A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  Effie touched her waist, feeling for the smooth horn sheath that held her knife. She loved Bitty Shank. He and his brothers would hear no talk of her being a witch.

  Careful to let her thoughts go no farther, Effie started up the stair. All was quiet except for the groaning of ancient timbers and stone. Normally the clan forge was kept busy through the night, and although Brog Widdie, master smith and exiled Dhoonesman, would allow no man without an oath to work with hot iron, unsworn smiths and wireworkers would be busy socketing arrowheads and riveting coats of mail.

  Tonight was different, though. The Eve of Breaking. All clansmen, sworn and unsworn, were gathered close around the Great Hearth, chanting the old songs. The Breaking was sacred to the Stone Gods. If they were not given their due this night they might send a frost so hard and so long that ice would grow in the heart of all guidestones, and the clanholds would shatter to dust. Castlemilk’s guidestone had taken the frost nearly two thousand years earlier, and that ancient and venerable clan—who had once been great enough to challenge Dhoone for the kingship—had been in decline ever since. Many tales of the clanholds had been lost, even to Withy and Wellhouse who kept the histories, but the story of the Milkstone shattering, of how the Milkwives gathered the broken shards in their skirts and carried them to a place their menfolk would never know, sent chills down every clansman’s spine. All knew that if the women hadn’t hidden the fragments the men would have used them to cut out their own hearts.

  Effie touched her little pouch of powdered guidestone, giving the Stone Gods their due.

  Beneath her feet the stone steps were slippery, greased by graphite and calf’s-brain oil from the smith’s feet. The air grew warm and dry, thick with the stench of sweat and sulfur and smelted ore. Ahead, the great lead-plated doors were drawn closed. Water casks stowed to either side of the threshold told of the clan’s great fear of fire. The forge bulged out from the north face of the roundhouse, shielded from the core stonework by a dark, airless tunnel called the Dry Run. The main entrance to the forge was cut from the exterior north wall, a towering arch as tall as two men, guarded by doors force-hardened with salt water and studded with steel heads to deflect blades. A clan’s forge was its wealth and its strength. Raw metals were stored here, swords and arrowheads were forged here, and war spoils awaiting refiring and refitting were piled in great stacks along the walls.

  Effie walked the length of the Dry Run, then put her hand to the lead door. It was neither locked nor bolted—she hadn’t expected it to be—and half a ton of wood swung easily on hinges that Brog Widdie had tooled himself. The orange glow of the furnace lit the cavernous space of the forge. A circle of anvils dominated the room; horned and blocked and mouse-holed, they sent strange shadows to flicker at Effie’s feet. Tempering baths filled with brine and refined tallow stood warming close to the furnace. Beyond them lay the worktables and work-blocks piled with striking hammers and bow tongs and other vicious-looking tools. Beyond those lay the stores: tubs of oil and slack and pig’s blood, sacks of charcoal, sand and raw ore. Iron rods were stacked as carefully as if they were gold, and cords of quartered lumber were piled like a bonfire to the rafters.

  Effie took a step forward, hesitated, then called softly, “Message for Brog Widdie.” No one answered. Something in the far corner, next to the redsmith bench where Mungo Kale worked copper and bronze, rustled and then was still. Rat after tallow, she thought, feeling braver by the minute. Letty Shank and Florrie Horn might scream at the very thought of rodents, but Effie could find nothing within her that was afraid of things so small. Quietly, she crossed the circle of anvils and headed toward the stores. One of the tallow baths had claimed a rat. As the temperature from the furnace dropped and the tallow congealed, the rodent had been set in fat. Tomorrow morning one of the Scarpemen would likely scoop it up, roast it in the furnace, and eat it. Everyone knew Scarpes feasted on rats.

  As she passed one of the nail-punching benches, she paused to empty a supply of nails from a brass bowl. As the little iron spikes tumbled onto the wood she thought she heard something creak in the Dry Run behind her, but when she turned to look all was still. Probably just a beam settling—yet she moved a little quicker because of it.

  The sacks of charcoal were easy to identify, as the pallet they were set upon was furry with soot. The charcoal-burner’s mark was a tree above a flame; Effie noticed it as she unsheathed her knife and set flint to the hemp. The sack split easily and a thick stream of charcoal spilled to the floor. She moved quickly to catch the fine powder in the bowl, marveling at the richness of the charcoal . . . surely the darkest, blackest thing that ever was. If this didn’t stain the hammermen’s teeth then she might as well try to bottle the night sky, for nothing else was darker.

  When the bowl was half full she drew it back and let the sack spill until it found its level. Her lore shifted uneasily against her skin, but she was too excited to pay heed. What if she tested a potion now? Did iron juice need iron? Or was it just a name? Yes, she probably needed acid to etch the charcoal into the hammermen’s teeth, but it wouldn’t hurt to try without it first ... and it might save somebody’s gums. And, she thought, becoming even more excited, I’ll test it on one of the shankshounds tonight. Old Scratch won’t mind. His teeth are so yellow and chipped that it really might be an improvement.

  Grinning at the thought of a dog with black-stained teeth, Effie set down her knife. She pulled out Da’s flask, uncorked it, and then poured half its measure into the bowl. Crouching by the charcoal sacks, she stirred the mixture with a chip of wood she found on the floor. Da’s special brew darkened in an instant, and a fine black dust rose from the bowl like the opposite of steam. As she stirred she had visions of rank upon rank of Blackhail hammermen, armed and mounted, their hammer chains rattling in a quickening wind, their lips pulled back to reveal night-black teeth. Drey would be one of them, too. And perhaps if she made the iron juice dark enough and he looked fierce enough he wouldn’t have to fight. Perhaps the Bluddsmen would turn and flee rather than raise their axes against him.

  The men seemed to come from nowhere. A harsh cry raised Effie’s head, a lead door was sent cracking against a wall, and then clansmen burst into the forge. Breathing hard, glittering with drawn steel, they moved to circle the room. Effie had once witnessed a group of hunters surrounding a wounded boar before a kill, and she recognized the same nervous excitement; the sucked-in cheeks and wet lips. The fear of drawing too close to their prey.

  “Stay your ground, witch.”

  Effie recognized the speaker as Stanner Hawk, brother to Will and uncle to Bron who had both been slain in the snow outside of Duffs. Tall and pale like his brother, Stanner bore no love for anyone bearing the Sevrance name. Something hardened within Effie as he looked upon her. Raif had fought to save the lives of Will and Bron, yet that one fact had been twisted and ground down, and now all that could be remembered about the night outside of Duffs was that Raif Sevrance had spoken out against his clan.

  Effie raised her chin. This was a coward before her. They all were. Two dozen men to capture an unblooded girl. They didn’t even have the jaw to do it in full daylight on open ground; instead they had watched and sneaked and waited. Like weasels after eggs.

  There was not a hammerman amongst them. No man who bore a hammer would raise a hand to harm his own. Instead there were Mace Blackhail’s cronies; old and hard Turby Flapp bearing a sword so badly weighted he couldn’t keep the point off the floor, lean and dark Craw Bannering clad in the cured hides and swan feathers of Clan Harkness, known as the Half Clan, his long tattooed fingers resting easily on a blade. The longswordsmen Arlan Perch and Ichor Roe moved with practiced stealth to take positions behind Effie’s back. Many of the men were older Hailsmen, too long cooped up in a roundhouse at war and eager for any kind of blood.

  And then there were the Scarpemen. Uriah Scarpe and Wracker Fox and others she did not know. Lean men, dressed in the black leatherwork and weasel pelts of Scarpe, watching
her as if they had something to fear. They really believe I’m a witch. The thought came quickly and with it another: This trap was carefully set. No Shanks or hammermen had been told, no one who was friend to Drey.

  “Stand up, witch.” Stanner Hawk’s voice was cold, and for the first time Effie wondered if he had something more than capture on his mind. With his sword fist he made a gesture to Craw Bannering. The dark bowman moved toward the woodstack and selected a cord of wood.

  “I said stand up, witch.” Stanner Hawk lashed out with his foot, sending a tub of brine crashing to the floor. Salt water splashed Effie’s face.

  Effie felt the calm leaving her. Her lore began to twitch against her skin, and she noticed sharp-eyed Uriah Scarpe glancing at the wool around her throat. Looking away, her gaze came to rest on her flint knife, there on the stone floor beside the pallet, only three paces from her foot. Uriah Scarpe was still watching her so she quickly turned her gaze. Slowly she began to rise, setting the bowl of iron juice on the floor.

  Craw Bannering had drawn on the thick cowhide gloves of a hot-metal worker. The cord of wood now lay unbound beside the furnace, and the yearman was using both hands to pull back the cast-iron door that guarded the charging hole. Heat from the furnace leapt into the room as air was sucked into the hole. Craw fed the fire below it, choosing only the driest, densest wood.

  Old men shifted their weights, whether with unease or excitement Effie didn’t know. One of the Scarpemen said, “Pump the bellows, Crawman.”

  Stanner Hawk’s eyes glinted orange in the growing blaze. “You are charged with being a witch, Effie Sevrance. Confess now and receive the swift judgment of my blade.”

  Someone at her back whispered, “It’ll be a mercy for you, lass, in the end.”

  Twenty-four pairs of eyes watched her. Turby Flapp took a hand from his poorly made sword to wipe the saliva off his lips. Effie looked at every one of them; Hailsmen and Scarpemen and strangers alike. She was shaking, and she couldn’t seem to speak, so all she could do to show her innocence was look them in their faces and meet their stares. One or two had the decency to look away. Arlan Perch found something to study on the knuckleguard of his sword.

  “Speak, witch.” Stanner Hawk was playing to the room now, his back turned toward her as he walked the circle of anvils. “I’ll hear something from you before I put your feet to the fire.”

  Effie heard the belch of popping mud-bubbles as the mud trough surrounding the furnace began to boil. Ridiculously, she thought of the shankshounds. They made sounds like that whenever they were given greens instead of meat. Thoughts of shankshounds helped, and she suddenly found her voice. “Stanner Hawk, my Da said you once cheated him out of a kill, swapping his spear for yours so you could claim the she-bear as your own. My Da never lied, and nor will I. I am not a witch. The shankshounds saved me out of love and loyalty, not sorcery. They’d do the same for their master Orwin Shank, just as Mace Blackhail’s hellhounds would save him.”

  Several grunts of agreement echoed around the forge. Many men here kept hounds, and all took pride in their dogs’ fierceness and loyalty.

  Stanner Hawk’s face had lost what little color it had been blessed with. Two points of anger burned in his eyes, and Effie knew she had made a mistake attacking his honor. He would see her burned for it.

  In three quick strides he was in front of her, the point of his sword pressing against the plump flesh of her lower lip. “Open your mouth, witch. Let me see the tongue that lies so easily. I’d heard witches could charm the sword from a man’s hand, but I never thought to see such a thing myself.” His last words were directed at the gathered clansmen, and to a man they straightened and raised their swords. No clever-speaking witch was going to fool them.

  “Your father was a good man, Effie Sevrance,” cried hard-eyed Turby Flapp. “You do him a disservice by defending yourself at his expense. What man here hasn’t clashed with another over kills? It’s not something you bring home to the women. Let them tend to their traps, not the hunt.”

  Cries of “Aye!” circled the room. Turby Flapp was old and shaking, yet Effie could still see the triumph in his eyes. He’d insulted her and her father, and fired the men with righteous rage.

  Mace Blackhail had chosen well.

  Oh, she knew why he wasn’t here, in this room. His hands must be seen to be clean. When Drey came to him, as Drey certainly would, Mace could say, Drey, if I’d been there I would have stopped it. I was holding vigil around the Great Hearth. I had no idea what these men would do.

  Effie felt the bite of Stanner’s sword as it split her lip, sending a line of blood trickling down her chin. Immediately a shift took place in the room. Breaths came hard and fast as sweating palms made it necessary to alter grips. Blood had been spilled. All hope of mercy was lost.

  Stanner Hawk’s mouth tightened in satisfaction, and with a kingly gesture he withdrew his sword. “Wracker,” he said to one of the Scarpe swordsmen. “Feed the hound through the hole.”

  Wracker Fox was powerful in the way Shor Gormalin had been powerful: small and lean and so swift to movement that it was like watching a hare bolt from a set. In an instant he was gone from the forge. What seemed like seconds later he was back, something wrapped in a blanket held fast against his chest.

  Effie thought her heart would stop when she heard the first frightened whimper. They had caught and bound one of the shankshounds.

  Wracker Fox dropped the dog onto the floor to free it from the blanket. The dog’s legs had been hobbled and its snout tightly muzzled with tarred rope, and the creature landed badly on its side. Effie flinched. It was Old Scratch, the gentle, dignified elder of the pack. Wounds around his eyes and jaw told he hadn’t been taken without a fight.

  Stanner Hawk said, “Put him in feet first, like we will the girl.”

  A sound left Effie’s throat, a sound so soft and powerless that no man in the room paid it heed . . . but it was enough for Old Scratch to hear her and know that she was there. Slowly and at great cost, he turned his large amber gaze upon her.

  Never, ever, not even if she lived for a thousand years would Effie Sevrance forget that look. Terror, faith and love touched her with such force it was as if she were inside the dog’s head. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. The shankshounds had saved her life.

  “Stop,” she murmured to Stanner Hawk. “Set the dog free and I’ll give you what you want.”

  Stanner ran a pale hand over his dark beard, and then exchanged a brief satisfied glance with Turby Flapp. Turning his back on her once more he said, “So you admit you are a witch as charged. And that you aided Clan Bludd in the attack upon Dagro Blackhail in the badlands, and the assassination of Shor Gormalin in the Wedge. You admit also that you helped your brother Raif Sevrance desert this clan, and heard him confess that cowardice drove him from the ambush on the Bluddroad. Lastly you confess that you bewitched Orwin Shanks’s hounds and forced them to attack an innocent man and woman for no other reason than you feared they knew you for a witch.” Stanner Hawk was suddenly there, back in front of her face, his smile so cold it chilled her. “Do you admit these sins, Effie Sevrance, before the faces of nine gods?”

  Da, I didn’t do them. Effie looked at Old Scratch, then quickly looked away. She found she couldn’t face the dog and lie. Stanner Hawk was something different. She tilted her chin, raised her gaze and looked him full in the eye. “I admit I am a witch before the faces of nine gods.”

  Breath was sucked in around the room. Some of the older clansmen touched their tines. One man, ancient and stoop-backed Ezander Straw, began to name the nine gods: Ganolith, Hammada, Ione, Loss, Uthred, Oban, Larannyde, Malweg, Behathmus.

  Flames from the furnace leapt high, sending waves of heat switching wildly around the room. The mud in the trough boiled madly, slapping and sucking as the water within it turned to steam. Stanner Hawk’s pale lips twitched. His knuckles were white where they curled around his sword. Still holding Effie’s gaze he said, “Craw, send the
dog to the fire.”

  “No,” she breathed. Then, louder, “NO!”

  “Yes,” he hissed. “I make no covenants with a witch.”

  “But . . . you said . . . The dog—”

  Turby Flapp stepped forward and slapped her face. “Hush, girl. ’Chant us no more with your lies.”

  Frantic with terror and helplessness, Effie didn’t feel the pain of the blow. She couldn’t find the words to save Old Scratch. They said . . . they said . . . Old Scratch isn’t used to the heat. He’s afraid of lit candles . . . I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Da. Didn’t have the words.

  Craw Bannering hefted the dog against his chest. Air venting from the charging hole shimmered with heat. The fire crackled and roared, releasing showers of white-hot sparks. Twenty-four men fell silent. No one except the bowman moved. The smith’s gloves reached as high as Craw’s upper arms, protecting him from the flames as he fed the dog to the furnace.

  The heat was so great in the smelting chamber that fire ignited from dry air. Old Scratch screamed, thrashing and jerking, his eyes wide with terror as he fought to buck himself free. When the first flames found his flesh he let out a terrible moan. Effie watched, waited, knowing the dog’s gaze would come to her, determined in every part of her that she would not look away.