A Sword from Red Ice

Bram was glad it was not a question. He did not wish to speak ill of his brother. Robbie had sold him to Wrayan Castlemilk along with a dozen watered-steel swords and a fantastical suit of dress armor that had been forged for Weeping Moira. In return Robbie had received temporary command of six hundred Castlemilk warriors. Elite hatchet-men and swordsmen who wore their hair plastered with lime and styled themselves "the Cream." With their numbers added to his tally, Robbie had finally commanded enough manpower to retake Dhoone.

Now that the Dhoonehouse was back in Dhoone hands the Milkmen were overdue to return to their clan, yet Robbie still held them in his sway. There were more battles to be fought: battles with Bludd to retake Withy, and Blackhail to retake Ganmiddich; battles also with the army of city men who were rumored to be invading the border clans from the south; and more battles still with the Dog Lord himself. No longer content simply with displacing Vaylo Bludd, Robbie had made it his mission to destroy him.

Even during the five chaotic days following the reoccupation, Bram had observed a subtle shift in the Milkmen's loyalties. "Robbie has need of us," they said in low voices. "Best to hold out here until his enemies have been dispatched." Such thinking wasn't in Castlemilk's best interest, but Bram knew from experience that Robbie was hard to resist He won, that was the thing. Whatever it took, he did.

Bram wondered when Wrayan Castlemilk would realize that she wasn't getting her men back.

It was hard to understand why Robbie still insisted on holding up the part of the agreement that meant delivering his brother to Castlemilk. Instinctively Bram knew it would not serve him well to think too hard about the answer. What Robbie valued, he kept.

Thc Dog Lord watched Bram closely. "Wrayan Castlemilk is a canny chief. I think she had the eye for me once."

Despite everything Bram laughed out loud. The Dog Lord laughed too— a roguish sound filled with self-mocking. When he stopped he looked Bram straight in the eye. There's no shame m being fostered to another clan. I spent a year in Ostler as a bairn. My lather had meant it for a punishment-it was the farthest he could send me without casting me from the clanholds-yet I had an honest time of it all the same. They didn't know me there. Didn't know that I wasn't allowed to play with the best boys. You know the ones; sons of warriors, nephews to the chief Boys with purebred horses and their own live steel. I learned how to tickle trout and dance the swords, how to bring down harlequins with a bola and hedgehog a riverbed for defense. Cricklermore Carp, their old clan guide, even taught me how to read—me, a worthless bastard from a northern clan. I bawled like a babbie when I left."

The Dog Lord shook his head softly as he remembered. "A fostering is what you make it of it, Bram Cormac. Milk can be made into many things."

Bram nodded, feeling stirred despite himself. Perhaps going to live in the Milkhouse wouldn't be as bad as he thought. Perhaps there he wouldn't be Robbie's disappointing half-brother, small for his age and unable to train for the ax. Perhaps he might be something else. He I could study the histories, learn about the Sull, discover why they had relinquished so much land to the clans. Stopping his thoughts before they ran away with him, Bram met gazes with the Dog Lord. He was beginning to understand why this man had been chief for over thirty-live years.

"And your message?"

The Dog Lord shrugged, but not lightly. "Give it to the Milk chief. Mayhap she'll need it more than Robbie Dhoone." "Guy could bring it to Rob."

"Nay, lad. Some things depend as much on the messenger as the message." The Dog Lord glanced over his shoulder to where Jordie was helping the now bootless Guy Morloch mount his horse. "And I don't think the Castleman will do,"

Even though part of Bram agreed with the Dog Lord's opinion, he tried hard to not let it show. "As you will."

The Dog Lord took a few steps up the hill and then turned. "By the way, lad, you did a fine job tonight. Kept your head. Kept the pressure on. If you were my kin I'd be — proud."

It was too much. Bram felt the hot spike of tears in his eyes. Only four days had passed since Robbie told him he must leave and take up residence in Castlemilk. Four days and Robbie's words of farewell still burned a hole in Bram's chest. "It won't be so bad, Bram. We both know you were never really cut out for Dhoone."

"I'll be off now," the Dog Lord said," I'm sure I'll be hearing more of you, Bram Cormac." With that he headed upslope, waving a hand in farewell to his armsman and callings dogs to heel. When he reached the blackthorns, he knelt and said a few words to his grand-son, and then put out his arms for Nan and his granddaughter. With the dogs milling anxiously around all three of them, the Dog Lord and his companions headed east.