A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (72 page)

“Nay.”

She waited, but he said no more.

The night had cooled and deepened, and the stars were turning above them. The little sliver of moon was back, and Ash watched it for awhile. Finally, she looked to Ark Veinsplitter. She had one question left, but she was almost afraid to speak it. “The touch of an Endlord is enough to make a man unmade?” Ark nodded. “Then how do the maeraith unmake one?”

He did not look at his wrist. “If we are killed by voided steel we are unmade.”

“And if one is wounded?”

Again came that bittersweet smile. “One fights.” Ask stood to quarter the carcass, and the conversation was done.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Chief-in-Exile

B
ram sometimes thought he was going mad. He had been bought and sold to Castlemilk, but was now heading west to Gnash—at the head of his own company, no less. It was all Robbie’s idea, of course. Who better to send a message to Skinner Dhoone than the Thorn King’s own flesh and blood?

The company was a small one, and Bram didn’t fool himself that he was anything but its token leader. Guy Morloch and Diddie Daw and two other swift horsemen rode with him, and Bram seriously doubted that they’d listen to him if he shouted
“Bluddsmen on the road!”
—let alone issued an order.

Guy Morloch rode at the fore, his Dhoone-blue cloak spreading wide in the rising wind. They had been on the road for over two days and had just crossed bounds into the Gnashhold. A well-traveled road ran between Castlemilk and Gnash, and once the Milk was forded they’d made good time. The land here was lightly forested with old hardwoods—a good hunting ground for deer and boar—and every so often they caught glimpses of the River Gloze as it ran east to join the Flow. The storm that had shaken the clanholds ten days back had left everything green and moist. New grasses had sprung up overnight and bluebells were in flower around the feet of ancient oaks.

Even the sun was attempting to shine, though truly it was bitterly cold. Bram’s cheeks were hot from riding at gallop into the wind. He was glad of the cold and the haste, glad of the long days in the saddle and the dry, six-hour camps, glad because it left him too exhausted to think.

Here. Bram. Take this. I had Old Mother weave it for you.

No. He wouldn’t think of Robbie. Yet even as he tried to push the thought of his brother from him, he could still see Robbie’s hands on the cloak. Dhoone-blue it was, just like Guy Morloch’s, only a little bit shorter and shabbier. No fisher fur, or thistle clasps. Bram had held it to his face and smelled it; it smelled of Old Mother’s sweat and Robbie’s guilt.

What was the point of giving a Dhoone cloak to someone who had been sold to another clan?
Don’t worry
, Robbie had said to him that night after the negotiation with Wrayan Castlemilk had been completed.
I told her she can’t have you till Dhoone is won, and who knows what may happen between now and then?
Robbie had cuffed him then, grinned one of his charming grins, and walked away. Two days later there came the cloak.

Bram frowned, trying hard not to give in to weariness. He knew Guy Morloch and the others had not expected him to keep up with them, and had been surprised by his skill in the saddle. Part of Bram had discovered he liked surprising people, and he was determined he wouldn’t fall back.

Ahead, Guy raised his arm, signaling a slowdown and a slight change in direction. The Gnashhouse lay half a day’s ride directly west, but they were heading to the Old Round, and that lay nearer, along the Gloze. The company turned north until it hit the riverbank and then followed its course due west.

Many songs had been written about the Gloze. It was said to be the most beautiful river in the clanholds, its water green and clear, and its banks gently sloping and grown over with moss. Old willows tapped into its waters, and it fed countless pools where water lilies bloomed and kingfishers hunted. Bram knew many of the ballads, sad songs where maids and clansmen met and parted, or where pitched battles were fought “
On the rolling banks of the Gloze
”.

Thinking of the songs made Bram wish for his stringboard. It had been lost the night Bludd invaded the Dhoonehold . . . such a small loss amongst so many that he had never mentioned it to anyone. Algis Gillow had taught him how to play, how to find and finger the chords. Old Algis had never tired of telling anyone who listened that in his day it was proper for a Dhoonesmen to play at least one of three things: the strings, the drums, or the pipes. Bram hadn’t seen Algis Gillow in half a year, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the old man was dead.

“Bram. Where’s your new cloak?”

Bram looked over to see Diddie Daw drawing abreast of him. The fierce little swordsman was dark-skinned and golden-eyed, and people said his mother had slept with the forest folk. When Bram didn’t immediately answer, he said, “Best draw it on. We’re charged to make a good showing at the Round.”

Diddie paced ahead, leaving Bram to bring up the rear. Four men ahead of him now, every one of them in fine blue cloaks.

Here, Bram. Take this. I had Old Mother weave it for you.

Bran let out a soft breath. Even Robbie’s gifts had thorns. It wasn’t just guilt that had given rise to the cloak, there was self-interest too. This was the first company Robbie had ever sent to meet with Skinner Dhoone, and that company must befit a king. Robbie Dun Dhoone couldn’t very well send out his brother looking less stately than one of his sworn men. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

Turning in the saddle, Bram reached back to pull the thing from his gelding’s pannier. The cloak was creased, and three days of sitting in damp leather above the horse’s rump had done little to improve its smell. Bram grimaced as he shook it out. He used his father’s old cloak pin to secure it, and then carefully folded his old cloak away. When the visit was done he’d want it back.

The company was moving at a brisk trot now, and the mid-afternoon sun shone in their faces. The trees had begun to thin, and sheep and cattle were out amongst the grazes. Gnash was a large and wealthy clanhold, with many thousands of acres of rich black soil. Three rivers served them: the Flow, the Gloze and the Tarrel. Bram had been here many times when Maggis Dhoone had been alive and chief, yet he had never seen or visited the Old Round.

It was the old Gnash roundhouse, he knew that much, abandoned a thousand years earlier after Blackhail had torched it. Some violent dispute over Gnash’s northwestern reach had resulted in a fire that legend held could be seen from as far away as the Dhoonehouse. Bram didn’t believe that, but he did wonder about the fire. Stone buildings were hard to torch: they would often blacken but remain standing. The Scarpehouse had been doused with oil by Orrl marksmen shooting bladder arrows before it was set alight, but by all accounts it had still made a poor fire. The collapse had come two days later when one of the crucial supporting timbers had given way. Somehow the draft created by the collapse made the fire spring back to life, and this time it burned inside as well as out.

Bram wondered about the Old Round. Gnash had not rebuilt it, and instead had chosen to relocate their roundhouse seven leagues to the west, on the southern banks of the Tarrel. It could be a defensive move, he supposed, for three rivers now stood between Blackhail and Gnash.

Often Bram found himself thinking of such things, working out strategies in his head. He liked to know the reasons behind events, and sometimes wished he had been born in Withy or Wellhouse where the histories and sum of clan knowledge were kept. A little voice inside him said
Too bad Robbie never sold you there
, but its ugliness made him recoil and he pushed it aside.

As the company emerged from a copse of water oaks they were greeted by the sight of nine armed and helmed Dhoonesmen riding at canter toward them. Big men with blond braids whipping clear of their thornhelms and the blue steel drawn but held at rest crossed the length of pitched graze, scattering sheep as they went.

“Easy,” commanded Guy Morloch slowing to a walk. “Bram. Trot ahead and give the sign of no contest.”

Bram nodded and drew his sword, kicking his stallion forward as the other four men fell back. It was proper in situations like this for the leader of a company to draw fire away from his men by raising his sword above his head—one hand on the grip, the other closed around the point—indicating no contest. But there was more at work here, Bram knew. It was galling for seasoned warriors to appear so vulnerable, especially when three of the four would be yielding to their own clansmen. And Bram knew he was small for his age. Fifteen, and not much taller than a child. Guy Morloch was counting on that smallness to give the Dhoonesmen pause.

The point of Bram’s blade had been ground less than five days ago on the swordmill at Castlemilk and he could feel it biting through his boiled-leather gloves. His heart felt big and out of place, and he thanked the Stone Gods that his gelding was easy beneath him and not taking advantage of the slack reins. The head Dhoonesman raised a fist, slowing his men. Bram could not see his eyes through the thornhelm.

Coming to a banking halt a hundred paces away, the head Dhoonesman cried out, “In the name of the Dhoone chief, who comes here?”

Bram hoped that from this distance the man couldn’t see his sword shake. He concentrated on holding it level as he spoke. “Bram Cormac, Robbie Dhoone’s brother, come to treat with the chief-in-exile, Skinner Dhoone.”

The head warrior pulled off his helm and shook out his braids. His face was flushed with trapped heat and sweat, and his skin was thickly laid with tattoos. Bram watched his gaze travel to Guy Morloch, Diddie Daw, and the other two swordsmen. Bram felt for Jordie Sarson as the man’s gaze rested upon him and his lip tightened in contempt. Just six weeks earlier Jordie Sarson had counted himself amongst Skinner’s men, but he had defected to Robbie Dhoone on the Milk, and now had returned as a member of Robbie’s company. Jordie kept his face impassive, but his skin was the pale kind that showed every change beneath it, and Bram saw spots of color rising on his neck.

“Take me to Skinner Dhoone,” Bram was surprised to hear himself say. “My message will not wait upon custom.” With that he lowered and sheathed his sword, and stared levelly at the head warrior until he had forced the man to blink.

The head warrior exchanged glances with his men. Most had followed their leader’s example and pulled off their helms, and Bram found himself recognizing several faces. Turning his horse, the head warrior addressed his men. “Ransom their weapons, and accompany them at canter to the Round.” He kicked spurs into horseflesh and started back at gallop across the graze.

Guy Morloch hissed something under his breath. Diddie Daw muttered, “No sense fighting it, man,” and unhooked his scabbard from his sword belt and let it fall upon the earth. Bram did the same, and Jordie and Mangus Eel followed suit. Guy Morloch relinquished his blade last. No warrior liked to have his weapons ransomed, but only a fool would travel to a warring clan and not expect it. At least the Dhoonesmen didn’t further insult them by searching their bodies for hand-knives and other small weapons, and one of their number simply dismounted and collected the swords.

When the formalities were done, the Dhoonesmen arranged themselves in point around the visitors, and led the way back to the Round.

Somehow Bram found himself maintaining his place at the head of the company. The land was rich here, and soon graze gave way to plowed fields. Crofters’ stone-built cottages nestled in little valleys, surrounded by hedgerows.

The sun was very low now, beaming straight into Bram’s eyes, and he found it difficult to see the Old Round at first. He had expected something broken and charred, but had not counted on the force of nature. Exactly half of the old roundhouse still stood, forming the shape of a half-moon. The part that had collapsed was gone, stone and all, but the outline of its foundation could still be read beneath the gravel court that had replaced it. The standing half had retained its dome, but the roof had ceded to nature. Turf and ground willow grew there in thick mats, and Bram knew enough about their root systems to realize that pulling them up was no longer an option. They would break the stone if forced.

It was an extraordinary sight, the shaggy half-moon dome set on a bank above the Gloze. Newly constructed lean-tos had been set against the flat end-wall, and horses and men trotted back and forth between makeshift stables and the Round.

The Dhoonesmen increased the pace for the short climb, and then brought the visitors to a halt upon the half-circle court. Grooms came out to take their horses, and already Bram could tell that word had spread. Interest was high amongst Skinner Dhoone’s men, and Bram found himself treated with a queer mix of distrust and respect.

Stupidly, he found himself staring at the women. Almost he had forgotten that Dhoone had any, and to see them here, carrying oats for the horses and pails from the well, was a shock. He couldn’t stop staring. The older ones stared back, hostile, but the younger ones regarded him with frank interest. He heard one whisper, “That’s Robbie’s brother, Bram.”

Taking quick stock of himself and his four companions, he had to admit that Robbie had been right about the cloaks. They set the five of them apart, and endowed them with something long missing from Dhoone: the courtliness of an older Age. Strangely, Bram felt his confidence growing. If one good thing had come from the meeting with the Milk Chief, it had been the fact that Robbie had been forced to reappraise him. Wrayan Castlemilk was no fool. If she had asked for Bram Cormac it was for good reason.

At least, that was what Robbie reckoned. Bram managed a wiry smile. He suspected the fosterage was just a game to Wrayan Castlemilk, something to throw Robbie Dhoone off guard . . . but he kept that thought to himself.

“Follow me.”

Bram and his four companions were bidden to follow a Dhoone warrior through a break in the end-wall, passing from the blaze of a red sunset into the dank shadows of the Old Round. The half-dome had been braced with bloodwood stangs a hundred feet tall and buttressed with rock pylons. The ground underfoot was little more than mud at first, with slabs of slate laid across it like stepping-stones. Deeper into the building greater effort had been made to render the place habitable. Gravel had been scattered to cover the mud, and fragrant woods burned to mask the stagnant-well stench of the stone. Some old corridors were still in place, and Bram could see where the women had been at work, laying down rushes and lime-washing walls. The warrior led them up a partial stair to a chamber that lay ten paces above ground level.