Among the men, Orman now recognized two of his cousins. Of the rest, eight in all, seven were of his uncle’s hearthguards. And to his surprise the last of the hunters was the short, richly dressed figure of Gerrun Shortshanks himself. The party spread out, hands going to their sheathed swords.
Orman descended the slope to step out from behind the trunk of a large pine. He called: ‘I took only that which is mine by birthright!’
His uncle spotted him and waved him in closer. ‘Come, lad. Don’t be a fool! This has gone on long enough. Return it and I will let you journey south — no ill feelings. Why, I even offer a small purse to see you on to Mantle town.’
‘I do not want your silver, uncle. Just that which is mine by right.’
His uncle spread his hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘And what will you do there in the wilderness? Wander willy-nilly to no good purpose like your father? Come now, grow up.’
Orman slammed the butt of Boarstooth to the frozen ground. ‘Bregin was sworn to Eusta! And I am my father’s son.’
Jal shook his head. All the while, his hearthguards advanced on the woods, spreading out. A few now crossed the rushing stream, stepping from rock to rock. Their armour rustled and jangled in the cold air. ‘Eusta is long gone, lad,’ his uncle called. ‘Your father should have bent his knee to Longarm. If he had, you could have risen in his service. But as it is …’ and he shook his head as if at the waste of it.
A new voice bellowed then, as deep as a rumbling of rocks falling. ‘Who would enter the Blood Holdings?’ The challenge echoed from ridge to ridge and a crowd of rooks took flight from a slim ash bordering the clearing. They cawed and squawked as if answering the voice and swirled overhead in a dark cloud.
The hearthguards hunched, peering warily about. Weapons slid from sheaths.
Orman scanned the woods. As if by magery a hugely tall and broad figure emerged from the trees close by the stream. A shaggy bear’s hide was bunched wide at the shoulders and hung in ragged lengths to brush the snowy ground. The great beast’s head rode the man’s like a hood, its upper jaw intact, yellowed teeth curving downward. Within that grisly headdress glared the grey-bearded, lined and one-eyed face of Old Bear.
Jal stared in amazement and wonder — he even retreated a number of steps to strike his back against the trunk of a spruce. Then he nodded to himself and fury darkened his face. ‘So. It is as everyone thought.’ He called to Orman: ‘Your father struck a pact with the Bloods. A traitor! He served them!’
Stung, Orman came sliding sideways down the rocky treed slope. He hopped fallen trunks and melt-slick rocks, holding Boarstooth high. ‘Say what you will of me,’ he shouted, ‘but do not insult my father’s name! You who cowered in the warmth of your hearthfire while he kept watch!’
‘Conspired with the mountain demons, you mean,’ Jal rumbled darkly. And he waved his contempt, his fingers thick with gold rings.
‘Enough!’ Orman yelled, furious, and he threw Boarstooth. The moment the weapon left his hand he felt a stab of regret. He did not know what he’d intended — to frighten the old man, to wound him — but the instant he loosed he knew the ancient heirloom would fly true.
Jal watched, perhaps in disbelief, as the spear flew high across the stream, then arced downward, tracing a path straight to him. It slammed home, pinning him to the tree where he remained standing, his mouth open, eyes staring wide at the haft where it emerged from his girth.
The hearthguards watched the flight and impact in stunned silence. Then they charged.
Arrows took the nearest two, one in the side, another through the head, giving Orman time to draw his sword. He parried the third — this one cousin Belard — then pommel-smashed him in the face, knocking him flying backwards in a spray of blood.
Old Bear was down from the woods in great bounds, roaring with battle-joy. He knocked aside the swing of a hearthguard with his tall spear then slashed him across the neck. The man fell gurgling and clutching at his throat. Orman’s other cousin, Tomen, backpedalled wildly, splashing through the stream then turning to run.
Two more hearthguards closed on Orman. A thrown hatchet from Gerrun took one, but the other dodged and ducked as he came. An arrow meant for him shattered on a rock. Orman met him, parrying and closing to grapple. Moments later the man jerked as a bloody arrowhead punched through the leathers of his chest, almost reaching Orman. The lad let him fall to the mud and snow, where he curled around the point like a pinned bird.
Raising his gaze, panting, Orman saw his cousins and the remaining hearthguards in full retreat from the clearing. He relaxed, or tried to: his limbs would not stop shaking. Suddenly he felt very cold indeed. He walked across the crackling sheet ice and bloodstained snow to where his uncle still stood, fixed to the spruce by Boarstooth.
Jal still lived. His bloodied hands still gripped the slick haft and thick crimson blood smeared his beard. His wide eyes followed Orman as he came. He tried to speak but coughed instead and groaned his agony. He spat out a mouthful of blood to croak: ‘Kinslayer I name you. Forsworn. Damn you to the Dark Taker’s deepest pit.’
Orman took hold of Boarstooth’s slick haft. Jal slid a hand free to fumble at the silver-wound grip of his sword. Orman held his uncle’s eyes. Hatred and wordless fury blazed back at him. He yanked on the spear, twisting and levering, until the eyes lost their focus and the man’s head slumped forward. He pulled the weapon free. His uncle fell in a heap at the base of the tree.
Orman stared at the gleaming gore-smeared blade. Steam rose from it into the chill air. I am a kinslayer, he realized. So many stories of vendetta and feud surround this weapon. Is it cursed? Am I?
‘Well met, Orman Bregin’s son,’ a deep voice growled behind him. He turned, wonderingly, still feeling as if he were in a dream, or a nightmare. There stood Old Bear, wrapped in his bunched bearskin cloak, leaning on his tall spear. His one good eye held calm evaluation, as if still taking his measure, while the other glared frosty-white like an orb of ice. Behind, the Reddin brothers now stood with Gerrun, all three silent and watchful.
‘I did not mean to …’ he began.
‘I understand, lad,’ Old Bear said, his voice gentle. ‘But Boarstooth, once loosed, would have its blood-price.’
‘Blood-price?’
Old Bear nodded solemnly. ‘Aye. Jal insulted it. Had no right to lay his hand upon it.’
‘And I do?
‘Oh, aye. When your father was hardly older than you are now he wrested it from the dead hand of Jorgan Bain. It was a storied duel. They fought in Green Rock Valley on the border of Bain and Lost holdings. There they duelled through two days. Stopped only to rest at night.’
Orman blinked, hardly understanding. ‘But I heard none of this …’
Old Bear snorted his disdain. ‘These southern lowland scum aren’t worthy of such tales, hey?’
Feeling oddly cold and shivery, Orman nodded. ‘I see … I think.’ Then he bent over and vomited ferociously, hands on his knees, gagging.
Old Bear rumbled a laugh and slapped him on the back. ‘There, there. The first one’s always the hardest!’ He chuckled again, greatly amused, then roared: ‘You three! Pack up! Kasson, we leave at once!’
‘Aye,’ Kasson answered, and it irritated Orman no end that he didn’t catch which brother had spoken.
* * *
Three days after Burl and the crew of the Strike came across a ghost ship adrift on the Dread Sea, men and women of the crew began disappearing. No one saw anything. Burl questioned everyone himself, as did the second mate, Gaff. Those on watch neither saw nor heard anything. Nor were there any discernible signs of violence; no blood, no marks of forcible abduction. Over the course of the day or night people simply went missing. Sometimes it even happened during their time on duty. Burl had no explanation for it; the crew members seemed to have merely up and jumped over the side to sink without a call or a struggle.