A Cavern of Black Ice by J. V. Jones Read Free Book Online

about it. What had the Sevrances ever done to the old
bastard to deserve such short shrift?
    Raif tugged at the raven's lore,
testing its oiled binding. When he was younger he had thrown the
thing away more times than he could recount, yet somehow the guide
always found it and brought it back. "It's yours, Raif
Sevrance," he would say, holding out the black piece of horn in
his scarred filthy palm. "And one day you may be glad of it."
    All thoughts of ravens flew from Raif's
mind as he and Drey approached the tent circle. The first rays of
sunlight slid across the frozen tundra, illuminating the campsite
with long threads of morning light. Already the six
hide-and-moose-felt tents, the horse posts, the firepit, the drying
racks, and the chopping stump had the look of ruins about them. Tem
had once told Raif a story about a great dark deathship that mariners
swore guarded the entrance to Endsea, keeping all but the blind and
insane away. That was what the tents looked like now: the sails of a
dead ship.
    Raif shivered. His hand dropped from
his neck to the hollowed-out antler tine that was attached to his
gear belt by a ring of tar-blackened brass. Sealed inside the tine
was hallowed earth: dust ground from the guidestone that formed the
Heart of Clan. Every clan had a guide-stone, and every clansman
carried a portion of it with him until he died.
    The Clan Blackhail guidestone was a
massive slab of folded granite as big as a stable block, shot with
veins of black graphite and slick with grease. Clan Bludd's
guidestone was also folded granite, but it was studded with seams of
red garnets that shone like drying blood. Raif had never seen the
powder that came from the Bluddstone, but he thought it must look
pretty much the same as that ground from the Hailstone: smooth gray
powder that ran through the hand like liquid smoke.
    As he neared the firepit, he plucked
the tine from his belt, breaking the brass ring. The tine was sealed
closed with a cap of beaten silver, and Raif ran his thumb along the
tine's length, feeling for the edge. Twelve men had died here, and
only two remained. And two men without horses, carts, or sleds could
never hope to bring back the dead.
    The roundhouse lay five days' hard
travel south, and that was more than time enough for scavengers to
tear the bodies to shreds.
    Raif wouldn't have it. Ravens were in
the sky already, turning circles a league across, and soon wolves,
coyotes, bears, and tundra cats would harken to the sound of their
kaawing
. All beasts that fed upon dead things would be drawn
to the camp, in search of one final meal to gorge on before winter
started true.
    Shaking his head with a single savage
blow, Raif flicked the cap from the tine. It popped open with a small
hiss. Fine powder from the guidestone streamed in the wind like a
comet's tail, bringing the taste of granite to Raif's lips. After a
moment of utter silence, he began walking the circle. Around the
firepit, the drying racks, the tents, and the bodies he moved,
carving a path of air and dust. The gray powder sailed long on
winter's breath, riding the cold eddies and swirling up-drafts before
sinking to its frozen bed.
    Nothing was ever going to take Tern
Sevrance. Ever. No ravens would pick at his eyes and his lips, no
wolves would sink their fangs into his belly and his rump, no bears
would suck the marrow from his bones, and no dogs would fight over
scraps. He'd be damned to the darkest pits in hell if they would.
    'Raif?"
    Looking round, Raif saw Drey standing
at the entrance to their father's tent, carrying a bundle of supplies
pressed hard against his chest. "What are you doing?"
    'I'm drawing a guide circle. We're
going to burn the camp." Raif hardly recognized his own voice as
he spoke. He sounded cold, and there was a challenge in his words he
had not originally intended.
    Drey looked at him a long while. His
normally light brown eyes were as dark as the walls of the firepit.
He knew Raif's reasons—they were