A Sword from Red Ice

This turned out to be a spectacularly popular order. Mercenaries and men of Rive Company came together to hack the wooden cart into sticks. One of the old Rive men fetched his stringboard and started plucking out a tune, some outrageously lewd song about a woman who went up a mountain and ended up getting fucked by a bear. Pretty much everyone joined in the chorus. Ale kegs were tapped. The cartbed was reduced to chips. Work began on the wheels. Perish frowned at all the ungodly activity, but had the sense to let it be. He knew the value of such releases to men who had been away from home for too long.

"What should we do with the captives?" Jon Burden was the one sober presence in the camp. As commander of Rive Company, the four clansmen who remained alive were his responsibility.

"Lash them to one of the fangs," Marafice said. "Take off their boots and razor the souls of their feet. Lightly, but enough to keep them from running. Those men aren't fools. They would have figured out by now that tonight's their last chance to escape before we enter the city."

"Aye," Jon Burden said, glancing south toward the mountains and Spire Vanis. From here you could just see the haze of gray smoke the city created billowing above the ice fields of Mount Slain. "Always supposing we are allowed entry."

Marafice had known Jon Burden for as long as he had been in the Rive Watch. They had trained together under Perish; pulled themselves up from lowly brothers to captains, learned how to eat in the grand banquet halls of Mask Fortress without causing grange ladies to faint in disgust, and discovered hard truths about the city they guarded. Marafice would not lie to him. "We'll see what we see."

Jon Burden pulled air into his thick powerful chest. The rubies in the killhound brooch at his throat fired in the setting sun. "A pity we had to trade the ram."

Marafice barked out a laugh. Clapping Burden hard on the shoulder, he said, "Count yourself lucky you never had the pleasure of meeting the Weasel chief firsthand. She's been figuring in my dreams ever since—and God help me, sometimes she's naked."

Burden snorted. "I'll see to the clansmen."

Carefully avoiding favoring his left foot, Marafice left the campsite and walked amongst the granite spires. It was colder herd, the air still. Odd bits of debris littered the ground surrounding the stones: incense burners, lamb-gut sheaths, glass vials, ale cups, moldering lumps of food. Something that looked a lot like blood had been sprayed against the base of the tallest spire. Marafice frowned at it, deeply disgusted.

"Protector General." It was Greenslade, slipping between the fangs. Always it was difficult to keep your gaze on his cloak. Somehow it kept sliding off. "You wanted to see me?"

Marafice glanced back at the camp. Walking deep into the thick of stone spires, he said, "What is the latest news from the city?"

Greenslade was not a man to waste time. "Roland Stornoway still controls the fortress. As he's yet to make a formal announcement about the surlordship word is that he's holding it for his son-in-law."

"The watch?"

"They've been with him right from the start. It's my guess he's been telling the captains that by supporting him they're supporting you."

It would certainly explain how easy it had been for Roland Stornoway to control Mask Fortress and the city gates. You needed the watch on your side for that. Marafice reached out and touched the closest stone spire. The edges were sharp enough to open skin. "What's the status of the gates?"

"Hoargate and Almsgate are still closed. Wrathgate remains open for limited hours each day. Stornoway has forbidden the breaks to be put on the gear shanks, so the gate can be dropped at a moment's notice."

It made sense. "Who polices them?"

"The watch, though I've heard rumors that Stornoway has hideclads garrisoned in all the gate towers."

Marafice took hisiHfcid from the stone. Skin along his index finger had split but not bled. He did not find much comfort in these facts. What was Roland Stornoway up to? The old nutgall was no friend of his. Yet how better to gain access to power than to have a son-in-law as surlord? Stornoway could never have managed such a coup without the Rive Watch. He must have taken power in Marafice's name. "My lord. It may be possible to rig the gate." "No," Marafice blasted at him. He would have no tricks and sorceries. He'd had his fill of such foulness at Ganmiddich. The weird green lights, the bad-eggs smell. He would not use unnatural forces ever again,

Greenslade appraised his Protector General and seemed to find him wanting. "As you wish. Tonight my brethren and I go on ahead. We will await you in the city."

Before Marafice Eye could even begin to frame a reply Greenslade took his leave, the fabric of his cloak swirling around him like dark water. It was dusk now and his figure was lost to the eye within the space of five seconds.