, and has not recovered from his
injuries. Thrago holds the house. Dun Dhoone has already mounted one
attack."

We are the clan that makes kings. That was the
Withy boast, so of course Robbie Dun Dhoone would want to rewin the
Withyhouse for Dhoone. You could call yourself a king without Withy,
but you couldn't become one until the Withy chief anointed your
shoulders and laid some new-made crown on your head. As Vaylo
recalled, the old Dhoonish crown had been forged into a Blackhail
sword.

Vaylo leant against the stone balcony. His legs
and spine were sore after the horse race and he needed the support.
Hanro was his sixth son. Thrago his fifth. They had both been at
Withy for months, though Hanro had been there the longest and had
held the command. Vaylo imagined his sixth son must be ill indeed to
secede that command to his older brother. Or worse, Thrago may have
seized it. Vaylo glanced at Gangaric. The relationships his sons had
with each other was something he did not fully understand. Some were
allies. Some not. Gangaric and Thrago had been close as boys, and
they had both wed HalfBludd maids.

All wives were dead now, slain by Hailsmen on the
Bluddroad, but that was a dark thought for another day.

"You intend to travel south to Withy?"
Vaylo asked. It nearly wasn't a question.

"Aye. Thrago needs aid." Gangaric's jaw
came up. Pointedly, he looked back at the shambling, crazily roofed
hillfort. And then sneered. "We are Bludd. We must fight."

Gods help me not to hit him. Vaylo ground down his
seventeen remaining teeth. Directly across from him Cluff Drybannock
stood tall and still, his waist-length braids moving in the breeze,
his expression controlled. Watching his fostered son calmed Vaylo and
he took a moment to fish inside his belt pouch and pull out a cube of
chewing curd. The curd was old and the mold had gotten into it, but
he worked it soft in his mouth and swallowed the bitter taste.

What did he need here? Looking at Gangaric's hard,
mutinous face, Vaylo decided that what he needed was more
information. He spat the chewing curd over the edge. "How does
Quarro sit at Bludd?"

Vaylo himself had sent Gangaric to aid his eldest
brother, Quarro, after Robbie Dhoone's torching of the Sacred Grove
and his tearing down of the outhouse widely believed to have been
built from the remains of the last Dhoonestone. If Vaylo remembered
rightly Gangaric had not wanted to go, and had insisted on taking a
crew of axmen along for comradeship and support. Were those men here
today? Probably. Gangaric was not the sort to ride hundreds of
leagues across unfriendly territory on his own.