Bram paused in his shoveling to survey his work. The double doors of the guidehouse now had a ten-foot space cleared around them, and some fairly neat mounds of chucked snow lay off to the sides. The question was: Would ten feet be enough? Bram thought of Ogmore, frowned and then resumed shoveling. Another five were called for.
He thought about the clan guide's riding to battle as he worked. That would be a fine thing, he decided. To be able to fight and possess knowledge all at once.
He was faint with exhaustion by the time he was done. His knees were loose and wobbly, and the sword blister on the right hand had swollen to the size of an eyeball and split He had to use his little finger to work the doorlatch.
Switching from the afternoon dazzle of snow to the shadows of the guidehouse took some adjustment, and Bram was caught off-guard when Nathaniel's pale face loomed close to his.
He tutted, shooting out missiles of bad breath. "How does it feel to have your brother sell you?"
Bram swung at him. Nathaniel was prepared and jumped back. Bram tried to track his shape in the murky dimness, thought he detected a movement and took a second swipe. Striking air, he fell off balance and couldn't get his treacherous knees to save him. As he fell Nathaniel punched him in the head.
'Young men," hissed Drouse Ogmore, "control yourselves."
The guide stood at the southeast corner of the guidestone and glared at them. Bram blinked. The guidehouse was rocking and he needed it to stop. For some reason he smelled skinned rabbit—the smell of his mother's workroom growing up.
"Take it," Ogmore said.
Bram wondered what he meant, and then something skin-colored and fan-shaped dropped into view. A hand.. Nathaniel's hand. It would help if he could keep it still. Tentatively, Bram sent up his own hand and watched as it swayed back and forth like pondweed before Nathaniel's came and gobbled it up.
The pain of the split blister being squeezed of its juice brought Bram round. Yanked to his feet, he sent everything he had to his knees, it was barely enough to keep him upright.
"I'll have no fighting in this guidehouse, do you hear me?" Ogmore's gaze darted between Bram and Nathaniel.
"He was"
"No excuses," snapped the guide, silencing Nathaniel. "You shame the gods with petty blame."
Nathaniels long face, with its uncommon amount of space between the nostrils and upper lip, colored hotly.
"Go to the roundhouse and fetch my supper." Ogmorc stared hard at Nathaniel until he moved. Then, turning to Bram, "You. In the back with me."
Bram concentrated on his knees as he followed Ogmore's swirling pigskins around the eastern face of the Milkstone.
The rear section of the guidehouse had been partitioned off from the main hall and several small rooms had been framed. Ogmore's private sleeping chamber was located here, as well as a small dining area, and stockrooms. Leading Bram into the dining area, Ogmore said, "Sit. Take some water."
Bram sat on the polished birch bench with great care, like a man who had drunk too much and was trying to conceal it The table was rocking and he thought he might be sick.
Perhaps realizing that it was going to take Bram some time to get to the water, Ogmore poured a cup and handed it to him. "Do you know why this guidehouse is made out of wood and not stone?
Anticipating that it would be better to speak than shake his head, Bram said., "No."
"The old clan guide, Meadmorn Castlemilk, designed it so that if it's ever besieged we can torch it and bum alive those who would steal our stone." Ogmore paused and then told Bram, "Drink."
Bram did. The water was cool and gritty.
"The Milkstone would not be burned. Changed perhaps, but not destroyed. Meadmorn reckoned it worth the risk." Drome Ogmore looked straight at Raif, his deep-set eyes gleaming in the light of the half-shuttered window. "A flaming can sometimes stop things from falling into the wrong hands."
Water gurgled in Bram s stomach as he realized that Ogmore was talking about Robbie.
"Count yourself lucky, Bram Cormac, that you are here."
He didn't come out and say it, but Bram knew what he meant Better to have been burned than stay in Robbie Dun Dhoone's hands. Bram made no reply. Robbie was his brother and he would die rather than speak a word against him.
Ogmore knew this. Resting bis powerful, scarred and callused hands on the table, he seemed satisfied at what he had said.
As the rocking in Bram s head subsided, he realized that the guide must have overheard Nathaniel's words. Why else speak of Robbie at this moment?
Ogmore was capable of reading thoughts, for he said, "Nathaniel is worried you will take his place as my apprentice."
Bram heard the rise in the guide's voice, and understood what it meant. He waited.
Ogmore stood and crossed the short distance to the window, Bram assumed he would close the shutter as the sun was fading and a frost was setting in, yet the guide threw it back— "Castlemtlk needs two things above all else," he said, looking east toward the Milkhouse and the broken Sull tower where Robbie Dun Dhoone and his men had garrisoned over winter. "Our numbers of young warriors are depleted, They have been wooed away by the promised glory of Dhoone, and we wait, and they do not return. Above all things a clan must be able to defend its borders and protect its house. I am clan guide and I do not say this lightly so hear me well: When a clan is under threat the gods must take second place. Our gods are hard and dread, but they made us what we are. And what we are is clansmen. Given a choice we will fight. The gods know this, and even if they do not forgive, they under-stand"
Turning from the window, his shoulders limned by failing light, Ogmore searched Bram's face. "So now you know the rankings. Warriors first Guide second. Yet there are many warriors …. and one guide. Tell me then, Bram Cormac, who is most important?"
Bram could not. He remained silent.
Ogmore appeared unsurprised yet at the same time stirred. "As we stand hear and speak Blackhail fails. Do you know why?"
"Their guidestone shattered."
"No." Ogmore spoke with force. "A new stone can be quarried, new powder can replace the old in warriors pouches, it is possible to recover over time from such blows, yet the Blackhail guide foiled his clan so absolutely he sent it spiraling down into hell" Bram felt hairs prickle along his arms. "He trained no replacement. He died with his stone in the darkness of night and the next day Blackhail was doomed. There was no one to step in and guide the clan in the days when it most needed guiding. Fatal mistakes were made. The remains of the Hailstone were left to lie on open ground, in plain sight of clan. The Walk of Secession was not performed, and clansmen and clanswomen walked with the tainted powder at their waists and did not know it was tainted. A new clan guide was brought in from Scarpe and hauled half of the Scarpestone north in a cart. This monstrosity was hallowed five nights back. The crimes against the gods are many and continue, and while Blackhail lives with an alien stone at its heart it will never rise from the hole dug by its own guide."
It was close to dark now and Bram could no longer see Ogmore's face. He wondered how the guide knew so much about Blackhail, then remembered Wrayan's speech about the birds.
'Tell me now," Drouse Ogmore said, his voice spun with small prickles, "who is most important: warrior or guide?"
Bram bowed his head. The morion started the room rocking one final time. "Guide."
Drouse Ogmore left the word in silence so Bram could feel the waves it created. Minutes passed as they stared at each other and only when it was frill dark and the only light in the room came from smoke-nres next door did Ogmore speak.
"Castlemilk needs an apprentice guide. If I die we need someone to continue the ways of the stone. The mistakes of Blackhail cannot be ignored. The Milkstone must be protected. And known. I must teach someone the places to drill and not to drill, the weak points, the oil reservoirs, the hollows that must never fill with ice. Knowledge of the old ceremonies must be passed on, for someone in this clan must always know how to
mount a Chief Watch, replace and hallow a new guidestone, accept the oaths of its warriors, choose lores for its newborns and chisel hearts. Such are the dealing of a guide, and I would pass them on to you."
"Will I learn the histories?" Bram asked.
Ogmore looked at him strangely. "Scholars do not make good guides."
Bram opened his mouth to ask why, but Ogmore forestalled him with a raised hand.
"We will speak no more. Do not give me your answer now. I know you work hard at your swordsmanship under Selco and Burmish. I also know you spend two hours in the dairy each morning, performing the simple task necessary for feeding clan. Both of these endeavors are right and fitting. For now I would have you continue all of them, including assisting me in this house, but know this: I will ask for a choice. When sufficient time has passed for contemplation I will call you into the presence of the Milkstone and an answer must be given." Drouse Ogmore walked to the edge of the table and leant across it so that his face was inches away from Bram's. "I saw you that day when you touched the stone—it reached toward you. You must decide if you are willing to reach back."
The guide pushed himself to upright and left the room. Bram sat alone in the darkness and watched as smoke poured under the door.
TWENTY-EIGHT The Rift Awakens
Raif was awaiting delivery of the Forsworn sword. Stillborn had sent it to Piggie Blesdo for a refiring four days back and had gone off this morning to retrieve it. Piggie was an ex-Dhoonesmen and blacksmith who had built a tower furnace on one of the high eastern ledges, and did most of the steelwork for the Maimed Men. Stillborn had gone to retrieve it three hours back, but Raif wasn't worried by his absence. Stillborn was an expert at whiling time. Besides, it was good to be alone.
Yelma, Stillbom'sMnd-filled quintain, was'-creaking on her iron chain that was suspended above the fight circle. For reasons Raif could not guess, Stillborn had dressed up the practice dummy in ugly iron turtle armor and a red skirt. She didn't have a head, but the top of her torso boasted a fleece hat with ear warmers. Stillborn had nailed it in place. Raif had taken a few swipes at her earlier, but had quickly lost interest. He had not yet found the balance of the sword Stillborn had lent to him, yet even with that disadvantage it was too easy to spike the quintain's heart Stillborn's cave consisted of a single chamber shaped like a wedge of cheese turned on its side. The rock ceiling above the cave mouth and fight circle was high and vaulted, but toward the back of the cave, the ceiling lowered sharply and ended, thirty feet into the cliff cave, in a point. The point was where Stillborn stowed his least-used possess-sions; rusted spears, heaps of old clothing, an iron bathtub, a stool with a broken leg, a preserved bear head, several saddles, a silver urn decorated with enameled balls, and other trophies from his raids and hunts. Raif sat among them, the rock ceiling less than a hand's length above his head, and tried to decide if it was worth sanding the rust from one of the spears. The spear he had in his hand was good and heavy, its shaft made from a single piece of rolled iron, its head bladed with a rusted but decent point. Stillborn had told him to help himself to anything he found here. "Except the bear head," he'd added thoughtfully, squinting into the possession pile. "I might have a go of tacking that on Yelma."
To remove himself and the spear from the tight wedge of the back wall, Raif had to walk in a crouch, holding the spear horizontal at his waist. Ahead, he saw a figure step into the light surrounding the cave mouth. Raif moved through the shadows toward it.
Mallia Argola gave a small scream as she spied him coming toward her, armed.
"No," Raif cried out, holding the spear away from his body. "I… I'm just going to clean it."
She glanced from the head of the spear to his face, lips pressed together, forehead knitted into a deep frown. "You scared me."
"I'm sorry." Raif set down the spear and moved forward with his back hunched. Twice he'd seen her now and both times he was walking like an idiot. "What do you want?" Right away he realized it was an ungracious question, but it was too late to take it back.
Holding out a package wrapped in some silky kind of cloth, she said, "Your gloves and cloak. You left them at our home." Her voice was faintly accented, and prickly with the emotions that followed unjustified fear. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress of a color that fell between deep green and deep blue, and the same black bodice that had snugged her waist yesterday on the ledge snugged it again now. An airily woven black shawl covered a narrow strip of her arms and shoulders. "Take them."
Raif approached her, and they shared a few awkward moments as the package was transferred between them. She smelled like marsh fern, spicy and green.
"Are you not going to look?"
Puzzled, Raif glanced down at the package. It had been tied neatly with black cord.
"The cloak," Mallia said, as if she was stating something that should be obvious to him. "I repaired it for you."
The Orrl cloak had been damaged in the Want; he had not given it much thought since then. Seeing that she was waiting, he tugged on the string and unraveled the package. The silky cloth fell to the ground, revealing his black boarhide gloves resting on top of the cloak. She watched him carefully as he tucked the gloves into his gear belt and then inspected the cloak. He could not remember exactly where the varnish had started to chip and grew more anxious as he searched and couldn't find the spots. He knew she was expecting him to praise her work. After a minute or so he gave up and looked at her, preparing an apology in his head.
She was smiling. "Maybe I have done too good a job."
Raif felt relief and strong attraction.
"Here." She took the cloak from him. "Just there by the hem. See? And there in the front." She moved into him to demonstrate her work. Now that she pointed it out he could see where she had applied something—lacquer, varnish, metallic paint—over the bald spots, carefully overlapping and matching, nearly perfectly, the original finish.
"Thank you," he said, pleased. She had shiny spots of pigment on her fingers.
"It took me most of the night to match it. I have never seen anything quite like it."
She was so close he could see the fine golden down on her cheeks and temples, and see how quickly and wonderfully it became deep brown at her hairline. He spoke to distract himself. "It's made by the clansmen at Orrl. They wear them to hunt in winter."
"Orrl," she repeated, as if committing the word to memory.
"It's the most westerly of the sworn clans." His voice sounded wooden to his ears but he couldn't seem to stop speaking, wits territories border Scarpe and Blackhail, and its warriors hunt as far as the Storm Margin."
"Storm Margin. I have heard of that." She smiled again, and he could not tell if she was stating a fact or gently mocking him. Her breasts were full and round beneath the fabric of her dress. Her waist was cinched small enough to be circled by his hands.
Crazily, Raif wanted to grab her and squash her against his chest. Afraid that he might actually do so he stepped back.
She stepped with him. "Your cloak." As she handed it back to him her fingers touched his wrist.
Raif breathed sharply. He had no experience of women. Was it possible she expected him to touch her back?
Mallia Argola looked at him with green-brown eyes. She was older than he was, perhaps by four or five years. "Give me your hand," she said to him.
Maneuvering the Orrl cloak over the crook in his left arm seemed to take forever. He was sure she must think him a fool. When he was done, he held out his right hand and was surprised to see it didn't shake.
She took it firmly, forcing the fingers up and also forcing him to move toward her. Raising his hand to her face, she studied its scars and bow calluses. He could feel her breath wetting his skin. Slowly she pushed his palm to her lips and kissed it.
Wildness threatened him then. He wanted her and could perceive her heart, and somehow the two things got crossed in his head and the only thing he knew for sure was that given long enough he would harm her. He could not
tell the difference between desire to kill her and desire. Fearful of losing his mind, he wrenched back his arm.
In that final instant of contact he felt her teeth nip the base of his thumb.
"It is done," she said to him, calmly. Her eyes glinted with something that might have been triumph—whatever it was, she blinked it away. "Tooth and hand. In my land that means we will be more than friends."
He turned away from her, stirred and barely sane. Blood was ricocheting around his body. The Orrl cloak was on the floor.
"I must leave," she said, her voice trailing toward the cave mouth. "My brother sends a message: Come see him tonight."
With that Mallia Argola was gone.
Raif told himself not to look around. He paced to the back of the cave and found himself soon thwarted by the low ceiling. Casting around for something to… use … his gaze alighted on the rusted spear. Hefting it over his shoulder he took a run at the quintain. The spear's point was cankered and blunt, and the force required to punch it through iron plate was immense. Raif drove it through Yelma's chest armor, yanked it out, and then drove it through again.
He was still stabbing the quintain a quarter-hour later when Stillborn sauntered into the cave holding an oil lamp on a pole.
"Gods, lad. What are you doing?" he asked, setting the lamp down on the cave floor.
Raif stopped. He was shaking and drenched with sweat. One of his fingers was bloodied; he had sliced it on a jagged edge of plate.
Stillborn came over and took the spear away. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he guided him firmly around. "Come and rest for a while."
A Sword from Red Ice Page 46