Icevein: Chapter 3

The rush of the stream filled Gretti’s ears. Spring meltwaters flowed down the ridges, turning rills that barely trickled in the summer into torrents that washed away paths and filled ravines. Such a raging freshet faced him now, carrying brown silt-laden water down the slope with a roar. The trunk of a pine, its bark torn and branches snapped, careened down the flood. It had rained hard that morning, speeding the melt of the snow atop the ridge.

He couldn’t hear over the water, but he knew there were wardens atop the ridge and more pushing up from behind. They’d cornered him above the flooded ravine, flushing him like a deer. There was no way he could force his way across the thundering cataract. It would tumble him down the ridge and into the ravine. Even if it didn’t crush him against rocks, Gretti couldn’t swim.

Tall Red Ridge pines towered overhead, and he crouched next to the nearest, placing his back against the bark, looking around for anything that might provide more cover. He saw a flash of movement. A call pierced through the sound of water. He knew he’d been seen, and he was tired. Exhausted, even. A smooth stone lay on the ground at his feet. He picked it up, hiding it in his palm. There was a part of him that wanted to be caught. At least then he could rest. They’d take him to Glint, stand him before their ridiculousIrik-Rhûl. . . or they’d simply kill him on sight. Either way, it would be over.

“Turn slowly!”

The command startled Gretti. He turned his head without turning his body. Two wardens crouched a few yards away, just below him on the slope, their crossbows trained upon him. Mottled cloth and leather covered the bulk of their hauberks, and short axes and punch daggers hung at their belts. They carried packs as well. Gretti couldn’t believe how quick the fiends were with all that weight. He hadn’t seen them.

There was a short axe in Gretti’s own belt, and a knife, but their bolts would be in him before he could lay a hand on either. He tensed, waiting for the sound of bowstrings, but it didn’t come.

“Drop your weapons,” one of the dwarves said. Gretti reached for his axe.

“By the head!” The warden had to shout to be heard over the roar of the water. The axe couldn’t be thrown if held by the head. Gretti scanned the trees and slope, but he saw no others. A score or more wardens might be scouring the ridge-side, but none were close enough to see or to hear over the water. Slowly, he slid the axe from his belt by the the top of the axehead using his empty hand. He dropped it to the pine needles and moss.

“The knife,” the warden called. Gretti pinched the knife-pommel between his fingers to show he meant no treachery, drawing it and letting it fall to the ground.

The second wardens climbed upward, keeping his crossbow trained on Gretti the whole time.

“Stay still,” the dwarf said as he neared. It was clear they were afraid of him.

“Do you mean to kill me?” Gretti asked, quietly. The dwarf leaned over, picking up the axe and knife and tossing them aside. The warden who had given the commands approached a few paces closer.

“Do you mean to kill me?” Gretti asked again.

“We mean to take you to Chargrim to be judged.”

Gretti glanced at the ridge again. Still no more wardens.

“What gives you the right to take me by force?”

“You will face the judgment of theIrik-Rhûlfor your crimes.”

“Chargrim of Glint has no authority to deprive me of my duty and right.”

The first dwarf set his crossbow on the ground and pulled an extra bowstring from a pouch at his side.

“Hands,” he said.

Gretti held out his hands, two fists side by side. The dwarf stepped forward with the cord, and Gretti made one small step to the side, putting the dwarf between him and the second warden.

“Hey!”

Gretti drew back and flung the stone. He knew by instinct that he’d thrown well, but he did not wait to see. Grabbing the dwarf in front of him with both hands, he slammed his forehead into his nose, lifted him bodily, and flung him sideways into the rushing torrent. He was gone without a cry.

The warden’s crossbow was at Gretti’s feet. The stone had knocked the second warden backward, but now he level his own crossbow, blood streaming from his nose. Gretti fell to the ground even as the warden pulled the catch, loosing his bolt. The blade of the quarrel tore along the flesh of Gretti’s side as he fell, gouging his flank before burying itself into the loam behind him.

Rolling, Gretti grabbed the crossbow from the ground and leveled it at the warden. The dwarf raised his arm before his face. Gretti fumbled at the mechanism, pulled the catch, and the bolt sprang forward, slamming into the dwarf’s hip. The warden cried out and fell backward, tumbling a few yards down the slope before hitting the trunk of a pine. Gretti grabbed his dropped axe and lurched after the dwarf, feeling the pull and burn of the flesh of his flank. With a few leaps, he was over the warden.

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The dwarf was trying to pull his handaxe free, but he saw it was too late.

“Please,” he said. “I’m hurt. I can’t. . .” The pain was clear on his face, along with the fear of death.

Gretti looked around, one arm clutched at his wounded side, the other holding the raised axe. It had been mere moments, and he could still see no other wardens. He looked back down. This dwarf could raise the alarm, and now Gretti was hurt. Yet this was not one of his foes. This was some young dwarf a decade past rhundal, the same as the one lost to the freshet.

“Swear that you will not help them find me.”

“I give you my oath,” he grunted through the pain, clutching the quarrel that protruded from his hip. By the look, it had buried in the joint, and live or die, he’d likely be maimed.

No. It was too much of a risk to leave him. Gretti raised the axe, and the dwarf closed his eyes.

No. This would be murder. Gretti was not a murderer. And the others would have to tend the wounded dwarf and carry him back. That was good for Gretti.

“The slaying was just,” Gretti said. The dwarf opened his eyes. Gretti nodded toward the rushing water. “It was just. As was your wounding. No dwarf may take the right of vengeance from me, or take me against my will.” Gretti waited, but the dwarf made no response, staring up at him with eyes wide.

“It was just,” Gretti said again, then louder: “It was just!”

“It was just,” the dwarf echoed.

Gretti heard calls from up the slope, but he saw no movement. Without another word, he turned east, doubling back the way he had come. He would slip their trap.

Chargrim and Peridot stepped into the feasting chamber of the family stonehold to be met by the smells of roasting lamb and spiced tea. They had lost count of how many games of Ingots they had played. Peridot’s absence meant Iolite had prepared the meal by herself; their mother staunchly refused to have servants in the hold, despite their father’s suggestions.

“You skipped a sleep again,” Onyx said to Chargrim. Onyx sat at the table beside and to the left of Chargrim’s place. She wore a mantle of burgundy artfully worked with her own silver mesh, so that it glistened in the lamplight. Next to her were places for Peridot and Iolite, while on the opposite side of the table Peridot’s little brothers Coaleye, Firelip, and theYamisat. The ever-hungry gilke were clearly eager for food.Yamiwas the youngest.Yamimerely meant “babe,” which he would likely be called for another year or so. Rightauger’s place at her father’s right hand was empty.

“I had much to do,” Chargrim answered, sitting down heavily in the stone chair at the head of the table. “But my stomach has led me back just in time. Lifting ledgers is hungry work.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. In truth, her father was skinnier than he had any business being, and it was not unusual for him to miss a meal.

“There is always much to do, but you don’t always have to be the one to do it.”

Iolite entered the chamber from the larder. She carried the roast on a wide platter, and her eyes darted to Peridot and narrowed. Peridot knew the accusation well enough. Iolite hated to cook, and Peridot usually did most of the labors in the preparation of food and drink. In theory, they were both their mother’s assistants in working wire and keeping the hold, but Iolite preferred wire.

Peridot hurried into the larder to bring the mugs, returning to fill them from the samovar. Hot coals had set the tea within to steaming.

“If you are going to fall asleep at table, you may as well go to the alcove,” Onyx said, but her tone had softened. “You must rest.”

Chargrim smiled but did not open his eyes.

“I will rest, but I am hungry.” He stretched out his bad leg beneath the table and rested a hand on the knee, breathing out slowly.

Iolite carved the roast and laid slices upon smaller silver platters that already bore beds of roasted beetroots and garlic. She set the first platter before her father, and the next before her mother. The platter at Rightauger’s place she left empty. The gilke would eat with their hands from a shared dish. There was no lack, but it was tradition up to a certain age. Peridot placed the mugs of tea, though before her father she also set a pitcher of mead.

“Where is Rightauger?” Chargrim asked, opening his eyes and pulling his knife free from his belt. “Is Shineboot’s first shift still at labor?” He began slicing the meat before him. At this signal, the three gilke attacked their portion.

“Help Yami,” Onyx told the older gilke.

Peridot wasn’t sure when the shifts down in the lower workings changed. It was easy to lose track, as it made no difference to her life, though it was a message from Shineboot that had caused her earlier errand. Peridot finally sat at her own place at the table. In many stoneholds, the wifs, maids, and gilna ate at a separate table from the dwarves andgilke,but Onyx lived her life more like a wif-of-craft, and she sat at table with her husband.

Onyx met Peridot’s gaze. Peridot could tell her mother was irritated with her, and she did feel a little guilty. Her mother had sent her on an errand, but she had not brought Rightauger home, and she had stayed away playing Ingots with her father. Peridot searched for words, pretending that she had to finish chewing her bite of beets. Chargrim observed Onyx’s glance and squinted at Peridot, but at that moment, Rightauger strode into the chamber. Peridot sprang to her feet and hurried to fill Rightauger’s platter.

“There you are,” Onyx said, smiling at her son.

“You stayed clean,” Chargrim said. “Don’t tell me I have to speak with Shineboot again. You don’t need to be running errands. You need a shovel in your hands.”

“I’ll ask tomorrow,” Rightauger said. Peridot was lifting a thick slice of lamb onto Rightauger’s platter, but she still noticed the looks exchanged across the table at this deception, but her father was chewing, looking down at his roast, and he didn’t appear to see. She wanted to tell her father, to reveal Rightauger’s behavior, but her mother stayed silent. Peridot knew that to speak now would be seen as a usurpation of her mother. During her games of Ingots with Chargrim, she had pushed the problem aside in her mind. Something in her resisted being a talebearer.

Rightauger pointed to the pitcher of mead at Chargrim’s arm, raising an eyebrow. Chargrim inclined his head. Peridot set the filled platter before Rightauger and hurried to get him another mug for mead.