A Cavern Of Black Ice Part 2

A Moon Made of BloodBreakfast was eaten in silence. Crusty bread, smoked bacon, land mushrooms drenched in b.u.t.ter were washed down with ewe's milk flavored with pine nuts. All the plates and cups were made of white oak, so even the business of cutting and spearing did little to break the hush.Angus ate as slowly as a condemned man, cutting his bacon into ever smaller bits until a substance resembling sawdust filled his plate. Raif sat by the kitchen's only window, a tub of wax floating in a bath of hot water by his side. Every now and then he'd scoop some of the wax with a cloth and work it into his bow. "Weatherproofing," he had said earlier to Beth, who never stopped asking him questions. More often than not his gaze was on the dark gray sky outside the window.Ca.s.sysat beside Ash on the bench by the fire. They did not speak, but the silence between them was comfortable. Ca.s.sy had Little Moo on her lap, and the little blond-haired child was sucking on a rasher of bacon as stiff as a twig. Darra Lok sat at the table with her husband and her middle child. Every now and then Ash was aware of Darra's gaze upon her. She pretended not to notice, but it worried her. What had Angus said to his wife?Angus chose that moment to push his plate into the center of the table and stand. "We'd best be on our way."Everyone, including Raif, stood up on hearing his words, and within seconds the Lok farmhouse became alive with activity. Ca.s.sy ran upstairs to fetch Ash's things, Beth ran to the stables to saddle the horses with Raif, Angus topped his rabbit flask from a keg by the door, and Darra began winding the remains of last night's ptarmigan in strips of waxed linen.Ash started the long process of wrapping, buckling, and caulking herself against the cold. She didn't know if she was sorry to leave or not. Angus' family were close to what she had always imagined a family should be, yet she had no place in it, and that knowledge left her strangely cold.She was Ash March, Foundling, left outside Vaingate to die. The words-her words-made her stronger, and she said her good-byes to Angus' family and went to join Raif outside. words-made her stronger, and she said her good-byes to Angus' family and went to join Raif outside.Saddlebags and bedrolls were buckled onto the horses, last words were spoken, and then the three travelers mounted and rode south through the forest of old trees.Angus did not look back. Ash did, and she saw Ca.s.sy Lok's hazel eyes filled with longing and Darra Lok's blue ones filled with fear.They followed the green river west for many leagues, shoulders hunched against the wind, heads down, silent. Storm clouds formed troughs and swells in the sky, and it wasn't long before Ash felt rain spit against her face. Warm air driven south before the storm had caused a minor thaw, and the snow underfoot was wet, and not all pond ice could be trusted. Snowshoe was no dancer like the bay, but she was a wily pony and soon learned to follow Angus' gelding step for step. Gradually the old hardwoods gave way to open fells and stunted pines.After a noonday meal of cold salted ptarmigan, Angus turned northwest toward the Bitter Hills. Ash sat and suffered the wind and rain. She would have been grateful for any sort of conversation, but neither Angus nor Raif had a mind to do anything but ride.The Bitter Hills changed color the nearer you drew to them. Ash had first thought they were gray, then blue. Now, as she and her two companions headed straight for the walls and cirques of the hills' southern approach, she saw veins of green copper, white shale, and black iron threaded through the rock. Ash remembered her foster father telling her that the Bitter Hills had once been named mountains by the people of Ille Glaive, but visiting clansmen had laughed at them, saying, "These wee things? Why, they're naught but hills." With storm clouds ma.s.sed at their throats like furs around a king, the Bitter Hills looked like mountains to Ash.As darkness came and the rain cooled to sleet, Angus turned his party once more. Locating a path at the base of the hills that ran above an ice-sealed stream, he led them west along the border between Ille Glaive and the clanholds.They traveled through much of the night. The hills acted as a barrier between the horses and the worst of the storm. As the hours wore on, Ash became increasingly aware of Cant's wardings. They dug into her chest like wire, painful sometimes when she moved too quickly or breathed too hard. She still didn't know what to make of Cant's claim that she was a Reach. Before Cant had spoken she had never heard that such a thing existed. And if a Reach had been born a thousand years ago, why did no one in Spire Vanis know it? Ash knew her history. Haldor Hews was the surlord then, and he had reigned for sixty years. During that time he had extended the reach of the cityhold to the southern tip of the Black Spill and brought so much wealth into the city that he became known as Haldor the Provider. Ash frowned. Yet a Reach had been born then; Cant had said so. And a thousand years earlier... Ash thought a moment as she checked her dates... Theron and Rangor Pengaron had ridden their warhost north and founded the city itself.Puzzled, Ash shook her head. It really didn't seem as if a Reach could bring all the horrors that Cant said.Not quite feeling relieved, Ash kicked her heels into ponyflesh and turned her mind to other things.Not much later Angus called a halt, and camp was made hard against the stream. Raif lit a fire, but no one had the inclination or energy for chopping and stripping wood, and it fizzled quickly after the ptarmigan fat had been rendered to make stock. Ash fell asleep with grease on her lips, bundled deep within a goosedown quilt that had been a gift from Darra Lok.A second, greater storm front moved south across the hills overnight, and Ash was woken by a pebble spray of hailstones on her back. Locks of her hair that had escaped her fox hood were stuck to the ground with frost. The temperature had dropped again, and when she crouched in the bushes to make water, she half expected her urine to freeze. It didn't. At least not in the time it took to straighten her stockings and skirt.No one spoke as they broke camp. The wind howled throughridges and canyons, shifting pitch like a human voice. Raif and Angus rode to either side of Ash, buffering her against the storm. There was no true daylight to mark the day's pa.s.sage. The farther west they traveled, the flatter and more rounded the hills became. Clouds boiled above them, sending sprays of ice and snow to sand already smooth slopes."Ganmiddich Tower should be in that bank ahead," Angus shouted as the stormlight began to fail, flinging his arm toward the clouds. "If we turned north here, we'd be at the pa.s.s within an hour." Ash looked but could see nothing except hailstones and clouds. Darkness descended even as Angus returned his hand to the reins. Ash kept glancing north, hoping for a glimpse of the tower.After a while she became aware of a pale glow above the hilltops. Thick curtains of cloud hid its color and center, and at first she thought it was the rising moon or the north star. Then the wind gusted west, clearing a small portion of sky, and a ball of red fire was revealed.Ash felt something drop in her stomach. Reaching over, she touched Raif's arm. His gaze followed hers, and she watched as his eyes and face turned red with reflected light."Light in the tower," he said quietly. "The red fire of Clan Bludd." Those were the last words she heard him speak that night. A flight of arrows skimmed the air, whirring as softly as a fisherman dropping a line. Something thwacked thwacked against Snowshoe's rump, making the pony rear and break with the other horses. Ash sawed at Snowshoe's mouth, but the pony was scared and determined to flee. against Snowshoe's rump, making the pony rear and break with the other horses. Ash sawed at Snowshoe's mouth, but the pony was scared and determined to flee.Similar impacts. .h.i.t Moose and the bay. Raif fought his horse, pulling hard on the reins and wheeling the gelding through a half turn. As Ash looked on, he bit off one of his gloves and spat it into the snow. The bay stood his ground. Sull trained, Ash remembered, glimpsing twin flashes of steel as Angus drew both knife and sword.A second arrow hit the pony in the chest. This time Ash got a quick look at the head before it fell: a thumb of rounded wood capped with lead. A blunt. As she tried to make sense of what that meant, a troop of mounted clansmen descended the southern slope. Ash saw long oiled braids, sable cloaks, dull plate, and boiled leather dyed the color of blood.Crack! Ash's world flashed red and white as a blunt clipped herchin. Her teeth roots rang with pain. Working to steady herself in the seat, she pulled so hard on the reins that Snowshoe reared and screamed. Cool air whiffled past Ash's cheek as another blunt sailed wide. The arrows were coming from the east. To the north, the mounted clansmen spread wide as they reached level ground.Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the rising arc of Raif's bow. It was was Raif's bow now; it had been Angus' once, but seeing it bend like a dancer's spine in Raif's hand, she knew Angus could never ask for it back. Raif's bow now; it had been Angus' once, but seeing it bend like a dancer's spine in Raif's hand, she knew Angus could never ask for it back.Fear filled Ash's mouth the instant he released the string. She didn't need to look over her shoulder to know that the point would find a clansman's heart.Coldness took her. It's so easy for him It's so easy for him, she thought. If he had enough arrows, he could kill them all If he had enough arrows, he could kill them all.Suddenly Angus was beside her, wheeling the bay so tightly that clods of snow and frozen dirt spattered against her leg. "Behind me," he said.The bay's steady presence calmed Snowshoe, and she stopped fighting against the bit and allowed Ash to maneuver her against Angus' flank. A blunt skipped off the bay's neck, yet the great Sull horse held his ground. Ash looked into the gelding's brown liquid eye and felt a moment of pure reverence. We've danced together, you and I We've danced together, you and I.A dozen clansmen bore down on them across the runoff plain at the base of the hill. There were more somewhere, hidden in the darkness to the east, shooting blunts. Ash watched as the warriors uncouched their steel points and lowered them as they rode. Spearheads set with back hooks to snag flesh reached ten paces beyond the horses' heads.Raif took one down, then another. "Who are they?" screamed Ash.Angus' weapons wept oil as he raised them. "Bluddsmen. They've taken Ganmiddich and want the world to know it... that's why they lit a fire in the tower."Why bother with us?" Ash was close to hysterical. The sight of drawing his bow was terrible to her. She wanted Angus to stop him.Pointing his knife at Raif, Ash, and then himself, Angus said, "Take your pick. All three of us are prizes worth taking."Ash didn't know what he meant. What would clansmen want with her? And then: What had Raif done to warrant taking? Even as that thought burrowed deep in her thoughts, a storm of blunts. .h.i.t Raif and his horse. Moose kicked and howled as his forelegs, ears, and snout were smacked. Raif was struck in the throat and the bowhand, causing him to lose his grip on the bow. Hands scrambling for the reins, he worked to control the thrashing horse.Ash let out a small cry. Raif's skin was gray, and something close to madness shone from behind his eyes. Without a thought, she kicked Snowshoe's flanks. She had to go to him.Angus' hand shot out, gripping her wrist so tightly that knuckles cracked. "No!"Furious, Ash fought him, lashing out with her free hand and driving Snowshoe into the bay. Her fingernails hooked Angus' cheek, and she sc.r.a.ped four strips of skin from his face. Still he would not release her.The line of clansmen were closing on Raif. Their steel points shone as red as Rive Watch blades where they caught the tower's light. Calls pa.s.sed between the clansmen, terse words roughly spoken. Their black armor had been tarnished so that it reflected no light, and their cloaks-of-fur rippled like living shadows at their backs.To the east, the company of bowmen finally showed themselves, trotting wide on horses bred for the darkness of their coats."Calm yourself," Angus said, twisting Ash's arm to stop her fighting. "They will not harm him."It was then Ash realized they were going to be taken. She shot Angus an accusation of a glance."I will not endanger you by fighting against such odds." Blood rolled down Angus' cheek where she had scratched him, yet he heeded it not. His eyes were on Raif. Sobered, Ash let her arm go limp in Angus' grip.Raif now had Moose under control, and his halfsword was drawn and ready. He was facing the line of Bluddsmen, yet he glanced over his shoulder and met eyes with his uncle. An unspoken communication pa.s.sed between the two, and Raif nodded imperceptibly. Turning to meet the Bluddsmen, he raised his sword over his head, skimming the cutting edge against his free hand to draw the blood that was needed as a sign of submission.For her. Ash knew that in every cell of her being. If she had not been here, riding with these two men, the fight would still be waging. Perhaps Angus would have come up with some clever way to retreat, perhaps not. But Raif would have fought to the end. Ash had seen that madness in him... he was never far from death.The Bluddsmen slowed but held their points. A leader emerged from the line, indistinguishable in every way from his companions except for the fact he pulled ahead. He wore no helm, and the shaved portions of his head had been painted with red clay. When he judged the distance sufficient, he raised a fist and stopped both warriors and bowmen dead.Ash had never seen a Bluddsman before, but like everyone else in the North, she believed them to be the most savage of the clans. It took all her will not to call to Raif, to have him turn and look at her one last time before he was taken."Do not speak his name not speak his name," Angus warned, renewing his grip on her wrist.All was quiet except for the wind. The red fire in the uppermost chamber of the Ganmiddich Tower shone like a moon made of blood. Two men stood twelve paces apart: one with his sword lifted high above his head and a line of dark blood snaking down his wrist, the other with his spear pointed straight at the first man's heart.With his free hand, the Bluddsman lifted his lore from his chest and weighed it. Just like Raif Just like Raif, Ash thought, hairs on her arms rising.After a time the Bluddsman let the small token drop to his chest. Taking his spear in both hands, he broke the shaft in two. The crack sounded like nothing else Ash had ever heard, like a great stone split open or a tree falling to the earth. Bluddsmen signed to their G.o.ds. Some touched the hide pouches and horn vials that hung from their equipment belts along with blade grease, sheath knives, and dog hooks. A night heron took to the air, its wings curling upward as it crossed the light of the red moon. Somewhere far to the north a wolf howled to its pack members, telling of carrion found and waiting.Angus whispered two words under his breath. "They know."Hearing them, Ash was filled with dread. She wanted to ask what it was they knew, yet her throat had lost its power to form words. Raif's shoulders held firm. He had neither wavered nor flinched at the spear breaking, and Ash was filled with the certainty that he had been expecting such an action from the moment he had raised his sword."I am Cluff Drybannock of Clan Bludd," the leader said, speaking in a low voice, "and I claim your heart for the Dog Lord, Raif Sevrance of Clan Blackhail, for wrongs done to our clan."A cold light shone in the Bluddsman's eyes for one long moment, then Cluff Drybannock turned his back on Raif. Addressing himself to no one particular in the line, he said, "Strip him of his guidestone. One such as he deserves no protection from our G.o.ds."Ash glanced at Angus. For the first time since she had met him, Angus Lok looked afraid.*** Marafice Eye's foot stank. Blisters the size of eyeb.a.l.l.s wept fluid onto the inn floor. Black and purple skin floated over a ma.s.s of swollen tissue. Beneath the sh.e.l.l of dead and shedding skin, the plump pinkness of proud flesh could just be seen. The proud flesh was a good sign: It meant the foot would survive intact.Well, nearly. The tip of the Knife's big toe had already come away, cast off in a jelly of red translucent flesh like something birthed in the deepest troughs of the sea. Sarga Veys shuddered at the memory. He hated sickness in any form."How much longer before I can put this d.a.m.ned foot in a stirrup, Halfman?" Marafice Eye spoke from the largest chair, set closest to the fire, in the third finest inn in Ille Glaive.Hood, sworn brother-in-the-watch and distant kinsman to the Lord of the Straw Granges, sat across from his general on a birchwood bench, working his way through a keg of black beer thickened with egg and a haunch of roasted elk as big as a child. Hood and Sarga Veys had ridden to the city while the Knife was carted in a one-horse wagon like a bale of hay. Hood's excellent horsemanship had not been affected in the slightest by the loss of two fingers on his right hand. Indeed, the man seemed determined to make the best of it. Veys thought him mad. Just last night Hood had stopped him in the corridor and waggled the stumps in his face. Make you sick, do they? Make you sick, do they? he had said, his wet lips coming close to Veys' ear. he had said, his wet lips coming close to Veys' ear. You should see how they pleasure the wenches You should see how they pleasure the wenches.Veys' face darkened at the memory. He hated being holed up with Marafice Eye and his thick-necked crony. Where was the sept Penthero Iss had promised? Veys wouldn't have put it past the Surlord to slow their sending just to torture him further. Everyone was intent on causing him harm. Letting his anger seep into his voice, Veys said to the Knife, "The top layer of skin must shed before you can strap on a boot.""And how long might that be?""A week," Veys replied, deliberately adding a few extra days to the tally.The Knife cursed. Swiping a hand across the table, he sent dishes and flagons crashing to the floor. Beer hissed where it landed on the hearthstone. "A week! A week! You said it was cured. Now look at it." He thrust the blistered and weeping foot toward Veys. "Your foul magics have made a leper of me.""I said said that I had warmed the flesh as best I could. You will not lose your foot. You will be able to walk and ride as normal. What is happening now is just the natural course of events. I cannot make your skin heal any faster." that I had warmed the flesh as best I could. You will not lose your foot. You will be able to walk and ride as normal. What is happening now is just the natural course of events. I cannot make your skin heal any faster.""Aye, but you'd make it heal slower if you could." Hood turned over a cracked dish with the toe of his boot. "If the limb festers, you die, Halfman. My own eight fingers will see to that."Veys pinched his lips tight. He didn't understand Hood's loyalty to the Knife, yet he knew it was something real. Hood would would kill him, and it kill him, and it would would be out of some strange and twisted brother love for Marafice Eye. be out of some strange and twisted brother love for Marafice Eye.Pale eyes glinting in anger, Veys watched as the innkeeper-a fat man with womanish b.r.e.a.s.t.s-shoved one of his girls toward their table to clear up the mess. The girl was blond, fleshy, and brazen, exactly the kind of woman Veys despised and Hood and the Knife well liked. Deciding it was time to leave, Veys stood. He had no wish to witness Hood and the Knife exchanging the kinds of obscenities they took for flirting with some cheap, overfed wh.o.r.e.Looking to the Knife's foot, he said, "As long as it's cleaned and packed with dog mercury each night, the skin will not fester."Marafice Eye grunted.Hood smiled slowly, revealing a good portion of unswallowed elk between his teeth. Grabbing the blond girl by the waist, he forced her into his lap. "Running off to your bed, Halfman? The thought of our little Moll here scares you that much!"The sound of Hood's laughter accompanied Veys from the tap room.Holding his white robe above the stair level so it didn't catch dust from the floor, Veys mounted the inn's main staircase and headed for his private chamber. The third best inn in Ille Glaive was named the Dropped Calf, and calf hides, calf pelt rugs, and paintings of calves formed the main decorations. Even the wax candles that lit the stairwell shone from scrubbed calf craniums, giving Sarga Veys the feeling he was being watched by the spirits of long-dead gra.s.seaters as he made his escape.The quiet grandeur of his room soothed him. No dirty rushes, no cheap boxed pallet, no tallow, unwashed linen, or pests. Instead there was a proper pitch pine floor, a bed carved from fruitwood, a dozen beeswax candles whiter than his own teeth, bed linens as crisp as autumn leaves, and nothing but stray filaments of dust buzzing around the light. Gratifyingly enough, upon their arrival at the Dropped Calf the innkeeper had mistaken him him for the head of the party and had housed Marafice Eye and Hood on the far side of the inn, in a chamber that looked out across the vinegar brewery next door. Veys had at first been surprised when Marafice Eye discovered the error and chose to do nothing about it, then contemptuous. The Knife could think no further than the Rive Watch and his men. for the head of the party and had housed Marafice Eye and Hood on the far side of the inn, in a chamber that looked out across the vinegar brewery next door. Veys had at first been surprised when Marafice Eye discovered the error and chose to do nothing about it, then contemptuous. The Knife could think no further than the Rive Watch and his men.Of course, the pa.s.sing days had shown the innkeeper who the real leader was, yet it pleased Sarga Veys' vanity to remind himself that on first look he he had seemed the superior man. had seemed the superior man.The greasy smoke in the taproom had agitated Veys' eyes, and he crossed to the nearest of the two north-facing windows and flung back the shutters to let in the night. Icy darkness soothed him like a dip into a still pool.The Dropped Calf was situated close to the north wall of the city, and its height and elevation allowed Veys a view across the battlements to the cityhold beyond.The glacier-ground peaks of the Bitter Hills were a distant break on the horizon, topped by a crown of silver storm clouds. Each winter on a hundred storms traveled south from the clanholds and the Want, some so close behind each other that three had been known to hit in the course of a single day. The Bitter Hills took punishment from them all. Perhaps once they had had been mountains, yet between the grinding of ancient glaciers and the lashing of a million storms, they had been reduced to that awkward height that man had no right name for. Clansmen called them hills, yet that was just clannish bravado. And Veys knew all about that. been mountains, yet between the grinding of ancient glaciers and the lashing of a million storms, they had been reduced to that awkward height that man had no right name for. Clansmen called them hills, yet that was just clannish bravado. And Veys knew all about that.Making a small grimace of distaste that exposed his fine, inward-slanting teeth to the light, Veys sat at the oak desk that was positioned in front of the window. An excellent, large-scale map of the Ille Glaive cityhold lay unraveled and pinned to the wood. The map had cost Veys a small fortune, purchased earlier that day from a young ambitious chartmaker named Siddius Horn, and it merited every coin paid and more."All villages within thirty leagues of the city are marked and plotted," boasted Siddius Horn from behind the shabby, acid-burned counter of his shop. "All hamlets, all proper proper farms, all roads, shared cattle trails, and elevations." farms, all roads, shared cattle trails, and elevations."It was a very very good map. good map.Veys trailed a finger over the bleached silk-rag paper, tracing the course of Ille Glaive's northern road. The road, painstakingly traced in iron ink with a hair-fine sable brush, led directly from the Old Sull Gate to the Ganmiddich Pa.s.s. Angus Lok and his two companions had taken that road from the city. Veys knew that. He also knew that instead of continuing north to the pa.s.s or turning west toward Clan Blackhail, they had turned east east instead. instead.The first piece of information had come cheaply enough. Gatekeepers were as willingly bribed as small children. It had taken Hood but quarter of a day to find the right gate and the right gatekeeper and purchase what intelligence was needed. The second piece of information was all Veys.Yesterday morning, after Hood had returned to the Dropped Calf, Veys had paid a visit to the Old Sull Gate himself. More coins had changed hands. All bore the fine undetectable film of grease that formed on objects much handled and much used, yet one bore a little strung extra as well: a compulsion. Compulsions were high sorcery, and Veys was good at them. More often than not a compulsionwas spoken, not pa.s.sed from hand to hand, but Veys didn't have the voice for it. A warm, rich, compelling compelling voice was best. The sort of voice that encouraged a man to take part in one's schemes, that flattered his ego, and played tricks with his reason, and made the most irregular requests sound sane. A good voice and a commanding presence were half the work of a compulsion. Without them, such sorcery was hard work. voice was best. The sort of voice that encouraged a man to take part in one's schemes, that flattered his ego, and played tricks with his reason, and made the most irregular requests sound sane. A good voice and a commanding presence were half the work of a compulsion. Without them, such sorcery was hard work.It had taken Veys most of the night to fix the compulsion on the coin. It was a simple one, of course. Compulsions only worked when the request was modest and of a nature that did not antagonize the victim in any way. Mostly they were good for information. With a compulsion upon him, a jailer might let slip the time of day when his prisoner was fed and the cell door was open, a pretty chambermaid might disclose her mistress's bedtime indiscretions, and a respectable innkeeper might point the way to the room of a guest who had just paid him good money for silence. The trick was in making the person want want to fulfill one's request. to fulfill one's request.With the five silver coins that Veys had pa.s.sed to the lean-bodied, smoke-eyed guardsman, he had also pa.s.sed along the suggestion that the man ask all who pa.s.sed into the city that morning a simple question. Had they seen two men and a woman riding together, the men mounted on good horses and the woman atop a gray hill-bred pony?The guardsman's eyes had turned from smoky to blank as Veys spoke his request. No power was present in Veys' voice, yet the coin pressing against the red flesh of the guard's palm had burned cold with sorcery. The guard had nodded his a.s.sent even before Veys had reached the words gray hill-bred pony hill-bred pony.Half a day had been enough. After a small but excellent noonday meal of pheasant prepared in a crust of its own blood, Veys had returned to the guard and the gate. The guard related his intelligence in a voice that was fast and furtive-somewhere deep inside he knew that what he did was wrong. Several people had sighted the three companions heading north toward the pa.s.s, and Veys was about to conclude that Angus Lok and his party had indeed crossed into the clanholds when the guard offered his last piece of information,"A drover and his son said they saw such a party heading east three nights back. Said they were about ten leagues off the north road, traveling along a cattle path known only to locals and drovers."Veys made no reply-one did not thank an ensorcelled man-simply turned his back and walked away. A few discreet inquiries produced the name of the best chartmaker in the city, and not many hours later Veys was back in the comfort of his well-appointed chamber, plotting Angus Lok's journey with a pot of lampblack ink and a twig.The guard's information was sound. It was just like Angus Lok to know the back ways: the low roads, cattle paths, game tracks, and dogtrots. If a drover had claimed to see him in such a place, then the drover was likely right.Satisfied in that regard, at least, Veys sat back and contemplated Siddius Horn's map. Until an hour ago he had a.s.sumed that Lok's final destination lay east. Now he wasn't so sure.Asarhia March's trail was dead. Either the sorcery that had clung to her had worn off or she had been warded by someone very clever indeed. Warding was a difficult business. One could not set wardings in place without giving something of oneself to the person who was being protected. Only few magic users could manage them, and almost all were likely members of the Phage.Veys' lip twisted with the force of unwanted memories. Yes, there were one or two people in this city capable of warding Asarhia March... but that was not what concerned him now. Other sorceries did.An hour earlier, while he had sat with Marafice Eye and Hood in the taproom, wetting his lips with beer he found too coa.r.s.e to swallow and cutting slivers of meat from the inner inner loin of elk, he had felt a different source of power in the North. Three fast jabs, one after another. Barely sorcery at all, so instinctively was it used by he who drew it. loin of elk, he had felt a different source of power in the North. Three fast jabs, one after another. Barely sorcery at all, so instinctively was it used by he who drew it.The Clansman.Veys had perceived him twice before. Once, in Spire Vanis as he heart-killed four sworn brothers in the shadow of Vaingate, and again on the sh.o.r.e of the Black Spill when he took down a pair of hounds. His aftermath reeked of Old Blood. It made Veys' skin crawl. As soon as he perceived it, it was gone.North was all Veys knew. North, not east. North North.A clean and perfectly filed fingernail scratched a furrow in SiddiusHorn's map. After a three-day detour east, Angus Lok and his party were back at the Ganmiddich Pa.s.s.To Sarga Veys that meant only one thing: Angus Lok had taken his new friends home. Smiling softly to himself as he worked, Veys began to work out how far three people mounted on good horses travel east in a day in thick snow.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

In the TowerThey separated him from Angus and Ash-that he was grateful for. That was one thing to hold on to in the darkness that was to come: Ash would not see or know know.The skiff traveled smoothly over water as slick and black as volcanic gla.s.s. The storm had long pa.s.sed, and the Wolf River was sleeping after a night spent howling at the moon. Raif could smell the thick animal odor of the water, water that in spring moved so swiftly and with such force that it killed more elk, horned sheep, snagcats, bear cubs, and small game than the largest pack of wolves in the North. It smelled of those kills now, of carrion suspended, half-frozen, in water so thick and cold that nothing would rot until spring.The Ganmiddich Inch lay ahead. The Inch was a shoulder of granite that broke water in the river's middle, rising above the surface like the dome of an ancient temple, long sunk. The Ganmiddich Tower was built upon its bedrock. The red fire burning in the tower's uppermost chamber provided the only light for the skiff's skipper to steer by. It was close to dawn. Raif could tell that much from the lay of the stars and the restless switching of air currents as night made way for day. He lay bound in the belly of the skiff, the booted feet of six Bludd oarsmen keeping him in place. A rope lashed across the bridge of his nose made it difficult to breathe, and another binding the soft tissue of his throat made any but the slightest movements impossible. He had not been beaten, but rough handling had broken open the hard, inflexible scar tissue on his chest. Bluddsmen's spit was still wet on his face and neck, and scratches on his temples and forehead leaked blood into the hull of the boat.Cluff Drybannock stood at the prow, one foot up upon gunwales, his entire body leaning forward toward the Inch. Earlier, as they'd ridden north toward Ganmiddich, he had let down his braids, and now his waist-long black hair streamed behind him in the predawn chill.Raif knew Cluff Drybannock by reputation-all clansfolk did. He was the Dog Lord's right hand, his fostered son, a fatherless Trench-land b.a.s.t.a.r.d who was named after the first meal he had eaten at Clan Bludd: dry bread. Now he was known to all as Drybone. He was the only man the Dog Lord trusted, people said, the only one who could speak and fight in his likeness. And he was the best longswordsman in the North.A rasping noise broke the quiet of slow-moving water as the boat's keel sc.r.a.ped against granite pebbles on the Inch's sh.o.r.e. The oarsmen raised their oars and waded into the river to haul the body of the skiff ash.o.r.e. Cluff Drybannock worked with the men as one of the team, the tail ends of his hair floating in the animal-scented water as he shouldered his portion of the weight.Raif looked up at the vast five-sided tower that had been standing since before the clanholds were settled. Algae, mud, and mineral stains ringed the tower's lower chambers, each ring marking high water levels of ancient floods. The stench of the river clung to the stone, hiding in pockmarks and clefts in the granite. Ice, colored green and orange by rust, hung in storm-broken fingers from the tower's ledges, overhangs, and mooring rings.The skipper tied the skiff to the nearest ring and then fell in line with the oarsmen, awaiting Cluff Drybannock's word.Time pa.s.sed. Cluff Drybannock stood, half-in, half-out the water, watching the red fire burn thirty stories above him. Weariness was a hard presence on his face, and Raif wondered what it had taken for him and his men to capture Ganmiddich's roundhouse and hold.Finally the Bluddsman spoke, his vivid blue eyes not once leaving the light of the fire. "Take him inside and beat him."The words were heavily said, and the six oarsmen and the skipper reacted to the tone of their leader's voice by moving slowly and silently about their task.Raif felt large cool hands grasp his shoulders, ankles, and wrists.Somewhere ahead, an iron door creaked open, and for the first time that night Raif felt his stomach betray him by clenching in fear. Chains rattled as he was lifted from the stench and dampness of the skiff. Fresh air skimmed across his face, but the ropes at his nose and throat stopped him from inhaling deeply. The Bluddsmen's breaths came short and ragged as they hauled him inside the tower.Inside all was as still and dark as a mineshaft. Wet mud sucked at the Bluddsmen's boots. Leaking moisture dropped like slow rain on their backs. The smell of the river was concentrated to a thick stock of meat, minerals, and mud. Smoke filtering down from the Bludd Fire provided the only relief from the stench. Raif watched stone ceilings pa.s.s above him as he was carried into the tower's heart. He thought perhaps they would take him upward, but they bore him down instead.Mud turned to wet slime and then thick, blood-colored water as they descended. No one spoke. No tallow was lit to guide the way. Thin shavings of dawn light came from sources Raif could neither identify nor see. River sounds filled his senses. Even in winter, when the water was thick with suspended ice and sluggish with cold undertows, its current throbbed against the watch tower like a stallion's heart. All around water trickled and dripped, poured and rushed, making the tower echo like a sea cave.A second door opened. Water sloshed around the Bluddsmen's ankles, then Raif was thrown to the ground. His shoulder and temple struck hard stone. Water filled his mouth and nose. The rope at his throat was suddenly tight enough to choke him. Someone said, "Cut him free," and cool blades licked his skin.Raif saw pale edges: a curved endwall, the lip of a stone bench, a square grille overhead that let in a keyhole's worth of light. River water, foul smelling and turgid with algae and gelatinous strings of animal matter, formed a shin-high pool above the floor. Raif had no time to take in more details before the first blow was struck.Pain exploded in his head, streaking the world white and gray and filling his mouth with hot blood. Other blows followed, swift, well placed, each one a hard wedge in the soft belly of his flesh. Bluddsmen grunted. Water rode high against the walls, spraying the cell like a ship's prow in a storm. Raif rose and fell with the waves, grasping water, then air, fingers scrambling for handholds in the stone.His jaws clenched and unclenched as he accepted the Bluddsmen's blows. Boot tips hammered at his spine. Knuckles found the same places in his ribs... again and again, like a machine. Boot heels were thrust below the water level, seeking out the hidden tissue of thighs and groin. Raif thrashed like a hooked fish, knowing the same terror and confusion. Pain tore at his senses, causing him to breathe water and swallow air. Still the blows came, so many kicks and punches that soon they could not be separated or counted. Hard dots of white light burned in place of his vision. Vomit blocked his nasal cavity and flooded in and out of his mouth like driftwood carried on the tide.Soon he lost all sense of where he was and what was happening. Blows and dealing with the pain of them were all he knew. Water buoyed but did not cool him. His back was afire, stripped of skin and bleeding acid in place of blood. His stomach contracted in hard waves, yet each time he tried to raise his knees to his chest to soothe the cramping, he was beaten below the water... held under by booted feet.He lost time. Slaps revived him. A half-closed fist thudded against his chest, forcing water from his lungs. Fingers found his raven lore, twisted it round and round until the twine that held it was like a garrote against his throat. Breathing was impossible...More time lost. Through closed eyes he judged an increase in light. His eyelids were gummed together-whether by blood, mucus, or swollen tissue, he did not know. His throat burned. Breathing caused excruciating pain. A voice grunted words he could no longer understand, then something that could only have been a human hand pressed against his skull, forcing his head under the water once more.When he came to again he was no longer in the water. Hard stone dug into his spine and ribs. His clothes were sodden. Daylight was gone. People were gone. He was alone in the darkness with his pain.Hours pa.s.sed before he could work up the strength to move his right hand. He wasted nothing of himself by trying to open the bruised flaps of flesh that were eyelids or lick lips that were so dry that a single breath exhaled through the mouth could cause them to crack and bleed. Everything within him he put toward raising his hand to his throat.Pain made him pa.s.s out more than once. Sour matter in his mouth stung his gums. The desire for water, just a few clear drops, was strong. But the desire to reach his raven lore was stronger.Fingers swollen with bruises grasped at the horn that had been embedded in his throat. Blood made the ivory slippery. Gobs of flesh came away as he pulled on the twine and closed his fist around the lore.Ash. He felt her presence immediately, like a warm breeze or a sliver of sunlight shining upon his back. She was close and unharmed.Close and unharmed.Those words made the next beating bearable.They came for him at some unknowable point in the night, or perhaps it was the next night and he had slept or been unconscious through a full day. This time they brought a hood for his head. He wanted to tell them not to bother, as he could not open his eyes, but instinctively he knew that any words spoken would condemn him to torture of a worse kind. They beat him in silence, always silence, grunting softly when striking a blow, breathing hard when tired by their exertions. Someone brought a knife and slit open skin on his thighs and b.u.t.tocks. Someone else urinated on the wounds.Days pa.s.sed. For hours at a time he was strung up on dog hooks hammered into the cell wall. His arms were dead. The hood over his face made every breath taste of his own trapped sweat. He was not fed, and what water he drank came from the cell floor. Sometimes the river rose then fell, washing his own filth away.Close and unharmed.Whenever he woke, he spoke those words to himself. Time came when he no longer knew their meaning, yet even then they calmed him, like a prayer spoken in a foreign tongue.Often he dreamed of Drey: Drey racing through the long summer gra.s.s in the graze; Drey teaching him how to tie and trim trout lures in the dead of winter when all the trout lakes were frozen; Drey waiting for him on the camp boundary the day they set Tern's corpse ablaze. The ambush on the Bluddroad always played itself out one beat slower than real time. Time and time again Raif saw the two hard points of his brother's eyes as he swung his war-scratched hammer into the Bludds-woman's face.No. Raif'sdream-self fought the memory. That was not his brotherswinging the hammer that day on the Bluddroad. That was not the Drey he knew.Hunger gnawed at Raif's body, then his mind, robbing flesh and sanity and the simple ability to rest in peace. Waiting became worse than the beatings. Waiting, he was alone, utterly alone. Thoughts and dreams tormented him. Inigar Stoop pointed a finger, calling him Watcher of the Dead Watcher of the Dead. Tern walked from the badlands fire, his body alive with flames, his mouth opening and closing as he spoke the names of the men who had killed him. Raif strained and strained but could not hear them. Later Effie was there in the cell with him, standing knee deep in water, calmly reciting a list of the lives he had taken... and somehow Shor Gormalin and Banron Lye were on the list, and he wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that he had killed no Hailsmen, but she disappeared before he could form the words. Later still Mace Blackhail was there, beneath the water, his wolf teeth flashing yellow as he laughed and said, I knew you'd push me too far knew you'd push me too far,Sevrance.Pain was something Raif pa.s.sed out from and woke to every day. Bruises blackened his body, yet he could not see them. Split skin knitted and festered, healed and reopened, raising scars and welts that only his fingers knew. Unseen Bluddsmen choked and suffocated him into submission every night, his head held underwater until his lungs burned like furnaces, the cord that held his lore twisted until it robbed his breath. Soon the sickening blackness of unconsciousness was all he knew of sleep.Then one day the beatings stopped. The high whine of the cell door woke him from unknowable hours of senselessness. Through the fog of wakening senses, Raif waited for the first blow to land. His body was stiff with pain, his stomach sick with it. Above his head his arms ached with the strain of bearing his weight. Every breath cost him. A muscle spasm in his knee made his entire body jerk. Close and unharmed Close and unharmed. Who? Effie? Was she here? All thoughts left him as air switched against his throat. He hated his body for flinching, hated the fear that came to him as instantly as if he were a child listening for monsters in the dark.The expected blow did not come. Instead hands worked on the rope that bound his wrists to the dog hook. The sour taste of helplessness stung his mouth. The routine was to beat him while he wa.s.strung, then later, when he was incapable of taking action to protect himself from a fall, let him drop to the stone bench or the floor. The change in tactics made him nervous. When firm hands took him by the shoulders, he heard himself make an animal sound, like a hiss.Fingers grabbed the base of his hood, snapping his head back. "Now is no time to fight, Hailsman." The voice was rough, heavily accented. Its owner took Raif's weight when the last of the ropes was cut and then laid him down upon the bench.Relief soaked through Raif like water through a rag, leaving his body cold and limp. Another pair of hands clutched his throat, but he hardly cared. At least he would be beaten lying down.A knife point p.r.i.c.ked his jaw as the rope that held the burlap hood in place was sawed. Blood rolled into the crease between Raif's lips. The Bluddsman working the knife smelled of the last meal he had eaten. The stench of scorched animal fat and roasted leeks drove Raif to open his mouth and make a bloodmeal of the fluids acc.u.mulated there. When the rope was severed, the Bluddsman's fingers hooked the hem of the hood and pulled it free.Raif squeezed his eyes more tightly closed. It had been days since he had last seen the faces of those who beat him, and he had no wish to see them now. Fresh air buffeted his face-also unwelcome. Suddenly he wished very much the beating would begin.Water sloshed as the man who had handled him left the cell. Raif heard the door close, yet he did not trust his senses and kept himself still. They had never left him awake before. Minutes pa.s.sed. The Wolf River rolled like liquid thunder against the tower's exterior wall. Somewhere high above him, water dripped in perfect time like a pulse. Nothing moved in the cell. Raif concentrated on breathing... that, at least, was something he could do."Open your eyes and look at me."The voice came from close to the door. It was not the same man who had spoken earlier, though both shared the Bluddsman's accent. This voice was harder, older, wearier.Water lashed against the cell's walls. "I said LOOK AT ME!"Raif obeyed. Skin on his eyelids tore and bled as he forced the gummed tissue apart. Through a film of blood he saw a man of medium height, heavily built and turning to stoutness, with hair of such brilliant grayness that the braids that hung down his back seemed like something woven from silver, not human hair.The Dog Lord.Raif knew it instantly. The man's presence filled the cell like a guidestone. It was impossible not to look at his deep blue eyes, impossible not to edge back in his presence. How had he stood there for so long, watching in utter silence, without making himself known?The Dog Lord said nothing. He looked at at Raif and Raif and through through him, his eyes pulling answers, his entire being pressing against Raif with a force so great it made breathing impossible. him, his eyes pulling answers, his entire being pressing against Raif with a force so great it made breathing impossible.Raif held his gaze steady. He thought of the four Bluddsmen at Duff's Stovehouse, the Bludd women and children running through the snow the day of the ambush. Shame burned him.The Dog Lord continued looking, seeing, knowing knowing. His heavy breaths made the shin-deep water ripple as if with dropped stones. Suddenly he moved. Raif braced himself for a blow, but instead the Dog Lord turned his back.A cold dagger entered Raif's heart. The contempt of the gesture cut him to the core. You are not worthy of my fist are not worthy of my fist, it said. You are not worthy of my breath. are not worthy of my breath.As the Dog Lord opened the cell door and entered the world waiting on the other side, Raif felt himself shrink and wither like a dead leaf cast from a tree. He was nothing. The Bludd chief's scorn had stripped away what the beatings could not. He was an oath breaker, an outcast, a killer of men. As Angus had promised, the story of the killings at Duff's Stovehouse had spread. Raif Sevrance's name and his deeds were known to all. His presence at the Bluddroad ambush was known, and the betrayal of his clan.Raif brought his knees to his chest and prayed for the senselessness of sleep. He did not want to feel or think. The pain was not enough, though. The leaking eye, the cracked ribs, the slit ear and lip, and the torn muscles in his arms and thighs were suddenly hurts that could be borne. He lay there in the quarter light and suffered the voices from his past.You are no good for this clan, Raif Sevrance are no good for this clan, Raif Sevrance, murmured Inigar Stoop. You are chosen to watch the dead are chosen to watch the dead.You knew I would leave knew I would leave! Raif fired back at him. So why did you not stop me from taking First Oath? why did you not stop me from taking First Oath?Inigar Stoop shook his head from his place behind the shadows, the silver medallions sewn to his pig coat making a sound like breaking gla.s.s. Ask that of the Stone G.o.ds, Raif Sevrance. It is they who form your fate, not I Ask that of the Stone G.o.ds, Raif Sevrance. It is they who form your fate, not I.Raif turned away, shifting limbs that felt hot to the touch. Still the voices hounded him. Raina warned him about Effie: Just you be careful with her, Raif Sevrance Just you be careful with her, Raif Sevrance. You and Drey are all she has and Drey are all she has.And Drey spoke up for him that day on the court: I will stand second to his oath I will stand second to his oath.Raif howled into the darkness.Hours later, fever finally took him to sleep.When next he woke the world was soft around the edges. Someone, a Bluddsman, placed a bowl containing thick gray liquid beside him on the bench. Raif watched the bowl intently. He did not move. Fever lines spreading along in his chest made his body tremble. Thirst tore at his throat, yet he could take no action to relieve it. Watching the bowl was all he could manage, and he did it diligently until he knew no more.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

Lords and MaidensVaylo Bludd slipped a square of black curd into his mouth and chewed on it. The wolf dog and the other dogs sat in a circle around their master, their great jaws firmly closed, their ears pinned close to their heads in sign of submission. Occasionally one would moan softly, making a sound as if in physical pain.Vaylo sat in silence, chewing. Ahead in the distance lay the shimmering black line of the Wolf River and the dark hump in its center that formed the Ganmiddich Inch. It was bitterly cold, yet the Dog Lord felt little of it. The night air was still, and the sky above the clan-hold was cloudless, revealing a clawed moon and a thousand ice blue stars. Sitting where he was, on a block of trap rock used for blunting hammer edges and filleting trout pulled from the river, Vaylo could see both the Ganmiddich Tower and the roundhouse. All his now. All the land south to the Bitter Hills was his.Footsteps crunched in the snow behind his back. The Dog Lord did not need to look around to know the ident.i.ty of the one who approached. The reaction of his dogs told him all he needed to know. "Does he still live?"Cluff Drybannock made no answer, yet Vaylo knew well enough the question had been heard and understood. Coming to crouch by the dogs, Drybone gazed out across the river as he warmed his hands against the wolf dog's throat. After a while he said, "He's still fevered. Cawdo doesn't know how he's made it through the past five days. Says any other Hailsman would be dead by now."Vaylo spat the curd into his glove. Suddenly he didn't want to be out in the cold any longer. He wanted to be close to the hearth, his arms full of the two grandchildren he had left. Without a word, he stood.The dogs were as much a part of him as the gray braids that fell down his back, and they rose as a single body the moment they heard their master's boot leather creak. Drybone also rose. He need not have done-Cluff Drybannock had led the raiding party that took the Ganmiddich clanhold, and his due respect was now great enough that he need stand for no man, even his chief-yet he did so as quickly as always. Others might have dismissed the gesture as mere force of habit, but Vaylo knew better than that. Cluff Drybannock stood because he was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d and that's what b.a.s.t.a.r.ds did.Vaylo placed his hand on Drybone's shoulder, and together man and chief took the short walk back to the roundhouse.The Ganmiddich roundhouse was small compared with those of Dhoone and Bludd. Built of trap rock and green riverstone, it commanded a high bank above the river and the forest of oldgrowth oaks known as the Nest. The main structure rose a full six stories above-ground, in fitting with the Ganmiddich boast: Over mountains and our enemies we tower alike Over mountains and our enemies we tower alike. Like most northern clansmen, Vaylo felt nothing but distrust for a roundhouse that rose to meet the clouds. A roundhouse's strength should come from the earth and the Stone G.o.ds that lived there. Yet many of the southern clans built high roundhouses, betraying the influence of the Mountain Cities and the G.o.d of sky, air, and nothingness that the city men prayed to.The Dog Lord shook his head as he and Drybone entered the storm-smoothed edifice of the roundhouse's southern wall. He found little joy in possession. Crab Ganmiddich, the Ganmiddich chief, was a man who had come to power only five years after he had. Crab swore like a trapper, would start a fight with any man who looked at him the wrong way, and had fathered as many b.a.s.t.a.r.ds as most men had eaten meals, yet Vaylo had liked him well enough. He never lied, never failed to acknowledge his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and once ten years ago when wet-pox killed off all of neighboring Clan Withy's spring lambs, he had sent sixty head of blacknecks as a gift.Vaylo sucked on his aching teeth. He had no grievances with Crab Ganmiddich, none save the man's newly struck friendship with the Hail Wolf. The attack on Bannen had made the Crab chief nervous, and rather than rely solely upon Dhoone for protection, he had been making overtures to Blackhail. Dhoone was weak, broken, and dispossessed. Blackhail was strong and getting stronger. Who could blame the Crab chief for dancing to two fiddles? As for Mace Blackhail... well, he had fought beside Dhoonesmen to save Bannen, and once the battle was done and he had returned home to that dark stinking Hail-hold of his, he must have turned his gaze south and asked himself, "What did I get for my trouble?"The Dog Lord shook out his braids. Next time Clan Blackhail came to the defense of a Dhoone-sworn clan, he doubted very much that the Hail Wolf would return home empty-handed. He had ambitions, that one. Vaylo recognized the taint."The Crab's fled east to Croser," Drybone said, as always his thoughts closely following his chiefs. "He's gathered forty score men about him and taken possession of the old fortalice."Vaylo grunted. Slowly his enemies were mounting on his borders. Dhoone was split among Gnash, Bannen, and Castlemilk, and now Ganmiddich was housed at Croser. Any other time these facts would have consumed him, yet here and now his mind would not settle. The Hailsman was too close. Half the rooms in the Ganmiddich roundhouse looked out upon the tower and the Inch. All Vaylo had to do was raise his head and look.He looked now, one last time before Drybone drew the great clan door closed, shutting out the frost and the night. Thirty stories of green granite rose above the river's surface like a Stone G.o.d's finger pointing at the sky. Ganmiddich Tower. Raif Sevrance was held there at water level. Watcher of the Dead.A shiver pa.s.sed along the Dog Lord's body, making his seventeen teeth rattle in their casings of bone."Nan. Bring the bairns to me. I'll be in the chiefs chamber." He spoke to a middle-aged Bluddswoman with braids the color and texture of sea rope, who approached with beer and sotted oats as he and Drybone crossed the vaulted expanse of the great hall. The woman met eyes with Vaylo for half an instant, nodded, then withdrew.Nan Culldayis had traveled down from Dhoone with him. She looked after his grandchildren now their mother and elder sister were gone. Vaylo trusted Nan with his life. She had nursed his wife through the last year of her illness and cared for his grandchildren and sons' wives since. For many years now she had provided him with what private comforts he needed. She was of an age where conception and childbirth were well behind her, and that suited Vaylo well enough. Thirty-five years ago on his wedding day he had sworn to himself he would father no b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.Vaylo's thoughts were broken by the soft burr of Cluff Dryban-nock's voice. "Say the word and I will a.s.semble a troop of hammermen and escort the bairns back to Dhoone."Halting by the chief's door, the Dog Lord turned and looked into the man's Sull-blue eyes. "You don't think I should have brought them here."It was not a question, yet Drybone answered it anyway. "No. This roundhouse is no place for them. It's only a matter of time before the Crab tries to reclaim it.""And what if I had left them at Dhoone, with their father? How safe would they be there?""Safer than here, on the cityhold border, in a roundhouse only a day's ride from Bannen and Croser, and not much farther from Gnash."Vaylo slammed a fist against the door. The dogs at his heels skittered and shrank to their haunches. "Don't you think I know the dangers? Don't you think I lie awake each night, thinking and rethinking them?"Drybone did not respond in any way to his chief's anger. Instead he held his fine head level and spoke in a quiet voice. "Every journey you take them on is a danger. They are best kept at the Heart of Clan, at Dhoone."He was right, and Vaylo knew it. Entering the green-walled interior of the chiefs chamber, he turned to Drybone and said, "I fear to let them out of my sight, Dry. Two now, only two."Cluff Drybannock nodded, once. He offered no comfort, made no attempt to remind him that his sons were still young and would father dozens more, and Vaylo was grateful for that. For the second time that night he touched Drybone on the shoulder. "I'll let you take them in a few days."As Drybone a.s.sented with the briefest of his always brief smiles, thetwo children in question came bounding through the door. Ignoring their grandfather completely, they made straight for the dogs.After watching them wrestle, tumble, and shriek in delight at the black-and-orange beasts known throughout the North as the Dog Lord's knuckles, Vaylo turned to Drybone and grinned. "I can't say they'll miss me much."Cluff Drybannock turned to go.Halting him with a small turn of the wrist, Vaylo said, "How is the girl?""Well. Nan visited her room today. Says she's not the sort to starve herself or throw tantrums. I think she's quite taken with her myself."Vaylo rubbed his jaw, soothing his aching teeth as he thought."How old is she?"Drybone shrugged. "Just a girl. Tall, thin.""Have her brought to me, Dry. I would look upon the Surlord's daughter myself.""Here?" Drybone's gaze flicked to the children, who were giggling wildly as they groomed the wolf dog's belly with their feet."Aye. If Nan thinks well enough of her, then I'll trust her at my hearth."Drybone left, closing the door behind him as quietly as if he were a servant, not the man who only seven days ago had claimed Ganmiddich for Bludd. Give me two hundred swordsmen Give me two hundred swordsmen, Dry had said the day before he'd left, and your silence until the deed is done and your silence until the deed is done. Even now Vaylo did not know how he'd managed it. Two hundred men to take a roundhouse the size of Ganmiddich? And it hadn't been a a bloodbath, either... not like Withy. bloodbath, either... not like Withy.Easing himself onto the maid's stool close to the fire, Vaylo slapped his thighs for dogs and children alike. Many feet, both hairy and hairless, scampered over the stone to reach him by the shortest, quickest route. The two children came and sat at his feet while he unhooked the leather cinches from his belt and began lashing the dogs into a team. The dogs hated being bound, but the children's presence tempered their normal reaction, and Vaylo managed to collar them with only a minor loss of skin and blood. When he was done, he looped the main lead over a spit hook in the hearthwall."Granda, why do they have to be tied?" Casha, now his eldest grandchild, sent a long, sympathetic look the wolf dog's way.Vaylo brushed the girl's jet black hair. Her mother had Far South blood in her, and the child was dark skinned and dark eyed and beautiful to behold. "Because I'm expecting a visitor, and the dogs seldom take kindly to those."One of the dogs, a lean b.i.t.c.h who was all teeth and snout, growled. Vaylo hissed at her, though in truth he was not displeased. As he returned his gaze to his granddaughter, a red light shining through the slitted window in the opposite wall caught his eye: the Bludd Fire burning in the upper chamber of the tower. Seven days and nights it had blazed, long enough for all in the cityholds to know that the Dog Lord now stood at their door.Vaylo tried to tear his eyes away but couldn't. There had been a time when taking Ganmiddich would have meant something, when the thought of war and raids was what roused him from his bed every morning and kept him awake past midnight with his warlords every night. He fought because he had the jaw for it, because he loved to win more than he loved life itself. Now, though, he fought from hate.And fear.Vaylo rose and closed the iron shutters, engaging each of the seven clasps and drawing the bar.Blackhail was the reason Cluff Drybannock had moved against Ganmiddich. He had been there the night the women and children were found off the Bluddroad. He had helped excavate the bodies. Any clan who might form an alliance with the Hail Wolf and his clansmen had to be sent a message of death. Drybone knew it. The Dog Lord knew it. And although no word had pa.s.sed between them, they both knew the war would not end until Blackhail had been destroyed.Vaylo put a hand on the iron shutters, resting the heavy bulk of his standing weight. The Ganmiddich Tower and its red fire still burned upon his irises. The Hailsman who lay imprisoned within it still burned upon his soul.He was just a lad lad. When Vaylo had entered the tower yesterday at noon he had not known what to expect. Watcher of the Dead, people had started calling him after the night he'd slain three Bluddsmen at Duff's. He'd fought like a Stone G.o.d, they said, and freely admitted to being present at the Bluddroad ambush before he'd forced his way through the door.Vaylo's hand cooled to the temperature of iron. Now he had this Hailsman here, imprisoned upon the Inch. He had seen him with his own two eyes, minded his wounds, and sniffed his stench. Cluff Drybannock and the others had expected him to finish the Hailsman off. He saw that on their faces, later, when he had emerged from the tower and they stood waiting in a half circle about the skiff. Drybone had even given orders that no beating was to be so great as to threaten the Hailsman's life or limb: that privilege belonged to the Dog Lord.Yet Vaylo had not used it. He hardly knew why himself. Seeing the Hailsman lying there on the bench, beaten, his clothes dark with blood and river grime, Vaylo had tortured himself: How had it happened, that ma.s.sacre on the Bluddroad? Did the Hailsmen go in expecting to kill women and children? Did one man panic and kill one child out of anger or surprise and the others followed suit? Had any of the women fought back? How long had it taken for his grandchildren to die?Vaylo closed his eyes, let the iron shutter take more of his weight.No. He had not killed the Hailsman. He would, because he was the Dog Lord and no one could slay his kin and survive, yet there were things he needed to know. Things only someone present that day could tell him.The dogs stood and growled. Immediately Vaylo looked to the door. A few seconds pa.s.sed, and then knuckles rapped against the wood. A moment later Drybone entered the room, leading a girl before him. Depositing her in the center of the room, he turned to leave without a moment's hesitation. Vaylo knew he would wait outside, at a distance where he could be sure not to overhear a word.Penthero Iss' foster daughter matched gazes with the Dog Lord. As Drybone had promised, she was tall and thin, yet Vaylo knew enough about young women to realize that the thinness would leave her soon enough. A few weeks of lard and oats would see to that."What have you done to Raif Sevrance and Angus Lok?" The girl's voice was cold, and for the briefest moment Vaylo was reminded of her foster father, Penthero Iss. He had reared this child from birth.Vaylo gave no answer. Instead he walked from the window to the hearth and came to sit in the company of his dogs. His two grandchildren scrambled quickly to his feet, the youngest tugging at his dogskin pants, demanding to be picked up and held in his granda's lap. Vaylo was