A Cavern of Black Ice Read Free

first. Stepping back one
hundred and fifty paces, he held his bow at arm's length. Drey's bow
was a recurve made of winter-cut yew, dried over two full years, and
hand-tillered to reduce shock. Raif envied him for it. His own bow
was a clan hand-down, used by anyone who had the string to brace it.
    Drey took his time sighting his bow. He
had a sure, unshakable grip and the strength to hold the string for
as long as his ungloved fingers could bear. Just when Raif was set to
call "Shot due," his brother released the string. The arrow
landed with a dull
thunk
, dead center of the smeared-on
target. Turning, Drey inclined his head at his younger brother. He
did not smile.
    Raif's bow was already in hand, his
arrow already chosen. With Drey's arrow shaft still quivering in the
target, Raif sighted his bow. The pine was long dead. Cold. When Raif
tried to
call
it to him as he had with the ice hare, it
wouldn't come. The wood stood its distance. Raif felt nothing: no
quickening of his pulse, no dull pain behind his eyes, no metal tang
in his mouth. Nothing. The target was just a target. Unsettled, Raif
centered his bow and searched for the still line that would lead his
arrow home. Seeing nothing but a faraway tree, Raif released his
string. Straightaway he knew the shot was bad. He'd been gripping the
handle too tightly, and his fingertips had grazed the string on
release. The bow shot back with a
thwack
, and Raifs shoulder
took a bad recoil. The arrow landed a good two hands lower than the
target. "Shoot again." Drey's voice was cold.
    Raif massaged his shoulder, then
selected a second arrow. For luck, he brushed the fletchings against
the raven lore he wore on a cord around his neck. The second shot was
better, but it still hit a thumb's length short of dead center. Raif
turned to look at his brother. It was his shot.
    Drey made a small motion with his bow.
"Again." Raif shook his head. "No. It's your turn."
    Drey shook his own head right back.
"You sent those two wide on purpose. Now shoot."
    'No, I didn't. It was a true shot. I—
    â€¢ "No one heart-kills three
hares on the run, then misses a target as big as a man's chest. No
one." Drey pushed back his fox hood. His eyes were dark. He spat
out the wad of black curd he'd been chewing. "I don't need mercy
shots. Either shoot with me fair, or not at all."
    Looking at his brother, seeing his big
hands pressing hard into the wood of his bow and the whiteness of his
thumbs as he worked on an imagined imperfection, Raif knew words
would get him nowhere. Drey Sevrance was eighteen years old, a
yearman in the clan. This past summer he'd taken to braiding his hair
with black leather strips and wearing a silver earring in his ear.
Last night around the firepit, when Dagro Blackhail had burned the
scum off an old malt and dropped his earring into the clear liquor
remaining, Drey had done the same. All the sworn clansmen had. Metal
next to the skin attracted frostbite. And everyone in the clan had
seen the black nubs of unidentifiable flesh that the 'bite left
behind. You could find many willing to tell the story of how Jon
Marrow's member had frozen solid when he was jumped by Dhoonesmen
while he was relieving himself in the brack. By the time he had seen
the Dhoonesmen off and pulled himself up from the nail-hard tundra,
his manhood was frozen like a cache of winter meat. By all accounts
he hadn't felt a thing until he was brought into the warmth of the
roundhouse and the stretched and shiny flesh began to thaw. His
screams had kept the clan awake all night.
    I Raif ran his hand along his
bowstring, warming the wax. If Drey needed to see him take a third
shot to prove he wasn't shamming, then take another shot he would.
He'd lost the desire to fight.
    Again Raif tried to call the dead tree
to him, searching for the still line that would guide his arrow to
the heart. Although the blackstone pine had perished ten hunting
seasons earlier, it had hardly withered at all. Only the