A Sword from Red Ice (Book 3)

by J. V. Jones

By speaking the oath? Bram wondered. He had stepped toward it, immediately feeling the coolness it cast on the surrounding air. Up close he could see the rasp marks and drill holes and he had the sense that this was a living, working stone. The Dhoonestone lay like a fossil in the guidehouse; ill regarded and barely viewed. It was the shame of it, he believed. No Dhoonesman could look upon it without knowing they’d been bested by a seventeen-year-old boy from Bludd. The Milkstone was different, proud and aging, no longer steady on its feet but still useful, still aware.

  Bram had been unsure whether or not to touch it. This is my guidestone, he told himself, forcing his hand up. When his fingers were a pin’s length from the stone he felt a force, like a magnet attracting metal, pull them in. Sucking in his breath he made a small, astonished sound, and watched as his hand homed to the stone.

  It showed him things, flooding them into his thoughts in waves that hit in quick succession. A river fork. A man in a bearskin hat. Wrayan Castlemilk bouncing his swearstone in her hand. Robbie smiling and saying, Do it. Bram saw a dense forest of trees and something rippling through them. Water? he questioned uneasily, before the stone snatched the vision away. After that he could not keep up with the flood of images, they crashed against him and fled. Parchment unrolling. A room cased in lead. A second river forking . . .

  His hand snapped back, jolted and released, and his arm whiplashed with the shock. Exhaling in a great push he realized he had been holding his breath. For a minute he just stood there, breathing and staring at the palm of his hand, as the jolt the guidestone had given him dissipated through muscle and bone.

  Drouse Ogmore’s voice had broken through his daze. “You will spend half of each day here, working for me. Tomorrow I will expect you at noon.”

  The guide must have seen some of what had happened, Bram realized later, for he was standing all the while by the door, yet he had never mentioned it, and never again urged Bram to touch the stone.

  Deciding he’d better get started, Bram put his good foot to the shovel and started digging out snow. He’d been helping at the guidehouse for seven days now and it was not the sort of work he would have imagined. He had thought he would learn secrets and history. Surely guides must know the clan histories? Legend had it that when the clanholds won their territory from the Sull the guides drove giant warcarts into battle. Some said that the guidestones themselves were loaded onto those cartbeds. Bram got excited just thinking about it. Such a sight would have been wondrous to see. Why didn’t Ogmore talk about that?

  The Milk guide just broke rock. He spent most of his days up the stepladder chiseling rock from the stone’s northern face, or at his work bench breaking, grinding and sorting the fragments. Sometimes he would use the bow drill, bracing it against his chest with a wooden tile, as he yanked it back and forth. At the rear of the roundhouse there was a stone mill, the kind that could be driven by an ox, but Bram had yet to see Ogmore use it. When Bram asked him about it, the guide had favored him with one of his withering stares. “At Castlemilk we do not waste the gods’ breath unless we must.”

  Considering this statement later, Bram had decided Ogmore was referring to the dust that would get blown away in the wind if the guidestone fragments were ground outside. Certainly Ogmore was obsessed with collecting every last mote that dropped on the guidehouse floor. Bram was allowed to sweep only when all doors and windows were closed, and when Ogmore was drilling through one of the hallowed planes of the stone, Bram had to be sure to set down a sheet to capture the sacred powder.

  That was another thing he’d learned: not all parts of the stone were equal. Ogmore divided the Milkstone into faces and planes, and used different sections for different purposes. Ogmore did most of his work on the stone’s north face, where the powdered guidestone was mined. Two days ago when word came from Dhoone that a Castlemilk warrior wounded in the retaking had succumbed to his injuries and died, Ogmore had taken his chisel to the southeast corner and cut out a heart-size wedge of stone. The stone there was rich with pyrites and difficult to work and Ogmore had to use pliers at times to cut through the metal. By the time he was finished he had produced something beautiful and gristly, a fitting substitute for a warrior’s heart.

  Yesterday Bram had watched as Ogmore tapped off a chalky segment from the guidestone’s bulbous south face. “Swearstones,” he’d replied when asked.

  None of it so far had been what Bram expected. It was strenuous work, and he’d fall into bed at night, aching and sweating, his eyes and throat scoured by dust. So far Ogmore had not allowed him to grind or sort the stone. He hauled it, swept it, oiled and cared for the tools, spread the dust sheets, split timber for the smoke fires, cleaned the workbenches, fetched water from the river, scrubbed the collecting basins and shoveled snow. Nathaniel Shayrac was permitted to grind and pan-sift the fragments, though no one but the guide himself ever took a chisel to the Milkstone.

  Bram paused in his shoveling to survey his work. The double doors of the guidehouse now had a ten-foot space cleared around them, and some fairly neat mounds of chucked snow lay off to the sides. The question was: would ten feet be enough? Bram thought of Ogmore, frowned and then resumed shoveling. Another five were called for.

  He thought about the clan guide’s riding to battle as he worked. That would be a fine thing, he decided. To be able to fight and possess knowledge all at once.

  He was faint with exhaustion by the time he was done. His knees were loose and wobbly, and the sword blister on the right hand had swollen to the size of an eyeball and split. He had to use his little finger to work the doorlatch.

  Switching from the afternoon dazzle of snow to the shadows of the guidehouse took some adjustment, and Bram was caught off-guard when Nathaniel’s pale face loomed close to his.

  He tutted, shooting out missiles of bad breath. “How does it feel to have your brother sell you?”

  Bram swung at him. Nathaniel was prepared and jumped back. Bram tried to track his shape in the murky dimness, thought he detected a movement and took a second swipe. Striking air, he fell off balance and couldn’t get his treacherous knees to save him. As he fell Nathaniel punched him in the head.

  “Young men,” hissed Drouse Ogmore, “control yourselves.”

  The guide stood at the southeast corner of the guidestone and glared at them. Bram blinked. The guidehouse was rocking and he needed it to stop. For some reason he smelled skinned rabbit—the smell of his mother’s workroom growing up.

  “Take it,” Ogmore said.

  Bram wondered what he meant, and then something skin-colored and fan-shaped dropped into view. A hand. Nathaniel’s hand. It would help if he could keep it still. Tentatively, Bram sent up his own hand and watched as it swayed back and forth like pondweed before Nathaniel’s came and gobbled it up.

  The pain of the split blister being squeezed of its juice brought Bram round. Yanked to his feet, he sent everything he had to his knees. It was barely enough to keep him upright.

  “I’ll have no fighting in this guidehouse, do you hear me?” Ogmore’s gaze darted between Bram and Nathaniel.

  “He was—”

  “No excuses,” snapped the guide, silencing Nathaniel. “You shame the gods with petty blame.”

  Nathaniel’s long face, with its uncommon amount of space between the nostrils and upper lip, colored hotly.

  “Go to the roundhouse and fetch my supper.” Ogmore stared hard at Nathaniel until he moved. Then, turning to Bram, “You. In the back with me.”

  Bram concentrated on his knees as he followed Ogmore’s swirling pigskins around the eastern face of the Milkstone.

  The rear section of the guidehouse had been partitioned off from the main hall and several small rooms had been framed. Ogmore’s private sleeping chamber was located here, as well as a small dining area, and stockrooms. Leading Bram into the dining area, Ogmore said, “Sit. Take some water.”

  Bram sat on the polished birch bench with great care, like a man who had drunk too much and was
trying to conceal it. The table was rocking and he thought he might be sick.

  Perhaps realizing that it was going to take Bram some time to get to the water, Ogmore poured a cup and handed it to him. “Do you know why this guidehouse is made out of wood and not stone?”

  Anticipating that it would be better to speak than shake his head, Bram said, “No.”

  “The old clan guide, Meadmorn Castlemilk, designed it so that if it’s ever besieged we can torch it and burn alive those who would steal our stone.” Ogmore paused and then told Bram, “Drink.”

  Bram did. The water was cool and gritty.

  “The Milkstone would not be burned. Changed perhaps, but not destroyed. Meadmorn reckoned it worth the risk.” Drouse Ogmore looked straight at Raif, his deep-set eyes gleaming in the light of the half-shuttered window. “A flaming can sometimes stop things from falling into the wrong hands.”

  Water gurgled in Bram’s stomach as he realized that Ogmore was talking about Robbie.

  “Count yourself lucky, Bram Cormac, that you are here.”

  He didn’t come out and say it, but Bram knew what he meant. Better to have been burned than stay in Robbie Dun Dhoone’s hands. Bram made no reply. Robbie was his brother and he would die rather than speak a word against him.

  Ogmore knew this. Resting his powerful, scarred and callused hands on the table, he seemed satisfied at what he had said.

  As the rocking in Bram’s head subsided, he realized that the guide must have overheard Nathaniel’s words. Why else speak of Robbie at this moment?

  Ogmore was capable of reading thoughts, for he said, “Nathaniel is worried you will take his place as my apprentice.”

  Bram heard the rise in the guide’s voice, and understood what it meant. He waited.

  Ogmore stood and crossed the short distance to the window. Bram assumed he would close the shutter as the sun was fading and a frost was setting in, yet the guide threw it back. “Castlemilk needs two things above all else,” he said, looking east toward the Milkhouse and the broken Sull tower where Robbie Dun Dhoone and his men had garrisoned over winter. “Our numbers of young warriors are depleted. They have been wooed away by the promised glory of Dhoone, and we wait, and they do not return. Above all things a clan must be able to defend its borders and protect its house. I am clan guide and I do not say this lightly so hear me well: when a clan is under threat the gods must take second place. Our gods are hard and dread, but they made us what we are. And what we are is clansmen. Given a choice we will fight. The gods know this, and even if they do not forgive, they understand.”

  Turning from the window, his shoulders limned by failing light, Ogmore searched Bram’s face. “So now you know the rankings. Warriors first. Guide second. Yet there are many warriors . . . and one guide. Tell me then, Bram Cormac, who is most important?”

  Bram could not. He remained silent.

  Ogmore appeared unsurprised yet at the same time stirred. “As we stand here and speak Blackhail fails. Do you know why?”

  “Their guidestone shattered.”

  “No.” Ogmore spoke with force. “A new stone can be quarried, new powder can replace the old in warriors’ pouches. It is possible to recover over time from such blows, yet the Blackhail guide failed his clan so absolutely he sent it spiraling down into hell.” Bram felt hairs prickle along his arms. “He trained no replacement. He died with his stone in the darkness of night and the next day Blackhail was doomed. There was no one to step in and guide the clan in the days when it most needed guiding. Fatal mistakes were made. The remains of the Hailstone were left to lie on open ground, in plain sight of clan. The Walk of Secession was not performed, and clansmen and clanswomen walked with the tainted powder at their waists and did not know it was tainted. A new clan guide was brought in from Scarpe and hauled half of the Scarpestone north in a cart. This monstrosity was hallowed five nights back. The crimes against the gods are many and continue, and while Blackhail lives with an alien stone at its heart it will never rise from the hole dug by its own guide.”

  It was close to dark now and Bram could no longer see Ogmore’s face. He wondered how the guide knew so much about Blackhail, then remembered Wrayan’s speech about the birds.

  “Tell me now,” Drouse Ogmore said, his voice spun with small prickles, “who is most important: warrior or guide?”

  Bram bowed his head. The motion started the room rocking one final time. “Guide.”

  Drouse Ogmore left the word in silence so Bram could feel the waves it created. Minutes passed as they stared at each other and only when it was full dark and the only light in the room came from smokefires next door did Ogmore speak.

  “Castlemilk needs an apprentice guide. If I die we need someone to continue the ways of the stone. The mistakes of Blackhail cannot be ignored. The Milkstone must be protected. And known. I must teach someone the places to drill and not to drill, the weak points, the oil reservoirs, the hollows that must never fill with ice. Knowledge of the old ceremonies must be passed on, for someone in this clan must always know how to mount a Chief Watch, replace and hallow a new guidestone, accept the oaths of its warriors, choose lores for its newborns and chisel hearts. Such are the dealings of a guide, and I would pass them on to you.”

  “Will I learn the histories?” Bram asked.

  Ogmore looked at him strangely. “Scholars do not make good guides.”

  Bram opened his mouth to ask why, but Ogmore forestalled him with a raised hand.

  “We will speak no more. Do not give me your answer now. I know you work hard at your swordsmanship under Selco and Burmish. I also know you spend two hours in the dairy each morning, performing the simple tasks necessary for feeding clan. Both of these endeavors are right and fitting. For now I would have you continue all of them, including assisting me in this house, but know this: I will ask for a choice. When sufficient time has passed for contemplation I will call you into the presence of the Milkstone and an answer must be given.” Drouse Ogmore walked to the edge of the table and leant across it so that his face was inches away from Bram’s. “I saw you that day when you touched the stone—it reached toward you. You must decide if you are willing to reach back.”

  The guide pushed himself to upright and left the room. Bram sat alone in the darkness and watched as smoke poured under the door.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Rift Awakens

  Raif was awaiting delivery of the Forsworn sword. Stillborn had sent it to Piggie Blesdo for a refiring four days back and had gone off this morning to retrieve it. Piggie was an ex-Dhoonesmen and blacksmith who had built a tower furnace on one of the high eastern ledges, and did most of the steelwork for the Maimed Men. Stillborn had gone to retrieve it three hours back, but Raif wasn’t worried by his absence. Stillborn was an expert at whiling time. Besides, it was good to be alone.

  Yelma, Stillborn’s sand-filled quintain, was creaking on her iron chain that was suspended above the fight circle. For reasons Raif could not guess, Stillborn had dressed up the practice dummy in ugly iron turtle armor and a red skirt. She didn’t have a head, but the top of her torso boasted a fleece hat with ear warmers. Stillborn had nailed it in place. Raif had taken a few swipes at her earlier, but had quickly lost interest. He had not yet found the balance of the sword Stillborn had lent to him, yet even with that disadvantage it was too easy to spike the quintain’s heart.

  Stillborn’s cave consisted of a single chamber shaped like a wedge of cheese turned on its side. The rock ceiling above the cave mouth and fight circle was high and vaulted, but toward the back of the cave, the ceiling lowered sharply and ended, thirty feet into the cliff cave, in a point. The point was where Stillborn stowed his least-used possessions; rusted spears, heaps of old clothing, an iron bathtub, a stool with a broken leg, a preserved bear head, several saddles, a silver urn decorated with enameled balls, and other trophies from his raids and hunts. Raif sat among them, the rock ceiling less than a hand’s length above his head, and tried to decide if it was
worth sanding the rust from one of the spears.

  The spear he had in his hand was good and heavy, its shaft made from a single piece of rolled iron, its head bladed with a rusted but decent point. Stillborn had told him to help himself to anything he found here. “Except the bear head,” he’d added thoughtfully, squinting into the possession pile. “I might have a go of tacking that on Yelma.”

  To remove himself and the spear from the tight wedge of the back wall, Raif had to walk in a crouch, holding the spear horizontal at his waist. Ahead, he saw a figure step into the light surrounding the cave mouth. Raif moved through the shadows toward it.

  Mallia Argola gave a small scream as she spied him coming toward her, armed.

  “No,” Raif cried out, holding the spear away from his body. “I . . . I’m just going to clean it.”

  She glanced from the head of the spear to his face, lips pressed together, forehead knitted into a deep frown. “You scared me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Raif set down the spear and moved forward with his back hunched. Twice he’d seen her now and both times he was walking like an idiot. “What do you want?” Right away he realized it was an ungracious question, but it was too late to take it back.

  Holding out a package wrapped in some silky kind of cloth, she said, “Your gloves and cloak. You left them at our home.” Her voice was faintly accented, and prickly with the emotions that followed unjustified fear. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress of a color that fell between deep green and deep blue, and the same black bodice that had snugged her waist yesterday on the ledge snugged it again now. An airily woven black shawl covered a narrow strip of her arms and shoulders. “Take them.”

  Raif approached her, and they shared a few awkward moments as the package was transferred between them. She smelled like marsh fern, spicy and green.

  “Are you not going to look?”

  Puzzled, Raif glanced down at the package. It had been tied neatly with black cord.

  “The cloak,” Mallia said, as if she was stating something that should be obvious to him. “I repaired it for you.”