* * *
They crossed the West Whitewater on the second day of climbing. It ran steep and swift out of the high valley. Orman’s breath caught as he stepped ever deeper into its icy course. He carefully picked his way between submerged boulders while the torrent surged as high as his waist. The charging water pulled at his legs and he relied upon Boarstooth to keep his footing.
Ahead, Old Bear seemed to have merely leaned into the course and bulled his way across. His ragged bear cloak had danced and whipped atop the waves as the stream appeared to be attempting to yank it from him. He climbed the opposite bank, guffawing, slapping at his sodden leathers, and Orman could actually hear his great booming laughter over the roar of the mountain stream. The Reddin brothers followed, while Gerrun brought up the rear.
They climbed steadily, half the time descending steep rocky ridges as the Old Bear’s path took them from one high valley to a higher, until it seemed to Orman as if the snowcapped peaks of the Salt range loomed directly over his head. Legendary birthplace of the Icebloods themselves. What the old legends named Joggenhome. They were now long past the point where the ghosts first came to him as a boy, and this time he saw them too: grey translucent figures in the distance, watching from among the trees and rocks. Many held spears, some shields. Some wore helmets and mail coats, others only leathers and ragged cloaks. He would have remarked upon them but for seeing the others ignore them – and so he chose to as well.
On the third evening they ate a stew of rabbit and roots and berries that the Reddin brothers had collected. One of the brothers cooked it in a smallish iron pot over a fire, and they served it out in wooden bowls. Orman’s bowl warmed his hands in a very welcome manner. The other brother tossed over flatbreads, like cakes, that they’d baked overnight in the ashes of yesterday’s fire.
Old Bear sat in the glow of the fire, hugging his spear. His ruddy lined face seemed to glow like heated metal in the dancing light.
From what Orman could remember of his father’s tales, they were currently in lands claimed by either the Sayer clan or the Bain clan. ‘Which Hold is this?’ he asked Old Bear.
The man’s single dark eye shifted to him. He nodded at the appropriateness of the question. ‘We are in Sayer Hold.’ He gestured north-east with his crust of bread. ‘Next valley over lies within Bain Holdings. Further east climbs the Lost Hold, though I’ve never met a Lost. They say they’ve hired many mercenaries to fight for them these last years. Must have a lot of gold, those Losts …’ Orman knew most of this already from his father, but he was quiet, taking it all in once more from the mouth of Old Bear himself – a figure out of legend he’d never imagined he’d meet again.
The old man shifted to point west. ‘The Heels. I have treated with the Heels and visited Heel Greathall. Beyond them lay the Myrni.’ He shook his hoary head. ‘Never met any of them.’
‘Will they challenge us?’ Orman couldn’t suppress a slight tremor of dread at the thought. He’d never been this high in the Holdings before. Retreat was no longer an option for any of them.
Old Bear circled a crust of bread in his bowl, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. At last he opined, ‘I have lent my spear to the Sayers now and then. We should be allowed passage.’
‘And the stream. Is it the Upper Clearwater?’
Old Bear’s gaze shifted to Gerrun across the fire where the little man sat with his booted feet stretched out close to the embers. ‘It is. The seam is high in the headwaters. Gold lies strewn down the water’s course where it falls from rapid to rapid. Is this not so, Shortshanks?’
The little man smiled thinly. ‘It is.’
‘Will we reach it soon?’
‘We are moving quickly. Another two days, I should think.’ The old man tilted his head to examine him with his one good eye. ‘You are keen to collect your gold, are you?’
Orman looked to the fire. ‘I will need money to travel. I cannot stay in the north.’
The old man nodded his assent. ‘That is true. You are now outlawed. Kinslayer. You have claimed Boarstooth. Your name will now be added to your father’s, and Jorgan Bain’s before him.’
Orman was not pleased by the man’s light tone. ‘You would mock me?’
Old Bear held up a hand. ‘Not at all, lad. I am merely repeating the tale that is no doubt making the rounds of the taverns even as we speak. Boarstooth has returned to the Holdings – a tale worth the telling.’
Orman could not be certain the man was entirely in earnest. He didn’t think any of this was worth telling at all. He picked up a branch and poked at the fire. ‘That was not what I wanted to happen.’
Old Bear produced an apple from within his cloak. He bit down loudly and chewed while he regarded the fire. ‘I know, lad,’ he said. ‘These things rarely go the way we want them to.’
The next day they traced a course up the valley. The way was stony, steep, and rough. A stream had once run here, but it had long since dried up or shifted course. They came to a pond no bigger than a stone’s throw across where pines grew thick and the air was heavy with their scent. Standing in the water, as if awaiting them, was a ghost.
Old Bear raised a hand, signalling a halt.
The Reddin brothers moved to either side of Orman so that the three of them formed a triangle, back to back. Of Gerrun, Orman saw no sign. Run off, the faithless bastard. Best that they found out this early, he supposed.
Old Bear approached the ghost alone. It was a woman. Tall and slim, her opaque form wavered slightly as if caught in an otherworldly wind. Orman wondered why she’d chosen to stand in the pond. She wore a thick cloak of some sort of animal hide clasped by a large round brooch, like a shield. Her hair was full and long and bunched like a mane itself. For some reason he imagined it must have been black.
The two spoke; or at least she spoke to him. She raised an arm to point to the east. Old Bear nodded and backed away. The woman’s form wavered and disappeared.
‘There is a trespasser,’ the old man announced, returning to them. ‘From the east.’
‘A trespasser?’ Orman repeated. ‘What is that to us?’
Old Bear studied him. ‘The Sayers will allow us to cross here, but not for free. This is their price. We must … look into things for them. Do you refuse? Would you turn back?’
Orman looked to the Reddin brothers; they too studied him, but not narrowly, not frowning. Merely coolly evaluative. He shrugged his indifference. ‘No.’
‘Very well. Let us go greet our visitor.’ Old Bear gestured with his spear that they should spread out and head east across the valley towards the ridge.
‘What of Gerrun?’ Orman asked the nearer of the Reddin brothers – he still didn’t know which was which. This one waved vaguely southwards before continuing on, unconcerned.
Orman hefted Boarstooth. Fine. I can play that game as well. Though he had many more questions, such as what were they to do with the trespasser should they find him or her? He pushed his way through the tall grasses and brush in silence.
Ahead, the woods thickened in a mixed forest of pine, aspen and cedar that climbed the valley’s slope. A voice called from the trees. ‘Greetings! I have come to talk! Is that a senile old bear I see with you?’ Orman halted, crouching for cover.
To one side Old Bear stepped out from dense brush and cocked his head to examine the woods. He shouted back: ‘Is that a young cub come to receive yet another lesson?’
A figure emerged, tall and lanky, and loped down from among the trunks. Orman had the impression of the relaxed bounding of a wolf. The fellow closed on them, his grin exposing prominent teeth in a long jaw. Kinked brown hair blew about his head. He wore leathers that had seen hard use, and tall moccasins climbed to his knees. A longsword and two fighting dirks hung at his waist.
He and Old Bear embraced. ‘What about that lesson then?’ Old Bear rumbled.
‘Your heart would burst, I fear.’
‘What brings you to Sayer lands?’
The fellow glanced to Orman, or, more precisely, to the weapon in his grip. ‘News.’
Old Bear followed the man’s glance, then gestured to where one of the Reddin brothers was closing. ‘Kasson,’ he said, then of the other: ‘Keth.’ So, it’s Keth in the sheepskin leggings, Orman told himself. Old Bear gestured to him: ‘Orman Bregin’s son. And the last one is named Gerrun.’
‘He must be the one trying to get behind me,’ the young man said, grinning all the more.
Old Bear let out a long-suffering sigh, waved to the trees. ‘Get in here, Gerrun!’
The newcomer glanced again to Boarstooth. ‘So it is true.’
‘Yes.’ Old Bear cleared his throat. ‘Fellows, this is Lotji Bain. He is nephew to Jorgan Bain.’
Orman started, and tensed his grip upon Boarstooth’s haft.
‘I knew your father,’ Lotji told him.
‘You did?’
‘Yes. He visited Bain Hold.’ He pointed to the spear. ‘I see that the whispers are true. Boarstooth – as you call it – has returned to the Holdings.’
‘You cannot challenge upon Sayer lands,’ Old Bear rumbled in warning.
Lotji gave an easy laugh. ‘No.’ He waved Orman to him. ‘However, if you wish to step on to Bain lands I would gladly meet you.’
‘That is not our mission,’ Old Bear quickly cut in.
Orman was relieved. For his part, he had no intention of accepting a challenge from anyone. Not to mention that he’d had no time to practise with the weapon.
Lotji laughed again. It was an easy laugh, but Orman detected a strong grating of iron beneath. ‘As you wish.’ He backed away. ‘We will see one another again, I am sure, Orman Bregin’s son.’ He raised a hand in farewell. ‘Until then.’
They watched him go. As he entered the denser growth another figure stood from cover to one side. Gerrun. Old Bear turned to Orman. He was pulling thoughtfully on his thick tangled beard. ‘Well, Orman,’ he said, low and rumbling. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘I think I need to practise.’
The old man threw his head back and roared with laughter. The echoes boomed out across the valley. He slapped Orman on the back and started off once more. ‘I think we can help you with that, my lad. I truly do.’
Two days later they came to the high valley of the Upper Clearwater. The mountain stream ran milky with run-off from the icefields and snowpack above. It rushed and surged into the valley from the rock cliffs above. The valley itself was long and comparatively flat. The pale-green stream meandered among silt channels and sand bars, chaining and twisting, until it reached the bottom where the valley dropped off through a gap in another ridge line. From there the river continued on its course until eventually, far below, it emptied into the Sea of Gold.
It was cold here and spray seemed suspended in the air, chilling them. Snow lay in the shadows behind rocks and trees. Their feet crunched through thin layers of ice over the soil and compressed snowmelt.
They startled an elk cow and the brothers took off in pursuit, but Gerrun called out that he would stalk it and the brothers returned. Old Bear led them to a long bare gravel bar – a stranded shoreline where the river once ran, bordered by tangled brush. The old man used his spear to push through. They walked the gravel in a crunching of stones. Old Bear paced with hands clasped on his spear behind his back. He was peering down at the rocks as if searching for a particularly pretty one. The brothers and Orman couldn’t help but glance down also.
‘This is it,’ Old Bear announced, gesturing to encompass the stream bed. ‘This valley. This is the richest deposit in the Sayer Holdings. A season’s gathering and sifting here will leave any man rich beyond measure – rich in coin, at any rate.’ He beckoned to Keth and pointed to the rocks with his spear. ‘Here. What do you see?’
Keth knelt, then grunted. He rose examining something in his fingers, and indicating that Orman should hold out his hand. Grinning, he dropped something into the palm.
It was a gold nugget, still wet and half covered in silt. It felt unnaturally heavy for its size. Like a lead sling bullet. Orman was astounded. Without effort Keth had found the largest nugget he’d ever heard of. What more riches might lie hidden here?
He blinked to see Old Bear watching him through his slit eye. The fellow cleared his throat. ‘As you’ve no doubt gathered by now, we serve the Sayers, Gerrun and I. We brought you here to offer you lads a choice.’
He peered off across the valley, squinting. Took a great breath, planted the butt of his spear in the gravel and set both hands upon it. ‘Two paths stand before you. Here, you can collect as much gold as you wish. You can return with it to the townships and be rich men – for a time. Or you can come with me and swear your spear to the Sayers and live defending the Holding – for a time. The choice is yours.’
The Old Bear scanned the valley and what he saw seemed to disgust him. ‘But tell me … do you wish to be a slave to gold? Do you wish to live on your knees scrabbling in the dirt like a dog? For do not fool yourselves: that is what those who are enslaved to gold must do. If not here, then elsewhere. Always chasing after it. Never possessing enough. Grasping, hoarding and fearful for what you do have. Lusting, envious and covetous of what you do not.
‘Or … do you wish to live as a man? Never needing more than the good sword or spear in your hand? Slave to no one or no thing? For all the Sayer require of you is your word and that you swear to live and die by it. Nothing more. For nothing more than that need be asked of a man or woman with honour.’
Still looking away, he asked, ‘What say you?’
Orman glanced to the brothers, who exchanged flat looks. Keth rested his hand on the worn leather-wrapped grip of his sword; Kasson let out a long breath and shifted to a more relaxed stance. Orman realized he was beginning to read the brothers. They would prefer to stay.
He studied the broad valley. How much gold might be hidden here? Shiploads? It was enough to leave him dizzy. Yet somehow it left him unmoved as well. He examined the dull nugget. So much struggle, blood, and scheming spent by those in the towns below just to grasp the barest fistful. A lifetime’s worth of toil and sweat. Yet here it lay scattered about like so much chaff. He could only shake his head at the absurdity of it. So what if he were to descend into Mantle, or the cities beyond such as Holly or Lillin, with a great fat sack at his side? Once word got out he carried such a fortune he’d be dead within the hour. Useless. Utterly useless to him.
The decision, he realized, had been made for him long ago. For he now understood it to be the same one his father had made.
He tossed the nugget back to the gravel bar. ‘I would swear my spear to the Sayers – if they will have it.’
The brothers nodded their agreement.
A broad smile split Old Bear’s craggy features. He slapped Orman on the back with a resounding smack. ‘Good, good! I am glad. Very glad.’ He waved them onward. ‘Come, then. Let us travel higher, to the Hall of the Sayer. You will swear your fealty and we will feast and drink until we pass out.’
They climbed for three more days through dense forest of spruce, pine and birch, ever upwards. The lingering snow cover thickened. Orman’s breath plumed in the air. He tore a ragged piece of cloth he carried and wrapped his hands. Distant figures shadowed their advance. They were too far off and too hazy for him to be certain whether they were real or ghosts. He wondered if perhaps half the ‘ghosts’ sighted by travellers were in fact Icebloods – or the other way round.
They ate well. Gerrun carried a haunch of venison wrapped in burlap and leather. The cold allowed it to keep for longer than usual. Old Bear pointed out plants and roots that could be boiled or cooked in the fire. They slept huddled up next to the embers and took turns keeping watch.
Orman came to look forward to his time standing through half the night. The sky seemed so very clear from this extraordinary height. So high were they, and the Salt range was so very steep, that he thought he could even make out the glimmering reflection of the Sea of Gold, far to the south. He felt that he could reach up and touch the stars. It was cold, yes, but it was bracing and enlivening. He did not know how to say it exactly, but he felt strong. His senses – his hearing, his sight, even his sense of smell – all seemed keener than before.
On the fourth night a ghost came to him. It emerged from the trees and walked straight up to him. As it came closer he felt a shiver of preternatural fear as he realized that it was certainly not human. Very tall and broad it was, even more so than the Icebloods. It wore clothes of an ancient pattern: trousers of hide, a shirt that was little more than a poncho thrown over its head and tied off with a coarse rope. Hides were similarly tied around its feet. It carried an immensely tall spear, which Orman realized was the bole of a young tree topped by a knapped dark stone that bore an eerie resemblance to the spearhead of Boarstooth.
The figure stopped in front of him. Its hair was a great unkempt mane twisted in leather. Beads and pieces of bone hung within it. The face was long and broad, the jaw heavy. The teeth were large, the canines especially pronounced. For some time it stood regarding him in silence. Orman wondered if it could see him at all. He saw now that the figure was female, thought its hips were not broad and its chest not especially prominent.
‘I am come to give warning,’ she suddenly announced, startling him.
‘Warning?’ he managed through a dry and tight throat.
‘A time of change is coming,’ she continued as if he had not spoken at all. ‘Old grudges and old ways must be set aside, else none shall survive. Pass this warning on to your people.’
My people? ‘Why me? I am not – why speak to me?’
‘You carry Svalthbrul.’
Svalthbrul? Ah. He looked to Boarstooth and she nodded. ‘I am sorry,’ he began, ‘I do not know how old you are, but much has changed—’
She looked away, to their surroundings, scanned the night sky. She shook her head. ‘The stars remain. The mountain remains. Little has changed.’
‘But …’ He stopped himself as she turned away and started walking.
‘They will come before summer,’ were her last words over her shoulder.
The next morning Old Bear announced that if they pushed hard, they should reach Sayer Hall that day. Orman walked in silence for much of the time. The way was steep for most of the morning; he used Boarstooth as a walking stick to aid in his climbing. Then the slope smoothed out and the forest returned.
He gnawed on the question of whether to broach the subject of the ghostly visit with Old Bear. It seemed fantastic. Why should some ghost come to him when he was not even of the Icebloods? Surely it must have been a dream – or a delusion. Perhaps just holding such an ancient weapon brought the fancy upon him. He decided to keep quiet about it and not risk the old man’s scepticism, or mockery.
Old Bear led them onward to a trodden path through the woods. After a time the wilderness gave way to cleared fields bearing the stubble of last year’s crops. Cows grazed here. The straight lines of what looked to be an orchard of apple trees lay on the left. Woodsmoke hung in the air. A distant figure was minding the herd – a youth, perhaps.
Ahead, up the gentle grassy slope, rose a tall building constructed of immense tree trunks. A Great hall. Its roof was covered in faded wooden planks and a great thatch of grasses grew upon it as if it were a field itself. A crowd of ravens walked and hopped about the roof like a troop of guards. A wide dark opening dominated the front. The sun’s last amber light struck the building almost from below, so low in the west was it compared to their present height. For a dizzying moment Orman had the impression that they were somehow separate from the world far below.
He was also struck by how familiar the farmstead seemed. Just like home. Old Bear led them on towards it, chickens scrambling outraged from his path. A woman emerged from the doorway. Her hair hung in a long black braid over one shoulder, and she wore tanned leathers. A long-knife stood tall from her belt.
Old Bear raised an arm in greeting. She lifted her chin in response. Orman wondered where everyone was. Back home a hall like this would have been busy with the comings and goings of family, servants and hearthguards. So far, all he’d seen had been the cowherd and this woman. Old Bear led them up the wooden stairs to the threshold.
The woman was tall, like all Icebloods. Orman thought that some would consider her plain and mannish with her thick bones and wide shoulders, but he saw a haunting beauty in dark eyes that seemed full of secret knowledge as she, in turn, studied him.
Old Bear bowed. ‘Vala,’ he greeted her, ‘these are the Reddin brothers, Keth and Kasson. And this is Orman Bregin’s son.’
The woman’s eyes closed for a moment and she nodded as if she’d already known. Her dark gaze shifted to Boarstooth. ‘You carry Svalthbrul,’ she murmured, her voice deep and rich. ‘As the Eithjar – our elder guardians – whispered.’
Orman simply nodded. ‘It comes to me from my father.’
She closed her eyes again. ‘I know.’ She raised an arm to the broad open doorway. ‘Enter, please. You are most welcome. Warm yourself at our poor hearth. Food and ale will be brought.’
Before they could enter, a great pack of shaggy tall hounds came bounding out to Old Bear. Standing on their hind legs they were nearly fully as tall as he. They barked happily and licked his face while he swatted them aside. They sniffed at Orman and the Reddin brothers and nuzzled their hands as if searching for treats.
Old Bear pushed on in. The interior proved to be one great long hall. The ceiling of log rafters stood some five man-heights above Orman’s head. Halfway up the hall’s length lay a broad circle of stones enclosing an immense hearth where a banked fire glowed. Smoke rose lazily to a hole in the roof far above. Beyond the hearth stood a long table flanked by wooden benches. Past the table, at the far end of the hall, rose a sort of platform, or dais, supporting three oversized chairs carved of wood: crude thrones of a sort, if that was the right word. Furs and hides lay draped everywhere, even underfoot. Tapestries featuring scenes of nature, trees, streams, the mountains themselves, hung on the walls.. Most were dark with soot and half-rotten. What looked like bedding, rolled blankets and more furs, lay bunched up next to the walls.
Old Bear eased himself down at the long table and began searching through the clutter of half-stripped bones and old bread, wooden bowls and drinking horns. He picked up a stoneware jug, peered inside, and grunted happily. He selected a drinking horn, dashed its contents to the floor, and filled it anew.
Orman and the rest watched from next to the hearth. Catching sight of them there, Old Bear impatiently waved them forward. ‘Come. Sit. Eat.’ He pointed to Gerrun and waved him from the hall. ‘Go see what needs doing, hey?’
Grinning, Shortshanks gave an elaborate courtly bow and wandered off. Old Bear chortled at the bow. Orman leaned Boars-tooth against a bench and sat. The Reddin brothers sat on opposite sides of the table, facing one another. ‘Where is everyone?’ Orman asked.
Old Bear was gnawing on a chicken leg. ‘Hm? Everyone? Well, now. That’s a good question. ‘Never were too many Sayers to begin with. Down to five now. You’ve seen two of them. Vala, and maybe you spotted her son, Jass. Buri is eldest, but we see him rarely. Always out patrolling the Holding, he is. That leaves Jaochim and Yrain. Master and mistress of the Hold.’ He swivelled his one eye about the hall. ‘Not in at present.’
‘That is all?’
‘Mostly. A couple of servants, Leal and Ham. And one other spear, Bernal Heavyhand – heard of him?’
Orman felt his brows rise in surprise. ‘Yes. Father spoke of him. I thought he was dead.’
‘Not yet. Works as our smith. Game in the leg from the battle of Imre’s Ford.’
Orman glanced away. That battle had seen the shattering of Queen Eusta’s supporters – his father included. He helped himself to a drinking horn and a share of the warm ale. He sipped the rich malty beer while studying the faded tapestries, the smoke-darkened rafters, the floor of packed dirt covered in straw, and the hounds growling and gnawing on bones under the table. He decided that he’d probably just made a very great mistake. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. But this certainly wasn’t it.
Should’ve taken the gold and his chances down south.
He glanced to the Reddin brothers, but their faces were always so closed it was impossible to see whether they shared his dismay. They sat quietly, peering about the hall, neither eating nor drinking.
Old Bear finished the dregs in his drinking horn and wiped the back of his hand across his beard. ‘Well,’ he announced. ‘It has been a long day’s journey.’ He gestured to the rolls of furs and blankets against the wall. ‘I plan to sleep soundly this night.’ He stood, stretching and groaning, and crossed to a pile of bedding which he dragged next to the hearth. He wrapped his old bear cloak about himself and lay down. Two of the huge shaggy hounds padded over and curled up next to him. Orman could only tell which was which from the colours of the ragged pelts: the hounds were an iron-grey, while Old Bear was a ruddy brown.
The brothers shared a glance then followed suit. They unrolled blankets on opposite sides of the broad hearth, set their spears down next to the bedding and began unbuckling their leather hauberks.
Orman, however, did not feel the call of sleep. Restless, he walked down the hall to the doors and stepped out into the gathering dusk. The air was already quite chill. The cold of night came quickly in the heights. Below, the sweep of dark forest descended on and on to end at an arc of glimmering black – the Sea of Gold. Beyond, he thought he could make out the jagged silhouette of the Bone range.
Above, the sky was clear but for a few passing scraps of cloud. The stars seemed so bright and crisp he again had the impression that they were gems he could reach out and pluck. He stood still, enjoying the cold breeze upon his face. While the hall was enormous, far larger than his uncle’s, which was the largest outside Mantle town, he’d felt enclosed and uncomfortable within. He much preferred to be outside.
Noise of a footfall brought his attention to a figure climbing the stairs. It was the youth he’d glimpsed minding the cattle. The lad might be younger than he, but stood fully as tall, though lean and gangly. Orman thought him perhaps thirteen. He carried a spear much too large for him.
The youth gave him a solemn nod. ‘Welcome to Sayer Hall. I am Jass.’
Orman inclined his head. ‘Orman.’
The youth faced the south, gestured down the valley slope. ‘You are just come from the southern lands, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have been to Reach?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have been to Mantle town?’
‘Twice. When I was young.’
‘They say there is a keep in Mantle. A Greathall, but built of stone. Is this so?’
Orman glanced to Jass and caught him studying him; the lad quickly looked away. ‘Yes. Taller even than your hall.’
The youth pulled at his lip. ‘I thought it a story. You have been to Many Saints?’
‘No.’
The lad frowned, disappointed. ‘But you have seen the shores of the Sea of Gold?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Is it true that they are lined in gold?’
Orman smiled to himself. ‘There is some gold in the sands of its beaches. But it is mostly gone now, sifted out over the years. You would like to see the southern lands? Broken Sword? Lillin?’
The youth looked affronted and clasped the spear in both hands. ‘Not at all. I’m just curious, that’s all.’
Orman worked to keep his face expressionless. How things were the same everywhere! How like himself and his own friends, yearning to see distant lands. Yet this one was an Iceblood – one of the legendary fiends of his own upbringing. Forest demons and child stealers. Dwellers in the misty forests of Joggenhome. He remembered how the mothers of his homestead invoked the name to quiet their children. ‘Behave! Or the Icebloods will take you!’ Now, standing next to one of their kind, all he could think of was how very similar this lad seemed to him.
He inclined his head in farewell. ‘Good night, then.’
Jass answered the gesture with a formal short bow. ‘Good night. You may sleep well. I will guard.’
Orman turned away to hide his smile. ‘My thanks.’
*
He awoke to licks in the face and dog breath. Groggy, he pushed the hound away and sat up, wiped his mouth. An old heavy-set woman was setting out bread and jugs on the long table. Leal, he assumed. She gave him a nod in greeting. Apart from the two of them, the hall was empty.
Great bellows and roaring sounded from without. Leal chuckled and shook her head. At his puzzled look, she pointed to the rear. He headed that way. To either side of the slight dais slim passages led to the very rear of the building. Here doors opened on to private chambers. Beyond these, he came to a kitchen area and further narrow doors that opened out to the rear. The bellows and laughter were coming from there.
He stepped out to find a yard of piled firewood, outdoor ovens and fire pits, a chicken coop, outhouses, and a large garden plot. The roars were coming from Old Bear, naked-chested, squatting in a wooden tub while an old man poured jugs of water over him. So hairy was the man over his chest, back and arms, it was as if he still wore his bear cloak. Watching were the Reddin brothers, Gerrun, and a great bald bull of a fellow, with arms as thick as Orman’s thighs, a reddish-blond beard, and gold rings in his ears. He wore a thick leather vest that could pass as armour, and buff leather pants. Seeing Orman, he limped over and extended a hand as large as a mattock.
‘Greetings, lad. Bernal—’
‘Heavyhand. Yes. Old Bear told me you were here.’
‘Ah.’ He eyed Orman up and down, nodded to himself. Orman raised a questioning brow. ‘I see him in you,’ the man said. ‘Your father.’
‘My thanks.’
The huge fellow nodded thoughtfully. ‘He was a good friend.’
Old Bear spluttered and gasped anew. ‘That is quite enough, Ham,’ he gasped. ‘You enjoy your chores too much, I think.’
‘One must take pleasure from one’s work, sor.’
‘You look like a sad bear that has fallen into a river,’ Bernal called out.
Old Bear pointed to him. ‘You are next.’
Bernal laughed and waved him off. ‘I think not. I have work to do – can’t swan the day away with baths and shaves,’ and he limped off around the side of the hall.
Old Bear peered about, looking very alarmed. ‘Shaves? Who mentioned shaves? There will be no shaving this bear.’
Keth and Kasson, side by side on a bench, their arms crossed, sat grinning at him. Gerrun called out: ‘If we shaved you the only thing left would be a heap of hair.’
Ham threw Old Bear a blanket. ‘If you insist, sor. No blade is up to the task in any case, I fear.’
Leal stepped into the yard and half bowed. ‘The morning meal.’
Old Bear straightened from the tub and threw his arms out to her. ‘Come to me, my dove of love!’
The old woman let out a squeak of terror and ducked back inside.
Orman saw that, impossible as it might seem, the man was twice as hairy from the waist down.
They ate a morning meal of barley porridge and apples. Then Old Bear announced he’d trounce them with any weapon they cared to name. They sparred with spear and staves, then moved on to wooden practice swords. Orman found that while Old Bear could, literally, overbear any of them, his technique with the spear was poor. With the sword he was useless. He wielded it like an axe. After a few bouts Orman began to wonder how on earth the man had lived so long through a lifetime of battle.
With the Reddin brothers it was the other way round. In just a few moves they always had the better of him. Just when he thought it could not be any more embarrassing Kasson reached behind his back to draw twinned long-handled hatchets that he then employed to systematically destroy Orman’s defence with spear and sword. Orman was amazed by the weapons. The brothers could weave the spiked and bearded axe-heads to catch swords and yank them aside or deliver a killing thrust that could penetrate mail armour.
As if this humiliation was not enough, it was then Gerrun’s turn to beat him armed only with a knife. ‘You let me in,’ the little fellow warned him. ‘Never let a knife-fighter get inside your reach.’
Orman waved him away. ‘This is stupid. No one is going to come at me with a knife when I hold a sword.’
Old Bear growled from where he sat on a bench, quite winded. ‘If all they have is a cooking pot then that’s what they’ll come at you with!’ He gestured Gerrun forward. ‘Again.’
They practised through the full day, taking breaks in which they discussed various techniques and moves. It was during one of these rests that a thought occurred to Orman while he sipped water from a ladle. He looked to the Reddin brothers. ‘You two marched north with Longarm’s Fifty,’ he said. ‘When you were here, in the Blood range, did you … you know …’ He motioned to Sayer Hall.
The brothers shook their heads. Keth studied the edge of one of his hatchets, sheathed it at his back. ‘The Bains,’ he answered, low.
‘The Bains,’ Orman repeated. ‘Did you face, you know, that one – Lotji?’
‘We didn’t,’ Kasson said. ‘But we saw him fight.’
‘And?’
The brothers exchanged a look, said nothing.
Old Bear loudly cleared his throat. ‘Lad,’ he said. ‘It’s one thing to learn how to fight. Any fool can do that. But it’s a damned ugly business, risking death and hurting people. Few really enjoy it. But that one does. To him, it’s a game. As in the old days, when the fighting was constant between the clans. Now there’s too few of them.’ The old fellow pulled his fingers through his scraggly beard. ‘He misses those days, I suppose,’ he mused. Rousing himself, he slapped his hands to his thighs and stood. ‘Now, more spear work, I think. Try to keep us at a distance, hey?’
Orman groaned inwardly, but he understood what they were doing. He was carrying Boarstooth: he would be the mark of anyone they met.
In the evening they ate a meal of freshly baked bread, a steaming soup of boiled vegetables and barley, baked pheasant, apples, and weak beer. Old Bear was in a great humour. He entertained them all with the story of Ruckar Myrni and the slaying of the ice-drake in the heights of the Salt range, and all the frozen maidens he found greatly in need of warming. ‘You can be sure,’ he finished, ‘that Ruckar thawed the heart of each of them!’
Noise at the entrance brought their attention round. Vala was there with Jass. She pushed him in and followed behind. The lad’s light brown hair was slicked back, and he wore a belted shirt of mail that was far too long for him and a large knife at his hip, its ivory handle wound with silver wire. They climbed the platform at the end of the hall, where Vala sat in the centre chair while he stepped forward to stand before her.
He shot one uncertain glance back to her, and she nodded for him to continue. He faced them once more. ‘Greetings,’ he began, and cleared his throat. His voice was still a touch high. ‘I am Jass Sayer. In the name of our clan I welcome you to our hearth and hall. I understand that there are those among you who would pledge your spear and arm to guard our Holding. Would these men stand forth?’
Orman recognized the formula – though it was an oddly archaic form. The swearing of the hearthguards. Keth and Kasson also no doubt knew it. He looked to them. They shared a glance, then Keth stood and approached the raised dais. It came up to his knees.
Jass clasped his hands behind his back. With the aid of the dais he stood eye to eye with the rather tall Keth. The lad glanced back to Vala. She mouthed something. He turned back. He cleared his throat once more, obviously quite nervous. ‘Say your name so that all within may know it,’ he said.
‘Keth, Reddin’s son.’
‘Keth, Reddin’s son, we Sayer swear that these lands, this hall, our Holdings, shall be your home so long as you shall defend it. Do you pledge your spear, your arm, and your heart to its defence?’
‘I do so swear.’
A cold breeze tickled Orman’s neck and he turned, sure that someone had passed behind him. But no one was there. He had the sudden feeling that more far more Sayers than Vala and Jass were now present in the hall as witnesses to this swearing.
‘Very good. We accept your pledge and give our own.’
He turned back to Vala and she handed him a basket. From this he took a small round bread and gave it to Keth. Then a small cake of salt. And finally a tiny round object that flashed gold – a ring. These Keth gathered up.
‘Welcome, Keth, Reddin’s son. Guard to our hearth, hall, and Hold.’
Keth sketched a slight dip of his head and backed away.
Kasson followed and exchanged the same pledge. Then Orman approached the dais. Jass gave him a shy smile. ‘Say your name so that all within may know it,’ he repeated.
‘Orman, Bregin’s son.’
The smile was whipped away. Jass gaped, then spun to Vala. She gave a straight-lipped nod to indicate that he should continue. He slowly turned back and Orman saw wonder in the lad’s eyes. He wasn’t certain what he’d said or done wrong – was Bregin unwelcome here?
The lad appeared quite shaken. He had to clear his throat before he could go on, and when he did speak again it was distractedly, his voice faint and weak. Orman received his bread and salt and gold ring from the lad’s hands, then gave a small bow and returned to his seat.
Jass sat down in the chair on Vala’s left. He still could not take his eyes from Orman. Vala leaned forward, calling, ‘Leal! Ale for our hearthguards! Let them never know need or want here within our walls.’
‘Yes, m’lady.’ The servant woman disappeared into the kitchens, while Old Bear swatted the Reddin brothers and Orman about the back and shoulders.
‘Well done! Well done. Now you need not kill yourself sweating for starvation wages among the lowlander filth. Serve well and you will be rewarded!’
Leal returned carrying a large tray bearing flagons. Gerrun jumped up to ease the heavy burden from the elderly woman’s hands then shooed her back for another. He thumped it down on the table and Old Bear rescued a jug that was about to fall.
Keth took up a round loaf of bread, tore off a piece and thrust the rest at Orman, who was slow to take it as he was watching Vala and Jass. The two had their heads together, Jass imploring, animated, she soothing and calm, a hand at his shoulder. They must have reached some sort of agreement as he pulled away from her hand to jump from the dais. He came to Orman’s side. ‘May we speak?’ he asked, his voice stiff and very formal.
Orman nodded, still rather bemused. ‘Of course.’
Jass motioned to the front. Orman followed him outside.
They stood side by side again, both peering out over the sweeping descent of this shoulder of the Salt range. Evening was gathering once more, and the wind was cool and damp. Orman reflected that spring was coming to the heights. Soon all the passes would be open.
In time, Jass took a breath and raised a hand to point down-slope. ‘Jaochim says there are many more fires below and lights upon the Gold Sea. Is this what you saw in the south?’
Orman thought of his ghostly visitor and her words: a time of change was coming. He nodded. ‘Yes. Many foreigners are coming. They want the gold on your lands.’
‘We will defend our Holding,’ the youth said, utterly assured. ‘It is us and we are it.’
‘Of course.’
The young man answered Orman’s nod. He swallowed, his jaws clenching, and Orman could see he was steeling himself to raise something. ‘Here we are once more,’ the youth observed. ‘Studying the night.’ Jass turned to him, his eyes almost level. ‘Orman,’ he said, ‘I am the son of Vala Sayer. But I am only half Sayer, as I am also my father’s son. I am Jass, Bregin’s son.’ He held out his hand.
Orman could not breathe. The outstretched hand. So small, he thought. So vulnerable. Then for some reason his vision swam and his chest burned like a forge. Finally, with difficulty, he managed to swallow the lump that was throttling him and he took the hand in his and squeezed.
‘Greetings and well met, elder brother,’ Jass said.
‘Well met, little brother,’ he choked out.