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

against the endwall. She had seen a
similar thing happen six months ago, when Raif and Drey Sevrance had
returned from the Badlands and the Dog Lord had been blamed for
Dagro's death. Kill Bludd! they had cried then. A lot of good that
had done, plunging the clan into war with Dhoone and Bludd.
    Yet she could not deny that they needed this. For
a week she had looked into the eyes of men and women who were lost.
The Hailstone lay shattered and in pieces, and without it they were
set adrift. Raina felt it, too, that feeling of no longer being
anchored to earth and clan. The gods no longer lived here; the
implications were too much to comprehend.
    Here, though, was something Hailsmen could
understand: war. Joy and rage and comradeship had come alive in this
room. Mace Blackhail had turned a situation that was cause for
despair into a rallying cry for the clan. It was, Raina realized with
deeply mixed feelings, something she could learn from. Her husband
had flawless instincts as a warlord.
    Already the makeshift war parley was starting to
head upstairs to the primary hall in the roundhouse, the warriors'
chamber known as the greathearth. Bev Shank and his father Orwin
passed Raina with barely a sideways glance. Orwin had his great
bell-bladed war ax out and his swollen, arthritic knuckle joints were
stretched white where they grasped the limewood handle. His oldest
son, Mull, was at Ganmiddich. Ullic Scarpe, one of the many cousins
of the Weasel chief, was brandishing his ugly black-tinted
broadsword, making mock swipes at his companion Wracker Fox. Both men
sneered at Raina, pushing closer to her than was necessary as they
made their way toward the stairs.
    Meanwhile, Baillic the Red was quietly pulling
Arlec Byce and Cleg Trotter to one side and Raina could tell from the
brevity of Baillic's expression that the master bowman had taken it
up himself to explain to them the fate of the Hailstone. Raina was
glad they would hear the news from a decent man.
    Mace was in the midst of a huddle of hammermen
intent on escorting their chief up the stairs. As he drew closer
Raina steeled herself. "Husband," she said. "If I
might have a word."
    He always marked her, even when his attention was
pulled a dozen ways. His head whipped around and his strange
yellow-brown eyes pinned her. "Corbie. Derric," he said to
the two nearest men. "Go on without me. The war party will leave
within five days."
    Dent-headed Corbie Meese nodded. "Aye,
Chief." He might have been a bit disappointed by Mace's
schedule, but he was a better man than to show it. Bowing his head
respectfully to Raina, he vaulted up the stairs.
    Taking her cue from Longhead and Merritt—two
people who never wasted an unnecessary word—Raina said to Mace,
"Longhead awaits your decision on the guidestone. The remains
must be laid to rest with proper ceremony."
    "It is not your concern, wife. You are not
guide or chief."
    "Something must be done. Now. There's a scrap
heap out there that used to be the Hailstone. How can we regain our
dignity as a clan if we are forced to look at it every day?"
    "Enough," Mace hissed. "I have made
plans. Longhead will hear of them when I choose to tell him."
    His words were like a slap to her face. He had
made arrangements for the stone in secret, robbing her of the chance
to have her say.
    Detecting the heat in her cheeks Mace stretched
his lips. "You forget your place."
    She did, he was right. It was something she had to
be careful of, that overreaching of her authority. A chief's wife had
no dealings with the gods. It had been a mistake to claim the
guidestone as her responsibility: it revealed ambition. Yet how
could she not care? This was her clan and she was one of the very few
people within it who could see beyond Mace Blackhail and his
self-promoting war. A quick glance at her husband's face helped
sharpen her mind. She could not give him too long to think.
    "Will you at least do me the favor of letting
Longhead know you have the