Bram wondered when Wrayan Castlemilk would realize that she wasn't getting her men back.
It was hard to understand why Robbie still insisted on holding up the part of the agreement that meant delivering his brother to Castlemilk. Instinctively Bram knew it would not serve him well to think too hard about the answer. What Robbie valued, he kept.
Thc Dog Lord watched Bram closely. "Wrayan Castlemilk is a canny chief. I think she had the eye for me once."
Despite everything Bram laughed out loud. The Dog Lord laughed too— a roguish sound filled with self-mocking. When he stopped he looked Bram straight in the eye. There's no shame m being fostered to another clan. I spent a year in Ostler as a bairn. My lather had meant it for a punishment-it was the farthest he could send me without casting me from the clanholds-yet I had an honest time of it all the same. They didn't know me there. Didn't know that I wasn't allowed to play with the best boys. You know the ones; sons of warriors, nephews to the chief Boys with purebred horses and their own live steel. I learned how to tickle trout and dance the swords, how to bring down harlequins with a bola and hedgehog a riverbed for defense. Cricklermore Carp, their old clan guide, even taught me how to read—me, a worthless bastard from a northern clan. I bawled like a babbie when I left."
The Dog Lord shook his head softly as he remembered. "A fostering is what you make it of it, Bram Cormac. Milk can be made into many things."
Bram nodded, feeling stirred despite himself. Perhaps going to live in the Milkhouse wouldn't be as bad as he thought. Perhaps there he wouldn't be Robbie's disappointing half-brother, small for his age and unable to train for the ax. Perhaps he might be something else. He I could study the histories, learn about the Sull, discover why they had relinquished so much land to the clans. Stopping his thoughts before they ran away with him, Bram met gazes with the Dog Lord. He was beginning to understand why this man had been chief for over thirty-live years.
"And your message?"
The Dog Lord shrugged, but not lightly. "Give it to the Milk chief. Mayhap she'll need it more than Robbie Dhoone." "Guy could bring it to Rob."
"Nay, lad. Some things depend as much on the messenger as the message." The Dog Lord glanced over his shoulder to where Jordie was helping the now bootless Guy Morloch mount his horse. "And I don't think the Castleman will do,"
Even though part of Bram agreed with the Dog Lord's opinion, he tried hard to not let it show. "As you will."
The Dog Lord took a few steps up the hill and then turned. "By the way, lad, you did a fine job tonight. Kept your head. Kept the pressure on. If you were my kin I'd be — proud."
It was too much. Bram felt the hot spike of tears in his eyes. Only four days had passed since Robbie told him he must leave and take up residence in Castlemilk. Four days and Robbie's words of farewell still burned a hole in Bram's chest. "It won't be so bad, Bram. We both know you were never really cut out for Dhoone."
"I'll be off now," the Dog Lord said," I'm sure I'll be hearing more of you, Bram Cormac." With that he headed upslope, waving a hand in farewell to his armsman and callings dogs to heel. When he reached the blackthorns, he knelt and said a few words to his grand-son, and then put out his arms for Nan and his granddaughter. With the dogs milling anxiously around all three of them, the Dog Lord and his companions headed east.
He did not even warn me to keep up my side of the bargain and I release his grandson and armsman as agreed. He simply expects it be done. That act of trust buoyed Bram as he hiked up the hillside toward Guy and Jordie.
The heavyset armsman looked uneasy as Bram approached. His knife had been lowered for some time, but his grip was unrelaxed. Poorly outfitted in a shaggy cloak, boiled-wool pants and a deerhide tunic, he was soaked through and dripping. His warrior queue was not nearly as magnificent as his chiefs. Early balding had seen to that. Bram said, "My name's Bram Cormac. What will I call you?" "I'm Haimish Faa of the Bludd-Faas. Most people call me Hammie." The armsman spoke with a soft backcountry accent, and Bram guessed he was younger than he looked. Sometimes it was hard to tell when a man was plump and balding.
"Hammie. Why don't you bring out the boy and go and sit with him on the ridge while we wait" "Aye, sir."
Bram had never been called sir in his life. It wasn't right, and he would have said so if he hadn't realized that right now Hammie Faa wanted to believe in him. His own safety and the safety of Vaylo's grandson depended on it.
I.caving the armsman to lift the small boy from the bushes, Bram crossed to where Jordie was binding Guy's foot Jordie had just taken off his greathelm, and his face had that pink, steamed look of something left too long in the tub. He said nothing at Bram's approach, but smiled gently, letting Bram know that everything that had happened was just fine with Jordie Sarson. Bram felt absurdly grateful. He liked Jordie. The young axman was one of Robbie's favored companions, yet he had none of the arrogance that usually went hand in hand with the blue cloak.
"You're not just going to let them stand there," Guy Morloeh said, gesturing toward Hammie Faa and the boy from hit seat atop Jordie gray stallion.
"No. You're right. I should take them a blanket to sit on." Guy snorted harshly. "Think you're so clever, don't you? Negotiating with the Dog Lord." He made his voice mince like a girls. "You do this and I'll do that and we'll all have tea and oatcakes when we're done."
"Guy, stop" Jordie tried to defend Bram, but Guy simply overran him.
"And as for you, Jordie Sarson. Hog-tie the fattie and the boy. I'm hauling them back to Dhoone."
Jordie's mouth fell open. After a moment of consideration he shook his head. "I won't do it, Guy. We both heard the agreement— Bram gave his word."
"Bram! What does he know. His mother was a rabbit-catcher from Gnash."
"It doesn't matter, Guy. When a Dhoonesman gives his word he gives … "Jordie struggled a moment. "His soul."
All three of them fell quiet. The sudden drop in temperature had made the mud begin to steam, and as Bram walked to his mare he could feel icy tendrils creeping up his thighs. Shivering, he took his sleeping roll from the harness. He could feel Guy watching him, and knew it was only a matter of time before the Castleman spoke. There was nothing Guy could do about the mutiny—without Jordie's help he couldn't even mount a horse—yet he had to assert his authority somehow. "Boy. Move yourself and find my gelding."
Bram nodded. "After the agreed time has passed and I've released the hostages."
Guy didn't like this answer very much, but he had the sense not to challenge it and risk a second mutiny. The skin on the Castleman's face was gray and slack, and he was shaking in short bursts. Dark blood was seeping through the woolen bandage on his foot. "Fine, but if you can't find head nor tail of him I'll take the mare in payment.”
"Here," Bram said to Jordie a few moments later, handing the axman a leather-bound flask. "Unbind Guy's bandage and clean out the wound with this.When you're done smear the wound with beef tallow before binding it. And give him a dram of malt before vou start."
'Thanks, Bram." Jordie grinned in relief. Doctoring was beyond him. Guy simply looked disgruntled and said nothing.
Bram cairied the blanket and a few other items to Hammie Faa. Vaylo Bludd grandson shied behind Hammie's chunky legs as the Dhoonesman who had threatened him with a sword drew near. He had to be about seven, Bram reckoned. Skinny as a stalk with large hands and a large head. "What's your name?"
When the boy made no reply Hammie elbowed him gently. "Come on, lad. When a clansman asks a question, you answer."
"Aaron Bludd," the boy said at last, not looking Bram in the eye. "But I'm known as Arrow."
Hammie lifted an eyebrow toward Bram as if to say, That's the first I've heard of that, but he allowed the boy his dignity and did not contradict him.
"I brought a few things. Salt beef. Cheese. Hardtack." Bram handed the armsman a small package, hastily wrapped in one of his old nightshirts. "And there's a couple of honeycakes." He hesitated, suddenly shy. "For the lady.
"
"Nan'll be grateful for them," Hammie said bluffly. Bram guessed he must be hungry—five days was a long time to go without proper food—but wasn't surprised when the armsman simply tucked the pack under his cloak, unopened. Pride would not allow him to reveal how much he needed to eat. When the boy began questing beneath Hammie's cloak, Hammie said firmly, "Later."
Bram and the armsman waited out the rest of the hour in companionable silence, stamping their feet against the cold and blowing on their hands. Hoarfrost was forming, and Vaylo's grandson amused him-self by sliding across the mud on fragile rafts of ice. When Bram judged the time was up he nodded at Hammie Faa. "Have a safe jour-ney back to the Bluddhold."
For the briefest moment Hammie Faa's face went blank. Recovering quickly he nodded and mumbled, "Aye. Gods be with you on the road." Placing a guiding hand on Aaron's back, he struck a course due east.
Bram watched them leave. As man and boy disappeared beneath the curve of the hill, a wolf howled in the distance. A reminder from the Dog Lord. Set them free.
Shaking his sword hand to get the blood flowing, Bram hiked up the slope. His entire body felt battered and used up, and the thought of spending the night searching for Guy's runaway stallion was almost too much to bear. Just to sit and drink some water would have been nice. When he saw that both Guy and Jordie were mounted, reins in hands and visors lowered, he guessed that he wouldn't be sitting down any time soon.
Guy trotted Jordie's stallion downhill. The left stirrup had been unbuckled and Guy's bandaged foot dangled loose against the creature's belly. Rainwater soaked into Guy's cloak had stiffened to ice, freezing the badly rumpled fabric into lumps. When he spoke his breath whitened in word-length bursts. "You'll have to make your own way from here on, Cormac. We're heading for the Fly."
The Fly was a shallow river that crossed the Dhoonehold two days southeast of the roundhouse. The old watchtower that defended the raised crossing was known as the Stonefly. One of the first orders Robbie had given upon seizing the Dhooneseat was concerning the regarrisoning of the tower. A score of hatchetmen—hammermen and axmen~now patrolled both the north and south rivershores and the forest beyond. If Guy and Jordie rode hard through the night it was possible they could reach the Fly by dawn. Guy intended to set the hatchetmen on the Dog Lord's trail.
"We're not breaking the agreement," Jordie said quietly, drawing level on Bram's mare. "We agreed to set them free and not pursue them, and …and …" Frowning hard at the reins in his hands, Jordie stumbled to a halt.
"We're not pursuing them," Guy said firmly, some of his old Slaughter returning. "We're alerting others to their presence."
Bram could tell Jordie didn't want to catch his eye. There was nothing that interesting about his reins. Jordie knew that although they were upholding the word of the agreement, they were still breaking faith. And then there was the matter of an earlier agreement, one concerning the safe delivery of Robbies brother to the Milkhouse. Both Jordie and Guy had promised to escort Bram on the journey southeast and protect him from the dangers that awaited lone travelers on the road. Maimed Men, city men, trappers, bandits, enemy clansmen and even enemy Dhoonesrnen had been spotted on the Milkway. Not to mention the fact that a boy traveling alone might simply fall from his horse into a ditch, injuring himself so badly he couldn't get up.
Well I'll just have to be careful where I put my feet. Oddly enough Bram found himself too tired to care about being abandoned. "And my horse?"
Guy made an exasperated puffing sound as if the answer were glaringly obvious. "You'll have the best mount in the party—mine."
If I can find it Bram considered mentioning the fact that Guy's stallion had run loose over two hours ago and could be halfway to Blue Creek by now.
"It's not a gift, mind, I'll expect him to be returned within the month." Guy expertly turned Jordie's horse. "Jordie. We're off. The sooner Tiny learns the Dog Lord is alive and on his way back to Bludd the better,"
Jordie shifted his weight forward in the saddle, preparing his mount for a swift start. "You can always follow us back, Bram," he said gently. "You know, run and try to keep pace."
Bram shook his head firmly. Even if such a thing were possible, Robbie would not want him back.
"Gods' luck, Bram Cormac." Jerking his head in farewell, Guy Morloch dug iron into horseflesh and sped off.
Jordie hesitated a moment and then gave the mare its head. The little horse raced down the slope, its hooves gouging divots from the mud in its eagerness to catch up with the stallion.
Bram sat down on his cloaktails and watched them. He was dead tired, and relieved to have them gone. After a time he began massaging his numbed hand. Strange tingles still persisted, and although he knew it was probably nothing he was a bit worried all the same. He very much liked his hand.
Part of him was still trying to figure out how Guy could have made such a big mistake. Hammie Faa had barely managed to cover his confusion when Bram wished him a safe journey to Bludd. The Dog Lord wasn't heading home. He was heading north to the Dhoonewall. Guy had assumed that the Dog Lord was south of the roundhouse because he meant to follow the old Ruinwood trail east through Dregg. Where in fact the Bludd chief and his companions were circling the roundhouse before eventually turning north. The tunnel leading from the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes must have deposited them some distance south, leaving Vaylo with the diifficult job of guiding his party through land overrun by enemies.
Brain decided the Dog Lord was more than up to the task. Knowledge was interesting, Bram concluded, rising. Once you were in possession of it you could choose to pass it along or keep it to your-self. Power lived there just as surely as it lived in a swinging hammer. Only you didn't need muscle to wield it.
Thoughtful, he headed uphill. His throat was raw with thirst. Luckily Jordie had thought to unbuckle the saddlebags from the mare, and Bram found a waterskin and other supplies. As he drank he began planning for the night ahead. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea to spread feed around his bedroll. That way if Guy's stallion decided to return while he slept it would likely stick around until morning. Unable to locate horse feed, he used porridge oats instead. When he was done, he pushed a wedge of rye bread between his teeth and chewed. It tasted like wood. Swallowing forcefully, he drew the watered steel from its sheath. The edge needed oiling. Jackdaw Thundy, the old swordmaster at Dhoone, would whack a boy with the flat of his blade if he dared leave a sword untended after rainfall. Even the pride of Dhoone—hard and lustrous, twice-fired watered steel— was not immune to canker.
Frowning, Bram watched as moonlight flowed along the whorls and ripples in the blade. Robbie had given him the lesser of the two swords. The one he'd kept for himself was known as a horsestopper. A full-size battle sword with a two-handed grip that had the length and heft necessary to impale an armored warhorse, it was forged from the highest grade of watered steel, known as mirror blue. A blade made of mirror blue was paler and more glassy than one forged from traditional watered steel. Light shone through its point.
No light shone through the point of Bram's blade, but that didn't bother him. Truth was he preferred the smaller, lighter footsword with its simple cruciform handguard and the hare head surmounted on its pommel. His father had commissioned the ice-hare pommel as a tribute to his wife upon her death. Tilda Cormac had been the best wire-trapper in Dhoone, and when her husband was away for the winter on long patrols she had kept her family fed.
It was Robbie who had benefited the most. Tilda had always given her stepson the choicest cuts of meat: the fatty loin from the rabbit's hack, the coon liver, the porcupine's heart. Robbie had been born to her husbands first wife yet she had reared him as her own, Bram often wondered what she had received in return. Robbie had treated her like a servant, never showing her the respect due to a stepmother, "Elena Dhoone is my mother. Not you," he would scream when she would-n't let him have his way. "You're just a rabbit-trapper from Gnash."
Even though he didn't m
uch feel like it, Bram unhooked the weapon care pouch from his belt and began working yellow tung oil into the sword. Tilda's sword. Robbie had been set to hand it over to the Milk chief in payment for the Castlemen, and Bram wondered how his brother had managed to get it back. His memories of what happened that night in the Brume Hall after Robbie sold him to Wrayan Castlemilk were not clear. Perhaps Robbie had renegotiated the gift of swords, but Bram doubled it A dozen watered-steel swords had been promised. A dozen had been delivered. Bram had a shadowy memory of Robbie kneeling quietly by the sword pile and sliding out Tilda's sword. If the memory was true he would have had to replace it with another blade. Why he had gone to such trouble was hard to know.
Bram decided not to think about it. Nerve endings in his fingers had begun to fire randomly as his hand came back to life, and he flexed the muscles to keep blood pumping.
He found himself imaging Guy and Jordie arriving at the Stonefly. Tired and breathless, they'd hasten through the garrison eager to speak with the head hatchetman, Tiny Pitt. Search parties would be dispatched. Messengers would be sent north to Dhoone: the Dog Lord was in the Dhoonewilds, heading east. The knowledge that Guy and Jordie would soon send a company of hatchetmen east when the Dog Lord was heading north should have made Bram feel something as a Dhoonesman. Yet it didn't. Instead he felt a small stirring of something else. It was good to have knowledge that no one else hut you possessed.
"Castlemilk." Bram spoke the word out loud, testing.
His allegiances were shifting and he no longer knew which clan he owed loyalty to anymore.
FIVE The Racklands
A night heron shrieked in the distance as Ash March crouched by the shore and drank. Moonlight had trans-formed the Flow into a river of mercury, silver-black and shiny as metal. Hopefully not dangerous to drink. Ash tasted the river as she swallowed; oily and strange, not quite water anymore.
A Sword from Red Ice Page 10