A Sword From Red Ice (13 page)

The Dog Lord prodded Guy Morloch's thigh, not
gently, with the butt: of his spear. "Up, laddie," he
commanded. "You're free to go."

As Guy struggled to his feet he threw Bram a
vicious glance, one that promised all sorts of trouble later.
Sensation was slowly returning to Bram's hand, and he found himself
wishing that the numbness would now travel to his head. "Jordie.
Dismount and help Guy." Seeing Jordie hesitate, Bram added, "The
Bludd chief will call his dogs to heel."

For a wonder the Dog Lord did just that, issuing a
short whistle that brought all four dogs to his side. The fifth, the
wounded bitch, pricked up her ears and made a feeble attempt to
stand. Her pelvis had been crushed and when she tried to roll onto
her belly, her rear legs rocked loosely, without power. The Dog Lord
spoke a command to the other dogs, and they sank to the ground as he
made his way toward the bitch. Bram watched as he squatted and cupped
her head in his hand. Even now, damaged as she was, the creature
nuzzled his palm.

Abruptly, the Dog Lord stood. He was holding Guy's
spear, and Bram looked away as he raised it above the dog. Some
things were between a man and his gods.

When it was over the Dog Lord pulled a fistful of
dead oat grass from the mud and wiped the blade clean. One of the
four remaining dogs howled softly, and the wolf dog quieted its pack
member by biting softly on its ear.

"Bram Cormac." The Dog Lord dropped the
bloody grass into the mud. "Before I walk away from this place
as agreed, I would speak with you in private."

Guy Morloch shouted, "Don't go. It's a
trick." The Castleman was leaning against Jordie's stallion,
whilst the axman knelt before him, attempting to yank off Guy's boot.
"Bludd has no honor."

Bram wished it was all over. He was tired of
thinking, and soaked to the bone. "Drop the spear and I'll
talk," he said to the Bludd chief.

With a hard movement the Dog Lord drove the spear
deep into the mud. The shaft vibrated as he walked a short distance
downhill and waited for Bram to join him. Bram considered staying
seated on his horse, but the same sense of respect that had made him
look away while the Dog Lord killed the bitch made him dismount. The
Dog Lord might be his enemy but he was first and foremost a chief.

The Dog Lord wasted no time on small talk. "On
your return to the Dhoonehouse I would have you deliver a message to
your brother." Bram kept himself very still. He could not trust
himself to nod. The Dog Lord took his silence for agreement. "I
need you to tell your brother two things. First, you must tell him
old grievances should be forgotten. Whilst we fight amongst
ourselves the city men circle like wolves. When they spy weakness
they will strike." He paused, waiting. Bram made the smallest
possible movement that could be taken for a nod. "And there's
another thing. Tell him days darker than night lie ahead." The
words touched Bram like a cold wind, making gooseflesh rise on his
arms. Almost he knew what they meant, but when he tried to capture
their meaning his sense of understanding fled. Bram studied the Dog
Lord's face. This close you could see the veins in his eyes. He was
the longest-reigning chief in the clanholds, a bastard who had slain
his father and half-brothers, taken his sister as a wife and sired
seven sons. He had seized the Dhoonehouse with the help of dark
forces and lost it when his second son had deserted him. Once he had
counted nearly twenty children as his grandkin. Now he was left with
two. Brain knew the stories and thought he knew the man, but looking
at the Dog Lord's face he realized there was more.

He made a decision. "I will not be seeing my
brother for some time. Give your message to one of the other men."

"How so?"

It was a question Bram had hoped would not be
asked. Looking down at his numb hand he said, "I am claimed by
the Milk chief."

The Dog Lord nodded slowly and with understanding.
"In return for a debt run up by Robbie Dun Dhoone."

Bram was glad it was not a question. He did not
wish to speak ill of his brother. Robbie had sold him to Wrayan
Castlemilk along with a dozen watered-steel swords and a fantastical
suit of dress armor that had been forged for Weeping Moira. In return
Robbie had received temporary command of six hundred Castlemilk
warriors. Elite hatchet-men and swordsmen who wore their hair
plastered with lime and styled themselves "the Cream." With
their numbers added to his tally, Robbie had finally commanded enough
manpower to retake Dhoone.

Now that the Dhoonehouse was back in Dhoone hands
the Milkmen were overdue to return to their clan, yet Robbie still
held them in his sway. There were more battles to be fought: battles
with Bludd to retake Withy, and Blackhail to retake Ganmiddich;
battles also with the army of city men who were rumored to be
invading the border clans from the south; and more battles still with
the Dog Lord himself. No longer content simply with displacing Vaylo
Bludd, Robbie had made it his mission to destroy him.

Even during the five chaotic days following the
reoccupation, Bram had observed a subtle shift in the Milkmen's
loyalties. "Robbie has need of us," they said in low
voices. "Best to hold out here until his enemies have been
dispatched." Such thinking wasn't in Castlemilk's best interest,
but Bram knew from experience that Robbie was hard to resist. He won,
that was the thing. Whatever it took, he did.

Bram wondered when Wrayan Castlemilk would realize
that she wasn't getting her men back.

It was hard to understand why Robbie still
insisted on holding up the part of the agreement that meant
delivering his brother to Castlemilk. Instinctively Bram knew it
would not serve him well to think too hard about the answer. What
Robbie valued, he kept.

The Dog Lord watched Bram closely. "Wrayan
Castlemilk is a canny chief. I think she had the eye for me once."

Despite everything Bram laughed out loud. The Dog
Lord laughed too—a roguish sound filled with self-mocking. When
he stopped he looked Bram straight in the eye. "There's no shame
in being fostered to another clan. I spent a year in Ostler as a
bairn. My father had meant it for a punishment—it was the
farthest he could send me without casting me from the clanholds—yet
I had an honest time of it all the same. They didn't know me there.
Didn't know that I wasn't allowed to play with the best boys. You
know the ones; sons of warriors, nephews to the chief. Boys with
purebred horses and their own live steel. I learned how to tickle
trout and dance the swords, how to bring down harlequins with a bola
and hedgehog a riverbed for defense. Cricklermore Carp, their old
clan guide, even taught me how to read—me, a worthless bastard
from a northern clan. I bawled like a babbie when I left."

The Dog Lord shook his head softly as he
remembered. "A fostering is what you make it of it, Bram Cormac.
Milk can be made into many things."

Bram nodded, feeling stirred despite himself.
Perhaps going to live in the Milkhouse wouldn't be as bad as he
thought. Perhaps there he wouldn't be Robbie's disappointing
half-brother, small for his age and unable to train for the ax.
Perhaps he might be something else. He could study the histories,
learn about the Sull, discover why they had relinquished so much land
to the clans. Stopping his thoughts before they ran away with him,
Bram met gazes with the Dog Lord. He was beginning to understand why
this man had been chief for over thirty-five years.

"And your message?"

The Dog Lord shrugged, but not lightly. "Give
it to the Milk chief. Mayhap she'll need it more than Robbie Dhoone."

"Guy could bring it to Rob."

"Nay, lad. Some things depend as much on the
messenger as the message." The Dog Lord glanced over his
shoulder to where Jordie was helping the now bootless Guy Morloch
mount his horse. "And I don't think the Castleman will do."

Even though part of Bram agreed with the Dog
Lord's opinion, he tried hard to not let it show. "As you will."

The Dog Lord took a few steps up the hill and then
turned. "By the way, lad, you did a fine job tonight. Kept your
head. Kept the pressure on. If you were my kin I'd be proud."

It was too much. Bram felt the hot spike of tears
in his eyes. Only four days had passed since Robbie told him he must
leave and take up residence in Castlemilk. Four days and Robbie's
words of farewell still burned a hole in Bram's chest. "It won't
be so bad, Bram. We both know you were never really cut out for
Dhoone."

"I'll be off now," the Dog Lord said,
"I'm sure I'll be hearing more of you, Bram Cormac." With
that he headed upslope, waving a hand in farewell to his armsman and
calling his dogs to heel. When he reached the blackthorns, he knelt
and said a few words to his grandson, and then put out his arms for
Nan and his granddaughter. With the dogs milling anxiously around all
three of them, the Dog Lord and his companions headed east.

He did not even warn me to keep up my side of the
bargain and I release his grandson and armsman as agreed. He simply
expects it to be done. That act of trust buoyed Bram as he hiked up
the hillside toward Guy and Jordie.

The heavyset armsman looked uneasy as Bram
approached. His knife had been lowered for some time, but his grip
was unrelaxed. Poorly outfitted in a shaggy cloak, boiled-wool pants
and a deerhide tunic, he was soaked through and dripping. His warrior
queue was not nearly as magnificent as his chief's. Early balding had
seen to that. Bram said, "My name's Bram Cormac. What will I
call you?"

"I'm Haimish Faa of the Bludd-Faas. Most
people call me Hammie." The armsman spoke with a soft
backcountry accent, and Bram guessed he was younger than he looked.
Sometimes it was hard to tell when a man was plump and balding.

"Hammie. Why don't you bring out the boy and
go and sit with him on the ridge while we wait"

"Aye, sir."

Bram had never been called sir in his life. It
wasn't right, and he would have said so if he hadn't realized that
right now Hammie Faa wanted to believe in him. His own safety and the
safety of Vaylo's grandson depended on it.

Leaving the armsman to lift the small boy from the
bushes, Bram crossed to where Jordie was binding Guy's foot Jordie
had just taken off his greathelm, and his face had that pink, steamed
look of something left too long in the tub. He said nothing at
Bram's approach, but smiled gently, letting Bram know that everything
that had happened was just fine with Jordie Sarson. Bram felt
absurdly grateful. He liked Jordie. The young axman was one of
Robbie's favored companions, yet he had none of the arrogance that
usually went hand in hand with the blue cloak.

"You're not just going to let them stand
there," Guy Morloch said, gesturing toward Hammie Faa and the
boy from hit seat atop Jordie gray stallion.

"No. You're right. I should take them a
blanket to sit on." Guy snorted harshly. "Think you're so
clever, don't you? Negotiating with the Dog Lord." He made his
voice mince like a girl's. "You do this and I'll do that and
we'll all have tea and oatcakes when we're done."

"Guy, stop" Jordie tried to defend Bram,
but Guy simply overran him.

"And as for you, Jordie Sarson. Hog-tie the
fattie and the boy. I'm hauling them back to Dhoone."

Jordie's mouth fell open. After a moment of
consideration he shook his head. "I won't do it, Guy. We both
heard the agreement—Bram gave his word."

"Bram! What does he know. His mother was a
rabbit-catcher from Gnash."

"It doesn't matter, Guy. When a Dhoonesman
gives his word he gives . . ." Jordie struggled a moment. "His
soul."

All three of them fell quiet. The sudden drop in
temperature had made the mud begin to steam, and as Bram walked to
his mare he could feel icy tendrils creeping up his thighs.
Shivering, he took his sleeping roll from the harness. He could feel
Guy watching him, and knew it was only a matter of time before the
Castleman spoke. There was nothing Guy could do about the
mutiny—without Jordie's help he couldn't even mount a horse—yet
he had to assert his authority somehow. "Boy. Move yourself and
find my gelding."

Bram nodded. "After the agreed time has
passed and I've released the hostages."

Guy didn't like this answer very much, but he had
the sense not to challenge it and risk a second mutiny. The skin on
the Castleman's face was gray and slack, and he was shaking in short
bursts. Dark blood was seeping through the woolen bandage on his
foot. "Fine, but if you can't find head nor tail of him I'll
take the mare in payment."

"Here," Bram said to Jordie a few
moments later, handing the axman a leather-bound flask. "Unbind
Guy's bandage and clean out the wound with this. When you're done
smear the wound with beef tallow before binding it. And give him a
dram of malt before you start."

"Thanks, Bram." Jordie grinned in
relief. Doctoring was beyond him. Guy simply looked disgruntled and
said nothing.

Bram carried the blanket and a few other items to
Hammie Faa. Vaylo Bludd's grandson shied behind Hammie's chunky legs
as the Dhoonesman who had threatened him with a sword drew near. He
had to be about seven, Bram reckoned. Skinny as a stalk with large
hands and a large head. "What's your name?"

When the boy made no reply Hammie elbowed him
gently. "Come on, lad. When a clansman asks a question, you
answer."

"Aaron Bludd," the boy said at last, not
looking Bram in the eye. "But I'm known as Arrow."

Hammie lifted an eyebrow toward Bram as if to say,
That's the first I've heard of that, but he allowed the boy his
dignity and did not contradict him.

"I brought a few things. Salt beef. Cheese.
Hardtack." Bram handed the armsman a small package, hastily
wrapped in one of his old nightshirts. "And there's a couple of
honeycakes." He hesitated, suddenly shy. "For the lady."