Raif and Stillborn nodded soberly. All three of them had once lived lives as clansmen. Addie had been tied to Wellhouse as a cragsman, Stillborn had been born dead into Scarpe before being revived by a midwife, and Raif had spoken an oath to Blackhail and broken it. They were quiet for a while after that, setting their backs against the rocks as they sipped on wormwood tea.
Finally, Raif set down his cup and asked the question he needed to ask. "What has happened in the Rift since I left?"
Addie and Stillborn exchanged a glance. Stillborn nodded almost imperceptibly at the cragsman. You take it
"Harmful times, Raif," Addie said, taking a stick and breaking up the fire. "Mole's getting nervous and it's making him quick with his knives. If you're not loyal to him you'll be paid a call in the night. Ten days back a half-dozen men were murdered in their beds. Throats slit from ear to ear, tongues sliced down the center. They call it the Vor king's kiss. Kill them and then split their tongues so even their corpses can't squeal. All six of the men bad been heard complaining about the Mole. You know the sort of thing: Where's the food? Why did the last raid fail? What's the Mole doing for us? Harmless stuff in harmless times. But times aren't harmless anymore, and it serves a man well to shut up and starve."
"Why's Traggis Mole afraid?" Raif asked.
Again, there was that look, passed between Addie and Stillborn.
The cragsman took a deep breath, set down his fire-poking stick. "Mole's worst nightmare's happening and he's powerless to stop it. Night after we returned from Black Hole something godless broke free from the Rift."
At Addie's words both Raif's and Stillborn's right arms twitched. The ghost of clan, that desire to reach down and touch your measure of powdered guidestone whenever you felt a beat of fear. Addie must have seen and recognized the impulse, but he continued speaking his rough, backcountry voice low as if he feared to be overheard.
"Something not whole walked on the rimrock. Those that saw it said it was like night made into a man, dark and rippling, like it shouldn't have weighed anything at all. But I myself saw the cracks that it made in the stone. Rift brothers tried to stop it—Linden Moodie hacked off an arm—but it couldn't be stopped. Took thirteen before it left. Women, bairns, men." Addie shuddered. "The bodies blackened like they were burned, then they were gone."
Raif thought of the lamb brother Farli, and the Forsworn knight in the redoubt. "Next time the bodies must be destroyed."
Addie Gunn studied Raif's face, understanding much from the little he had said. "Aye," he said softly, spinning the word into confirmation of his worst fear.
Next time.
"What did Traggis Mole do?"
"What could he do? Took a swipe at the thing with his longknife, received a cut to the ribs. Ordered everyone back to their beds. Was set to take care of the bodies … afore the bodies took care of themselves." With that Addie seemed to run out of strength.
Stillborn, noticing the slump in the cragsman's shoulders, took over. "Mole's been telling everyone that it won't come back. The Rift Brothers are scared out their wits. Those men the Mole killed? Sent to the Rift the next morning, as if somehow that could help. Throw enough bodies down there and you stop the evil getting out." Stillborn blew air from his lips. "People are starting to say that the Mole can't help them. Mole's saying right back, 'Step out of line and you're dead. He's made mistakes, and that's not like him. Two of the six men he killed were good hunters. Means less meat, more discontent. Who knows how long Addie and myself are safe? I used to think being a good hunter counted for something. Now. I'm thinking if the man-thing from the Rift doesna get me Traggis Mole will."
Raif nodded slowly. It was worse than he had thought. Whatever he had done at the Fortress of Grey Ice had been nothing more than shoring up a crack. Pressure was building. First the Unmade in the lamb brothers' camp. Now this. They're searching for weak points, he realized. They discovered one in the fortress but now that's sealed they're finding other ways out.
He lost himself in his thoughts for a while, remembering snatches of conversation from his past. Addie Gunn had told him the Rift was the greatest flaw in the earth. If it were to be ripped open life for the Maimed Men and the entire clanholds would be over. Hundreds of thousands of Unmade would ride out.
And the Endlords.
Just their name alone sent a knife of fear into Raifs heart.
Why me? Why was he the one who must fight them? The two things he had wanted from life were to be a decent clansman and a good brother to Effie and Drey. Now he would be neither. Now he was Mor Drakka, Watcher of the Dead. How had that happened? When? He didn't suppose the answer mattered much in the end. What choice did he have here? What man or woman, knowing the things he did, would walk away?
Raif Sevrance could not walk away. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was a glimmer of hope in that. Perhaps from a distance, in a most terrible and dread way, in a manner he could never have anticipated, he could still be that good clansman and brother. It was a hope. And it was his only one.
Coming back to the present was like emerging from icy water. He was cold and disoriented and it took him long moments to realize why Addie Gunn and Stillborn were watching him intently, waiting.
Raif glanced over at the bloody carcass of the snagcat and then said what he had to say.
"I will become Lord of the Rift."
And so it begins.
TWENTY Pike
Effie Sevrance was rubbing boat oil into her ankles. It felt good and not at all boaty, cool and soothing on her chafed skin. The smell left something to be desired and it might possibly be a bit rancid, but it was pretty interesting the way it turned her legs all slick and green. Of course Chedd had to come over and take a look.
"What you doing?" he asked. Possibly the stupidest question in the entire world. He had eyes. He could see.
Effie said, "I thought if I put enough boat oil on my ankles I could slip my feet through the cuffs." For good measure she raised her legs above the deergrass and shook her leg irons. "What do you think?"
She felt a bit bad when Chedd actually considered this theory, squinting so hard it pushed his cheek fat up against his eyes. Then immediately regretted it when he said, "No. Your feet are too big."
"Dare you to drink it," she shot back at him, nodding toward the calfskin flask containing the boat oil.
Chedd Limehouse was champion of the worm-swallowing, vast-quantity-eating dare. He glanced down toward the rivershore where Waker Stone was pulling in his fish trap, and then at the beached and upturned boat. "Hand it over," he ordered tersely, like a surgeon requesting his saw just before he chopped off someone's leg to save a life.
Rolling forward onto her knees, Effie handed Chedd the flask.
"For Bannen!" he proclaimed, holding it high above his head. Popping off the stopper with his thumb, he brought the nozzle to his mouth. And drank. Effie watched his throat apple bob up and down, up and down, as he swallowed large quantities of boat oil. Green grease began to spill from his mouth and roll along his chin, yet he continued drinking.
Finally she could take it no more. Punching the flask from his lips, she shouted, "Stop it."
Chedd grinned and belched. His jaw and neck were slick with oil, and the collar of his fine wool cloak was black. Tasty," he said with deep satisfaction.
Effie glared at him, while secretly hoping that boat oil was some sort of harmless plant oil. Like linseed or castor. She didn't want to kill anyone, and she really did like Chedd.
Wiping his chin with shirtsleeve, he said, "See that cliff over there. If you climb it you can see for leagues. It's all open ground, heaths and rocks and things. Wanna take a look?"