A Sword from Red Ice

Thunder concussed the valley as Traggis Mole's knife ground to a halt. Freezing dust shimmered like falling snow. Raif looked at the shattered plates in front of his knees and saw the shadow of a man lying beneath the debris. As he dislodged the knife he was aware of a tightness in his chest. It seemed important that he did not die before he found the sword so he moved quickly, using his hands as shovels to dig and push aside the broken ice.

He saw the hand first, the flesh so bloated that each finger had exploded, leaving peels of skin around the bones. The ghostly remains of the hand still grasped something. The black and cankered haft of a sword. Raif picked at the ice with his knife, wedged his fingers under the plates and pried them out. He could see the blade now, its edge shining as dimly as an old coin, its crosshilts overgrown with rusticles. It lay upon a torso that was twisted sideways and had no head. Dark metallic armor ridged in spines still protected what little was left of the man who had worn it. Raven lord, Tallal had called him. Raif had never seen such thick and brutal plate before; it looked like an armored sarcophagus.

Who was he, this warrior who had ridden into a battle and single-handedly changed its course? The lamb brothers had not known his name.

Raif thought about that. He owned many names now, but fewer and fewer people knew his real name, the one he shared with Effie and Drey. Was that how it had happened for the raven lord? Had he started out as a young man with a normal name and normal prospects, and as his life altered and darkened had people called him by other names? And had those new names created him?

Mor Drakka. Watcher of the Dead. Twelve Kill.

Raif thrust his hand through chunks of crumbling ice and grasped the hilt of the sword. The raven lord's frozen fingers cleaved to his and for a moment they were joined. In that instant Raif knew things. He saw the Endlords, massive forces compressed into forms that could be comprehended by man. He felt their perfect and unearthly coldness, and the absolute singularity of their purpose. They were coming to destroy the world.

Soon. They promised, their bleak and glittering gazes meeting Raif's through the dead man's flesh.

Soon.

Raif Sevrance drew the sword named Loss from the Red Ice. It was heavier than he imagined, long and ugly. Black. As he brought his left arm up to support the weight, a spasm shot up his shoulder to his heart.

Shadowflesh moved.

Homed.

Raif's heart stopped beating. An eyeblink. An untrackable journey. A flash of lightning. And he was gone.

FORTY-SIX Aftermath

Raif let Addie Gunn help him out of the tent. "Go," he said to the cragsman once they were a short distance from the camp. "I need to piss."

Addie frowned like he didn't much believe this. Given the subject matter he could hardly object. "Here," he said, holding out the simple oak staff he used for walking. "Take the stick."

Raif took the stick.

"Don't piss too long," Addie warned before leaving.

Pushing the butt of the stick into the snow and pine needles of the forest floor, Raif waited for him to be gone. It was warm again today and the snow was loose and full of holes. You could smell the earth, the minerals and tannins and rotting leaves. Black flies and mosquitoes were hatching. Something buzzed close to his ear, but he couldn't trust himself to swat it away. He needed the stick more than he had realized. Half of his weight had sunk upon it. It was a good piece of wood, smoothly sanded and sturdy. It vibrated only because the person who held it was shaking; it had been designed to transfer force.

When he saw Addie return to the tent he felt free to breathe and slump further into the stick. Addie was a good man and a good friend, but Raif needed a break from his watching. He needed to think.

Spying a rock in the shade of the cedars he decided it looked like a fine place to sit and rest. The hardest part of getting there was yanking the stick out of the ground. He moved slowly, aware of the heaviness of his body and his legs' inability to bear it. The pain in his chest, the depth of it, was something he would not think about. Enough worry had been spent there. No more today.

It took him a long time to reach the rock. The sun moved while he was shambling from foot to foot, rising high in the pale and clear sky and stealing away the shade. Raif found the rock's appeal undiminished. It was a big spur of sandstone, flaking and chalky, and so deeply undercut it looked like a boulder. Maybe it was a boulder. Raif wondered what was happening to his mind.

Sitting down was a more challenging discipline than walking and he found himself awkward at it Several tiring moments followed where he attempted to lever his weight with the stick. That didn't work, and the best he could manage was a barely controlled drop.