by J. V. Jones
As Raif looked up, he caught a glimpse of his brother’s face. Drey’s eyes were two frozen points on his face. Seeing them, recognizing the one emotion that lay behind them, Raif felt his bones turn to ice. Drey wasn’t waiting to fight Bluddsmen; he was waiting to slay the men who killed his da.
There was nothing to do but wait. Minutes passed, then an hour, then another, then they had to cut the sheepskin muffles from the horses to prevent them from becoming agitated. Then, just as Bullhammer reached back in the saddle to fetch a feed bag for his restless stallion, a low rumbling sounded in the east.
Everyone tensed. Bullhammer straightened his back, took his reins in both hands. Bitty Shank stripped the mitts from his sword-hand, revealing fingerless gloves beneath. Craw Bannering pressed thin lips together and turned his cool archer’s eyes to the road. Drey made no bid for his hammer. Glancing back at his men, he sent one word with his eyes. Easy.
The sound grew louder and began to separate into recognizable parts. Horses’ hooves, too many to number, thumped down upon the hard surface of the road. Bushes and tree limbs cracked like whips, dumping their loads of snow. Dogs yipped and barked, carts creaked, harness metal jingled, and above it all something lurched, clattered, and shuddered like a great and terrible engine of war. Raif and Drey exchanged a glance. The mist was as stringy as rotten cobwebs. It was hard to get a clear view of the road, almost impossible to see the bend the Bludd party would round any moment.
A pair of snow geese took flight from the near side of the bend, their calls harsh as saws drawn over metal. Raif’s whole being was focused on controlling his horse. Her ears were flicking, and she had begun to pull on the reins. The scent of strange dogs made her nervous. Raif found himself wishing he were on Moose, not some flighty filly borrowed from Longhead at the last moment.
All thoughts evaporated from his mind as a gust of wind shifted the mist, allowing a clear view of the Bludd party as they rounded the bend below. Tiny hooks of fear pierced Raif’s chest. Dark and full of purpose, the Bludd party took the road as if it were territory to be claimed like a foreign shore or an enemy camp. Riding stallions as thick necked and muscular as wolves, the foreriders held spears of black steel couched in horn casings that hung from the saddles along with their stirrups. Bull-headed dogs raced ahead of them, black and orange like hellhounds. A supply cart came into view, then a second one loaded with iron-banded kegs. Raif strained to see more, but mist poured down the slope, resettling in the lowest points. Briefly he snatched a glimpse of a team of horses flanked by a quad of heavily armed hammermen.
The grinding, shuddering noise became deafening. White smoke gouted in the air above the road. With one single fluid movement, Drey pulled his hammer from its sling. Raif noticed the metal had been abraded with steel wire. As he looked up, he met eyes with his brother. Drey looked so much like Tem for a moment that Raif felt his hand leave his bow and reach out.
Easy, Drey said without speaking. Easy now.
Feeling foolish and confused, Raif worked to conceal his emotions. He returned his hand to his bow and nocked his arrow against the plate. We are Clan Blackhail, the first of all clans. We do not cower and we do not hide, and we will have our revenge. The oldest version of the Blackhail boast ran through Raif’s mind as he sighted his arrow. Angry words. And not for the first time, he wondered what had prompted them.
The Bludd party was directly below them now. The team of horses pulled some sort of lurching contraption that was partially obscured by mist. Raif counted seconds. The screech of wheel axles turning in their housings set his nerves on edge. The cold weighed on his bladder, making him painfully aware of its fullness. Looking ahead, he thought he saw a sliver of steel in the young growth to the far side of the road. Ballic’s crew.
The Bludd dogs yelped and brayed, running rings around the trotting horses in their eagerness to be on their way. As the lead dog found something to sniff at on the road’s north verge, the surrounding mist switched like a horse’s tail, allowing Raif a clear view of the team and its load.
Breath hissed softly in his throat. The size of the thing. A team of horses pulled a war wagon as big as a house, with iron-spined wheels as tall as men and whole elm trunks for sides. The wheels plowed into the road, churning up mounds of dirt and snow. Great gasps of smoke vented from a copper chimney fitted high into the timbered roof, and the entire structure huffed and shuddered with every rut in the road. Raif had never seen anything like it in his life. It was like watching an entire roundhouse on the move.
“Raif. Pull out your flint.” Drey’s voice was as low and ragged as the mist. “Bull. Hand him the hard liquor from your pack. Easy now. All of you.”
Raif understood at once. No one had been expecting this thing, this cart as big as a building. No one knew what horrors were housed within it. The only thing to do was set it alight. Ballic the Red and Corbie Meese were probably thinking the same thing, but just in case they weren’t, or just in case they missed, Drey was making plans. Raif tore the thumb from his left mitt and used it as a hood for his arrow. Bullhammer handed him a silver flask, his meaty hands warming the metal where he touched.
As Raif doused the thumbpiece in the clear amber-colored liquor, the lead dog caught whiff of the ambush party’s scent. Its joyous yelping turned to a low, dangerous growl. Raif felt the sound echo in the soft inner tissue of his bones, then all hell broke loose on the road.
A salvo of arrows cut low through the mist, aimed for the foreriders’ mounts. Animals squealed in terror as metal broadheads, barbed for lightness and snagging flesh, punctured horseflesh. Rearing up, they kicked and bucked, thrashing their heads from side to side and screaming. Their fear spread through the remaining Bludd animals like wildfire, yet even as other horses began to whiffle and stamp, their riders and draymen worked to calm them. A word spoken softly but firmly, a steadying hand on a neck or a shoulder, a squeeze with the thighs, and the Bluddsmen saved their mounts from panic.
The foreriders were quick to abandon their wounded horses, dismounting with heavy grace. Thudding onto the snow, they drew their ten-foot spears from their couching. All escaped injury, though with four massive horses kicking and screaming in the confined space of the road, it hardly seemed possible. Raif had no time to think on that before Corbie Meese, Toady Walker, and eight other hammermen blasted onto the road. Screaming at the top of their lungs, they rode wide of the standing spearmen, driving for the hammermen behind. As soon as they were clear of the spearmen, a second salvo of arrows shot north across the road. Most hit the panicking horses, spraying horse blood in red arcs, but one spearman took an arrow to his shoulder, and another lost a piece of his face. The injuries caused neither man to break formation, and as a single unit the four spearmen turned to pursue Corbie and his crew as they met steel with the Bludd hammermen. It was, Raif realized, the only possible thing they could do. Standing free like that, they were a bowman’s prayer, but no bowman in the territories would shoot an arrow into a fray where his own men were fighting.
Raif worked at the alcohol-soaked thumbpiece, pulling it down so the metal point of the arrowhead peeked through at the tip. The screams of the horses were terrible to hear, and Raif tried to cut them from his mind. He had known all along that Ballic and his crew would target horses first.
“Raif. Shoot.” Drey. No mention of what he was to shoot or why, no caution concerning taking such a shot at such at distance. Just an order. No—Raif positioned the flint and striker in his hand—it was more than that. By saying the little that he did, Drey assumed not only that his younger brother knew his mind, but also that he was capable of making such a shot without injuring Corbie or one of his men.
It was a sobering thought. Raif tipped the hooded arrow on an angle to catch sparks and struck the flintstone. The alcohol on the thumbpiece ignited with a soft ripping sound that distressed the filly. Raif didn’t have to worry about stilling her, as Drey was already at her head, leaning over to calm her with soft words and gentle scrat
ches.
Raising the flaming arrow to his bow, Raif switched his mind to the battle below. The remaining hammermen and swordsmen from both Corbie’s and Ballic’s parties were now fighting on level ground. Corbie Meese screamed at the top of his lungs as he whirled his hammer in a liquid circle above his head, his face purple with rage, his stewed leather gauntlets butcher red with blood. He was, Raif realized with a stab of quiet pride, a truly terrifying sight. It was the hammer dent on his head that did it. The Bluddsmen danced around him, reluctant to go hammer to hammer against a man who had taken such a blow and lived.
With a ghost of a smile on his face, Raif aimed his bow. The war wagon was a large and barely moving target. If it hadn’t been for the mist and the men fighting about it, it would have been an easy shot. Raif took a breath, relaxed his grip on the bow, decided upon the upper quarter of the wagon wall as his target, then felt for the still line that would lead the arrow home. He did not reach inside the thing. The wagon was dead wood, and there was no question of calling it to him—after the day at the lick, he knew and accepted that now. To try to find its heart was a mistake that would cost him both accuracy and time.
Everything slipped away. The string creaked with strain, a good sound that brought saliva to Raif’s mouth. The flames from the thumbpiece licked at his cheek. A second stretched to breaking. Then, suddenly, the mist cleared, the riders parted, and the line between the target and the bow became as broad and inviting as an open road. Raif lifted his fingers from the string, and the arrow shot toward its mark.
Hearing the soft thuc of the bowstring, feeling the rough hand of the recoil snap at his fingers, Raif knew he had been wrong. There was life in the wagon, inside it, and for a brief moment as the bowstring whipped air and his eye held the target, he felt hearts beating from within. Dozens of them. Racing and skipping with fear.
You can’t call an arrow back. That was the first thing Tem had ever taught him about shooting, and Raif finally knew what he meant. A bowman delivered his blow the moment his fingers left the string, not seconds later when the arrow sank its barbs into enemy flesh. The small distinction had never meant anything to him. Until now.
The sound of the impact didn’t carry, but the flames blanket-rolled across the wagon wall, changing color from blue to yellow as they spread. The shot was perfectly placed, the alcohol fire hot enough to kindle hardwood, and the arrowhead sat snug between two elm logs, driving the flames deep. Even the wind helped, gusting along the wagon like air from a bellows. Within a minute the entire upper portion of the wagon was alight. Sheets of yellow flame rippled over the wood, spilling between cracks like molten metal and belching black, greasy smoke.
The flaming of the war wagon had a profound effect on the Bluddsmen. The drayman riding the team worked frantically to turn the horses, whipping and hollering, standing on his plate and smacking the horses’ rumps. Bludd hammermen and spearmen moved into position around the wagon, defending its team and driver with hard focused force. Toady Walker fell from his horse as a lead-weighted hammer smacked into his spine. Within seconds a Bludd spearman had moved in to spike his guts.
“Raif. Craw. Cover us as we go down. Once we’re there, move closer and shoot as you judge safe.” Drey’s voice was rough. His gloved hands pressed against the leather mount of his hammer. “Do not show yourselves. Bull, Bitty. You’re with me.”
Raif barely had time to nod before his brother turned his horse and cantered down the slope. Bullhammer and Bitty Shank flanked him. Bullhammer tore the oilskin from his back as he descended, revealing his iron-banded breastplate and freeing his arms for the powerful hammer moves that had earned him his name.
Raif pulled a second arrow from his case. Below, the war wagon lurched backward as one of its rear wheels rolled off the road. Saplings snapped like chair backs as the wagon tumbled into the newgrowth, sending a wedge of flames and sparks shooting into the branches. The drayman worked the team, lashing horseflesh with his whip, but the wagon was trapped in the ditch. Raif could see the outline of the wagon door and the great metal stave that held it shut. As he watched, he saw the door shake, as if someone inside were pushing against it.
A bowstring hummed to Raif’s left as Craw Bannering let an arrow fly, shooting at a swordsman who had moved forward to intercept Drey and his crew. The shot was sound, catching the swordsman high in the neck, dropping him where he stood. Bludd hammermen fought around him, their sable cloaks fluid as running oil, their hammers breaking up the last of the mist. Raif drew his bow, waited for a clear shot at one of them. His concentration was not good. Red and black, the angry blaze of the war wagon kept catching his eye. The door continued to shake, yet still no one broke out.
Almost without thinking, Raif dipped his bow, aiming his arrowhead at the wagon door. Imagining it was game to be shot, he called the wagon to him. A seam of hot pain shot between his eyes as he forced his sights to focus beyond the door. It was like staring into the mist all over again. His eyes ached. Seconds of blankness passed, then just as he was about to drop his bow, he felt the wild thumping of many hearts. Terror filled his mouth like blood.
Trapped. They were trapped inside the war wagon. Heat had sealed the iron bolt in place.
Shaking with the force of their terror, Raif let his bow fall slack. A sour metallic taste ringed his mouth. Glancing at Craw, he saw the black-haired bowman braced to take a second shot. With a furtive, close-body movement, Raif switched arrows, choosing a thick-bladed hunter shaped to take down a horse in a single strike. The weight was wrong for a bow the size and shape of Raif’s—he kept it only to shoot from Drey’s longbow—yet he raised it to the plate all the same. If he was careful and he drew enough power into the bow, it just might go where he planned.
It took him less than a moment to sight the bow. The last ropes of mist felt like a noose around his neck as he searched for the line between the tip of his arrow and the iron bolt of the war wagon. The belly of the bow shook along with his hands. He didn’t dare think, didn’t dare question what he was doing and why. The memory of the hell inside the wagon was too great. The line calmed him. Once it was fixed in his mind, his hands stilled. Gentle as a breath taken in sleep, he released the string.
The arrow split curls of fire and smoke as it raced toward its mark. Even from where he stood, Raif heard the harsh clang of metal striking metal. The arrow hit, then dropped. A moment was lost to smoke, and when Raif caught sight of the door once more, someone inside was beating hard against it. After three blows, the iron bolt gave and the door blasted open. Smoke poured out.
Raif tugged a hand across his face. He had no way of knowing if his arrow had done the job, yet strangely it did not matter. The door was open, and even as he looked on, people began clambering out. Hands held to their faces, backs bent, they coughed and screamed and ran.
It took Raif a moment to realize they were women and children.
He didn’t believe it at first. This was supposed to be a war party—Mace Blackhail had said so. What business did children have with war? Yet even as he groped for a reasonable explanation, he began to realize there had been a mistake. This was no war party. The quad of heavily armed hammermen, the foreriders with their case-hardened spears, and the swordsmen with their blades of blue steel were here solely to guard the wagon. The Dog Lord wasn’t moving troops to the Dhoonehouse, he was moving women and children.
And Mace Blackhail knew it.
The thought seized his mind so swiftly, it was almost as if someone had spoken it out loud. No one had questioned how Mace Blackhail had come upon the information for this ambush. Corbie Meese said he’d picked it up from stovehouse talk, yet how could anyone other than a Bluddsman know about the Dog Lord’s plans? Most especially when those plans concerned the moving of kin? Raif shook his head. All possible answers left him cold.
“Raif! Children.” Craw Bannering nudged his bow arm.
Raif nodded, feeling a bite of disloyalty as he feigned seeing the open wagon door for the first t
ime. “We’d better get down there.”
The snow on the road was red and pink with blood. Four horses had fallen, two others fled. Toady Walker’s body had been trampled facedown into the snow. Banron Lye lay in a ditch just off the road. He wasn’t moving. Dogs sank their teeth into his collar and sleeves, tearing away great strips of elkskin to get at flesh. All the remaining Hailsmen, including Ballic and his bowmen, were now fighting hand-to-hand on the open road. Black blood and spittle frothed from Corbie Meese’s mouth, yet judging from the volume of his screams and the swift circles he cut with his hammer, he wasn’t badly hurt.
Drey and Bullhammer had wasted no time driving themselves into the middle of the melee. They worked well together, their hammers as dull and ashen as charred logs, as they moved to outflank a Bludd swordsman who had just lost his mount. The spearmen were the worst danger. Fighting in tight formation back-to-back, they made it impossible for anyone to get near them for a blow.
Reining his horse thirty feet above the road, Raif pulled an arrow from his case. The dogs worrying Banron Lye were the first things to go. They were easy targets; once he had their hearts in his sights he didn’t worry about hitting Banron or any other clansman by mistake. Down the dogs went, one after another, legs crumpling beneath them in the manner of all heart-killed beasts. The Bludd spearmen were a more difficult problem. Guarding the drayman and his team, they formed a knot of grizzled steel at the center of the road. Raif couldn’t get a clear shot at any of them. Corbie Meese and Rory Cleet were too close.
Sweat slid down Raif’s neck. The war wagon roared with flames, melting the surrounding snow with snake hisses, dripping yellow fire onto the undergrowth, and setting whole runs of stone pines alight. Fire poured along the team’s harness, and the drayman began hacking at the leather traces with his sword to free the horses. Raif could no longer see what was happening at the back of the wagon. Out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of people running to high ground through the trees.