Icevein: Chapter 30
The Judgment Hall was as crowded as before, except there were far more Ridge Wardens present. They stood back to back in double line down the center of the hall, and more kept an open space at the front. Those in the center carried spears, clubs, axes, and daggers, while those that kept the space held long rod with which to push the folk back if they pressed in. Peridot sat with Onyx and Rightauger upon the shelf, while a little down from them sat Warmcoat, Khlif, Greal, Shineboot, and Hobblefoot with their wifs and eldest children. Peridot saw Rightauger’s friend Tinsnips among the Ridge Wardens. As last time, Peridot wore a heavy robe of dark grey wool and a long veil. She wanted no attention. Her father sat upon his stone chair, Treadfoot held upright before him.
The Highlodes were led in first and brought to the open space to Chargrim’s right. After another short delay, more wardens arrived leading Icevein. He looked much the same as before, except the wounds on his face were not so red and inflamed, giving him a little less of a monstrous appearance. His head was freshly shaved, and he wore a simple but clean change of clothes. Peridot wondered if her father had given him the outfit. Who else?
The wardens led Icevein to the left of Chargrim, separated from the Highlodes by the double line of armed wardens. Peridot noticed that while the Highlodes stood together free, Icevein remained in chains. She could hardly blame her father for the precaution, but it certainly gave the impression of a foregone conclusion. As soon as Icevein entered the hall, his gaze locked on the Highlodes. For a moment, Peridot thought he might try to charge at them straight away, but it would have been futile.
Whispers ran through the hall. Thrushbeard stood at the front near the foot of the dais, and he slammed the butt end of the iron rod into the stone for silence. Chargrim leaned forward and spoke.
“This arbitration is called to determine what is true and right in the matter of the Low Collier and Highlode holds. In keeping with claim law, the accusers stand first to make their accusations, and he who is called Icevein will be allowed to speak his peace in defense.”
One of the three Highlodes stepped forward.
“Chargrim Gold-Giver, Irik-Rhûl of Glint,” the dwarf said. “I am Tornheft, son of the slain Tornfill, of the hold that in Deep Cut was called Highlode. I speak for my father, uncles, cousins, and all those of our kin who this fiend has unjustly slain. We have traveled far to honor your request, Irik-Rhûl, and trust that you will see justice done.” Tornheft was a dwarf in his prime, likely not much more than a hundred years of age. His beard was dark. All three of the Highlode dwarves appeared in clean, unpatched clothes, though plain. Of the two others, one was older and stern of face, while the third was the youngest, with reddish-brown hair. He hardly looked related to them. “But in truth,” Tornheft continued, “I do not understand why you require our testimony. It has all been given before, and the deeds of murder that this foul beast has committed—” here he gestured at Icevein “—are well know to all. He slew my father Tornfill in his own bed chamber in Deep Cut, and our uncles the same night, along with my two younger brothers. In the Brown Hills, he murdered the fourth and fifth sons of Tornfill, the last of the foreline of our hold but for myself. In East Spire he slayed my cousin, the brother of Loafhide and Bronzemug, sons of Silversmoke the brother of Tornfill slain with him—” here he gestured to the two dwarves standing behind him. “Last year he slayed two sons of Shorngrip, uncle of Tornfill, for no insult more than being our kin. And to insult you, Irik-Rhûl, he murdered one of your Ridge Wardens as they fulfilled your word. A kulhan of Glint! Who doubts any of my words?”
Tornheft turned toward Gretti and called over the rows of the wardens:“Do you deny it, so-called Icevein? Have I not recounted your deeds truly?”
“In this you are wrong,” Icevein said, “that you call it murder. I am blood avenger to my kin, and the count is not yet full.”
Tornheft turned back to Chargrim.
“Hear it by his own mouth,” the dwarf said. “The slayings are true. As for murder, the wise Council of Deep Cut, with whom Glint is at peace, weighed the matter and found the hold of Highlode guiltless. There can be no blood avenger, for there was no murder. Who better to establish deeds done in their own colony than the Council?” Tornheft emphasized that last deliberately.
Peridot rankled at the emphasis. No doubt, it was said to bring her father’s authority into question. She did not doubt that her father would have noticed it as well, though his grim expression did not change.
“But so that all here may know the way of it,” Tornheft continued, “I will relate the matter, for I was there that day, when the Low Colliers attacked us. Icevein was not there, and so he can have no testimony, but I was there, as was my cousin Loafhide. I will not say I am proud of the words that passed between us before it came to blows, for in anger insults were spoken. The claim was ours by rights, though Edgefiler would not yield it. But though we spoke harsh words, we did not lift a hand. It was Edgefiler who reached for his dagger and struck my eldest cousin, the son of Silversmoke, slaying him though his hands were empty. I do not know how we overcame them in that struggle, though I was wounded in my thigh, and Loafhide across his ribs. In truth, only two of our number left that working unbloodied. There was murder that day, but it was murder by Edgefiler against us, and he paid with his blood. So we never sought revenge against the one called Icevein. For years he dwelt in safety in Deep Cut among us. But the curse must run in his blood.”
“I do not speak of a curse lightly, wise Irik-Rhûl, for the matter is worse even than murder. As I said, I am Tornheft, son of Tornfill, son of Shypitch, son of Ryejaw, Son of Yellowquartz of the Spotted Wagons, whosojourned in southern Senland in the days before the flight. And Edgefiler of the Low Colliers was the son of Nickleskillet, the son of Riftshirt, the son of Yellowquartz of the Spotted Wagons. As our folk have always said, and as is written in the Book of Tourmaline, ‘A third cousin is a cousin.’ In lifting up his hand against the son of his cousin, Edgefiler committed more than murder. It was kin slaying, and the slayer of kin is accursed.”
Peridot squinted. Tornheft stretched the definition of kinslaying by arguing it for a third cousin once removed, but she could already see he was a gifted speaker, and he gave no time to dwell on the details.
“But these things are known, for the crimes committed by the Low Colliers have shocked our folk. Who has not heard of it? Wise Irik-Rhûl, we come here not to argue that which has been argued before, but because we have heard with our ears that your judgments are just. Let this fiend be punished for his crimes. Let the blood of our kin be satisfied. Bring down on the head of this evil one the blood he has shed. This is our word.”
The dwarf took a step back, signaling the end of his testimony. A low hiss of whispers rose from the crowd. Peridot couldn’t tell why, but she felt a bit disappointed. Icevein’s deeds had grown so famous, and his lone fight against the Highlodes so improbable. . . She realized that she had begun to hope that he would be vindicated. Instead, the testimony of Tornheft felt damning.
“If that is your word,” Chargrim said, “then let Icevein son of Edgefiler answer.”
For a few moments, Peridot wondered if Icevein had heard her father. The dwarf stood still, staring at the Highlodes across the double row of Ridge Wardens. Only one of the Highlodes—Loafhide, she thought—returned Icevein’s glare, nose wrinkled in anger. The youngest of the Highlodes did not raise his eyes from the stone.
“Did you not wish an arbitration?” Chargrim asked. Icevein looked up at last.
“I wish I had been with them,” he said. There was a raspiness to his deep voice. “It might have made no difference, but I wish it anyway. They had left me behind so that my mother was not alone. The guards came to our hold to tell us of the slayings. I sat in the Judgment Hall of Deep Cut and listened to the same lies told by Tornheft and his kin. I was permitted to say nothing, but what could I say? I was not present at the slaying. They did not let me go retrieve the bodies of my kin before. They did not want me to meddle, they said, until they had offered judgment. The guards would investigate, they said.”
Icevein turned to Tornheft of the Highlodes.
“Now tell the Irik-Rhûl, Tornheft of the Highlode hold. Did you not testify to the Council of Deep Cut that you left the bodies of my kin as they fell? That you did not so much as touch them, or take a lump of coal from their pockets?”
“So I testified, and the testimony was true.”
“You are right handed, are you not?”
Tornheft squinted.
“Why do you ask this?”
“You are right handed?” There was a tremor in Icevein’s voice.
Peridot noticed that Icevein’s hands trembled, and his shoulders were rigid. He looked to be mastering himself only by great effort.
Tornheft looked at Chargrim. Peridot saw her father give the slightest nod.
“I am right handed.”
“And your cousins there. Is it the same with them?”
“It is.”
“All in your hold were right handed, were they not?”
“What is this about?”
“I will answer for you, because I know, and all who knew your hold will testify to the same. All the Highlodes were right handed.”
Chargrim looked to Tornheft. The dwarf shrugged and nodded at the same time.
“What is the purpose of this, Icevein?” Chargrim asked.
“It was only when the Council had judged in favor of the Highlodes that I was permitted to go collect the bodies of my kin. My father and uncles and brothers. They were butchered upon the stone and left for days. The guards ordered me to move them to an alcove and wall them up, that I might return for their bones and not disturb the workings of the claim by the Highlodes. I looked upon my father, his face bloated. He lay on the ground in his dried blood, his chest pierced by many wounds, and in his hand he held a dagger. It was held in his right hand.”
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Now, Icevein raised his voice so that it filled the hall.
“Chargrim of Glint and all you dhar folk, hear this. Not a single soul in my hold was right handed, save my sister alone. All the Low Colliers drew their blades with the left hand. I looked, and my father’s sheathe was yet on his right hip. His left hand was unmarred. I looked, and lo, four others of my brothers and cousins had fallen with picks and daggers in their right hands. They held weapons in death. I have killed, and I know you have killed as well, Chargrim of Glint. The dying care little for their blades.”
A current of whispers flowed through the hall. Peridot watched her father’s face for any sign of surprise, but Chargrim’s expression was still, bordering on a frown. Thrushbeard slammed the haft of the iron rod into the stone, and the folk quietened.
“Did you tell this to the Council in Deep Cut?” her father asked.
“I tried. The guards who took me would not listen and forced me to move my dead and wall them up, so that the Highlodes would not be hindered as they trod the blood of my kin to work our claim. I sought to petition the Council, but they would not heed me. To them it was done. ‘See to your mother,’ I was told.”
“Irik-Rhûl,” called Tornheft of the Highlodes, spreading out his hands. “This is preposterous. My father, were he not murdered, could have stood before you and confirmed my testimony, that the bodies lay as they fell. My brothers and cousins could testify the same, did they yet live! If the son of Edgefiler kills us all, it will not change the testimony given.”
“You were at the slaughter, and you, Loafhide,” Chargrim said. The second dwarf nodded. “And you, Bronzemug,” Chargrim continued, “where were you?”
Bronzemug had hardly lifted his eyes from the stone during the arguments, and he looked sick to be standing before all those gathered. He glanced at his brother Loafhide, who nodded to him. When the young dwarf spoke, Peridot leaned forward, as if it would help her hear is quiet voice.
“I was in my father’s hold,” Bronzemug answered. “We had been in the western reaches for weeks. They sent me back for supplies.”
“What Edgefiler’s son says are lies,” Tornheft declared.
“He lies, that the weapons were not in their right hands?”
Tornheft faltered.
“I did not mark which hand tried to kill me,” he said. “I speak of the lie that we meddled.”
“If I sent to inquire of the guards who took him to the dead, would they acknowledge his testimony?”
“They can acknowledge what they will, it makes no matter to the truth of my testimony. But I ask this. If his words are true, why did he wait seventeen years before he began his vengeance? Or did time addle his mind and his memories?”
“You know well why!” Icevein shouted. The wardens in front of Icevein lowered their stances, readying weapons, but Icevein stood still like a coil under pressure. “My mother yet lived! I would not leave her destitute.”
“Oh yes, the mother who died of shame. A wif and mother of murderers!”
Icevein sprang with speed that Peridot found it difficult to fathom from one so large. The first warden swung down his axe, but Icevein caught the blow it on the chain between his hands, twisted, and slammed his head into the warden’s face.
Tornheft cringed back as Icevein flipped the axe and raised it to throw, but a hooked spear yanked the chains between Icevein’s ankles, and he went down. Wardens piled atop him, ripping the axe from his grasp. Peridot saw Tornheft break into a smile.
“See, Irik-Rhûl? This is what he is.”
Icevein struggled, his voice raised in wordless rage. Somehow, he heaved upward, lifting four dwarves off the ground before more brought him down. Soon, he was bound in cords of iron wire. Chargrim motioned to Thrushbeard, and the wardens raised Icevein and carried him out of the hold, the folk parting to let them pass.
“I have heard the words spoken here,” Chargrim said. He paused. “I will give my judgment in three days.”
Her father rose, and using Treadfoot like a staff, he strode from the hall, flanked by Thrushbeard and a cluster of Ridge Wardens.
“Come,” Onyx said, heading toward the carven steps down from the shelf. Peridot followed, and the milling folk moved out of their way, watching them pass. The other owners and their families came behind, heading toward the Owner’s Drift by the rear passage. At the door of the Rhûl’s Holt, Thrushbeard stood speaking to the Ridge Wardens who had accompanied Chargrim.
“Is he within, or did he go to the drift?” Onyx asked.
“He is within. He told me he expects to hold council on the matter with the owners tomorrow.”
“Well,” Hobblefoot said, appearing relieved, and set out down the main drift toward his workshops.
Chargrim opened the door to the holt and stepped out. The expressionless mask of judgment was gone, and he smiled at his friends.
“We may all go about our business today,” he said to the other owners. Most of the wifs, gilna, and gilke had already proceeded into the Owner’s Drift. Rightauger still stood by, as did the other owners apart from Hobblefoot. “I wish for time to consider the matter. I would like you all to do the same, and we will meet tomorrow at the changing of shifts.”
“I do not think we can do anything but punish the dwarf,” Greal said.
“I need time to think,” Chargrim answered. “We will discuss it more tomorrow.” He looked at Onyx. “Please, can mead and meat be brought to me?” he asked.
Onyx nodded and motioned for Peridot to follow. As they passed through the door of the Owner’s Drift, Peridot glanced back and saw Rightauger heading down the main drift. She suspected he would go to the Warden’s Hall. Back in the stonehold, they found Iolite and the gilke sitting on the rug in the reception chamber. She and the younger two gilke had constructed an entire working mineshaft and wheel-lift out of toy blocks and gears. They were currently seeing how much weight it could lift without cross-braces. Peridot could tell from the smell of the fragrant steam that the samovar was hot. Iolite had not neglected her duties. Onyx swept to the larder to cut slices of salt-dried venison while Peridot replaced the tea in the samovar with spiced mead to heat. Iolite left the gilke and came to pour tea from the pitcher into a mug. She held it up beneath her face.
“Are you back, now?” she asked. Peridot knew she wished to leave the gilke and go to the workshop.
“No,” Peridot said. “We are simply bringing food to the holt.”
Iolite pressed her lips together and nodded, turning so that she could observe the gilke.
“No,” Iolite said to them. “The angle is not right. Here.” She walked back to the toy construction. A Mine Runner—the one Peridot called Tricker—rubbed against her ankle, purring. The Mine Runner acted like she wanted to be pet, but Peridot knew if she tried the cat would claw her.
It took longer to heat the mead than to slice the venison, and so Onyx and Peridot watched the gilke’s mineshaft collapse and the building process start again before they took the inner passage into the Rhûl’s Holt. Chargrim was smoking and petting a Mine Runner that lay on the table in front of him.
Onyx pushed the Mine Runner off the table, ignoring its hiss, and set down the platter of sliced meat. She sat in one of the chairs opposite Chargrim while Peridot filled three mugs of steaming mead. Chargrim took one and held it up to his face, breathing in the steam, just as Peridot had seen Iolite do minutes before. Onyx took hers and also breathed in the steam, and Peridot knew she would do the same. She cupped the mug in both hands. The aroma and damp heat was soothing.
Her father opened his eyes, looking across to Onyx.
“Seven fires of shit,” he said, shaking his head. “I regret that I agreed to an arbitration.”
Onyx shook her head.
“There is no good choice, here,” she said, “but whatever you do, you must show yourself strong.”
“What do you count weakness in this?” he asked.
“To not hold the lives of your wardens dear.”
Chargrim nodded, appearing not to notice as the Mine Runner jumped into his lap.
“Would that he had not killed him,” he muttered. He looked up at Peridot and smiled. “But such wishes are fantasy. What does our gilna think?”
Peridot glanced at her mother, but Onyx merely looked at her, awaiting an answer.
“I think Icevein tells the truth. I think they murdered his family.”
“It is entirely possible,” Chargrim answered. “So then what would you do?”
“What does it matter what I think?” she asked, feeling nervous under the eyes of both her parents.
“Do me this kindness,” he said. “It helps me to understand my own thoughts. What would you do?”
“I would declare Icevein a blood avenger,” she said.
“Declaring the Highlodes guilty of murder?”
“I do not mean you must punish them. Let them feud with Icevein. Send them away to do it.”
“And if Icevein slays them. What then?”
“Then it is over.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Peridot saw Onyx shake her head.
“My gilnaleku,” Chargrim said. “It would be far from over. The Highlode claims are in East Spire and Deep Cut. I would be insulting the ruling of the Council of Deep Cut at a time when we can ill afford insults.”
“Is trade worth more than justice?” Peridot asked.
“That is not a question the hungry ask in Spring. But no, I am worried about war. It is gold that keeps the Jackals at bay. Gold and ürsi. But there are limits. I would be seen as encouraging the murder of three dwarves of Deep Cut, after having taken Icevein out from under the nose of the Council itself. It would be a triple insult.”
“What do you mean, you took him from under their nose?”
“Ah,” Chargrim said, and search out a paper from a stack on his desk. “Read this.”
Peridot took the leaf.
“Brother, I have heard that Icevein has come to you and an arbitration is intended. During the siege, a message came to me from the jackals, offering to sell the dwarf to us. There was no time to reach you, so I sent wardens to make the deal. I know he slew a warden, but know this as well—he served as a Hammer under a different name, and when he went to East Spire, it was on a task from me. If there by any way, spare his life for me. Sledgefist”
Peridot looked up from the sheet.
“According to Thrushbeard’s report, it appears I have now lost eighteen wardens to this blasted feud,” her father said. “Had my courageous brother left Icevein to Deep Cut, this problem would not have been ours.”
“But he would have been killed in Deep Cut, and he is innocent. That is not just.”
“You believe he is innocent. Judgment is more than what you believe in your heart.”
“Do you not believe he is innocent?” Peridot asked. She looked from her father to her mother. Onyx watched Chargrim and waited.
“Tell me, what makes the arbitration so clear to you?” he asked.
Peridot paused.
“In truth, it is not clear. But I do not like the Highlode dwarves.”
“Liking is hardly a basis for judgment. What is not clear to you?”
“I do not understand why chalcedony would drive dwarves to slaughter an entire hold.”
“You say that because you have never been in Deep Cut. There is a reason so many of our folk have fled to the Red Ridges. Deep Cut is a poor place, and ever more so. Starvation is never far off. The caverns were our salvation at first, but too many now dwell below the Waste. It is rare to be granted the right to prospect in the reaches of Deep Cut, itself. The future of their holds was at stake. Without a bride price, the line ends.”
“But to slaughter an entire hold?”
“I do not think anyone set out to kill an entire hold. As they said, words were exchanged, insults given. A single blow, and swift retribution. Either the rest were killed in a frenzy, or to hide the guilt of the first strike.”
“If to hide the guilt, then the Highlodes struck first.”
“Even so. But we were not there.”
“But the dagger was in Edgefiler’s right hand.”
“Someone is lying, or someone was mistaken.”
“Why would the Council of Deep Cut not listen to Icevein’s report?”
“The Council of Deep Cut is more concerned with the stability of the colony than about who pulled the first blade in a dispute between prospectors where no witnesses survived to contradict,” Chargrim answered. “No one would think it likely that one remaining Low Collier would rise to challenge the entire Highlode hold, but if the Highlodes were deemed at fault, they would have slain Gretti to protect themselves and rid their hold of the threat of reprisal. The Council’s choice aimed to put an end to the matter as quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible. I might have done the same.”
“They achieved the opposite.”
“That is always a risk, and one we now face as well.”
“If Icevein was not such a lethal brute, we would never be in this position,” Onyx said.
“Ah, but he is,” Chargrim answered with a grin. “It is a shame. I am sure he got on famously with my brother.”
“I am also sure that your brother is not so dense that he failed to realize who Icevein was,” Onyx replied.
Chargrim took a sip of mead.
“Brothers,” he said.
“So do you not know what to do?” Peridot asked. “Is that why you will meet with the Owners tomorrow?”
Onyx chuckled.
“Oh no,” her father said. “I meet with the Owners to keep them from getting upset that I didn’t. But one never knows. They are not at their finest in these matters, but diverse council can be of benefit.”
Peridot had forgotten the mug in her hands. She stared at the tabletop. The arbitration was opening up a stope beyond anything she had conceived of before, and her mind raced. She felt a thrill from the rapid pulse of her heart.
“Do you already have an idea?” she asked.
“You will hear it in the Judgment Hall.”
“You have not touched the meat,” Onyx said.
Chargrim looked down at the platter as if just realizing it was there. He set down his smoldering pipe and lifted a slice.
“Thank you,” he said. “Let us eat.”