by J. V. Jones
Indeed, the snow underfoot was as white and level as the head on a good stout. They had seen no sign of riders all day, and now that the light was failing they wouldn’t be able to spot either tracks or camp smoke. Which was why the dogs needed to earn their keep.
The dogs, instantly recognizing the change in their master’s temperament, ran ahead of the party, bounding or pushing through the snow, depending on the length of their legs. Vaylo sat back in the saddle, his ancient leathers creaking along with his bones. Stone Gods! But it was cold! Made him want to piss by the minute. He remembered once when he was young, riding from the Trenchland border to the Bluddhouse in a single day, not stopping once to empty his bladder or ease the chaff around his thighs. Damn fool thing to do! Probably damaged something internal along the way.
“Vaylo. We can’t ride for much longer. Even with the torches lit.” Cluff Drybannock, better known as Drybone, fell in at Vaylo’s side. Even as he adjusted his horse’s pace to match his chief’s, Vaylo could hear the slap and patter of a second horse hurrying to catch up. Vaylo didn’t have to turn his head to know who the second rider would be. Hanro wouldn’t want to miss out on anything Drybone was likely to say.
“We’ll ride a while longer,” Vaylo said, deliberately speaking loudly to relieve the burning in his sixth son’s ears. “Give the dogs chance to spot a league or two.” As he spoke, he glanced over at the man he trusted most in the clan. Drybone was a great wall of a man, with barricades for shoulders and skin the color of red clay. He was not clan, not quite. His mother had been a Trenchlander whore, and his father . . . well, whore’s bastards seldom knew just who their fathers were. When Drybone turned seven, his mother had sent him from the Trenchlands to the Bluddhold and told him never to come back. He was not one of their kind, and he was not wanted anymore.
Vaylo sucked on his old teeth. He hated Trenchlanders. What sort of woman would do that to her child? He still remembered Cluff being brought to the Bluddhouse by massive, bulb-nosed Yagro Wike, who had caught the lad tickling for trout in the Flow. Thin as a fence post, he was, and nearly wild with hunger and sunstroke. When asked what he was doing on Bludd territory, he had replied just the way his mother had taught him: “I’m a Trenchborn bastard. My father was a Bluddsman, and I’m searching until I find him and make him pay his due in my rearing.”
The lad had such a fierce look in his bright blue eyes and such a hard sense of purpose within his small clenched fists that Vaylo had taken to him on the spot. “A bastard, eh?” he’d said, ruffling the lad’s night black hair. “Well, you should fit in just fine here. If no man speaks up to claim you, then I’ll take you as my own.”
That was twenty-five years ago. Drybone was a full-sworn clansman now and the best swordsman in the clan, yet the bastard was still in him. It never went away. Vaylo knew that. They understood each other, the whore’s bastard and the clan chief’s bastard. They knew what it was to give up their places at table, to fight a real or imagined insult until their mouths filled with blood, and to watch the laughter and scolding of legitimate children with envy so potent that it took something from you as surely as a long day’s hunt in the woods. Vaylo had seen to it that Drybone had fared better than he, but you could not shield a child against the cruelty of other children. And to try to was a mistake of a different, greater kind.
Drybone had grown up well enough. He was a good solid fighter, a hard worker, and as vigilant of people’s moods and motives as any bastard ever was. Vaylo knew his sons resented him, yet he didn’t care one jot. Let them fret over who would take over his chiefdom when he was dead and gone. Worry might make men of them yet.
“Balhagro would have pulled well off from the road to make camp,” Drybone said, squinting into the darkness beyond the pale sheets of torchlight. “And would have thought to cover the wagon’s tracks.”
The Dog Lord nodded. Drybone had a better opinion of Balhagro’s initiative than he had, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t right. Age had brought Vaylo the slow realization that he would never know everything about men and that even those he knew best were capable of surprising him. Balhagro was a steady man; that was why Vaylo had chosen him to lead the moving party. That and the fact that Balhagro’s eldest daughter had just produced his first grandchild, so the man knew just how fiercely grandchildren must be guarded.
“Aye,” Vaylo said, suddenly hopeful that Drybone was right and Balhagro was the sort of man to take extreme caution. “We should have brought the hawks. They’d be better than the dogs in the snow.”
“Your best pair were out last time I looked.” Drybone glanced at Vaylo, a question in his sharp blue eyes.
Vaylo Bludd seldom lied. He either spoke the truth or said nothing. Looking at Cluff Drybannock, he saw a man who took care that his appearance was neither lesser nor greater than those around him. His braids were closely tied, but not excessively so; his furs and leathers were of good quality, but he wore no sable, lynx, or stillborn calfskin. The greatsword at his waist was shorter than most swords given that name, but it was polished to a high sheen and couched in the best lamb’s wool. Vaylo didn’t have to look around to know how his sixth son was dressed in comparison. Hanro was the dandy of the bunch. Spent more time oiling his braids than most women did plucking their leg hair. His crown was always shaved so smoothly that sometimes Vaylo wondered if he wasn’t just plain bald.
Kicking his stallion forward, Vaylo made a minute gesture to Drybone to keep up, and the two rode ahead along the darkened road, leaving the rest of the party to the light of the torches. Hanro followed his father for a while, trotting awkwardly in the middle of the two groups. Then, obviously deciding he looked ridiculous attempting to listen in on his father’s conversation, he slipped back into the main party. When Vaylo heard his sixth son’s voice cracking orders in the peeved tone of a slighted dance partner, he knew he was free to speak.
Leaning in toward Drybone, he said, “The pair should have homed by now, Dry. I sent them to Duff’s Stovehouse to see if the stovemaster had given ale or warmth to Sarga Veys.”
Drybone took this information and thought on it, the muscles on his lean beardless face giving nothing away. “Storms?”
Vaylo shook his head. “Storms have been to the north. Duff’s is to the south.”
“You think the birds were shot?”
“No. I think they were stopped.”
“By Veys?”
“He’s a magic user, Dry. They can spell birds out of the sky.”
The word magic was enough to make Drybone sign to the Stone Gods, touching both his eyelids and then the copper vial at his waist containing his measure of powdered guidestone. “If he is a threat to the clan, say it, and I will take the south road and tend his throat myself.”
Hearing Drybone speak, Vaylo felt the muscles in his old heart tighten. Drybone was not a man to make such statements lightly, and Vaylo knew he meant what he said. “I don’t know if he’s a threat or not, Dry. I don’t even know what he and his master want. I just know I don’t trust either of them. And when my two best hawks fail to home from a journey I’ve sent them on a dozen times before, then it sets my mind to worrying.”
It would have been easy then for Drybone to point out that Vaylo should never have accepted Sarga Veys’ offer of help in the first place, yet if the thought was on his mind, he didn’t speak it. Vaylo was grateful for that. He needed no reminder of his mistakes. Living with them was penalty enough.
“You think Sarga Veys met with someone at Duff’s?”
“I think it’s possible. The morning he visited the Dhoonehouse he was poking around, asking questions of the stablehands and pot boys. He’s a sly one, that Veys. I don’t trust any man whose jaw is as smooth as his arse.”
“Did he ask for anything in return for his master’s help with the Dhoone raid?”
Vaylo looked at Drybone. It was a bold question he asked. Many Bluddsmen knew that something had happened the night of the Dhoone raid to give them an unnatural advant
age; fewer knew that their clan chief had arranged it; and fewer still knew whom he had arranged it with. None knew the terms of the deal. Now Drybone was asking for that confidence.
Perhaps it was the darkness and quiet along the Bluddroad, or the thought that his grandchildren could be out somewhere in these hills, freezing and hungry, their wagon mired in thick snow, their fuel running low, but for some reason Vaylo wanted to speak. He had been the Dog Lord for over thirty years, and at no time during his tenure could he remember feeling so uncertain about the future. All his life he had taken what he wanted. Now he feared the Stone Gods wanted it back.
Keeping his voice low and his left hand resting on his guidestone pouch, he said, “Veys and his master are up to some kind of doggery, Dry. When they first came to me six months back, they said they wanted nothing in return for their help. Said the clanholds needed to be united under one firm leader, and that I, as chief of the mightiest of the clans, was just the one to do it. Veys swore his master would never ask for anything in return. And to this day he hasn’t. Yet I know in my gut it isn’t right. I have a suspicion I’m being used, but can’t for the life of me work out how.”
Drybone’s expression never faltered as his chief spoke. If he was shocked, angered, or disappointed, he did not show it. After taking a moment to correct his gelding’s path, he said, “Then we must be watchful, you and I. All our actions from now on must be well thought, and our priority must be to secure the Dhoonehold and prepare for an unknown threat from outside.”
Reaching over, Vaylo clasped Drybone’s arm. They were bastards together, and they knew what it was to defend their possessions against those seeking to take them away. Just knowing he had Drybone’s support was enough to set his mind at ease.
As Vaylo’s eyes met Drybone’s and recognized and acknowledged the loyalty there, a wolf howl broke through the glassy stillness of the night. Keen and hard, it drove through Vaylo’s mind like a stave through his heart. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and deep within his stomach the remains of his last meal turned to lead. The wolf dog. Even as he took his next breath, he heard the other dogs yipping and barking as they rushed toward the call.
Swinging his great weight around in the saddle, Vaylo followed the wolf dog’s cry with his eyes. It came from the north, on the wooded slope that lay above the road. Without pausing to give orders or finish his business with Drybone, Vaylo kicked his old stallion into a canter.
He followed the road for as long as he could, his eyes aching with the strain of holding a path in the darkness. The snow reached the stallion’s fetlocks, and great clouds of blue crystals shot into Vaylo’s face as he rode. Dimly he was aware of the rest of the party following, but he had no mind for them. The boiled-leather body armor that stretched across his chest felt as tight and constricting as a corset, and Vaylo swore curses to the man who had buckled it. The wolf dog’s howls made him mad with fear. Three years he had owned that beast, yet he had never once heard such a sound from its throat.
As he took the slope, a pair of dogs sprang forward, frothing and howling and throwing their heads from side to side, eager to lead the way. Vaylo spoke words to the stallion, and the old beast allowed the dogs to guide him.
Limber pines, their spines bent by the weight of newly fallen snow, shivered like caged animals as he passed. Saplings spilled their loads as the stallion brushed against them, snow hitting the earth like fallen fruit. The exposed pine needles glistened with protective resin, scenting the air with the smell of winter and ice. The cold made Vaylo’s eyes water, and he wiped tears away with fingers encased in dog’s-hide gloves. The fur around his collar was stiff with breath ice, and his woolen cloak pulled at his throat, its fibers heavy with massed snow.
The dogs led the stallion along a cut bank where runoff flowed in spring and through dense clusters of black fir and stone pines. Vaylo thought he detected an unevenness in the snow underfoot, but he couldn’t be sure if it was due to tracks lying beneath the surface or uneven ground. His heart felt too big in his chest, as if some unknown disease had enlarged and distended it, causing chamber walls to thicken and muscle to bloat. He could hardly breathe.
Abruptly the dogs separated, allowing the stallion to step ahead of them into a gently sloped clearing high above the road. The wolf dog, with its thick-muscled neck and metal-colored snout, stood in the center and howled one last time as its master approached. Vaylo slid from his horse, letting the reins fall slack over the stallion’s neck. Behind him the other dogs waited, their yelps growing increasingly softer until there was no sound at all. The wolf dog’s eyes were two coals burning in the darkness. Vaylo stepped toward them, knowing as he did so that he would find nothing good. He was the Dog Lord, and it had been many years since he had last fooled himself with false hope.
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.
The Bludd boast echoed in the back of Vaylo’s throat. Words that had been said so many times over so many centuries that their truth had been deadened by layers of callused skin. Vaylo did not want to think on their meaning. Not tonight.
Bones cracking, furs shedding ice, he stepped toward the wolf dog. The dog shrank as he approached, crouching on all fours and lowering its belly to the ground. A soft whine vibrated deep within its throat, and it began to lick and snuffle at something that stuck out from the snow.
Vaylo fell to his knees. Lashing out violently, he sent the wolf dog away. Speaking words harsher than he had ever spoken before, he made sure it would not return for the rest of the night. Oblivious of the creature’s slow, reluctant withdrawal and the thin, almost human cries it made as it left, Vaylo stripped off his gloves and thrust his bare hands into the snow.
He dug until his fingers turned blue and his skin cracked and blood rolled over flesh he could no longer feel. He dug until his leather cuffs froze solid and his knuckles were bared to the bone and snow driven deep beneath his fingernails was ground into lenses of ice. He dug until his hands and wrists swelled with frostbite, blood ceased flowing to his fingers, and flesh died. Others came and offered help, but he would let no one near him. Light was brought, words were spoken, but all he had mind for was digging his granddaughter’s body from the snow.
Nine, she was. The fiercest little thing that had ever worn a braid on the Bluddhold. She beat all the boys her age at swordplay, and she fought hard and dirty, and Vaylo still had the sore spots to prove it. Just before he’d left, she’d jumped him in the storeroom and stuck him in the knee with her older brother’s training sword. Vaylo smiled as he remembered her wild, triumphant giggling. That girl, he thought. That girl is a Bluddsman through and through.
Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was open and full of snow. The hammer blow that killed her had not drawn blood. As Vaylo dug and scraped and freed her body from the snow, he spoke words, scolding her for playing in the snow. What had Granda always told her? Never play in the snow in unknown woods.
When finally she was free, he tugged the cloak from his back, wrapped her tightly, and carried her to where Dog Horse could watch over her. He never kicked children; she would be safe with him.
That done, he went back to the snow and dug again.
It took him all night to free his grandchildren. Others worked on the women, and more still worked on the road, digging out the men who had fought to save the party. Vaylo paid them little heed. His grandchildren were cold, and they needed their Granda to warm them, and he couldn’t stop until he had lifted each tiny body from the snow.
Dawn came, bringing light that was not welcome and a new day that was wanted even less. Clouds smothered the sky. The snow turned pearly and gray, the color of uncooked seal flesh. The pines around the clearing were perfectly still.
“The Sull did not do this.”
Vaylo looked up from where he was crouched by the body of his newest grandchild, a baby boy no more than ten months old. Drybone stood above him,
his face dark with grief.
“The Sull would never kill children.”
Vaylo nodded. He knew why it was important for Drybone to speak: He was half Trenchlander, and the Trenchlanders were part Sull. Turning back to the frozen body of his grandson, Vaylo began to brush the ice from the child’s fine black hair. “Clan Blackhail did this,” he murmured. “And now we must bring them war.”
Somewhere many leagues to the west, the wolf dog began to howl.
EIGHTEEN
Leaving Home
Effie and Raina came to see them off. As Raif held his sister, pushed his cheeks against her soft, beautiful hair, he was aware of something moving in the darkened hallway beyond the roundhouse door. Wooden boards creaked, and a slight form slipped into the cave of shadows that existed beneath the stairs.
“That’s just Nellie Moss,” Effie said without looking around. “She’s always following Raina about. One day she’ll end up dead in the snow.”
Raif pulled back from Effie so he could look at her face. Huge blue eyes, the color of the sky at midnight, regarded him with a level gaze. “What do you mean, Effie? Why will Nellie Moss end up dead?”
Effie shrugged. The russet-colored dress she wore was woven from heavy goat’s wool and made her look like a doll dressed in grown-up clothes. “I don’t know. She’ll just be dead, that’s all.”
Oh, gods. Raif rocked his sister against his chest. She was such a small thing—too small for her age. When had she learned to speak of death so calmly?
Gently he set her down on her feet. A few strands of hair had fallen over her eyes, and he took a moment to push them back. He had to believe she would be better off without him. He had to.
“Effie will be safe with me and Anwyn,” Raina said, taking hold of Effie’s arm and leading her away. “And Drey will be back today or tomorrow, and you know how much he loves her.”
Raif did not speak.
