A Cavern Of Black Ice (Book 1)

by J. V. Jones

  Crossing to his dogs, Vaylo slapped his thigh. “What do you think, eh?” he murmured, bending to rub throats and cuff ears. “What do you make of the Halfman Sarga Veys?”

  The dogs yelped and growled, tussling for attention and nipping his fingers. Only the wolf dog stood his distance. Sitting close to the wall, its massive shoulders twitching in readiness, it watched the door with orange eyes.

  “You’re right, my beauty,” Vaylo said to it. “The Halfman has told me nothing I don’t already know: Only fools and children never watch their backs.”

  “Granda! Granda!” Tiny feet pattered against stone, and then the door burst open once more. “Granda!” Two small children appeared in the doorway, smiling, giggling, and shrieking loudly.

  The Dog Lord thrust out his arms toward his grandchildren. “Come and give your old granda a hug and help him with these uppity dogs.”

  The dogs managed something close to a collective groan as the two children raced across the room to Vaylo Bludd. The eldest child, a bright beauty with the dark skin and dark eyes of her mother, giggled madly as she hugged her grandfather with two arms and pestered the huge pony-size dogs with her feet.

  The dogs knew better than to growl at Vaylo Bludd’s grandchildren and allowed themselves to be vigorously petted, teased, and called by ignoble names. The children called the wolf dog Fluff! And he answered to it! It was the funniest thing Vaylo Bludd had ever witnessed, and it never failed to make him laugh out loud. He loved only two things in life: his grandchildren and his dogs, and when he had both together in one room he was as content as a man could be. Within a month he would have all his grandchildren here, in the Dhoonehouse safe and sound, where he and his dogs could watch over them.

  As he tousled the hair of the youngest grandchild, a fine black-haired boy who Vaylo secretly thought looked much like himself, Sarga Veys’ words prayed upon his mind. One day you just might turn around and find it gone.

  Vaylo glanced around the chief’s chamber, his eyes picking out the details of defense: the glint of spiked gratings blocking the chimney flue, the iron clamps punched into the stonework around the windows, and the pullstone lying flat against the wall beside the door—all emblazoned with the Bloody Blue Thistle of Dhoone. Would his grandchildren be safe here? It was the finest roundhouse ever built, ten times more defendable than the Bluddhouse, yet it was the only thing the Dog Lord had ever taken without jaw. There was shame in that, and Vaylo knew it. The Stone Gods would rather a man win an oatfield with blood and fury than take a continent with tricks and schemes.

  Seventeen teeth ached with a fierce splitting pain as for the first time in his life Vaylo Bludd found himself wondering if he had done the right thing.

  TEN

  Return

  Raif tended to his horse in the stables before he stepped foot inside the roundhouse. Shor Gormalin and the others had gone on ahead of him, leaving their mounts to the excited crew of children who had gathered at their return. Raif’s horse was not his own, though. It had been lent to him by Orwin Shank. Orwin bred dogs, horses, and sons, and now with two of his sons dead, he claimed to have more horses than he needed. Chad and Jorry were gone, but whoever had killed them had stolen their horses as well, so Raif didn’t see how Orwin Shank had any extra to spare. Yet somehow he had laid his hands upon a pair, and the day after Bron Hawk returned with news from the Dhoone roundhouse, he had offered one to Raif.

  “’Tis nothing,” the red-faced axman said. “I want you to have it. And if it suits you to call it a loan, then it suits me also, but I tell you now, Raif Sevrance, I shall not ask for it back. You and your brother took care of my boys, you drew a guide circle for them, and it eases a father’s mind at night to think of them resting within it.”

  Later, Raif learned that Orwin Shank had lent one to Drey, too.

  Raif scratched the gray gelding’s neck. Orwin Shank was a good man, just like Corbie Meese and Ballic the Red, yet why did he allow himself to be led by Mace Blackhail? Raif let out a long breath, determined not to get angry. There was no easy answer. Mace Blackhail was persuasive, he lied well, his stories fell upon eager ears.

  Raif dropped the latch on the horse stall. What next? That was the question that really counted. Seven days was a long time. What else had Mace Blackhail managed to manipulate during his absence from the roundhouse? He was back, that much Raif knew. The children were full of the tale of how he’d come galloping up to the roundhouse early that morning, stepped inside for just one moment, and then gone galloping back out to the Oldwood. While he was absent the others in his party returned.

  It was dark now, a full four hours past noon. Mace Blackhail had had plenty of time to regain charge of the roundhouse. Raif really didn’t see how rushing from the stables to hear what the self-appointed clan chief had to say would make one whit of difference to anything and anybody. Whatever new schemes Mace Blackhail had conceived were doubtless well under way by now.

  Kicking hay from his path, Raif walked along the stable’s central aisle. Drey would be inside with Mace Blackhail. Drey, who, if Raina Blackhail hadn’t spoken up at the meeting before the yearmen had had chance to pledge their weapons, would have gladly laid his hammer at Mace Blackhail’s feet. Raif could still see the eagerness in his older brother’s face. It sickened him. It tainted everything they’d gone through together at the camp.

  Raif tasted bitterness in his mouth as he worked the bolts on the stable door. Now that Drey had spent the past seven days riding out with Mace Blackhail, he would be completely under the Wolf’s control. Another member of his pack. Nothing drew men closer than shared danger. Mace Blackhail had personally asked Drey to accompany him on the ranging to Dhoone.

  A sound not much like laughter escaped from Raif’s throat. At the same time he was hand-picking one brother, Mace Blackhail was trying his damnedest to get the other brother sent away on westwatch. Westwatch, a hundred leagues west of the roundhouse in the cold blue shadows of the Coastal Ranges, where old clansmen who wanted nothing more out of life than to fish, hunt goats, smoke heatherweed, and sing the old songs of how Ayan Blackhail killed the last Dhoone King went to end their days.

  Shor Gormalin had stepped in to stop it, though. “I’ll take the Sevrance lad wi’ me to Gnash,” he had said. “By all accounts he’s handy with a bow, and we canna afford to waste even one able man in times such as these. I’ll keep my eye on him, make sure he doesna stray.”

  No one, not even Mace Blackhail, could argue with the most respected swordsman in the clan, so Raif had found himself one of a party of ten riding out to gather intelligence from Gnash.

  It had been a hard seven days. They had ridden day and night. One man’s horse had collapsed beneath him, and all mounts had to be changed at Duff’s Stovehouse halfway. On the return journey they had changed their horses back. Shor Gormalin had said nothing about speed or haste, driven no man into the saddle before he had taken his black beer and larded bread in the morning, yet somehow he had created in everyone a burning desire to get back. More than once Raif found himself wondering if it had been Shor Gormalin’s intent to return to the roundhouse before Mace Blackhail. Raif shrugged, but not lightly. If it was, the small fair-haired swordsman had failed by half a day.

  Done with the final iron bolt, Raif drew up his fox hood and braced himself for the short run to the roundhouse. It could not be put off any longer; his borrowed horse was brushed down and fed, and it was getting to the point where his absence would be missed. It was time to face Mace Blackhail once more.

  The air outside was cold and still. Raif hardly seemed to be in it a moment before he was shouting his name through the heavily tarred oak of the roundhouse greatdoor and gaining access to the warmth and the light.

  The roundhouse was crowded and noisy. Tied clansfolk stood in groups, clogging passageways, stairwells, and halls. Dressed in brain-tanned hides and roughspun woolens, they worried out loud about their crofts, their ewes, their children, and their future. Raif had never see
n so many farmers and crofters in the roundhouse at one time before, not even in the heart of winter. Whoever had been sent out to the far reaches of the clanhold to bring them in had done a fine job. Raif couldn’t put names to a good third of the people he passed.

  Fewer full clansmen and yearmen crowded the halls, but that didn’t mean anything. Mace Blackhail probably had them gathered in the Great Hearth for a meet.

  “Raif! Over here!”

  Raif recognized his brother’s voice before he saw him. Hiking himself up on a luntstone, he peered over the crowd in the entrance hall. Although he had planned to be distant with his brother, the minute he saw Drey standing by the far wall, the muck and grease of the road still upon him and the shadow of a seven-day beard darkening his jaw, he breathed a sigh of relief. Drey was home. He looked tired. His braid was matted with fox fur, and the hammerman’s chains that stretched across his boiled leather armor looked as if they’d been blackened in a fire. Apart from a few broken veins across the bridge of his nose, his face looked unchanged.

  Keeping his place across the hall, Drey waited for his brother to join him.

  The two clasped hands. “Have you seen Effie?” were Raif’s first words.

  Drey shook his head. “No, but others have. She was out in the Oldwood with Raina. Anwyn saw her return. Said she was as quiet as a mouse and slipped off to her cell. Anwyn sent Letty Shank down with some milk and bannock.”

  Raif nodded. A long moment of silence passed.

  “So,” Drey said, speaking to break it, “you and the others returned safely?”

  “Yes. The Gnash roundhouse is full to bursting with Dhoonesmen. All those who escaped or were away from the roundhouse when it was taken are gathering at the old strongwall there.” As Raif spoke he noticed Drey glance at the stairs that led up to the Great Hearth. “Another meeting?” he said, his voice hardening.

  Drey looked down.

  Raif breathed before he spoke. It was hard to keep the anger from his voice. “When were you going to tell me, Drey? Once it was over and done?”

  Drey shook his head. “No. It’s not what you think. Mace Blackhail wants to marry Raina and he—”

  “Raina?” Raif inhaled sharply. He felt as if he’d been thrown into the middle of a game that made no sense. “She’d never marry Mace Blackhail. She’s his foster mother . . . she spoke up against him at the last meet . . .” Raif shook his head savagely. “She hates him.”

  Drey swore. “Don’t start that again, Raif.”

  “Start what?” To Raif’s ears his voice sounded sullen.

  “Twisting the truth. Making up things. Embarrassing us.” Drey ran a hand over his beard. “You’re not the only one who has to live with the consequences of what you say. If you don’t care about me and my standing in the clan, I understand that, but at least think about Effie. She’s young. Now Da’s gone she needs the clan to look after her. And every time you open your mouth and say something bad about Mace Blackhail, you hurt her as well as yourself.” Drey reached out to touch Raif’s arm, but Raif pulled away. With a small, unconvincing shrug, Drey let his hand fall to his side. “Mace Blackhail is going to be clan chief, Raif. And you’re going to have to accept that—for all our sakes.”

  Raif looked at his brother carefully. He had a suspicion that Drey had been practicing his piece about family and clan loyalty for quite some time. The words had a stilted, preprepared feel to them, and they didn’t sound right for Drey. They sounded more like something Mace Blackhail would say. Raif’s lips twisted to a smile. “How long have you been waiting for me, Drey? Did Mace Blackhail make you stand watch, here, in the hall? Did he tell you that I couldn’t be allowed into the Great Hearth until I’d listened to what you had to say, then nodded like a good brother should?”

  The color in Drey’s face rose as Raif spoke. “It wasn’t like that, Raif. I was worried that the clan might turn against you . . . and Mace said that a man never listens to reason about himself, but when he’s made to think of his family he’ll—”

  Raif grabbed his brother by the shoulders. He needed to make him see. “Drey. Listen to me. I’m not going to do anything to harm you and Effie. Mace Blackhail’s putting words in your mouth. It was you and me who were together at the badlands camp. You and me. We saw what we saw, and while we kept to our story, Mace Blackhail kept switching his.”

  Drey pulled himself free of Raif’s grip. “Stop it, Raif! Just stop it! Mace warned me you were too young to listen.” With a disgusted shake of his head, Drey turned and made his way to the stairs.

  Raif watched his brother go. After a time his hand rose to his lore and his fist closed around the hard piece of horn. Hate poured out of him, flushing his skin and stinging the back of his throat. He’d been back for only an hour and already Mace Blackhail was turning the knife.

  Aware that people were looking at him, Raif let his lore fall to his chest. He was shaking, and it took an effort to bring his body under control. Smoothing his hair and clothes, he followed Drey’s path to the Great Hearth. Deliberately, he kept his thoughts away from his brother. He wouldn’t think about Drey now.

  The stairs were crowded with people. Children raced up and down, shrieking and giggling wildly. Groups of women sat on steps, talking in quiet voices, chewing on slices of dried fruit, and mending bits of cloth and leather harnesses. Twice as many torches were burning as normal, and bands of greasy black smoke choked the air. Raif resisted the desire to push people out of his way. Didn’t they have anywhere else to go? Why hadn’t Anwyn Bird moved them to cells of their own?

  He came to a halt by the Great Hearth door. Two clansmen stood guard before it. They crossed spears the moment they saw him.

  Rory Cleet, golden haired, blue eyed, and the object of much excited interest on the part of the maidens of Clan Blackhail, was the first to speak. “Can’t come in, Raif. Sorry. Mace Blackhail’s orders. Sworn clansmen and yearmen only.”

  Bev Shank, the youngest of the Shank boys and not even a yearmen himself, nodded. “Sorry, Raif. Nothing personal.”

  “Mace Blackhail isn’t chief yet. He’s got no right to give orders.” Raif stepped forward. “Besides, when was the last time either of you can remember armed guards being posted outside the Great Hearth?” Bev and Rory exchanged a glance.

  Rory Cleet sucked in his lips, lowered his black steel spearhead a fraction. “Look, Raif. This is nothing to do with me. Mace Blackhail says watch that none but sworn clansmen enter, so that’s what I’m doing. It’s only fitting that those who have spoken oaths have the right to speak clan business in private.” Rory’s blue eyes looked straight into Raif’s. “There’s talk of Inigar hearing oaths next week, and mayhap you and Bev can step forward and become yearmen along with the rest. Then when you come to me demanding entry, I’ll be more than happy to let you pass.”

  Raif shook his head. He liked Rory—he was a friend of Drey’s and wasn’t a bit full of himself despite his good looks—but he was in no mood to have anyone prevent him from entering the Great Hearth. Shouldering closer to the door, he said, “Let me pass.”

  “Can’t do it, Raif.” Rory Cleet pressed the flat of his spear against Raif’s arm. Raif grabbed the spear shaft and pulled forward hard. As Rory stumbled forward, Raif smashed his fist into Rory’s fingers. Rory’s fingers sprang apart and he lost his top grip on the spear. Furious, Rory swung a punch, clipping Raif’s ear and making him fall forward against the door. Wood cracked. Even before Raif could take a breath, he felt the point of Bev Shank’s spear on his kidney.

  “Step away, Raif,” he said, his red Shank’s cheeks flushed with excitement.

  Raif felt the door behind him open. He stumbled back. Warm, smokeless air breathed along the back of his neck. Someone stepped forward from inside the room.

  “What have we here?” It was Mace Blackhail. Fingers tapped against leather as he spoke. “The Sevrance lad causing trouble again, I see.” Raif twisted his neck around in time to see Mace Blackhail shake his head at someone in
the room. “I thought you were going to take your brother in hand, Drey?”

  Raif winced. Grabbing the shaft of Bev Shank’s spear, he pushed the tip away from him. Things were going from bad to worse. He couldn’t hear all of Drey’s reply, but the words Sorry, Mace came through clearly.

  “By the weight of the Stone Gods, Mace, what did you expect? Keeping a guard outside the door.” Orwin Shank came forward and grabbed Raif’s arm. “Got yourself in the middle of it again, eh, lad?” He winked at his son. “Good job wi’ that spear, Bev.”

  Bev grinned at his da.

  Rory Cleet stood back, his eyes not leaving Raif for a second. The fingers on his right hand were already beginning to blacken and swell.

  Raif went to say something to him, but Orwin Shank hauled him through to the Great Hearth before he had chance to speak. “No sense in leaving the lad out there,” he said, shutting the door behind them. “He rode out to Gnash with Shor Gormalin. His report will be as good as any.”

  “Aye,” Shor Gormalin said from his place near the fire. “Bring the lad over to me. I’ll vouch for him.”

  Raif glanced around the room. Three hundred clansmen and yearmen were gathered, backs bristling with case-hardened arms and strung bows, boiled hides and blue steel strapped across their chests. Not one woman was present. Not even Raina Blackhail.

  Mace Blackhail took a thin breath, clearly displeased. Raif thought it highly likely that Bev and Rory had been set outside the door solely to keep him out. “This is men’s parley tonight,” Mace said, extending his arm to block Raif’s path. “Anyone who doesn’t know what it feels like to thrust a hand up a girl’s skirt has no business being present.”

  Along the east wall of the room, two dozen yearmen found something interesting to look at on the floor. Some coughed nervously, others blushed. Huge hound-headed Banron Lye, who had turned yearman only last spring but looked a good ten years older than his age, cracked his knuckles one by one. Raif glanced at Drey, who was standing close to a bloodwood stang. Although he made a point of not meeting his brother’s eyes, he noticed that Drey wasn’t among those who looked down at his feet while Mace spoke. Raif ran a hand over his roughly shaved chin. He knew less about his brother than he thought.