A Sword From Red Ice (8 page)

Realizing she was pressing her head when she
should have be rubbing, Raina flung her arm up and out. If Dagro had
taught her one thing it was caution, and caution told her to wait for
a better time show her hand. It was all very well for Merritt to play
at making a stand. In reality she wouldn't have the nerve to repeat
to Mace what she just said. No, she was banking on Raina Blackhail
doing the dirty work for her, delivering a nasty little message to
the chief.

Well I won't do it, dammit. Raina stamped her
foot, crunching debris from the Sundering beneath the heel of her
boot. Now all she had to do was come up with a plan. Surely the tenth
one she'd needed this week.

Raina's mind slid from her problems as she saw who
walked through the doorway. Arlec Byce and Cleg Trotter, two of the
original Ganmiddich eleven who had held the Crab Gate for over a week
whilst the Crab chief returned from Croser, entered the roundhouse.
Saddle-bowed and weary, the two men shied back when the smoke from
the cookfires reached them. Arlec's twin brother had been dead for
many months, killed by the Bludd chief himself on Bannen Field, and
Raina still wasn't used to seeing him alone. He was wearing his
betrothed's token around his throat: a gray wool scarf, knitted
lovingly if rather hastily, by Biddie Byce. When Arlec noticed
Raina's gaze upon him, he bowed his head wearily and said, "Lady."

Raina smiled gently at him, knowing better than to
inquire at his return. Whatever news he held must be first revealed
to his chief. Ullic Scarpe and Wracker Fox, two of the Scarpe
warriors crowding around the door, knew no such discretion and began
blasting the pair with questions. Big Cleg Trotter, son to
gentle-mannered Paille and the first-ever warrior in his family, had
no experience with interrogation and after frowning several times and
trying unsuccessfully to ignore the Scarpes, he blurted it all out.

"Drey sent us with word. He needs
reinforcements. Ganmiddich's under attack—by city men!"

An excited murmur passed through and then beyond
the room. Within exactly a minute, Raina reckoned, everyone in the
entire roundhouse would know the news. Ganmiddich under attack by
city men. Would the ill tidings never stop?

"Arlec, Cleg."

Gooseflesh erupted on Raina's arms and shoulders
at the sound of her husband's voice. Mace Blackhail the Hail Wolf,
had emerged from his parley in the greathearth. Dressed in
Scarpe-dyed suede tunic embossed with wolf fangs, he took the stone
stairs swiftly, without sound. Already aware that the chance for
secrecy had been lost, he fired off his first question.

"Which city?"

Cleg swallowed nervously. Arlec spoke. "Spire
Vanis."

A murmur of fear darkened the room. This was not
the answer all had expected. It was no secret that Ille Glaive, the
City on the Lake, had long had its eye on the wealthy border clans,
but Spire Vanis? What were the Spire King and his army doing so far
north?

If Mace was surprised he did not show it. Nodding
once he said "And their numbers?"

Cleg swallowed again. His lore was the red-footed
goose and he wore what might have been one of their desiccated feet,
hooked through a ring in his ear. "We counted eleven thousand
before we left."

This time Mace raised a pale hand, halting the
murmur before it started. He was wearing the Clansword, Raina
realized, the weapon forged from the crown of the Dhoone kings.
Someone had made him a scabbard for it; a finely glazed strip of
silverized leather with a she-wolf tail trailing from its tip. "We
have five hundred warriors there. Ax- and hammermen. Ten dozen
bowmen. And there is the Crab's own army. Once rallied he can command
two thousand."

Arlec nodded. "And there's a half-dozen
Crosermen who once wore the cowls."

Cowlmen. Raina shivered; she was not the only one
to do so. Cowlmen were legend in the clanholds, and the border clans
east of Ganmiddich were known to have the best of them. Trained
assassins, siegebreakers, crack bowmen, spies, and masters of
concealment, they were named after the gray hooded cloaks they
swathed themselves in on their missions. As far as Raina knew
Blackhail had none of them. The big northern giants—Blackhail,
Dhoone and Bludd—traditionally preferred might over ambushes,
snares and assassinations. Smaller border clans could not afford the
luxury of clannish pride. They were threatened by rival clans to the
north and the Mountain Cities to the south, and had fewer numbers
with which to defend themselves. Cowlmen were their way of evening
the odds. According to the ranger Angus Lok their numbers were in
decline and few young men were being trained to the cowl. Yet
strangely enough this only added to their mystique. One glance around
this hallway was enough to see that.

"Good," Mace said. "So the Crab
heeded my advice." Scarpemen and Hailsmen nodded judiciously,
and Raina could tell that implication of Mace's remark—that he
had been the one to advise Crab Ganmiddich to bring cowlmen into his
house—sat well with them. Their chief was always thinking that
extra step ahead.

For some reason Mace chose to look Raina's way
just then. Wife, he mouthed for her eyes alone. She met his gaze, but
it cost her. Instantly information passed between them. He was aware
that she alone knew that everything he said here was a manipulation
of the truth, including his remark about the cowlmen. He had never
told any such thing to the Crab chief. How could he? They had never
met man-to-man. To counter this damning knowledge, he simply let his
memories of what happened in the Oldwood dwell for the briefest
moment in his eves. It was a weapon she had no defense against, that
pleasure he took in what he had done to her, and she was first to
break contact and look away. Every time they shared a moment like
this it robbed a part of her soul.

He knew it too, and it was as if whatever vitality
she lost he gained. Turning back to Arlec he asked, "And the
repairs to the Crab Gate?"

"Done. But the riverwall needs—"

"The riverwall is of little consequence,"
Mace said, cutting the young hammerman short. "Drey and the Crab
are sitting well. They should be able to hold out until we arrive
with more men."

Several things happened to Arlec's face as he
listened to his chief speak. First he had wanted to interrupt him,
Raina was sure of it, point out that his chief was mistaken, and that
the riverwall did indeed count and here was why. Second, he had begun
to nod in agreement when Mace said that Drey and the Crab were
currently secure. And third, his cheeks had flushed with excitement
at the words "until we arrive with more men."

All around the entrance hall men uncradled their
hammers and axes and unsheathed their swords. Someone—perhaps
old and crotchety Turby Flapp—cried, "Kill Spire!"
and then the thudding began. Hammer and ax butts were struck against
the walls and floor with force. After a few second all the impacts
fell in time and a single, thumping war charge echoed through the
Hailhouse.

"Kill Spire! Kill Spire! Kill Spire!"

Feeling weak at the knees, Raina withdrew the few
steps necessary to steady herself against the endwall. She had seen a
similar thing happen six months ago, when Raif and Drey Sevrance had
returned from the Badlands and the Dog Lord had been blamed for
Dagro's death. Kill Bludd! they had cried then. A lot of good that
had done, plunging the clan into war with Dhoone and Bludd.

Yet she could not deny that they needed this. For
a week she had looked into the eyes of men and women who were lost.
The Hailstone lay shattered and in pieces, and without it they were
set adrift. Raina felt it, too, that feeling of no longer being
anchored to earth and clan. The gods no longer lived here; the
implications were too much to comprehend.

Here, though, was something Hailsmen could
understand: war. Joy and rage and comradeship had come alive in this
room. Mace Blackhail had turned a situation that was cause for
despair into a rallying cry for the clan. It was, Raina realized with
deeply mixed feelings, something she could learn from. Her husband
had flawless instincts as a warlord.

Already the makeshift war parley was starting to
head upstairs to the primary hall in the roundhouse, the warriors'
chamber known as the greathearth. Bev Shank and his father Orwin
passed Raina with barely a sideways glance. Orwin had his great
bell-bladed war ax out and his swollen, arthritic knuckle joints were
stretched white where they grasped the limewood handle. His oldest
son, Mull, was at Ganmiddich. Ullic Scarpe, one of the many cousins
of the Weasel chief, was brandishing his ugly black-tinted
broadsword, making mock swipes at his companion Wracker Fox. Both men
sneered at Raina, pushing closer to her than was necessary as they
made their way toward the stairs.

Meanwhile, Baillic the Red was quietly pulling
Arlec Byce and Cleg Trotter to one side and Raina could tell from the
brevity of Baillic's expression that the master bowman had taken it
up himself to explain to them the fate of the Hailstone. Raina was
glad they would hear the news from a decent man.

Mace was in the midst of a huddle of hammermen
intent on escorting their chief up the stairs. As he drew closer
Raina steeled herself. "Husband," she said. "If I
might have a word."

He always marked her, even when his attention was
pulled a dozen ways. His head whipped around and his strange
yellow-brown eyes pinned her. "Corbie. Derric," he said to
the two nearest men. "Go on without me. The war party will leave
within five days."

Dent-headed Corbie Meese nodded. "Aye,
Chief." He might have been a bit disappointed by Mace's
schedule, but he was a better man than to show it. Bowing his head
respectfully to Raina, he vaulted up the stairs.

Taking her cue from Longhead and Merritt—two
people who never wasted an unnecessary word—Raina said to Mace,
"Longhead awaits your decision on the guidestone. The remains
must be laid to rest with proper ceremony."

"It is not your concern, wife. You are not
guide or chief."

"Something must be done. Now. There's a scrap
heap out there that used to be the Hailstone. How can we regain our
dignity as a clan if we are forced to look at it every day?"

"Enough," Mace hissed. "I have made
plans. Longhead will hear of them when I choose to tell him."

His words were like a slap to her face. He had
made arrangements for the stone in secret, robbing her of the chance
to have her say.

Detecting the heat in her cheeks Mace stretched
his lips. "You forget your place."

She did, he was right. It was something she had to
be careful of, that overreaching of her authority. A chief's wife had
no dealings with the gods. It had been a mistake to claim the
guidestone as her responsibility: it revealed ambition. Yet how
could she not care? This was her clan and she was one of the very few
people within it who could see beyond Mace Blackhail and his
self-promoting war. A quick glance at her husband's face helped
sharpen her mind. She could not give him too long to think.

"Will you at least do me the favor of letting
Longhead know you have the matter in hand? That way he might stop
pestering me. I'm run ragged as it is." Raina waited.

Mace's expression slackened, the careful scrutiny
of moments earlier withdrawn. Not forgotten. Withdrawn.

"I'll send a boy."

Raina nodded. Instinct told her she needed to put
more distance between herself and the guidestone. "About the
rehousing. There's close to two hundred families camping in the
hallways, and more are arriving every day. It's becoming dangerous.
Only last night a Scarpewife knocked over an unguarded lamp outside
the great hearth. If Bev Shank hadn't acted as quickly as he did we
would have had a fire on our hands."

He watches you, you know. Little mice with
weasels' tails. Bessie Flapp's words echoed in Raina's mind. How did
Mace know what she had asked the widows in confidence? Unsettled, she
pushed ahead. "The widows have agreed to give up their hearth
for ninety days."

"You have done well, Raina."

The words sounded like genuine praise, and she
could not stop herself from glancing around to see if anyone else
was within earshot.

Mace did not miss her reaction or its
implications, and muscles in his lean face contracted. "And will
Scarpe families be allowed to stay there?"

Here it was. And yet again he was already ahead of
her. She would not think of that now, though. Would not wonder who
amongst the widows had turned against her and was whispering secrets
to the chief. I must learn from him, she told herself before speaking
her first lie.

"That was never an issue. We both know it
wouldn't be wise to house Hails and Scarpes so closely. That's why I
decided to let the tied Hailsmen use the widows' hearth. The Scarpes
can have my quarters. There's a lot of unused space there—dressing
rooms and sewing rooms and whatnots—it should be enough to keep
them out of the halls."

Mace looked at her for a long time. She was
certain that he knew she was lying, but equally certain he would do
nothing about it. What she had not imagined was that he would reach
out and touch her.

"You'd make a fine chief," he whispered
softly in her ear before he left to plan the war.

South of the Dhoonehouse

Rain trickled down the Dog Lord's collar, found a
groove in his wrinkled old back and rode it all the way down to his
smallclothes. Damn! He hated the rain. If there was anything worse
than wet wool next to your vitals then Vaylo Bludd had not
encountered it. Itched, it did. Felt as if an army of fleas were
holding a tourney down there—and an underwater one at that. Not
to mention the smell. Vaylo had never harbored much love for
cragsmen—every clan chief he knew had trouble collecting the
lamb tolls—yet he had to give them this much: Wet wool was
surely one of the foulest-smelling concoctions ever cooked up by the
Stone Gods, and every cragsman in the clanholds had to live with it.