A Sword from Red Ice

by Julia V Jones

  All five dogs had been ranging wide throughout the evening, form-ing a protective circle around the party and hunting small game for food. Just before sunset the oldest bitch had brought Valyo a jackrab-bit still in its winter whites, Valyto had no appetite far raw meat and judged it unsafe to light a cookfire, yet he had taken the rabbit from her jaw all the same. A dog giving up its prey for you was no small thing, and only a fool didn't understand that.

  The dogs were trained for silent patrol and although all had been taught to alert their master to danger by issuing a single piercing howl, only the wolf dog ever sounded. The other four always deferred to him.

  "Everyone down," Vaylo hissed, cursing himself for his stupidity. Thanks to him they were now standing on the most exposed point for leagues-and not a damn tree in sight. At least there was no moon to light them.

  The mud smelled sweetly rotten, and when Vaylo scooped up a handful he could feel the dead matter in it. Beetle legs and stalks of grass scratched his skin as he smeared it across his face, blacking himself out against the night. Nan didn't waste a moment with feminine fussing and swiftly did thee same to herself. Hammie was closest to the bairns and saw to them before masking himself. Both children submitted soundlessly to Hammie's ministrations, but Vaylo knew they were scared. Tears welled in Aaron's eyes.

  Aaron was his only living grandson. Just seven years old, the boy had lost his mother and his homeland. And he hadn't seen his father in thirty days. Remembering his own tears as a boy—tears of hurt and loneliness and rage—Vaylo reached over and laid a hand on Aaron's back. The Dog Lord had spent thirteen years growing manhood in Gullit's house, and not once during that time had anyone touched him with simple kindness. He was the chiefs bastard son, begotten during the drunken revelry of Spring Fair, his mother rumored to be the lowest of the low: a common stovehouse whore. The only affection he'd received was from his father's hounds. Good dogs, who had treated him like pack.

  Ahooooooooo. The wolf dog's howl came again, pitched lower this time and closer. The Dog Lord's protectors were on the move.

  Vaylo nodded to Hammie, and the small party began to belly down the east face of the hill. It was raining hard now and Vaylo's cloak was quickly soaked. About halfway down the slope he spied a copse of spindly blackthorn and altered his course toward it. He was listening intently, but could hear nothing above the wind. The eolf dog's call had come from the south, and that meant Dhoonesmen riding out from the Thistle Gate.

  "Granda, I can hear horses coming." Pasha tried hard to whisper, but at nine she hadn't quite gotten the hang of it and the words came out louder than if she'd spoken them in her normal speaking voice. Nan put a finger to her lip to hush her, but the damage was done.

  Hammie and the Dog Lord shared a glance. The spearman had left his spear in the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, where he had used it to bar the trapdoor that led from the roundhouse to the tomb. Hammie was stili in possession of a good knife, though; a foot-and-a-halfer cast from a single rod of blued steel. The kitchen knife Vaylo now called his own was another matter entirely. The tang rocked loose in its handle, and three days of rain had cankered the blade. Of course Nan still had her maiden's helper—a slender dagger with a wicked double edge and some pretty scrollwork—but Vaylo would never consider taking it from her. A Bluddswoman had as much right to defend herself as any man.

  Scrambling with his knees and elbows, Vaylo pushed toward the blackthorns. Finally he could hear what Pasha heard: horses at canter, closing distance from the south. Dogs be good, Vaylo willed. If the five beasts homed too quickly they would betray their master's position. Right now Vaylo needed them to stay put.

  Reaching the bushes, he tugged off his rain-drenched cloak and threw it across the branches. It wasn't much protection against the needle-sharp thorns, but it was better than nothing, and Vaylo had the bairns' eyes and tender cheeks in mind. Gesturing furiously, he beckoned Pasha and Aaron to push through the tangle of winter-hardened canes and into the center of the copse. When they hesitated he fixed them with full force of his chiefs glare and hissed, "Now!"

  Not once in Vaylo's thirty-five-year chiefdom had anyone disobeyed an order spoken in his command voice and no one was about to start now. The children jumped into action, ducking their heads and plowing through the bushes as if they were being chased by wolves. Even Nan and Hammie moved smartly, Hammie pulling his cloak taut around his body and diving into the bushes like an otter into water. Vaylo took little satisfaction from their responses. He could hear horses closing distance from the far side of the hill, and the rhythmic beating of their hooves sounded like war drums.

  Three, he counted. And they weren't slowing. That was something.

  Vaylo ducked into the bush as the horses crested the ridge. As he gulped air to steady himself his knees touched Nan's. When he looked at her face he knew he was seeing a mask: firm and fearless, calm as if she were accustomed to crouching in a thornbush daily. Frowning, she rubbed dirt from the corner of Aaron's eye and tucked Pashas black hair under her hood. Her instinct with the bairns was flawless. She knew that no-nonsense, oft-repeated gestures calmed better than soft words and protective hugs.

  Vaylo edged about slightly, presenting his back to the children, and then slid the kitchen knife from his belt. Hammie knew the game and did likewise. The sharp odor of newly wetted ground acted like a drug on Vaylo's windpipe and he found himself breathing deep, clear breaths. The riders were almost upon them. When the pounding of hooves grew deafening Vaylo spoke a prayer to his favored god, Uthred. Nor this time.

  Almost it was granted. The riders drew abreast of the bushes and continued southward, spraying clumps of mud against the blackthorns as they passed. Then suddenly there was a change in the rhythm of hoof falls, a subtle slowing, a pause as one man swiveled in his saddle and looked back. The sludge in Vaylo's boots curdled. Sweet Gods, the cloakl It lay there, muddy and nondescript, soaked in the rainy colors of the night, indistinguishable from its surrounding in every regard. Except shape.

  Vaylo imagined the rider's gaze sliding across the blackthorns. He heard the jingle of bit irons as horses' heads were pulled about. No words were spoken, but Vaylo imagined an exchange of wary nods. Hammie Faa looked to his chief.

  The Dog Lord spun the moment, imagining all possible outcomes. Judging from the noise made by the horses' trappings, the riders were well-equipped. Harnesses tooled to support the hardware of war had a certain sound to them. The unusual quantity of buckles and D rings created a percussion of sharp snaps. For a certainty they were Dhoonesmen—they were traveling south from the Dhoonehouse in haste—but Vaylo doubted they'd been sent to track him. In his experience man hunters traveled light. Whatever their purpose they were dangerous. A small group of men did not stop to investigate a tiny discrepancy in the dark of night unless they were confident they could deal with surprises. Vaylo glanced at his grandchildren and then wetted his mouth. Pushing dank air from his lungs he whistled for his dogs. A single note, diamond-sharp, ripped through the noise of the storm. All was given away in that moment, and while five dogs responded with a chorus of unearthly howls, horses were spun about and kicked into motion.

  Vaylo nodded at Hammie. To Nan he mouthed the words, Stay here and do not move. For the children themselves he had no words Nan knew what to do.

  As the dogs homed, Vaylo moved free of the brush and caught his first sight of the riders. Three horses, three men. Dhoonesmen, lightly armored for travel but armed with full battle complements. They were clad in blue wool cloaks fastened with thistle brooches and shod in stiff boar's-leather boots. Two held nine-foot spears, and all had the sense to don battle helms before approaching.

  Vaylo felt the old mix of excitement and fear as he prepared to face them. Here I am again, outmanned and outhorsed. The Underdog Lord, they should have named me.

  Hammie Faa picked his position—three feet back from his chief Even now he could not give up the habit of respect. Vaylo reckoned he was all of twenty-three.


  "Who stands there?" came a hard, commanding voice as the riders approached. Hearing the accent, Vaylo revised his opinion. At least one of these men was Castlemilk dressed as Dhoone.

  The dogs were rapidly closing distance, and Vaylo waited … waited.. before speaking. When the first of the dogs—the big black-and-orange bitch—came within striking distance, stilled her with a raised fist. Immediately the bitch sank to her haunches, her amber eyes glowing, a growl smoldering deep within her throat. Within moments the other dogs arrived, instinctively forming a circle around Vaylo's party and the Dhoonesmen. One by one, they followed the bitch's lead and bellied the ground.

  The two riders bearing spears reined their horses within striking dis-tance of Vaylo, whilst the third, the smallest in stature, hung back. Their thornhelms cast black shadow across their faces and Vaylo could not see their eyes. Both spearmen's horses were well-made and would outpace the dogs over distance, but the smell of the wolf dog made them nervous. Both animals were flicking their tails and tracking wolf dog's position with their ears. The third rider's horse was past its prime, a dun mare long in the tooth and short-hoofed but wasn't nervous like the others. It stood its ground well, its ears forward inter-ested and alert, calm under its master's hand, Vaylo immediate reassessed its rider: any man who could command a horse to calmness in the presence of wolf musk had skills to be reckoned with.

  "Answer the question!" The Castleman spoke again, puncturing his words with a thrust of his spear and a forward charge of his horse. He was tall, but lacked the shoulder breadth of a hatchetman. Dual scabbards holstered on opposing sides of his gear belt indicated his weapon of choice.

  Vaylo regarded the spear tip pointed directly at his face. Absurdly, he thought he recognized it as one of his own. Then again it had probably been Dhoone's in the first place, seized by Bludd after the strike on the Dhoonehold. Such were the transitory possessions of war. Take himself. He'd once commanded three roundhouses, now he was down to exactly none. Which means I have nothing but thin air to lose. Grinning savagely, the Dog Lord spoke his name.

  FOUR Negotiation

  Bram tried not to shiver when the Bludd chief spoke his name. They had all guessed the strangers identity the moment they spotted the first dog, but it had not prepared them for hearing the man speak. The Dog Lord's voice was savage and calm; the voice of a man who had killed and would kill again. Bram thought of his brother's account of the one and only meeting between himself and the Bludd chief. "He's an old man," Robbie Dun Dhoone had pronounced, the morning after Dhoone had been retaken. "Past his prime and losing his edge, and if it wasn't for his hellhounds he would never have escaped."

  Hearing the Dog Lord speak, Bram Cormac knew his brother's words to be a lie.

  The dogs reacted to their master's voice by altering the pitch of their growls. Slow thunder rumbled deep within their throats, making Guys and Jordie's horses blow nervously and flick their tails. Bram squeezed the mare's flanks with his thighs, coaxing the beast to calmness. Now if only he could calm himself.

  "And exactly who do I have the pleasure of addressing?" The Bludd chief's voice came again, cold as the rain driving against his face. He wasn't a big man but his shoulders and chest were well-built, and he had something about him-a kind of iron-hard solidity-that gave him a powerful physical presence. His linen shirt was sodden to the point of transparency, and the woolen waistcoat he wore over it was so weighed down with rainwater it sagged. His long gray hair was braided into warrior queues, and grease had combined with rainwater to produce an oily iridescence. The blade he held was a foot long and badly cankered. Bram regarded it closely, wondering if it really could be the simple kitchen knife t seemed.

  "I'll do the asking, Dog Keep." Guy Morloch brought the point of his spear to the apple of the Bludd chief's throat. Immediately, the big wolff dog to Bram's right lunged forward, hackles rising. Guy's stallion threw back its head, nostrils flaring, eyes darting wildly as it tried to track the wolf's movements. With a single twist of his free hand, Guy shortened the reins, forcing the bit into the stallion's tongue. Controlled, the creature quieted, but Bram could tell from its eye whites that it was still dangerously close to panic. The wolf, satisfied that the spear point was no longer threatening his master's throat, dropped its belly to the mud and bared its teeth.

  Valyo Bludd waited for quiet. Whilst Guy's horse was bucking he had shifted his ground slightly, moving away from the bushes that had first concealed him. The hefty armsman at his back quickly did the same. Bram found himself wondering about those two movements as the Bludd chief spoke.

  "If I were you I'd ride on, Milkman. My dogs are hungry for white meat."

  So he knows Guy isn't a Dhoonesman. Bram looked to the tall Castleman and wondered what else Guy was giving away. Guy Morloch was a crack swordsman on the tourney court, but he was inexperienced in field combat and although he was still wielding the spear, he had made the mistake of backing off. And while the Dog Lord stood is grond, coldly focused on the man he correctly judged to be the leader of the party. Guy was jumpy. Even through the deep shadow created by his visor Bram could see Guy's gaze springing from Vaylo Bludd to his armsman to the dogs and back again. Perhaps Jordie Sarson saw this too, for the young blond axman walked his horse forward a few paces and fixed the Dog Lord with a hard stare.

  Vaylo Bludd didn't even glance in Jordie's direction. Addressing Guy he said, "You could have left of your own accord. Remember that Milkman. as my dogs bid farewell to your throat."

  With a smafl motion of his knife hand, he commanded his beasts to stand. Hairs along Bram's neck flicked upright as the five dogs rose in unison and began to close the circle. Golden eyes glittering, fangs dripping, they snarled and grunted like pigs, Ride on! Bram wanted to shout to Guy Morloch. We're not here for this. We're just traveling through.

  Then Guy's horse began to buck. The big black stallion kicked out with its back legs, throwing Guy forward in the saddle. Guy's head snapped back. His spear went thudding to the ground as he fought to keep his seat. Twisting the stallion's mane in his fist, he forced its head up. At the same time Jordie kicked his horse about face and charged the nearest dogs. They leapt back, shaking their heads so hard their eyes bulged. An instant later they sprang again. Sweeping his case-hardened spear in a half-circle, Jordie attempted to keep them at bay.

  Leaping forward, the Dog Lord seized the fallen spear. With perfect violence he plunged the spearhead deep into Guy's foot. A choked cough puffed through Guys lips as blood gushed from the punctured leather of his boot. The dark liquid steamed in the frigid air and for a moment Guy simply looked at it, seeming more puzzled than shocked. His stallion, terrified at the prospect of being caught between the Dog Lord and his wolf, lowered its head, humped its back and unleashed a massive, twisting kick. Guy was flung from the saddle headfirst. His thornhelm flew from his head and went bouncing toward the snarling wolf. Guy landed hard on his buttocks, and quickly rolled free from the stallion's hooves. Liberated from its rider, the horse whipped its head from side to side, desperately scanning for an escape route. When it found the way to the west blocked by a single black-and-tan bitch it charged. The bitch moved a beat too slow and Bram heard the sharp retort of bone breaking as the horse overran the dog.

  Jordie Sarson moved immediately to protect Guy but was brought to a halt by the four remaining dogs forming a block around his horse. As he tried to force his mount to ignore the slavering beasts, the fat arms-man charged him. Jordie danced back, swinging the spear point back and forth between the armsman and the dogs. Kept at bay, the young blond axman could do nothing as the Dog Lord hefted his spear over his shoulder and sprang forward to impale Guy Morloch.

  "Stay your weapon!" Bram screamed. "Or I'll run your grandchildren through."

  All heads turned to look at him. He was shaking uncontrollably, and the motion sent sparks of light bouncing off his watered-steel blade. Don't think of the sword now, Bram warned himself.

  Forcing his chin up he met gazes
with the Dog Lord. The man's eyes were black and full of fury. He was breathing hard and his gut fat trembled as he stilled himself. Bram watched the spear. Only when he saw the white-knuckled grip relax did he judge it safe to breathe.

  Nothing in his fifteen-year lifehad prepared him for a momen like this.

  Whilst Guy Morloch and the Dog Lord had been trading words, Bram had been watching the copse of blackthorns. The fact that both the Dog Lord and his annsman had moved away from the bushes had set him to thinking. Such a small but deliberate act. It occurred to Bram that they were trying to draw fire… but from what? Possessions? A wounded comrade? What exactly lay in the middle of the dense tangle of thorns?

  So Bram had watched. When the Dog Lord had lunged forward to stab Guy Morloch's foot, Bram had spotted a movement. Immediately the motion stilled, but it was too late. Bram was known for his eyes. When riding out in company he'd lost count of the times when Robbie or someone else had turned to him and said, "Tell me what you see, boy." During the retaking of Dhoone, Robbie had waited to give the order to charge until Bram confirmed that only one of the Thorn Towers appeared manned. Even this very night it had been Bram who spotted the cloak thrown over the bush, Bram who was convinced he saw the gleam of eye whites deep within the shadow canes. Neither Guy nor Jordie had wanted to stop. They had a task to complete and were anxious to be done with it, Jordie was simply eager to return to the excitement of the Dhoonehouse where Robbie had created an atmosphere charged with gravity and purpose. Where as Guy had made no secret of the fact that he thought the task beneath him. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the fact that Robbie Dun Dhoone had asked for a personal favor, the Milkman would not be here this night, Guy Morloch was nobody's nursemaid. When Bram had forced a halt on the mud slope, stating his belief that someone was hiding in the blackthorns, Guy had punched a gloved fist through the rain. "We have no time malingering, boy. If we stop to investigate every shepherd taking a piss between here and the Milkhouse we won't be done until spring,"