by J. V. Jones
Spynie Orrl was not ruffled in the slightest. Before he spoke he winked at the wolf dog. “Aye, I don’t deny it. But I did stop to wonder what you saw when you reached the top of the Ganmiddich Tower and turned your gaze north. There have always been wars in the clanholds, but can you honestly say you have ever known or heard of one like this? Bludd against Dhoone, Blackhail against Bludd, war-sworn clans fighting amongst themselves. And now that the Hail Wolf has forced a Dhoone-sworn clan to turn, Blackhail will have to cross axes with Dhoone.” The ancient pink-skinned clan chief clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “There are outside forces at work here, Bludd chief. I know it. You know it. And the question that now remains is, Are you content to let it be?”
Vaylo Bludd breathed deeply. Knowing he needed a moment to think, he fished in his belt pouch and pulled out a chunk of chewing curd, tough and black as Nan could make it. As he pushed it into his mouth, he was aware of Spynie’s eyes upon him. Vaylo hated scrutiny. “Why come to me with these words? Why not search out the Dhoone chief in exile, or the Hail Wolf himself?”
“You know why, Bludd chief. We are the oldest chiefs in the clanholds, you and I. Together we have close to ninety years of chiefdom between us, and that cannot be lightly said. We come from the two opposite ends of the clanholds, and today we meet here, in its heart.
“I know you’re an ambitious man, and no one can fault you for that, but I wonder if you sleep well at night. You’re cut from different timber than the Hail Wolf. Oh, I know you both fancy yourselves Lord of the Clans, but you’ve led Bludd for thirty-five years and he’s led Blackhail for less than one. His ambition is blind. He has not learned what it is to be a chief in the true sense of the word, to put his clan, not himself, first. You have. No one stays chief for as long as you have without learning that sword strength alone is not enough.” Spynie Orrl paused for a long moment, and when he spoke again he sounded tired and very old.
“The cities are planning to take the clanholds. They’re behind this war, stirring the pot, keeping it on the boil until such a time that so many of our clansmen are dead they can just hike straight over the Bitter Hills and shatter our guidestones to dust. We’re waging the war for them. And unless we shake ourselves out of this senseless slaying, we’ll destroy ourselves for them, too.”
Vaylo Bludd took breath to speak, but Spynie waved him to silence. The Orrl chief wasn’t done yet.
“And there’s one last thing for you to think on, Bludd chief, you whose clan boasts, 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 Sull are preparing for war.”
The words hung in the air like dragon smoke, heavy and black and scented with the fragrance of old myths. When the Dog Lord breathed he took them in. Deep inside his lungs they worked on him, stirring memories so old he wondered if they belonged to his father, or the man who had fathered him. Fear touched him like the swift nick of a knife. No, he told himself, quick to turn fear into anger. Gullit Bludd passed no memories to me. He barely spoke five words to me in all the years I grew to manhood at his hearth.
“How do you know this to be so?”
“I’m an old man. I do little these days but listen and watch.”
It was no answer, but seeing the hardness in Spynie Orrl’s eyes, Vaylo knew it was the best he was going to get. “Do they mean to make war on the cities or the clanholds?”
The Orrl chief raised the ridges of pink skin where his eyebrows had once grown. “They’re Sull. Who’s to say who or what they will fight?”
Again, fear pricked at Vaylo’s neck. “Are you playing games with me, old man?”
“Perhaps if you had wintered at your own roundhouse and not blue Dhoone’s, you might have seen the signs yourself.”
Vaylo spat his wad of curd onto the floor. “Damn you, Orrl chief. Speak plainly. If you know more, say it!”
“I know only that while the clans are busy butchering themselves, the Sull are cleansing and fasting and growing their proudlocks for war. Five nights back one of my cragsmen saw two Far Riders passing west. The week before that an Ille Glaive trader came and purchased all my stocks of opal and jet. Opal and jet. Moon and night sky. The Sull use both in their bows.” Spynie Orrl let out a thin breath as he waited for the Dog Lord to meet his eyes. “Tell me, Bludd chief, have you ever wondered what your clan boast means?”
The question disturbed Vaylo deeply. He said nothing rather than speak a lie.
Spynie Orrl watched the Dog Lord’s face for a long moment, his eyes pulling, pulling, at Vaylo’s thoughts. Abruptly he stood. “It’s time I started my journey back. Send for my escort. I trust you didn’t order their slaying. It would be quite an inconvenience to me to have to war against Bludd as well as Blackhail and Scarpe.”
Vaylo did not take the bait. Unease was too deep upon him. “They have been treated as guests. Their weapons were ransomed but not removed from their sight.”
“Aye. I thank you for that courtesy.” Spynie Orrl reached the door. Standing, the Dog Lord towered over him, a bear beside a goat. “You must not let your hatred of the Hail Wolf poison you against Blackhail. There are good people in that clan. Raina Blackhail, Corbie Meese, Ballic the Red, Drey Sevrance—”
The word Sevrance was too much for Vaylo Bludd, and he shook his head until his braids whipped against his face. “Say no more, Orrl chief. You come close to crossing bounds.”
Surprisingly, Spynie Orrl nodded. “Aye. Perhaps I do, but you cannot blame a man for the actions of his brother.”
Vaylo growled. The noise was so low and terrible, the dogs shrank back in the hearth.
Spynie Orrl shrugged. “Think on what I have said, Bludd chief. When an old man travels through the darkness of four nights and three warring clans to see you, you’d be a fool not to take note of what he said.” With that the old man left.
It would be a full five days before Vaylo received word of his death.
The Naysayer spotted the clansman first. He was crouching in the shelter of granite rocks, his back bent over a bundle of bloody rags. Ark named him an Orrlsman, as he was wearing the snow-colored cloak of a hunter from that clan. Well before they reached him, the two Far Riders unmounted and entered the ground he had claimed on foot.
Neither Mal nor Ark drew weapons. They were Far Riders, and both knew that while there was much to fear here, the clansman was unarmed and in no state to fight. Ark watched as the clansman became aware of them, as his head rose and his eyes long focused and his expression shifted between anger and fear.
Ark Veinsplitter, Son of the Sull and chosen Far Rider, was well used to being the object of fear. He had ridden these lands for twenty years, fought battles with men and beasts, borne messages across frozen seas, iron mountains, and desert floors baked as hard as glass: Fear was his due. What he didn’t expect was his own fear, fluid as liquid mercury, rising in the back of his throat. The clansman’s eyes pinned him with a look he would remember for always. And a question he would ask himself for the rest of his life murmured in his ears like the wind: Have I done the will of the gods?
The clansman stood to meet them, his cloak spreading in the wind, his bare hands yellow and frozen. Ark’s whole being was so completely focused upon him, he nearly missed the carcass embedded in the snow. A full-grown wolf, big as a black bear, with two feet of willow jammed down its throat. “Heart-killed,” said the Naysayer, the words dropping like stones from his mouth.
Ark closed his eyes and sent a prayer to the Sender of Storms. When he opened them he knew the world he lived in had changed. A clansman had heart-killed a wolf.
“Help her.” The clansman spoke Common with a clannish lilt. As he spoke he jerked his right hand in the direction of the bloody rags. No greeting. No questions. No fear.
At Ark’s side, Mal Naysayer reached for one of his wolverine-skin packs. With a tiny jolt of realization, Ark understood that the clansman was not alone and that the bloody bundle of rag
s he stood over was a person . . . a girl. And Mal meant to tend her, because that was the nature of Mal Naysayer. He would not turn his back on a cry for help.
Ark almost cried for him to stop. Too late he saw the pale circle of powder in the snow, too late he realized that blood should be let and a price paid now, not later, for entry into territory that had been marked by clannish gods. Transfixed, Ark Veinsplitter watched Mal Naysayer break the circle and drop to his knees by the girl. Already he had a sable blanket bunched in his hands, ready to place under her.
There was nothing for Ark to do but raise the tents and build a fire.
FIFTY-ONE
Snow Ghosts
Effie stayed awake until her eyes were sore, but there was still no sign of Drey. Anwyn Bird had sworn he would return from Ganmiddich today, but it was long past midnight now and the roundhouse was dark and creaking, and Bitty Shank was drawing the iron bar across the greatdoor and securing the pullstone in place.
“Hey, little one. You should go to bed. The storm’s slowed Drey down, that’s all. He’ll be here in the morning, I promise.” Bitty Shank tied greased rope as thick as his wrist around the brass claws that were sunk deep into the stonework on either side of the door. “I spoke to him myself only ten days ago. Said as soon as the Crab chief reclaims that tall green roundhouse of his, he’ll be back to scrub your face and pull your hair.”
Despite herself, Effie smiled. Bitty Shank was funny. Like all the Shanks, he had a shiny red face and pale hair. And he loved Drey. All the Shanks loved Drey.
Done with sealing the great roundhouse door, Bitty turned to look at Effie, who was sitting at the foot of the stairs. Bitty was the second youngest of the Shank boys, a yearman of two winters who’d lost one ear to a Bluddsman’s sword and the tip of two fingers to the ’bite. His blond hair was already thinning, though he swore that since he’d lost his ear it had started growing back of its own accord. Effie didn’t see it herself, but she never offered opinions unasked.
“So. Would m’lady care for an escort to her chamber?” Bitty flourished his arm in the air and then bowed with exaggerated grace. “Though I do say it myself, I have a sword forged for guarding maidens and the kind of walk that scatters rats.”
Effie giggled. Part of her felt bad doing so, but Bitty was so very funny, and she was wound up so tightly inside with worry and fear that it sort of broke out on its own. Like wind. That thought made Effie giggle even more. All the while Bitty stood by the door, smiling and then laughing right back. It felt good to laugh. It banished the blindness for a while.
“Come on, little one. I best get you off to bed ’fore you wake Anwyn and get us both spoon-bled and kettle-whipped.”
Effie didn’t think such a thing as spoon-bleeding existed, and she knew for a fact that no amount of laughing in the entrance hall would rouse Anwyn, because the barrel-shaped matron slept in the game room at the rear of the building, guarding her butchered meat. Still, she stopped laughing and rose to her feet. Bitty Shank was a yearman, wounded in battle, and he deserved her respect.
He put out his good hand for her to take, but Effie ignored it and took his frostbitten one instead. Effie Sevrance was not squeamish. The two stubs, with their shiny pink flesh and smooth, nailless tips, were things of wonder to her. Bitty, first embarrassed and then pleased with her interest, demonstrated his range of movements as he led her downstairs. “See,” he said, pausing a third of the way down to waggle his fingers in the light of a burning lunt. “I can still hold a halfsword and draw a full bow.”
Effie nodded gravely: She was clan; she knew that no matter how casual his voice sounded, nothing mattered more.
Bitty was one of a dozen yearmen and sworn clansmen who made it their business to watch over Drey Sevrance’s little sister while Drey was away from home. Effie knew what they were up to and guessed that Drey asked everyone he rode with to keep an eye on her when he was gone. Oh, they thought they were being as clever as grown men could be, always arranging to bump into her late at night when it was long past her bedtime, or checking in on her when they thought she was asleep, or sometimes even sleeping right outside her door and claiming drunkenness had made them pass out then and there.
The proud part of Effie knew she should resent it; she was nearly grown-up now, a full eight years of age, and certainly didn’t need any old clansman watching over her. But ever since she’d lost her lore, only the sight of men such as Bitty, Corbie Meese, Rory Cleet, and Bullhammer could make her feel safe inside.
She was blind without her lore. Blind.
No one had seen it or knew where it was. Anwyn Bird had ordered some of the older children to search the roundhouse from wet cell to dovecote; Raina Blackhail had addressed the clan and commanded the person who had taken it to drop it outside her door, no questions asked. Even Inigar Stoop had fallen down on his hands and knees and raked through the ash, rock dust, and gravel that had accumulated on the guidehouse floor. Losing one’s lore was bad luck of the worst kind. Effie knew it. Inigar knew it, and that’s why when the guide found nothing the first time he searched, he went back and searched again.
Trouble was, she hadn’t known how much she relied upon the little ear-shaped chunk of granite until it was gone. Always when she was worried or afraid, she reached up and touched her lore. It didn’t always show her things—not proper things, not things that she could make sense of—but it always made her feel something. In the past, when Drey was late home from scouting or raids, all she had to do was take her lore in her fist and think of him. As long as it didn’t push, it meant he was safe. Bad things only happened with her knowledge . . . like Da, like Raina, like Cutty Moss. Now bad things could happen and she would know nothing at all.
Three loud thuds broke Effie’s thoughts. “Open up! Open up! Clansmen wounded!” The call of returning war parties.
Effie looked at Bitty, and before she knew it the blond-haired yearman had grabbed her by the waist and swung her over his back. For the first time in her life Effie saw the ceiling above the staircase close up. Green-and-black mildew grew there, in the fuzzy bits between stones. “Drey and the Ganmiddich eleven are back!” Bitty cried as he raced up the stairs, Effie bouncing like an animal hide on his shoulders. “They’re back! They’re back!”
Effie wasn’t sure what she felt about heights, but at that moment she supposed she wouldn’t have minded if the entire Shank family had stood shoulder upon shoulder and balanced her right on top. Drey was back. Drey.
The hue and cry at the door roused the roundhouse, and all those clansfolk who had waited with Effie most of the night but given up and gone to bed before her suddenly came rushing into the hall. Effie hardly spared a thought for the river of clansmen descending from the Great Hearth, their leather-and-metal armor jouncing loose against their chests, or the miraculous appearance of Anwyn Bird, who was suddenly there at the top of the stairs, a tray of fried bread in her hands and a barrel of hearth-warmed ale at her feet.
Effie’s mind was on the door. Bitty had set her down on two feet and then appointed her the most important task of unraveling the cords of rope that bound the bar securely in its iron cradle. Effie’s heart swelled with pride as she worked. She was helping a yearman open the door. Even when Orwin Shank, Bitty’s father, came to help with the pullstone, Bitty made space for Effie’s hand upon it, and together the three of them dragged the quarter-ton weight of sandstone on its greased tracks across the floor.
Then the bar was raised and the door swung open, revealing its waxed and metal-studded exterior face to the hall, and there, standing in the doorway like dark gods, bodies steaming, iron armor blue with frost, mud-stained faces set into grim lines, were the first of the Ganmiddich eleven. They were the men who had held the Ganmiddich roundhouse while Mace Blackhail had ridden to treat with the Crab chief at Croser. Now the Crab was war-sworn to Blackhail and newly returned to his roundhouse and Drey and the eleven were back.
Like everyone in the clan, Effie had heard the story of how
Raif had been taken at the tower, only to escape that same night by wounding Drey so deeply with Drey’s own sword that the bleeding persisted for two days. Effie didn’t waste a single moment believing it. She didn’t need her lore to tell her that Raif would never raise a hand against Drey. Ever.
Corbie Meese was the first through the door. Effie called to him, “Where’s Drey?” but her voice was small and Corbie’s eyes were on his wife, Sarolyn, who was heavy with child and paler than either Anwyn or Raina liked, and the great dent-headed hammerman pushed past Effie without once glancing down. Mull Shank came next, and Effie meant to ask her question to him, but Orwin Shank stepped right in front of her, sweeping his eldest son in a hug so brutal, it almost looked as if they were fighting.
Effie stepped outside into the cold. She spied Cleg Trotter, son of crofter Paille Trotter, and headed toward him, clearing her throat. Bodies smelling of horses, leather, and frost drove against her, sweeping her sideways and then back. She lost sight of Cleg Trotter, and when she saw him again his father’s arm was around his shoulder, and the two great bear-size men were talking head-to-head. There was no room for an eight-year-old girl to come between them.
All around, clansmen and -women were pouring onto the court. A light snow was falling, and apart from the wedge of orange light spilling from the doorway, it was as dark as a winter night could be. Sounds of laughter and private whisperings filled Effie’s ears, promises of lovemaking, special potions for easing chilblains, and favorite foods steaming on the hearth. To either side of her, bodies came together violently, mud and ice from boots and cloak tails dropping in heavy clods to the earth. Horses shook their heads and snorted streams of white mist into the air. Clansmen came from the stables to tend them, and soon it was impossible to tell the Ganmiddich eleven from any of the dozens of clansmen who had invaded the court.
