Watcher of the Dead

by J. V. Jones

  Raina’s greatest fear was that Scarpe would strike the roundhouse. As Mallin had pointed out, the house had a hole in its wall. Raina had ordered it filled but such detailed masonry took time. Even if there were no hole Yelma would still strike. She needed to claim Blackhail as her own before Hail warriors began returning from Bannen Field. The Hailhouse was weak now but it wouldn’t always be. When Blackhail met Dhoone on the field everything would change.

  Raina did not care to think about what some of those changes meant to her. Right now, tonight, her thoughts must be narrow. Scarpe was trespassing on Blackhail land, intercepting its goods, harassing its farmers, slaughtering its livestock and interrogating its warriors. Such transgression could not—would not—continue.

  The Weasel chief needed to be sent home, back to her poison pines and her burned down house and her vats of caustic hair dye. Raina Blackhail would make it happen. She was about to execute the boast.

  We are the first among clans, and we do not hide and we do not cower and we will have our revenge.

  The great armored Blackhail door and its pullstone were open. Although the sun was still setting in the west, the court was ringed with torches. Their orange and red flames toward the sun, it looked to Raina as if they were homing. The battle party was met within their borders. Warriors were ahorse, and the sounds created by their war harnesses and hammer chains filled her with dread. Armor sawed against armor. Ax cradles creaked. Horses tossed their heads and danced.

  The warriors were grave, their gloved or gauntleted fists at tension on their reins, their jaw muscles twitching like crane flies. The mass of their armor and war cloaks made them into giants. People would be afraid at the sight of them. Raina felt pride.

  Their ranks parted as she made her way out of the Hailhouse and on to the court. Ballic the Red, Stanner Hawk, Cleg Trotter, Hardgate Meese and the hammermen were there. Cleg’s father, the tied clansman Paille Trotter, was sitting on a big plow horse. Raina wondered who had vouched for him. He was a sixty-year-old farmer with a gamy leg. All the sworn old-timers were present; Gat Murdoch, Turby Flapp, Mungo Kale who, although possessing an oath, had probably not left the clan forge in years. They had all come out for her. Pig farmers, warriors, old men.

  Raina held her head high as she moved through the space they had created, a corridor leading to the center of the court.

  Jebb Onnacre walked forward with her horse. The stableman was clad in a motley assortment of armor; unmatched chest, shoulder and back pieces, and what looked to be a leather cast around his neck. Raina could hear Jebb’s mother, the bossy but good-hearted Hillda Onnacre. “Here, put it on. I made it special. All the sworn warriors will be wearing them.”

  Raina accepted the reins. She was glad of Jebb’s assistance with mounting Mercy. The Dhoone armor made her upper body stiff. As she settled herself in the saddle and received her primed and unlit torch, the war drums began, sounding a stark four-quarter beat. When Raina seated her helmet she could feel the rhythm vibrating through the steel.

  Dagro, my love. I wish you were with me tonight.

  The sun was sinking below the horizon as she turned Mercy and surveyed her army. They were waiting on her word. Seasoned veterans like Ballic the Red and Hardgate Meese were watching for her signal to move out. She loved them fiercely.

  And at this moment it wasn’t hard to imagine she was loved just as fiercely in return.

  Raina Blackhail had never ridden in a war party, had not once led a company of men, but she had stood with her back to the clan door and watched as dozens of raid parties and armies and battle groups had departed. She knew how it was supposed to happen. There would be no speeches, no fine words designed to fire and motivate. Hailsmen did not require them. They just required a leader to lead.

  The ranks parted for a second time as Raina walked Mercy to the western edge of the court. Behind her she was aware that Chella Gloyal had mounted her glossy gray stallion and fallen into line. The warriors barely noticed: all gazes were on their chief. When Mercy’s hoofs encountered the soft give of turf, Raina took a deep breath. Her breasts pushed against the plate armor. Her heart felt big and nearly whole.

  Kicking boot heels into Mercy she cried, “Kill Scarpe!” and led the charge from the Hailhold.

  An army moved on her word. Horses leapt into motion. Drumbeats quickened. Warriors took up the call.

  Kill Scarpe. Kill Scarpe. Kill Scarpe.

  A waning moon one day short of full lit the graze. Raina could see for leagues. The world was colored black and silver like the clan badge. Around her she was aware of the hammermen, matching but never exceeding her pace. They made half a fortress for her, kept her dead in the middle, kept her safe.

  She had not known riding to war could be thrilling. In all the intimate conversations she had shared with Dagro as his wife, he had never spoke of this. The charge conjured powerful and elemental magic. The night was alive with the possibilities it created. Anything could happen. Armed men were riding at force.

  They traveled west along the farm road and then adjusted their course north. Cold Lake glowed blue in the distance; a barn owl was in flight above it. As Raina made the cut onto the old trapping path, she felt a tightness in her chest. The last time she’d taken this path had been the worst day of her life.

  Dagro was dead and Mace Blackhail, his foster son, had raped her. After it was over she had walked this path back to the roundhouse. She recalled the sun had started shining. It had melted the snow that caked the back of her dress.

  Aware her pace had dropped, Raina squeezed Mercy’s belly with her thighs. She could smell the Scarpes now. Their smokefires always stank. Behind and abreast of her, the mood of the army was changing. Men fell silent. Visors were lowered. Hammers, axes, longswords and riding bows were drawn. Raina considered her own weapons. Anwyn Bird’s bow was strapped to Mercy’s back along with sufficient arrows to kill a score of Scarpes. Mounted at her waist were her knives. The maiden’s helper had been a parting gift from her uncle at Dregg. This will keep the men away. It hadn’t, of course, but Raina supposed that was more a failing of herself than the blade. She’d been wearing it when Mace raped her.

  Quickly, Raina moved her hand to the second knife. The handle of Dagro’s hand knife felt warm and smooth. When the time came for her to draw a weapon it would do. It had already killed one Scarpe. It knew the drill.

  The party slowed as they entered the bush. The wet ground was steaming. Slowly and silently, the bowmen began to fan out through the low trees. It was a shock when Raina heard the first discharge. She had known Ballic and his crew would pick off sentries around the camp, but knowing and experiencing were different things in battle.

  Raina swallowed.

  She heard the cry. “Intruders to the east.”

  Raina’s entire life had been lived on the other side of those words, and it took a brief but perceptible moment to realize, They mean me. And then she called the charge.

  KILL SCARPE!

  It was like rolling on a giant wave. You could not stop it once it began. You could only hope to keep breathing and survive. Raina went crashing forward with the hammermen, as the bowmen lit their fire arrows and rained them on the camp. Mercy was a mad horse, bucking her head and keeping pace with the stallions. One-sixteenth Sull, Raina reminded herself. That percentage was paying off. At her right, the fine old hammerman Hardgate Meese was swinging his hammer into motion. Raina felt the air it displaced, heard the terrible rattle of its chains. At her left Cleg Trotter’s mighty four-foot war hammer was already a blur. His teeth were black, she realized. And Chella was wrong about the smiling: Cleg was grinning from ear to ear.

  The camp lay directly ahead across Thwater Field on the site of the old Thwater Farm. Safe lamps made the tents glow like orange blocks. Black figures were rushing across the camp, pulling on clothing and strapping on weapons as they ran. Women and children were screaming. The fire arrows had started to hit, and flames were running like primed fuses.

&
nbsp; Raina yanked her torch from her saddle harness and swung it behind her as she rode, begging for a light. Some kind bowmen touched its primed tip with the point of his fire arrow and the torch ripped into life. With one hand on the reins, the other on a flaming torch, Raina Blackhail charged the Weasel camp.

  She stepped into another life.

  It was a violent and flaming hell. Horses reared. Fire roared. Men killed. Women raced for the trees. Children and animals caught fire and were burned alive. Hammers moved like vengeful gods, swift and full of malice. Swords sucked at flesh, holding on to it, cleaving as they withdrew. Raina rode straight for the large central tent and charged it with her torch. Scarpemen moved from her path. A woman shrieked in fear. It was a revelation. She had become an unstoppable force.

  She hurled the torch into the tent canvas with all her bodily might. Mercy compensated for the abrupt shift in balance with a clever little dance that Raina had not known the horse had in her. Together they watched the flames sheet across the canvas and race along the guide ropes. Raina was screaming at the top of her lungs. Kill Scarpe. Kill Scarpe.

  She wanted each and every one of them to die.

  Spotting an old man fleeing around the side of the tent, she drew Dagro’s knife and rode him down. Bending low in the saddle she stabbed him in the shoulder. He cried softly with surprise and then turned. He had something shiny in his hand. It was a sword. Raina froze. Her capacity for thought fled. She watched the edge of the blade come toward her and knew it was not a good thing, but could not imagine how to stop it. Her training ended here. The sword came up. Muscle charged in the old man’s arms as he struck. She thought, This is it. And then suddenly something grew from his eye.

  Raina looked at it stupidly, trying to understand. The old man dropped the sword midswing and clutched his face. He was making an odd chuffing sound, like a dog about to be sick. Feathers, Raina identified. There were feathers sticking out of his head.

  It was an arrow, she finally understood, as the man swayed and fell to the ground. It had been fired with such force she had not seen or heard the shot.

  Chella.

  Raina turned, and there was the Hailswoman sitting calmly astride her gray stallion, her bow already drawn and at tension, ready for another shot. With a small upward movement of her draw elbow, she acknowledged Raina’s glance.

  Like bowfishing, she mouthed over the distance between them.

  Raina did not know if she smiled or grimaced, only that something happened to her mouth. Swiftly, she turned Mercy and rejoined the van. She was shaking. Sweat had made her warrior face start to run. Black drops fell on her skirt.

  Realizing her mistake, she joined the hammermen. She had pulled too far ahead of the line, leaving herself vulnerable to strikes. Adjusting her grip on her maiden’s helper she warned herself to have more sense.

  The camp was a stinking inferno. Foul chemicals favored by the Scarpes had started to burn, sending up chimneys of black smoke. Drums of lamp fuel were exploding. Most Scarpe warriors were ahorse now and the battle was met head-to-head. Scarpes preferred longswords to hatchets, and melees were brutal and intense. Raina recognized the lean form of Yelma’s nephew, Uriah Scarpe. He was mounted on a piebald gelding that she recognized as having once belonging to Bitty Shank. This annoyed her on behalf of Orwin. How dare this man steal a bereaved Hailsman’s horse?

  Making eye contact with Cleg Trotter and Hardgate Meese, Raina charged him. This time she knew the hammermen were with her. She had learned that she did not possess martial skills, and that it did not matter as long as she kept her head.

  No one here with the possible exception of Chella Gloyal was keeping count of how many Scarpemen Raina Blackhail brought down. All saw her though. With her Dhoone queen’s armor and skirt of black-and-silver she was the most prominent figure on the field. That was what counted: to be seen and marked. Word needed to be carried all the way to Bannen Field: Raina Blackhail rode at the head of the line.

  It was the final, vital step to becoming chief.

  And Raina was fine with that. She was just as fine as fine could be.

  Uriah Scarpe had been engaging the pig farmer Hissup Gluff. He had drawn blood and was closing for the kill. The sound of charging horses caused him to slow and turn his head. His expression in that moment, his confused and slightly irritated disbelief, was something Raina would keep with her for always. It was one of the most satisfying moments of her life.

  Yes, Scarpeman. It’s me.

  Her hammer crew took him down in a precise concert of blows. Raina stabbed him as he was falling, and then winked at Hissup Gluff.

  The pig farmer said one word.

  “Chief.”

  Raina and her crew moved on to the next mark.

  She would never know how long the battle lasted. The Weasel camp burned to the ground and many took to the woods. Yelma and her crack swordsmen made a stand in front of the well. The Scarpe chief was mounted, and armed with a sharp and needle like sword. She knew how to drive her horse in circles and ward her own space. As her bodyguards began to fall she made a tactical decision.

  Addressing Ballic the Red, who had come forward with his bow now that the battle had turned, Yelma Scarpe cried, “I yield.”

  Ballic the Red turned in his saddle to look at Raina. He was the senior clansman present, and in that Yelma Scarpe was faultless.

  Unless she was in the presence of a chief.

  “Disarm her,” Raina said.

  The chief’s bidding was done. Ballic the Red shot an arrow into the Weasel chief’s knuckles, forcing the fingers apart. Yelma sucked in breath. The sword dropped.

  Raina wiped the maiden’s helper on her sheepskin numnah and then charged the Scarpe chief. Yelma was defiant, her chin high, her small black eyes unblinking. She did not believe Raina Blackhail had it in her. She did not realize until the last moment that she was dealing with a chief.

  That instant of reappraisal would be buried with her. Her mouth opened, the recognition of a threat dilated her pupils, and then the Hail chief took her life.

  Raina felt no pity for her as she freed the knife from her chest. Yelma had misjudged her enemy and failed to protect her clan. Raina swore she would never make the Scarpe chief’s mistake.

  The battle ended quickly after that. Flames burned low as farm buildings, tents and shanties were reduced to ruins. Warriors surrendered and were granted quarter. Blackhail took no hostages, allowing those who fled to the woods the privilege of freedom. Raina doubted they would return. Their camp was gone, their chief was gone. No good reason existed for them to stay.

  Just as she’d led the line in battle, Raina led the return to the roundhouse. Men were weary. Their hands and faces were coated in a black mix of blood and soot. Raina was dead tired. Victory was hers, and as she took the trapping path toward home she felt she could finally breathe.

  Snapping the buckles on her breastplate, she sat back in the saddle and rested. She was chief now.

  Do and be damned.

  CHAPTER 33

  Floating on the Sull-Clan Border

  RUFUS RIME’S RULES for traveling in the Reed Way were: Don’t travel unless you know where you’re going; take water; take a lamp; never go east.

  Two out of four wasn’t bad.

  Effie Sevrance had a lamp and water waiting in the boat.

  Now she had one final thing to fetch.

  It was dusk as she walked from the dock to the roundhouse. The sky was green and pink, like it could only get over the marsh. The sun was a big blurry shape, no longer round. Reeds were swaying like corn in a field and marsh birds were calling for the night.

  Effie entered the roundhouse and headed straight for the kitchen. The Salamander Hall was quiet but people had begun to gather in the kitchen for supper. Effie had to push past them to get to Lissit.

  The girl saw her coming and tried to duck. Only she couldn’t, not really, as she was serving up some sort of broth with chunks of fish in it, stirring and ladling it
into bowls. All she could do was sort of tuck her head low and train her gaze upon the broth. As if that was going to help.

  Effie walked straight up to the broth pot and pushed her chest against the rim. “You’re coming with me,” she told Lissit through the steam. It was strange how flat her voice sounded, like there was no longer any air puffing it up.

  Lissit pushed back a strand of blond hair from her face. She looked at Effie.

  Effie Sevrance, sister to Drey and Raif, daughter of Tem, glared back.

  Lissit dropped the ladle into the pot. “I can’t be away for too long.”

  They took the back door and headed for the guidehouse. Lissit was dressed in pretty gray-green linen that swished at her ankles as she walked. She had the good sense not to ask any questions. Answers would not help here.

  The narrow corridor was cool. Swamp water seeping through the walls created puddles that had to be navigated. When they reached the guidehouse’s rear door, Effie wondered briefly if she should knock. Raising the handle, she went straight in. Gray had never extended any courtesy to her so why should she extend any in return?

  The guidehouse was empty and dark. You could tell straightaway the guide wasn’t present. No one was stirring the smoke. Lissit gave a little yap of worry as she entered.

  “What should we say if they find us?”

  The question was so irrelevant it seemed to hail from another world. Effie did not even attempt to respond to it. Her mind was on other things.

  The Graystone gleamed red in the exhausted light of the smoke fires. Its metal planes looked like glass. Effie averted her gaze from them. She knew what was in there. She wasn’t about to forget.

  Quickly she moved beyond the Graystone and into the front of the guidehouse. Smoke had formed horizontal layers in the air. Effie’s mouth was aligned with the space between so she could breathe without drawing it in. Lissit was taller and not so well aligned. She coughed softly as they approached the stone table. She had given up asking questions again. She had probably guessed what they were about to do.