side of her face and shoulders. Duggen Harris, the
little hay boy, had been burned even worse. Noddie Drook, whom
everyone called the Noddler, had been slammed so hard against the
wall of the Dry Run that he'd smashed six ribs and punctured a lung.
And so the list went on: Stanner Hawk, Jamie Perch, Arlan Perch . . .
Raina shook her head gently. There were too many injured to name.
The dead, though, they had to be named. She could
not call herself chief's wife if she did not catalogue the dead.
Bessie Flapp. Gone. The shock of the explosion had
stopped her heart. The new luntman, Mornie Dabb, had been lighting
torches in the tunnelway. His body was found three days later, blown
all the way to the kaleyard. Mog Willey, Effie's childhood friend.
He'd been on his way to the guidehouse to deliver Inigar's morning
milk. His body was found in two pieces. Joshua Honeycut and Wilbur
Peamouth, two stablehands like Jebb, only they were up and about that
morning, preparing breakfast and scouring the workbenches for Jon
Crickle, the stablemaster. Also dead. Craw Bannering's head had been
severed. Vernon Murdock, brother to Gat, hung on for four days before
succumbing to his injuries. And it was a mercy the little milkmaid,
Elsa Doe, had just lived out the day.
Inigar's body had not been found, and Raina had an
instinct that even when work crews cleared the rubble heap that had
once been the guidehouse it would still be missing. Oh, he had died
along with the Hailstone, she did not doubt it. But it would be just
like Inigar to confound people in death. He had never been an easy
man to get along with, and he was not going to be an easy corpse to
find.
Stop it, Raina chided herself. What am I doing,
making light of the dead? Shamed, she continued to name the ones
lost. It was a long list: thirty-nine clansmen and women as of this
morning. Not counting the tied clansmen, those who farmed and worked
their trades in the Hailhold but did not live in the roundhouse
year-round and had not spoken oaths to defend it. Many of the tied
clansmen who had died had been camped against the great fold's
eastern wall. Part of the floor above had collapsed upon them. Poor
souls. They had come to the roundhouse seeking protection during the
war.
And then there were the Scarpemen. Raina's mouth
tightened as she made her way toward the stable door. She was not
going to count those. They had no business being here, had sworn
oaths to a foreign clan. What was Mace thinking, to invite close to a
thousand warriors and their families to stay indefinitely in the
Hailhouse? True enough, Scarpe's own roundhouse had been destroyed by
fire, but let them build a new one—and stay within the
Scarpehold while they did it.
Scarpe losses during the Sundering had been high.
Many had taken to camping in the old grain store that lay hard
against the eastern wall. The bell-shaped structure had been letting
in rainwater for years, and the mortar was black and rotted. When the
guidestone exploded, the walls and ceiling had caved in. Children had
died; and perhaps if she looked deep enough inside herself she could
find some sympathy for them.
But today she wasn't going to try. Nodding her
farewell to the new stablemaster, Cyril Blunt, she left the old dairy
shed that was being used as a temporary stable. The cold of outside
shocked her. Strange unseasonable winds were blowing stormclouds
west. A wet snow had begun to fall and already the pines around the
greatcourt were dusted white. People had begun to whisper that when
the guidestone had exploded it had blasted away spring along with the
roundhouse's eastern wall. Normally Raina had no patience with such
superstitious nonsense. But it had been unseasonably cold this past
week, and if the gods could split a guidestone into a million
separate pieces then they could surely rob a clanhold of its spring.
Raina Blackhail, take a hold of yourself. There
are already enough doomsayers in this roundhouse. We don't need
little hay boy, had been burned even worse. Noddie Drook, whom
everyone called the Noddler, had been slammed so hard against the
wall of the Dry Run that he'd smashed six ribs and punctured a lung.
And so the list went on: Stanner Hawk, Jamie Perch, Arlan Perch . . .
Raina shook her head gently. There were too many injured to name.
The dead, though, they had to be named. She could
not call herself chief's wife if she did not catalogue the dead.
Bessie Flapp. Gone. The shock of the explosion had
stopped her heart. The new luntman, Mornie Dabb, had been lighting
torches in the tunnelway. His body was found three days later, blown
all the way to the kaleyard. Mog Willey, Effie's childhood friend.
He'd been on his way to the guidehouse to deliver Inigar's morning
milk. His body was found in two pieces. Joshua Honeycut and Wilbur
Peamouth, two stablehands like Jebb, only they were up and about that
morning, preparing breakfast and scouring the workbenches for Jon
Crickle, the stablemaster. Also dead. Craw Bannering's head had been
severed. Vernon Murdock, brother to Gat, hung on for four days before
succumbing to his injuries. And it was a mercy the little milkmaid,
Elsa Doe, had just lived out the day.
Inigar's body had not been found, and Raina had an
instinct that even when work crews cleared the rubble heap that had
once been the guidehouse it would still be missing. Oh, he had died
along with the Hailstone, she did not doubt it. But it would be just
like Inigar to confound people in death. He had never been an easy
man to get along with, and he was not going to be an easy corpse to
find.
Stop it, Raina chided herself. What am I doing,
making light of the dead? Shamed, she continued to name the ones
lost. It was a long list: thirty-nine clansmen and women as of this
morning. Not counting the tied clansmen, those who farmed and worked
their trades in the Hailhold but did not live in the roundhouse
year-round and had not spoken oaths to defend it. Many of the tied
clansmen who had died had been camped against the great fold's
eastern wall. Part of the floor above had collapsed upon them. Poor
souls. They had come to the roundhouse seeking protection during the
war.
And then there were the Scarpemen. Raina's mouth
tightened as she made her way toward the stable door. She was not
going to count those. They had no business being here, had sworn
oaths to a foreign clan. What was Mace thinking, to invite close to a
thousand warriors and their families to stay indefinitely in the
Hailhouse? True enough, Scarpe's own roundhouse had been destroyed by
fire, but let them build a new one—and stay within the
Scarpehold while they did it.
Scarpe losses during the Sundering had been high.
Many had taken to camping in the old grain store that lay hard
against the eastern wall. The bell-shaped structure had been letting
in rainwater for years, and the mortar was black and rotted. When the
guidestone exploded, the walls and ceiling had caved in. Children had
died; and perhaps if she looked deep enough inside herself she could
find some sympathy for them.
But today she wasn't going to try. Nodding her
farewell to the new stablemaster, Cyril Blunt, she left the old dairy
shed that was being used as a temporary stable. The cold of outside
shocked her. Strange unseasonable winds were blowing stormclouds
west. A wet snow had begun to fall and already the pines around the
greatcourt were dusted white. People had begun to whisper that when
the guidestone had exploded it had blasted away spring along with the
roundhouse's eastern wall. Normally Raina had no patience with such
superstitious nonsense. But it had been unseasonably cold this past
week, and if the gods could split a guidestone into a million
separate pieces then they could surely rob a clanhold of its spring.
Raina Blackhail, take a hold of yourself. There
are already enough doomsayers in this roundhouse. We don't need
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