A Cavern of Black Ice (78 page)

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 massed
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 through ridges 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
passage. 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 pass 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
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 hit 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 her chin. 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
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
, she thought.
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
.

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 hit 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 scraped 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 passed 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 passed 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
,"
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
,
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 gods. 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 gods."

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 eyeballs wept fluid onto the inn floor. Black and purple
skin floated over a mass of swollen tissue. Beneath the shell 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 damned 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?
he had said, his wet lips coming close to
Veys' ear.
You should see how they pleasure the wenches
.