by J. V. Jones
Everything that grew on Mount Slain was crippled and hard formed. Moose picked his path with care, hesitating whenever the mountain shivered or twisted bits of dead wood poked rotten limbs through the snow. Raif was so tired his eyes ached. Angus has to be here. He has to be all right.
By the time they reached the road, the lighted carts were long gone, and the crowds of towns and villages had thinned, giving way to plowed fields, fenced grazes, farmhouses, and unlit strongwalls built from rough-hewn stone. A lone man rode a horse in the distance, but Raif knew it wasn’t Angus: too thin, too dark, too upright to be a wounded man. The road itself was wide and gently graded, the snow upon its surface packed to the hardness of ice. To the north lay the Vale of Spires, prime farmland and grazeland that sloped gently for thirty leagues. Angus said that in its center lay a strange formation of granite spires that most people believed had been formed by nature, carved by a hundred thousand years of wind and hail. A few claimed the spires were the work of man, erected in the Time of Shadows by sorcerer-masons who spent their lives working with stone. Fewer still whispered about dark horselords and dark beasts and things impaled upon granite spikes. Raif didn’t know what to think of that. Sometimes he swore Angus told him such things just to see how he’d react.
According to Angus, it was the granite spires that gave the city and the vale their name: Spire Vanis. Vale of Spires.
Raif waited for Ash to join him before turning onto the road and heading west. The relief of riding on cleared ground almost canceled out the fear of being out in the open. It was bitterly cold, and he could feel the freezing air hardening the threads that held his stitches. Ignoring the pain, he began pulling food and drink from the nearest saddlebag. He wasn’t especially hungry, but eating gave him something to do. The wind-dried mutton Angus had purchased ten days ago had the taste and texture of old string. It was easier to suck than chew it. Unwilling to trust his body to alcohol, he washed down the meat with clear water.
As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he was aware of a sense of loss, almost as if he were drifting away to sleep. The muscle lying directly beneath his raven lore wrenched softly, as if something had pulled on it.
Without thought he turned to Ash.
Her eyes were closed, and her head was slumped forward onto her chest.
Raif pulled on his reins, leaping down before Moose had chance to halt. He stilled the bay with a word and then reached up and pulled Ash from the saddle. She weighed almost nothing. As his left arm slid beneath her to support her legs, he felt something wet roll over his hand. Let it not be blood, he thought as he hefted her fast against his chest.
Picking a spot fifty paces from the road’s edge, shielded from casual eyes by a grove of sticklike birches, Raif laid her down on the blankets she had been using as a cloak. Quickly he ran back for the horses. As he led Moose and the bay through the brush, he reached inside his skins for his lore. The horn felt cold, and heavier than it had a right to be.
Ash lay where he had left her, perfectly still, breathing fast, shallow breaths. A dark stain on her skirt grew as he looked on, pluming outward like dye poured in water. The horses smelled blood. Raif pushed up his sleeves and knelt in the snow. He hesitated before touching her again. He had felt nothing when he’d pulled her from the bay, but what if the voices had returned? Swallowing hard, he reached out and brushed the hair from her face.
Reach for us, reach. We cannot wait much longer, we are cold, so cold, our chains cut us, how they cut us, we want, we need. Reach.
Raif’s first instinct was to pull away. Run, said something within him. Run and never look back. He didn’t run, though he could not say why. Instead he took Ash by the shoulders and shook her. “Wake!” he cried. “Wake!”
No muscle in her face or body moved. She was limp beneath his grip, a doll made of rags. Still he shook her; he didn’t know what else to do.
Gradually, over the course of many seconds, her shoulders stiffened beneath him. Imagining she was coming round, he took his hands from her and sat back in the snow. He wondered why he felt no relief. A long moment passed, where the wind died and the snow settled, and then Ash’s arms began to rise, slowly, mechanically, like machines worked by ghosts.
Gooseflesh lifted on Raif’s arms. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he slammed his fists into her shoulders, forcing the muscles flat. She would not reach out to them. He would not let her. It was madness and he didn’t understand it, but he had heard the voices call to her and knew they loved her not.
Ash’s body fought him, but not in a forceful way, more a slow relentless push. New blood flared over her skirt, soaking through to the snow beneath. Raif didn’t want to risk letting her go to deal with it. There was too much to be woman’s blood, that he knew.
Then, suddenly, Ash stopped fighting him. Her body stilled. Raif felt a bead of cold sweat trickle along his stitches. All was quiet for a moment as the night entered a new phase of darkness, then Ash’s mouth fell open.
The stench of blood metal came out. The same odor Raif had smelled the day his father died.
Sorcery, and she was drawing it.
Raif howled Angus’ name into the night.
TWENTY-FIVE
Tunnels of the Sull
Penthero Iss was standing in the Rive Hall, in the heart of the Red Forge, watching Marafice Eye snap a sword over his knee, when the night came alive with sorcery. The Knife’s leathers were stiff with mud and blood, his face smeared with soot, his fingernails jutting from his fingertips with the pressure of wedged dirt. Fury was upon him, though he did not shake and he did not fume; he took things in his hands and broke them.
“Six of mine dead. Another three wounded in the chase. And they got away—all three of them.” Marafice Eye raised the two separate pieces he had made of the sword. “And this is all I got from Angus Lok. This!”
That was when Iss felt it: strong, metallic, reverberating with the pure tone of a struck bell. Sorcery, and it shot through the room like siege fire. Iss’ tongue wetted, and the glaze on his corneas dried in an instant, leaving a scum of salt and dust that stung his eyes. Fear relaxed muscles in his lower abdomen, and he had to work quickly to stop urine from dribbling down his thigh. Yet even as terror took him and his skin soaked up the aftermath like a rag dipped in oil, he probed the nature of the drawing with small mental jabs.
Iss breathed through his mouth, letting minute particles of airborne metal settle upon his tongue. Straightaway he learned things. The drawing was unfocused, the work of a beginner. It came from somewhere close and to the east. If he had been a stronger sorcerer himself, he might have forsaken his body and tracked it back to the source. Almost he didn’t need to. He knew who had drawn it and where she was likely to be.
Asarhia. The air tasted of her. A small thrill fingered Iss’ throat and groin. His almost-daughter was close by, probably on the east road or traveling just above it, doing what she had been born for: reaching from this world to the one that lay beyond.
Abruptly the flow of sorcery stopped, halted so quickly that Iss was left snapping tongue flesh. He felt disoriented for a moment, as if he had been passing through a doorway that was suddenly and unexpectedly shut. Aware of Marafice Eye’s hard blue eyes upon him, he worked to bring his body and mind under control. Only those who could use sorcery could sense it.
“Trapped wind?” Marafice Eye said, throwing the broken pieces of sword onto the exquisitely woven rug that covered the length of the Rive Hall. “Too many quails eggs at supper. You should try eating real meat instead.”
Iss made no reply. Marafice Eye’s crudeness was nothing to him; he’d had more than fifteen years to grow accustomed to it.
Taking a moment to still himself, Iss regarded the vast stone-ceilinged chamber of the Rive Hall. Row upon row of red swords armed the walls, hung from their crossguards and pointing down toward the earth. Blood steel, forged in the great black furnace in the adjoining chamber, cooled in oil drawn from the tar pits of the Joi
n. Only two people in the Watch knew the secret of its making: the Iron Master and the Rive scribe. The scribe kept a written record of the brazing. The text was rumored to fill three leaves of parchment and be written backward in the manner of sorcerer’s spells.
Iss turned to face the Knife. “Asarhia is no longer in the city. She’s east of here, either on the road or just above it.”
Marafice Eye’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. “I’ll leave within the quarter.” He turned to go.
“No.” Iss found himself strangely unsettled by Asarhia’s drawing. Its aftermath still lived within him, running like fever through his blood. He forced his mind to focus above the roar of the forge. “Not yet. I must know more about who we are dealing with. This stranger . . . the one with the arrows—”
“That bastard shot four of my men, dropped them where they stood.”
There was that hint of possessiveness again: my men, mine. Iss wasn’t sure that he liked this new protective Knife. “What did he look like?”
“Dark haired. Rough clad, like one of those demon clansmen. Had a silver piece in his hair.”
“A Hailsman, then.” Iss felt better for knowing that one small fact. “And he shot the brothers through the grating?”
Marafice Eye stamped a booted foot on a section of the broken sword and ground it into the rug. “Space no bigger than a piss hole.”
Iss ran a hand over the cleverly weighted silk of his robe. He had felt four jolts of power earlier: rough, hard, and stinking of the Old Blood. He had assumed it was Angus Lok, an old dog who had learned new tricks. Now it seemed it was someone else. “When you chased Lok through the city, did you catch sight of Asarhia or the clansman again?”
“No.”
So it was likely the two were together. Now. The thought of Asarhia in the company of some rough-skinned clansman who could draw upon the Old Blood turned him cold. And then there was Angus Lok . . . Iss’ fingers tightened around the silk. Asarhia was his. He had found her. He had raised her. She called no one else Father but him. Armed men were no longer enough. “You must take Sarga Veys with you when you leave. Asarhia must be brought back.”
“The Halfman.” Marafice Eye spat the word.
“Yes. The Halfman. He will be able to track Asarhia in ways you cannot.”
“I will not have him in any sept of my choosing.”
“Don’t be a fool. If this clansman is a demon, as you say, then who better to deal with him than a demon of our own?”
Marafice Eye grunted.
“And you do want them back, don’t you? All three of them. Asarhia must be brought to me alive and unharmed, but the men . . .”
“They slaughtered my own.”
“Precisely. Kill the clansman where you find him. Angus Lok must be brought to the Cask and tortured. He’s so full of secrets his skin will likely burst the moment we strap him to the wheel.” Iss glanced quickly at the Knife, then added, “You can have him when Caydis is done.”
“Don’t make light with me, Surlord. I’m not one of your grangelings.”
“No. But you want Lok and the clansman, and it seems to me that Sarga Veys is your best chance of getting them.” Iss’ temper rose as he spoke. The thought of Sarga Veys tracking down Asarhia chilled him, yet time was running out and new dangers had come into play, and Asarhia must be found. A dry sept might easily lose her, especially now that she had the protection of a man who could heart-kill seven brothers with seven arrows if he chose. A fully formed sept was the answer: six armed men and one magic user. Such small, fast-moving forces had once been the scourge of the North.
Marafice Eye glowered. “Very well. I’ll take him with me, though I can’t vouch for his good health on my return.”
Iss forced himself to smile. “As you wish.” Perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad after all. The Knife would keep an eye on Sarga Veys . . . that and one of his dog-size fists. “Send him to me before you leave.”
“Here?” The Knife snapped his head in a circle, indicating the walls of red steel, the embossed shields and iron bird helms arrayed on racks, the life-size statue of the Killhound standing at the foot of the great fireplace, carved from marble so black that to look at it hurt one’s eyes, and the tapestries nailed to the ceiling for want of a better place to hang them, tapestries depicting Thomas Mar, Theron and Rangor Pengaron, the Whitehog, and a dozen other men armed to the teeth and bathed in blood.
Iss saw the Knife’s point. “No . . . tell him I’ll meet him in the guardroom instead.”
That made Marafice Eye smile. “There are a lot of angry brothers there tonight.”
Iss shrugged innocently. “Then he won’t be lonely if I’m a little late.”
“Keep the rag in her mouth until she wakes.” Angus stood, grimacing as his muscles stretched and twisted. He thrust a fist against the wet sparrow-size hole in his chest, counted twelve seconds under his breath, then spoke again. “You’d better take another draw of the ghostmeal. We have a long night ahead.”
Raif was kneeling over Ash’s lifeless body. Angus had found them an hour ago, drawn by Raif’s cry. Shaking with fatigue, his fingers yellow with the first sign of frostbite, and his face black with blood, he had barely spared a glance for Raif before starting work on Ash. After wadding a horse shammy into a ball, he had thrust it into her mouth, then held her jaws together, until nothing, not even breath, could leak out. Raif felt the sorcery stop as quickly as a candle snuffed by hand. Even before the stench of metal had dissipated, Angus began working on something else. He lit a small alcohol-fueled fire, heated snowmelt in a tin cup, then added dried herbs and roots to the liquid once it had boiled. The concoction soon turned yellowy green and gave off an odor that reminded Raif of the Oldwood in spring. “Bethroot to slow bleeding, valerian to calm her mind,” Angus said.
As he turned back to tend Ash, Raif noticed that his uncle’s sword was gone. The sheepskin scabbard was limp and misshapen, striped with sword cuts and dark with blood. After a moment Raif looked away. It was hard to think about what Angus must have gone through to reach here.
When the green concoction was ready, Angus came and knelt at Raif’s side. Gently he eased the wadded shammy from Ash’s mouth and dribbled steaming liquid down her throat. He said things, whispers too low for Raif to understand, all the while rocking her back and forth against his chest. When he was satisfied that she had swallowed enough of the liquid, Angus glanced at Raif. “Turn your back.” It was fiercely said, and Raif obeyed immediately. Sounds of fabric being lifted and torn followed. Water was poured. Rags were wrung dry. “Hand me the clean shirt from my pack.” Raif did so without once glancing at Ash. He wondered how Angus could continue working with his chest wound still open and leaking. The hole needed to be cleaned and stitched, yet Raif knew his uncle would welcome no reminders.
The sound of fabric being knotted was soon followed by a series of commands. “I need grease. Warmed wax. The silver vial from my pack. Whatever spare clothes you have must be cut to a size to fit her. Beat the ice from my buckskin mitts, then take the chill from them over the fire. Quick now. There is little time.”
Raif didn’t know how long it took to fetch all the things Angus needed, yet the steady drop in temperature made him aware of time passing. The night had turned as dark and still as the inside of a sealed cairn. The fierce blue flames from the alcohol fire gave off more heat than light, and Raif wondered how his uncle could see to work. When Angus was done with tending to Ash, he returned the shammy to her mouth and bade Raif watch her while he saw to his own hurts.
He was a good deal harder on himself than the girl. Tippling frequently from the rabbit flask, he cleaned and stitched his own flesh. There was a lot of blood, and Angus was by turns anguished then impatient. He swore like a hammerman. When he was finished he had an ugly mass of black stitches on his chest. Raif thought they looked like a heap of dead spiders, yet didn’t say anything. Angus stamped out the fire. “Get the horses ready. I’ll wake the girl. Have you taken that ghost
meal yet?”
Raif shook his head. Ghostmeal was as false as the twin landscapes that hovered above the earth on cold, bright days in the badlands. It fooled the senses, nothing more. Raif preferred to be exhausted and know he was exhausted.
Brushing snow from his dogskin pants, he rose and made his way to the horses. Moose welcomed his approach by snuffling gently and nudging Raif’s chest with his head. The gray was a good horse, well suited to long treks through deep snow. Raif brushed him down, cleaning ice from his eyelashes and nostrils. “It’s been a long day for you, too,” he said, thinking of Orwin Shank and all the fine horses he had bred. “Not much farther to go tonight.”
A faint groan sounded, and Raif looked over Moose’s shoulder to where Angus was crouched over Ash. “Wake now, little lass. You’re safe. Safe and amongst friends.”
Ash opened her eyes. A wary, animal expression crossed her face, and she shied away from Angus’ touch. Angus let her go, yet Raif sensed he did not want to.
“It’s all right,” he said softly. “I’m Angus, and that’s Raif, and we’re taking you somewhere safe.”
“How long was I . . . asleep?” Ash frowned as she spoke, her mouth twisting as if she’d tasted something unpleasant.
“A wee nonce, nothing more.” Standing, Angus held out his hand for her to take. Once she was upright she glanced around, at Raif, the horses, their surroundings. Last, she looked down at her clothes.
“Your dress was as stiff as a board when I got here, so I had little choice but to strip it away.” Angus met Ash’s eyes, and after a moment she looked down, suddenly finding a leather strap that needed retying beneath her chin. Angus did not share her embarrassment. Clapping his hands together, he said, “Well then. We’d better make a start. Raif. Roll the blankets. I’ll take Ash on the bay wi’ me.”
