by J. V. Jones
“Do you know Angus Lok?”
For the first time in twenty days, Raina saw Chella Gloyal look uncomfortable. Raina hardly knew what had made her ask the question—just some half-baked idea that the story about the Milk chief was the sort of thing Angus Lok liked to tell. Little stories with a purpose. With a push.
The Croserwoman began to wrap the remains of the food. “I have met Angus Lok, yes. He used to come to Croser to trade news and small goods.”
Raina stood. “Let’s head home.”
She felt Chella’s gaze on her back as she went to collect Mercy. For a reason apparent only to herself, Mercy was standing midstream in the creek and had to be coaxed to the bank. Ideas were swirling in Raina’s head. She needed to ride so she could think.
Once Mercy had taken a trail she never forgot it, so Raina gave the horse her head. They didn’t wait for Chella and the stallion. It was close to midday but the forest was still cool. Raina wondered if the snow between the pines would ever melt. Riding from the tree line into grazes and open fields was like punching into another world. The sun was warm here and the snow was slushy and mixed with mud.
So mention of Angus Lok had caught Chella Gloyal off-guard. Why? What did they have in common? Both were outsiders to Blackhail and both had lived in the Mountain Cities . . . and both liked to interfere with other people’s lives. Oh Angus Lok was a good deal more subtle about it, but then he had a good twenty years on this girl. And that was another thing. Grim Shank, Gods love him, was a fine warrior and a good son but he didn’t match his new wife in demeanor, intelligence or looks. With all her charms Chella could have had her pick of men, yet she had chosen Grim. At the creek Raina had seen something in Chella’s eyes. Intent, purpose: something.
Did she have something invested here? Certainly she found Raina Blackhail wanting and was not shy about pointing it out.
Enough, Raina told herself. Too much thinking. Dagro had rarely strained himself with excess cogitation—and he would never let it hinder his enjoyment of a fine ride.
Pressing her boot heels into Mercy’s flank, she galloped the final league to the roundhouse. Chella kept apace, though her stallion could easily have outrun Mercy if he’d been allowed to. By the time they reached the cattle turnout, both horses were lathered. Raina turned to Chella and grinned, and Chella grinned right back.
“Wonderful,” she said.
Raina agreed. They trotted their horses toward the stables in companionable silence. Cows had been turned out onto the hard standing and herders and dairymen were busy managing the herd. Raina was glad to see livestock on its way to pasture. It meant spring. Once the grass started coming in there would be less pressure on the dry stores and that was something else to be glad about. Raina decided not to worry about the grain level. Not today.
“Chief’s.” The dairyman, Neddic Bowes greeted Raina with the shortened version of the title “chief’s wife.” Dressed in a big red apron over dairy whites and knee waders, Neddic was hard to miss. “Back in time for the excitement, eh? Must have known it was coming.”
The band of muscle between Raina’s gut and lungs tensed. Outside she remained calm. “Well,” she said, thinking furiously and beginning to regret her second helping of pear spirits. “Little happens around here without me knowing about it.” Then, to the groom who had come forward to take possession of Mercy, “Box the stallion. I’ll ride Mercy onto the greatcourt.” She spoke loudly enough so that Chella, who was a length behind, heard the instruction. It was an order, and both the groom and Chella Gloyal understood it: the stallion and its rider stay here, at the stables.
Raina rode on. She felt as if she was leaving her old life behind, that the path to the front of the roundhouse was a tunnel and she would emerge from it into a remade world. She knew her clan. What she’d heard in Neddic Bowes’ voice and seen in the face of the groomsman already told her much of what she needed to know: Harm was coming to Blackhail.
People were already gathering ahead of her. Stonemasons and builders had left their work on the new outbuildings and were forming small groups on the greatcourt. The clandoor was open and warriors, women and children were spilling out. Raina’s eyes jumped to the Scarpes. Something was different. Many of them were formally dressed, in black fronts, leather paneling and weasel pelts. All were armed.
Raina noted their numbers and felt fear.
You sent away your friends.
A mounted company was closing distance from the south. When they reached the gravel rode, they fanned out in a classic “flight of geese” formation, displaying the high status of their leader. Two standard-bearers flanked the head rider. Six-foot poles held firm in saddle horns flew the black and brown of Scarpe. Weasel and poison pine.
Sweet gods. It was the Scarpe chief, Yelma Scarpe, sitting closed-legged on a huge brown mare fitted with a cushioned saddle seat. The instant Raina recognized her, Yelma Scarpe’s thin lips stretched to something resembling a smile. I’m ahead of you, the expression conveyed.
Watching the Scarpe chief’s face Raina made a series of decisions. Quickly she scanned the crowd. Singling out the young hammerman Pog Bramwell, she issued orders in a low voice. “Swift now,” she told him, gaze flicking to the mounted company. “When you’re done come and stand at my back.”
Pog Bramwell, all of seventeen and still hoping to use a razor daily, bowed his head. Fine golden hairs at the back of his neck defied the jurisdiction of his warrior’s queue. “Aye, lady.”
Raina kicked Mercy forward so horse and rider stood ahead of the crowd. Yelma had gained the greatcourt and her party was slowing. Now they were closer, Raina saw that the saddle seat had armrests—like a throne—and Yelma’s bony bejeweled fingers rested on leather pads. In a show of horsemanship, she held the reins in the crook of her left thumb.
Two months ago, on the day of Anwyn Bird’s death, Longhead had warned that the Scarpe chief was planning a visit. “When the snow is off the ground,” he’d said. It did not take a wise man to scan the great rolling mass of the southern graze and see snow. It lay in gray heaps at the side of the road, in the northern shadows of hills and hummocks, in the wells of trees, and in slushy pools upon low ground. That meant Yelma had come early. So either she meant to take the Hailhold by surprise, or receipt of Stannig Beade’s corpse had stirred her from the Weasel chair before planned.
It did not matter, Raina realized. The one thing you need to know about weasels, Dagro had once said, is they eat the head first.
Raina swallowed. The urge to dismount was strong but she fought it, making herself sit back in the saddle and relax. It was a declaration and she, Yelma Scarpe and everyone of the greatcourt knew it. There was no going back now. Raina Blackhail had declared herself equal to the Weasel chief.
Do and be damned.
Let my chiefship begin.
Almost on cue, Raina heard the sound she’d been waiting for: the bass rumble of the greatdoor sliding closed along its track. The sound tolled across the court, changing everyone who heard it. Warriors’ pupils dilated as they checked the readiness of their weapons and the layout of the available space. Women drew their children closer. Old men wished for their youth. The bond between Blackhail and Scarpe snapped with force, creating enemies so hostile one could not doubt that they had hated each other all along.
You could not move time backward, Raina realized, but you could move it forward. With the order to shut the door on the Scarpe chief, she, Raina Blackhail, had made a new Age.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her guard assemble itself around her. Hardgate Meese, father to Corbie, was at her right. He had taken a kidney wound at Ganmiddich but she doubted he would let it show. Ballic the Red and Tannic Crow, the two finest bowmen remaining in the house, were at her left. Yearmen and graybeards made up the rest of her crew. Lyes and Murdocks, Ganlows and Gormalins, Bannerings and Onnachres: old families whose loyalty she was now counting on. Her two most valuable allies—Orwin Shank and Corbie Meese—were gone and sh
e could not say what would happen here without them.
Yelma Scarpe gave a signal to her company, bringing them to a halt thirty paces from where Raina sat Mercy and leveling them to a single line. It occurred to Raina that an artist could render a likeness of the Scarpe chief without ever drawing a curve. She was dressed in stiff brown silk embroidered at the hem and cuffs with an unlovely design of weasel heads and pine cones. Her jewels, aggressively substantial, threw sparks.
“Welcome,” Raina said. She could hear the ride to the northern woods in her voice, the flatness following a long exertion. Raina hoped it passed for calm. “We are glad you have come.”
The sun was behind the Scarpe chief, making it difficult to read her face. Seconds passed. Was she looking at the crowd outside the greatdoor, head-counting the resident Scarpes? Her fingers curled against the armrests of her chair.
“Woman,” she said. “I came here at the request of your chief, as a friend to Blackhail in time of war. It is an ill house that bars its door against its allies and an unsound mind that would issue such an order. Pray fetch the senior Hailsmen. I would speak with those in charge.”
At her side, Raina’s guard did not move. Raina listened for sounds from the crowd behind her—any sign that Hailsmen and Scarpes were dividing into camps—but blood was pumping through her ears and she couldn’t be sure if anyone stirred. For a certainly she would not betray her fear by looking around.
She raised her chin. “You speak with me. The door is barred because we are full and will take no more Scarpes. We will be glad to have you camp on the west field.” Raina raised her right hand toward the cleared ground to the right of the roundhouse. Grooms had been using it as a makeshift practice ring and dead grass, snow and horse pats had been churned into brown muck. “And will provide such tents as you may need.”
Even before she’d finished speaking, Yelma Scarpe made a tiny signal with her index finger, lifting it from the leather pads. Straightaway, Raina heard the snick of steel drawn from leather. The sound came from the door. A half-second later, Yelma Scarpe’s two standard-bearers threw down their flagstaffs and went for their weapons. Another half-second later the entire company drew arms. Raina inhaled sharply. All possible outcomes revolved in her mind. All consequences of issuing the command for Hailsmen to attack Scarpes were laid bare.
This meant war.
Raina Blackhail raised her arm.
Thuc.
An arrow sliced through air. Thuc. Thuc. Thuc. Three more hit in quick succession. Freezing in midsignal, Raina followed their trajectories. Two arrows vibrated in each of the Scarpe standards, pinning the black and brown canvas to the ground. Fletched with sparrow feathers and nocked with copper wire, the arrowshafts bore no identifying marks. Raina calculated they had been fired from the roof of the new construction that butted the roundhouse’s eastern wall.
All was still for a moment. Yelma Scarpe closed both fists around her reins. The four shots had been expertly aimed—ten feet to either side of her mare—and it wasn’t hard to imagine a fifth arrow in her chest. She and her company might win a pitched battle on the greatcourt, but she could not take on a bowman firing from high ground. Not without body armor. Not without a bowman of her own positioned on higher ground. She would die. The arrows told it as simply as that.
Seizing the advantage, Raina flung out her arm toward the standards. “Do not,” she told Yelma Scarpe, “make the mistake of ordering an attack on Blackhail. Leave now before blood is spilt between allies and while my bowmen still possess the will to hold their strings.” As she spoke the sun passed behind clouds and she received her first close look at the Weasel chief. Yelma Scarpe looked just like her nephew Mace Blackhail. It made Raina’s voice as hard as nails.
Yelma Scarpe’s gaze flicked to the new construction then back to Raina. “You will die for those arrows, woman. I came here in friendship, to offer protection to Blackhail while its warriors and chief are away at war. Now some clanwife with no authority or due respect dares order me shot. I am chief. And you have made yourself my enemy.” Pulling on the reins, she turned the mare. The entire company moved in unison, reversing their formation on her signal.
Swiveling in the saddle chair, Yelma looked back at Raina. “Let your one consolation be this: You will not wait many days in dread of me.”
With that, she drove a single, spurred heel into horseflesh and exploded into motion.
Steady, Raina warned herself as she watched Yelma’s company follow their leader south across the grazelands. Fainting would not look good.
Behind her, the crowd began to move and speak. She heard angry grunts and worried whispers. A baby started to cry. Ignoring them Raina made herself watch the Scarpe retreat. If Yelma looked around she would see Raina Blackhail, chief, staring right back.
“You could have told me you’d put someone on the roof.” It was Ballic the Red. Raina had forgotten the master bowman was there. “It was a fine strategy but it would have been good to know.”
Raina said nothing. Instinctively she knew there would be nothing to gain and much to lose by informing Ballic that she had not directed the marksman to the roof, let alone ordered him to fire warning shots. She had to be practical now, and that included taking credit when it wasn’t due. This thing she had set in motion would gain mass. The Scarpe chief would make sure of that. She was probably composing a message for Mace right now from her throne-like chair.
I am damned.
But she would not think about that. Turning toward the roundhouse, Raina scanned the roof of the new construction. Whoever had taken it upon themselves to shoot was gone. Good. That was another thing she would deal with later. Right now she had to eject every last Scarpe from the Hailhouse. She could not afford to have enemies on the other side of that door.
Quietly she addressed Ballic, Hardgate and Tannic Crow. All three were grave. Armed Scarpe warriors watched as they spoke. Armed Hailsmen watched the Scarpes. Raina wished for the calm authority and practical experience of Orwin Shank. Chella Gloyal could not have spoken truer words this morning: It had been a grave mistake to send him to Dregg.
Was this a mistake too?
Raina surveyed the Scarpes in their black and braided leather with their dyed hair and poison pine tattoos. She could not stand them.
“Good riddance,” she mouthed. It would be a relief to have them gone.
CHAPTER 14
Deadwoods
HE HAD NEVER liked them, but as a boy he had learned the paths through them—to this day he’d be hard pushed to say why. He’d been an ornery child, no doubt about it. If someone said, “Don’t do this,” he’d go right ahead and do it. Twice. That was part of it, Vaylo supposed. The other parts would be made up of pride and resentment and hope. No one had wanted him at home so he had simply taken himself away. The Deadwoods were one of the places he went.
That made him a braver child than he was a man, Vaylo reckoned. To camp alone here, in this tangled mosquito-infested netherworld of dead and dying trees, took jaw. Had he really come here with just a bedroll and hand knife? No.
He had brought the dogs.
Vaylo batted away a black fly and turned his thoughts to the now. They were walking their horses along a deer trail soft with melted snow and deer scat. A boar was baying to the south and the eerie sound was making the horses—and a fair portion of the men—jumpy. It took some getting used to. Horses and men recognized it for what it was—the territorial claim of a massive and dangerous beast—and only familiarity could temper that gut response. Same with the Deadwoods themselves. Instinct told you there were safer places to be.
What choice did they have though? They could hardly ride the Bluddroad and risk being cut down by Robbie Dun Dhoone’s blue cloaks or Quarro Bludd’s red ones. The Dhoone king had sent that mad axman of his, Duglas Oger, to test the Dhoone-Bludd border. Axes against swords usually made for an unlovely fight and though Vaylo rated his own chances in such a melee, he couldn’t see his company escaping without cas
ualty. They were a party of forty-five, including Nan, the bairns and himself. Every one was needed if they were going to pull off retaking the Bluddhouse. That meant survival took a second place to jaw.
Vaylo didn’t like sneaking around the Bluddhold, but he was an old and unhoused chief with seventeen teeth, a dodgy heart and half a soul. He was getting used to doing things he didn’t like.
As best he could tell they were three days northwest of the Bluddhouse. If they’d been riding at speed on open ground they could have gained the gate in two sunrises, but there were no roads through the Deadwoods and the paths were narrow and low, and no matter the size and makeup of your party you had to travel single file, afoot.
“Chief.”
The voice belonged to the swordsman Odwin Two Bears. Odwin had volunteered for scout duty and had been traveling in advance of the party, surveying the intended route. One of the dogs was with him, the big black and orange bitch.
“Someone’s made a new path ahead.” Odwin’s mother and older sister were wolverine trappers and Odwin had spent much of his childhood tagging along as they set and retrieved their lines. Wolverine furs were highly prized at Bludd and trapping territories were closely guarded. Marilla Two Bear and her daughter Yulia held claim to a small but significant section of the Deadwoods. Vaylo knew this because every year on Harvest Night the lovely honey-skinned Yulia brought him his chief’s tribute: a dozen fine pelts with the heads still attached. Odwin had been ranging with Yulia in the Deadwoods as recently as last summer. When he said the paths had changed, Vaylo listened.
“Walk with me.” The Dog Lord was reluctant to call a halt while the party was traveling single file. Word would have to travel down the line man-to-man—not a good policy to enact on a nervous company. Besides, halt now and the party would be spread across a quarter of a league, and Vaylo liked the thought of that about as little as he’d liked any thought he’d ever had.