by J. V. Jones
“Will you go to Blackhail with this intelligence?”
“I must warn those at the Crabhouse. My nephew is amongst the Hailsmen who defend it.”
“Drey Sevrance?” Vaylo didn’t bother to hide the venom in his voice. A Sevrance had slaughtered his grandchildren. That name would always be damned.
The ranger nodded. “You’d do well to warn Haddo and HalfBludd.”
“Aye.” But there lay trouble of its own. Once word got out that an army was on the move every Bludd warrior in the roundhouse would be chafing at the bit to ride south and meet them. Vaylo almost smiled. To think he’d wanted to be Lord of the Clans!
Just at that moment voices sounded at the door. A child’s voice cried, “Da!” and another one said, “Da’s listening at the door!” A male voice shusshed them angrily.
The Dog Lord and the ranger exchanged a glance. The ranger inclined his head toward the door. “Company?” he asked, barely able to keep the smile from his lips.
Annoyed, Vaylo crossed to the door and threw it open. His two grandchildren stood there, grinning up at him, while their father slunk away.
“Pengo!” Vaylo roared. “Get back here!” And then, to his grandchildren: “You two. Over to the hearth. And place yourselves in the custody of my dogs.” He tried his best to look stem, but Pasha had him figured out and her grin just got wider. Grabbing her younger brother by the wrist, she dragged him toward the hearth. The collective sound of six dogs groaning very nearly made Vaylo laugh out loud.
Then he was faced with his second son. Pengo’s cheeks were so red it was a wonder they didn’t steam. His eyes were unrepentant.
“You’d better come in,” Vaylo said.
Pengo snarled. Striding past his father he placed himself in the ranger’s view. “Is it true? Is Spire Vanis coming to destroy us?”
Angus glanced at the children who were busy attempting to tie five dogs’ tails into one big knot. When he spoke his voice was very low. “An army has left the city. Yes. Is it a danger to this clanhold? I don’t believe so, not in the immediate future.”
“Immediate future!” Pengo mocked. “Save your fancy phrases for my father—I have no use for them. An army’s heading north, and you say it’s not a danger. What would you know of dangers, ranger man? You just ride that fancy horse from one clanhold to another, gossiping with our women, and living off our fare. And I tell you something else—”
“Enough!” cried Vaylo, shaking with fury. “You will be civil to my guest or leave this chamber.”
Pengo’s lip curled. “Civil to my guest! Gods, he’s got you speaking his citified tongue. He’s no guest. He’s a parasite, feeding off the trouble he stirs. And if he thinks I’m going to sit on my arse and do nothing while an army attacks our Bludd-sworn clans then he’s a fool. I’ll have a force raised and on the move before he can wipe that knowing little smirk off his face. Spire Vanis won’t find Bludd absent from this war.” Finished, Pengo snapped around angrily, sending his black braids fanning out from his skull, and strode toward the door.
The Dog Lord thought of halting him, but didn’t. As the door slammed he closed his eyes. It was a cruel trick the gods had played, reincarnating Gullit Bludd in the bodies of his grandsons.
Vaylo calmed himself. The children were pale and quiet at the hearth, the dogs forgotten. Sitting himself on the Dhoonechair, he called the bairns to him. He could feel their bodies shaking as he crushed them to his chest.
Angus Lok stayed silent through this. He resumed his seat by the chief’s table, and after a time he pulled something brightly colored from his buckskin tunic and began to manipulate it. Glass beads and tiny wooden blocks knocked together with little chinks.
Pasha and Ewan raised their heads from their grandfather’s chest, curious. Angus continued toying with the thing, a puzzle by the look of it, one of those ingenious playthings they made in the Far South. Without looking up, he said, “You can come and take a look at it if you like.”
The children looked at their granda, and their granda nodded. Sliding off the Dhoonechair, they went to investigate. Angus was good with them. He showed them how the puzzle worked, informed them there was no possible way to break it, and then told them they could keep it—but only if they agreed to share. Pasha and Ewan nodded fiercely, already half in love with him, and carried the thing toward the hearth with all the ceremony and gravity of high priests bearing a crown. The giggles started not much later, as the dogs pushed their noses in for a sniff.
“Thank you,” Vaylo said simply.
Angus shrugged. “It’s nothing, just a bit of wood and tat. I got it for my youngest, but I can pick something else up along the way.”
“So you’re heading home?”
“After I’ve stopped off at Ganmiddich, yes.” The ranger’s copper eyes far-focused for a moment. “It’s been a long time.”
The two men sat in silence and nodded. Outside the storm was passing overhead and rain beat against the isinglass windows. Lightning flashed, and thunder hit straight afterward like a hammer blast. Absorbed with their new plaything, the bairns barely noticed.
“I’ll be heading out,” Angus said, rising. “I’ll come again in late spring.”
They clasped hands. “I’m grateful for the warning,” Vaylo told him. “I’ll have to keep an eye on that damn son of mine, make sure he doesn’t march south with half my men.”
Again, Angus Lok was succinct. “Do as you must,” he said.
THIRTY-TWO
The Game Room
Raina moved around the Great Hearth, making sure that the returning warriors had hot food and ale. Anwyn Bird had arranged for trays of bannock and blood sausages soaked in heavy gravy to be brought upstairs. Hearty food for weary men. Warriors had returned from Ganmiddich and they were exhausted and soaked to their skins. When the heat of the Great Hearth reached them, their cloaks and furs steamed.
Ballic the Red was amongst them, his stout archer’s legs bowed from hours in the saddle, his hands busy setting out arrows and bowstrings at a careful distance from the hearth. They must be dried out, but slowly, else the wood warp and the twine stiffen. He accepted a jug of ale from Raina, taking a moment from his task to smile his thanks.
“Did Drey stay at Ganmiddich?” she asked him.
Ballic grunted. His beard was grown so bushy that you could no longer see his lips. “Aye. He must. He defends it for the Crab chief now.”
Raina nodded, wanting to ask more but stopping herself. Mace had been informed that warriors had returned and some were wounded. He would be here any minute.
“It’s not as bad as you might think,” Ballic said, reading her face. “There’s a few skirmishes, usually with crews out of Gnash. But we’re holding. Drey Sevrance is seeing to that.”
“Did he send word to Effie?”
Ballic looked her straight in the eye. “Doesn’t he always?”
Raina felt her stomach squeeze tight. A swift courier had arrived from Dregg two days back, bearing messages from Xander Dregg to the Hail chief. Raina had taken the boy aside and questioned him. No cart bearing Effie Sevrance had ever reached the Dregghouse. Raina had tried to rationalize it—the weather had been bad, Druss Ganlow might have taken a detour—but she was struck with the sense that she should never have sent the girl to Dregg. Effie was gone. Lost. And I’m responsible. Gods help me when I have to tell Drey.
“Raina,” Ballic said, cutting into her thoughts. “You worry too much.”
She smiled at him. Ballic the Red had once spent an entire summer protecting her and Dagro as they rode the length of the clanhold, visiting every farm, village and stovehouse in Blackhail. He had earned the right to scold her.
Just as she was about to scold him back, Mace Blackhail entered the room. She stiffened, feeling her smile collapse despite her best efforts to maintain it. Mace had the ability to single her out in a crowd, and his wolf-yellow gaze swept toward her. Wife, he mouthed, and she couldn’t tell if it was a greeting or a threat. Her inst
inct was to run, but she forced herself to turn her back and go about the business of serving ale.
Mace had someone with him, a great beast of a Scarpeman with a hammer on his back. He followed at Mace’s heels like a trained dog. Some of the Hailsmen greeted him. Turby Flapp hugged him as if he were a long-lost son. Raina strained to catch his name, but between the roar of the fire and the lashing of the storm she could hear little.
It was late afternoon, and the storm was busy shortening the last remaining hour of daylight. Raina had been busy since dawn, moving livestock and clearing space for shelter. Storms brought hundreds of extra people to the roundhouse, and they all needed food and a place to sleep. The work involved was staggering, and the strain on food stores already run low preyed constantly on her mind. In the past she would have gone to Dagro and they would have discussed the best way to cope. Now she had no one to rely on but herself, and some days it seemed as if the entire responsibility for the running of the clanhold fell on her.
Mace cared only about Mace. He had let Blackhail become overrun with Scarpes, making their feuds his own. He had actually sent out crews to raid Orrl! Dagro Blackhail would no longer have recognized his clan.
So what are you going to do about it? Raina halted for a moment by the fire, and let the tall flames heat her face. It had seemed so simple while Angus Lok was here: the clan must be rid of its chief. Mace had raped and murdered his way into the chiefship, and he was turning Blackhail into a den for Scarpes. Yet he had stolen Ganmiddich from under the Dog Lord’s nose, and taken a pledge of loyalty from its chief. And the latest rumor from the south had it that Bannen was set to turn. Dhoone was doing little to keep its war-sworn clans in line, and Mace was ever one to spot a weakness and use it. He had always been a wolf.
Raina sighed heavily. Truth was, Mace Blackhail won things for his clan.
Studying the ale jug in her hand, she decidedly quite suddenly to pour herself a drink. It was warm and good. Anwyn enriched it with egg and other odd things that Raina didn’t know about, and it was almost like drinking a meal.
She watched as her husband spoke with the returning clansmen. One of the provisions of the treaty struck between Blackhail and Ganmiddich gave Blackhail the right to garrison two hundred men in the Crabhouse for Ganmiddich’s protection. That meant crews of Hailsmen were constantly traveling to and from the Crabhold. It was a dangerous run that took them close to the Dhoone stronghold at Gnash, and within sight of Bludd-held Withy. Until recently Dhoone had been an ally in kind to Blackhail, but with the stealing of Dhoone-sworn Ganmiddich all had changed.
Hailsmen making the Ganmiddich run were regularly attacked by Skinner’s men. The Dhoonesmen were frustrated, Raina supposed, since their leader had yet to make a move to retake Dhoone. Hailsmen had been slain, and Raina could name every one of them. It fell to her to inform their kin.
As she listened, Ballic told Mace that a crew of Bluddsmen out of Withy had given them chase. Young Stiggie Perch had taken an ax blow to his spine and fallen from his horse. They had not gone back to collect the body.
For a long moment everyone in the Great Hearth was silent. Some men touched their measures of powdered guidestone. Mace Blackhail touched his sword. “Inigar will cut his bones from the guidestone,” he said.
Men nodded. It was Blackhail’s way.
Orwin Shank entered the room, and rushed to where his youngest living son sat propped against the roundwall. A broken-off arrow shaft jutted from the meat of Bev Shank’s upper arm. Laida Moon was tending him. The boy had been wearing ring mail when he was hit, and Raina could see where a portion of the metal had been driven into the wound. Laida was all business, sending Rory Cleet to the forge for wire cutters, and Anwyn Bird to the distillery for hard liquor.
Raina went over and put a hand on Orwin’s shoulder. The big, aging hammerman had tears in his eyes. He had lost two sons to the Clan Wars: he could not afford to lose more.
“Come away,” she said. “Let Laida do her job.”
The tiny, dark-skinned surgeon sent Raina a look of gratitude. Worried fathers only hindered her work.
Gently, Raina guided Orwin toward the fire. It was full dark now and the luntman was lighting the last of the torches. Outside, the storm was raging, and the wind wailed as it hit the roundhouse. To take Orwin’s mind off Bev she inquired about his other sons.
“Mull’s at Ganmiddich, and Grim’s waiting to head out. Bitty—” Orwin shook his head. “He’s been sent north to protect the mine. Maimed Men were spotted at the shanty.”
As Raina nodded, Bev Shank screamed in pain. Laida Moon had taken possession of the wire cutters, and was now trimming the ring mail around the wound. Raina grabbed Orwin’s arm. It was time to take the axman for a walk.
They made it as far as the great double doors before Mace caught up with them. “Wife,” he said, halting her. “I don’t believe you’ve met the latest addition to our clan. Mansal Stygo. He’s given us his oath for a year.”
The massive, black-haired Scarpeman stepped forward and bowed at the waist. The hammer cradled at his back was the size of a child. His gaze traced the curve of Raina’s hips and breasts as he straightened his spine. “Lady.”
Raina was aware that Mace was watching her closely, and she forced her features to calmness. This man standing before her had murdered a chief, and now he was to become one of the clan? Barely managing to stop herself shuddering, she inclined her head. “You’ve been here before,” she told him, “and trained with Naznarri Drac.”
“I’m flattered my lady has heard of me.”
The slyness in his voice made Raina bristle. She took a breath, meaning to tell him she knew a lot more than that when she felt Orwin’s fingers press hard against her arm. Sobered, she smiled stiffly and said nothing.
“Orwin,” Mace said. “I believe you two know each other.”
“Aye,” Orwin said levelly. “You trained at the same time as my eldest.”
Mansal Stygo nodded at the aging red-faced clansman, his eyes cold. The two men stared at each other for longer than was proper; Mansal was the first to look away.
Before anything else could be said, Raina stepped in and informed Mace that she had to take Orwin for a walk—surgeon’s orders.
He let her go, but she could feel him watching her as she and Orwin passed through the doorway.
The roundhouse was warm and muggy, crowded with tied clansmen who had taken up places on the stairs. One Scarpeman had ripped a torch from the wall and was using it to brown a chunk of meat. It was a wonder he hadn’t set the entire roundhouse alight. Raina thought of reprimanding him, then decided against it. Let Mace deal with his own.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the Great Hearth, Orwin said to her, “You nearly made a grave mistake.”
Raina absorbed this for a moment, slowly coming to understand its implications. She glanced at Orwin. He had first made himself a fierce warrior, and then a wealthy man. Dagro had relied upon many clansmen for advice, but none more so than Orwin Shank. Yet Orwin had supported Mace’s bid for chiefdom . . . and that made Raina cautious.
As they reached the entrance hall she said to him, “What do you know of Mansal Stygo?”
Orwin stopped to rest for a moment. His hands were swollen with arthritis—the bane of all men who trained with hammer and ax from an early age—and he massaged his enlarged knuckles as he spoke. “I’m not a man for intrigue, Raina, and I have turned my back on many dread things. I tell myself I am old and have no business interfering with the ways of clan. I should look to my sons and my land and be content with my lot. Yet I find myself waking in the middle of the night, stirred by the need for change.”
Tiny hairs along the back of Raina’s neck lifted. Easy, she cautioned herself. You cannot afford to make a mistake.
Quickly she glanced around. Entire families were camped in the entrance hall, and dogs and chickens were running lose. One woman was milking a goat. A couple of children had pilfered a head of cabbage and we
re playing a game of throw. It was too crowded—everywhere was teeming this night. She needed a place that would be quiet, yet she could not take him to her chamber or any other women’s place. It would arouse too much suspicion. Little mice with weasels’ tails.
The only place from which tied clansmen and Scarpes were firmly barred was Anwyn’s kitchen. It would have to do. Pitching her voice to carry a fraction farther than normal, Raina said, “Orwin. You must eat. Let me warm you a bowl of sotted oats.”
He nodded once. “Lead on.”
Raina forced a path through the crowd. Her heart was beating hard, and she felt reckless and powerfully excited. If Mace were to spot her now, just one look at her face and he would know all.
The kitchen was an island of calm. Clanwives had just finished laying out tomorrow’s bake, and every flat surface in the chamber was covered with trays of rising bread dough. The beer-keg stench of yeast was overpowering. A bank of vast stone ovens shaped like bells ran long the exterior wall, and a stoker with a long-handed shovel was busy raising the heat. At the sight of Orwin Shank, a fully sworn clansman, no less, clanwives dressed in baker’s white rushed to clear a space at the nearest table. Whenever a Blackhail warrior was hungry he was fed.
For appearances Raina accepted a bowl of oats and a jug of ale along with Orwin. They ate in silence for a while, giving the kitchen helpers time to fall back into their routines. Pots needed to be scrubbed and sanded, sheep’s blood boiled down for puddings, and onions quartered to season everything from sausages to stew. Out of the corner of her eye Raina spotted pretty Lansa Tanna, her cheeks dusted with flour, fussily chopping carrots. Raina smiled a greeting, but Lansa merely pinched in her mouth. She’d given her loyalty to Mace.
Somehow the snub gave Raina strength. In a low voice she said to Orwin, “Mansal Stygo murdered the Orrl chief in cold blood.”
He nodded. “Every hatchetman in the clan knows it. It was one thing while he stayed at Scarpe, but now he’s given Mace his oath . . .” Orwin shook his head, letting the thought trail off. He was not at ease in the kitchen, and kept glancing from side to side. Raina wondered if she’d made a mistake.