A Sword from Red Ice (Book 3)

by J. V. Jones

  Raina shivered. Here was the whole truth, and it was not comforting. Anwyn would stand by her as long as she approved of her actions. Suddenly weary, Raina turned her back on Anwyn and moved toward the cast-iron half-door that led to the widows’ hearth. Crouching low, she slipped inside.

  The room was hot and filled with people. Hatty Hare put her foot on the loom break and turned to look at the chief’s wife. Merritt Ganlow and one of the Shank boys were pushing a worktable against the wall. Two clan maids were kneeling on the floor, rolling up a carpet, a third girl was rubbing linseed oil into one of the stretching racks, and slender and lovely Moira Lull was crouching on the thick black hearthstone, feeding woodchips to the fire.

  Raina moved aside to let Anwyn step into the room. Merritt nodded briskly at both of them. “Be ready day after tomorrow,” she snapped.

  It took Raina a moment to realize that Merritt was heading off questions about the preparations to accommodate the tied clansmen. The head widow had been dragging her heels for days, but Raina knew better than to mention it. The work was being done now; she would be grateful for that.

  Anwyn put a hand on Raina’s arm. “I best be heading back to the kitchen. I’ve a second bake to do today. The war party needs bread.”

  Raina followed her out of the room. When the carved wooden doors closed behind them and they were alone at the top of the stair, she said, “I will use Mace’s absence to change things in this house, but do not push me. I have respect for you, Anwyn, and we’ve been friends for many years, but don’t assume that because you picked me for this I’m under your control. I will be my own master.”

  Seconds passed. Raina could hear the vast stone warren of the roundhouse grinding under its own weight. Anwyn’s face was hard to read. In the time it took her to slip through the balcony’s half-door she had tucked away her fox lore. Finally she pushed her lips together and nodded. “You need help, I’m here.”

  Raina hid her relief. Strangely, she didn’t feel tired anymore. Mace would be leaving the roundhouse. Tomorrow. While he was gone she would take command of the clanhold. It was her duty as chief’s wife. Once the hole in the east wall was sealed she would ask Longhead to build a great big fortified barn, and when it was done she’d quarter the Scarpes there. Get them out of her house.

  “Thank you, Anwyn,” she said.

  Anwyn bustled. It was something she did with her shoulders and bosom, and it restored the matronly mask. “Can’t stand around here gossiping all day. Busy times. Bad and busy.”

  She left Raina at the top of the stair. Raina felt giddy, light enough to float away. That’s another thing about power: it goes to your head. Suddenly the day seemed like something to enjoy, not endure. She would go and speak with Longhead about the remains of the stone, hint that something would be done soon. Then she had to supervise the housing of Scarpes in her old quarters. Ventilation was bad there and she needed to be sure that no one brought in cook stoves. After that the day was her own. Maybe she’d saddle Mercy and take a ride out to the Wedge. Pay her respects to the dead horses that were being buried there. Later she would be needed by the sworn clansmen.

  A thousand warriors rode out tomorrow. Her attendance was their due.

  “Lady.”

  Raina jumped. Turning around, she saw Bev Shank emerge from the widows’ hearth. He’d been helping Merritt move the heavy machinery into storage. Bev couldn’t be over twenty, yet like all the Shank boys he was losing his hair. He was a yearman, trained to the hammer, and his lore was the white-tailed deer.

  “May I speak with you?”

  He was deferential, as was proper for a yearman when faced with his chief’s wife. Raina replied soberly. “Of course.”

  Bev looked at his boots. The back of his neck was burned and peeling. Shank skin never did well in the sun. “It’s about Drey . . . ” He struggled for a moment and then spit it out. “Me and Grim ride to Ganmiddich tomorrow and we don’t know what to tell him about Bitty.”

  The word had arrived from Black Hole five days back: Raif Sevrance had killed a sworn clansman in the mine. Drey’s brother was a Maimed Man. Raina’s stomach contracted softly. So much loss. When would it end?

  “You must tell Drey the truth. Speak it plainly. You lost your brother that day. So did he.”

  This was a new thought for the young yearman, she could tell. Raif Sevrance was gone from this clan more surely than Bitty Shank. Bitty could be remembered, spoken of with respect and affection by friends and kin. Drey would never be allowed to speak his brother’s name again. Raif Sevrance was a traitor to his clan.

  Bev frowned, thought for a while, then slowly began to nod. “Aye, lady. Aye.”

  Raina laid a hand on his arm. “Bitty taught me how to tie lures, one morning when he came down to Sand Creek with me and Effie. We didn’t catch a single fish, but it didn’t matter. Bitty had us laughing. You know Effie: had to be dragged out of the roundhouse screaming. But she loved Bitty, and I swear that by the time Bitty waded knee-deep in the creek, singing that special fish-catching song of his, she’d completely forgotten she was outside.”

  Bev smiled with a closed mouth, swallowing. “The song didn’t rhyme,” he said after a moment. “Didn’t really have a tune either.”

  “No. And it didn’t help catch any fish.”

  Both of them laughed. There were tears in Bev’s eyes. He was too young for this. So was she.

  “Ride proud tomorrow, Bevin Shank,” she said, lifting her hand away. “We are Blackhail, and the Stone Gods made us first. When we die they welcome us back.”

  Bev’s hazel eyes looked into hers. He surprised her by bowing at the waist. “You are good for us, lady. Good for this clan.”

  She wished with all her heart that he was right. Her doubts must be kept to herself, though. This boy had already lost three brothers. Tomorrow he would leave to reinforce Drey Sevrance and Crab Ganmiddich at the Crab Gate. She could not send him to war without hope. “Clan will hold steady until you return.”

  It was a binding promise, she realized as soon as she spoke it. A thousand men rode tomorrow: they had to have something solid to return to. She, Raina Blackhail, would make sure of that.

  Bev accepted her words with a solemn nod. Taking his leave, he headed down the drafty stairs, doubtless making his way toward the greathearth and the sworn clansmen who were gathering there.

  Raina held herself steady until he was long out of sight. She breathed and did not think, refilling. Time passed. Sounds of men calling out, children laughing, dogs barking, axes splitting wood, doors opening and closing, and footsteps, thousands of footsteps, filtered up to the top of the house. Someone exited the widows’ wall, passing her right by. A gust of wind spiraling up the stair brought the scent of fried onions and grilled lamb chops.

  That made her move. Hungry, she descended the stairs.

  As always when she reached the lower levels of the roundhouse she had to cover her distaste. Once clean, echoing corridors had been turned into filthy camps. Scarpemen and their women continued to burn their foul oil lamps, let their mangy house dogs run wild, and squat and shit in open view. A group of Scarpewives were feasting on lamb chops, sopping up the gravy with Anwyn’s fresh bread. Raina averted her gaze as she passed them but not before she saw what they were drinking: Gat Murdock’s Dhooneshine. She would know that old goat’s bottles anywhere: he’d filched them from her ten years ago. Four brown-and-tan glazed toppers that had once been filled with womanly unctions. Dagro had bought them for her during a clanmeet in Ille Glaive. She’d long been reconciled to the fact that Gat Murdock had claimed them. Gat was Gat, and every clan had someone like him. This was different. This was theft. Never in a million years would Gat let strangers drink his brew. Generosity was a concept the aging swordsman had never grasped. No. Someone had found, fancied and stolen it.

  A Scarpe. They were like termites, eating away at Blackhail’s house, undermining its foundations. Raina considered turning back and wresting the Dhooneshine o
ut of the Scarpewives’ bony hands. Five of them against one of her? Probably not the best idea. Even if she won, dignity would be lost. News of the chief’s wife in a scrum with a bunch of Scarpers would provide the roundhouse with enough delighted gossip to last a week.

  She hurried on. When she reached the ground floor, she found the fifteen-foot-high clan door drawn open and a crowd of tied and sworn clansmen milling around the entrance hall. Black, muddy snow carried in on boot soles had slickened the floor and grown men were slipping. Stepping back up the stairs, Raina searched for a friendly face. From the looks of things a messenger had arrived. A slender young clansman wearing a marmot-fur hat and a coat caked in road dirt appeared to be the center of attention. Spying the misshaped head of Corbie Meese, Raina beckoned the hammerman over.

  “What’s happening?” she asked as Corbie wended his way through the crowd.

  Corbie was wearing the fine gray wool cloak his wife Sarolyn had made for him. Designed to be worn over battle armor and a full complement of weapons, it had taken three bolts of cloth to finish. When he moved it looked like his shadow. “Jamsie’s come from Duff’s. The Dhoonehouse has been taken by Robbie Dun Dhoone. Pengo Bludd’s seized control of Withy, and is marching an army south to meet the city men.”

  Raina blinked. This was news. In the days since the Sundering Blackhail had grown inward, an animal licking its wounds. Yet the world didn’t stop when a guidestone shattered. Here was proof. Struggling to make sense of what she’d just heard, she said, “I thought Withy was already controlled by Bludd.”

  “It was. Hanro, the Dog Lord’s fourth son, has held it for the past three months. Seven days back Skinner Dhoone launched an assault—probably fancied Withy as a base to retake Dhoone. Looked like he might claim it, then along comes Pengo with his big army and crushes Skinner against the walls of the Withyhold. Jamsie says it was a bloodbath. Eight hundred Dhoonesmen dead. No word yet on Skinner. Some whisper he fled the field.”

  Raina went to touch the powdered guidestone at her waist and had to stop herself. The guidestone was dead: there was no comfort for her there. “Why didn’t Robbie send men to reinforce his uncle?”

  Corbie made a hard sound in his throat. “Robbie Dun Dhoone’s a cold one. Rumor is that he planned it that way. While Skinner was busy attacking the Withyhold, Robbie was free to steal a march on Dhoone.”

  “No.” Raina couldn’t quite believe it. No clansman would knowingly send fellow clansmen to their deaths. It was evil, and the Stone Gods would not pardon it.

  Corbie nodded solemnly, following her thoughts. “Pray he never becomes our ally.”

  Raina would.

  “Pengo’s seized control of the Withyhold,” the hammerman continued. “He’s older than Hanro and higher in the pecking order. Jamsie says he hasn’t let the grass grow. Couple of days to rest his crew and he headed out for Ganmiddich.”

  “Dear Gods. That was fast.”

  “When the win’s upon a man, Raina, it does something to him. Makes him fierce and resolute.” Corbie glanced toward the greatdoor as a new group of warriors arrived. “And remember, Pengo will know by now that the Dog Lord’s been routed. The Dhoonehold’s lost. There’s no going back.”

  “What will happen? Will we still ride to defend Ganmiddich?”

  “What choice do we have? The Crab Chief swore an oath to Blackhail. Ganmiddich is under our protection. Hailsmen walk the Crab Gate this very hour.”

  Raina took a breath. This was turning into a dangerous swamp. Only seven months ago the clanholds were at peace. Old rivalries brewed, borders were in dispute, water rights were claimed and defended. There were skirmishes and cattle raids, but no open warfare. A year ago Dagro had stood in the chief’s chamber beneath this very hall and told her that once the feuding between Orrl and Scarpe was over he’d count his chiefdom a success. “The clanholds rest easy now. Our boys are fostered as far as Haddo and Wellhouse, we have traded gifts with Frees, the Dog Lord is growing old and tame. Soon there’ll be naught for me to do but stay abed with my pretty young wife.”

  He could not have been more wrong.

  “We’ll need to send more men,” she said.

  “Aye,” Corbie agreed. “At least another thousand. Maybe more.” His mind was no longer quite with her, she realized. He was thinking of Drey Sevrance, Bullhammer, Tom Lawless, Lowdraw, Rory Cleet and the two hundred other Hailsmen who were garrisoned at Ganmiddich. He was waiting for his chief, anxious to have the matter settled and be on his way to defend them.

  It shamed her, for she could not stop herself from thinking, Please do not let this delay Mace’s departure. It would be so easy for him to decide to send the first thousand south and travel with the second contingent. She might be damned, but she didn’t think she could stand another day of him. Just to rest, to lay her head on a pillow and not have to worry about what the next moment might bring. Ever since the day in the Oldwood she had known no peace of mind. Always, it was: What will Mace do next? Does he know what I’m thinking? Can he tell how much I despise him?

  Raina straightened her shoulders and willed her mind away from the dark place. If she stayed there too long he won.

  “Where is my husband?” she asked Corbie.

  The hammerman flexed the huge saddles of muscle on his upper arms. “As soon as he spied that big wagon out on the graze he took off. He’s escorting it in right now.”

  Raina glanced at the door. She heard voices from outside but couldn’t see anything beyond the great crush of clansmen on the threshold. She heard herself ask in a calm voice, “Do you know what the wagon’s about?”

  Corbie shook his misshapen head. “I best go, Raina. Meet him at the door.”

  The east wind was howling through the roundhouse now, pushing men’s cloaks against their thighs and blowing out torches. From her place, three steps up, Raina could see the great circle of the entrance hall. She watched Corbie navigate the crowd, listened to the rumble of something heavy approaching.

  Suddenly there was a great push toward the door. Raina thought she heard Mace’s voice, but she couldn’t be sure. Clansmen were shouting out the news.

  “Bludd rides to Ganmiddich.”

  “Dhoone is retaken.”

  Raina’s heart beat in deep powerful strokes. A lamp close by blew out, then another. She smelled the strong black smoke of extinction. On the other side of the doorframe a conference was taking place. She knew Mace was there now, for his presence could be detected in the silences. Men were quiet, listening.

  A lone clansman cheered. Another followed, and soon over a hundred clansmen were shouting, “Kill Bludd! Bill Bludd! Kill Bludd!”

  Mace had pleased them. He must have spoken again, for the noise quickly died. A group of hammermen broke away and headed through the roundhouse with purpose. Corbie Meese wasn’t one of them. Raina resisted the urge to run after them and discover what was happening. She was desperate to know and desperate not to know, her mind rolling back and forth like a boat in a storm.

  Orwin Shank was the next to make his way inside. His face and ears were flushed. As he crossed the hall he saw her, but quickly averted his eyes. Like a sleepwalker, Raina began descending the stairs. Men made way for her, opening up a passage to the door. She was chief’s wife, and sometimes she forgot her value. Scarpes had no respect for her, but this was a crowd of Hailsmen, not Scarpes. Walking into the space they created for her, Raina felt the heat of their bodies. Big, powerful men they were, dressed in black wool and worn leather, their bodies weighed down with hammers and longswords, axes and gear belts, knives, ice picks, shovels.

  “Do we still ride tomorrow?” she asked no one in particular.

  A dozen replied, “Aye, lady.”

  Sunlight from the door blinded her. “And my husband, does he still ride at the head?”

  Ballic the Red placed a steadying hand on her elbow. She had not realized she had begun to sway. “Mace will ride with the first thousand as planned,” he told her in his rough burr. “Th
e second force will be led by Grim Shank.”

  Ballic smells like beeswax, she thought inanely. Probably uses it to waterproof his bow. She stepped outside. For a moment she couldn’t see anything, so great was the contrast between the dark, smoky entrance hall and the harsh sunlight of midday. Man-shapes coalesced from the brightness. The blocklike form of the war cart came into view. Seen this close it was bigger than she had imagined, a stovehouse on twelve wheels. The teamster was releasing the lathered and shaking horses from their yokes.

  “Who’ll be in charge of defending the Hailhouse while they’re gone?” she asked the nearest warrior.

  “Chief gave Orwin the honor.”

  She did not recognize the young Hailsman’s voice, and did not turn to look at him. Her thoughts were like beads, connected only by the slenderest thread. So far so good. Orwin Shank was the best, most logical choice. He would not interfere with her plans.

  When she was ready, she turned her gaze to her husband. Mace Blackhail was standing by the wagon’s front axle, speaking with two men. One was the Scarpeman Mansal Stygo, who was never far from Mace’s heels. Mansal had killed the Orrl chief with a hammer blow so hard it had driven Spynie’s head into his chest cavity. A month later Mace had invited Mansal and his crew to overwinter in the Hailhouse. The second man had his back to Raina. He had the shoulder breadth of a hammerman, but something in his posture warned her there was more to know. His full-length cloak was narrow across the back and oddly formal. The fur collar was a deep, luxurious brown; she couldn’t decide what animal it came from. By contrast the cloak’s hem was in poor shape, tattered and black with mud. When the stranger noticed Mace’s attention shift away from him, he turned to see who the Hail Wolf was regarding.

  Raina Blackhail stared right back. The flesh on the stranger’s cheeks had been scarified and tattooed to create the illusion of depth. Sunlight disappeared into carefully manipulated pits in the skin. He was a Scarpe, she saw that now, for black leather traces were woven into his shoulder-length braids and his fur collar was the fancy weasel known as mink. He appraised her, there was no other word for it, looked her up and down and decided what she was worth.