Deep Water (28 page)

Sebbi ran. As soon as he started, the men began to chant while the women sang a two-note hymn.

“Blood cleans, blood binds, blood scours, blood ties, blood washes, blood pulls . . .” they sang. The gods gathered, their
pressure building, filling both Baluch and Bramble with holy terror. The gods’ attention was stronger than she had ever known
it.

Then Bramble realized the men were chanting numbers. They were counting. Counting as she had so often counted before a chase.
But this was summer, not autumn.
After Mid-Summer
, the gods told her, absently, with only a part of their attention.
Any time after Mid-Summer, the sacrifice can be made.

The Autumn Chase, Bramble thought, appalled. This is the real Autumn Chase. She was expecting them to count to fifty, but
at forty-nine the men sprang away, led by the hairy man, and the gods went with them, leaving she and Baluch stunned.

The women followed the band of men, and the children ran beside them.

Acton turned to Baluch. “Let’s go.”

“We can’t just leave!”

“We have to.”

“But —”

Acton dragged him away. “He’s going to die. Do you really want to watch?”

“Yes!” Baluch shouted. “I promised him a praise-song. I have to watch!”

He pulled his arm from Acton’s grasp and ran after the crowd as fast as he could. He was much faster than the women with their
long skirts and he passed them easily, although his legs were cramped from sitting so long in the dark.

The men were loping after Sebbi. Bramble could see him, going up a rise in the near distance. He was running smoothly, his
bare legs flashing pure white in the early sun. The men increased their pace and Sebbi turned, curving his flight away from
them toward the Ice King. Bramble could guess his reasoning: if he was to die to banish the Ice King, then the best place
to shed his blood should be on the ice itself. The men agreed. They let out a howl of approval and quickened their pace. Baluch
pushed himself to run faster. He angled across the grassland so that his path would intersect theirs close to the ice.

The ice had pushed boulders, soil and rubble before it. Collapsed houses. Precious spars of wood. Sebbi faltered as his foot
landed on something sharp. Then he straightened and ran on, limping just a little. He left a clear trail of blood behind him.
The chasers yelled in triumph. The blood heat was taking them over, the thrill of chasing. Bramble felt sick. This was what
she had felt, chasing the Kill. This was her ritual, her greatest pleasure — her salvation. She realized that she had been
truly reborn in the Spring Chase because somewhere, sometime, perhaps a thousand years before, a man had died in autumn. Life
sacrificed, life returned, that was the bargain. It might even have been Sebbi’s life that had given hers back to her.

He was at bay, now, standing bravely before the ice cliff. The men came within spearshot and howled triumph again. The spears
flew. Baluch was counting them: ten, twelve, fifteen… Blood blossomed on Sebbi’s chest and legs. He flung his arms wide,
his jaw set, determined, then took the pain and used it to scream to the heavens: “Hear our plea! Save us!” Then he fell.

The men crowded around so that Baluch could not see, then broke apart as some of them picked up the body and hoisted it onto
their shoulders, its arms and legs dangling. They were all smeared across their faces with Sebbi’s blood. Bramble’s gorge
rose, but Baluch was calm now, all his grief transmuted into an arrow of concentration aimed at the party of men.

Acton appeared at Baluch’s shoulder.

“Time to go,” he said. The women came up, tearing at their faces and grieving for the young life cut down. But this, too,
was part of the ritual and mostly their eyes were dry and bright with hope. Baluch put out a hand and stopped one of them,
an older woman.

“What will happen to him?” He had spoken without thinking, in his own language, and she did not understand. Acton repeated
it in her tongue. She hesitated.

“I do not know,” she said finally. “In the old days, he would be torn apart and scattered on the fields to ensure good harvest.
Now we have no fields… perhaps he will be scattered on the ice.”

They could see, when they turned back to watch, that the chase party was following the line of the ice, stopping at intervals
for prayer. Acton and Baluch watched long enough to see that the end of the prayer was followed by some part of Sebbi’s body
being cut off by the hairy man and thrown onto the ice.

“Will it work?” Acton asked Baluch in an undertone. “What do the gods say?”

Baluch shuddered. “The gods say nothing. But I think it will take more than one man’s blood to satisfy the Ice King.”

The men howled as Sebbi’s hand was thrown high onto the ice cliff.

“Enough,” Baluch said, turning away as the waters descended on Bramble like ice crashing down from the king.

L
EOF COULDN
’
T BITE
back a smile when he saw the roofs of Sendat appear, and Thistle picked up her pace as she scented the stables of home.

“Good to be back, my lord,” Bandy, his groom, said.

“Good and bad, man,” Leof replied, waving to a few townsfolk as they made their way up the winding road to the fort.

He assessed it with new eyes as he came near. Although it was reasonably well fortified against normal attack, it would be
helpless against an enemy which could not be killed. The walls needed to be much higher, giving defenders the chance to isolate
and deal with individual attackers. The top of the walls needed to be sharp, rather than wide, and the defenders should be
armed, not with spears, but with axes. Meat cleavers, even, lashed to poles, would do until they could get proper halberds
made. The smithies would have to work overtime. Halberds were the best weapon, he was sure. The long blade fixed firmly to
a long pole — it combined sword and spear, with the advantage that it kept your enemy at more than arm’s length. A broadsword
could hack off a limb, but it needed luck as well as strength and judgment. A good whack with a halberd, on the other hand,
had so much leverage behind it that it frequently sent limbs flying. The weapon wasn’t used much in close-quarter work because
of the danger to your own troops, but a line of defenders, trained to work together… The plan was all Leof could think
of, and he was miserably aware that it was full of flaws.

They rode into the muster area to shouts of welcome from the stables and the smithies. Leof dismounted thankfully and gave
Thistle to Bandy, patting her and murmuring gratitude for her hard work as he did so. He ordered another groom to help Bandy
before heading straight to the smithies, walking the kinks and aches from his legs and telling himself he was not at all tired.

The chief blacksmith, Affo, was a surprisingly small man, though with the massive arms of his trade. Leof didn’t tell him
the details of the attack on Carlion, just that the town had been attacked, and the warlord’s men would be marching to give
aid.

“We have perhaps a day before they march past us. And in that time . . .” he paused, unsure of how to phrase the order, then
shrugged the problem aside. No good way to say it. “I want as many axes as you can produce.”

“We’re doing that already, lord,” Affo said, surprised. “Battleaxes, halberds, even choppers.”

“What?”

“The Lady Sorn ordered it, after that mad — after that messenger from Carlion came. She said,” he added, clearly fishing for
information, “that my lord Thegan needed them. She said not to worry about finishing them off, no decoration or such, just
make them sharp?”

“If your warlord wanted you to know why, his lady would have told you, no?” Leof said severely.

“Aye, lord,” Affo said. His expression plainly said, “All lords are mad.” Leof hoped he’d keep thinking so, instead of wondering
what kind of enemy needed to be attacked with axes. The thought hadn’t occurred to Leof, but of course Otter would have come
to Sendat first. Lady Sorn had reacted as befitted a warlord’s lady. He breathed more easily. The men would not be going into
battle badly armed, although they would only have enough axes for the forward guard.

He turned toward the hall and the Lady Sorn. He half-expected her to be waiting for him in the muster yard, but of course
she would not do that. Not the Lady. She never intruded on the public spaces — the men’s spaces. The hall, the residence and
the gardens were her domain and she kept to them. Leof had approved of that when he first came to Sendat. She acted the way
women should, modest and refined. Then he had met Bramble, and his ideas about what a woman should do had undergone considerable
change.

Sorn was waiting by the fire in the hall, sitting in a pool of sunlight from one of the high windows. The light turned her
auburn hair into fire and made her skin glow, enriched the deep green of her dress and sent flickers of light from her earrings
into the corners of the room. She seemed, for a moment, a creature of flame and leaf, like the embodiment of a forest, caught
on a tapestry of the seasons between autumn and spring. Then he saw her face, calm as an iced-over pool, and thought, between
autumn and spring is winter.

Normally, Sorn was surrounded by her maids and ladies, but now she was alone, except for the small hunting dog that was always
at her side. She was waiting to hear her lord’s message in private. Leof wished he had something better to tell her.

He bowed and saluted. Composed, Sorn rose and bowed back, pro-tocol strictly observed, no trace of anxiety on her face. The
little silvery whippet — what was its name, something odd, he couldn’t remember — stood at her side, shivering as whippets
do in the presence of strangers. She quieted it with a touch and it lay down again, head raised.

“My lady, I bring greetings from the Lord Thegan,” Leof said.

“You are welcome, Lord Leof.”

She gestured to him to sit beside her and he eased himself into a cushioned chair thankfully. Sorn poured him wine from a
glass jug.

“You have heard the news, I gather, from Otter the Stonecaster?” He took a long swallow of the wine; it was a winter red from
down south, full and comforting.

Sorn nodded. “I did what I could to prepare.”

Leof smiled at her. “I’ve just come from the smithies. You did exactly right, my lady. My lord’s men will be marching through
here on the way to Carlion by tomorrow sunset, and it will… it may make a great deal of difference, having the axes ready
for them to take.”

She nodded, serious. “My lord?”

He hastened to reassure her. “He will be with them. He bids me to tell you that he thinks of you. He is well, although . . .”
he took the sheaf of papers Thegan had given him from inside his jacket, “not all will be returning with him. The Lake — or,
my lord thinks, some enchanter controlling the Lake — raised a great wave against us. Many were killed.”

Sorn looked at the papers and went very still.

“How many?” she whispered. The whippet sprang to its feet and nosed her hand. She patted it absently. “Shh, Fortune.”

“About a quarter of our forces,” Leof said. “My lord has charged me with letting the families know.”

Sorn reached for the papers. “This is my responsibility,” she said, her voice low. “You will have enough to do.” She hesitated.
“And the Lake People?”

Leof sighed. “We never laid eyes on the Lake People,” he said. “My lord blamed an enchanter from Baluchston for the wave and
was about to punish the town when the messenger from Carlion arrived.”

Sorn took a deep breath and let it out slowly, still looking at the list of names. “Baluchston is a thorn in his side,” she
said absently. “He will have it out one way or another.” Then she looked up with anxiety in her eyes, as though he might hear
that comment as disloyal. It was the first real emotion she had shown. The whippet stood alert, regarding him warily.

Leof smiled reassuringly at her. “One way or another,” he agreed. She relaxed a little although, as always, she sat very straight.
Fortune sat down again.

“Go to your quarters, my lord, and rest. Tomorrow will be soon enough to begin your work.”

He smiled at her ruefully. “I doubt my lord would think so, I have a few hours’ work yet before I can rest. But I would be
glad of some food.”

She smiled back, her face lighting with a hint of mischief. “I confess, I ordered a meal sent to the officers’ workroom. It
should be there by now.”

He chuckled. “Too predictable, obviously. Thank you, my lady.” He rose, bowed and went out, leaving her sitting quietly. The
sun had moved past the window while they talked and she sat now in a pool of shadow, studying the lists of the dead, her dog
at her side.

T
HERE WAS A
trail, Flax said as they changed shifts at midnight, which skirted the upper bluff well above the road used by carts and
riders. “Clings to the mountainside, like,” he said, “about halfway up. It’s
supposed
to be below the wilderness.”

There was a silence as they both considered that, weighing dangers.

“Can we use it without being seen?” Ash asked.

Flax was only a patch of deeper darkness against the hillside, but somehow Ash knew he was pulling at his lip, considering.

“If we start early enough. Maybe.”

So they started well before dawn, as soon as there was enough light for the horses to find their footing. The most dangerous
part was where they had to descend a way into the valley, toward a larger road past a prosperous horse farm, from where the
upper trail branched. Coming down the hillside was one of the hardest things Ash had ever done. He pulled up the hood on his
jacket, just in case. He felt completely exposed in the dim light, as though a thousand eyes were watching him.

But they turned onto the trail without incident and continued quietly past the farm. It was so early that the dogs were still
asleep, but as they passed the farm one woke and barked, waking the others until there was a chorus of barking. The door of
the farmhouse crashed open to show the farmer, axe in hand, silhouetted in the opening. Ash stiffened, but Flax raised a hand.