Hammie Faa and white-haired Mogo Salt stepped forward to pay their respects to the dead. No one spoke. All were warriors here. Mogo was young to have the white hair and Vaylo wondered if he minded it. Not all Salt men had it—Cawdo's hair had been thick and brown— but it was a trait the family was known for.

"Come," Vaylo said to them after some minutes had passed. "Let us away to look at the Rift."

They mounted their horses and rode north until the land ceased rising. Vaylo enjoyed the high-sprung nature of his horse, was glad he had to fight it. He thought about the Dog Horse, his mount for nearly a decade, and wondered what had become of it after it had broken free from the burning stables at Dhoone. He had loved that horse, but doubted anyone else could, and he hoped it hadn't been slaughtered for meat No Dhoonesman would have been able to master it, that was for sure.

Forcing the stallion into a skidding halt, Vaylo squinted into the far distance. His old, hardened lenses were not what once they were and it took a moment for the Rift to come into focus. You couldn't see the hole itself, just the raised cliffs on the other side of it and the horizon-long shadow that told of something… missing.

"Its a sight," he said as Hammie and Mogo rode abreast of him, "But not one to warm a man's heart."

Hammie stood in his stirrups and whistled. He too was kitted with a new cloak and a borrowed horse. The cloak was maroon and trimmed with marten and intended for someone taller. The horse had big nostrils and a powerful neck.

"I was there six days back," Mogo said. "An entire roundhouse could tall in and you wouldn't be able to find it."

Silence followed as Hammie and the Dog Lord contemplated this fact.

"Where are the Maimed Men?" Hammie asked.

"East of here. Sometimes we see their smoke."

Hammie thought about this. "How do they get across for their raids?"

Mogo brought his white eyebrows together in a frown. "Da told me there was a bridge only no sworn clansman can see it"

Cawdo Salt was dead, killed several months back at Ganmiddich, so Vaylo did not speak up to contradict his wisdom. The Dog Lord did not believe in such things as bridges that could only be seen by select people. He believed in trickiness and subterfuge, and imagined they played some part in the Maimed Men's ability to cross into the clan- holds. "You know what I think?" he asked. Both Mogo and Hammie earnestly shook their heads. The Dog Lord put on his most serious chief's face. "Evn if I give you a five minute start I'll still beat you back to the fort."

Hammie, who knew how these things worked took off. Mogo Salt, sat there in the saddle and looked confused. "Go," Vaylo told him, not unkindly. 'It's a race;

The boy got the idea soon enough. As Vaylo listened to the drum of horse hoofs he finally felt free to breathe. To the west of hirn he spied the wolf dog, worrying a piece of fox. Turning the stallion, he looked south at the Copper Hills. He thought he could see the broken turret of the forts watchtower, but couldn't be sure.

What were Bluddsmen doing here? And why were they staying?

This was Dhoone—and a godforsaken comer of it at that. How long before Robbie Dun Dhoone rode north to reclaim it? How long before whatever monstrosities had slain Derek Blunt and his men stirred for a second feeding? Vaylo could not get the sight of the barrows out of his mind. Men dead and entombed in stone but still fighting.

They had been buried to the north, not to the south to protect against attacks from rival clans. Had the Maimed Men ever warranted such a display or fear and bravado? Vaylo thought not. The Maimed Men were outcasts, left-behinds. Freaks. You could fight off ten of them with a decent crossbow.

Vaylo breathed the icy air through his mouth, punishing his teeth. He did not like it here, and wondered how long he could stay. Kicking the stallion into motion, he raced south.

As he descended the slope into the valley, the sun broke out for a while and its scrawny warmth improved his spirits. He had to remember that here was better than nowhere. Chief of a moldy hillfort was better than no chief at all. Hunkering low against his horse's neck, Vaylo switched paths so he wouldn't have to pass the Field of Swords and Graves. Might even be quicker this way, always supposing he didn't run into rocks and ponds concealed by the snow. The territory was still new to the horse so it didn't have much of an opinion on the route. It didn't like the scent of the wolf dog, that much was certain, and Vaylo thought it a pity that he hadn't trained the hound to chase his horses—he'd get some real speed from them that way.

Hope of catching Hammie and Mogo dwindled as he found himself on the wrong side of a melt creek that had sprung on the valley floor. Of course, Vaylo eluded himself, he should have kept an eye to the seasoned man. Mogo Salt, had been here the longest; his route would be the best. Irritation made Vaylo force jump, and the stallion stum bled on theupslope, panicked, and tried to-throw him. The Dog Lord hung on grimly, knees clamped to the horses belly, knuckles white around the reigns. It occured to him that he could end the race simply trot the horse back and congratulate the winner-but it seemed a petty kind of act. Give up now and he'd deprive either Hammie or Mogo of the satisfaction of beating his chief.

Shaken and with the old pain nagging at his heart, Vaylo galloped back to the hillfort. For a wonder Hammie Faa won. Those big nostrilsi had meant more air, which made for a faster horse. Both men assailed him with their stories. Hammie's saddle had slid off center, his mount had thrown a shoe. Mogo had taken the lead, hit a pothole, had a near miss with the offending shoe. Vaylo grumbled at them, told them he'd taken time midway to boil himself a cup of tea. Hammie beamed, his cheeks as red as only a Faa man's could be.

"Inside," Vaylo ordered. "And no telling this to the bairns." As he spoke he looked up at the drum-shaped war terrace that extended out from the fort's north ward. Cluff Drybannock stood there speaking to someone Vaylo recognized and knew.

The surprise of it chilled him. He had thought himself at the end of the earth here, yet there was his third son.

It was difficult to keep his mind in the moment. Stirring himself, he frowned skeptically at the hoof that was missing a shoe, told Mogo he'd more than likely ducked horseshit, not iron, and steered his small group onto the path that led to the western door.

The hillfort no longer boasted viable stables and all horses were kept belowground in the western ward. Someone had done a fair job of boxing and partitioning the space, and Vaylo saw that sheets of scrap copper had been molded into troughs. He forced himself to unsaddle and brush down the stallion. Hammie knew something was up and offered to take charge of the feed and watering. Vaylo let him. "For a man with a new horse," he told him, "you didn't do half bad."

Hammie pressed his lips together, nodded, and then said, "Chief." Vaylo took that word up the stairs with him and into the north ward. The big double doors were open and the air outside blew in. Bluddsmen were sitting on benches and leaning against walls, keeping up the pretense of oiling swords, mending tack, scraping rust from chainmail. One man was actually taking a swipe at the mold on the walls with a cloth soaked in lye; Nan's circle of influence was growing. They were quiet as he walked through the room and onto the war terrace.

Cluff Drybannock and Gangaric HalfBludd were the only men on the balcony. They were standing close to the stone balustrade, off center to avoid the gazes of the Bluddsmen in the ward. Neither man was speaking. The distance between them was a fraction too great to allow relaxed conversation. They turned to him as he stepped outside. Gangaric looked relieved.