by J. V. Jones
“Lay down your arms and call off your hounds and I’ll release the woman and the girl.” The Dog Lord started to interrupt, but Bram plowed on, knowing full well that if he didn’t get it out now he never would. “The three of you will walk east with the dogs. When a hour has passed and I’m satisfied that you’ve completed your part of the bargain I’ll release the boy to your armsman.”
“Give him nothing!” Guy Morloch cried from the mud. He was trembling violently; you could hear the shiver in his voice. “As soon as he gets his hands on the boy he’ll send his dogs back to savage us.”
“Not if he gives his word,” Bram answered, looking straight at the Bludd chief. “And I give mine.”
The Dog Lord watched Bram without blinking. The strength in his right arm—his hammer arm, Bram guessed—was so great that he held the nine-foot spear aloft with no sign of strain. Bram had handled Guy’s spear; its shaft was rolled iron and its butt was counterweighted with lead. It had to weigh close to two stone. Just thinking about it was enough to make Bram’s weapon arm start to cramp.
Oh gods. Clamping his jaw tight, Bram concentrated on keeping his sword arm level. From the blackthorns below him, the Bluddswoman watched with knowing eyes. His arm had begun to shake minutely and she read the motion in his sword. Slowly, deliberately, she released her grip on the two children. Her maiden’s helper gleamed wickedly as she gave herself room to move.
Speak, Bram willed the Bludd chief as wire-tight muscle flooded his arm with acid. Speak!
The Dog Lord reached for a second piece of chewing curd and then thought better of it. As he returned the black cube to his belt pouch, the moon rose above the clouds and shone cold light upon his face. He’s old, Bram thought. And tired. Worry about his grandchildren had made his jaw muscles bulge like sparrow eggs. Yet he still made no reply.
Bram could no longer be sure his fingers were adequately gripping the sword hilt. A sickening numbness was pumping through his fingertips. A foot away the muscle of his upper arm was burning. For an instant Bram was sure he was going mad, for all he could think was If the numbness moves up quick enough it just might douse the pain. Then he heard the soft click of joints as the Bluddswoman began to rise. Suddenly he could no longer hold up the sword and the flat side of the blade fell against the mare’s rump.
“You have my word.”
It took Bram a moment to realize that the Dog Lord had spoken, and another moment to realize what he’d actually said. The Bluddswoman knew straightaway and immediately lowered her weapon. Discreetly, she began to ease herself back into her former position between the boy and the girl. Her green-eyed gaze held Bram’s for an instant, conveying no rancor or sense that Bram should count himself lucky. Instead she seemed to say to him We have an agreement of our own, you and I. She had kept her actions—and therefore Bram’s vulnerability—hidden from the Dog Lord, and in return she expected him to keep his word. Bram was struck with admiration for her. She would have killed him, this woman with the sea gray hair who was old enough to be his grandmother. Robbie had taught him that such dignity was the sole preserve of Dhoonesmen. Robbie had been wrong.
Rainwater trickled from the sleeve of Bram’s jacket down along his wrist to his thumb. He could see it but not feel it. Carefully, Bram rested the numb hand against the mare’s neck. When he looked up he saw that the Dog Lord was waiting for him to speak. “You have my word in return,” Bram said.
“You fool,” screamed Guy Morloch. “No Bludd scum can be trusted.”
It was difficult to ignore a sworn clansman, but Bram knew he must. A small nod to the Bluddswoman was all it took for her to rise, hand in hand with Vaylo Bludd’s granddaughter. The girl was beautiful, dark-skinned with a perfect oval face. When her brother began to sob she turned to him and said quite clearly, “Aaron. You heard Nan. You must wait here until this warrior grants your leave.”
Warrior? Bram felt shamed. He did not deserve such a title. He had not sworn a single yearman’s oath to his clan. And now I never will.
The Dog Lord prodded Guy Morloch’s thigh, not gently, with the butt of his spear. “Up, laddie,” he commanded. “You’re free to go.”
As Guy struggled to his feet he threw Bram a vicious glance, one that promised all sorts of trouble later. Sensation was slowly returning to Bram’s hand, and he found himself wishing that the numbness would now travel to his head. “Jordie. Dismount and help Guy.” Seeing Jordie hesitate, Bram added, “The Bludd chief will call his dogs to heel.”
For a wonder the Dog Lord did just that, issuing a short whistle that brought all four dogs to his side. The fifth, the wounded bitch, pricked up her ears and made a feeble attempt to stand. Her pelvis had been crushed and when she tried to roll onto her belly, her rear legs rocked loosely, without power. The Dog Lord spoke a command to the other dogs, and they sank to the ground as he made his way toward the bitch. Bram watched as he squatted and cupped her head in his hand. Even now, damaged as she was, the creature nuzzled his palm.
Abruptly, the Dog Lord stood. He was holding Guy’s spear, and Bram looked away as he raised it above the dog. Some things were between a man and his gods.
When it was over the Dog Lord pulled a fistful of dead oat grass from the mud and wiped the blade clean. One of the four remaining dogs howled softly, and the wolf dog quieted its pack member by biting softly on its ear.
“Bram Cormac.” The Dog Lord dropped the bloody grass into the mud. “Before I walk away from this place as agreed, I would speak with you in private.”
Guy Morloch shouted, “Don’t go. It’s a trick.” The Castleman was leaning against Jordie’s stallion, whilst the axman knelt before him, attempting to yank off Guy’s boot. “Bludd has no honor.”
Bram wished it was all over. He was tired of thinking, and soaked to the bone. “Drop the spear and I’ll talk,” he said to the Bludd chief.
With a hard movement the Dog Lord drove the spear deep into the mud. The shaft vibrated as he walked a short distance downhill and waited for Bram to join him.
Bram considered staying seated on his horse, but the same sense of respect that had made him look away while the Dog Lord killed the bitch made him dismount. The Dog Lord might be his enemy but he was first and foremost a chief.
The Dog Lord wasted no time on small talk. “On your return to the Dhoonehouse I would have you deliver a message to your brother.”
Bram kept himself very still. He could not trust himself to nod.
The Dog Lord took his silence for agreement. “I need you to tell your brother two things. First, you must tell him old grievances should be forgotten. Whilst we fight amongst ourselves the city men circle like wolves. When they spy weakness they will strike.” He paused, waiting. Bram made the smallest possible movement that could be taken for a nod. “And there’s another thing. Tell him days darker than night lie ahead.”
The words touched Bram like a cold wind, making gooseflesh rise on his arms. Almost he knew what they meant, but when he tried to capture their meaning his sense of understanding fled. Bram studied the Dog Lord’s face. This close you could see the veins in his eyes. He was the longest-reigning chief in the clanholds, a bastard who had slain his father and half-brothers, taken his sister as a wife and sired seven sons. He had seized the Dhoonehouse with the help of dark forces and lost it when his second son had deserted him. Once he had counted nearly twenty children as his grandkin. Now he was left with two. Bram knew the stories and thought he knew the man, but looking at the Dog Lord’s face he realized there was more.
He made a decision. “I will not be seeing my brother for some time. Give your message to one of the other men.”
“How so?”
It was a question Bram had hoped would not be asked. Looking down at his numb hand he said, “I am claimed by the Milk chief.”
The Dog Lord nodded slowly and with understanding. “In return for a debt run up by Robbie Dun Dhoone.”
Bram was glad it was not a question. He did not wish to speak ill
of his brother. Robbie had sold him to Wrayan Castlemilk along with a dozen watered-steel swords and a fantastical suit of dress armor that had been forged for Weeping Moira. In return Robbie had received temporary command of six hundred Castlemilk warriors. Elite hatchetmen and swords-men who wore their hair plastered with lime and styled themselves “the Cream.” With their numbers added to his tally, Robbie had finally commanded enough manpower to retake Dhoone.
Now that the Dhoonehouse was back in Dhoone hands the Milkmen were overdue to return to their clan, yet Robbie still held them in his sway. There were more battles to be fought: battles with Bludd to retake Withy, and Blackhail to retake Ganmiddich; battles also with the army of city men who were rumored to be invading the border clans from the south; and more battles still with the Dog Lord himself. No longer content simply with displacing Vaylo Bludd, Robbie had made it his mission to destroy him.
Even during the five chaotic days following the reoccupation, Bram had observed a subtle shift in the Milkmen’s loyalties. “Robbie has need of us,” they said in low voices. “Best to hold out here until his enemies have been dispatched.” Such thinking wasn’t in Castlemilk’s best interest, but Bram knew from experience that Robbie was hard to resist. He won, that was the thing. Whatever it took, he did.
Bram wondered when Wrayan Castlemilk would realize that she wasn’t getting her men back.
It was hard to understand why Robbie still insisted on holding up the part of the agreement that meant delivering his brother to Castlemilk. Instinctively Bram knew it would not serve him well to think too hard about the answer. What Robbie valued, he kept.
The Dog Lord watched Bram closely. “Wrayan Castlemilk is a canny chief. I think she had the eye for me once.”
Despite everything Bram laughed out loud. The Dog Lord laughed too; a roguish sound filled with self-mocking. When he stopped he looked Bram straight in the eye. “There’s no shame in being fostered to another clan. I spent a year in Ostler as a bairn. My father had meant it for a punishment—it was the farthest he could send me without casting me from the clanholds—yet I had an honest time of it all the same. They didn’t know me there. Didn’t know that I wasn’t allowed to play with the best boys. You know the ones; sons of warriors, nephews to the chief. Boys with purebred horses and their own live steel. I learned how to tickle trout and dance the swords, how to bring down harlequins with a bola and hedgehog a riverbed for defense. Cricklemore Carp, their old clan guide, even taught me how to read—me, a worthless bastard from a northern clan. I bawled like a babbie when I left.”
The Dog Lord shook his head softly as he remembered. “A fostering is what you make it of it, Bram Cormac. Milk can be made into many things.”
Bram nodded, feeling stirred despite himself. Perhaps going to live in the Milkhouse wouldn’t be as bad as he thought. Perhaps there he wouldn’t be Robbie’s disappointing half-brother, small for his age and unable to train for the ax. Perhaps he might be something else. He could study the histories, learn about the Sull, discover why they had relinquished so much land to the clans. Stopping his thoughts before they ran away with him, Bram met gazes with the Dog Lord. He was beginning to understand why this man had been chief for over thirty-five years.
“And your message?”
The Dog Lord shrugged, but not lightly. “Give it to the Milk chief. Mayhap she’ll need it more than Robbie Dhoone.”
“Guy could bring it to Rob.”
“Nay, lad. Some things depend as much on the messenger as the message.” The Dog Lord glanced over his shoulder to where Jordie was helping the now bootless Guy Morloch mount his horse. “And I don’t think the Castleman will do.”
Even though part of Bram agreed with the Dog Lord’s opinion, he tried hard to not let it show. “As you will.”
The Dog Lord took a few steps up the hill and then turned. “By the way, lad, you did a fine job tonight. Kept your head. Kept the pressure on. If you were my kin I’d be proud.”
It was too much. Bram felt the hot spike of tears in his eyes. Only four days had passed since Robbie told him he must leave and take up residence in Castlemilk. Four days and Robbie’s words of farewell still burned a hole in Bram’s chest. “It won’t be so bad, Bram. We both know you were never really cut out for Dhoone.”
“I’ll be off now,” the Dog Lord said. “I’m sure I’ll be hearing more of you, Bram Cormac.” With that he headed upslope, waving a hand in farewell to his armsman and calling his dogs to heel. When he reached the blackthorns, he knelt and said a few words to his grandson, and then put out his arms for Nan and his granddaughter. With the dogs milling anxiously around all three of them, the Dog Lord and his companions headed east.
He did not even warn me to keep up my side of the bargain and release his grandson and armsman as agreed. He simply expects it be done. That act of trust buoyed Bram as he hiked up the hillside toward Guy and Jordie.
The heavyset armsman looked uneasy as Bram approached. His knife had been lowered for some time, but his grip was unrelaxed. Poorly outfitted in a shaggy cloak, boiled-wool pants and a deerhide tunic, he was soaked through and dripping. His warrior queue was not nearly as magnificent as his chief’s. Early balding had seen to that.
Bram said, “My name’s Bram Cormac. What will I call you?”
“I’m Haimish Faa of the Bludd-Faas. Most people call me Hammie.” The armsman spoke with a soft backcountry accent, and Bram guessed he was younger than he looked. Sometimes it was hard to tell when a man was plump and balding.
“Hammie. Why don’t you bring out the boy and go and sit with him on the ridge while we wait.”
“Aye, sir.”
Bram had never been called sir in his life. It wasn’t right, and he would have said so if he hadn’t realized that right now Hammie Faa wanted to believe in him. His own safety and the safety of Vaylo’s grandson depended on it.
Leaving the armsman to lift the small boy from the bushes, Bram crossed to where Jordie was binding Guy’s foot. Jordie had just taken off his greathelm, and his face had that pink, steamed look of something left too long in the tub. He said nothing at Bram’s approach, but smiled gently, letting Bram know that everything that had happened was just fine with Jordie Sarson. Bram felt absurdly grateful. He liked Jordie. The young axman was one of Robbie’s favored companions, yet he had none of the arrogance that usually went hand in hand with the blue cloak.
“You’re not just going to let them stand there,” Guy Morloch said, gesturing toward Hammie Faa and the boy from his seat atop Jordie’s gray stallion.
“No. You’re right. I should take them a blanket to sit on.”
Guy snorted harshly. “Think you’re so clever, don’t you? Negotiating with the Dog Lord.” He made his voice mince like a girl’s. “You do this and I’ll do that and we’ll all have tea and oatcakes when we’re done.”
“Guy, stop” Jordie tried to defend Bram, but Guy simply overran him.
“And as for you, Jordie Sarson. Hog-tie the fattie and the boy. I’m hauling them back to Dhoone.”
Jordie’s mouth fell open. After a moment of consideration he shook his head. “I won’t do it, Guy. We both heard the agreement. Bram gave his word.”
“Bram! What does he know. His mother was a rabbit-catcher from Gnash.”
“It doesn’t matter, Guy. When a Dhoonesman gives his word he gives . . . ” Jordie struggled a moment. “His soul.”
All three of them fell quiet. The sudden drop in temperature had made the mud begin to steam, and as Bram walked to his mare he could feel icy tendrils creeping up his thighs. Shivering, he took his sleeping roll from the harness. He could feel Guy watching him, and knew it was only a matter of time before the Castleman spoke. There was nothing Guy could do about the mutiny—without Jordie’s help he couldn’t even mount a horse—yet he had to assert his authority somehow.
“Boy. Move yourself and find my gelding.”
Bram nodded. “After the agreed time has passed and I’ve released the hostage
s.”
Guy didn’t like this answer very much, but he had the sense not to challenge it and risk a second mutiny. The skin on the Castleman’s face was gray and slack, and he was shaking in short bursts. Dark blood was seeping through the woolen bandage on his foot. “Fine, but if you can’t find head nor tail of him I’ll take the mare in payment.”
“Here,” Bram said to Jordie a few moments later, handing the axman a leather-bound flask. “Unbind Guy’s bandage and clean out the wound with this. When you’re done smear the wound with beef tallow before binding it. And give him a dram of malt before you start.”
“Thanks, Bram.” Jordie grinned in relief. Doctoring was beyond him. Guy simply looked disgruntled and said nothing.
Bram carried the blanket and a few other items to Hammie Faa.
Vaylo Bludd’s grandson shied behind Hammie’s chunky legs as the Dhoonesman who had threatened him with a sword drew near. He had to be about seven, Bram reckoned. Skinny as a stalk with large hands and a large head. “What’s your name?”
When the boy made no reply Hammie elbowed him gently. “Come on, lad. When a clansman asks a question, you answer.”
“Aaron Bludd,” the boy said at last, not looking Bram in the eye. “But I’m known as Arrow.”
Hammie lifted an eyebrow toward Bram as if to say, That’s the first I’ve heard of that, but he allowed the boy his dignity and did not contradict him.
“I brought a few things. Salt beef. Cheese. Hardtack.” Bram handed the armsman a small package, hastily wrapped in one of his old nightshirts. “And there’s a couple of honeycakes.” He hesitated, suddenly shy. “For the lady.”
“Nan’ll be grateful for them,” Hammie said bluffly. Bram guessed he must be hungry—five days was a long time to go without proper food—but wasn’t surprised when the armsman simply tucked the pack under his cloak, unopened. Pride would not allow him to reveal how much he needed to eat. When the boy began questing beneath Hammie’s cloak, Hammie said firmly, “Later.”
Bram and the armsman waited out the rest of the hour in companionable silence, stamping their feet against the cold and blowing on their hands. Hoarfrost was forming, and Vaylo’s grandson amused himself by sliding across the mud on fragile rafts of ice. When Bram judged the time was up he nodded at Hammie Faa. “Have a safe journey back to the Bluddhold.”