Raina smiled gently at him, knowing better than to inquire at his return. Whatever news he held must be first revealed to his chief. Ullic Scarpe and Wracker Fox, two of the Scarpe warriors crowding around the door, knew no such discretion and began blasting the pair with questions. Big Cleg Trotter, son to gentle-mannered Paille and the first-ever warrior in his family, had no experience with interrogation and after frowning several times and trying unsuccessfully to ignore the Scarpes, he blurted it all out.

"Drey sent us with word. He needs reinforcements. Ganmiddich's under attack—by city men!"

An excited murmur passed through and then beyond the room Within exactly a minute, Raina reckoned, everyone in the entire roundhouse would know the news. Ganmiddich under attack by city men. Would the ill tidings never stop?

"Arlec,Cleg."

Gooseflesh erupted on Raina's arms and shoulders at the sound of her husband's voice. Mace Blackhail the Hail Wolf, had emerged from his parley in the greathearth. Dressed in Scarpe-dyed suede tunic embossed with wolf fangs, he took the stone stairs swiftly, without sound. Already aware that the chance for secrecy had been lost, he fired off his first question.

"Which city?"

Cleg swallowed nervously. Arlec spoke. "Spire Vanis."

A murmur of fear darkened the room. This was not the answer an had expected. It was no secret that Ille Glaive, the City on the Lake, had long had its eye on the wealthy border clans, but Spire Vanis? What were the Spire King and his army doing so far north?

If Mace was surprised he did not show it. Nodding once he said "And their numbers?"

Cleg swallowed again. His lore was the red-footed goose and he wore what might have been one of their desiccated feet, hooked through a ring in his ear. "We counted eleven thousand before we left."

This time Mace raised a pale hand, halting the murmur before it started. He was wearing the Clansword, Raina realized, the weapon forged from the crown of the Dhoone kings. Someone had made him a scabbard for it; a finely glazed strip of silverized leather with a she-wolf tail trailing from its tip. "We have five hundred warriors there. Ax-and hammermen. Ten dozen bowmen. And there is the Crab's own army. Once rallied he can command two thousand."

Arlec nodded. "And there's a half-dozen Crosermen who once wore the cowls."

Cowlmen. Raina shivered; she was not the only one to do so. Cowlmen were legend in the clanholds, and the border clans east of Ganmiddich were known to have the best of them. Trained assassins, siegebreakers, crack bowmen, spies, and masters of concealment, they were named after the gray hooded cloaks they swathed themselves in on their missions. As far as Raina knew Blackhail had none of them. The big northern giants—Blackhail, Dhoone and Bludd—traditionally preferred might over ambushes, snares and assassinations. Smaller border clans could not afford the luxury of clannish pride. They were threatened by rival clans to the north and the Mountain Cities to the south, and had fewer numbers with which to defend themselves. Cowlmen were their way of evening the odds. According to the ranger Angus Lok their numbers were in decline and few young men were being trained to the cowl. Yet strangely enough this only added to their mystique. One glance around this hallway was enough to see that.

"Good," Mace said. "So the Crab heeded my advice." Scarpemen and Hailsmen nodded judiciously, and Raina could tell that implication of Mace's remark-that he had been the one to advise Crab Ganmiddich to bring cowlmen into his house-sat well with them. Their chief was always thinking that extra step ahead.

For some reason Mace chose to look Raina's way just then. Wife, he mouthed for her eyes alone. She met his gaze, but it cost her. Instantly information passed between them. He was aware that she alone knew that everything he said here was a manipulation of the truth, including his remark about the cowlmen. He had never told any such thing to the Crab chief. How could he? They had never met man-to-man. To counter this damning knowledge, he simply let his memories of what happened in the Old wood dwell for the briefest moment in his eves. It was a weapon she had no defense against, that pleasure he took in what he had done to her, and she was first to break contact and look away. Every time they shared a moment like this it robbed a part of her soul.

He knew it too, and it was as if whatever vitality she lost he gained. Turning back to Arlec he asked, "And the repairs to the Crab Gate?"

"Done. But the riverwall needs"

"The riverwall is of little consequence," Mace said, cutting the young hammerman short. "Drey and the Crab are sitting well. They should be able to hold out until we arrive with more men."

Several things happened to Arlec's face as he listened to his chief speak. First he had wanted to interrupt him, Raina was sure of it, point out that his chief was mistaken, and that the riverwall did indeed count and here was why. Second, he had begun to nod in agreement when Mace said that Drey and the Crab were currently secure. And third, his cheeks had flushed with excitement at the words "until we arrive with more men"

All around the entrance hall men uncradled their hammers and axes and unsheathed their swords. Someone—perhaps old and crotchety Turby Flapp-cried, "Kill Spire!" and then the thudding began. Hammer and ax butts were struck against the walls and floor with force. After a few second all the impacts fell in time and a single, thumping war charge echoed through the Hailhouse.

"Kill Spiret Kill Spire! Kill Spire!"

Feeling weak at the knees, Raina withdrew the few steps necessary to steady herself against the endwall. She had seen a similar thing happen six months ago, when Raif and Drey Sevrance had returned from the Badlands and the Dog Lord had been blamed for Dagros death. Kill Bludd! they had cried then. A lot of good that had done, plunging the clan into war with Dhoone and Bludd.

Yet she could not deny that they needed this. For a week she had looked into the eyes of men and women who were lost. The Hailstone lay shattered and in pieces, and without it they were set adrift. Raina felt it, too, that feeling of no longer being anchored to earth and clan. The gods no longer lived here; the implications were too much to comprehend.

Here, though, was something Hailsmen could understand: war. Joy and rage and comradeship had come alive in this room. Mace Blackhail had turned a situation that was cause for despair into a rallying cry for the clan. It was, Raina realized with deeply mixed feelings, something she could learn from. Her husband had flawless instincts as a warlord.

Already the makeshift war parley was starting to head upstairs to the primary hall in the roundhouse, the warriors' chamber known as the greathearth. Bev Shank and his father Orwin passed Raina with barely a sideways glance. Orwin had his great bell-bladed war ax out and his swollen, arthritic knuckle joints were stretched white where they grasped the limewood handle. His oldest son, Mull, was at Ganmiddich. Ullic Scarpe, one of the many cousins of the Weasel chief, was brandishing his ugly black-tinted broadsword, making mock swipes at his companion Wracker Fox. Both men sneered at Raina, pushing closer to her than was necessary as they made their way toward the stairs.

Meanwhile, Ballic the Red was quietly pulling Arlec Byce and Cleg Trotter to one side and Raina could tell from the brevity of Baillic's expression that the master bowman had taken it up himself to explain to them the fate of the Hailstone. Raina was glad they would hear the news from a decent man.

Mace was in the midst of a huddle of hammermen intent on escorting their chief up the stairs. As he drew closer Raina steeled herself "Husband," she said. "If I might have a word»