"From me."
The glass was the size and length of a fingerbone. One end was blunt while the other narrowed to a delicately curved point. Raif rolled it between his fingertips, watching light tumble within it. He wasn't sure, but it seemed as if the light and reflections moved a fraction slower than the glass itself.
"Stormglass," Tallal said, his smile softer now. "Just a little broken piece found by my great-great-grandfather—on my mother's side."
Raif closed his fist around the glass. "Thank you."
"When my brothers and I were young we would turn our mother's hair gray by tossing it to each other across the date yard. We were bad sons. After the beatings we were better." The memory stopped Tallal for a moment, his brown eyes looking inward. Shaking himself, he said, "Even a piece this small is good luck. Kings and rich men may crave unbroken rods and whole branches, but as long as you have a tip you have the nagi. The essence. When stormglass is formed it mirrors the lightning that created it. Sometimes it branches as it shoots through the sand. When that happens there can be several tips-the point where the lightning's power comes to rest. This is one such piece."
Raif did not know what to say. Tallal's pleasure in giving him the piece seemed genuine, but a gift this precious usually came with a price.
"It is said that if you carry a piece of stormglass you will never be alone in a storm." Tallal voiced the words lightly, but Raif knew they were not light. Here it was: the cost. "Keep it close to your skin when lightning strikes and the lamb brothers will find you."
Tallal held Raifs gaze. Pride and something almost opposite to pride existed in the muscle tensions of Tallal's face. He was waiting, Raif realized, upon an answer.
A wisp of wormwood smoke floated across Raif's knuckles as he glanced down at his fist. Perhaps the smoke was not poisonous as much as numbing. Perhaps it prevented deep thought. He opened his fist and slid the stormglass into its pouch. "I give no promises," he warned, tying the pouch to his gear belt. But he did, he knew he did.
The lamb brother carefully controlled his face. Crossing back toward the cushions, he said, "Let me tell you what you must do to leave the Want."
FOURTEEN The Copper Hills
Vaylo Bludd did not want to admit that his knees were sore and he needed to rest. In the past fifteen days he'd had enough walking to last a lifetime, and his heart, his knees and all seventeen of his teeth ached persistently with every step. Gods, what had he come to? A warrior without a horse. A chief without a clan. What was next? he wondered. A Bluddsman without kneecaps or teeth?
"Vaylo. We should halt for a minute. The bairns need to pee." The Dog Lord looked long and hard at his lady, Nan Culldayis. It was an hour past noon and they were on their third hill of the day and this one was the steepest yet. It was pretty enough, the blackstone pines giving way to winter heather and wild oats that had been tidily cropped by rogue sheep, but the climb was tiring and monotonous and the wind that was blowing south from the Rift cut you like a blade. Vaylo tucked his long gray braids under his coat collar as he said, "No, Nan. We carry on."
He left her looking at the back of his head. The Dog Lord was nobody's fool and he knew what his lady was about. She thought to provide him with an excuse to stop and rest, and he wasn't having any of it. Bairns need to pee indeed! Those bairns had peed their way north across the entire length of the Dhoonehold. Another couple of hours wouldn't hurt.
Indignation oiled Vaylo's knee joints and he worked the hill hard, stabbing its thin rocky soil as he climbed. This was Copper Hill country and the slopes were pitted with old mine shafts and vent holes. As far as Vaylo knew there was only one copper mine still open—and that was far to the east, sunk deep beneath Stinking Hill. Copper hadn't been seriously mined on the Dhoonehold for five hundred years, and only cragsmen and raiders walked these hills now. You could still see the copper though; a certain greenish tint to the soil made everything that grew here look healthier than it really was. Many of the little rills and creeks that drained the hills sparkled with red ore. Copper had made Dhoone rich at one time, and paid for the construction of the finest roundhouse in the north. Dhoone copper had once been carted overland all the way to the Far South, and strange kings and warlords had forged mighty weapons from it and sent back all manner of treasure in payment. Copper's glory days had long passed though, and it had been fifteen hundred years since a copper weapon had bettered a steel one on the field. Still, copper had its uses even now. Vaylo had heard that in the Mountain Cities people liked to eat off it, and he knew clan maids like to wear it in their ears and around their wrists. Copper was stretched into wire and hammered into pipes, fired with tin to make bronze and zinc to make brass. At the time Vaylo had taken possession of the Dhoonehouse, the mine at Stinking Hill was still producing a hundred tons of raw ore a year. He had shut it down of course, then thought better of it and ordered it reopened. Gods only knew what was happening there now. One thing was certain: After all the looting and cattle raiding carried out by Bluddsmen over the past six months, Robbie Dun Dhoone would need all the hard cash he could get.
That was a thought that never failed to make Vaylo smile. Robbie Dun Dhoone might have won back his roundhouse, but Bluddsmen had stripped it down to the bare walls. Vaylo had no idea where the loot had gone—he hadn't taken anything for himself except a half-dozen kegs of fine Dhoonish malt—and he found he didn't care. Gone was enough. Gone would slow the Thorn King down.
"Hammie;" Vaylo said, turning about to address his armsman Haimish Faa. "When did you last see the wolf dog?"
Hamrnie was huffing and puffing his way up the hill. He was thirty years younger than the Dog Lord but about four stone heavier and Faa men, like Bludd chiefs, had never been walkers. Hammie wiped his red and wet nose with his coat sleeve, wincing as raw flesh met coarse wool. "He left as soon as the bairns awoke. 'Bout dawn."
The Dog Lord nodded, his mind eased. He'd seen the other three dogs throughout the day as they ranged hack and forth, patrolling, guarding, hunting. The big black bitch had brought down two jack-rabbits and carried them straight to his hand. The young male had brought back a sick-looking woodrat and Vaylo had taken it from the dogs jaw and flung it as if as he could. Unhappily it hadn't been the last he'd seen of the rat as the dog kept finding it and bringing it back. Every time this happened the worm-infested vermin looked a little worse for wear, and Vaylo thought to himself, Do I really have to touch this? Touch it he did though. The young male's eagerness and joy were two things he didn't want thwarted. You couldn't have a dog love you unconditionally and not give anything back.
The wolf dog had been with him for seven years and of all the dogs Vaylo had loved and owned it was the wolf dog who was closest to his heart. The Dog Lord did not show it, he did not need to, for the two of them knew what lay between them. The Dog Lord's worries were the wolf dog's worries. His kin was the wolf dog's kin. That the dog had stayed up all night guarding Aaron and Pasha was as it should be. The wolf dog had been present that terrible day when Vaylo had found seventeen of his grandchildren dead and buried in the snow above the Bluddroad. The dog knew how precious the two remaining grandchildren were. Still it wasn't like the wolf dog not to home every few hours. All the dogs ranged wide and then returned at various times to insure their human pack was safe. Vaylo hadn't seen the wolf dog since last night when he'd scolded the beast for snatching a rabbit from the fire. It was good to know that after the wolf dog skulked away in shame and anger he returned later to guard the bairns.
Truth was they were all hungry and short-tempered. Rabbits alone did not make a meal. If you ate too much they gave you the runs and if you didn't eat enough you starved. It was, as Ockish Bull would have said, a choice between the ugly and the just plain bad. Nan and the bairns got the best of it. The organ meat could stay with you for half a day, but the muscle meat, which Vaylo and Hammie enjoyed, only hung around long enough to bid a fond farewell to your gut The dogs didnt mind it, but then what did dogs know about decent food? Va
ylo was grateful for what they caught, but after fifteen days of jackrabbit, woodrat and opossum his gratitude was wearing thin.
It was turning out to be a hard journey, harder than he had imagined when he'd first decided its course the night they escaped from the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, The distances invoked were longer than he'd anticipated and the hardships more wearing than he could have foreseen. Nothing to eat except lean meat, no clothes except what lay on their hacks, no weapons except a kitchen knife, a longknife and a maidens helper. Until yesterday when they finally entered hill country, they hadn't even been able to cook the meat brought down by the dogs, so wary was Vaylo of lighting a fire. Man hunters were out in the Dhoonehold, searching for the Dog Lord and his party, and all it would take for them to spy their prey was a lone line of smoke on the horizon or a flickering orange glow amidst the trees. Twice now Vaylo had spied mounted men in the distance and each time he'd known they had Dog meat on their minds. Man hunters had a look to them: lightly armored, finely horsed, hungry. Vaylo feared them, for he very much doubted whether Robbie Dun Dhoone cared if his enemy was taken dead or alive. The man hunters carried crossbows and would shoot at distance, and there were nights when Vaylo could not sleep for the thought of Pasha and Aaron being shot in the back.
Yesterday had brought an easing of his fears. The Copper Hills were a no-man's-land of bleak moors, wind-stunted pine forests, heather fields and rocky peaks. They had seen no sign of habitation in over two days and last night Vaylo had finally judged it safe to build a cookfire. They had been weary, but merry enough, and for a wonder Hammie had produced a small wedge of red cheese. "The laddie from Dhoone gave it to me," he said by way of explanation, "and I was saving it for the right moment." They had all taken a bite, though Aaron had spit his out, declaring it tasted like chicken wattles, and that had caused a huge scrap amongst the dogs. While three of them fought over Aaron's chewed-up leftovers, the wolf dog had sneaked in and stolen the rabbit from the fire.
Vaylo had roared at all of them then, the bairns included, and ordered everyone except Hammie to go to sleep. His nerves were not what they had been, he realized later as he lay atop his cloak and looked out at the dim, starless night The loss of forty good men at the Dhoonehouse followed by the rigors of a fifteen-day journey had worn him thin. How old was he now? Fifty-three, fifty-four? Too old to be starting from scratch, yet what choice did he have? Last night, before beginning his watch, Hammie had said to him, "Chief, we're living through bad times."
Vaylo had not replied, though he knew well enough what his response should have been: "Hammie, I created them."
Gullit Bludd had not taught: his bastard son much, but by default Vaylo had learned certain things at his father's hearth. The first amongst them was that no one would look out for him save himself. The second was that if he made a botch-up of things—be it letting the dogs out when one of the bitches was in heat, forgetting to haul the warriors' leathers in from the rain, or failing to skin a deer carcass before it froze—it was no one's responsibility but his own. Break it, you fix it or get a bearing. That was the way Gullit's hearth had worked.
It had not been a bad lesson all in all, though It had come back to haunt him in recent months. He, the Dog Lord, had brought the clan-holds to its knees, and Vaylo had the uncomfortable feeling that there was no one to set it to rights only him. Gods, why had he ever accepted Penthero Iss' offer of aid? He should have taken the Dhoonehouse alone. The invasion was damned from the start, from the very first moment when Vaylo had said to Iss' emissary, "Do what you must, halfman. Just spare me the details so I can deny them."
Suddenly tired, Vaylo stopped climbing and sat on a loose hump of rocks. Below him, Nan and Harnmie were — shepherding the bairns along a particularly sharp draw. The wind had tugged Nan's sea gray hair from her braid and flushed her cheeks with blood, and she looked young and a little bit dangerous. She'd taken to holstering her maiden's helper crosswise on her back like a longsword, and Vaylo knew that the little pouch at her waist that used to contain her portion of powdered guidestone now held henbane instead. She'd come across it ten days back, growing on the banks of a melt pond near the Dhoone-Spur border, and picked it and dried it for self-protection. It was deadly poison and she had enough to kill all of them, save the dogs, and the only place she trusted to store it was her powder pouch for no child would ever dare touch that.
"Pasha. Aaron. Slip behind those bushes and relieve yourselves. Quick about it now." When Aaron hesitated Nan set him in motion with a pat to his backside. Hiking quickly up the remaining slope, she left Hammie to pick up the rear.
The Dhoonewall can't be that far away now," she said to Vaylo as she sat beside him on the rock and gazed south across the rolling highlands of Dhoonc. "And then this journey will be done." Nan Culldayis was no talker and she spoke only when she had something to say. Vaylo waited.
"A hundred and eighty men await you at the Dhoonewail," she said finally, still looking ahead. That's exactly three times the number you commanded thirty-five years ago on the raid to steal the Dhoonestone from Dhoone."
She was right, and Vaylo understood all she meant by those words. Somewhere not far north of here lay the fastness known as the Dhoonewall, It had been the Dog Lords destination right from the start. His eldest son Quarro commanded the Bluddhouse and Vaylo knew enough about the greed and ambition of his seven sons to guess that he would never be welcomed back. The Bluddsmen at the Bluddhouse would be loyal to Quarro now, and a failed and aging chief arriving home with a single armsman as escort probably wouldn't be allowed through the gate. Worse, he might even be shot during the approach. So no, not for one minute had Vaylo considered returning to the Bluddhouse—he would not debase himself by appealing to his eldest son for shelter. He would head north instead to the Dhoonewall. where the longswordsman Cluff Drybannock stood ready with a hundred and eighty men.
It had seemed like a lifetime ago when Vaylo had sent Drybone north to defend the two major passes in the Copper Hills. The Dhoonewall was a defensive rampart spanning the six leagues that separated the passes. It had lain unused since the time of the River Wars, and only one of the original six hillforts remained livable. Vaylo had feared Dun Dhoone using the fort as a base to gather men and launch an attack on the Dhoonehouse, so had decided to garrison it with Bluddsmen. His original plan had been to kill two birds with one stone—send his troublesome second son Pengo far away from the Dhoonehouse where he could do no harm. Pengo would have none of it though—threatening to take the bairns with him if his hand was forced—and Cluff Drybannock had offered to take his place. Vaylo had regretted letting Drybone go. Cluff Drybannock was the best longswordsman in the North. He was a bastard, part Sull, part Bluddsman, and when he'd turned up at the Bluddhouse twenty years ago Vaylo had taken him as his adopted son. He missed Dry, and feared he had made a mistake by sending him away.
That wasn't what Nan was about here, though. She had watched him these past days, seen his spirits fall and his temper rise, and she sought to tell him in her own way that all was not lost. If he had managed to carry out the most audacious raid of the past hundred years with a crew of sixty men, then imagine what he could do with three times that number. That was what Nan meant to say. He could not deny the logic of it, but he had been young then and filled with certainty. He was old now and the only thing that he was certain of was that he had made mistakes.
Vaylo glanced down the hill, checking on Hammie and the bairns. Pasha and Aaron were in good spirits, whooping and hollering at one of the returning dogs. The bitch looked to have another rabbit in her jaws. That made three in under a day.
To Nan he said, "I must be sure who my enemy is before I send good men to fight. My sons are scattered across the clanholds—some hold houses, some don't. If I were to attempt to take their holdings from them by force then Bludd would be killing Bludd. As for Dhoone, the Thorn King can keep it. I sat on the Dhooneseat for a while and I canna say I enjoyed it. That seat is cold, Nan, and it was w
on at too great a cost to my soul. Anything I win now will be hard-fought and hard-defended. Yet what that prize might be I canna say. Always in the past my next move was clear to me: raid, invade, ambush, crack down on my rivals, attack. Yet things have changed for me, and I'm no longer sure what comes next."
At his side Nan breathed evenly and did not speak. Clouds were breaking up in the south and bands of sunlight swept across the hills. It was too windy for frost, but it was cold enough, and Vaylo felt the wind tears sting his eyes.
After a while Nan stood. Turning so that she was opposite him, she said, "You knew my da, Nolan Culldayis. He swung hammers with Gullit during the River Wars. Took up carving wood after your father died, used to make foxes and blackbirds and other fancies. I asked him once what he was working on. It was new block of cherrywood and he'd just started whittling. He said to me, 'I don't know what it is yet, Nannie. Knowing would ruin the surprise. " Nan raised a finely shaped eyebrow at Vaylo. "It was the possibilities, you see. As long as he didn't know what he was carving there were more of them."
Vaylo bowed his head at his lady, acknowledging the wisdom of her story yet not sure if it meant anything to him. A clan chief with jaw sprang surprises; he was not doing his job if he himself was surprised.
Rising, he held out a hand to accept the bitch's third rabbit of the day. She'd been waiting all the while Nan had been speaking, halted by a small gesture of Vaylo's hand, and now she came forward, wagging her tail so forcefully it rocked her bony rump right along with it "Good girl," he told her, taking the bloody fur-covered sack from her jaw. He inspected it, frowned, and then gave it right back. "Eat," he commanded. And she did, opening her jaw wide and wolfing it down whole in a unlovely, jerky motion that looked like a dry heave in reverse.
Vaylo was glad to have it gone. One more rabbit and there was no telling what he might do: run back to the Dhoonehouse and bunny-kick Robbie Dun Dhoone in the head.
A Sword from Red Ice Page 25