A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (86 page)

What did they fear?
Raif wondered, and then:
How could the race who built this be lost?

He had no answers. He wasn’t sure he wanted them.

Calling softly to the pony, Raif began the climb. He’d already seen a path.

FORTY-SEVEN

A Bolt-Hole

A
t sundown the Dog Lord gave up his watch. Glen Carvo had not arrived back. Not today. As Vaylo turned Dog Horse on the great northern graze of Dhoone, he kept his jaw and shoulders high. Behind him stood a small company of men, and he could not let them know his fear. Cluff Drybannock, his fostered son and the best longswordsman in the clanholds, had not returned with his hundred and eighty men.

“Back to Dhoone!” Vaylo hailed his company, kicking a starting gallop from his old, ornery stallion. “First man to the Horns wins a keg of Dhooneshine!”

Vaylo heard them whoop and holler as he left them in the dust. Gods! But it was good to run! The wind in his face, the black soil of Dhoone beneath his horse’s hooves, and the sky as clear as a lake above him: What chief could want for more? At full gallop Dog Horse gave just about the worst ride a man could endure, but that troubled Vaylo not at all. It was a
winning
gallop, that’s what counted.

Behind him, he heard his company gaining, as men bent low over the horses’ necks and hooves dug divots from the turf. They were shouting back and forth to each other, goading their comrades on with good humor and placing their own bets. Hammie Faa waged one of his mother’s highly dubious love potions against Nevel Drango’s city-embroidered smallclothes.

Vaylo listened and felt joy. In a way, being here in the Dhoonehold with only forty warriors at his command was like being young again, at Bludd. It was few against many, and to hell with the odds. Oddo Bull felt it, too. He was the only one of the forty who had ridden with Vaylo that day, nearly thirty-six years ago now, when he’d stolen the Dhoonestone from Dhoone. Oddo knew what it was to ride in a small company and love every man within it like a brother. Armies were good for many things, but you could not know the strengths and weaknesses of every warrior, and you could not be brother to them all.

Hearing someone gaining on him, Vaylo swerved into the rider’s path and beat some more speed from Dog Horse. He would win this race, dammit. He might be old and a fool, but he could still outride anyone in the clan.

Nearing the northern wall of the roundhouse, Vaylo cut west, knowing the others would take the easier eastern path. The west way had jumps—ditches and dog cotes and water pumps—but it was shorter. The others would have to ride clear of the stable block. Dog Horse hadn’t jumped in a while and was nasty about it, but was too proud an animal to refuse. He battered Vaylo’s bones . . . but he jumped.

By the time they rounded the final quarter of the roundhouse and caught sight of the Horns, Vaylo was aching in all the places a man hated most to ache. He could barely breathe, either, but the Horns were his. Reaching them an instant before Nevel Drango, he laughed at the sheer bloody-minded exhilaration of it all. Once he started, everyone joined in, and soon there were eight men at the gate, all sitting tenderly in their saddles and laughing like fools.

Nan Culldayis brought them to order. “Clansmen,” she said, striding toward them. “Much though I hate to break up your sewing circle, Samlo’s waiting to seal the gate.”

They sobered after that. It was full dark now and the moon hadn’t risen. Blue Dhoone Lake was black, and the wind made it slap against the shore. “Who watches this night?” Vaylo asked Nevel Drango.

Nevel commanded the twenty swordsmen Cluff Drybannock had stationed at the Dhoonehouse. He had some of the wild blood of Clan Gray in him, and he fought with an executioner’s blade. Nevel named seven men, and Vaylo nodded. “Put one on the roof.”

It has come to this
, Vaylo thought as he dismounted. Forty men were not enough to secure a roundhouse, let alone an entire hold. None could be spared for border patrols. All must be at the house.

Resting an arm around Nan’s waist, he walked inside. When a girl came to take away his riding cloak, he bade her send a keg of Dhooneshine to those at the gate. He doubted they would drink it, but that wasn’t really the point.

Nan had supper waiting for him in the chief’s chamber, and they sat by the hearth and shared a simple meal of bread and melted cheese. Afterwards, Nan blew out the candles and came to him by the fire. She knew he was worried—he could not hide such things from her—and laid kisses on his neck and temples as she gently kneaded his shoulders. Her long, silky braid tickled him where it brushed against his arm, and he pulled out its ties and worked the hair loose with his fingers. She laughed then, a gently throaty laugh that he had come to love. When he kissed her she tasted of honey, and her need was the same as his own. It was a blessing, this love come so late, and Vaylo thanked the Stone Gods every day for it.

Later, when they were finished, Nan sat up and combed her hair and Vaylo watched her, content. She was beautiful in the firelight, proud and serene, her hair falling down to her buttocks.

The alarm sounded as he was pulling on the last of his clothes. Two great blasts of the warhorn.
Dudaaaa! Dudaaaa!
Vaylo fastened his swordbelt around him and looked to Nan. “Get the bairns. Bring them here and bar the door. Open to no one but me.”

She nodded. He loved that she showed no fear.

They’d said all they needed to by the fire, and Vaylo left her knowing she would take good care of herself and his grandchildren. It was enough to settle his mind.

Dudaaaa! Dudaaaa!
The horn sounded again as he rushed toward the gate. Hammie and Samlo Faa, Odda Bull, Nevel Drango and others were already gathered in the entrance hall, strapping on their armor and weapons chains. Vaylo beckoned a boy to fasten his back and chest plates about him as he drew on armored gloves with leather palms. Already he could hear them.

Dun Dhoone! Dun Dhoone! DUN DHOONE!

“How many?” he asked a spearman running down from the East Horn.

“Hundreds. They’re swarming around the lake.”

“I’ve three men out there,” Nevel Drango said. “And one on the roof.”

Vaylo nodded, grim. They could not raise the gate. “They gave us warning,” he said.

An explosion rocked the gate. An eerie white light flashed in the hall and then was gone. Hellfire. Vaylo hadn’t seen it used in forty years. Naphtha, lead and antimony: it burned hot and long, and only sand could snuff it. He turned to Samlo. “Will the gate hold?”

Samlo was a Faa man: he didn’t know how to lie. “I can’t say, chief. It’s armored. It’ll take more than fire to break it.”

Vaylo looked to the spearmen and bowmen. “To me.” He took the stairs to the East Horn three at a time, his heart drumming against his plate.

At five storeys high the Horns were the tallest structures in the clanhold. The East Horn boasted archers’ roosts and look-out slits, and Vaylo commanded his warriors to man them and fire at will. Taking the topmost embrasure for himself, he put an eye to the slit and looked out upon the army massing on the northern shore of Blue Dhoone Lake.

Dun Dhoone! Dun Dhoone! DUN DHOONE!

Hundreds of Dhoonesmen and Castlemen, war-dressed and mounted, were forming themselves at the gate. Their mantles rose in the wind, and the torches they held trailed white flames. A war drum was leading the chant, and as Vaylo looked on a standard was raised: the Bloody Blue Thistle of Dhoone. Vaylo searched for a leader, but could not discern any particular warrior to whom the others deferred. That worried him. The Dhoonehouse was huge and sprawling and he did not know all its ways. Quickly, he gauged their numbers, and then made his way back to the entrance hall.

Another explosion rocked the gate as he took the last stair. The sharp stench of smelted lead made his eyes burn. “Oddo. Where are the weaknesses?”

Oddo Bull stood ready by the gate, his red hammer chained and in his hand. On the Dog Lord’s orders he had taken count of the Dhoonehouse’s defenses and if anyone amongst them knew this place it was him. “Stables and kitchens. Both have doors leading in. I’ve sent crews to cover them.”

Vaylo nodded. He didn’t want to ask the next question, and he breathed deep for a second or two to put the moment off. “Did the grooms have time to pull in the horses?”

Oddo Bull shook his head.

Dog Horse.
“Did they bar the doors?”

“Aye.”

Vaylo left it at that. They both knew the external stable doors were great flimsy wooden things that wouldn’t withstand an assault. Horses were brought into the roundhouse’s fold during a strike, and all stables abandoned as indefensible. You needed adequate warning for such a strategy, and without manpower to watch your borders you were undone. Vaylo ran a hand through his braids.
It is my failing.

Out loud he said, “I won’t have them burn the horses, Oddo.”

“Aye, chief.” Oddo understood what this meant; they had to unseal the internal door and bring them inside.

Vaylo accepted his war hammer from the same boy who’d fastened his plate. “Fetch the dogs,” he bade him. “They’re in the kitchen chained to the hearth. Bring them to me at the stable door.” Vaylo looked at the boy a moment. No more than eleven or twelve, he was wearing a motley of unmatched armored pieces and carrying a kitchen knife as a weapon. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Brandin.”

“Here,” the Dog Lord said, pulling his four-foot longsword free from its hound’s-tail scabbard. “Take this for the journey.”

The boy hesitated, his eyes wide.

Vaylo glowered at him; sometimes it was better to scare the young ones. “It’s a swap, lad. I take the knife, you take the sword. Now quick about it.”

For some reason the idea of a swap made sense to the boy, and he came forward and took the sword. His mouth fell open as he inspected the patterned steel edge.

“
Go
,” Vaylo commanded him, claiming the kitchen knife.

The boy ran. He knew how to hold a sword; that was something.

Vaylo turned to the company of men in the hall. “Oddo. Nevel. You’re with me.”

As they made their way to the stable run, a great thud sounded from behind. Vaylo and Oddo exchanged a glance: the Dhoones were ramming the gate. Vaylo quickened the pace.

The eastern quarter of the roundhouse was little used and poorly lit. Leagues of tunnels were accessed by ramps, not stairs.
Probably for the horses
, Vaylo concluded. The place felt like a tomb. He didn’t like the way his footsteps echoed. There was too much empty space here. And not enough men.

Seven swordsmen stood watch by the stable door; more of Cluff Drybannock’s twenty by the look of them. Their faces were tense, their weapons drawn. Vaylo felt for them. Waiting was always worse than fighting. It gave a man’s fear time to come to the boil.

The door linking the roundhouse to the stables was tall and strangely shaped, narrow with a bulb-shaped top like a keyhole. Three iron bars guarded it, held in place by iron cuplets bolted into the stone walls. Vaylo motioned toward the door with his head. “Any word?” he asked the swordsmen.

“Banging a few minutes back,” one of them replied.

“We’ve been smelling smoke a while,” said another.

Vaylo looked long and carefully at his men. Ten here, including himself. Eight swordsmen and two hammermen. By rights he shouldn’t be even
considering
opening this door. But being Clan Bludd meant something. It had to, and perhaps he’d forgotten that these pasts few months, sitting as cozy as a king at Dhoone. Perhaps he’d thought too much and done too little, and perhaps Pengo was right: he should have moved to raise an army before now.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, the Dog Lord made his decision. “Unbar the door. We’re going in to fetch the horses.”

Every one of them, from the oldest—Oddo Bull—to the youngest, a slip of a swordsman not much older than seventeen, nodded without hesitation. Vaylo felt the pain and beauty of it deep inside his heart. As Nevel Drango drew back the bars, Vaylo spoke the boast. “
We are Clan Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders. Death is our companion. A hard life long lived is our reward.
”

“
Bludd! Bludd! BLUDD!
” the nine shouted in response, raising their weapons. And then the door was opened and the chaos began.

Air was sucked through the door with such force that Vaylo felt it lift his braids. All was darkness. Black smoke churned in noxious clouds, making it impossible to see. A few safe-lamps were lit, glowing yellow like cats’ eyes, doing nothing to illuminate the murk. Vaylo took a breath, his lungs filling with hot foulness. Acid tears sprang to his eyes.

The horses were screaming, kicking at their boxes, mad with fear. Wood splintered with a deafening crack as one of them broke free. Vaylo moved forward with his men, his sense of resignation growing. The horses would not come into the house in such a state. Their terror was too great. These were Bludd horses: None had passed through the internal door before. They did not know it, and when a horse was panicked it needed the comfort of things it knew.

Vaylo squinted into the darkness, trying to discover the source of the smoke. He couldn’t see any flames, and decided that either the roof or the front of the double doors was afire. Possibly both.

“Unbolt the boxes,” he ordered, keeping his position close to the door. The younger ones had better eyes than him, and that was a fact he could do nothing about. “Give the horses plenty of space. Stay close to the walls.”

The sharp retorts of swiftly drawn bolts followed, like the firing of quarrels. Men coughed and hacked. Horses sprang out, bucking and rearing, blinded by fear and black smoke. One swordsman screamed as a panicked horse kicked out at him. Vaylo damned Dhoone. They had turned the stables into a hot, choking hell.

“Nevel. Oddo,” he commanded, the moment the bolts ceased firing. “To the double doors, one a side. Everyone else, behind me.”