A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (59 page)

At this time of day clansmen were at their hearths, supping ale and taking their supper, and Robbie’s group passed few people on their way to the Brume Hall. Guy Morloch set a brisk pace. Like all of Robbie’s chosen companions he wore a a floor-length cloak of heavy Dhoone-blue wool fitted with thistle clasps. Robbie wore one too, only his cloak was edged in gold-and-black fisher fur, like the mantles of the Dhoone Kings.

After climbing a steep cantilevered flight of steps they arrived at a pair of doors guarded by two Castlemilk spearmen. The spearmen crossed their weapons barring the way. “Who comes here, and on what business?” demanded the elder of the two.

Guy Morloch stepped forward to speak, but Robbie put a hand on his shoulder, halting him. “Robbie Dun Dhoone comes here,” Robbie said. “On the business of kings and chiefs.”

The exchange was a formality—the meeting had already been set between Robbie and the Milk chief, and the Castlemilk guards had to know that—but Robbie’s words made it more. Only eight weeks earlier he had camped on the ground floor of this very roundhouse, a guest and supplicant of the Milk chief. Now he stood by the great Oyster Doors to the Brume Hall, demanding to see the chief on an equal footing.

Bram watched as the two guards drew to attention, unconsciously responding to the authority in Robbie’s voice. The elder spearman rapped against the door with the butt of his spear. “Open up! Robbie Dun Dhoone to see the chief.” The double doors swung back on his command and the party moved forward into the Brume Hall.

Like the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, the Brume Hall at Castlemilk was held to be one of the wonders of the clanholds. Situated at the very top of the roundhouse, it occupied the dome at the apex. The chamber was built entirely from the finest grade of milkstone, known as “brume”. Brume, Bram recalled being told, was the old clan word for “mist”. And that was what it looked like to him as he entered behind Jess Blain: as if he were walking into a chamber walled and roofed with mist. Almost you could see outside, observe the darkening sky and pale globe of the rising moon. As he looked up, he saw a shadow pass over the roof. A night hawk, flying south to its hunting grounds along the Milk. Bram was filled awe. The stone blocks forming the great dome of the roof had to be at least three feet thick, yet it was like looking through a sheet of cloudy glass.

“The Builder Chief, Hanratty Castlemilk, spent a lifetime fitting the dome. It took him ten years alone to develop the mortar.”

Wrayan Castlemilk, the Milk chief, raised herself from the Oyster Chair and moved forward to greet her guests. A rank of swordsmen flanked her. She was dressed plainly but finely in a robe of pale blue wool, letting the silver-and-russet braid she was known for fall straight down the front like a chain. Now that Spynie Orrl was dead, she was the second-longest-reigning chief in the clanholds. Only the Dog Lord himself had held his chiefdom longer.

“Robbie,” she said, inclining her head. “Welcome. I see you’ve brought Guy back to see me.”

Robbie grinned almost sheepishly. “He was homesick.”

Wrayan Castlemilk threw back her head and laughed. It was a good sound, vigorous and throaty, and it broke the tension in the Brume Hall. “Duglas. Iago. Bram.”

Bram wondered how she knew his name. He bowed formally at the neck, as his father had taught him, and for some reason this pleased her and lengthened the duration of her smile.

“I saw you admiring the dome,” she said to him. “Hanratty may have fitted it, but truth be told it wasn’t really his own work.”

“The Sull?”

She nodded. “You’ve a smart brother here, Robbie. I see why you keep him close.”

Bram felt hot blood flush his face. Quickly he glanced at his brother, and saw that Robbie was unsure how to react. By the time he’d settled on a bland smile, Wrayan Castlemilk had already registered his discomfort and moved on.

“The dome was found in pieces in the heart of the Ruinwoods,” she said to Bram. “It had fallen from a structure we think may have been a temple. Of course, there’s nothing left of it now. The forest’s broken it down and swallowed it up.” For a moment Wrayan Castlemilk’s deep brown-eyed gaze held Bram’s, appraising him, before turning her attention to other things.

With a few brief commands, she relieved the party of their burdens, arranged for sufficient chairs to be assembled around the chamber’s central firepit, ordered the fetching of ale and milk, and the tamping of the fire, so that they could parley more easily across the firewell. Such arrangements could have been made earlier, Bram realized, but then Wrayan Castlemilk would not have had the advantage of command.

When all was settled fifteen chairs circled the firewell, the camps almost evenly divided. Yet again Wrayan Castlemilk had surprised Bram by providing chairs for him and Jess Blain. As a clanwife passed from man to man, pouring the traditional dram of milk into their ale horns, Wrayan leaned back in her chair and addressed Robbie.

“So, Robbie Dhoone. What would you have of me?”

Robbie was ready for this. Placing his hands on his knees, he breathed deeply and easily. “I need to retake Dhoone.”

Wrayan Castlemilk did not react. She had been a clan chief for nearly thirty years, and Bram reckoned she must have reached the point where little surprised her.

“It’s time Bludd was driven out,” Robbie continued. “They hold too much power, and the clanholds are collapsing around them. Without Dhoone there is no center. No heart. The clanholds are vulnerable, and none more so than the middle clans. Wellhouse, Withy, Gnash, Croser—” He halted to look the Milk chief in the eye. “Castlemilk.”

Wrayan pressed her lips together in a gesture that might or might not have been agreement. “Go on.”

Robbie leaned forward in his chair. “Power must be returned to the Dhooneseat, you know that, Wrayan. When was the last time you slept through the night, knowing that Bludd sat at your door?”

The Milk chief’s smile was surprising gentle. “You’re young, Robbie, else you’d know that a clan chief rarely sleeps through the night. As for Bludd sitting at my door, you forget that Castlemilk is well guarded to the north. We have the Flow and the gorges to protect us. And—” a quick, knowing glance at Guy Morloch “—as I’m sure you’ve heard, the Milkhouse itself has never been taken.”

Guy Morloch colored hotly. Robbie, on the other hand, remained calm, amused even. He shrugged winningly. “It’s my duty to gather intelligence where I can.”

“And it’s my duty to protect my clan.”

It was a warning, Bram realized, and Robbie was wise enough to accept it. He took a moment and used it to calm himself, his blue-tattooed face settling in grave lines. When he spoke his voice was urgent. “I need your help, Wrayan. You were a friend to me when I broke relations with Skinner and needed a base to rally support. You lent your house, your protection, your blessing . . . and you must know I have wondered why.”

The hall was very quiet. Heat rising from the tamped embers warped the air between Robbie and the chief. The men in Wrayan’s party were hard-bitten warriors, powerful and graying, in the late years of their prime. Bram saw that one of them had a glass vial hanging from his sword belt. Gray liquid moved gently within the vial as the man breathed. So it was true, then. The head warrior of Castlemilk carried his measure of powdered guidestone suspended in water, so he might drink it before he rode to war or died.

Wrayan Castlemilk looked to the head warrior, and the two exchanged a brief, telling glance. Squaring her shoulders, Wrayan said, “Robbie, this clan has helped you because we believe Dhoone must have a strong leader if she is to win back her house. Skinner is not that man. I myself provided intelligence to him when the Bludd chief and his forces moved south to occupy Ganmiddich. The Dhoonehouse was left vulnerable for fifteen days, yet Skinner chose not to act. I will never forgive him for that. I have led this clan for twenty-eight years, and time has taught me many hard things. And none harder than this: A chief who hesitates kills his clan.”

Of course
, Bram thought.
She’s speaking of Middlegorge.
Blackhail slew five hundred Castlemilk warriors that day. And all because the old chief—Alban Castlemilk, Wrayan’s brother—delayed choosing his ground.

Bram saw that Wrayan was watching him, registering the understanding on his face. He looked away quickly. For some reason he didn’t want Robbie to notice her interest.

Robbie raised a hand to his throat and unhooked the thistle clasps, letting his cloak drop to the back of his chair. He said, “When the time comes you need not worry that I will hesitate, lady. I am young, yes, and some might say untested. But know this. I
will
retake Dhoone. The Dhooneseat is mine, and I would sit her sooner with your help. Yet if you refuse, know you only slow, not stop me.”

As Robbie spoke a subtle change took place in the Brume Hall. Iago Sake and the rest of Robbie’s party sat straighter, stiffening their spines and raising their jaws. The giant axman Duglas Oger actually nodded when Robbie had finished and murmured roughly, “Aye.”

Wrayan Castlemilk betrayed no sign of having heard him. Her warriors shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and for the first time Bram realized why she had allowed no younger men to attend this meeting. It was hard for a fighting man to resist Robbie’s confidence. Every word he spoke promised glory.

Robbie eased himself back in his chair, taking time to arrange the cuffs of his shirt. As a self-named chief, he was the only one of the Dhoone party who had been allowed the privilege of bearing arms in the Brume Hall, and his hand came to rest on the cross-hilt of his sword as he waited for the Milk chief to speak. Watching his brother, Bram suddenly understood that Wrayan Castlemilk had little choice here. Guy Morloch and a score of other Castlemen had already deserted their clan for Robbie’s cause, and it wouldn’t take much to lure away more.

Wrayan Castlemilk must have understood it too, for there was an edge to her voice when she said, “So. What would you have of me?”

“I need two hundred hatchetmen—either hammer or ax—and double that number of swords.”

Wrayan’s warriors stirred uneasily. Six hundred men. It was unheard of. Even Robbie’s chosen companions were surprised. Duglas Oger’s mouth fell open, and Guy Morloch looked positively stunned. Only Wrayan Castlemilk and Robbie Dun Dhoone remained calm, appraising each other across the fire like rival swordsmen.

The Milk chief shook her head. “Can’t be done, Robbie. Ask again.”

“I think it can, and I think you’d be wise to grant it.”

“How so?”

Robbie leaned forward in his seat. “You grant me the men I need, here, now, and I’ll accept them under the Liege Laws. Under these laws, as you know, the men will be mine to command only for a limited time, their oaths to Castlemilk will remain intact, and they’ll return to your house when the campaign has ended.” A draft circling the room stirred the embers into flames, and suddenly Bram could see the coldness in Robbie’s Dhoone-blue eyes. “Refuse, and you leave me no choice but to take men as they come, bind them to me with oaths and make Dhoonesmen from them. They’ll never see Castlemilk again.”

Wrayan Castlemilk stood, sending her chair scraping against the stone floor. “You play with fire, Robbie Dhoone.”

“I must, to win back my house.”

She nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of his words. “I take it you have already spoken to some of my men?”

Robbie’s smile charmed but did not warm. “You know me well, lady. I admit I’ve taken promises from perhaps a hundred. But don’t damn them for it. They’re young. They want to fight.”

Wrayan’s hand found the tail of her braid. There, wound tightly to the leather fastening, hung the broken tip of an antler. Elk lore. She weighed it as she thought. Bram wondered how much of what Robbie said was true. Could it be possible that a hundred Castlemen were willing to forsake their oaths to join him?

With a heavy sigh, Wrayan dropped her lore. “What do you offer in return?”

Robbie stood. “Jess. Bram. Bring forth the gifts. We must show this chief how highly we value her.”

Bram felt Wrayan’s gaze upon his back as crossed to the wall where the packages had been stowed. Robbie and Iago Sake had packed the sacks and baskets in secret, selecting items from the great war chests that had been removed from the Dhoonehouse the night of the Bludd strike. They were heavy, Bram knew that much, and he prayed to the Stone Gods that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by dropping them. Jess Blain seemed to have a sixth sense concerning weight, for he managed to choose the packages that could be lifted with ease, leaving Bram with the ones that felt like rocks.

When all had been brought forward into the firewell, Robbie dismissed Bram and Jess with a nod. And then he drew his sword. In an instant the Castlemen stood and drew their weapons, but Robbie was already raising his arms in a gesture of no-contest.

“For the packages,” he said. “The ties must be cut.”

The Castlemen returned to their seats, their faces dark and disgruntled. Robbie had made them look foolish—his first mistake, Bram realized—and now he moved quickly to put it behind him. With a single movement he sliced the length of the first sack, letting bolts of cloth-of-gold, crimson damask, silver tissue and amber samite spill out. The clanwife who had served them their ale and milk and now stood in waiting close to the door gasped. Robbie turned to her and smiled. “For the ladies of the clan.”

Bram recognized some of the cloth from the raid Duglas Oger had led along the Lake Road. Such materials, made with silk and gold thread, could not be woven in the Northern Territories and had to be carted all the way from the Far South. Their value was beyond reckoning in the clanholds. The next sack contained exquisite furs: whole lynx pelts, brushes of blue foxes, mink, vair, ocelot, ermine, miniver, and sable. The platter Bram had carried from the tower held three dozen bear gallbladders, preserved in layers of salt. Another held copper breast-pins, cloak-pins, warrior torcs and wrist guards set with sapphires, moonstones, diamonds and blue topaz. One basket held a suit of armor packed in delicate gauze. Robbie held the breastplate up for the Milk chief’s inspection, so she could see the honeycombed metal, the silvering and engraving, and the raised-thistle device that circled the neck.