The old soft pain sounded in Vaylo's heart. He loved Dry so much and so completely he thought it might break. Already his decision was made.

Vaylo never knew how long the battle lasted. Time ceased to pass at normal rate, rhythms were found, a longsword mastered, men died, hearts imploded, voided steel burned sword-shapes in the ground snow. Finally there was a time when the dark riders were dead and Drybone was the only man still fighting. Chasing down the last of the beast horses, he slew it in the Field of Graves and Swords.

Vaylo dismounted. His legs were shaking like leaves. The bitch came over and pushed against him, mewling and anxious, her tail down. The wolf dog was with Dry in the field. Unclasping his sable cloak, the Dog Lord went to aid the Bluddsman who had fallen Others helped him in this, but it fell to the Bludd chief to take those whose injuries were fatal. He kissed the men on the foreheads, brushed snow from their cheeks, named them Bluddsmen and sons. Cluff Drybannock's sword was a blessing, its perfect sharpness. Vaylo's eyes were dry, his chest tight.

When he was done he cleaned his sword in the snow and waited for Drybone to join him. When he drew close, Cluff Drybannock dismounted. He would never sit a horse while his chief stood. Snowflakes whirled between them. The wolf dog began to howl.

It knew.

And then Drybone knew. Nothing changed in his stance or face, but Vaylo knew his son.

"Dry," he said. "I leave for Bludd tomorrow. Come with me." A moment passed where Vaylo was filled with reckless hope, and then Cluff Drybannock shook his head. "I cannot, my father. I am Bludd and I am Sull. This is where I choose to make my stand." The wolf dog keened in the darkness. Its sound broke Vaylo's heart.

FORTY-FIVE The Red Ice

It was the eye of the storm and they were heading toward it, the peace at the center of a vast and unsettled underworld of clouds. Hail blasted their faces, coming at them head-on. Wind howled, ripping off tree limbs weakened lftdays of frost and sending them flying through the air. They walked bent forward against the onslaught, face masks pulled up to their eyes, mitted hands snatching their cloaks taut across their bodies. If the wind got under them it could tear the cloth off their backs. The flap of Raifs daypack made a sound like a whumpfing of a large bird taking flight.

Lightning shot though the darkness in massive gridlike forks. The entire north smelled like something just ignited. The membranes in Raif's ears began popping as air pressure switched back and forth and thunder rumbled.

He wondered if one of the definitions of insanity could be "anyone who talks to leeches." That was what he was doing, muttering words that were not intended for either Addie or himself. Give me another hour, another hour, another night. The leech was with him, a good strong biter on his back. A parasite feeding on his blood.

The attack by the Unmade at the stand of red pines had altered the position of the claw next to his heart. Shadow homed to shadow. Something felt different; there was the smallest possible delay in the completion of a beat of his heart. It was muscle, he knew that. He of all people knew that. And it contracted in rhythm and that rhythm had been changed.

You did not know when you died. Perhaps that was a blessing, that short but untrackable distance between life and death. If he fell dead on this hillside all oaths would be null and void. Yet he did not want to die. He did not want to leave the world where Drey Sevrance, Effie Sevrance and Ash March existed. Drey, who had taken his swearstone that morning on the greatcourt, was the center of all things. Raif could still remember his brothers last touch on the rivershore west of Ganmiddich. We part here. For always. Take my portion of guide-stone … I would not see you unprotected.

Raif Sevrance would not see Drey unprotected either. If he found the sword. If he lived. Any unmade man or beast he slew with it would be one less evil in the world, one less threat to his family, and his clan. The circle of clear sky was close now. Mish'al Nij. The hillside leading toward it was steep. Long spines of red rock pushed through the ground and snow. White pines and cedars crowded the spaces in between them. The wind was bending the trees, revealing the silvery underside of their boughs. Addie had given up on a path. A ditchlike springbed cut deep into the slope was the best he could manage. The spring was dry of water, but scree and pinecones bounced downstream. When they reached the springhead—a lens of thick blue ice that was leaking rust—they were forced back into the trees. Raif lost sight of the sky. Cedar branches swiped his cloak and face mask and all he could see were green terraces of pine. Addie had the lead and Raif followed his small and lightly stamped footprints in the frozen snow. Lightning struck. Hailstones sizzled into puffs of steam.

"I see the ridge ahead," Addie shouted.

Raif concentrated on his feet. The sandstone was cracked and loose here and days of thaws followed by frost had left every surface slick. He wouldn't think about the Red Ice until he saw it with his own two eyes.

The cragsman disappeared into the green. Raif found himself remembering the night on the rimrock when the Forsworn sword had given way. Was that the moment his future had been lost, the instant the blade had bent? If the sword had stayed true would he be here today? Traggis Mole would not have been torn open by the Unmade serpent, and a new oath would not have been spoken. A dying man's request. Behind his hareskin face mask, Raif cracked a dark smile. Request was hardly the word for it. Traggis Mole had demanded.

Swear it.

Noticing the trees had begun to clear, Raif picked up his pace. The wound he'd taken back at the camp pulled at the skin on his gut as he straightened upright. He'd been bent against the wind for so long it had begun to heal. Ahead, Raif saw Addie standing on the ndgelme.

The cragsman had released his hold on his cloak and the brown wool billowed out like a boat. Five minutes earlier it would have been ripped from his throat. Yet the wind wasn't dying; Raif could hear it below him in the trees. It was as if the storm could not reach beyond AddigGunn. He stood on a barrier it could not pass.

The cragsman did not turn as Raif drew abreast of him. He had removed his face mask and gray stormlight lit the side of his face. His jaw was moving. He was naming the Stone Gods.

"Ganolith, Hammada, Ione, Loss, Uthred, Oban, Larannyde, Malweg, Behathmus."

Loss.

The fourth Stone God. And the name of the sword.

Raif looked down into a valley framed by steep and wooded hills on three sides and by a dam of mist on the fourth. The mist wall spanned the space between hills to the north, a towering rampart of white and shifting haze that plumed and curled, switching between states. The mist rivers of the Want lay behind there, Raif realized. This was the border between worlds.

Raif thought of the lamb brothers, and touched the piece of storm-glass tucked between the trapper skins at his chest. They had not been as far from their goal as he, and possibly they, had imagined. If he was right and the Want lay beyond that dam they could be just a short walk away on the other side.

Or so far they would never reach it in a million years.

Lightning lit up the sky to the east as Raif Sevrance looked down upon the Red Ice. Hills rose steeply from the lake, denying it shoreline on all sides. It was roughly circular and perhaps a league across, and he could not tell exactly where it ended in the north and the wall of mist began. Its surface was covered in a fine crystalline powder of snow, but you could still see the true color of the ice. It was as the lamb brothers had said: a lake of frozen blood.