A Sword from Red Ice

As he waited for Addie by the first stand of big trees, he tried to work out what time of day it was. The sun was hidden from view by banks of slow-moving clouds, but the light still had some force to it. Not long after noon then. Good. It was above freezing, and the ground snow was full of holes. The air smelled of cedar and damp earth. Raif itched to be gone.

The second bear trapper, the one whom Addie had called Gordo, emerged from the woods not far from where Raif was pacing. He was walking a thick-legged stallion that was carrying something dead on its back. When the trapper saw Raif he raised a hand in greeting, and Raif remembered that the man had been friendly in his own way, eager to talk to Addie about herbs. Raif looked at him but did not wave back.

The carcass slung over the horse's rump was a fine, white-throated doe. Fresh blood oozed from an arrow wound high on her back, just below her neck. One of her rear legs was crushed and older, blacker blood stained the dun-colored fur. The tale told by the two wounds disgusted Raif. The man hadn't even allowed the trapped animal the dignity of a swift death with a well-placed blade. He had shot her from distance with his bow.

Quite suddenly Raif could not bear it and headed off into the woods. Addie Gunn would have to catch up with him.

Watcher of the Dead was on the move.

And he wanted to kill something before he reached the Red Ice.

THIRTY-NINE Spire Vanis

Marafice Eye squinted at the horseman riding at full gallop from his slowly advancing army and thought, If I had any sense I would kill him. Order a mercenary or one-in-seven to loose a nice thick quarrel at the back of his leather-capped head. Whoever had said "Don't kill the messenger" was a fool of the highest order. Kill all messengers and stop all messages: that was wisdom to live by.

"Should I?" Tat Mackelray asked, tapping the small and wicked-looking crossbow that he had taken to wearing in a sling at his waist.

Marafice grunted the word "No." At this point they were so damn close to the city that if they set out to kill everyone who intended to dash ahead of them with news and details of their arrival it would take a considerable toll on the population. Not to mention be a waste of good cross bolts.

News had to have arrived by now. An army with foot soldiers, carts and walking wounded moved at a snails pace. Any codger with a cane could outrun it. Word had probably arrived days back, passing from village to village, tavern to tavern, relayed by teams of professional messengers who'd likely have fresh horses ready at each post. Information like this could earn good money in the Spire. Off the top of his head Maraficc could think of at least six people who would pay gold for it. Exact position, number makeup, condition every detail was worth to own separate purse.

Marafice had ordered the killing of dozens of suspicious — looking everyone, looked and the more futile the whole endeavor became. Even doing it for sport had become boring. Runners were another thing entirely. Anyone who slunk away from his army meaning to trade inside information for personal gain was a dead man. Marafice killed them himself. It was a phenomenon which had genuinely surprised him. No one from Rive Company had attempted it yet, but these past few nights they'd had their hands full with deserting mercenaries. Steffan Grimes, who led the mercenary contingent, had told Marafice that such derelictions were not uncommon when an army was this close to home and that a good portion of these men wanted nothing more than to get back wives and children. Marafice had listened politely—he was getting good at that—and then killed the deserters anyway. In his experience reasons just clouded things. What you did, not why you did it, was what counted.

It had caused some dissension, but no one, including Steffan Grimes, had said anything to his face. Andrew Perish, the former master-at-arms of the Rive Watch, had backed him up like a rock. "We've been abandoned on the field, won a roundhouse then lost it to a fresh army, been stranded on the wrong side of the Wolf, and sat through one of the worst storms God in his Garden ever created. If a mercenary can't wait a few more days to get home then I don't see why we should wait to discover his motives." Disloyalty of any kind was intolerable to Perish. He was a man of God, but also a man of fighting men.