by J. V. Jones
“All ready with the wheel house.”
Raina had left the sick calf to Vern Satchell and now she was here, outside the Hailhouse, watching the wagon lurch into motion. Orwin Shank, Corbie Meese, Gat Murdock, Merritt Ganlow, Sheela Cobbin and other senior clansmen and clanswomen formed a silent company at her back. Scarpes were out in force. The dead man, Stannig Beade, had been their guide for seven years and respect was due. Scarpes in full mourning were a strange and unlovely sight. Over three hundred men, women and children had dyed their left hands black. Arranging themselves in single file around the great paved court of Blackhail they swayed from side to side as they named the Stone Gods out of order.
It was chilling to hear Behathmus, the god of darkness, named first.
They have not finished harming us, Raina realized as she watched them. All, even children, were armed with knives and lean-bladed swords. Their roundhouse had burned to the ground. Their chief had plundered her own clanhold, seizing livestock and grain from tied clansmen and distributing the spoils amongst her favorites. Now their guide was dead—killed, rumor had it, by a Hailsman.
Or Hailswoman.
Raina forced herself not to react. She was getting good at that. Harder. Cooler. Less like herself. More like a chief.
Rumors had infested the roundhouse like mice; squeaks here, a trail of droppings there. Ten days ago at dawn Stannig Beade had been found dead in the chief’s chamber. That was fact. Everything else was up for grabs. Mutilated, the rumors went, drained of blood, decapitated, his heart carved clean from his chest. Cowlmen, Hailsfolk said. Anwyn Bird and Jani Gaylo had already been taken by them. In this very house. It had to be a trained assassin from an enemy clan. Who else?
One of your own, countered the Scarpes. Beade kept his chamber door bolted while he slept. He opened it only for those he knew and trusted. And then there were the bloody footprints leading up the stairs from Beade’s chamber. The killer had been barefooted, and small if he were indeed a man.
Raina had kept her mouth shut and her eyes averted. She found manual labor during the day and kept company with the widows by night. Even bone tired she could not sleep. Leaving the chief’s chamber that night, after killing him, she had been filled with a sense of her own power. It hadn’t been enough to take Beade’s life, she was going to destroy the monstrosity of a guidestone he’d hauled here in that very wheelhouse from Scarpe.
Something had happened to her as she climbed the stairs from the chief’s chamber, though, and her thoughts had turned to self-preservation. She could feel Beade’s blood drying to a sticky paste against her legs. Footsteps sounded as she reached the top of the stairs, and her heart jumped. Light was filtering into the entrance hall and she could hear the clan awakening. Soon warriors would come and push back the door, luntmen would begin snuffing lamps, kitchen boys would fuel the bread ovens and children would run down the halls.
Scarpes would stir right along with them. One of the many silly girls who worshipped Beade would bring the guide a breakfast of warm milk and fried bread. In all likelihood she would be the one who’d find him dead, and if Raina wasn’t careful the girl would also find the person who killed him standing at the top of the stairs with bloody feet. Raina hurried. Slipping through the roundhouse’s shadows, she made her way to her chamber beneath the kitchens. Once there she had stripped and cleaned herself with a wet rag, and then slept until she was awakened two hours later with the word of Beade’s death. Orwin Shank broke the news and quietly returned the knife.
Raina regretted leaving the guidestone intact. From her position on the court she could view it; the halved monolith that had once belonged to Scarpe. Thick seams of bitumen made it weak, and its newly exposed face was already eroding. When Beade was alive he’d directed it to be covered when it rained and snowed. No one bothered now. Birds shit on it and bitumen leached from the granite, staining it black. As Raina watched, a raven landed on its west corner and goose-stepped along the top. The guidestone was a worthless hunk of earth, and Hailsmen knew it. In the cold spring sunlight it looked like an abandoned shack.
Raina returned her attention to the departing wheelhouse. The wagon had cleared the court and was now on the dirt road heading south. Dust smoking from beneath the wheels soon obscured it from view. Raina took a deep breath and then another one. It was foolish she knew, but she had convinced herself that once Beade’s body was gone from the Hailhold she would she be safe. Out of sight, out of mind.
We are Scarpe. Our tongues cut as deeply as our swords. Wrong us and you will feel the swift lash of both. The Scarpe boast. Raina had always thought it a nasty set of words.
Raina studied the Scarpemen and women. They stared back with dislike. It was no secret that the chief’s wife barely tolerated their presence in the Hailhouse, and with Beade, their biggest champion, gone, they were vulnerable. Scarpes had made themselves cozy in the Hailhouse. They were well fed by Hail farmers and cooks, and protected from the cold by the roundhouse’s nine-foot-thick walls. Return to the Scarpehold and they would be forced to find food and shelter for themselves. Yelma Scarpe, the Scarpe chief, ran a lean clan. She offered little incentive for refugees to return home.
And she’s coming here, Raina reminded herself. What had Longhead said? She will travel when the snow clears? Raina looked from the dry pavestones at her feet to the increasingly blue sky. A woman can always hope.
“Warriors returning!”
The cry came from lookouts stationed on the great domed roof of the round house. Everyone who heard it looked to the southern horizon. The Scarpe mourners continued wailing and swaying, but their postures became alert.
“Five,” said the hammerman, Corbie Meese. At over six feet tall he saw farther than most. “I think Ballic’s among them.”
Unable to help herself, Raina asked, “And Mace?”
It was a long three second before Corbie said, “No.”
Raina exhaled. Quite suddenly her nerves could no longer stand the sound of wailing Scarpes. “Empty the court!” she cried. “All inside.”
For a wonder they actually shut up. Unarmed Hailsfolk began to make their way indoors. They knew and respected the custom of warriors greeting warriors. At first the Scarpes hesitated to follow them—they were keen to see who was arriving—but the Hailsfolk left them little choice. Herded was the word for it. Hailsfolk herded Scarpefolk into the house.
No one, not Corbie or Orwin Shank, made a move to herd Raina Blackhail. Glancing over one shoulder and then the other at the remaining warriors, Raina realized they were arranging themselves in formal ranking around her. Orwin, acting chief of the roundhouse and senior warrior, did not shift from his position at her right hand. Orwin’s brother-in-law Mads Basko, hero of the River Wars, took up position on her left.
Raina took a breath, raised her chin. It was possible, she realized, to feel relief and apprehension at exactly the same time.
The returning warriors rode through dust raised by the wheelhouse. As Corbie had promised, one of the five was the head bowman Ballic the Red. Grim Shank, Orwin’s eldest was also in the party, together with the young swordsman Jessie Mure, who had been apprenticed under Shor Gormalin, and the young hammerman Pog Bramwell. The fifth rider was a woman. Bareheaded with gleaming chestnut hair fanned out across her shoulders, she attracted the gazes of the men. Her mount was a full-grown stallion, dock-tailed, and discreetly trapped in gray suede. As she drew closer, her facial features came into view. Pretty was not a word you could use for her. Her cheekbones stopped sunlight from reaching her lower face and her chin was strong like a man’s.
Raina could not tell if she was clan. Certainly the woman knew how to hold herself in the saddle, knew also her formal place in a party of four sworn clansmen: middle rear. Raina could feel the warriors’ interest. Glorious hair, skill at horse: Here was a woman Hailsmen could admire.
“Welcome,” Raina called, as the party slowed to a halt on the court.
Ballic the Red bowed his small neat head
and dismounted. As was proper, the remaining three clansmen followed his lead. The woman regarded Raina boldly, with interest. Dismounting a beat later than the men, she demonstrated her recognition of Raina’s status as chief’s wife by meeting her afoot.
Clan then, Raina decided. Such subtlety of custom was seldom understood outside the holds.
“Lady,” Ballic said, coming forward and grasping her forearms. Hazel eyes accustomed to spotting and tracking prey over distance inspected Raina. The bowman’s grip tightened. “I am at your service, always.”
So he found her changed. In need of service. Raina nodded a response. Accepting the greeting of the remaining three warriors she kept her face still. In the distance, the wheelhouse turned west onto the old clan road, a black phantom trailing dust.
One Scarpe down. A thousand more to go.
“Lady. Da.” Grim Shank broke into her thoughts. The huge fair-haired hammerman had caught the strange woman’s hand in his own and was bringing her forward. The woman’s cloak was heavy and very fine. Gray velvet gleamed like pewter as she moved.
“This is Chella Gloyal of Clan Croser.” Like all the Shanks, Grim had a ruddy complexion that burned easily in sun and wind. As he spoke, his color was so high across his cheeks it looked as if his face might explode. “My wife.”
Raina glanced at Orwin. From the expression on the old hatchetman’s face she guessed this was news for him too. He rallied himself well, though, stepping forward and catching the woman in his arms. “Daughter,” he murmured when his mouth was close to her ear. “Welcome.”
Beaming with relief, Grim clamped his father and his new wife together in a giant bear hug. Chella smiled serenely. Her eyes were gray-green and as cool as a forest lake. As she disentangled herself from the hug, her gaze found Raina.
“You have surprised us,” Raina told her.
Chella took the coolness in her stride. Bowing at the neck, she set her auburn hair in motion. “Love marches quickly in times of war.”
“Aye,” Grim agreed, slipping his hand around his wife’s waist. “Wait and your chance may be lost.”
All the warriors gathered on the court felt the truth of this statement. Silence fell. Looking at the bowed heads and ax-bitten hands of her fellow clansmen, Raina felt a welling of love and respect. My clan. And I must protect them.
It was easy then to be gracious to the self-composed stranger from Croser. She was a clanswoman, after all. And it made sense that Hailish warriors, working in alliance with Croser against Bludd, would come into contact with Croser maids. Dagro had been a firm believer in the benefits of unions between clans. “Every marriage is a length of string,” he had told her once. “Enough of them and we tie a rival to our side.”
Raina said to Chella, “Today you are a Hailswoman.”
Sometimes she forgot her own power. Five words spoken by the chief’s wife were enough to change the mood from somber to celebratory.
“Aye!” called the warriors in agreement. Bullhammer came forward and clasped Grim’s arms in celebration. One-armed Gat Murdock hollered to the round house for beer. Orwin gave Raina a sweet and noisy kiss on the cheek. Even the sun stayed out.
Chella smiled and nodded appropriately, but in no way seemed relieved. Why should she? Raina thought. Chella had not been worried in the first place.
As they waited for the beer to come, Bullhammer began the questioning and the mood shifted once more.
“Who holds Ganmiddich?”
“Pengo Bludd,” Ballic replied. “He repaired the gate and is staying right behind it. We’ve charged twice and he won’t ride out and meet us.”
Scathing curses followed this pronouncement. Sitting tight against a charge was considered cowardly by men who worshiped the Stone Gods.
“We didn’a do it,” Mads Basko said softly, referring to the strike against Ganmiddich by Spire Vanis. Even outnumbered three to one, Blackhail had ridden from the Crab Gate to engage the army led by Marafice Eye.
“It’s worse,” Ballic said. “When Bludd reached the Crab Gate, the Spire army withdrew so quickly they left their equipment on the field. Pengo went prospecting and got himself some siege fire and a thrower.”
Raina felt out of her depth. She had never heard of siege fire, though she knew by the men’s reactions that it was something serious. How can I lead clan when I know nothing of war?
Learn was the only answer. “What happened?”
“They didn’t know what they were doing during the first charge,” Ballic said, loosening the cloak ties around his throat. “Had the thrower up on the wall, spewing out black oil. No flames—at least not till some damn fool set a torch to it. Entire wall goes up. The Bluddsmen manning the thrower get scorched. A handful of hammermen down below take harm, then the wind switches and the flames get blown back into the roundhouse. Charge breaks on the wall and we laugh our way back to Bannen. Pengo’s no Dog Lord. He’s not the brightest lamp in the hall.
“Six days later we mount a second attack, thinking that if we’re lucky the Bluddsmen will burn down their own gate. Someone there knows what’s he’s doing though. Had the thrower up and working. Waited until we were right on top of them—even cracked open the gate to goad us—and then blasted the van with fire. It was hell. Burning hell. Men. Horses.” Ballic shuddered. “Gods save them.”
Grim, Jessie Mure and others touched their horns of powdered guidestone. Chella Gloyal observed this before touching her own guidestone that was held in a pouch of orange silk at her waist.
“Who took harm?” Raina asked.
“Banmen formed the van. The honor was due—Hail led the first charge.”
Raina nodded softly. The clouds had returned, and a sharp wind gusted around the court, rattling the hammermen’s chains. To the south, the wheelhouse had passed beyond view. Good riddance to it.
“How many were lost?”
“Three hundred and their horses.” Ballic paused. His short stubby fingers with their bowman’s calluses twitched when he added, “They were screaming to be killed.”
Burned and still alive. Raina pictured the horror of it and fixed the images into place in her memory. Bannen had been Blackhail’s ally for a thousand years; their losses and suffering counted as her own.
Orwin said, “Bludd be cursed for its cowardice.”
“Aye,” seconded his son. “Siege fire is city evil. It has no place in the clans.”
“Where do our armies stand now?”
Grim turned to address Raina. Not one of these men, she realized, questioned her right to be here.
“We’re camped a day’s ride northwest of the Crabhouse, on Bannen Field.”
Raina made herself think about this. “So Mace plans to re-attack?”
“Aye.”
At either side of her warriors stamped their feet and nodded. Corbie Meese reached over his shoulder, uncradled his great war hammer and sent the lead and iron head thumping against his left palm. Cheered, that was how he appeared. Raina did not share the feeling. Dark half-formed thoughts drifted through her head. Eight months ago Mace had given the order to slay women and children on the Bluddroad. Now Bludd was blasting Blackhail with liquid fire. Both actions were unworthy of clan. What next?
With Mace you could not be sure.
“Any news of Dun Dhoone?” Orwin asked.
And there it was, the final distasteful piece in the puzzle: Robbie Dun Dhoone, the man who had tricked his fellow clansmen into a fatal attack on Withy as a diversion while he retook the Dhoonehouse. Dhoone had betrayed Dhoone. There was no greater wrong in the clanholds than a chief selling out his own clan.
“He’s expected to move on Withy any day now,” Ballic said. “Last thirty days he’s been laying siege. Hanro and Thrago Bludd have been sitting tight, but supplies’ll be running low. Dun Dhoone has the roundhouse surrounded—and rumor has it he’s salted the wells. Both sides’ll be getting jumpy. That means one of two things is likely. Either Thrago will order a charge from the gate, or Dun Dhoone will g
o right ahead and force one.”
The dark thoughts began to coalesce in Raina’s mind. It was surprisingly easy to anticipate disaster ahead. Dun Dhoone would take Withy. A house cut off and surrounded was dead meat—even a chief’s wife knew that. Bludd would be routed. Then killed. Robbie Dhoone was famous for taking no prisoners; the only Bluddsmen to live through the retaking of Dhoone were those who had found a secret tunnel and escaped right under his nose. So Robbie would take possession of Withy, crown himself a king, and then?
“He’ll come looking for Crab.”
She was hardly aware she spoke.
Looking into the faces of the warriors she was surprised to see that none of them were ahead of her. Ballic, Orwin and others nodded quickly enough but she could tell that they were following her thoughts, playing out in their minds a future where the three northern giants met in battle over the small but exquisitely placed clanhold of Ganmiddich. Dhoone. Blackhail. Bludd.
“Robbie knows Ganmiddich like the back of his hand,” Chella Gloyal said, surprising everyone by speaking. Her sage gray eyes looked straight at Raina, and Raina found herself wondering if the Croserwoman hadn’t been ahead of everyone.
“How so?” Ballic asked. Raina knew the master bowman well, and could hear the challenge and impatience in his voice. What business did a Croserwoman have speaking up at a Blackhail warrior’s parley?
If Chella heard it too, it had no effect upon her. Calmly, she pushed her hair behind her ears before answering. “He lived there for three seasons when he was fourteen.”
