A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (42 page)

Tanjo Ten Arrow chose to launch only one practice arrow, expertly pitched to exploit the wind. Even from two hundred paces Raif heard the satisfying
thunk
of an arrow piercing the hollow center of the bull.

“I think I will enjoy wearing your cloak, Clansman,” Tanjo said as he relaxed his grip on the Sull bow. “It should bring me much luck in the hunt.”

Raif had no reply for him. He was running out of shots and time. He knew he was a good bowman, but it would take a master archer like Ballic the Red to match arrows with the burned man. He’d thought the extra hundred paces might even things out between them, but Tanjo’s last shot had proved him wrong. His only hope now was blind luck.

Tanjo made his next shot easily, placing his arrow a fraction high of dead center. Raif almost matched him, and hawk feathers and snow-goose feathers scissored together the arrows landed so close. Yustaffa did a little dance of glee as he waited for the cart boy to make the call. Raif wondered how much the fat man had wagered on Tanjo’s head.

The next two shots went quickly. Both Raif’s arrows placed well—one firmly in the bull and the other grazing its rim—but Tanjo’s arrows were better.

By now the crowd was going wild. “
Tan-Jo!
” they shrieked. “
Tan-Jo! Tan-Jo!
” Much ale had been drunk, and Maimed Men were pressing close on all sides. Raif could smell them and see their weapons. The pregnant woman with the slate bound to her chest looked at him and sneered. “Be a long, cold night in the Rift.”

The Gates to Hell
. Raif shuddered as Yustaffa’s words came back to him. From where he stood, twenty paces from the edge of the rimrock, he couldn’t see the vast gap in the earth. The sky above was a clear and perfect blue, and the only sign that the world wasn’t right here was the sun. It shone too pale and small, and all its warmth and half its light were swallowed by the Rift. Why send men over the edge? Dead or alive, what good did it do?

Raif barely heard the sound of the second beehive being wheeled away.

The third and final beehive was the largest of the three. Built from pine boards, it was drum-shaped and tall as a horse. It had to be. At three hundred paces few archers sought to hit a man. Most would be happy to clip a rider’s mount. Still, the bull’s-eye was there, a red circle at the height of a stallion’s heart.

Beyond the target, the hog fire roared as pork fat fueled the flames. Raif found it hard to center himself on the bull. Archery contests were all about the final round. Win here, and he could force a draw with Tanjo. It wasn’t going to be easy, though. The headwind was gusting now, and more difficult to gauge for it. The distance between archer and target was so great that the bull was the merest fleck of red in the distance. Raif glanced at Tanjo. The burned man was keenly focused on the target, the damaged skin around his eyes pulling taut as he squinted.

Practice shots were taken, and for the first time Raif got the sense that Tanjo’s arrow was exploring, rather than homing. The burned man fired his arrow a few degrees short of vertical, and the headwinds fought its arc and robbed power from it. The arrow landed on the face of the target, a good three feet below the bull. The crowd murmured their surprise. Tanjo’s shot had fallen short. Raif was quick to correct Tanjo’s error, and angled his bow lower and drew more power behind it, straining the twine until it hummed. His arrow landed high, making a solid
thunk
as it struck the beehive, demonstrating it still had power to spare. Someone in the crowd cheered. Probably Stillborn.

Raif almost grinned. It took jaw to cheer a hated man.

The next shot went better for Tanjo, but in his eagerness to counter his opponent’s show of strength, he overpowered his arrow, blasting it from the plate. Like Raif’s arrow seconds earlier, Tanjo’s landed high, missing the bull by a handspan. For a shot taken at three hundred paces it was remarkable, but Tanjo Ten Arrow took no joy from it. The burned man clenched his fist and sent a look of cold hatred to Raif.

Raif thought he was probably going mad, for that look filled him with hope. With an easy hand he drew his bow, squinting to set the faraway target in his sights. Lightly, he released the string, and watched as his arrow battled headwinds and updrafts to land on the rim of the bull.

Malign energy rippled through the Maimed Men like a storm cloud passing overhead. Raif felt their dark looks and hostile mutterings like mosquitoes landing to feed. They would have harmed him then and there if it hadn’t been for the unmoving presence of Traggis Mole. The Robber Chief seemed to control the crowd by the act of stillness. No one wanted to be the first to make him move.

“First shot to Raif Twelve Kill!” cried Yustaffa, breaking the tension by fanning a chubby hand beneath his chin as if the air had suddenly become very hot. “Two more shots left. May the gods help me survive them.”

Tanjo Ten Arrow ignored the fat man’s theatrics, and slowly pulled back his bowstring. He’d won the first two rounds, but the third counted for more. If Raif were to win here there’d be a tie, and a fourth target would be set. Waiting for a break in the wind, Tanjo held the Sull recurve at full draw as easily as if it were a child’s first bow. The jade bowring he used to protect his long fingernails glinted in the rising sun. When the release came it was so quiet on the rimrock you could hear the arrow fly. Raif knew straightaway the shot was good, but he didn’t realize
how
good until his eyes far-focused on the target . . . and saw the arrow enter the red territory of the bull. It wasn’t dead center, but it was close enough to send gasps of amazement through the crowd.

Raif forced a calmness he did not feel onto his face. Any man who could make a shot like that was worthy of respect, but he knew he couldn’t afford to admire Tanjo Ten Arrow. You had to hate a man who had the power to deprive you of life. Raif plucked an arrow from his bow case. A pulse had started throbbing in his neck, and it seemed to him that there were too many calls upon his thoughts. As he sighted his arrow he waited for the calm to come. Strangely, all winds had dropped and for the first time since he had awakened he heard the sound of the city itself. It groaned. Deep within its hand-hewn caverns bedrock was moving. Low wails and barely audible creaks rose from the hollow orbits of its many caves, making a sound like something tearing open.

A memory came to Raif unbidden: the gas geysers exploding as he and Ash approached Ice Trapper territory. The earth he walked on wasn’t stable any more.

With the briefest kiss, he released the string. As he braced against the recoil he realized he had held his draw too long and relaxed the tension unwittingly, and the arrow sped forth underpowered. Angry at himself, he watched as the arrow flew too low and reached its zenith too soon. Lazily, it dropped to the foot of the target, barely carrying enough speed to pierce wood.

“Second shot to Tanjo Ten Arrow!”

A small satisfied smile briefly stretched the pink and tan skin of Tanjo’s face. He did not look at Yustaffa or the cheering crowd, only Raif. “Did you think I would let you win this, Clansman?” He lifted the Sull bow so that it caught the light, causing the dyed horn to ripple like molten glass. Silvery markings which had shown earlier as faint lines suddenly leapt into sharp relief: moon and stars. And a raven. A raven screaming at the night. “I would die first.”

With that Tanjo Ten Arrow took his final shot. The arrow moved in the exact same arc as his last one, almost as if it were following a trail. The only difference was a fraction of extra pull to the right that guided the iron head even closer to the center of the bull.

Raif flinched as the arrow hit. Maimed Men began pounding rock with the butts of their weapons and booted feet, chanting a word that it took him a moment to understand. For an instant he thought they were calling his name and he wondered what had happened to change their allegiance—but then he realized they were speaking his death sentence instead.

“Rift! Rift! Rift!”

Grimly, Raif nocked his arrow. A sort of dark calm was descending upon him, and the pulse in his neck began beating with the quiet force of a second heart. He knew Death. He’d met her. Did they think they could scare him by threatening to send him back?

The arrow flew hard from the plate. Whatever force had possessed Raif’s body had transferred to the bow, and the recoil lashed against his hand. The pain barely registered. He’d sent his arrow too high, and all its power was being wasted as it climbed almost vertically toward the sky. Raif cursed himself. It was all over. Arrows like that peaked and then fell. They were good for taking an enemy’s eye out on the field, but not for hitting targets. Already the Maimed Men were closing on him, their chant rising as the arrow dropped.

“Rift! Rift! Rift!”

And then the updrafts rose. Suddenly the air moved, lifting cloak hems and scalp hair and filling the women’s skirts until they puffed like bells. Raif felt a drying warmth upon his eyeballs, and then his warrior’s queue lifted from his shoulders like a pennant.

Invisible columns of force rose from the hole in the earth, making the air ripple as if it were melting, and catching in the flight feathers of Raif’s arrow. It happened in less than an instant, but to Raif it seemed as if he watched the path of his arrow change over minutes. Air buoyed the shaft and nudged the point upward, shifting the flight from a sheer drop to an arcing fall. All was quiet for a moment as the arrow traveled westward on the thermals. Eight hundred faces turned skyward. Breath was held. The updrafts blew steadily for perhaps another second, and then died.

The arrow dropped with the wind.

Thunk.
Dead center of the bull.

Silence. A stillness possessed the Maimed Men. It was as if no one wanted to be the first to move or speak into the void created by the receding wind.

Defiantly, Raif rested his bow, causing the wood to tap against the rock. He couldn’t understand what had just happened, but he sensed danger, and he knew he would be a fool to show these men his fear. Steadying himself, he turned to Yustaffa. “Announce the victor.”

All animation had drained from Yustaffa, leaving him looking fat and charmless. His tunic strained at the seams, and grease in his over-coiffed hair had attracted stray filaments from the arrows’ flight feathers. He cleared his throat, and Raif did not miss the glance he sent to Traggis Mole before daring to open his mouth. “Third and final round goes to Raif Twelve Kill.”

The crowd surged forward, mouths shrinking, fingers closing around air. Someone threw a stone.

Yustaffa raised his palms skyward and rushed on, his voice almost squeaking. “Now, Rift Brothers, we mustn’t be hasty. The contest isn’t done yet. In the event of a tie we fall back on that most glorious and perilous tradition: sudden death. Yes, my friends. Sudden death. One target, one shot per man. Best shot wins.” Yustaffa swung his head back and forth, looking for an appropriate target. Clearly, none had been arranged. No one had thought the outsider could win.

Raif looked away. For some reason he found himself thinking of Ash. Where was she this moment? Did she ever wonder if leaving him had been a mistake?

“Let them shoot the hog.”

The sharp, rough-edged voice of Traggis Mole brought him back. Raif looked up to see the Robber Chief’s black gaze upon him, and he was almost glad of it. Glad because it took his mind away from Ash.

Charged silence followed Traggis Mole’s words. Maimed Men eased back, but did not appear eased. Their chief’s voice stirred them, and Raif could see the need for violence in their eyes.
They’re not clan
. He’d been told it by Tem and Angus and a dozen other people he knew. Three nights ago Stillborn had told him the same. Yet he’d listened without truly hearing them. Now he knew they were right. The Maimed Men looked and sounded like clan, most of them, but there were no gods living in this stone city and nothing but shared desperation to bind it.

“I yield first shot to the clansman.” Tanjo Ten Arrow bowed to Raif as he spoke, his face a mask of politeness as his shoulder blades sliced air.

Raif did not return the courtesy. It was a sham. The hog was perhaps three hundred and fifty paces away, far wide of the central lane, suspended above a snakepit of flames. Heat distorted the air, and smoke clouded it. Tanjo had not relinquished first shot out of kindness. No practice shots were allowed in sudden death. The man who loosed his arrow first would be shooting blind. How much pull and height would be needed? Was the heat of the fire great enough to affect the arrow’s flight? Any experienced bowman was capable of making such judgments, but the decisions were that much easier when you could learn by someone else’s mistakes. Tanjo had decided to stand back and let Raif make some.

There was nothing to be done but shoot. Raif flexed the longbow and waited for the women to clear the cook fire. The hog had been turned to present its flank to the archers, and although the animal was large it was winter-starved and bony. Raif wondered where it had come from, for Stillborn had said the Maimed Men were short of meat. Did raid parties ride south and seize livestock from tied clansmen? How did they cross the Rift?

He fitted an arrow to the longbow. The carcass was hideous. Heat had shrunk the tendons, and all four limbs were raised and contracted. The tail looked stiff enough for a child to swing on. The snout had split and split again, and glimpses of steamed pink flesh could be seen beneath the char. Raif tried not to shudder as he focused his gaze upon the flank.

Dead.
Something deep inside him, in the place where his brain fused with his spine, sparked darkly like a single beam of moonlight moving across black water. Saliva wetted Raif’s mouth. The cooked gray chambers of the hog’s heart sucked him in. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He was surrounded by reeking flesh. Nothing of life remained here, just a spongy mass of exploded cells, and arteries choked with boiled blood.
Dead.
And even though it was hot inside the chamber, an immense and merciless coldness lay beneath. Waiting.