A Sword from Red Ice

by Julia V Jones

  It was growing late and the gray sky was slowly darkening to blue. The snow captured and held the light, glowing on the forest floor and along the spruce and cedar boughs. The stallion took the lead at canter and the gelding had to stretch itself to keep up. Lan Fallstar rode effortlessly, his back relaxed, his fingers light upon the reins. As he moved in the saddle, the longsword and bow slung crosswise across his back slapped together, beating time.

  Ash was glad to be riding. Bending low against the gelding's neck, she savored the warmth of horseflesh against her chest as she raced after the Far Rider. Her lynx fur flared out over the horse's rump and her hair streamed behind her, heavy with melted snow.

  She became aware of movement so gradually that it barely registered at first. In her mind it was something black and distant between the trees. As the snow began to ease it occurred to her that the black-ness was on a path to intercept with her own, A muscle below her pit loosened. Shortening the reins, she tent her hill awareness toward the thing that was closing in from the south.

  And knew instantly it was maer dan. It sucked at her, like aft dragged into a powerful fire. When she turned her eyes toward it she felt her lenses elongate.

  "Lan," she called. The Far Rider had not slowed his pace and was some distance ahead of her, easily navigating a path between a giant spruce and a cedar that was growing around a felled stump like a squid on a rock. He did not hear her, so called again, louder. «Lan» It felt strange saying his name.

  The Far Rider turned and looked at her. Whatever he saw on her face was enough for him to bring the stallion to a banking halt. Clods of dirt and snow sprayed the trees. Lan's eyes met hers and she was surprised to see a question in them. He was Sull She had assumed somehow he would have known.

  "Something is coming from the south," she murmured, her wet hair sending icy trickles down her spine. "Maer dan."

  Shadowflesh. Lan continued to look at her, his pupils enlarging. She had a memory of Mal Navsayer drawing his sword at suck a moment his face hard and terrible, his eyes burning like the cold blue stars at the farthest edge of the sky. She recalled feeling…not safe exactly, but protected. If anything wanted to reach her it would have to get past the Naysayer and his foot longsword, first. Lan Fallstar reached for his bow. "Point," he demanded, his voice terse. Light reflecting off the snow illuminated the hollows of his cheecks and the space under his jaw. With a fluid motion, he drew his first arrow. It had a hole drilled into its steel head, she noticed, but had no idea why.

  Ash drew her own weapon, the sickle knife and weighted chain. "This way," she cried, kicking the gelding into motion. She'd be damned if she was going to point.

  The creature poured like liquid through the trees. It was accelerating, and she had the sense of powerful muscles bunching and unbundling. Something howled in a long single note that made the metal in her hand vibrate. Ash caught sight of a glistening flash of blackness plunging through shadows cast by the prehistoric pines. It was massive, and it had never been human. Not even close.

  It moved on four limbs and it had thick shoulders and a small, frighteningly sleek head. She was reminded of hyenas and lam-mergeier—carrion feeders who plunged their entire heads into organ flesh. Its eyes were slits. Its clawed footpads ripped up the snow.

  Ash made an uneasy adjustment to the reins, transferring them into one hand so she could be free to swing the chain. The gelding flicked back its ears but held its course. The creature was moving as fast as a big cat, its hip bone springing in a wavelike motion. Its howls hurt Ash's ears. Carefully, as Ark had taught her, she raised the sickle knife above her head. The peridot weight bounced once against her buttocks before she whipped the chain into motion.

  The creature was not heading toward her, she realized as the chain built up speed and began to whumpf. It was coming straight for Lan Fallstar. The Far Rider had followed her at a slower pace; she could hear the sound of his stallion blowing out air and the jingle of harness metal. Perhaps he was aiming the bow. She did not look round.

  Squeezing the gelding with her thighs, she shifted her course. The chain was spinning so fast it had passed into invisibility. The peridots in the weight scribed a green circle in the air. As she judged distance and time, the creature closed in. Its elongated jaws sprang apart, revealing dense layers of inward slanting teeth.

  Ash stood in the stirrups and yanked the weight forward— The beast leapt its muscular hind legs propelling its body like springs. Shocked by to speed, she realized her shot had fallen short Hot pun coursed along her shoulder as the weight reached the end of ife tether with momentum to spare. It snapped with a crack— The chain crumpled in the middle as the weight shot back toward her. Ash flicked her wrist with force, sending tension back into the chain and throwing the weight wide of herself and her horse. As she did this she was aware of a series of soft retorts.

  Thuc. Thuc. Thuc.

  Three arrows were loosed in quick succession. The creature dropped as soon as the first one hit, collapsing into the snow with a dull thud. Its flesh began to hiss as the other two arrows struck the big ridge of muscle on its shoulder. The creature rippled. The outline of its body softened, as if it were somehow losing its form. Air crackled like a sheet of breaking ice. Ash breathed it in and wished she hadn't. It was empty of whatever her lungs required for fuel.

  A soft hiss escaped from the creature's gut. All was still for a moment, and then shadow discharged from its carcass in an explosive rolling ring. The shock wave blasted Ash's face and riffled through the fur on her cloak. It was cold in different ways than the snow, coating her skin with the substance of another world. Even as she struggled to make sense of it, the substance smoked away to nothing, tingling as it ceased to exist. It smelled like the thin air-starved atmosphere at the top of mountains.

  Shivering, she turned her horse. Lan Fallstar stood on his stallion's stirrups, resting his eared longbow. His chest was pumping rapidly. He had a fourth arrow ready and unused in his hand. He sat back in the saddle as Ash looked on and scooped up the reins from his horse's neck. Slinging the bow over his shoulder, he said to her, "It was foolish to get so close." His voice was low and loose, and she was glad to hear the fear in it. It made her like him better.

  "It was a good shot. The first one. Must have been a heart-kill."

  His eyes went blank for the briefest moment before he nodded. 'This Sull had a good arrow."

  Ash smiled at his modesty. She had traveled with Raif Sevrance: she knew all about the cost and difficulty of heart kills. "Come," she said, drawing abreast of him. "Let's make camp away from this place."

  Lan Fallstar returned the unused arrow to its case, and actually allowed Ash to take the lead. The gelding was panting and a bit scuddy around the neck so she spoke soft words to him and set an easy pace. She did not look back at the blasted remains of the creature in the snow.

  As soon as they found a place away from the carcass, they set up camp. Ash picked a clearing between the cedars—the towering spruces made her feel too small. She brushed down both horses while Lan built a fire and prepared food. The stallion held itself perfectly still as she combed through its long silky tail. When she was done it delighted her by presenting its right foreleg for inspection. She checked and discovered part of a pine cone wedged under its nail. Using her letting knife, she winkled it out.

  When she raised her head, she found Lan Fallstar staring at her through the flames. She smiled, and although he did not smile back she imagined she saw a softening in his face. His skin was deeply golden in the firelight.

  He had pitched the wolfskin tent. The sight of it made heat come to Ash's face. Water spilled from her cup as she drank. Fear had left her muscles and tendons humming. As she ate her simple meal of cured horse meat and wafers, she tried to calm herself. She'd felt better with the horses, she realized. Less jumpy.

  Lan had heart-killed a creature that had forced its way out of the Blind, and somehow that meant she had misjudged him. It seemed more believable now that he
was what he claimed: a Far Rider. Why had she doubted him when he drew the bow? What did she know about Sull and all the ways they had of fighting the Unmade? Mal Naysayer was a giant, solid as a block of granite and terrifying in battle, but she doubted that even he could have disposed of the carrion feeder more efficiently than Lan Fallstar. One arrow, shot at distance. She would not have been able to bring down the creature herself. It was too fast and strong to be held by a chain. It would have dragged her from the back of her horse. A Reach did not have physical power, it seemed. She could track the creatures of the Blind, but not much else.

  Briefly she looked north and wondered where the Naysayer rested this night. She would have liked to talk to him just then.

  Ash held her hands over the fire, letting its heat warm her palms. The cedar logs were riddled with pitch holes and the flames turned ameythst as they bumed. Snow had stopped falling but ice crystals moved through the air like pollen. Lan Fallstar reached out and took Ash's hands in his. "Come."

  He led her to the wolfskin tent where he had already laid out blan-kets and furs in a single pile. Light came from the fire; muted and reds arid golds that flickered on Ash's skin. She stepped out of her cloak, unbuckled her belt, and pulled her dress over her head. She could smell her sweat, sahy and darkly sweet. Her stomach felt hollow and when Lan touched it muscles quivered. His hand pushed under her breast, forcing it out so he could close his mouth around the small hard nipple. His other hand slid between her legs. Ash gasped. Losing her footing she stumbled backward and Lan grabbed her hips and guided her down to the floor. As she lay on the furs he pulled off her boots. He was naked and his sex stood out from his body. When he had removed both her boots he lowered his head between her thighs and kissed her sex. Ash tensed, surprised. Slowly she relaxed as warm liquid heat rolled over belly and thighs. His tongue slid back and forth, wet and soft. Soon the gentle pressure was no longer enough and she pushed herself against Lan's face. His tongue stiffened in response. She could foiBrdly believing anything could feel this good.

  She wondered why she kept seeing the shadow beast tearing between the trees. Lan's tongue was moving along folds of tender skin and she stopped breathing as its rhythm grew more insistent. A single arrow to the hearfclSuch a small, compact head and it had stopped something larger and more densely muscled than a horse.

  Ash grabbed at the furs as his tongue entered her. Urgent pressure built in her belly. She did not want him to stop.

  Do not wake, the voice called from the darkness.

  As muscles contracted in her thighs and stomach, she realized she had not seen the first arrow go in.

  THIRTY-THREE The Field of Graves and Swords

  Vaylo Bludd rode his borrowed horse north to the Field of Graves and Swords. Mogo Salt, second son of Cawdo, and Hammie Faa were behind him. The wind was up and ragging, pushing high and low clouds across the sky. An overnight frost had crisped the receding snow and it cracked pleasingly when punctured. Vaylo's horse was a fiery stallion, jet black, with a long, sculpted head. When he dug in his heels and loosened the reins, the animal raced up the valley slope at full gallop.

  Gods, but it was good not to think. Just ride and be damned as your ears chilled to freezing and your tailbone took a hammering against the cantle. He'd been shut up for too long in the furry black walls of the hillfort. Too much damp, too many whisperings, too much fear of what was to come. A hundred and seventy Bluddsmen were garrisoned there. When had they turned into frightened girls? We are Bludd, Vaylo wanted to shout out at the morning. We are not built to sit and wait.

  Arriving at the headland that topped the valley, Vaylo reined in his horse. The Field of Graves and Swords lay directly ahead of him and he felt the pressure that had been building in his chest ease. Dead clansmen lay here. Respect was due. He walked the horse forward through the dried out heather stalks, rye grass and snow. The stallion's neck steamed. Vaylo smelled horse sweat and frozen mud. When he drew close enough to see the canker on the nearest blade, he disjointed. His feet punched perfect impressions in the snow.

  Deciding to trust the stallion, the Dog Lord let the horse stand free. Mayhap it would nose something tasty from the snow. Behind him he was aware of Hammie and Mogo slowing their mounts. Behind them, the wolf dog was high-trotting through the white.

  The swords were as ClufF Drybannock said: fallen or falling. Vaylo counted eleven that were wholly upright, and perhaps twice that number that pierced the snow at odd angles. Dozens more must lay beyond sight. You could still make out the barrows, though, the stone mounds that had been raised around the bodies. Vaylo did not know if Dhoone preferred to cover their dead rather than bury them, or if it was a case of men fallen in winter with the earth too hard to be dug. The mounds gave him a chill more than the swords, for he had not been expecting them. Man-shaped but three times as big, they were swollen with new snow. Fox tracks led in toward the middle of the field and Vaylo followed them, his left hand resting on his horn of powdered guidestone. When he came to the first sword he halted. Drawing his newly-acquired sable cloak around his legs, he knelt in the snow. The sword's point was intact but the blade had been eaten by rust and its edge was gone. It had once been a greatsword, Vaylo reckoned, probably close to six feet long including hilt. Someone strong and able must have wielded it. Leaning forward he touched the cankered edge and was surprised to feel how firmly it was fixed in place. He had thought the lightest pressure might have tilted it, and now he wondered about the men who had formed these mounds and set these swords in place. Had they poured cement into the warrior's chest cavities and plunged the hilts between their ribs? What had they feared? What had happened here to raise these swords?

  Slapping a hand on his knee, the Dog Lord rose to standing. Two ovals of snow shed from the fur of his cloak. On the periphery of his vision he saw the wolf dog ghosting along the edge of the mounds. When he heard footsteps approaching he turned.

  Hammie Faa and white-haired Mogo Salt stepped forward to pay their respects to the dead. No one spoke. All were warriors here. Mogo was young to have the white hair and Vaylo wondered if he minded it. Not all Salt men had it—Cawdo's hair had been thick and brown— but it was a trait the family was known for.

  "Come," Vaylo said to them after some minutes had passed. "Let us away to look at the Rift."

  They mounted their horses and rode north until the land ceased rising. Vaylo enjoyed the high-sprung nature of his horse, was glad he had to fight it. He thought about the Dog Horse, his mount for nearly a decade, and wondered what had become of it after it had broken free from the burning stables at Dhoone. He had loved that horse, but doubted anyone else could, and he hoped it hadn't been slaughtered for meat No Dhoonesman would have been able to master it, that was for sure.

  Forcing the stallion into a skidding halt, Vaylo squinted into the far distance. His old, hardened lenses were not what once they were and it took a moment for the Rift to come into focus. You couldn't see the hole itself, just the raised cliffs on the other side of it and the horizon-long shadow that told of something… missing.

  "Its a sight," he said as Hammie and Mogo rode abreast of him, "But not one to warm a man's heart."

  Hammie stood in his stirrups and whistled. He too was kitted with a new cloak and a borrowed horse. The cloak was maroon and trimmed with marten and intended for someone taller. The horse had big nostrils and a powerful neck.

  "I was there six days back," Mogo said. "An entire roundhouse could tall in and you wouldn't be able to find it."

  Silence followed as Hammie and the Dog Lord contemplated this fact.

  "Where are the Maimed Men?" Hammie asked.

  "East of here. Sometimes we see their smoke."

  Hammie thought about this. "How do they get across for their raids?"

  Mogo brought his white eyebrows together in a frown. "Da told me there was a bridge only no sworn clansman can see it"

  Cawdo Salt was dead, killed several months back at Ganmiddich, so Vaylo did not speak up to co
ntradict his wisdom. The Dog Lord did not believe in such things as bridges that could only be seen by select people. He believed in trickiness and subterfuge, and imagined they played some part in the Maimed Men's ability to cross into the clan- holds. "You know what I think?" he asked. Both Mogo and Hammie earnestly shook their heads. The Dog Lord put on his most serious chief's face. "Evn if I give you a five minute start I'll still beat you back to the fort."

  Hammie, who knew how these things worked took off. Mogo Salt, sat there in the saddle and looked confused. "Go," Vaylo told him, not unkindly. 'It's a race;

  The boy got the idea soon enough. As Vaylo listened to the drum of horse hoofs he finally felt free to breathe. To the west of hirn he spied the wolf dog, worrying a piece of fox. Turning the stallion, he looked south at the Copper Hills. He thought he could see the broken turret of the forts watchtower, but couldn't be sure.

  What were Bluddsmen doing here? And why were they staying?

  This was Dhoone—and a godforsaken comer of it at that. How long before Robbie Dun Dhoone rode north to reclaim it? How long before whatever monstrosities had slain Derek Blunt and his men stirred for a second feeding? Vaylo could not get the sight of the barrows out of his mind. Men dead and entombed in stone but still fighting.

  They had been buried to the north, not to the south to protect against attacks from rival clans. Had the Maimed Men ever warranted such a display or fear and bravado? Vaylo thought not. The Maimed Men were outcasts, left-behinds. Freaks. You could fight off ten of them with a decent crossbow.

  Vaylo breathed the icy air through his mouth, punishing his teeth. He did not like it here, and wondered how long he could stay. Kicking the stallion into motion, he raced south.

  As he descended the slope into the valley, the sun broke out for a while and its scrawny warmth improved his spirits. He had to remember that here was better than nowhere. Chief of a moldy hillfort was better than no chief at all. Hunkering low against his horse's neck, Vaylo switched paths so he wouldn't have to pass the Field of Swords and Graves. Might even be quicker this way, always supposing he didn't run into rocks and ponds concealed by the snow. The territory was still new to the horse so it didn't have much of an opinion on the route. It didn't like the scent of the wolf dog, that much was certain, and Vaylo thought it a pity that he hadn't trained the hound to chase his horses—he'd get some real speed from them that way.