A Sword from Red Ice

FOUR Negotiation

Bram tried not to shiver when the Bludd chief spoke his name. They had all guessed the strangers identity the moment they spotted the first dog, but it had not prepared them for hearing the man speak. The Dog Lord's voice was savage and calm; the voice of a man who had killed and would kill again. Bram thought of his brother's account of the one and only meeting between himself and the Bludd chief. "He's an old man," Robbie Dun Dhoone had pronounced, the morning after Dhoone had been retaken. "Past his prime and losing his edge, and if it wasn't for his hellhounds he would never have escaped."

Hearing the Dog Lord speak, Bram Cormac knew his brother's words to be a lie.

The dogs reacted to their master's voice by altering the pitch of their growls. Slow thunder rumbled deep within their throats, making Guys and Jordie's horses blow nervously and flick their tails. Bram squeezed the mare's flanks with his thighs, coaxing the beast to calmness. Now if only he could calm himself.

"And exactly who do I have the pleasure of addressing?" The Bludd chief's voice came again, cold as the rain driving against his face. He wasn't a big man but his shoulders and chest were well-built, and he had something about him-a kind of iron-hard solidity-that gave him a powerful physical presence. His linen shirt was sodden to the point of transparency, and the woolen waistcoat he wore over it was so weighed down with rainwater it sagged. His long gray hair was braided into warrior queues, and grease had combined with rainwater to produce an oily iridescence. The blade he held was a foot long and badly cankered. Bram regarded it closely, wondering if it really could be the simple kitchen knife t seemed.

"I'll do the asking, Dog Keep." Guy Morloch brought the point of his spear to the apple of the Bludd chief's throat. Immediately, the big wolff dog to Bram's right lunged forward, hackles rising. Guy's stallion threw back its head, nostrils flaring, eyes darting wildly as it tried to track the wolf's movements. With a single twist of his free hand, Guy shortened the reins, forcing the bit into the stallion's tongue. Controlled, the creature quieted, but Bram could tell from its eye whites that it was still dangerously close to panic. The wolf, satisfied that the spear point was no longer threatening his master's throat, dropped its belly to the mud and bared its teeth.

Valyo Bludd waited for quiet. Whilst Guy's horse was bucking he had shifted his ground slightly, moving away from the bushes that had first concealed him. The hefty armsman at his back quickly did the same. Bram found himself wondering about those two movements as the Bludd chief spoke.

"If I were you I'd ride on, Milkman. My dogs are hungry for white meat."

So he knows Guy isn't a Dhoonesman. Bram looked to the tall Castleman and wondered what else Guy was giving away. Guy Morloch was a crack swordsman on the tourney court, but he was inexperienced in field combat and although he was still wielding the spear, he had made the mistake of backing off. And while the Dog Lord stood is grond, coldly focused on the man he correctly judged to be the leader of the party. Guy was jumpy. Even through the deep shadow created by his visor Bram could see Guy's gaze springing from Vaylo Bludd to his armsman to the dogs and back again. Perhaps Jordie Sarson saw this too, for the young blond axman walked his horse forward a few paces and fixed the Dog Lord with a hard stare.

Vaylo Bludd didn't even glance in Jordie's direction. Addressing Guy he said, "You could have left of your own accord. Remember that Milkman. as my dogs bid farewell to your throat."

With a smafl motion of his knife hand, he commanded his beasts to stand. Hairs along Bram's neck flicked upright as the five dogs rose in unison and began to close the circle. Golden eyes glittering, fangs dripping, they snarled and grunted like pigs, Ride on! Bram wanted to shout to Guy Morloch. We're not here for this. We're just traveling through.

Then Guy's horse began to buck. The big black stallion kicked out with its back legs, throwing Guy forward in the saddle. Guy's head snapped back. His spear went thudding to the ground as he fought to keep his seat. Twisting the stallion's mane in his fist, he forced its head up. At the same time Jordie kicked his horse about face and charged the nearest dogs. They leapt back, shaking their heads so hard their eyes bulged. An instant later they sprang again. Sweeping his case-hardened spear in a half-circle, Jordie attempted to keep them at bay.

Leaping forward, the Dog Lord seized the fallen spear. With perfect violence he plunged the spearhead deep into Guy's foot. A choked cough puffed through Guys lips as blood gushed from the punctured leather of his boot. The dark liquid steamed in the frigid air and for a moment Guy simply looked at it, seeming more puzzled than shocked. His stallion, terrified at the prospect of being caught between the Dog Lord and his wolf, lowered its head, humped its back and unleashed a massive, twisting kick. Guy was flung from the saddle headfirst. His thornhelm flew from his head and went bouncing toward the snarling wolf. Guy landed hard on his buttocks, and quickly rolled free from the stallion's hooves. Liberated from its rider, the horse whipped its head from side to side, desperately scanning for an escape route. When it found the way to the west blocked by a single black-and-tan bitch it charged. The bitch moved a beat too slow and Bram heard the sharp retort of bone breaking as the horse overran the dog.

Jordie Sarson moved immediately to protect Guy but was brought to a halt by the four remaining dogs forming a block around his horse. As he tried to force his mount to ignore the slavering beasts, the fat arms-man charged him. Jordie danced back, swinging the spear point back and forth between the armsman and the dogs. Kept at bay, the young blond axman could do nothing as the Dog Lord hefted his spear over his shoulder and sprang forward to impale Guy Morloch.

"Stay your weapon!" Bram screamed. "Or I'll run your grandchildren through."

All heads turned to look at him. He was shaking uncontrollably, and the motion sent sparks of light bouncing off his watered-steel blade. Don't think of the sword now, Bram warned himself.

Forcing his chin up he met gazes with the Dog Lord. The man's eyes were black and full of fury. He was breathing hard and his gut fat trembled as he stilled himself. Bram watched the spear. Only when he saw the white-knuckled grip relax did he judge it safe to breathe.

Nothing in his fifteen-year lifehad prepared him for a momen like this.

Whilst Guy Morloch and the Dog Lord had been trading words, Bram had been watching the copse of blackthorns. The fact that both the Dog Lord and his annsman had moved away from the bushes had set him to thinking. Such a small but deliberate act. It occurred to Bram that they were trying to draw fire… but from what? Possessions? A wounded comrade? What exactly lay in the middle of the dense tangle of thorns?

So Bram had watched. When the Dog Lord had lunged forward to stab Guy Morloch's foot, Bram had spotted a movement. Immediately the motion stilled, but it was too late. Bram was known for his eyes. When riding out in company he'd lost count of the times when Robbie or someone else had turned to him and said, "Tell me what you see, boy." During the retaking of Dhoone, Robbie had waited to give the order to charge until Bram confirmed that only one of the Thorn Towers appeared manned. Even this very night it had been Bram who spotted the cloak thrown over the bush, Bram who was convinced he saw the gleam of eye whites deep within the shadow canes. Neither Guy nor Jordie had wanted to stop. They had a task to complete and were anxious to be done with it, Jordie was simply eager to return to the excitement of the Dhoonehouse where Robbie had created an atmosphere charged with gravity and purpose. Where as Guy had made no secret of the fact that he thought the task beneath him. Indeed, if it hadn't been for the fact that Robbie Dun Dhoone had asked for a personal favor, the Milkman would not be here this night, Guy Morloch was nobody's nursemaid. When Bram had forced a halt on the mud slope, stating his belief that someone was hiding in the blackthorns, Guy had punched a gloved fist through the rain. "We have no time malingering, boy. If we stop to investigate every shepherd taking a piss between here and the Milkhouse we won't be done until spring,"

Brain had nodded slowly, not expecting much else. He had used the time while Guy was speaking to study the bushes more closely. The cloak was brown as mud, but as the rain beat down on it some of the grime was washed away. After a few seconds he said, " I think the cloak is red."

It was enough to turn the party around to investigate. Red was the color of sunrise and sunset, raw iron and raw meat, eyes stung by woodsmoke and thoughts stung by anger. Red was the color of Bludd.

"Drop the spear," Bram shouted to the Dog Lord. His voice sounded small and puny to his ears, and it had clearly cracked over the word spear. To make up for it Bram stabbed at the blackthorns with his sword. "Now!"

The Dog Lord didn't move. Bram could see him thinking. The Bludd chief's portion of guidestone hung from his waist in a hollowed-out ram's horn sealed with a cap of crimsoned lead. His lore was suspended beneath it: three dog claws strung on a flax twine. Bram wondered about that. Three dog claws, yet the Dog Lord always commanded five dogs. Whenever one of the five died it was immediately replaced. Bram risked glancing over at the bitch that had been trampled by Guy's horse. The creature lay on its side in the mud. It was seizing, its chest and front legs jerking feebly as green mucus bubbled from its mouth. It would have to be killed, Bram realized. The Dog Lord would need a new dog.

"I canna set the spear down, lad," the Dog Lord said at last, "until matters are settled between us."

Bram was struck by how reasonable Vaylo Bludd now sounded. The spear he held was still clearly trained on Guy Morloch—one swift lunge and the Castleman would be dead—but something fundamental within the Dog Lord had changed. He was neither threatening nor threatened. His gaze did not stray once to the place were his grandchildren were concealed.

Bram had maneuvered his mare so he was almost directly above them. He could clearly see the boy and the girl, obviously brother and sister from their striking dark looks. They were shielded by a gray-haired Bluddswoman who clutched them tightly to her sides. The woman held a foot-long maiden's helper in her right hand, but Bram's new sword was four times that length and she had the sense not to engage him. Bram could see where one of the thorns had pierced her cloak at the shoulder. A perfect circle of blood was spreading through the wool. Seeing it, Bram recalled the tale told about Bluddwives: They would kill themselves and their children rather than risk falling into enemy hands. Something stoic and watchful in the woman's lined face made him believe she was capable of such an act.

Oh gods. What have 1 started? Bram felt the beginnings of despair. He wished suddenly to be gone, to ride away from the frightened faces of Vaylo Bludd's grandchildren and the jerking body of the dog, ride north as far as he could, past Dhoone and across the Rift Valley, right into the heart of the Want.

It was the sword. The damn sword.

He could barely look at it. "Bludd chief. Lay down your weapon or I'll cut the girl." Bram hardly knew where the words came from, but some anger meant for his brother made them sound like the real thing.

The Dog Lord must have heard it too, for although he didn't drop the spear, he raised its point so that it was no longer directly threatening Guy Morloch. "Lets not do anything hasty, lad. We're both here to protect our own."

"Run the brats through, Bram," Guy Morloch cried from the mud. "Don't listen to a word he says."

Bram and Jordie Sarson exchanged a glance. The young blond axman had had the sense to keep the visor on his thornhelm lowered, which meant that the Dog Lord perceived only one boy in the party, not two. Jordie was barely eighteen, but you could not tell that from his build. Executing the smallest possible shrug, he gave command of the situation to Bram. Jordie Sarson was over six feet tall, a sworn clans-man with a third of his face covered by the blue tattoos. He'd been trained to the ax by Jamie Toll, who everyone called the Tollman, and he shared the fisher lore with Robbie Dun Dhoone. Yet he was only two years older than Bram. And he didn't know what to do.

Guy Morloch was breathing hard. Bram could not make out his face in the darkness, but he could see that Guy was curled up in the mud, nursing his bleeding foot. A stream of rainwater running downhill was hitting the Castleman's back and then forking into two to flow around him. The rain itself was finally slacking, and a bitter cold was setting in. Bram shivered. Realizing his arm had been pulled down by the unfamiliar weight of his new sword, he made a clumsy adjustment. Glancing up at the Dog Lord, he saw the weakness had been noted.

"You know what we've got here, lad?" the Dog Lord asked in a leisurely droll. Softening a cube of chewing curd between his fingers, he answered his own question. "We've got what city men call an impasse. Way I see it, neither of us wants to budge. Now that could mean we stay here all night until one of us gets spooked or frozen and makes the sort of mistake that ends lives, or we could come to an agreement man-to-man." The Dog Lord looked Bram in the eye. "Which is it going to be?"

All the time while the Dog Lord had been speaking Bram had been concentrating on keeping his features still and his sword arm up. He had watched his brother often enough to to know that you had to keep your expression guarded during parley. Robbie Dun Dhoone rarely let his true feeling show. So what would Robbie do here? After he'd thought about it for a moment, Brain decided that Robbie would never have got himself into a situation like this in the first place. Which didn't help matters one bit. Bram took a deep breath and held it. He felt a bit light-headed, as if he might be sick. "I'll listen"

The Dog Lord nodded judiciously, as if Brarn had been very wise. Indicating Guy with the butt of the spear, he said, "The Milkman called you Bram. You know my name. I'd appreciate the rest of yours."0 Guy Morloch shouted, "Tell him nothing." Bram frowned. Although he knew it wasn't very charitable he wished Guy would just shut up. For a reason that he couldn't quite understand he wanted to say his name out loud. If he were to die here, on this muddy hillside in the middle of the southeastern Dhoonewilds, his remains torn apart by dogs, then he wanted the man before him to know exactly who he killed.

Holding his voice steady, Bram said, "I'm Bram Cormac, son Mabb."

The Dog Lord pushed the softened black curd into his mouth and chewed for a while before speaking. Raindrops beaded on his five-day stubble as the downpour finally ended. "I knew Mabb Cormac. Your father was a fine swordsman. I fought against him at Mare's Rock. Had two pretty blades, as I remember. Called them his Blue Angels, on account of their watered steel." Vaylo nodded toward Bram's "Would that be one of them?"

Bram could not reply. Looking down at the sword, he saw his his reflec-tion weirdly distorted in the folded steel. His face was pale and elongated and his lips had been warped to a bloody slash. Still the same brown hair and brown eyes, though. The silver metal would not change that. Abruptly, he looked away. The Dog Lord had to know by now that the boy he was talking to was brother to Robbie Dun Dhoone, yet he had made no mention of it. Bram found himself grate-ful for that, but he still did not trust himself to talk about the sword. Here, Brain, take it. Bear it across your back wlim you go.

The words were too new and too painful, and Bram spoke quickly to bury them. "The sword is my own business, Bludd chief. We have matters here that need settling. You are an enemy to this clan and a trespasser on this clanhold. Withdraw your dogs and release my man."

As the final word got out, Jordie Sarson drew a sharp breath. Guy Morloch made a noise that sounded as if he were choking on a fish bone. Even the wolf dog stopped snarling. Cocking its head and raising its tail, it looked expectantly toward its master. Vaylo Bludd nodded slowly, as if such a declaration was just what he had been waiting for. For one crazy moment Bram imagined he saw a spark of approval in the older man s eyes.

"So your'e Robbie Dhoone's brother after all." The Dog Lord spat out a wad of curd and ground it into the mud with the heel of his boot 'Well you're young yet and have a fair bit to learn about parley, else you'd know better than to issue demands." A quick glance at Guy Morloch. "Robs a man of his dignity, you see, makes him feel like a cornered bear. Now I can't speak for you, Bram Cormac, but I've seen a man mauled by a garnered bear. He lost his left arm and three fingers from the right one, and even though a sawbones stanched the wounds and saved him, he never thanked him for it. Woke with the terrors every night, you see. Drank himself soft every day." The Dog Lord paused a moment to scratch the rain from his stubble. "Me, I believe it wasn't the loss of a limb that ruined him. It was the memory of the attack. An old bear, down on his luck and baited to the brink of madness, is about the scariest thing you're ever likely to meet."

Black eyes twinkled coldly as the sentence snapped to a close. Bram felt the heat of the warning flush his cheeks. This is the Bludd chief, he realized fully at last. The most feared man in the clanholds, and I'm sitting here threatening his grandchildren. Bram tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry and his jaw just clicked queerly instead. At the same time he became aware that a muscle in his sword arm had developed the queasy ache of imminent cramping. He had to do something— now—before the heavy blade started wobbling.

Lay down your arms and call off your hounds and I'll release the woman and the girl" The Dog Lord started to interrupt, but Bram plowed on, knowing full well that if he didn't get it out now he never would. "The three of fill will walk east with the dogs. When a hour has passed and I'm satisfied that you've completed your part of the bargain I'll release the boy to your armsman."

"Give him nothing!" Guy Morloch cried from the mud. He was trembling violently; you could hear the shiver in his voice. "As soon as he gets his hands on the boy he'll send his dogs back to savage us."

"Not if he gives his word," Bram answered, looking straight at the Bludd chief. "And I give mine."

The Dog Lord watched Bram without blinking. The strength in his right arm—his hammer arm, Bram guessed—was so great that he held the nine-foot spear aloft with no sign of strain. Bram had handled Guy's spear; its shaft was rolled iron and its butt was counterweighed with lead. It had to weigh close to two stone. Just thinking about it was enough to make Brain's weapon arm start to cramp.

Oh gods. Clamping his jaw tight, Bram concentrated on keeping his sword arm level. From the blackthorns below him, the Bluddswoman watched with knowing eyes. His arm had begun to shake minutely and she read the motion in his sword. Slowly, deliberately, she released her grip on the two children. Her maiden's helper gleamed wickedly as she gave herself room to move.

Speak, Bram willed the Bludd chief as wire-tight muscle flooded his arm with acid. Speak!

The Dog Lord reached for a second piece of chewing, curd and then thought better of it. As he returned the black cube to his belt pouch, the moon rose above the clouds and shone cold light upon his face. He's old, Bram thought. And tired. Worry about his grandchildren had made his jaw muscles bulge like sparrow eggs. Yet he still made no reply.

Bram could no longer be sure his fingers were adequately gripping the sword hilt. A sickening numbness was pumping through his fingertips. A foot away the muscle of his upper arm was burning. For an instant Bram was sure he was going mad, for all he could think was If the numbness moves up quick enough it just might douse the pain. Then he heard the soft click of joints as the Bluddswoman began to rise. Suddenly he could no longer hold up the sword and the flat side of the blade fell against the mare's rump. "You have my word."

It took Bram a moment to realize that the Dog Lord had spoken, and another moment to realize what he'd actually said. The Bluddswoman knew straightaway and immediately lowered her weapon. Discreetly, she began to ease herself back into her former position between the boy and the girl. Her green-eyed gaze held Bram's for an instant, conveying no rancor or sense that Bram should count himself lucky. Instead she seemed to say to him We have an agreement of our own, you and I. She had kept her actions—and therefore Bram's vulnerability—hidden from the Dog Lord, and in return she expected him to keep his word. Bram was struck with admiration for her. She would have killed him, this woman with the sea gray hair who was old enough to be his grandmother. Robbie had taught him that such dignity was the sole preserve of Dhoonesmen. Robbie had been wrong.

Rainwater trickled from the sleeve of Bram's jacket down along his wrist to his thumb. He could see it but not feel it. Carefully, Bram rested the numb hand against the mares neck. When he looked up he saw that the Dog Lord was waiting for him to speak. "You have my word in return," Bram said.

"You fool," screamed Guy Morloch. "No Bludd scum can be trusted." It was difficult to ignore a sworn clansman, but Bram knew he must. A small nod to the Bluddswoman was all it took for her to rise, hand in hand with Vaylo Bludd's granddaughter. The girl was beautiful, dark-skinned with a perfect oval face. When her brother began to sob she turned to him and said quite clearly, "Aaron. You heard Nan. You must wait here until this warrior grants your leave."

Warrior? Bram felt shamed. He did not deserve such a title. He had not sworn a single yearman's oath to his clan. And now I never will.

The Dog Lord prodded Guy Morloch s thigh, not gently, with the butt: of his spear. "Up, laddie," he commanded. "You're free to go."

As Guy struggled to his feet he threw Bram a vicious glance, one that promised all sorts of trouble later. Sensation was slowly returning to Brum's hand, and he found himself wishing that the numbness would now travel to his head. "Jordie. Dismount and help Guy." Seeing Jordie hesitate, Bram added, "The Bludd chief will call his dogs to heel."

For a wonder the Dog Lord did just that, issuing a short whistle that brought all four dogs to his side. The fifth, the wounded bitch, pricked up her ears and made a feeble attempt to stand. Her pelvis had been crushed and when she tried to roll onto her belly, her rear legs rocked loosely, without power. The Dog Lord spoke a command to the other dogs, and they sank to the ground as he made his way toward the bitch. Bram watched as he squatted and cupped her head in his hand. Even now, damaged as she was, the creature nuzzled his palm.

Abruptly, the Dog Lord stood. He was holding Guy's spear, and Bram looked away as he raised it above the clog. Some things were between a man and his gods.

When it was over the Dog Lord pulled a fistful of dead oat grass from the mud and wiped the blade clean. One of the four remaining dogs howled softly, and the wolf dog quieted its pack member by biting softly on its ear.

"Bram Corrnac." The Dog Lord dropped the bloody grass into the mud. "Before I walk away from this place as agreed, I would speak with you in private."

Guy Morloch shouted, "Don't go. It's a trick." The Castleman was leaning against Jordie's stallion, whilst the axman knelt before him, attempting to yank off Guy's boot. "Bludd has no honor."

Bram wished it was all over. He was tired of thinking, and soaked to the bone. "Drop the spear and I'll talk," he said to the Bludd chief.

With a hard movement the Dog Lord drove the spear deep into the mud. The shaft vibrated as he walked a short distance downhill and waited for Bram to join him. Bram considered staying seated on his horse, but the same sense of respect that had made him look away while the Dog Lord killed the bitch made him dismount. The Dog Lord might be his enemy but he was first and foremost a chief.

The Dog Lord wasted no time on small talk. "On your return to the Dhoonehouse I would have you deliver a message to your brother." Bram kept himself very still. He could not trust himself to nod. The Dog Lord took his silence for agreement. "I need you to tell your brother two things. First, you must tell him old grievances should be forgotten. Whilst we fight amongst ourselves the city men circle like wolves. When they spy weakness they will strike." He paused, waiting. Bram made the smallest possible movement that could be taken for a nod. "And there's another thing. Tell him days darker than night lie ahead." The words touched Bram like a cold wind, making gooseflesh rise on his arms. Almost he knew what they meant, but when he tried to capture their meaning his sense of understanding fled. Bram studied the Dog Lord's face. This close you could see the veins in his eyes. He was the longest-reigning chief in the clanholds, a bastard who had slain his father and half-brothers, taken his sister as a wife and sired seven sons. He had seized the Dhoonehouse with the help of dark forces and lost it when his second son had deserted him. Once he had counted nearly twenty children as his grandkin. Now he was left with two. Brain knew the stories and thought he knew the man, but looking at the Dog Lord's face he realized there was more.

He made a decision. "I will not be seeing my brother for some time. Give your message to one of the other men." "How so?"

It was a question Bram had hoped would not be asked. Looking down at his numb hand he said, "I am claimed by the Milk chief."

The Dog Lord nodded slowly and with understanding. "In return for a debt run up by Robbie Dun Dhoone."

Bram was glad it was not a question. He did not wish to speak ill of his brother. Robbie had sold him to Wrayan Castlemilk along with a dozen watered-steel swords and a fantastical suit of dress armor that had been forged for Weeping Moira. In return Robbie had received temporary command of six hundred Castlemilk warriors. Elite hatchet-men and swordsmen who wore their hair plastered with lime and styled themselves "the Cream." With their numbers added to his tally, Robbie had finally commanded enough manpower to retake Dhoone.

Now that the Dhoonehouse was back in Dhoone hands the Milkmen were overdue to return to their clan, yet Robbie still held them in his sway. There were more battles to be fought: battles with Bludd to retake Withy, and Blackhail to retake Ganmiddich; battles also with the army of city men who were rumored to be invading the border clans from the south; and more battles still with the Dog Lord himself. No longer content simply with displacing Vaylo Bludd, Robbie had made it his mission to destroy him.

Even during the five chaotic days following the reoccupation, Bram had observed a subtle shift in the Milkmen's loyalties. "Robbie has need of us," they said in low voices. "Best to hold out here until his enemies have been dispatched." Such thinking wasn't in Castlemilk's best interest, but Bram knew from experience that Robbie was hard to resist He won, that was the thing. Whatever it took, he did.

Bram wondered when Wrayan Castlemilk would realize that she wasn't getting her men back.

It was hard to understand why Robbie still insisted on holding up the part of the agreement that meant delivering his brother to Castlemilk. Instinctively Bram knew it would not serve him well to think too hard about the answer. What Robbie valued, he kept.

Thc Dog Lord watched Bram closely. "Wrayan Castlemilk is a canny chief. I think she had the eye for me once."

Despite everything Bram laughed out loud. The Dog Lord laughed too— a roguish sound filled with self-mocking. When he stopped he looked Bram straight in the eye. There's no shame m being fostered to another clan. I spent a year in Ostler as a bairn. My lather had meant it for a punishment-it was the farthest he could send me without casting me from the clanholds-yet I had an honest time of it all the same. They didn't know me there. Didn't know that I wasn't allowed to play with the best boys. You know the ones; sons of warriors, nephews to the chief Boys with purebred horses and their own live steel. I learned how to tickle trout and dance the swords, how to bring down harlequins with a bola and hedgehog a riverbed for defense. Cricklermore Carp, their old clan guide, even taught me how to read—me, a worthless bastard from a northern clan. I bawled like a babbie when I left."

The Dog Lord shook his head softly as he remembered. "A fostering is what you make it of it, Bram Cormac. Milk can be made into many things."

Bram nodded, feeling stirred despite himself. Perhaps going to live in the Milkhouse wouldn't be as bad as he thought. Perhaps there he wouldn't be Robbie's disappointing half-brother, small for his age and unable to train for the ax. Perhaps he might be something else. He I could study the histories, learn about the Sull, discover why they had relinquished so much land to the clans. Stopping his thoughts before they ran away with him, Bram met gazes with the Dog Lord. He was beginning to understand why this man had been chief for over thirty-live years.

"And your message?"

The Dog Lord shrugged, but not lightly. "Give it to the Milk chief. Mayhap she'll need it more than Robbie Dhoone." "Guy could bring it to Rob."

"Nay, lad. Some things depend as much on the messenger as the message." The Dog Lord glanced over his shoulder to where Jordie was helping the now bootless Guy Morloch mount his horse. "And I don't think the Castleman will do,"

Even though part of Bram agreed with the Dog Lord's opinion, he tried hard to not let it show. "As you will."

The Dog Lord took a few steps up the hill and then turned. "By the way, lad, you did a fine job tonight. Kept your head. Kept the pressure on. If you were my kin I'd be — proud."

It was too much. Bram felt the hot spike of tears in his eyes. Only four days had passed since Robbie told him he must leave and take up residence in Castlemilk. Four days and Robbie's words of farewell still burned a hole in Bram's chest. "It won't be so bad, Bram. We both know you were never really cut out for Dhoone."

"I'll be off now," the Dog Lord said," I'm sure I'll be hearing more of you, Bram Cormac." With that he headed upslope, waving a hand in farewell to his armsman and callings dogs to heel. When he reached the blackthorns, he knelt and said a few words to his grand-son, and then put out his arms for Nan and his granddaughter. With the dogs milling anxiously around all three of them, the Dog Lord and his companions headed east.

He did not even warn me to keep up my side of the bargain and I release his grandson and armsman as agreed. He simply expects it be done. That act of trust buoyed Bram as he hiked up the hillside toward Guy and Jordie.

The heavyset armsman looked uneasy as Bram approached. His knife had been lowered for some time, but his grip was unrelaxed. Poorly outfitted in a shaggy cloak, boiled-wool pants and a deerhide tunic, he was soaked through and dripping. His warrior queue was not nearly as magnificent as his chiefs. Early balding had seen to that. Bram said, "My name's Bram Cormac. What will I call you?" "I'm Haimish Faa of the Bludd-Faas. Most people call me Hammie." The armsman spoke with a soft backcountry accent, and Bram guessed he was younger than he looked. Sometimes it was hard to tell when a man was plump and balding.

"Hammie. Why don't you bring out the boy and go and sit with him on the ridge while we wait" "Aye, sir."

Bram had never been called sir in his life. It wasn't right, and he would have said so if he hadn't realized that right now Hammie Faa wanted to believe in him. His own safety and the safety of Vaylo's grandson depended on it.

I.caving the armsman to lift the small boy from the bushes, Bram crossed to where Jordie was binding Guy's foot Jordie had just taken off his greathelm, and his face had that pink, steamed look of something left too long in the tub. He said nothing at Bram's approach, but smiled gently, letting Bram know that everything that had happened was just fine with Jordie Sarson. Bram felt absurdly grateful. He liked Jordie. The young axman was one of Robbie's favored companions, yet he had none of the arrogance that usually went hand in hand with the blue cloak.

"You're not just going to let them stand there," Guy Morloeh said, gesturing toward Hammie Faa and the boy from hit seat atop Jordie gray stallion.

"No. You're right. I should take them a blanket to sit on." Guy snorted harshly. "Think you're so clever, don't you? Negotiating with the Dog Lord." He made his voice mince like a girls. "You do this and I'll do that and we'll all have tea and oatcakes when we're done."

"Guy, stop" Jordie tried to defend Bram, but Guy simply overran him.

"And as for you, Jordie Sarson. Hog-tie the fattie and the boy. I'm hauling them back to Dhoone."

Jordie's mouth fell open. After a moment of consideration he shook his head. "I won't do it, Guy. We both heard the agreement— Bram gave his word."

"Bram! What does he know. His mother was a rabbit-catcher from Gnash."

"It doesn't matter, Guy. When a Dhoonesman gives his word he gives … "Jordie struggled a moment. "His soul."

All three of them fell quiet. The sudden drop in temperature had made the mud begin to steam, and as Bram walked to his mare he could feel icy tendrils creeping up his thighs. Shivering, he took his sleeping roll from the harness. He could feel Guy watching him, and knew it was only a matter of time before the Castleman spoke. There was nothing Guy could do about the mutiny—without Jordie's help he couldn't even mount a horse—yet he had to assert his authority somehow. "Boy. Move yourself and find my gelding."

Bram nodded. "After the agreed time has passed and I've released the hostages."

Guy didn't like this answer very much, but he had the sense not to challenge it and risk a second mutiny. The skin on the Castleman's face was gray and slack, and he was shaking in short bursts. Dark blood was seeping through the woolen bandage on his foot. "Fine, but if you can't find head nor tail of him I'll take the mare in payment.”

"Here," Bram said to Jordie a few moments later, handing the axman a leather-bound flask. "Unbind Guy's bandage and clean out the wound with this.When you're done smear the wound with beef tallow before binding it. And give him a dram of malt before vou start."

'Thanks, Bram." Jordie grinned in relief. Doctoring was beyond him. Guy simply looked disgruntled and said nothing.

Bram cairied the blanket and a few other items to Hammie Faa. Vaylo Bludd grandson shied behind Hammie's chunky legs as the Dhoonesman who had threatened him with a sword drew near. He had to be about seven, Bram reckoned. Skinny as a stalk with large hands and a large head. "What's your name?"

When the boy made no reply Hammie elbowed him gently. "Come on, lad. When a clansman asks a question, you answer."

"Aaron Bludd," the boy said at last, not looking Bram in the eye. "But I'm known as Arrow."

Hammie lifted an eyebrow toward Bram as if to say, That's the first I've heard of that, but he allowed the boy his dignity and did not contradict him.

"I brought a few things. Salt beef. Cheese. Hardtack." Bram handed the armsman a small package, hastily wrapped in one of his old nightshirts. "And there's a couple of honeycakes." He hesitated, suddenly shy. "For the lady."

"Nan'll be grateful for them," Hammie said bluffly. Bram guessed he must be hungry—five days was a long time to go without proper food—but wasn't surprised when the armsman simply tucked the pack under his cloak, unopened. Pride would not allow him to reveal how much he needed to eat. When the boy began questing beneath Hammie's cloak, Hammie said firmly, "Later."

Bram and the armsman waited out the rest of the hour in companionable silence, stamping their feet against the cold and blowing on their hands. Hoarfrost was forming, and Vaylo's grandson amused him-self by sliding across the mud on fragile rafts of ice. When Bram judged the time was up he nodded at Hammie Faa. "Have a safe jour-ney back to the Bluddhold."

For the briefest moment Hammie Faa's face went blank. Recovering quickly he nodded and mumbled, "Aye. Gods be with you on the road." Placing a guiding hand on Aaron's back, he struck a course due east.

Bram watched them leave. As man and boy disappeared beneath the curve of the hill, a wolf howled in the distance. A reminder from the Dog Lord. Set them free.

Shaking his sword hand to get the blood flowing, Bram hiked up the slope. His entire body felt battered and used up, and the thought of spending the night searching for Guy's runaway stallion was almost too much to bear. Just to sit and drink some water would have been nice. When he saw that both Guy and Jordie were mounted, reins in hands and visors lowered, he guessed that he wouldn't be sitting down any time soon.

Guy trotted Jordie's stallion downhill. The left stirrup had been unbuckled and Guy's bandaged foot dangled loose against the creature's belly. Rainwater soaked into Guy's cloak had stiffened to ice, freezing the badly rumpled fabric into lumps. When he spoke his breath whitened in word-length bursts. "You'll have to make your own way from here on, Cormac. We're heading for the Fly."

The Fly was a shallow river that crossed the Dhoonehold two days southeast of the roundhouse. The old watchtower that defended the raised crossing was known as the Stonefly. One of the first orders Robbie had given upon seizing the Dhooneseat was concerning the regarrisoning of the tower. A score of hatchetmen—hammermen and axmen~now patrolled both the north and south rivershores and the forest beyond. If Guy and Jordie rode hard through the night it was possible they could reach the Fly by dawn. Guy intended to set the hatchetmen on the Dog Lord's trail.

"We're not breaking the agreement," Jordie said quietly, drawing level on Bram's mare. "We agreed to set them free and not pursue them, and …and …" Frowning hard at the reins in his hands, Jordie stumbled to a halt.

"We're not pursuing them," Guy said firmly, some of his old Slaughter returning. "We're alerting others to their presence."

Bram could tell Jordie didn't want to catch his eye. There was nothing that interesting about his reins. Jordie knew that although they were upholding the word of the agreement, they were still breaking faith. And then there was the matter of an earlier agreement, one concerning the safe delivery of Robbies brother to the Milkhouse. Both Jordie and Guy had promised to escort Bram on the journey southeast and protect him from the dangers that awaited lone travelers on the road. Maimed Men, city men, trappers, bandits, enemy clansmen and even enemy Dhoonesrnen had been spotted on the Milkway. Not to mention the fact that a boy traveling alone might simply fall from his horse into a ditch, injuring himself so badly he couldn't get up.

Well I'll just have to be careful where I put my feet. Oddly enough Bram found himself too tired to care about being abandoned. "And my horse?"

Guy made an exasperated puffing sound as if the answer were glaringly obvious. "You'll have the best mount in the party—mine."

If I can find it Bram considered mentioning the fact that Guy's stallion had run loose over two hours ago and could be halfway to Blue Creek by now.

"It's not a gift, mind, I'll expect him to be returned within the month." Guy expertly turned Jordie's horse. "Jordie. We're off. The sooner Tiny learns the Dog Lord is alive and on his way back to Bludd the better,"

Jordie shifted his weight forward in the saddle, preparing his mount for a swift start. "You can always follow us back, Bram," he said gently. "You know, run and try to keep pace."

Bram shook his head firmly. Even if such a thing were possible, Robbie would not want him back.

"Gods' luck, Bram Cormac." Jerking his head in farewell, Guy Morloch dug iron into horseflesh and sped off.

Jordie hesitated a moment and then gave the mare its head. The little horse raced down the slope, its hooves gouging divots from the mud in its eagerness to catch up with the stallion.

Bram sat down on his cloaktails and watched them. He was dead tired, and relieved to have them gone. After a time he began massaging his numbed hand. Strange tingles still persisted, and although he knew it was probably nothing he was a bit worried all the same. He very much liked his hand.

Part of him was still trying to figure out how Guy could have made such a big mistake. Hammie Faa had barely managed to cover his confusion when Bram wished him a safe journey to Bludd. The Dog Lord wasn't heading home. He was heading north to the Dhoonewall. Guy had assumed that the Dog Lord was south of the roundhouse because he meant to follow the old Ruinwood trail east through Dregg. Where in fact the Bludd chief and his companions were circling the roundhouse before eventually turning north. The tunnel leading from the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes must have deposited them some distance south, leaving Vaylo with the diifficult job of guiding his party through land overrun by enemies.

Brain decided the Dog Lord was more than up to the task. Knowledge was interesting, Bram concluded, rising. Once you were in possession of it you could choose to pass it along or keep it to your-self. Power lived there just as surely as it lived in a swinging hammer. Only you didn't need muscle to wield it.

Thoughtful, he headed uphill. His throat was raw with thirst. Luckily Jordie had thought to unbuckle the saddlebags from the mare, and Bram found a waterskin and other supplies. As he drank he began planning for the night ahead. It occurred to him that it would be a good idea to spread feed around his bedroll. That way if Guy's stallion decided to return while he slept it would likely stick around until morning. Unable to locate horse feed, he used porridge oats instead. When he was done, he pushed a wedge of rye bread between his teeth and chewed. It tasted like wood. Swallowing forcefully, he drew the watered steel from its sheath. The edge needed oiling. Jackdaw Thundy, the old swordmaster at Dhoone, would whack a boy with the flat of his blade if he dared leave a sword untended after rainfall. Even the pride of Dhoone—hard and lustrous, twice-fired watered steel— was not immune to canker.

Frowning, Bram watched as moonlight flowed along the whorls and ripples in the blade. Robbie had given him the lesser of the two swords. The one he'd kept for himself was known as a horsestopper. A full-size battle sword with a two-handed grip that had the length and heft necessary to impale an armored warhorse, it was forged from the highest grade of watered steel, known as mirror blue. A blade made of mirror blue was paler and more glassy than one forged from traditional watered steel. Light shone through its point.

No light shone through the point of Bram's blade, but that didn't bother him. Truth was he preferred the smaller, lighter footsword with its simple cruciform handguard and the hare head surmounted on its pommel. His father had commissioned the ice-hare pommel as a tribute to his wife upon her death. Tilda Cormac had been the best wire-trapper in Dhoone, and when her husband was away for the winter on long patrols she had kept her family fed.

It was Robbie who had benefited the most. Tilda had always given her stepson the choicest cuts of meat: the fatty loin from the rabbit's hack, the coon liver, the porcupine's heart. Robbie had been born to her husbands first wife yet she had reared him as her own, Bram often wondered what she had received in return. Robbie had treated her like a servant, never showing her the respect due to a stepmother, "Elena Dhoone is my mother. Not you," he would scream when she would-n't let him have his way. "You're just a rabbit-trapper from Gnash."

Even though he didn't much feel like it, Bram unhooked the weapon care pouch from his belt and began working yellow tung oil into the sword. Tilda's sword. Robbie had been set to hand it over to the Milk chief in payment for the Castlemen, and Bram wondered how his brother had managed to get it back. His memories of what happened that night in the Brume Hall after Robbie sold him to Wrayan Castlemilk were not clear. Perhaps Robbie had renegotiated the gift of swords, but Bram doubled it A dozen watered-steel swords had been promised. A dozen had been delivered. Bram had a shadowy memory of Robbie kneeling quietly by the sword pile and sliding out Tilda's sword. If the memory was true he would have had to replace it with another blade. Why he had gone to such trouble was hard to know.

Bram decided not to think about it. Nerve endings in his fingers had begun to fire randomly as his hand came back to life, and he flexed the muscles to keep blood pumping.

He found himself imaging Guy and Jordie arriving at the Stonefly. Tired and breathless, they'd hasten through the garrison eager to speak with the head hatchetman, Tiny Pitt. Search parties would be dispatched. Messengers would be sent north to Dhoone: the Dog Lord was in the Dhoonewilds, heading east. The knowledge that Guy and Jordie would soon send a company of hatchetmen east when the Dog Lord was heading north should have made Bram feel something as a Dhoonesman. Yet it didn't. Instead he felt a small stirring of something else. It was good to have knowledge that no one else hut you possessed.

"Castlemilk." Bram spoke the word out loud, testing.

His allegiances were shifting and he no longer knew which clan he owed loyalty to anymore.