It was part of the clan boast and Vaylo hardly knew what made him say it, yet if he was surprised by his own words, he was surprised more by the young man's response.

"I know it. That is why I am here."

A cold finger of fear touched the base of Vaylo's spine. He looked at the young warrior, saw the slow bum of purpose in his inhumanly bright Sull eyes. It was not easy to turn away from it, yet Vaylo did, and headed back into the dampness of the fort.

What was happening here? he asked himself as he headed for the east ward. What trick was Ockish Bull playing from his grave? And what was Drybone's part in this? How many more Sull Bluddsmen would he stumble upon within these walls? Oh it was true enough Bludd had always taken in its share of Trenchlander mongrels—they shared a border after all—yet Vaylo could not set aside his agitation. The boast, the damn boast. We are Clan Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to watch their borders. Death is our companion. A life long lived is our reward. Fifty-three vears he had lived with those words, fired by their hard-driving pride. When had they changed on him? How could words mean one thing one day and then the next day something else?

The blond swordsman Big Borro opened the fortified east door for him, tugging back the greasy hank of leather that hung in place of a pull ring. "Snow tomorrow," he said as Vaylo stepped out onto the Dhoonewall.

Snow? Vaylo frowned at the sun and cloudless sky. It didn't seem possible, yet he was wise enough not to voice a contradiction. It had been sixty years since a Borro man was last caught in a storm.

The Dhoonewall was cracked and weather-beaten. Its northern edge had been carved by the wind, and the breakwall had tumbled so there was nothing to stop a man from stepping over the brink. Entire sections of stone walkway were missing, the gaps overlaid with loose planks. In others areas the stone had buckled and erupted upward, forming shambling mounds where weeds thrived. Vaylo was careful where he put his feet. From where he stood he could look both north and south, and the great breadth of the earth was visible. The Copper Hills rolled §ut around him in purple and rust-brown waves, a sight to thrill a clansman's heart.

Now the tower was another matter, and as Vaylo closed upon it he had some fear for his head. Chunks of stone had fallen recently. Others looked imminent. Unlike the main building, the tower had not been capped with copper and its collapsed and black-rotted roof timbers still gripped a tinkling deathtrap of slates. Vaylo made a dash for the door. Reminding himself that when he'd held the finest structure in the clanholds—the Dhoonehouse at Blue Dhoone Lake—he'd never much enjoyed it, the Dog Lord entered the collapsed tower.

It smelled like a wellshaft, and echoed like one too. Both the tower and the Dhoonewall sank their foundatioB deep into the cleft between the two hills, and the first thing Vaylo spotted was a way down. Should have brought a torch, he thought, for although the roof had fallen in, six stories still came between him and||e light. A single arrow slit high on the west wall provided the only source of illumination. Vaylo moved cautiously. Underfoot, the mold was as slick as ice.

"Dry!" he called out, frustrated. "Are you there?"

The sound footsteps echoed along the tower's rounded walls. A line of masonry dust sifted from the ceiling. Vaylo's gaze tracked a movement across a dark spile he had assumed was solid stone and Cluff Drybannock came into view.

"I apologize for not lighting a lamp."

Vaylo huffed. "You did not know I was a-coming. Here. Take my arm. Lead me up."

It did not occur to Vaylo to doubt Dry's ability to see in the darkness. From boyhood Cluff Drybannock had always fared best by night. Whilst boys older than him slept peacefully in their beds, he was out on the redcourt, practicing his forms. Vaylo remembered spotting Dry once when he didn't realize he was being watched. A boy of twelve rendered blue by the moonlight, repeating the same sword stroke a hundred and twenty times.

Cluff Drybannock took his chiefs arm and guided him up the stairs. At some point between the first and second story the light increased, yet neither man made the motion to pull apart. Vaylo told himself that Dry was probably worried that his old chief would slip and break his neck.

Wind drilled through the tower. Vaylo wondered how much longer there was to go. The soft and fanBiar pain below his heart was letting him know that it resented stairs. Finally Dry slowed the climb and led his chief through a stone arch into a circular, vaulted chamber with boarded-up windows. The center of the vault had collapsed and a heap of stones, black lumber and roof tiles lay on the floor beneath it. Vaylo peered up through the hole and saw sky.

"The floor above holds up the remains of the roof." This did not seem like an especially comforting statement. Vaylo ignored it and crossed to the north-facing window. It seemed odd that Drybone had removed the middle boards from this window but not the one facing south. "I met one of your new men today," he said. "Kye Hillrunner."

Cluff Drybannock nodded, but did not speak. Vaylo supposed he had no reason to; no question had been asked.

Dry was dressed in serviceable gray wool pants and a tunic of gray suede. The quarter-moon he'd painted just beyond the crown of his hairline had faded, and although opal rings still bound his waist-length hair, Vaylo was gratified to see th&iis wrist leathers and the grip of his longsword were red.

"It is clear enough this day to see the Rift." Drybone's fine and powerful hand fell again on his chiefs arm, his touch light as he directed Vaylo to the exact direction. "It is the dark line on the break of the horizon."

Vaylo saw it. Without Dry he would never have recognized it for a gap in the world so little did the line in the far distance give away. "Is that where the Maimed Men live?"

"No. They lie east of here where the Rift is at fa deepest." "You watch it,"

Again there was no question and Chiff Dryhannock was silent "I set off for the Rift once," Vaylo said, his gaze still ahead. "I was nine and I was mad at Gullit, Decided to take off and never come back. Rode all the way to the Deadwoods, three whole days, before the anger finally left me and I turned for home with my tail between my legs. Had an idea about joining the Maimed Men." "This Bludd warrior is glad you did not join them." Vaylo was glad he was facing forward. Tears spiked in his eyes and he could let the wind blow them away. Seven sons and not a kind word or touch from one of them. He had been a bad father, he knew ii. Obsessed with matters of clan, short-tempered, selfish, but surely he had never been cruel? You were, countered a hard voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father's. You resented your sons for being born legitimate, for not having to fight tooth and nail as you did. It was true enough, that was why things were different between him and Dry. They were bastards, and they knew all the small and big things that meant. Keeping his voice level, Vaylo said, "Tell me why you watch." Seconds passed and the wind blew and then Cluff Drybannock replied, "My blood makes me."

The same cold finger that had touched Vaylo earlier touched again in the exact same place. He had not expected such an answer, but now that he heard it he could not claim surprise. All along he had known his fostered son was made of a different, older substance than he himself. Others had known it too. Ockish Bull had helped rear Dry, and upon his death had left him a small purse. The great swordmaster Vingus Harking, great-uncle to the HalfBludd chief Onwyn HalfBludd, had come out of retirement, wheeling himself north in a cart pulled by dogs, just to train Dry for one year. Vingus had worked with others during his time at Bludd, but it was word of Cluff Drybannocks burgeoning skill that had roused him from his fossilage at HalfBludd. You could not meet Cluff Drybannock and not realize his worth.