A Sword from Red Ice

Marafice had not intended to use the darkcloaks again, but the nearer he drew to the city the more pressing his need for information. At first he had thought he could just enter such a tavern himself and demand people tell him things. He was Marafice Eye, Protector General, the Knife. He had not counted on the very real fear his motley army and his motley self generated in such places. Entire villages would board themselves up as he passed. When he and Tat Mackelroy had ridden ahead of the front line at Natural Bridge and entered the town a good two hours before the army, they had found the people who lived there in a state of panic. A cattle auction had been due to take place in the market square, and drovers and farmers were beating bony steers with sticks to get them to move along the streets in haste. The smith was barricading his shop with metal bars and an alekeep was burying two wooden barrels in the snow outside his alehouse. Marafice had ordered Tat to rough up the man and slash both barrels with his sword. The alekeep's behavior was an insult to men who had gone to war.

On their way out they had taken a steer. It was an odd thing, but Marafice could not recall such ill regard on the journey north. They had pursued a more direct route, one that took them predominately over fields and pasture, but even so the fanners had not trembled to see them. Had the presence of the grand and shiny grangelords been such a reassuring sight? Or was it just that everyone was leaner and hungrier after two additional months of winter?

One thing was certain: No one in these places was going to talk to him. Town and village folk assumed, correctly, that Marafice Eye and his army were going to rob them.

That was where Greenslade and his fellows came in. They had swift horses, and little problem with riding through the night to gain a crucial half-day advantage on the army. Sometimes they fell back. Other times they spotted the smoke of farms or cabins in the distance and simply took off over fields. They were good at their work and discovered information to the army's advantage. It was Greenslade's advice that had led to Marafice's decision to pursue a more easterly route. The roads were better and there had been few reports of trouble upon them.

It also seemed the Whitehog had taken a succession of blows, God bless his small and porcine heart. According to Greenslade the army that had deserted the Crab Gate had quickly fragmented. Various grangelords including Alistair Sperling and Tranter Lennix had split from the main body of the army, believing they could steal a march on Garric Hews and reach Spire Vanis before him. A dog-and-pony race had ensued with a whole fistful of grangelords racing to take the prize. Alistair Sperling had arrived first only to find all gates dropped and barred. Lisereth Hews was outside Almsgate with an army of two thousand, trying to ram her way in. When the good lady spotted Sperling she ordered her hideclads to attack.

"Attacked him herself, by all accounts," Greenslade had told Marafice, "ahorse and armed with her late husband s sword."

That one fact had genuinely frightened Marafice Eye. He found it surprisingly easy to picture Lisereth Hews armed and worked up into a tooth-and-nail frenzy. She had been daughter and granddaughter to surlords; she knew what it took to seize power.

"Lisereth Hews' hideclads trounced Sperling," Greenslade had continued easily, confident in his facts. "His men were exhausted; saddle sores burning holes in their arses, horses falling beneath them. Sperling could barely raise a defense. Took a spear to the gut and fell. Lisereth wasted no time and used her momentum to make another strike on the gate. That's when the storm hit. Twice." The smallest upward lilt in Greenslade's voice had suggested unnatural events. His green eyes had glittered knowingly as he awaited the next question. He was a darkcloak, master of tricks and illusions. The cloak he wore could conceal him from dusk to dawn. He could compel a man to look at him in a crowd, draw smoke away from a fire, and project his voice into the bustling spaces of public halls and squares whilst concealing its origin. Marafice did not wish to know how he did these things. He had learned his lesson at Ganmiddich, and would not involve himself in anything that had the taint of sorcery about it. His name was Eye. Not Iss.

Pointedly he had directed the conversation away from the strangeness of the storm. "What happened to Lisereth Hews?"