Vaylo Bludd gave the order to Odwin Two Bear and Baldie Trangu. “Intercept them.”

Neither man blinked as they stared at the small party of Bluddsmen closing on the roundhouse from the south.

“I remain here,” Vaylo said. “Bring them to me.”

They were standing on a small rise to the southwest of the Bluddhouse and south of the newly named Dog Camp. They had left the camp an hour earlier to exercise the horses. The sun was still rising in the east, dodging halfhearted scraps of cloud. Seven days had passed since Quarro had denied his father entry into the Bluddhouse, and Vaylo was discovering that fresh air could chafe.

He had never been a patient man. “Go,” he told Odwin and Baldie. “Tell them the Dog Lord awaits.”

The two swordsmen mounted their horses and rode downslope on a course to intercept the return party. They were probably wondering why he, Vaylo, did not join them—three being a better showing of force than two—but how could they understand the loss of jaw involved in begging clansmen you had once ruled to “Stop”?

The Dog Lord took a final count of the return party—seven, two of those afoot—and then turned his back on the lot of them, including Odwin and Baldie. Some things a man was not built to stand.

Curious pity was one of them.

He whistled for the dogs and two of them came to him. The black-and-orange bitch was nose-down in some hole in the ground on the scent of gopher or mouse. She was getting bigger by the day. Some dog somewhere had had a good time at her expense. Vaylo swore she knew he was thinking about her, for her tail began to wag as she nose-dived the hole. It was a good thing there were whelps coming. The Dog Lord needed two new dogs. Wolf dog was gone and another had been lost that night, north of Dhoone, when he’d met Robbie’s half-brother and thought him quite a young man.

As he scratched and cuffed the remaining dogs, Vaylo wondered when it would end, the loss of things he loved. Two men had died in the past seven days, both succumbing to injuries received at the Battle of the Deadwoods. Vaylo thanked the gods they died cleanly, without being claimed by the silky black smoke of the Unmade. One, young Rory Chaddo, had been in terrible pain. Vaylo had not possessed the medicine to ease him. An application dispatched to the Bluddhouse for the sole purpose of securing pain deadeners had been refused. Quarro had restated his offer to accept all of the party into the Bluddhouse, save the Dog Lord. Or none.

All medicines, he said, stayed at Bludd.

Vaylo would have liked to knock off his eldest son’s head. With an ax.

Nan Culldayis, who was no one’s fool, had spent the time while everyone else was waiting on Quarro’s response, searching the stream banks for herbs. She had found some useful things, red clover and wild hops, and boiled them into a tea. It had been something. Rory Chaddo had died that night with Nan’s tea inside his belly. Vaylo hoped the young man had found some relief.

It was getting harder and harder to not be inside the house. They were a party of thirty, twenty-eight of them men: hunting for game was not a problem. They had food and tents. The malt was gone but you could open the empty bottle and inhale. If you were not sick or injured there were worse places to be, but Vaylo could no longer stand it. His position was impossible.

He was a chief who was not a chief, living in a camp looking down on his old roundhouse. Quarro, who had always been his sneakiest, laziest son, had displayed a surprising talent for playing dog-in-a-manger. He was keeping tight hold on the Bluddhouse. Wait long enough in his fortress of stone and his crazy old father would succumb to some kind of blight; either an attack by Dhoone or the Unmade, or some kind of malady of the lungs brought on by the spring rains.

Vaylo knew what his eldest son was thinking: Keep my head low and it will go away.

Hearing the jingle of harnesses, Vaylo rose to see who, if anyone, Odwin and Baldie had brought with them on their return. He was aware of the figure he cut, in his tattered ground-length war cloak, surrounded by his dogs.

Three riders crested the rise. Vaylo recognized the third man instantly. He was the ax-and-hammer wielder Brisco Strager, who had fought with Hanro’s company since Withy.

“Chief,” Odwin hailed as they drew to a halt.

Brisco Strager did not speak that word. He nodded curtly, his gaze hard. He was an experienced campaigner, skilled in the use of all hatchets, and scarred by many battles. A bandage stained with blood was wound around his neck.

Odwin and Baldie dismounted. Brisco stayed ahorse.

So that’s how it was. The Dog Lord could tell from looking at the man’s face that he was not bringing good tidings. Vaylo saw no point in wasting words on greetings. “How goes it at Withy?”

Brisco glanced toward the Bluddhouse. “The messages did not arrive?”

It was simpler to say, “No.”

Brisco stroked his horse’s neck. Hammer blows to his hands had created the appearance of extra knuckles. He swallowed. “Withy is lost. Thrago is dead. Hanro is dead. Three hundred Bluddsmen gave their lives.”

Vaylo felt a sharp pain in his chest. He put a hand to his rib cage and breathed. Thrago was his fifth son. Hanro his sixth. He had never imagined a world where both boys were not in it.

Odwin came toward him, but Vaylo shook him away with a fist. “What happened?”

“Dun Dhoone struck in the night while we were asleep. He broke in—we don’t know how. Most of us were in our beds. We rallied but it was too late. Hanro called ‘Yield’ but in the confusion it was not heard. The Withyhouse is a warren. The battle was met in many halls. Hanro, Thrago and Gangaric were commanding separate forces in different sections. I was with Hanro when he fell. Dhoonish steel opened his throat. Thrago died holding the door so that the few who survived could flee.”

Dear Gods. Vaylo had been in the Withyhouse. He could imagine the hell of fighting in those closed, underground spaces. It would be dark and you would be cut off from other forces, and in many places the walls were so low and close that you would not be able to swing your hammer. Vaylo pushed the heel of his hand into his chest as he thought of it.

Robbie Dun Dhoone had done nothing but bring Bludd grief. The Dog Lord did not believe for one minute that Hanro’s cry of “Yield” had gone unheard. Vaylo had looked into Dun Dhoone’s cold blue eyes. He knew what was—and wasn’t—there.

“What of Gangaric?” His third son, the one who had visited his father at the hillfort on his way to join his brothers at Withy. The one with Gullit’s eyes.

Brisco shifted in his saddle. If he was regretting his decision to dismount for his old chief, it was too late for that. “Gangaric survives. He led the charge from the Withyhouse.”

The words of war could be deceptive. Charge could more truthfully be called retreat. “Where is he?”

“Gone to join Pengo at Ganmiddich. I would be there with him but I bring wounded home.”

You bring yourself. Vaylo could see the slow spread of blood on the bandage around Brisco’s neck. Aware that such deceptions were necessary for a Bluddsman’s dignity, the Dog Lord changed the subject. “Where goes Dun Dhoone after Withy?”

“Ganmiddich. He began the march south three days later.”

Of course he would. Winning was like a bonfire: once it was burning you fed it more fuel. Vaylo made the calculation. Dun Dhoone would be there. Now. Today. Maybe sooner. Vaylo asked a question he already knew the answer to in the hope that a different, newer answer, might be supplied. “How many does Pengo command?”

“Two hundred and fifty.”

The number of fighting men had not grown. The women and children were doubtless the same too… with the notable exception of one. Pengo’s wife had given birth to a daughter at midwinter. Milkweed was the name the bairn was known by. Vaylo thought about her at night when he guarded the camp. That was his granddaughter there.

Damn his old chest. Why couldn’t it stop hurting and just work? Vaylo forced himself to think. Dhoone would arrive from the north. Blackhail was camped at Bannen Field, which was to the northwest. The situation reminded Vaylo of something Ockish Bull had once told him about diamond mining in Trance Vor. “They heat the rockwall with fires,” Ockish had said. “Heat it all day and all night until the rock begins to shimmer. And then they clear out—clear far out—and pump in the water. You can be standing ten leagues away and still feel the explosion. It’s that big, that loud. And when the miners go in the next day the entire layout of the mine has changed.”

That was what was happening at Ganmiddich. The rockwall was being primed. Dhoone, Blackhail and Bludd were converging, and the explosion when they touched would change the face of the clanholds. Old hatreds, new hatreds, ambition, possessiveness: it all came together at Ganmiddich. The question was: How would it go for Bludd?

It was a wonder that Pengo, his useless second son, had managed to defend the Crab Gate for this long. He’d probably done exactly as his older brother had done: ducked his head low, barricaded the door and held on. With women and children in the house, Vaylo could not fault him. Yet that door had broken once and it would break again. And two hundred and fifty Bluddsmen against the full might of Blackhail or Dhoone was not good odds. Vaylo would not bet on them.

He looked carefully at Brisco. “Has Quarro been applied to for reinforcements?”

Brisco looked down before he gave his answer and Vaylo could guess what he had to say. “Messages were dispatched a while back. Some may not have got through.”

Gods stop my blood from boiling. Quarro had ignored Pengo’s plea for aide. What kind of Bluddsman turned his back on fellow warriors in peril? Bludd was chosen by the Stone Gods—its purpose was to go to war.

At his side Vaylo was aware of Baldie Trangu blasting air at force through his nostrils. Odwin Two Bear was still; that boy knew how to keep his head.

Vaylo glanced at Brisco Strager. He felt almost sorry for him. The hammer-and-ax man was practicing so much self-deception it was a marvel he could stay on his horse. Vaylo decided to grant everyone present the mercy of not asking if Brisco was bearing yet another application for aid. They all knew it would arrive too late.

Whatever happened at Ganmiddich was out of their hands. Vaylo could imagine scenarios where Pengo and his house of Bluddsfolk came out unscathed. If Dhoone and Blackhail clashed before Ganmiddich they might happily cancel one another out. Stranger things had happened. Look how Pengo had possessed Ganmiddich in the first place. A city army had broken the Crab Gate with their new-fangled heavy machinery and then rode away and left it. Anything was possible after that.

He just wished it wasn’t Mace Blackhail and Robbie Dun Dhoone leading the Hail and Dhoone armies. Mace Blackhail had slaughtered Bludd women and children in cold blood on the Bluddroad, and Dun Dhoone had killed all the Bluddsmen and Bluddswomen occupying the Dhoonehold the night he’d retaken it. Vaylo was alive only because of the quickness of his dogs and a few words dropped by Angus Lok concerning—of all things—a secret passage. Now to hear Brisco’s story of Dun Dhoone conveniently not hearing the cry “Yield.” What hope did Pengo have if Ganmiddich’s walls were breached by either chief?

Realizing he was bending slightly at the waist, Vaylo straightened. The pain in his chest had eased a little. He breathed and then made an effort.

“Who are your wounded?” he asked.

Brisco gave him the names and conditions of the Bluddsmen in his party. It was a day of bad news.

“Go,” Vaylo told the hammer-and-ax man when he was done. “Tell your men the Dog Lord does them honor and then go home with gods’ speed.”

Brisco nodded his large head gravely. “I will tell them,” he said.

Vaylo, Odwin and Baldie watched as he rode downhill and joined his party. A cool wind had begun to blow, stirring the oat grass on the rise. Vaylo was set to turn and fetch his horse when one of Brisco’s party raised an arm toward him. It was an acknowledgment, and Vaylo found himself absurdly grateful for it. He raised his own arm in answer, holding it out while the man rode by below him.

It was something to take with him on the journey back to Dog Camp.

Odwin and Baldie knew to keep their peace, and no words were exchanged as they rode across the fields. The dogs, sensing their master’s mood, scuffed behind the horses, tails down.

It was a good time of year to be in the Bluddhouse. The sun started coming in through the back windows. There would be longhunts for migrating elk, and the maids would begin wearing their pretty dresses, the ones cut low without sleeves. Vaylo had imagined the doors would open for him. That Bluddsfolk, tired of Quarro and wanting their old chief back, would begin to mutiny, riding out to Dog Camp in defiance of Quarro and declaring themselves for the Dog Lord.

It had been his secret hope.

Now he realized that would not happen. Brisco Strager had greeted him without even a show of respect. Brisco was a decent, tough-minded warrior and at one time he would have rode to battle on Vaylo’s word. Now he couldn’t leave the seat of his horse. His opinions had been poisoned, and Vaylo knew he had his own seven sons to thank for that.

Five now. Five.

He had not been a good father, he knew that, but hadn’t he always been a fair chief?

Approaching the camp, Vaylo dismounted. The bairns were playing with that damn bird, bickering over the right to hold its globe-shaped cage. “Take it,” the Foebreaker had said to Vaylo ten days ago. “Sull needs Bludd. Bludd needs Sull.”

“Granda!’ Aaron cried, scrambling to his feet and running toward Vaylo. “Pasha said that you said I had to obey her all day.” The boy was indignant and a little upset. His older sister bossed him without mercy.

Vaylo held out his arm and the boy came to him. He was a skinny thing, less than eight years old. He felt hot and weightless next to Vaylo’s chest.

“There’s only one time when you need to pay heed to your sister,” Vaylo told him, “and that’s if the camp’s attacked and you and Pasha are separated from me and Nan.”

It was not the comfort the boy was expecting, but Vaylo had always found that if you gave children clear facts they respected them. Aaron nodded, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Say it back to me.”

“I only take heed of Pasha when the camp’s attacked and you and Nan aren’t there.”

“Good.” Vaylo laid his hand on the boy’s head. What sort of grandfather was he to risk the lives of his grandchildren? Would he not serve them better by walking away one night, leaving the camp and allowing the bairns, Nan, Hammie and the rest to find safety in the Bluddhouse?

They were so exposed, that was the thing. Every night his grandchildren slept with only a thin sheet of canvas between them and forces which wished them harm. Today more than ever Vaylo felt it. What if Robbie Dun Dhoone won victory at Ganmiddich? What if he judged, correctly, that Bludd was badly hurting and that Quarro at the Bluddhouse was weak? Dun Dhoone had already struck Bludd once. He and his army had torched the sacred grove and knocked down the structure believed to have been built from the rubble of the Dhoonestone. It was a daring strike, bold as brass. And it had been undertaken with a fraction of the numbers Dun Dhoone now commanded.

Vaylo could imagine it. Bludd routed at Ganmiddich and Robbie Dun Dhoone puffed-up with victory asking himself: What next? He was a king now, you could not forget that. Kings and clan were a dangerous mix.

Nan had been roasting wild carrot and leek on little wood splints over the fire. When she spotted Vaylo she removed them from the heat and rose to meet him. Without a word passing between them she ducked under his free arm, slid her hand around his waist and drew him toward their tent.

Vaylo was glad of her. As he walked between his lady and his grand-son, uncertain as to who was supporting whom, he tried to still his thoughts. He felt old and loose.

Word spread through the camp quickly. Thrago dead, Hanro dead, hundreds of Bluddsmen slaughtered. Vaylo sat on the hard ground in front of his tent and watched his men grow restless. They would ride on the Bluddhouse tonight given the choice. Quarro’s refusal to send forces to aid his brother offended them deeply as Bluddsmen. “We should break the Red Gate by dawn,” he heard more than one man murmur.

Vaylo did not bother to point out the two problems with this. One, that Bluddsmen would be fighting Bluddsmen, shedding their own blood at a time when clan was already suffering. And two, with Nan, Pasha, Aaron and three wounded in the camp, they boasted a force of twenty-four. And anyone would be very much mistaken if they thought the Dog Lord would lead a strike on the Bluddhouse while leaving his grandchildren and wounded unguarded. That meant the true number was something under twenty.

Under twenty could not take a house.

Talk was unsettled around the fire that night. Men had taken themselves for long rides, away from camp and into the woods. Things had been killed. Someone had brought down a boar. Vaylo could smell it, though it had not yet been butchered, just split and drained. Talk was of Withy. Many in the camp had lost friends or kin. There was a sense of time running out. Great and terrible events were happening to Bludd while they were camped on a bald hillside, biding time.

Vaylo took to his bed early. He, Nan and the bairns retired to their small canvas-and-deerskin shelter and snuggled for warmth. Pasha had unfastened her braids and Vaylo ended up with his granddaughter’s thick black hair in his face. He had to stop himself from hugging her and Aaron tightly to his chest. This time last year he had boasted nineteen grandchildren. Now he was down to three.

He did not sleep. He feared he would dream of Thrago and Hanro and he feared those dreams would be filled with blame.

When Odwin Two Bear’s cry came Vaylo rose to his knees and buckled his sword. “Stay here,” he warned the people he loved most. To Aaron he said, “Remember what we spoke of earlier.”

The boy nodded solemnly.

Vaylo left.

The rest of the warriors in the camp were ahead of him—including Wittish Owans, who was one of the wounded. It was not a good night to strike Bluddsmen. Tempers were hot and they were liberal with their swords. The Unmade were already engaged.

Vaylo saw the rippling blackness and smelled empty and frozen spaces. You could hardly believe the forms had weight until you saw the grass flatten beneath them. Vaylo counted four. Only two were shaped to wield swords. The front two were something other, loping monsters who carried weight and muscle mass on their backs. They screeched like gulls. Ancient cunning lived in their small dead eyes.

They were more dangerous than the forms that held Kil Ji. They had to be isolated, then circled with swords. Someone had to risk entering the lethal space they commanded. Bluddsmen were up for it. Tonight, northwest of their roundhouse with the news of Bludd losses still unsettled in their heads, they were the beings who were possessed.

Bludd had always been the most fiercely terrible of all clans. Here, on open ground, they found their stride. Later, when Vaylo thought about it, he would use the word calling. There was as much beauty to be found in Bluddsmen’s swordblows this night as there was in Sull arrows piercing hearts.

They lost just one man, the swordsman Harkie Selmor, whose father owned a dairy farm east of the roundhouse. Vaylo took Harkie’s life swiftly after the boy lost part of his gut.

Afterwards Bluddsmen cleaned their swords. They sat on the grass and rested. The stench of earth burning as the two voided steel swords sunk beneath the ground was overpowering. Looking north toward the Deadwoods, Vaylo spoke a two-word prayer.

No more.

He stayed awake all night repeating it, watching for men and creatures that should have been dead.

They had been lucky. Four against twenty-five, including Wittish: fair odds when it came to the Unmade.

As the sky began to lighten in the east, Vaylo found himself recalling Angus Lok. The ranger had said many things to him over the years, but one thing, spoken in the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, was beginning to stand out. Return to Bludd and marshal your forces and wait for the Long Night to come.

It sounded, now Vaylo thought of it, about right.

We are Bludd. Chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders.

Vaylo rose as the first rays of sunlight streamed toward the camp. There had been more than beauty present in the Bluddsmen’s Swordblows. Truth was there as well. He knew what he had to do.

For a wonder, the bairns were asleep in the tent. The leather cage with the bird inside it was lying next to Aaron’s foot. Vaylo took it and walked east from the camp.

By scheming with the Surlord of Spire Vanis, he had already made one unholy alliance in his life. What was one more compared to that?

A man could not lose his soul twice.

He had to retake Bludd. Dangers were mounting and he, his men and his grandchildren needed to be safe in the Bluddhouse. Everything else must taken second place.

Sull needs Bludd. Bludd needs Sull.

Reaching a level area of land below the camp, Vaylo snapped open the cage door and took out the bird. The tiny gray starling was alert in his hand. When it was free of the leather walls it began to chuff.

Vaylo threw it into the air and watched as it rose high in the silver sky, circling to find its bearings.

It was a powerful bird. It commanded an army.

Four hundred Sull appeared on the horizon the next day to help the Dog Lord regain his house.