A Sword From Red Ice by J. V. Jones

received was from his father's hounds.
Good dogs, who had treated him like pack.
    Ahooooooooo. The wolf dog's howl came again,
pitched lower this time and closer. The Dog Lord's protectors were on
the move. Vaylo nodded to Hammie, and the small party began to belly
down the east face of the hill. It was raining hard now and Vaylo's
cloak was quickly soaked. About halfway down the slope he spied a
copse of spindly blackthorn and altered his course toward it. He was
listening intently, but could hear nothing above the wind. The wolf
dog's call had come from the south, and that meant Dhoonesmen riding
out from the Thistle Gate.
    "Granda, I can hear horses coming."
Pasha tried hard to whisper, but at nine she hadn't quite gotten the
hang of it and the words came out louder than if she'd spoken them in
her normal speaking voice. Nan put a finger to her lip to hush her,
but the damage was done.
    Hammie and the Dog Lord shared a glance. The
spearman had left his spear in the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, where
he had used it to bar the trapdoor that led from the roundhouse to
the tomb. Hammie was still in possession of a good knife, though; a
foot-and-a-halfer cast from a single rod of blued steel. The kitchen
knife Vaylo now called his own was another matter entirely. The tang
rocked loose in its handle, and three days of rain had cankered the
blade. Of course Nan still had her maiden's helper—a slender
dagger with a wicked double edge and some pretty scrollwork—but
Vaylo would never consider taking it from her. A Bluddswoman had as
much right to defend herself as any man.
    Scrambling with his knees and elbows, Vaylo pushed
toward the blackthorns. Finally he could hear what Pasha heard:
horses at canter, closing distance from the south. Dogs be good,
Vaylo willed. If the five beasts homed too quickly they would betray
their master's position. Right now Vaylo needed them to stay put.
    Reaching the bushes, he tugged off his
rain-drenched cloak and threw it across the branches. It wasn't much
protection against the needle-sharp thorns, but it was better than
nothing, and Vaylo had the bairns' eyes and tender cheeks in mind.
Gesturing furiously, he beckoned Pasha and Aaron to push through the
tangle of winter-hardened canes and into the center of the copse.
When they hesitated he fixed them with the full force of his chief's
glare and hissed, "Now!"
    Not once in Vaylo's thirty-five-year chiefdom had
anyone disobeyed an order spoken in his command voice and no one was
about to start now. The children jumped into action, ducking their
heads and plowing through the bushes as if they were being chased by
wolves. Even Nan and Hammie moved smartly, Hammie pulling his cloak
taut around his body and diving into the bushes like an otter into
water. Vaylo took little satisfaction from their responses. He could
hear horses closing distance from the far side of the hill, and the
rhythmic beating of their hooves sounded like war drums.
    Three, he counted. And they weren't slowing. That
was something.
    Vaylo ducked into the bush as the horses crested
the ridge. As he gulped air to steady himself his knees touched
Nan's. When he looked at her face he knew he was seeing a mask: firm
and fearless, calm as if she were accustomed to crouching in a
thornbush daily. Frowning, she rubbed dirt from the corner of Aaron's
eye and tucked Pasha's black hair under her hood. Her instinct with
the bairns was flawless. She knew that no-nonsense, oft-repeated
gestures calmed better than soft words and protective hugs.
    Vaylo edged about slightly, presenting his back to
the children, and then slid the kitchen knife from his belt. Hammie
knew the game and did likewise. The sharp odor of newly wetted ground
acted like a drug on Vaylo's windpipe and he found himself breathing
deep, clear breaths. The riders were almost upon them. When the
pounding of hooves grew deafening Vaylo spoke a prayer to his favored
god, Uthred. Nor this time.
    Almost it was granted.