A Sword From Red Ice (64 page)

Raif shouted to someone, anyone, no one, "Feed
the fire." People looked at him and did not move. Perhaps their
thoughts were like his own, and while they heard his voice, the sense
of its meaning would come later.

Raif jumped down. Below him the Rift lay like an
absence in time and space, a crack of perfect darkness in a night
drawn blue by snow and stars. He felt hearts moving deep within the
earth where rock softened and ceased to be; unmade flesh pushing
with inexorable force against the barrier that divided worlds. Tongue
wetting with saliva, Raif made his way up to the next ledge. He heard
the fighting before he saw it; heard heavy thuds and sudden
inhalations, squealing swords and the compressed murmur of frightened
men. His mind picked the sounds out of the clangor like jewels in the
sand. Raif shouldered his way through the crowd. His name had
traveled before him and the alarm beating on the middle level of
rimrock hammered it out for all to hear. Twelve Kill. Twelve Kill.
Twelve Kill.

A darkness above the heads of the men drew his
eye. Something lashed out. A child screamed. Raif laid his hands on
people and pushed them out of his way. Linden Moodie, Stillborn,
Yustaffa the Dancer, Traggis Mole's big guards, and other unwhole
fighting men formed a loose circle around the shadow beast. It was
eleven feet tall and moved like a serpent, snapping and weaving,
launching attacks with its head. Unarmed except for talons as thick
and black as turkey vultures; it was not the kind of being capable of
wielding a sword.

Raif thought of the Shatan Maer, imagined this was
one rung down in the level of creation. It moved like liquid shot at
force. A crack of its tail sent Linden Moodie to his knees. Plunging
its head around, it snapped off both his legs. Blood fountained onto
the snow. The crowd stepped back. One of the Mole's cronies stuck the
monster's hide with his spear. And could not get it out. Thrown off
balance by his own thwarted force, he stumbled backward, right hand
cupping air. The shadow being leapt forward and thrashed him with its
claws, tearing up skin and ribs and genitals.

The guard's spear was lodged in the back of the
creature's neck where it swung back and forth like a tuning fork. The
dark matter of unmade blood smoked from the hole. A series of high
squeals shot from the being's jaw as it spun a half-circle and lashed
out at the nearest Maimed Man. A sickening crunch was followed by
the sound of vertebrae popping like knuckles as the creature bit off
a man's head.

Raif glanced across the clearing at Stillborn who
was slowly moving forward, sweeping his sword in a defensive
half-circle with every step. Their gazes met and agreement passed
between them. Raif attempted to meet Yustaffa's gaze, but the Dancer
gave a little snort and looked away. His swordbreaker had been
abandoned and in its place he wielded a scimitar with a thickly
rounded blade.

Stillborn made his move, yanking the nail hammer
from his belt and flinging it at the back of the shadow beast's head.
The creature whipped around. Prepared, Stillborn was already moving
away. Raif hurled himself at the being's darkly scaled back, leaping
up to sink the Forsworn sword into its heart. Shadowflesh opened with
a hiss. There was give, the point slid inward.

And then the blade failed.

The break in the pattern. Raif felt the collapse
and tried to muscle through it, but the sword could no longer be
driven forward. Just bent. Releasing his grip on the hilt, he kicked
a foot into the creature's hide and sprang back. Almost he made it,
but as he flung his body out and around, he felt the air-push of
imminent impact followed by a massive, battering ram of a blow. It
propelled him forward into the crowd. The creature's shadow fell upon
him and he thought his life was done, but something happened—what,
he would not find out until later—and the creature spun around
and moved away.

Raif saw people's feet through a watery haze. He
smelled the snow. It stunk like gas. Dimly he was aware of something
happening behind him, of shifting weight and shadows.

The pain in his left shoulder had no end.

"Give me your sword."

The words did not seem to come from him, yet he
must have spoken them, for a big brute of a Maimed Man hauled him to
his feet and handed him a weapon. The weight of the blade was
shocking. It was forged like an iron bar. The man had a malformed
spine; extra bone bulged from the back of his neck. "God's speed
to you," he said with feeling.

Raif had no reply for him. He had turned toward
the clearing and saw a killing field of snapped and disemboweled
bodies and blood. The snow was stained black. A dozen spears stuck
from the creature's shadowed hide and the holes they created vented
smoke. Raif's gaze darted to the few men left at the other side of
the clearing, searching for Stillborn. When he spied the swish of a
tan leather kilt, he allowed himself to breathe . . . and move
forward.

Twelve Kill. Twelve Kill. Twelve Kill. A thousand
pieces of metal and rock tolled his name.

The being was screeching. The end of its tail was
gone, loped off by a sharp blade. Its eyes burned cold with hate.

Raif and Stillborn performed the dance. Each knew
the other's mind without having to meet glances. When he was ready
Stillborn rushed the creature from behind and stuck his sword deep
into its tail stump. An unearthly scream split the night. Raif's
eardrums crackled. The being snapped around like a whip. Raif rushed
in, his gaze searching, searching, as his body flew through air. He
landed like a demon on the being's back, and guided the ugly,
borrowed, good-for-nothing-but-bashing sword into the puncture hole
created by the Forsworn blade. Hide and muscle had already been
penetrated. The borrowed sword was solid. All he had to do was ram it
through the heart.

The blade slid into muscle. Raif thrust deeper,
driving his fist through the hole in the creature's hide. The
creature jerked. Raif twisted the blade with all his might, coring
its heart like an apple. The breath was sucked from his lungs as the
vacuum produced by the collapsing heart created the opposite of a
shock wave. Raif pulled his fist free from the hide. It was coated
with oily blackness. Leaving the sword in place, he sprang back and
ran.

The being failed, Raif didn't think any other word
could quite describe it. One moment it was upright, vital and
craving, and the next it sank to the rimrock. Gone.

Bloody snowflakes thrown up by its fall seesawed
through the air as Raif made his way to Stillborn. The big Maimed Man
rushed forward and caught him in a massive hug. Raif let himself be
supported. His ears were ringing. Pain rolled across his shoulder in
waves. Stupidly, his teeth were chattering. The creature's dead body
twitched and hissed, diminishing.

At last there was silence. The alarm petered out
and then stopped. Maimed Men seemed little relieved. None approached
the being's carcass, but people started gathering around something
small and ragged lying on the rimrock. A body? Whispers and urgent
calls sounded through the crowd. "He saved your life,"
Stillborn said in Raif's ear.

Raif stepped away from him. He needed space to
breathe "Who?"

"The Mole."

Raif steadied himself for a moment and then
glanced toward the body. The ragged black shape looked too slight to
be a man. Oh gods.

Stillborn wiped the sweat from his temples through
his hair. "As soon as you fell backwards the creature was on
you. There was nothing anyone could do. I came forward . . ." He
shook his head. "Wasn't fast enough."

"But Traggis Mole was."

"Aye. Came out of nowhere, like lightning. It
was a fine sight. Took off the creature's tail with his knife,
shifted its attention from you to himself. It was as if he had no
mind for his own safety. You couldn't get that close to the creature
and not get . . ." Stillborn shuddered. "Torn."

Raif left him and made his way toward the body. He
could smell the blood as he moved through the crowd. It was possible
that some of it was his own. People opened a space for him and he
moved into it. He was shaking intensely, but he no longer felt any
pain.

Traggis Mole lay in a drift of snow close to the
cliff wall. He was not yet dead. What was left of his body was wet
and twitching; Raif could not look at it. Wisps of dark shadow fed
upon the exposed organs. The Robber Chief's face was untouched. His
eyes were open and watching Raif.

Raif knelt. He understood much that was dread and
good. The truth of Traggis Mole was there to see, and Raif wondered
why he hadn't recognized it sooner. He and Traggis Mole were alike.
The Maimed Men were all the Mole had. They were his clan, and keeping
them safe from harm had been his life. Something close to pure love
touched Raif then, and he knew the things this man would ask for were
owed.

The moon rose over the Rift, spilling silver light
upon the dying man and the man who would kill him. Traggis Mole spoke
the few words that mattered. Raif Sevrance spoke another oath.

Quietly and without ceremony, using Traggis Mole's
own longknife, Raif Sevrance stopped the Robber Chief's heart.

Chief in Absentia

Stannig Beade had begun holding meetings in the
chief's chamber. The guide of Scarpe and now Blackhail had let it be
known that because there was as yet no guidehouse he needed a place
to rest and contemplate, one befitting his rank in the clan. Raina
tried not to let it bother her, though in truth she knew that
Blackhail's carpenters could have had a building up and framed within
a week. Granted the walls would take another week, and when it was
done it would be made of that decidedly second rate material—as
far as clansmen were concerned—wood. But a building was a
building, and if Stannig Beade had truly wanted to be alone in a
place befitting a guide he could have had a guidehouse erected within
twenty days. Raina had once heard something about Castlemilk having a
wooden guidehouse, but wasn't quite sure of her facts. Else she might
have confronted him with them.

Beade had requested that she attend him in the
chief's chamber at noon. He had sent this message by way of one of
those silly clan maids who had the habit of attaching themselves to
powerful men. "The guide commands me to tell you," Jani
Gaylo had begun. Raina had stood there, amazed. Since when did a
guide command a clanswoman to deliver his messages? Inigar Stoop had
had the use of a boy who brought him supper. If he wanted to speak to
anyone he left his guidehouse and found them.

Once she had delivered her message, the red-haired
Jani Gaylo had dashed off in the direction of the chief's chamber,
anxious to tell Stannig Beade the deed was done. Raina had half a
mind to stop her, to tell the girl she would be better employed in
the kaleyard digging carrots and onions, or out in the woods setting
traps. Blackhail needed food not meetings. The Scarpes were like
rats, gnawing away at Blackhail's supplies. When they first came they
had brought tributes—piglets with runny eyes, damp sacks of
grain, sheep that walked in circles, barrels of wormy fruit—yet
even these imperfect goods had dried up. Hundreds of Scarpes had been
here for months. They ate food, drank ale, burned lamp oil and
timber. What did they bring for their keep? Anwyn was beside herself
toiling to feed them. And more arrived each day. Just this morning,
when Raina crossed to the makeshift stables to brush down Mercy,
she'd spied another of their poison-pine carts rolling in.

Knowing that if she thought about it any more
she'd drive herself into the kind of state where she'd be likely to
challenge the first Scarpe who crossed her path, Raina calmed
herself. She had been working in the grain drum, helping the tied
clanswomen turn the grain. It was hard, dusty work, standing
knee-deep in millet as you shoveled it from one place to another like
snow. Some of the women had fastened linen strips across their noses
and mouths to prevent the fine millet dust from settling in their
lungs. Raina realized she should have done the same, for her throat
felt itchy, and when she sneezed into her hand little specks of
kernel sprayed against her skin. Turning grain wasn't a job she was
used to, but after Stannig Beade's message had arrived this morning
she'd needed to do something to work off her indignation.

It hadn't quite succeeded, though she had enjoyed
the company of hardworking farm women. None of them, including
herself, had mentioned the high grain mark that circled the wall
twelve feet above their heads. A spoken reminder of Blackhail's
hardship would have spoiled the easy camaraderie.

Raina left the women to their cheese and ale. Now
that the dust had settled they reclined on the grain like queens.
Waving farewells as she exited the perfect circle of the grain drum,
they called her by the name "Chief's," short for "chief's
wife." Raina felt both pleased and worried by it. The word was
uncomfortably close to chief.

The grain drum had been built abutting the
roundhouse's northwestern wall and its main door, located two full
stories off the ground, faced north. Emerging into the chill grayness
of midday, Raina stood for a moment on the stone landing and gazed
across the pine forests of Blackhail toward the Balds. Blackstone
pines, bristlecones and black spruce were shedding snow in the
quickening wind. Hunters' tracks cut between the trees led north in
white strips. Turning east she saw the Wedge, the great forested
headland that rose on granite cliffs. The snow had already fled from
those trees, which were a mixture of hard and soft wood. A swath had
been logged ten years back, but the new growth had come in so quickly
that unless one rode amongst it, it was difficult to tell where the
clear-cut had been.