A Sword from Red Ice

The ways beneath the roundhouse gave Vaylo chills. They were old and haunted, and they smelled of things other than clan. In some places the stonework was so rotted that you could poke it with your finger and watch as it dimpled like sponge. Tree roots, pale and glistening like intensities, pushed through the walls and ran along the floor and ceilings in hard ridges. Hammie had to be careful with the makeshift torch he had fashioned, for most of the rootwood was long dead and the roots hairs crisped to black the instant they felt the flame. Some of the tunnel walls had collapsed, and they had been forced to backtrack several times. Originally they had been heading north, but collapsed tunnels drove them east and then south. Once, after pushing their way through Sparrow opening, they had entered a cave used by hibernating bats. Every footfall raised clouds of chalky guano that smelled so caustic it brought tears to Vaylo's eyes. The Dog Lord had liked it not one bit, but he had been a leader of men for too long to let his discomfort show. Speaking a command to his dogs he had sent the five beasts ranging ahead in search of a way out.

Nan had been a pillar of strength that night. Her calmness was catching. The way she held her head just so, her light way of walk-ing, and the level tone of her voice created an atmosphere that affected everyone. The bairns had been as good as lambs; quiet most definitely frightened, but so confident in Nan's calmness and their granda's ability to fix any problem-whether it be a broken top in the nursery or armed men in the hallway—that they never once lagged or showed fear. Good Bludd stock there, Vaylo thought with some pride.

If he were to be honest the night in the tunnels had gone hardest on him. In his fifty-three-year life he had experienced many kinds of weariness, but nothing matched what he'd felt during the escape. Winning a battle made you feel immortal, capable of chasing down every last enemy and then dancing and drinking till dawn. Losing one crushed your soul. And for a man who had already sold half of that soul to the devil, that didn't leave very much left.

By the time the dogs finally found an exit and came running back to their master, Vaylo had fallen into a kind of dream walking. One foot in front of the other, and to hell with the pain in his knees and heart. His vision had shrunk to two separate circles that he'd long stopped attempting to force into a single view. To him it looked as if there were ten dogs milling around his legs, not five.

The dogs were scratched up and caked in mud. Two were soaking, and the big black-and-orange bitch had a gash on her left hind leg that was oozing blood. Yet devotion burned clear in their eyes. Their master had lost his human pack and been forced to flee the den, and now their sole desire was to ease his suffering. When Vaylo had finally set them a task they'd torn through the tunnels in their eagerness to complete it. They wanted so badly to please him.

Realizing this, the Dog Lord had made an effort. Forcing his vision to trueness and bringing his weight to bear on the knee that pained him the least, he patted and roughed up the huge dark beasts. "Good dogs," he repeated over and over again as he took time to give attention to each of them. Relief made the dogs act like puppies, rolling on their bellies and baring their necks, all the while mewing needily like kittens. The youngest, a muscular black with, a docked tail, dribbled urine onto a bed of white mushrooms that had sprouted in the darkness of the tunnel floor. No one will be eating those in a hurry, Vaylo thought dryly.

Standing upright, he had addressed the wolf dog. "Lead the way."

They all got caked in mud as it turned out. The dogs had found a tunnel rising to ground level—one that looked as if it had been dug by midgets—and everyone had been forced to drop to their bellies and shin through the icy sludge. Rainwater sluicing along the tunnel floor had mixed with the clay soil to produce a kind of potter's slip that poured into every nook and cranny and then set like cement against your skin.

For some time Vaylo had been aware that his small party was heading south, and he was dreading the journey ahead. When the wolf dog finally broke through to the surface, he was dead tired. Dawn light, filtering through an opening choked with willow and crabgrass, made his eyes sting. Despite everything his spirits lifted. His clan of four was free and unharmed, and now he could spend his days making those who had wronged him pay. That was when he saw the stone ring framing the exit portal. Hairs across his back rose upright, and even before he could name his fear the words from the Bludd boast sounded along the nerve connecting his spine to his brain.

We are Clan Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders. Death is our companion. A life long-lived is our reward.