A Sword From Red Ice by J. V. Jones Read Free Book Online

allowing Bear to catch up with him. He leaned into her
and she leaned into him, and they bumped against each other with each
step. The corners of Bear's mouth were in a bad way—the edges
crusted with little red sores—and her tongue had started to
swell. Raif's throat was swollen. When he swallowed, saliva no longer
filled his mouth. His teeth were so dry they felt like stones. The
worst thing was the drifting. He caught himself doing it from time to
time, allowing his thoughts to float away, light as air. He thought
of his little sister, Effie, of her shy smiles and serious gaze. He
and Drey had taught her to read, though neither of them had been
scholars so they probably hadn't done a very good job. She'd probably
overcome it. Effie Sevrance was smarter than both of them combined.
How old would she be now? She had been eight when he left the
roundhouse. It upset him when he couldn't decide whether she was
still eight or had turned nine.
    And then there was Drey. There was always Drey. An
image of his older brother came to Raif immediately, the one that
never went away, the one of Drey on the greatcourt that winter
morning, stepping forward when no one else would. I will stand
second to his oath. The words burned Raif even now. He had broken
that oath and shamed his clan. Yet the worst was that he'd let down
Drey. Drey . . .
    Raif's thoughts drifted into a dark place.
Falling, he thought of the men he had killed: some named and many
nameless. Bluddsmen, city men, the lone Forsworn knight in a redoubt
filled with death. Thirst followed him down, gnawing, gnawing, like a
rat at the back of his throat. His lips had shriveled to husks and
when he smiled at something playing in the darkness they cracked and
bled. Pain brought him back. Blinking like a man shaken suddenly
awake, Raif looked around. The Want had shifted. Something subtle had
changed, a rotation of perspective or a shortening of distance: he
could not decide which. The mountain ridge that they'd been heading
toward all day was now upon them, looming dark and rugged and barren.
Part of Raif had been hoping to find glaciers in the high valleys but
from here he could tell that he'd badly misjudged the ridge's
elevation. What he'd imagined were mountains were little more than
spine-backed hills.
    Without warning the wound in his right shoulder
sent out a bolt of white-hot pain. Knee joints turning to jelly, he
instantly dropped to the ground. The headland's limestone had given
way to softer chalkstone and Raif fell into a bed of pulverized
chalk. Massaging his shoulder he hacked up freezing dust.
    Bear came over, anxiously prodding him with her
head. The little hill pony had a frothy scum around her lips, and her
tongue was now too big for her mouth. It lolled to the side, black
and bloated. Raif thought about his sword.
    If not now. Soon.
    Flinging his left arm around her neck, he allowed
her to pull him to his feet. A queer tingle of pain shot along his
shoulder as he dusted chalk from his cloak. It was losing its
capacity to worry him. He needed water. Bear needed water and
shelter—her exposed tongue would be frozen meat within an hour.
Worry about anything other than those two things was becoming beyond
him. Ignoring the pain, he moved forward.
    The point where the headland joined with the ridge
was a quicksand of chalk and gravel. Walking on the chalk was
similar to walking on dry, powdery snow. With every step Bear sank up
to her hocks, sometimes further. Initially the heavier gravel was
suspended across the chalk like lily pads over water, and both Raif
and Bear learned caution. The gravel might hold, suspended beneath
the surface by more gravel, or it could sink so fast it created
suction. Every step was an ordeal. Every couple of steps one of them
had to halt to pull out sunken feet or hooves.
    When his right eyeball started to sting, Raif
realized he was beginning to sweat. Baked dry by the sun and
stiffened by the frost, his cornea seized