A Sword from Red Ice

The Orrl cloak had been damaged in the Want; he had not given it much thought since then. Seeing that she was waiting, he tugged on the string and unraveled the package. The silky cloth fell to the ground, revealing his black boarhide gloves resting on top of the cloak. She watched him carefully as he tucked the gloves into his gear belt and then inspected the cloak. He could not remember exactly where the varnish had started to chip and grew more anxious as he searched and couldn't find the spots. He knew she was expecting him to praise her work. After a minute or so he gave up and looked at her, preparing an apology in his head.

She was smiling. "Maybe I have done too good a job."

Raif felt relief and strong attraction.

"Here." She took the cloak from him. "Just there by the hem. See? And there in the front." She moved into him to demonstrate her work. Now that she pointed it out he could see where she had applied something—lacquer, varnish, metallic paint—over the bald spots, carefully overlapping and matching, nearly perfectly, the original finish.

"Thank you," he said, pleased. She had shiny spots of pigment on her fingers.

"It took me most of the night to match it. I have never seen anything quite like it."

She was so close he could see the fine golden down on her cheeks and temples, and see how quickly and wonderfully it became deep brown at her hairline. He spoke to distract himself. "It's made by the clansmen at Orrl. They wear them to hunt in winter."

"Orrl," she repeated, as if committing the word to memory.

"It's the most westerly of the sworn clans." His voice sounded wooden to his ears but he couldn't seem to stop speaking, wits territories border Scarpe and Blackhail, and its warriors hunt as far as the Storm Margin."

"Storm Margin. I have heard of that." She smiled again, and he could not tell if she was stating a fact or gently mocking him. Her breasts were full and round beneath the fabric of her dress. Her waist was cinched small enough to be circled by his hands.

Crazily, Raif wanted to grab her and squash her against his chest. Afraid that he might actually do so he stepped back.

She stepped with him. "Your cloak." As she handed it back to him her fingers touched his wrist.

Raif breathed sharply. He had no experience of women. Was it possible she expected him to touch her back?

Mallia Argola looked at him with green-brown eyes. She was older than he was, perhaps by four or five years. "Give me your hand," she said to him.

Maneuvering the Orrl cloak over the crook in his left arm seemed to take forever. He was sure she must think him a fool. When he was done, he held out his right hand and was surprised to see it didn't shake.

She took it firmly, forcing the fingers up and also forcing him to move toward her. Raising his hand to her face, she studied its scars and bow calluses. He could feel her breath wetting his skin. Slowly she pushed his palm to her lips and kissed it.

Wildness threatened him then. He wanted her and could perceive her heart, and somehow the two things got crossed in his head and the only thing he knew for sure was that given long enough he would harm her. He could not tell the difference between desire to kill her and desire. Fearful of losing his mind, he wrenched back his arm.

In that final instant of contact he felt her teeth nip the base of his thumb.

"It is done," she said to him, calmly. Her eyes glinted with something that might have been triumph—whatever it was, she blinked it away. "Tooth and hand. In my land that means we will be more than friends."

He turned away from her, stirred and barely sane. Blood was ricocheting around his body. The Orrl cloak was on the floor.

"I must leave," she said, her voice trailing toward the cave mouth. "My brother sends a message: Come see him tonight."

With that Mallia Argola was gone.

Raif told himself not to look around. He paced to the back of the cave and found himself soon thwarted by the low ceiling. Casting around for something to… use … his gaze alighted on the rusted spear. Hefting it over his shoulder he took a run at the quintain. The spear's point was cankered and blunt, and the force required to punch it through iron plate was immense. Raif drove it through Yelma's chest armor, yanked it out, and then drove it through again.

He was still stabbing the quintain a quarter-hour later when Stillborn sauntered into the cave holding an oil lamp on a pole.

"Gods, lad. What are you doing?" he asked, setting the lamp down on the cave floor.

Raif stopped. He was shaking and drenched with sweat. One of his fingers was bloodied; he had sliced it on a jagged edge of plate.

Stillborn came over and took the spear away. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he guided him firmly around. "Come and rest for a while."