by J. V. Jones
Chella set off to retrieve the arrows. “You held your draw too long. Lost concentration.”
Raina heard kindness in the words. “I’ll never be good enough to—” She stopped herself. “To shoot consistently.”
Chella dug up the turfed arrow and pulled the others from the tree. “My father used to say that before you bring down your first deer you have to shoot a lot of rats.” Sliding the arrows in her bowcase she went in search of Raina’s first arrow, the one that had gone astray. “Of course, he didn’t mean just rats. He meant anything close to home that wasn’t afraid of the smell of humans—but should be.”
Was she trying to tell her something? Raina studied Chella’s profile as the girl searched for the missing arrow. Chella didn’t look up. Raina would have liked to ask her, What’s your lore? But that question was taboo in the clans so she went to butter up Mercy instead.
The two horses had walked upstream. They had found and investigated a small pond and had the frogspawn on their noses to prove it. Raina unfastened her wrist guard and used it as a scraper. As she removed the last of the jelly-like eggs from Chella’s stallion she saw two mounted figures heading out of the northern woods. A little prickle of apprehension traveled up Raina’s spine. What now?
The riders were unarmored and neither appeared heavily armed. They were riding at a trot and it was obvious that both had skills with horse. It was also obvious, though Raina would be hard pressed to say why, that at least one of them wasn’t clan. He was wearing a saddlecoat rather than a cloak, though it was more than that. Something in his stance—a sort of relaxed keenness—marked him as different. He was wearing a bearskin hat.
Raina looked to Chella, who nodded and came to stand in a formal position at Raina’s back. It was a signal to anyone who knew the clans: someone of high rank here.
In silence they watched the riders approach. The one with the hat was lean and ice-tanned; Raina could not imagine his age. The other rider was young and small, dark haired and dark eyed. Not quite a man. Reaching a distance of about a hundred feet, the older rider removed his hat and used it to wave a greeting. The unexpected and slightly countrified gesture warmed Raina and she smiled in response. At a distance of fifty feet the man cried out, “It’s Hew Mallin and I do believe we’ve met, Raina Blackhail. I had the pleasure of knowing your very fine husband, Dagro.”
Without a discernible signal passing between them, both riders dismounted and closed the remaining distance on foot.
As they came toward her Raina thought that perhaps she did know Hew Mallin, that he had visited the Hailhouse long in the past. A lot of people came to meet with Dagro and she had not always paid attention to them. Coming to a halt, both men waited upon her word as was proper. With Chella behind her, Raina felt as if she had a warrior at her back.
“Greetings, Hew Mallin,” Raina said. “It’s been a while.”
His smile was quick and it was followed by a deep and courtly bow. “Ten years since I was last here, lady. Much has changed.”
It was true enough. Mallin’s yellow-green eyes looked straight into hers and she found common experience there: things lost.
He said, “This is my companion, Bram Cormac. It’s his first time at Blackhail.”
Raina welcomed him. He was a good-looking boy, watchful and guarded, with the dark hair and complexion of the wild clans. The fact he was a clansman was not in doubt. How could Raina put it so someone who was not clan could understand her certainty? There was a vacancy after Mallin spoke the boy’s name where a clan should have gone.
“Lady.” The boy’s bow reached the same depth, if not the elegance, of Hew Mallin’s.
Looking at the baby-fine hairs at the back of his neck, Raina decided not to pursue the matter of his clan. She sensed the question would be unkind.
With a small movement of her wrist, she brought Chella forward and introduced her to the two men. The girl was so fine and strong Raina was proud to name her a Hailswoman.
Chella, for her part, was subdued. Her nods to Mallin and Bram Cormac were brief and she did not speak. Raina was surprised, but her attention was quickly taken by the horses. The boy’s horse, a fine black stallion, had slipped from his master’s control and had gone to sniff Mercy. The boy raced after him but it was too late, Mercy had begun to rear. The stallion was young and interested, but Mercy wasn’t having any of it. Grabbing the reins, Bram restrained it and pulled it back. Then, from a distance, he started speaking words to calm Mercy. Raina was surprised when the mare settled down. Usually when Mercy was vexed she did not take to strangers.
“Sorry,” Bram said to said Raina once Mercy was still. “Gabbie’s a bit willful at times.”
There was high color in the boy’s cheeks and Raina felt for him. “Has he had a long day?”
Bram glanced at Mallin.
“Many long days,” Mallin said, taking the question away from him. “We’ve been riding south from the Rift.”
Raina didn’t know what to say about that.
“The Maimed Men pay coin for fresh meat,” Mallin explained. “So we went to earn some pennies. Now we’re heading back.”
Raina nodded. She had heard the Maimed Men always needed meat. Dagro used to say they were terrible hunters. Certainly Mallin and Bram looked equipped to hunt: excellent horses, and two longbows, braced and ready, tied to the cantle of Mallin’s horse.
Quite suddenly she realized they were waiting. Mallin, Bram, even Chella. They were waiting upon her word, just like men and women would wait upon Dagro’s word in such a situation. These two men were passing through her clanhold. She could give them her blessing and let them pass, or invite them to enjoy the shelter of her roundhouse. What would Dagro do here? The answer was clear straightaway. Dagro was social and he loved company, and he also loved gathering information from different sources. He’d laugh and drink with visitors but you always knew he was chief.
Raina looked from Mallin to Bram. The wind was lifting Mallin’s thin gray braids and filling Bram’s patched wool cloak with air. It was a strange feeling, not unpleasant, having people apply for her hospitality. When she spoke she thought of Dagro and tried to do him proud. “Come and break your journey at our house. Blackhail will keep you this night.”
The response, the gratitude and pleasure of it, kept her warm during the return ride to the Hailhold.
The moon, three quarters of it, rose early while the sun was still in the west. It was good to ride in the company of three skilled riders, good also to see the massive dome of the roundhouse silhouetted against the southern sky. You could find many faults with the Hailhouse, but size wouldn’t be one of them, and Raina felt pride as she accompanied the visitors onto the stable court.
Jebb Onnachre came out to take the horses and, as was often the case with grooms, knew Hew Mallin on sight. “Been a long time, Sir,” he said. “Got yourself a new pony?”
Raina was pleased Jebb was acquainted with Mallin and also pleased with Mallin’s serious and respectful response. This was no high-and-mighty city type with no understanding of the value of working men.
Bram Cormac was different. Raina could not fault his respectfulness, but he was silent and wary. She fell in beside him as they walked to the front of the roundhouse. They could have entered through the new construction on the east wall but Raina recalled that Dagro liked first time visitors to pass through the greatdoor. “A bit of awe never hurt,” he used to say.
Altering her pace so that Mallin and Chella, who were walking side by side, pulled ahead, she said to Bram, “We don’t bite.”
His head was lowered against the wind but she thought perhaps he smiled, just a little.
“Where are you headed to next?”
Bram looked up. They had just rounded the front of the house and she could see the western sunlight traveling through the holes in his eyes. “Lady,” he said. “I do not know.”
She thought of that answer later, as she bathed and dressed for supper. Perhaps it was foolishness but
she wished she could keep him here. He was young and she’d seen something vulnerable in him, and a life when you did not know where you would be tomorrow was no kind of life for a clansman.
She dressed with some care, loosing her hair and brushing it until it shone, and selecting a dress of fine blue wool. It was habit, from the old days when Dagro had visitors. The simple, womanly ritual soothed her. When she was ready she made her way to the Great Hearth.
The great doors were open and fire was dancing in the hearth. Torches ringed the room, creating a warm bright light. Raina wished that more of the benches were occupied, then checked herself. Only ten days ago they’d been full of Scarpes.
Food and had been laid out on the table close to the fire and Raina was pleased to see that Merritt Ganlow and Sheela Cobbin had done a fine job. Platters of roast pork and spring lamb were set beside bowls of whole roasted onions and fried bread in gravy. Warriors helped themselves. Some were sitting at the table and other were at their regular spots on the benches. All were drinking. A fresh keg of ale had been tapped and malts of various ages and pedigrees claimed the floor at the end of the table. Some women and children had taken places near the rear and Raina hoped more would come later. It was tradition that when the doors of the Great Hearth were held open women, children and those without oaths were welcome.
Raina entered at will these days.
“Chief’s.” The welcome came from Hardgate Meese, Corbie’s father, and she returned it with a smile. Hardgate was sitting in the company of a half-dozen hammermen and her smile prompted a general raising of mugs and a toast.
“Chief’s.”
Grinning, Raina crossed toward Hew Mallin. The visitor was deep in conversation with master bowman Ballic the Red, but broke off conversation as she approached. “Lady,” he said rising and offering his chair.
Raina took it. She also accepted the cup of malt he poured for her. Tasting it she discovered that Mallin had somehow managed to lay his hands on the best malt in the house.
Ballic left to fetch some food.
While it was still fresh in her mind, Raina asked Mallin, “Where are you off to next?”
Mallin shrugged. He had taken off his saddlecoat, revealing a fawn brown tunic and intricately knotted linen shirt. “Maybe Spire Vanis.”
Raina wondered how soon the boy would know. She said, “Has Ballic been telling you of our troubles with the Scarpe chief?”
Leaning back in his new chair, Mallin said quietly, “Word gets around.”
Raina inched forward. They were sitting in the rear of the room. Mallin’s back was to the wall. Smoke from the torch above his head was being drawn toward the hearth’s chimney, forming a line like a spoke on a wheel. She said, “What have you heard?”
“The Weasel Camp’s a thousand strong. More are on their way.”
Dunkie Lye had mentioned a similar number. “How many are coming?”
“Word is she’s sent for the entire clan.”
Dear gods. Raina forced herself to think. “You mean all those remaining at Scarpe?”
Mallin nodded. “She won’t pull any of her warriors from Bannen Field. It would be too . . . risky.”
Raina saw the point. If the Scarpe force at Bannen was to suddenly pull up tents and head north Mace might start to get worried and turn right around and chase them. That was not what the Scarpe chief wanted. Yelma wanted to be well ensconced in the Hailhouse before Mace realized her true intent.
Taking a sip of malt, Raina let the information sink in. The alcohol existed at the divide between fire and smoke. She breathed more of it than she drank.
Mallin poured himself another cup but didn’t sup. His eyes were green in the lamplight. “Yelma’s a Scarpe through and through. She won’t strike until everything’s in her favor.”
“So she’ll wait upon the extra men from Scarpe.”
“And she’ll be counting cards as well.”
Raina didn’t understand.
“She’ll be keeping track of your numbers. How many come. How many go. The less warriors in here the better. And remember, she knows the house is not secure. That new construction’s not done. Half of it’s still wood boards.”
He was quick and he was right. A brief walk past the construction and he’d figured that one out.
“If I were you, Raina Blackhail, I’d strike that camp hard and soon. Take it by surprise and tear it down.”
Raina stared at Mallin. Something in her gut was tingling and she wished she hadn’t drunk the malt. She had wanted to be ready before she took action against Yelma Scarpe, ready to shoot from the saddle and lead men. There was no time for ready though, that was what Hew Mallin was telling her. She had to strike before Yelma’s reinforcements arrived.
Mallin stood. “She has superior numbers but inferior position. And she doesn’t think you have the jaw to strike.
“Prove her wrong.”
With that he bowed and walked away. Raina watched as he stopped by the food table and served himself a plate of lamb. Within seconds he had fallen into conversation with the swordsman Stanner Hawk.
Raina put a hand on her belly. The pain wasn’t the malt, she knew that now. It was the guidestone, stirring in its pocket of flesh, reminding her of the oath.
I pledge to defend Blackhail and stop at nothing to save us and give my last breath to the Heart of Clan.
Raina rose and left.
CHAPTER 26
Small Game
THEY HUNTED CLOSE to the den and only tracked small game. They cornered an opossum in its set and dragged it into the moonlight to feed. Things were shifting within them and this would be their last meal before the full moon. Digestion took the largest toll on their life-force and they need to conserve, to rest. Releasing musk from their scent gland, they returned to the den, trailing a welcome in the snow.
Watcher hissed when they woke him, and lashed out as they tended his wounds. The Copper One reacted quickly, but Watcher was quicker and he took out a piece of neck. A dart jabbed his arm straight after that, and he found himself staring at the ceiling, aware of activity and hushed voices around him but unable to move. Someone brought a wet rag and cleaned the blood and tissue from his fingers. His nails were humped and yellow like claws.
A female reached over the bed to tend his left arm. Watcher regarded the curve of her breast, followed it to the bare, golden skin at her throat. Sull. The word jumped nerves in his heart. The female backed away, responding to the unexpected motion of his chest. She said something to one of the others, Sull words that he made no attempt to understand. They lied. That was all he needed to know.
Next they dressed him for battle. They took less care now and did not bother with chest padding or leg armor. They turned him to strap on the back plate and then left him, stomach down on the bed. Gradually, over the course of an hour, his body returned to him and he rose and drank water from the bucket. One of the moonholes was directly overhead and he looked up and saw the three-quarter moon above him.
He did not go gently when they came to take him to the fight circle. The Sull prodded him forward with their spears. Copper One was not among them. Watcher was glad. He wished him dead.
The forest smelled darkly green and full of meat. Moths spiraled in hopeless circles toward the moon. One of the spear holders released a hand from his spear shaft to brush away a moth close to his face. Watcher smashed the Sull’s hand into his jaw and yanked the spear from his grip. The Sull gasped in pain, stumbled to his knees. Blood welled from the collapsed cave of his mouth. Arming the spear, Watcher turned. The two remaining Sull, one male, one female, pinned him with their spearpoints. Watcher heaved his spear at the female, plunging it into her chest. As she collapsed in a fountain of blood, Watcher released the shaft and stepped back from the male’s spearpoint. Grabbing the socket just below the blade, he jerked it back with force. The wings of the blade punctured the heel of his hand and little finger as he dragged the Sull in a quarter circle and then impaled him with the spear but
t.
“No more.”
Watcher yanked the spear from the Sull’s gut and turned toward the voice. A wall of blades aligned along his back. As he moved, one touched the space an inch from his eye. He sprung his jaw at it. Dropped the spear.
The wall of blades pushed him toward the fight circle. Three down, he told himself. With Copper One maybe four.
The fight circle was a ghoul hall, domed in green torchlight. He entered and went straight for the sword. It was Heron Walks on Sand. It was familiar and that was good.
“Mor Drakka.”
Watcher did not acknowledge the name. It was Sull and he rejected it.
“Your friend Addie Gunn is ill. He needs your help.”
He turned to face the owner of the voice. It was her, the queen with the damaged hand. If he were to feed on her he would sever it before gorging. He would not want that malformity in his gut.
“You won some of your matches last time,” she said to him. “So you saved Addie from being hurt. However, regrettably, you lost the final match.” The eyes glittered. “So we could not administer the medicine he needed.”
Watcher hurled the sword at her. Shields closed around the queen. The weight of the pommel and crosshilt raised and gyred the blade and the sword crashed against the circle wall, short and to the left of the queen.
The queen made a motion with her head and the shields were lowered. Her den mates were armed with thick blades of meteor steel. Watcher counted them, made a calculation, and then charged the queen anyway. The swords came to meet him like a single opponent, an enemy made from points of steel. The blades were neck choppers. Let one take your head and you’d been killed by a falling star.
Watcher did not want to be killed. Watcher wanted to live to kill Sull.
He backed away from the blades, his gaze fixed on the queen. There had been one moment as he charged when he smelled her fear. Her face had the fixed stillness of prey not wanting to betray its position.
