Free A Sword From Red Ice by J. V. Jones

in his ear. "We counted eleven thousand
before we left."
    This time Mace raised a pale hand, halting the
murmur before it started. He was wearing the Clansword, Raina
realized, the weapon forged from the crown of the Dhoone kings.
Someone had made him a scabbard for it; a finely glazed strip of
silverized leather with a she-wolf tail trailing from its tip. "We
have five hundred warriors there. Ax- and hammermen. Ten dozen
bowmen. And there is the Crab's own army. Once rallied he can command
two thousand."
    Arlec nodded. "And there's a half-dozen
Crosermen who once wore the cowls."
    Cowlmen. Raina shivered; she was not the only one
to do so. Cowlmen were legend in the clanholds, and the border clans
east of Ganmiddich were known to have the best of them. Trained
assassins, siegebreakers, crack bowmen, spies, and masters of
concealment, they were named after the gray hooded cloaks they
swathed themselves in on their missions. As far as Raina knew
Blackhail had none of them. The big northern giants—Blackhail,
Dhoone and Bludd—traditionally preferred might over ambushes,
snares and assassinations. Smaller border clans could not afford the
luxury of clannish pride. They were threatened by rival clans to the
north and the Mountain Cities to the south, and had fewer numbers
with which to defend themselves. Cowlmen were their way of evening
the odds. According to the ranger Angus Lok their numbers were in
decline and few young men were being trained to the cowl. Yet
strangely enough this only added to their mystique. One glance around
this hallway was enough to see that.
    "Good," Mace said. "So the Crab
heeded my advice." Scarpemen and Hailsmen nodded judiciously,
and Raina could tell that implication of Mace's remark—that he
had been the one to advise Crab Ganmiddich to bring cowlmen into his
house—sat well with them. Their chief was always thinking that
extra step ahead.
    For some reason Mace chose to look Raina's way
just then. Wife, he mouthed for her eyes alone. She met his gaze, but
it cost her. Instantly information passed between them. He was aware
that she alone knew that everything he said here was a manipulation
of the truth, including his remark about the cowlmen. He had never
told any such thing to the Crab chief. How could he? They had never
met man-to-man. To counter this damning knowledge, he simply let his
memories of what happened in the Oldwood dwell for the briefest
moment in his eves. It was a weapon she had no defense against, that
pleasure he took in what he had done to her, and she was first to
break contact and look away. Every time they shared a moment like
this it robbed a part of her soul.
    He knew it too, and it was as if whatever vitality
she lost he gained. Turning back to Arlec he asked, "And the
repairs to the Crab Gate?"
    "Done. But the riverwall needs—"
    "The riverwall is of little consequence,"
Mace said, cutting the young hammerman short. "Drey and the Crab
are sitting well. They should be able to hold out until we arrive
with more men."
    Several things happened to Arlec's face as he
listened to his chief speak. First he had wanted to interrupt him,
Raina was sure of it, point out that his chief was mistaken, and that
the riverwall did indeed count and here was why. Second, he had begun
to nod in agreement when Mace said that Drey and the Crab were
currently secure. And third, his cheeks had flushed with excitement
at the words "until we arrive with more men."
    All around the entrance hall men uncradled their
hammers and axes and unsheathed their swords. Someone—perhaps
old and crotchety Turby Flapp—cried, "Kill Spire!"
and then the thudding began. Hammer and ax butts were struck against
the walls and floor with force. After a few second all the impacts
fell in time and a single, thumping war charge echoed through the
Hailhouse.
    "Kill Spire! Kill Spire! Kill Spire!"
    Feeling weak at the knees, Raina withdrew the few
steps necessary to steady herself