A Sword From Red Ice (81 page)

It had been a lot to take in. It was interesting,
but it wasn't enough. Bram wanted to learn about things larger than
dust. Where did the Stone Gods come from? Had they existed as long as
the Sull gods? What would happen if the Sull decided they wanted the
clanholds back? Would the two sets of gods go to war?

There was no fooling Ogmore; he knew when you
weren't paying attention. "Go," he had said coldly after
Bram had made a series of mistakes. "Perhaps tomorrow you will
learn more."

Now, approaching the guidehouse, Bram wasn't sure
he had the mindset necessary to spend the rest of the day sorting
tiny pieces of stone. It all seemed very small.

He kept thinking about Robbie, knowing he
shouldn't, yet going ahead and doing it anyway. It was like having a
sore tooth that you couldn't stop prodding. Why hadn't Robbie sent a
message? Did he no longer consider Bram kin?

"Bram Cormac."

Startled Bram looked up. He had been walking
through the uncleared snow just west of the guidehouse and had not
thought anyone was in sight.

The man with the yellow-green eyes who had taken
the ferry crossing earlier stepped out from the shadows of the
guidehouse's northern wall. He was older than he looked from a
distance, but age rested differently on him than other men. His face
had hardened rather than slackened. Bone had grown in to replace fat,
and decades of exposure to ice and sunlight had pulled the skin tight
across the bridge of his nose and jaw. As he walked toward Bram his
floor-length saddle coat left draglines in the snow.

"I am Hew Mallin," he said speaking in
the kind of voice that was rarely ignored. "I am a ranger. And
friend to Angus Lok."

Bram had a strong memory of Angus Lok's visit to
the Dhoonehouse. Yet he would not expect a stranger to know that . .
. unless Angus Lok himself had told this man of their meeting.

"Walk with me," Hew Mallin said,
assuming many things.

The ranger struck a path northwest toward the
woods. Bram saw that he was still carrying the item he'd held during
the river crossing. It was a square of black bearskin. A flattened
hat.

The guidehouse door-within-a-door was closed and
Bram looked at it for a long moment before following the ranger into
the cover of the trees.

The woods to the north of the Milkhouse were a
dense, snarled cage of choke vines, oaks, elms, hemlocks, basswoods
and blackstone pines. Roots, vine runners and thornbushes lurked
beneath the snow like traps, ready to trip and stab. Bram thought
about stopping for a moment to tuck his pants into his boots but Hew
Mallin was walking with purpose and within seconds he would be out of
sight. The ranger did not look back to check on Bram's progress.

He had to be armed, Bram reckoned, but any weapons
he possessed were concealed beneath his coat. Had he presented
himself to Wrayan Castlemilk or the head warrior Harald Mawl? Bram
guessed that if the ranger had wanted to arrive in secret he would
have come in from the north and not taken the river crossing. How
long had he been waiting behind the guidehouse? Bram's thoughts raced
ahead of him, and he found himself remembering Jackdaw Thundy's
words. Hawk and spider that was how the swordmaster had described the
ranger Angus Lok.

Reaching a clearing where hardwood saplings were
fighting for territory with tiny, perfectly formed pines, Hew Mallin
slowed and then stopped. "In Alban's day they used to hold the
old ghostwatches here," he said, using the bearskin hat to brush
snow from a felled log. "Twice a year, on the longest and
shortest days. They'd build a twenty-foot pyramid of timber and light
it as the sun set. Its purpose was to ward off ghosts and other evil
things. You might say it worked for the ghostwatch hasn't been held
since Wrayan took her brother's place, and the ghosts are only now
coming back."

Hew Mallin sat on the log. His face was deeply
ice-tanned, yet his lips were pale. His brown and graying hair had
been needle-braided and pulled back in a warrior's knot. It was the
kind of work that took an expert braider an entire day to achieve,
yet once done it rendered any sort of care unnecessary for six
months.

"What of the forest?" Bram asked, the
first words he had spoken. "With a fire that big it could have
gone up in flames."

"That is the crux," Mallin replied
coolly, fixing Bram with his yellow eyes. "If one is serious
about fighting ghosts there is always a cost."

Bram felt the world spinning on him. He had
thought it spun earlier, in the cold room, but looking back now he
realized that was just the first tug necessary to set a jammed wheel
in motion. The Castlemilk guidestone had shown him this man: the
bearskin hat, the fork in the path.

"You have been marked, Bram Cormac son of
Mabb. The rangers have observed you for five years. We have minded
you on the practice court and in the scribes' hall at Dhoone. We have
asked others about matters concerning you and received answers that
satisfied. Your part in Skinner Dhoone's downfall has been noted.
Your actions the night Vaylo Bludd was located on a hillside east of
Dhoone are known to us. We see much that others do not, and we watch
for others like us." A small, weighted pause, "And that
watching has brought me to you."

Bram swallowed. Who had told this man about the
meeting with Vaylo Bludd? Guy Morloch? Jordie Sarson? The Dog Lord?
And how did Mallin know that Bram had visited Skinner Dhoone all
those months ago at the Old Round outside of Gnash? Did he know that
Bram had looked into Skinner's Dhoone-blue eyes that day and lied? A
glance at the ranger's hard, angular face gave Bram his answer. Yes,
Hew Mallin knew. He knew and judged it satisfactory.

The strange tightness that had seized Bram's chest
in the cold room gripped him again. What was happening here? Why did
he feel under threat?

"We are the Brotherhood of the Long Watch,
the Phage, and we have stood guard against the Endlords for four
thousand years. We watch in this land and many other lands, in the
cities and in the clanholds, in the deserts and on the seas. Dark
armies are massing and we stand ready at the gate. We are few against
many, and while others on this continent fight wars, seize
strongholds, kill, breed, sleep, we walk in the shadows and patrol
against the darkness and the men and women who harbor it." Hew
Mallin shifted his position, revealing a lean sword housed in an
intricately etched steel scabbard. "Our ways are subtle and the
tasks we undertake are seldom pleasant. We know truth but do not
always speak it. Enemies forestall us and we must act to wipe them
out. We do not serve one man or one people, and our home is on the
horse paths, animal tracks, dirt roads and riverways. As darkness
moves so must we.

"We are the Phage and we know the names of
the creatures in the Blind and are afraid. The world lies on the
brink, and the first question I bring you, Bram Cormac, is this: How
long can it stay there unsupported?"

Snapping his gaze away from Bram, the ranger began
to walk the rough circle of the clearing.

Bram looked at the sky. He was about an hour late
for Drouse Ogmore. Every day since the guide had asked him to
consider becoming his apprentice Bram had gone to the guidehouse
thinking, Today will be the day Ogmore asks for my decision. So far
that day had not come. Now Dalhousie Selco wanted to make a master
swordsman from him—and for a son of a swordsman that meant
something. Bram had lost count of the times he had been told he was
too small to wield the hammer, the ax and the big two-handed
longswords that were favored by Dhoonesmen. Here at Castlemilk they
preferred a smaller fighting sword. And Dalhousie believed that given
time Bram could wield such a weapon with skill.

Already it was a wealth of choices. He had come
here with nothing and now owned a horse. At Dhoone he possessed no
worth save his kinship to Robbie. Now he had two trades to choose
from, two ways to gain merit in this clan.

Bram listened to the sound of the trees moving,
the hemlocks shushing and the old oaks creaking like swinging doors.
Leaves had budded on the elms too early and the frost was rotting
them off.

Not thinking any answer was required from him,
Bram kept his silence. It seemed as if the world had sharpened. He
could see the light in the snow as well as upon it, see the blues and
greens that waited there like memories of water. The shadows were
darker and more menacing, biding behind trees like coiled springs.
When he saw his footprints had exposed earth as well as pine needles,
he graded the stones. Nothing shiny or unusual. Nothing that went
against the grain.

When Hew Mallin's circuit turned him back toward
Bram, he spoke. "You have guessed what the second question is
but I will ask it anyway. Formalities serve their purpose." The
ranger halted three feet from Bram and pinned him with a gaze so
sharp Bram felt it cut like a wire through his head. "I, Hew
Mallin of the Brotherhood of the Long Watch, ask you, Bram Cormac son
of Mabb, to leave the clanholds with me this night and begin training
as a ranger for the Phage."

I cannot. Yet he was stirred beyond all sense. Hew
Mallin was shaking. So was Bram. "Do you teach the histories?"

"Knowledge is power."

It was a yes. Bram swallowed. "I have spoken
an oath to Castlemilk."

"Break it. The gods are dead, and what
remains is here to destroy, not judge us."

But the stones. Ogmore said the gods' presence
could be read in the stones. Close to panic now, Bram thought about
Ogmore waiting in the guidehouse, of Dalhousie training in the Churn
Hall with Mabb's sword, of Wrayan Castlemilk standing in the water
and saying, Now you are a Castleman for a year.

"My sword?"

"Swords kill. As long as a blade is sharp one
will do as well as another."

Bram breathed in great gouts of air. The snow was
dazzling him, it was so full of light. He should not have come, that
was his mistake. Should have walked right past Hew Mallin and taken
the door-within-the-door.

Wrayan Castlemilk knew, Bram realized quite
suddenly. She had only come to deliver Robbie's greetings and gift
him with Guy Morloch's horse after the ranger had made the crossing.

But Dalhousie had not known. Nor had Drouse
Ogmore.

And what of Robbie?

Did he send any message?

No.

A muscle pulled deep within Bram's chest. Hawk and
spider, knowledge and sword: here was everything he wanted . . . and
more. Meeting Hew Mallin's yellow-green gaze he gave the ranger his
answer and broke First Oath.

By nightfall Bram Cormac had started a new life.

A Pox upon the Heart

Raif Sevrance was awoken by a mule lipping his
ear. Through sleepy, focusing eyes he saw many big teeth and a ridge
of pink gums. Wet lips tickled him, and a little push of air revealed
stupendously bad breath. Raif thought it would be a good idea to
move, tried to move, but somehow could not roll off his stomach onto
his back. Islands of pain—that's what they felt like, lumps of
hurt sticking out above water level—emerged from the fog of
sleep. His left shoulder was throbbing. The midsection of his left
arm, but not the top, was so tender that the weight of the blanket
resting upon it was excruciating.

He was in a tent and blotches of light were coming
through the uneven canvas overhead. The mule walked a few feet and
began crunching on quartered onions that had been placed on a wooden
board. A second animal stood some distance behind the mule; a white
horse with a long, fountain-like tail. Its brown-blue eye watched
Raif with both interest and caution.

Voices were coming from outside the tent and Raif
was relieved to hear Addie Gunn say quite clearly, "I think
we've seen the end of the snow."

Raif croaked Addie's name. Even the mule didn't
look up. The blanket that was pulled up to his chin felt like
sandpaper, and he tried to push it down with a motion of his right
shoulder. Something wasn't right with his back. Something was there.
Like a growth.

"Addie," he cried. "Addie."

"Whoa, laddie," the cragsman responded
from outside the tent. "I hear you. I'm coming."

Footfalls followed. Onion wedges dropped from the
mule's mouth as it turned to look at the person entering the tent.
Addie came into view. His eyes were very gray and bright. Quickly
squatting by Raif's pillow, the cragsman said, "It's good . . .
good to see you awake."

"It's good to be awake."

Addie Gunn seemed to find some wisdom in this.
"Aye," he agreed softly. "It usually is."

The cragsman left him briefly to fetch water from
a tin canteen insulated with mouse fur. "D'you think you can get
up to drink it?" he said frowning from the canteen to Raif and
back again. Raif tried to roll onto his back.

"No," Addie said in a dither, setting
down the canteen and rushing forward. "You can't put weight on
your back. The thing's there."

"What thing?" Raif heard the panic in
his voice, and forced some movement from his spine.

"The pox—on your heart." Kneeling,
Addie helped Raif to execute a half roll onto his side, and then
clamped him around the head and heaved him into a sitting position.

"I hope you were gentler with your sheep,"
Raif said, dizzy with pain and seeing red splotches before his eyes.
He could feel it now, something sticking out from his back, sucked
hard against his skin. Rotating his neck as far as it would go, he
saw something moving in a place where there should have been fresh
air. Raif's right hand came up to swat it away, but the cragsman's
hand was faster.

Gripping Raif's wrist so hard it shook, the
cragsman said, "It's a poultice of leeches and right now it's
the only thing keeping you alive. That piece of shadow is pushing
against your heart and those leeches—gods bless their black
little souls—are sucking the other way."