A Sword From Red Ice (40 page)

Stannig Beade was unperturbed. Moving his powerful
shoulders in a relaxed shrug, he said, "The ceremony to hallow
the new Hailstone requires a person of high honor to light the Menhir
Fire. Commonly it is custom for the clan chief to hold the torch, but
as you are aware your husband is at war. I have given long thought to
the matter of who should stand in for him, and spoken with many
people in the clan. Time and time again a name came up. She is the
one held in deepest respect. She is the one whose presence is most
valued. She is the one who will bring the highest honor to the
ceremony." The clan guide of Scarpe and now Blackhail looked
Raina straight in the eye. "I know you would not want to
disappoint your clansmen and clanswomen, Raina Blackhail, so I will
assume on Menhir Night you will stand at my side and aid me in
presenting the new Hailstone to the gods."

He did not wait for her answer, just bowed a sharp
dismissal and left her standing in the corridor alone.

She watched dust roused by his footsteps settle
and knew she had been outmaneuvered by an expert. Stannig Beade would
use her standing in this clan to strengthen his position and validate
the new guidestone. She could hear her clansmen now:

"Well, I was against it, I admit. But there's
Raina at Beade's side and we all know she's not a woman to give her
support lightly."

"Aye. If the new stone's good enough for
Raina Blackhail it'll do for me."

Aware she was swaying slightly, Raina sent out a
hand to brace herself against the wall. She could not refuse Stannig
Beade, for she had heard the warning in his voice: Refuse and all
will know it. You will fracture the clan and reveal your ambition . .
. and what good will that do you on Mace's return?

If Mace ever did return. If he died in battle it
would suit Beade well enough. The Scarpe guide was already beginning
to act like a chief.

Raina gave a little cry of fright as the flame in
her safelamp went out.

The Clan that Walks Swords

It was two hours past sunset and the Milkhouse's
primary door was closed and unlit. Bram Cormac hesitated to approach
it and demand entry. The ferryman who had transported Bram and his
horse across the Milk River was poling his barge away from the shore.
"Do'na dawdle, boy. The longer you leave it the harder you'll
have to knock." Laughing as if he'd said something amusing, the
ferryman floated away.

Bram looked at his feet. They were wet; the barge
had taken in water once the weight of Guy Morloch's stallion had
settled upon it. Still, it was better than having to swim across.
Last time Bram was here there had been no ferryman to provide
crossing.

Gaberil, Guy's horse, nosed Bram's side, playful
now that the trauma of the crossing was behind him. "Easy,
Gabbie," Bram murmured, absently running his hand over the
horse's mane as he stared at the massive glowing dome of the
Milkhouse. "I just need a moment to decide what to do."

It wasn't the truth. He knew what he must do—there
was no decision involved—but it didn't mean that he couldn't
stand here for a bit and just wait.

He had been lucky in a way, for the journey here
had been his own. Once Guy Morloch and Jordie Sarson had left for the
Stonefly, running off to alert Dhoonesmen to the Dog Lord's
presence, Bram had no one to answer to but himself. Such a thing had
never happened to him before and it had been scary, but also good.
He'd remembered falling asleep that first night, crazily bedding down
on an exposed hillside without fire or tent, thinking Gods, what am
I going to do? Now he knew the answer. Go slow.

Without anyone to shepherd him to the Milkhouse,
Bram Cormac could take his time. It did not change his obligation to
this clan, just delayed it by a few days. It was freedom and the Dog
Lord of Clan Bludd had bought it for him, and Bram thought he'd
better enjoy it while it lasted.

The best possible thing had happened that next
morning. Bram had been woken by a bored horse. The night before
Gabbie had fled in terror and panic as Vaylo Bludd's dogs closed in
on him. He'd thrown his rider, Guy Morloch, and trampled one of the
dogs. Bram thought he'd seen the last of him—a spooked horse
far from home might simply take off and never come back—but
Gabbie was smart, and although he'd spent only a short time on the
hillside southeast of Dhoone, he'd found his way back overnight.
Wasn't a bit sorry, either.

The two of them had shared a good breakfast of
cheesebread and raw leeks, and once Bram had sorted out Gabbie's
saddle—it had ended up beneath him, hanging from his
belly—they'd taken a ride south. It had been a perfect day,
Bram remembered, with a fresh breeze and just the right amount of
cloud. It wasn't long before they'd run into the Fleece, a deep and
narrow tributary of the Flow. They'd followed the Fleece west for a
while toward Wellhouse, but when Bram spotted a settlement of tied
clansman's cottages on the shore ahead, he turned Gabbie around and
began looking for a crossing.

The land south of Dhoone was dotted with limestone
farmhouses. Barley, wheat, oats and rye were grown here, and squares
of burned stubble poking through thawing snow became a familiar sight
to Bram. He'd spent two nights camping on the north shore of the
Fleece, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of being master of his own
time. Mabb Cormac had taught both his sons how to fish, and Bram had
whittled a pole and unraveled the border of one of his woolen
blankets for twine. He didn't catch anything, but he learned why men
loved to fish. You could do nothing and something at exactly the same
time.

The weather changed and it rained a bit, then
snowed. Gabbie shivered until he was given a blanket, and then began
to chew on it. Bram thought about taking it away, but didn't. He
decided it was quite possible for a horse to digest wool.

Eventually they crossed the river. An ancient
hog-backed bridge spanned the Fleece just west of Clan Camber. The
tiny clanhold defended the crossing with a stone and timber redoubt
and a system of pulleys and river chains, but for some reason they
weren't manned. Later that day Bram ran into a tied Camberman driving
a pair of white oxen with a stick. The man had taken one look at
Bram's Dhoone-blue cloak and driven his cattle from the road.

After that incident, Bram had considered taking
off the fine cloak given to him by his brother Robbie and switching
it for his old ratty half-cape. The cloak identified him not only as
a Dhoonesman, but also as one of Robbie's elite crew of warriors.
Bram didn't want to get into any fights. Still, he had to admit he'd
felt a small thrill when the Camberman left the road to make way for
him—such was the reputation of Robbie Dun Dhoone.

In the end Bram had decided to continue wearing
the cloak. His reasons were complicated and not all of them were
noble. Soon enough he would wear the cream wool of Castlemilk.

He tried not to think of it, and mostly that
worked as a strategy. Castlemilk later. Travel in the now. Once
several years back, before Bludd had seized the Dhoonehouse, and
while Maggis was still chief, a visitor had come to the roundhouse.
Maggis spent half a day in conference with the stranger and later
walked with him around the clanhold, introducing him to various
clansmen and women. Bram was curious about the stranger, but had
assumed he would not be introduced—he was twelve at the time
and smaller than his age and of little consequence to anyone except
his mother, Tilda. Yet the stranger had spotted Bram spreading hay
for the horses in the stable. The stranger had been talking with the
swordmaster Jackdaw Thundy in a manner that suggested they were old
and good friends. "Is he one of Cormac's boys?" the
stranger had asked Jackdaw, nodding his head toward Bram. "Aye,"
Jackdaw had replied. "That's Mabb's youngest, Bram. Come over
here, boy, and meet the ranger Angus Lok."

Up until then Bram had never heard of such a thing
as a ranger, yet the unfamiliar word had caused a flutter in his
chest. Angus Lok greeted him soberly man-to-man, and for a wonder he
didn't ask any of the questions that Bram normally dreaded: How come
you don't look like your brother Rob? Did Bodie Hallax pull you from
hammer training, or did you just drop out? Is it true your brother's
related to the Dhoone kings? Instead Angus Lok inquired about Bram's
mother, asked Bram's opinion on his new sword—drawing it
smartly on cue for Bram's inspection—and told Bram he should
not neglect his studies; sword and pen was better than sword alone.
Bram had been mightily impressed. The meeting had lasted only scant
minutes, but it left him with a good feeling that had endured for
months. He recalled seeking out Jackdaw Thundy some time later and
asking him about the ranger. "Angus is a dying breed,"
Jackdaw had said. "Circles like a hawk, waits like a spider.
Knows the North like it's a wheatfield he's planted, and spends so
much time in the saddle that it's a wonder he's not got wishbones for
legs." It was a curiously vague answer, but Bram hadn't realized
that at the time. Instead he was taken with the romance of a man
crossing the country on a horse, alone, and watchful as a hawk.

That was how Bram had spent most of those free
days after Guy Morloch and Jordie Sarson had left him; riding and
being watchful, a hawk and a spider.

He wished he knew more about the histories. Every
day he passed lengths of standing wall, broken bits of
fortifications, paved roads gone to seed, burned-out barns,
dismantled river dams, ancient way markers, sealed wells, burial
mounds. Ruins, all of them. Whenever he spotted something interesting
he stopped to inspect it, brushing away moss or snow, dead leaves or
cobwebs: whatever had accumulated over time. Occasionally he spied
faint signs scribed into the stone, but mostly the surfaces were
blank. Markings had been worn away, dissolved by rain and tannins,
and scoured by the wind. History had been lost. Who had built the
perfectly placed dam on the Fleece? And who had destroyed it?

That was the recurring theme of the ruins, Bram
had noticed. Something built, then destroyed. Thinking about it made
him restless. Who would know such things? Who could tell him what had
happened in the past?

Angus Lok, the ranger. He would know.

Bram had lost a whole day to the ruins he'd found
in the north-racing lee of a hill in the pinelands above the Flow.
Something circular—a watchtower, granary or small fort—had
once stood in the shadows thrown by the hill's steep ridges.
Something looking north. Scrambling over the shattered remains of
cornerstones, footing blocks and lintels, Bram wondered who had
erected this here and why. The nearest clanhold was Wellhouse. Its
roundhouse was built from traprock. This structure had been built
from hard and lustrous blue-stone. Although he looked for identifying
markers in the stone, Bram could find nothing to confirm his secret
hope. If the structure had been built by the Sull, its ruins were
keeping that knowledge to themselves.

That night he made camp against the small section
of wall that was still standing. And dreamed of secrets and the Sull.

The next day he and Gabbie arrived at the Easterly
Flow. The largest river in the clanholds had swollen above its banks
and its waters were murky and swift. To the east Wellhouse maintained
a crossing and to the west Dhoone commanded the Cinch, a narrow river
gorge between two cliffs that could be strung with ropes to form a
bridge. Most people crossed by boat; it was the horses that were a
problem. Bram walked the stallion east along the shore, aware as he
did so that he was heading away from Castlemilk. The Milkhouse now
lay directly south of him. It was difficult to put his heart into
finding a crossing. Gabbie was not a horse who took well to water and
it was easy to say, He's not going to swim across so I might as well
take the crossing at Wellhouse. Bram knew it for a lie. At some point
during the journey Gabbie had become his horse, not Guy's, and if
forced he would take the crossing for his master.

They wasted a day traveling to Wellhouse and paid
a silver coin for the crossing. Bram had avoided the roundhouse and
steered clear of Wellmen but he could not evade their stares. All
knew him as a Dhoonesman and all were greedy for news of their sworn
clan. The Name Robbie Dun Dhoone was on everyone's lips, spoken in
hushed tones, with fear. By now word had spread about Skinner
Dhoone's crushing defeat at the Withyhouse. Rumor had it that Robbie
Dun Dhoone had lured his fellow clansmen to their deaths. Little did
the Wellmen realize that the slight, dark-haired youth who rode
through their clanhold at dusk had been the one Robbie had sent to
Skinner to set the trap.

Robbie didn't intend for Skinner and his men to
die, Bram repeated to himself stubbornly. He just wanted to insure
that Skinner didn't steal a march on the Dhoonehouse, so fooled
Skinner into attacking Withy instead of Dhoone.

After the crossing at Wellhouse Bram wasted a
second day heading south when he should have turned west. The land
south of the Flow was old and wild and there were parts that had been
lost to clan. Ancient forests of dead and dying trees formed
impenetrable masses known as the Ruinwoods. Keep to the trails, that
was the prevailing clannish wisdom concerning the Ruinwoods. Bram
tried to adhere to it, but sometimes the temptation to explore
long-abandoned cabins half-glimpsed through the trees was too much.
Curiosity hadn't killed him, but he'd gotten lost, had his right pant
leg ripped open by a blackthorn, stepped knee-deep into a sinkhole
filled with wood tar and collected enough moose ticks to keep him
busy with a handknife through the night. Often he saw deer and
sometimes bears. One time Gabbie had shied and Bram couldn't
understand why until he spied fresh snagcat tracks in the mud. From
the looks of the prints it was a big male. And it was close, because
Gabbie had either seen or smelled it.