A Sword from Red Ice (Book 3)

by J. V. Jones

  When he was ready, Raif stood and made his way to Tallal’s tent. In the eleven days that he’d been here he had learned many small things about the lamb brothers. One was the protocol for entering another’s tent. Bending, Raif scooped a handful of pumice from the ground. With a light movement he threw the sand against the tent wall.

  “Come,” came Tallal’s voice after a moment. It was telling that he had not spoken in his own tongue.

  Raif entered the dim smokiness of the tent. Smudge lamps suspended from longbones ringed the room at waist height, giving off dull red light. Raif had not been in any other tent beside his own, and the differences drew his eye. Lambskins overlapped across the floor. The curve of a painted chest perfectly matched the curve of the tent and sat snug against the wall. There was no mattress, only a nest of thin yellow cushions piled around the central support. Hanging from the ceiling by lengths of wool thread were dozens of small leather pouches. Raif had to duck to avoid knocking them with his head.

  Tallal was kneeling on one of the lambskins. His head was bare, the hood placed on a little bone stool by the door. Surprised, Raif hesitated to move farther into the tent.

  “Sit,” bid Tallal. “Look.”

  Holding his chin high, he watched Raif look at him. Proud, that was Raif’s first thought. Tallal’s black hair was cropped close to his skull. His cheekbones were wide and prominent and his brown lips were full. The three black dots above his nose were repeated on his chin. Just as with Farli, Tallal was younger than Raif had thought. Not young exactly, but far from old. Tallal’s deep dark eyes with their strangely bluish whites tracked every shift in Raif’s gaze.

  “Would you like to see my teeth?”

  Raif thought Tallal might be gently mocking him, but couldn’t be sure. “No.”

  Tallal bowed hid head gravely. “Eat,” he said, indicating a silver platter no bigger than Raif’s hand that was neatly laid with spiced nuts.

  Recognizing the formality of a long-practiced custom, Raif slipped a nut into his mouth. It was sharp and salty, like the sea. After he swallowed, he surprised himself by asking, “Why did you butcher the mule?”

  “Ten is an unlucky number for my people.”

  Raif thought back to his first conversation with Tallal when the lamb brother told him there were eleven in the party. His headcount had included the animals. So they were nine now.

  “It is the number of the Dark One’s children,” Tallal continued. “Whenever ten are gathered it draws His eye.”

  But we are ten, Raif thought. Including me.

  Tallal watched as the implications of his statement finally dawned on Raif.

  “You knew I would leave today?”

  “We hoped.”

  Raif took a breath and held it. The smoke from the lamps burned his throat. Of course they wanted him to go: they had seen what he was.

  “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  Tallal did not blink. “So are we.”

  Raif stood. Pouch things swung wildly around his head.

  “You cannot leave,” Tallal said. “You do not know how.”

  He was right.

  Rising, the lamb brother removed his hood from the stool and offered the seat to Raif.

  He hadn’t brushed against a single pouch, Raif noticed, sitting. “What’s in them?” he asked, jerking his head toward the roof.

  “Souls.”

  Raif closed his mouth, looked up at the plain brown-and-tan pouches and then looked away.

  Tallal smiled softly, with understanding. “This lamb brother asks to be forgiven. He did not mean to surprise you. The sacs are our way of keeping count. Each one represents a soul we have reclaimed for God. When we return to our people they are opened with great ceremony and the morah is released.”

  The pouches were the size of plums. “The morah is in there?”

  The lamb brother shrugged. “Some believe so. This lamb brother thinks perhaps the flesh of God is too powerful and impatient to be contained in such small things.”

  “When will you return?”

  There was no shrug this time. Tallal’s gaze lengthened as he looked beyond the walls of the tent. “I think perhaps not for a very long time.” The lamb brother turned his head a fraction and looked straight at Raif. Understanding passed between them. “Sometimes a purpose must be a man’s home.”

  Raif inhaled the smoke; funny how it no longer burned. “What if you are unsure of your purpose?”

  “You ask yourself. You ask others.” Tallal indicated the Want with a slight movement of his wrist. “You search.”

  “Until last night I believed I could help you. It seemed as if our purposes were close.” Raif stopped, fearing he had said too much.

  Yet Tallal simply nodded. “The Book of Trials speaks of the raven. It tells us that when we see one we should follow it, for ravens feed on opened carcasses. They find the dead.”

  Raif could think of no reply.

  “The lamb brothers believe you need a new sword.” Tallal’s dark eyes glinted. “Last night it was noted that the wrall was brought down with a bow. Our elder brother thinks perhaps this is not good. He believes some things are too powerful to be killed in such a manner. He says there are creatures so far removed from the world of flesh that no blade forged by man can kill them.” Tallal frowned. “Our elder brother worries about such things.”

  A stray draft set the smudge lamps jittering, suddenly brightening, then darkening the tent. Smoke funneled around the walls, its scent strengthening as if something within it had reacted to the wind. Raif felt his mind circling with the smoke. Tallal was leading him somewhere as surely as if he had attached guide lines to Raif’s belt. Almost against his will, Raif’s hand sought out the weapon holstered at his waist. Did you really think this would be the sword that makes you? The Listener’s words, spoken all those months ago in his hut by the sea, suddenly seemed dangerous. Like a curse.

  Tallal continued; Raif knew he would. “It is written that thirty hundred years ago our people nearly died. A drought was visited upon the Sands and no man felt rain upon his back for thirteen years. When the rains came they brought no relief for the sky had grown too dark and the rain was full of ash. In the charcoal years that followed it was sung that wralls walked the sand and claimed us. We were simple people, without weapons to best them, and we had grown weak. When the Outlanders came and offered us the chance to meet the wralls in battle as their allies, ten thousand of our people marched north with the Outlander horde. They were never seen again.

  “After the charcoal years ended the barren years began. We do not know much about those times for there was no one to sing the histories. Gradually my people revived. Daughters were born. Water holes were replenished. Dates and lambs grew and we were fed. Finally one was born to us who was named Meesa, Needs To Know. The buffalo women tried to claim Meesa for they knew she was strong and would save many living souls, but she denied them and went in search of the ten thousand missing men. Meesa left the Sands as a girl and returned bent and gray. Some say a hundred years had passed while she searched. The lamb brothers ran out to meet her. ‘Tell us what you know,’ they pleaded. And Meesa told them and the lamb brothers sang her knowledge into the histories, and many generations later those histories were written down.”

  Tallal paused, took a nut from the tray and ate it. He was confident now, Raif saw, sure that the end of his story was being anticipated. It was. Even though he knew he was being manipulated, Raif still needed to hear it.

  “Meesa traveled north during those hundred years and talked with many people in many lands. Piece by piece she learned what had become of the men. The Outlanders had driven them far north, promising that tomorrow the battle would be met, yet when the next day came there was no sign of the enemy horde and the Outlanders lied again. Wralls took many on the long journey, claiming the morah, stealing from God. My people feared to return to the Sands without fulfilling their promise of ending the plague of wralls. They believed that by stay
ing away there would be more food and water for those who were left behind.

  “Finally they arrived at the Valley of Cold Mists. ‘Here,’ the Outlanders said, ‘is where their armies will rise.’ My people had heard those words many times before and did not believe them. My people made a mistake. The wralls rose that night in vast hordes. Their armies spread across the horizon like the sea. My people were caught unawares in their sleep. As quickly as they took up their bows and spears they were ridden down, run through with blades as dark as the night. The histories tell of many dread beasts that could not be killed by men. Even the Outlanders with their forged steel could not match the wrall kings. My people were slaughtered. The Outlanders were decimated, down to their last thousand when the raven lord rode through. The raven lord was not one of us and our histories do not record his name or his people. We know he wielded a sword that was as black as well water, and that he used it to slay a wrall king.

  “After the battle ended the raven lord was dead. He had driven back the wrall hordes but his body was broken, ravaged by many cuts. The few Outlanders who still lived walked to high ground and slept, and in the morning when they awoke they found the valley below had been flooded and frozen. A lake of red ice now lay in place of the battlefield, and every man and every beast who had died there was now frozen beneath the ice.”

  Raif shivered. As Tallal had been speaking, a gusting wind had set the leather pouches rocking overhead. They rocked now, out of time with each other, swinging like pendulums back and forth. I need to think, but Tallal didn’t plan on giving him time.

  “When the lamb brothers heard this tale from Meesa they began to keen. Thousands of our souls lost, taken by the wralls and impossible to reclaim. Meesa told them to quiet their grieving for the souls had not been claimed by the Dark Lord. The souls were frozen with their bodies and as long as the lamb brothers found them while the ice still held we could claim them and set them free.”

  Tallal looked at Raif, looked into the substance beyond his eyes. “Last night, Raif Sevrance, you showed us what we must do when we find those bodies: we must destroy them as soon as they are released from the ice. It is not a lesson that pleases us, for our most sacred law prohibits the desecration of the dead: God asks that when we come to Him we be whole.”

  Raif bowed his head. He could not look anymore at the sorrows revealed in the lamb brother’s eyes. “How do you know the ice is still frozen?”

  “We hope.”

  More sorrow there. Remembering the patterns on the prayer mats, the raven pecking at the ice, Raif said, “You search for this place, the Valley of Cold Mists.” It was not a question. Understanding was coming. The lamb brothers’ purpose was not the same as his own, but there was a point where they intersected. The Red Ice. That was why Tallal had led with the sword. It had seemed to come out of nowhere, the lamb brother’s concern for his blade. Now Raif saw it for what it was, a carrot to lead him to the other side. Tallal sought to recruit him to the search.

  Stirred but cautious, Raif said, “All was frozen, good and bad?”

  Tallal nodded.

  “What happens if the ice melts? Would the Unmade . . . the wralls . . . come back to life?”

  “I do not know.”

  It was not a reassuring answer. Raif moved on. “You are sure the sword is there?”

  “Yes, frozen on the raven lord’s chest. It is said that it was once wielded by Sull kings.”

  Raif licked dry lips. “What made the valley flood?”

  Tallal shook his head.

  “And you do not know where it is?”

  The lamb brother glanced at the tent flap, at the thin sliver of light coming through. “We believe it lies in the north of this continent. East, west, center: we are unsure.”

  “You hope for help,” Raif said, thoughts still forming, “yet you do not want me in your party.”

  “Ten is an unlucky number.”

  “With the mule it would have been eleven.” Raif was surprised at the heat in his voice. “Why will you not have me?”

  Tallal’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. Absently, he reached up and steadied one of the leather sacks that was still swinging. “You may not much like the answer.”

  Raif had not imagined he would. “Tell me.”

  “Two of our party are dead. You killed neither but you drew their deaths as honey draws the sand flies.” Tallal stood and lifted a small glazed jug from the floor of the tent. Walking the circle of smudge lamps, he poured a drop of oil in each one. “If you journey with our party we fear more deaths. The lamb brothers do not judge you, for we are taught all creatures born of God have a purpose, but the path you walk is dark. The raven must feed.”

  One by one the smudge lamps sizzled, releasing the crushed-grass odor of wormwood. Raif wondered if it was mildly poisonous, like the drink. Even though he had guessed what Tallal might say, it was not easy to hear it. When people learned what he was and what he could do would they always push him away? What of the Maimed Men; would they be any different?

  “If I were to find the place you seek, how would you know? You and your brothers might be anywhere. How would I find you?”

  Tallal set down the jug and crossed over to the painted chest. Kneeling, he said, “Let us find you.” He pushed open the lid of the chest and searched for something inside. Raif noticed three more black dots at the back of his neck. “Here,” Tallal said, flinging something toward Raif.

  Raif snatched it from the air. It was a leather pouch similar to those overhead, with something flat and jagged in it.

  Tallal smiled, delighted. “If my mother were here she should be grateful for your quickness.” Seeing Raif’s confusion, he shooed his hand at the pouch. “Open. It is a gift.”

  The leather was old, darkened by many oilings. A length of undyed wool formed the drawstring. Raif pulled it back, and discovered a piece of glass.

  “From me.”

  The glass was the size and length of a fingerbone. One end was blunt while the other narrowed to a delicately curved point. Raif rolled it between his fingertips, watching light tumble within it. He wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the light and reflections moved a fraction slower than the glass itself.

  “Stormglass,” Tallal said, his smile softer now. “Just a little broken piece found by my great-great-grandfather—on my mother’s side.”

  Raif closed his fist around the glass. “Thank you.”

  “When my brothers and I were young we would turn our mother’s hair gray by tossing it to each other across the date yard. We were bad sons. After the beatings we were better.” The memory stopped Tallal for a moment, his brown eyes looking inward. Shaking himself, he said, “Even a piece this small is good luck. Kings and rich men may crave unbroken rods and whole branches, but as long as you have a tip you have the nagi. The essence. When stormglass is formed it mirrors the lightning that created it. Sometimes it branches as it shoots through the sand. When that happens there can be several tips—the point where the lightning’s power comes to rest. This is one such piece.”

  Raif did not know what to say. Tallal’s pleasure in giving him the piece seemed genuine, but a gift this precious usually came with a price.

  “It is said that if you carry a piece of stormglass you will never be alone in a storm.” Tallal voiced the words lightly, but Raif knew they were not light. Here it was: the cost. “Keep it close to your skin when lightning strikes and the lamb brothers will find you.”

  Tallal held Raif’s gaze. Pride and something almost opposite to pride existed in the muscle tensions of Tallal’s face. He was waiting, Raif realized, upon an answer.

  A wisp of wormwood smoke floated across Raif’s knuckles as he glanced down at his fist. Perhaps the smoke was not poisonous as much as numbing. Perhaps it prevented deep thought. He opened his fist and slid the stormglass into its pouch. “I give no promises,” he warned, tying the pouch to his gear belt. But he did, he knew he did.

  The lamb brother carefully co
ntrolled his face. Crossing back toward the cushions, he said, “Let me tell you what you must do to leave the Want.”

  FOURTEEN

  The Copper Hills

  Vaylo Bludd did not want to admit that his knees were sore and he needed to rest. In the past fifteen days he’d had enough walking to last a lifetime, and his heart, his knees and all seventeen of his teeth ached persistently with every step. Gods, what had he come to? A warrior without a horse. A chief without a clan. What was next? he wondered. A Bluddsman without kneecaps or teeth?

  “Vaylo. We should halt for a minute. The bairns need to pee.”

  The Dog Lord looked long and hard at his lady, Nan Culldayis. It was an hour past noon and they were on their third hill of the day and this one was the steepest yet. It was pretty enough, the blackstone pines giving way to winter heather and wild oats that had been tidily cropped by rogue sheep, but the climb was tiring and monotonous and the wind that was blowing south from the Rift cut you like a blade. Vaylo tucked his long gray braids under his coat collar as he said, “No, Nan. We carry on.”

  He left her looking at the back of his head. The Dog Lord was nobody’s fool and he knew what his lady was about. She thought to provide him with an excuse to stop and rest, and he wasn’t having any of it. Bairns need to pee indeed! Those bairns had peed their way north across the entire length of the Dhoonehold. Another couple of hours wouldn’t hurt.

  Indignation oiled Vaylo’s knee joints and he worked the hill hard, stabbing its thin rocky soil as he climbed. This was Copper Hill country and the slopes were pitted with old mine shafts and vent holes. As far as Vaylo knew there was only one copper mine still open—and that was far to the east, sunk deep beneath Stinking Hill. Copper hadn’t been seriously mined on the Dhoonehold for five hundred years, and only cragsmen and raiders walked these hills now. You could still see the copper though; a certain greenish tint to the soil made everything that grew here look healthier than it really was. Many of the little rills and creeks that drained the hills sparkled with red ore. Copper had made Dhoone rich at one time, and paid for the construction of the finest roundhouse in the north. Dhoone copper had once been carted overland all the way to the Far South, and strange kings and warlords had forged mighty weapons from it and sent back all manner of treasure in payment. Copper’s glory days had long passed though, and it had been fifteen hundred years since a copper weapon had bettered a steel one on the field. Still, copper had its uses even now. Vaylo had heard that in the Mountain Cities people liked to eat off it, and he knew clan maids like to wear it in their ears and around their wrists. Copper was stretched into wire and hammered into pipes, fired with tin to make bronze and zinc to make brass. At the time Vaylo had taken possession of the Dhoonehouse, the mine at Stinking Hill was still producing a hundred tons of raw ore a year. He had shut it down of course, then thought better of it and ordered it reopened. Gods only knew what was happening there now. One thing was certain: after all the looting and cattle raiding carried out by Bluddsmen over the past six months, Robbie Dun Dhoone would need all the hard cash he could get.