by J. V. Jones
Swords rang as the blows fell. Ark stepped back, forward, back, falling into the rhythm he called Ahl Halla, the Great Game. The maeraith met him blow for blow. It was armored in black iron bossed with cabochons of onyx. Massive and untiring, it gave no ground.
A furious rain of blows forced Ark’s sword against his chest. The Sull warrior lost his footing, stumbled . . . and suddenly a gash opened up on his wrist. Blood streamed onto the forest floor. Ark spoke a word, “Hass,” and Ash knew he was calling to his blood brother in the language of maygi and Sull.
Ark regained his footing, but not his strength. The shadow was relentless, never slackening its attack. If Ark had opened its flesh, it did not bleed. If battle had tired it, it did not slow and make it known. As it forced the Sull warrior to his knees, the diseased pines rustled on the edge of the clearing. A figure emerged from the darkness, every bit as terrible as the maeraith itself.
Mal Naysayer, Son of the Sull and chosen Far Rider, drew his sword. “Kall’a maer. Rath’a madi ann’ath Xaras,” Mal whispered. “Come for me, shadows, for I stand ready in the light of the moon.”
And the maeraith did, turning from Ark Veinsplitter to the man who stood waiting in a patch of silver radiance.
Afterwards Ash would remember many things about the battle—the way Mal’s sword arced and circled and never stopped moving, how his face was grim but his eyes blazed with a savage joy, and how the plates of his horn armor snapped like snakes as he cut into the thing’s flesh—but for now she could only wonder that Mal had summoned the shadow, and that the shadow had come.
The Naysayer found a heart where she thought none had existed. He pressed the point of his six-foot longsword against armor older than the clanholds, put the weight of his body upon the cross-guards, and slid his blade into the vast, pumping darkness of the creature’s heart.
A howl sounded and the maeraith fell, black liquid spraying from the tear in its plate. Ash felt its wetness burn her face. It wasn’t blood and it wasn’t warm, yet it tasted familiar all the same.
The Naysayer pressed a foot against the corpse to free his sword. The light had left his eyes, and Ash could see that his hands and neck were cut and weeping blood. Behind his back, at the edge of the tree line, she spied a wolf carcass in the loam. Mal had been away defending the camp.
Ash felt a terrible weakness take her, and the sickle and chain fell from her grip. Ark had been in danger and she had made no move to aid him.
The Naysayer spoke her name. He was breathing hard and his face was blistered with sweat. Gobs of smoking darkness clung to his sword. “Fear is the enemy that will destroy us,” he said. “You must always seek the flame.”
Ash nodded. She thought of things to say, of how flames weren’t always enough to snuff out shadows and how the darkest shadows were cast by the brightest light, but she looked into Mal’s eyes and saw that she would only be telling him things he knew. Smiling weakly, she said, “I’ll try harder next time.”
He looked at her for a long, grim moment, and then turned to tend to his hass.
THIRTY-ONE
A Storm Building
The Dog Lord crouched on the Queen’s Court at Dhoone and tussled with his dogs. The wolf dog was on its back, trying to nip his fingers, its tail wagging madly, while the others ran in circles, hoping to be picked next. They made Vaylo laugh out loud. Their joy and eagerness lightened his heart. Thirty years ago his rivals had sought to insult him by naming him the Dog Lord, but he’d always thought they’d made a mistake. Dogs were loyal, and fierce in defense of what was theirs, and Vaylo couldn’t think of another creature he’d rather be named for.
His joints creaked as he rose to standing. Damn, but the wind was strong. Even in the walled enclosure of the Queen’s Court, it snapped back his cloak and set his braids clicking. And the sky! Dark as Blackhail and boiling up a storm. The charged air excited the dogs, for there was something primal about a storm building. It made you feel as if you had nothing to lose.
Vaylo called his dogs to heel, and leashed them. One of the bitches pissed against a dormant rose bush, and then all the rest had to do the same. Vaylo frowned at the pruned stump. Not much chance of that one flowering come spring.
It was a queer place, the Queen’s Court, not really clannish at all. With its paved walkways, limestone statues and rose bushes it looked as if it had been transported, flowers and all, from Spire Vanis. Well . . . almost. For the statues were half-eaten by birdlime and some of their heads had been knocked off, and since no one had tended this place in over half a year, heather and wild oats had begun to seed amidst the cracks. And as for the little man-made stock pond—Vaylo pitied the fish that wintered there, for some poisonous bright green slime floated on the surface like vomit.
Still. It was an interesting place, built for some long-dead queen by the king who had loved her. Dhoone was strange like that. It had romances, legends. Ancient white-haired scholars in Withy and Wellhouse recorded all the details and the names.
Not so with Bludd. Oh, it had its stories, tales of brave chiefs winning battles and reckless ones losing them. But there was no continuity. Entire centuries had been lost. Even the boast—We are Clan Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders. Death is our companion. A hard life long lived is our reward—had lost its meaning. The Dog Lord wondered about those borders sometimes, wondered about their limits. Did the borders end at Clan Bludd, or did they extend farther, to every last corner of the clanholds?
Vaylo let the wind blow away his misgivings. Too often these days his thoughts were turning inward, when by rights they should have been dealing in the here and now. Clan Bludd was divided, its warriors scattered over the eastern clanholds. Quarro and Gangarric were at the Bluddhouse, sitting as uneasily together as vinegar and oil, and nursing their mutual dislike. Both had crews of Bludd warriors at their command. Quarro’s numbers were substantial, and he counted many older veterans in his ranks. Vaylo didn’t place high odds on ever being welcomed back there again.
Thrago and Hanro were at Withy, feuding over command of the house. The little clanhold was notoriously vulnerable, and with Skinner Dhoone only four days’ ride away at Gnash, and Blackhail-held Ganmiddich even closer, Withy was a sitting duck.
Vaylo puffed out a great breath. His other sons were similarly scattered; Otto had taken the oath at Frees, and gods only knew where Morkir was. Only Pengo was at Dhoone. He commanded a mixed crew of hammermen and spearmen, and had been charged with securing the Dhoonehold.
But the Dog Lord didn’t feel secure. He had less men under his direct command than at any other time in his thirty-five-year chiefship. His sons had formed factions and split, taking their forces with them. And now there were two extra houses to secure: Withy and Dhoone. Not to mention the Bludd-sworn border clans, who grew nervous of the Mountain Cities and resentful of Vaylo Bludd.
Vaylo’s teeth hurt just to think of it all. Sometimes he wished he’d followed his childhood fancy and become a Maimed Man. Ruling a hole in the earth would surely be easier than ruling a clan.
Barking an order to his dogs, he headed for the gate. The clouds had begun to spit, and Nan would have his guts for bowstrings if he ruined the good cloak she’d made him.
Hunching his shoulders against the wind, he took the sandstone path that circled the roundhouse. The dogs whupped with excitement as the rain began to lash down, and he had to shorten their leashes to control them. Lightning forked over Blue Dhoone Lake and they howled like wolves, unafraid. The great rumble of thunder that followed shook the ground beneath Vaylo’s feet, and Vaylo grunted and quickened his pace.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something move by the nearest gate tower. The wolf dog growled. Vaylo put a hand out to calm him. Now he drew closer he saw that the shape was a man, mounted on a horse. Waiting.
Expect me when the wind blows cold and from the North.
Angus Lok.
Vaylo didn’t bother asking himself how the ranger had managed to pen
etrate their defenses. He was canny, and probably knew the Dhoonehold as well as any Dhoone. And whenever stealth failed him there was always his tongue. Angus Lok had spent eight weeks at the Dog Lord’s pleasure, and he had used the time wisely, making friends.
Angus Lok raised a hand in greeting. Unlike most men faced with the prospect of meeting Vaylo’s dogs for the first time, the ranger looked relaxed. Even the storm didn’t throw him, and he managed to sit his horse as calmly as if it were a mild summer day. Vaylo couldn’t imagine how he managed to keep that ridiculous otter-trimmed hat from blowing off.
Feeling he’d been caught at a disadvantage, Vaylo let some of his aggression bleed over into his dogs. He wasn’t sure how he did this, just that it had served him well through the years. The wolf dog began to growl again, and soon all of them were fighting the leash.
Vaylo was gratified to see a slight adjustment in the ranger’s stance.
“Angus Lok,” he cried. “I see freedom agrees with you.”
The ranger acknowledged the compliment with a measured bow of his head. “It has its uses.”
Unhappy with having to shout above the storm, Vaylo said, “You’d better follow me inside. I’ll send a boy to tend your horse.”
Inside the Dhoonehouse all was calm. Nan and the other Bluddwives did a good job of keeping the key rooms well lit and comfortable. The blue sandstone walls could be cold to the eye, and they had hung them with tapestries and other fancies. Fires roared in every hearth the Dog Lord might happen to pass, and all corridors leading to the chief’s chamber were kept clean of cobwebs and dust. Vaylo handed his cloak to a boy at the door and bade him run it straight to Nan for an airing. Another boy was sent in search of food and malt, and commanded to bring it to his chief at the Dhooneseat.
The walk to the chief’s chamber was a brief one, involving the climbing of a single flight of stairs. There were grander places in the roundhouse, chambers where great blocks of cyanide quartz formed altars and platforms for kings, but recent chiefs had lost their taste for them and power had reverted to the chief’s chamber once more.
Vaylo liked it well enough. It was comfortable and the isinglass windows let in light, and the primitive lines of the Dhooneseat pleased him. This was a chair made by men who had never heard of kings.
The Dog Lord chose not to sit in it. Instead he crossed to the fire and leashed the dogs to the rat hooks. Lightning flashed through the chamber as he stirred the embers. When he was ready he turned to look at Angus Lok.
The ranger had made himself comfortable on the wooden chair behind the chief’s table. He had shrugged off his outer layers of clothing and was now running a hand through his hair. His copper-green eyes were just as Vaylo remembered them: guarded.
“Have you traveled far?” Vaylo asked him.
The ranger nodded. “That is my fate, it seems.”
A moment ticked by in silence, and then Vaylo asked, “Why are you here?”
Before Angus Lok could answer a knock came at the door. Nan herself had brought the food and malt, borne on her best pewter tray. The ranger was off his chair before Vaylo had a chance to react. Walking forward, he took the tray from Nan and thanked her. He inquired of her sister, who Vaylo knew to be ill with lung fever, and complimented Nan on the fine embroidery at the hem and neck of her dress. Vaylo was torn between pride and amazement. Was there no end to the ranger’s connections?
Nan was gracious, and slipped quickly away. Vaylo could tell she had been pleased.
The ranger deposited the tray on the chief’s table. “Shall I?” he asked, indicating the jug of malt and two wooden thumb cups laid there. Vaylo nodded, and watched as Angus Lok poured the sweet golden liquor Dhoone was known for. They struck cups, and downed their measures in one.
Angus smacked his lips in appreciation. “A pity you don’t serve that in your holding cells. A prisoner might never want to leave.”
“But you did leave,” Vaylo said. “At my pleasure and in my debt.”
“I know it, Dog Lord. That is why I have come.”
Vaylo did not like the strange lightness in the ranger’s voice. “What is it? Is Robbie Dhoone about to pound on my door?”
Angus Lok rested his booted feet on the chief’s table. “He might be. Though I imagine he’s still a few men short of an invading force . . . unless, of course, Castlemilk has been generous with her manpower.”
“He’s asked the Milk chief for warriors?”
“That’s what I’d do if I were him.”
The Dog Lord let that sink in. He’d learned to ignore Angus Lok’s assessments at his peril. He said, “Do you have any more intelligence on Robbie Dhoone?”
The ranger shrugged. “Skinner’s losing men to him. He’s moved out of the Milkhouse and into the broken tower, supposedly to accommodate his greater numbers. His men ride as far south as Ille Glaive on raid sorties, and he’s developed a fancy for wearing fisher fur like a king.”
Something in the ranger’s manner disquieted Vaylo. He took a deep breath. “None of this is the reason why you are here.”
It was not a question, and Angus Lok didn’t bother to nod. He swung his feet down from the table and said, “An army left Spire Vanis two days ago. They’re heading north, to the clans.”
Thunder boomed through the chamber, making the flames in the hearth shiver and the dogs jump. Vaylo touched the pouch of powdered Bluddstone at his waist. Oh gods. And to think I imagined I had troubles enough. Out loud, he said, “What are their numbers?
“Eleven thousand. They were assembled in haste. Mercenaries. Grangelords. Hideclads. A mixed bunch.”
The Dog Lord nodded, his mind engaged. “Who leads them?”
“Marafice Eye, the one they call the Knife.”
That gave Vaylo pause. He had met Marafice Eye, looked into his face and seen a hard man capable of hard things. He had been well respected by his men. “What is the purpose of this army?”
The ranger poured himself another measure of malt. The Dog Lord declined a second cup. “Well, that’s the unclear thing. Have you ever heard the legend of the Leper King?”
Vaylo shook his head, impatient.
“Well,” Angus Lok continued, unruffled. “The Leper King was a great ruler in the Far South, brilliant and greedy for more land. He set out on a campaign to annex the surrounding states, and he was successful for many years. Then one day he learned he’d contracted leprosy. That was when the campaign became something else. He still fought, but his motives had changed. He blamed the opposing armies for his illness and punished them for it. And he feared that his declining health made him vulnerable to members of his family who sought to overthrow him. So he sent his sons and brothers to fight in the vanguard and then ordered a sudden withdrawal to cut them off.” The ranger smiled. “They were all killed. Horribly, I believe. And the Leper King went on to rule his empire for many years.”
Vaylo thrust a cube of black curd into his mouth as he thought on this. He didn’t like legends. They were all warnings in disguise.
Angus Lok stood and moved toward the fire. “What I’m trying to say is that while Penthero Iss may have planned to take control of the clanholds, his priorities have since shifted.”
“I know what you’re saying, ranger. I’m not a fool.”
The ranger turned to look at him. “I never thought you were.”
The Dog Lord tried hard to detect signs of mockery in Angus Lok’s face, but could not find any. “So,” he said after a moment. “Iss is sending his rivals to war.”
Angus nodded. “At least three that I can count. Marafice Eye. Garric Hews. Harald Crieff. Not to mention every grangelord’s son old enough to know one end of a sword from another. Spire Vanis is a cold-blooded city. Surlords rarely die of old age.”
“So Iss is worried?”
“Living in Mask Fortress, surrounded by statues of slain surlords: It’s enough to make anyone consider their mortality.”
Vaylo crossed over to his dogs. Although he had been i
n the same room with them, in plain sight all the while, they strained their leashes to greet him. “You’re telling me this army might not be well supported?”
“Exactly. They have fair numbers, but they’re not a cohesive force. And they have a long trek north in foul weather. My bet is that Iss will wait and see. If things are looking good—a few roundhouses sacked, riverways taken—he’ll keep the supply lines open and bask in all the glory. If things turn soft he’ll withdraw his support and leave them high and dry—all the while praying to the spirits of the Bastard Lords that his rivals get slain by you clannish fiends.”
Vaylo barked a laugh. Angus Lok was nothing if not succinct. He sobered quickly when he thought on what all this would mean to his border clans. Haddo, HalfBludd, Frees and Gray were all vulnerable. Even Withy. The northern giants were safe, at least for the time being, but that could all change if the campaign was a success. Thinking out loud, he said, “They’ll strike Ganmiddich first.”
“Why do you say that?”
It was gratifying to have Angus Lok ask a question of him for a change. “Because Marafice Eye knows its layout and defenses. He’s been there. He came to claim the girl, Asarhia March.”
Something happened to the ranger’s face when the girl’s name was spoken. The guard dropped from his eyes, and Vaylo Bludd saw a pain he recognized there. A moment later Angus Lok’s guard was back up, and a question asked to redirect Vaylo’s attention.
“Do you think it can be taken?”
Vaylo nodded, though he wasn’t yet ready to put the subject of Asarhia March aside. “I heard Marafice Eye ran into trouble in the Bitter Hills. All his men died. Do you know what became of the girl?”
Angus Lok shook his head slowly, in a movement that meant Don’t ask me to speak of it.
Vaylo knew something of the grief he’d glimpsed briefly in the ranger’s eyes so he said no more. He poured two more measures of malt, and placed one in the ranger’s hand.