A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  Pengo raised his voice to his brothers. “Gangaric. Thrago. You lazy sons-of-bitches. Get down from your saddles. I’ll be damned if I’ll stand here alone.”

  Vaylo looked on with distaste as his two younger sons did Pengo’s bidding. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn’t brought the curse of his sons upon himself. I married my half-sister. No man can come that close to trespass and remain unpunished. Stone Gods! But Angarad was fair then! The color of her skin, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed. Old Gullit Bludd had adored her. He’d grunt at his sons, ignore his bastard, and shower his daughter with gifts. The only time Vaylo could recall seeing his father pay coin for anything was when a Far South trader had shown him a sea pearl as black as night. Angarad was thirteen then, more lovely than a thousand pearls, and when she’d held the jewel to her hair it disappeared, so closely were the two matched in sheen and hue. Gullit had bought the jewel on the spot, and named it for her. Angarad had worn it till her death. Vaylo had it now, yet he’d never once looked upon it in the nine years she’d been gone. Strange how he had once thought it beautiful. Now he knew it for the dark omen it was: no girl of thirteen should be given a black jewel.

  She had not wanted him. How could she? She was fifteen, in the fullness of her beauty, and the man who claimed her had slain the father she loved. Worse than that somehow was Vaylo’s bastardy. Angarad was her father’s daughter: she had grown up believing in his word. She had seen firsthand how Vaylo was treated, and that seeing had darkened her feelings for the rest of her life.

  The Dog Lord sighed deeply. He could not blame her. She was proud, as a Bluddswoman should be, and she had borne him seven healthy sons. Toward the end, during the last few months of her life, when she insisted on being carried out to the Bluddcourt each morning in her wicker chair, there had been a softening. All she had to do was show him one small sign of affection to steal the heart from his chest. He had wanted to love her all along.

  It was an effort to drag his mind from the past.

  To Thrago he said, “Take a crew of thirty south to Withy. Warn Hanro of what passed at the Bluddhouse. Tell him to double watches on all borders—especially in the east where the Withy hunt-runs cross into the Ruinwoods. You’ll stay with Hanro until I call you back. And before you say it I’ll hear no argument about which of you is to take command of the Withyhouse. Hanro has it. He’s been there for ninety days, and he should know how best to defend it by now.” Vaylo couldn’t resist a jibe at his second son. “And be sure to watch your step, else you’ll fall through a trapdoor and end up with a hole through your head.”

  Pengo scowled.

  Thrago nodded. “I’ll leave on the morrow.”

  “Good.” Vaylo turned to Gangaric. His mind was fully engaged now. Angus Lok had warned him that Robbie Dhoone was cunning and hungry. Vaylo had been cunning and hungry himself once; it shouldn’t be difficult to put himself in the Dhoonesman’s place. “Gangaric. I want you back at the Bluddhouse. Take a small crew with you. No more than two dozen spearmen and bowmen. You’ll be working with Quarro to secure the Bluddhold. I want three hundred yards of timber cleared around the roundhouse. And take Scunner Bone with you. He’s old, but he’s devious, and he knows how to lay horse traps and strangle lines.” And it’ll stop him from catching any more damned eels for me to eat. “Send him to Withy when he’s done.”

  Gangaric was not so pleased with his assignment. He had styled himself a HalfBludd axman, and had plans to travel south to the Halfhouse and take up arms there. Now his father was commanding him east, and at the head of a crew of archers and spearmen, no less. Every axman Vaylo had ever met had nothing but contempt for weapons that relied on piercing, not chopping, blades. Gangaric fought his dissatisfaction. Deeply scarred and blistered hands flung back his braids. “Aye. I’ll go east. Though I’ll be taking a half-score of axmen as escort.”

  Vaylo forced himself not to object. Six axmen were neither here nor there. If it pleased his third son’s vanity to have them, then it came at a small price. “Well enough. I’d have you leave at dawn. All in the Bluddhouse must know our hearts are with them.”

  Gangaric bowed his head, a strangely courtly gesture that lay at odds with his manner and dress. He’s learning grace from the HalfBludds, Vaylo thought, pleased despite himself. HalfBludd axmen were renowned for two things: their reckless joy on the battlefield, and their gallantry with clan maids off it. It certainly wouldn’t hurt Gangaric to pick up a few manners whilst learning how best to chop off a man’s head.

  Vaulting into his saddle, Gangaric said, “I’d best get back. There’s much to settle if I’m to be gone by first light.”

  Thrago followed after him, and the two of them rode at gallop to the Dhoonehouse. The moon was high now, silvering the thistle fields and moving deep within the lake. The wind carried the scent of resin from the western pines, a smell that reminded the Dog Lord of surgeons’ tents and wound dressings. Underfoot the first dew of nightfall was crisping to ice.

  Vaylo was aware of the silence that grew between the three remaining men. Cluff Drybannock and Pengo Bludd seldom had much to say to each other, but tonight the hostility running between them crackled in the air.

  “Pengo,” Vaylo said eventually. “I want you to take a company of a hundred men north. Ride overnight to the Dhoonewall and secure—”

  “No,” Pengo hissed. “I’m not leaving this roundhouse while he’s still in it.” He snapped his wrist in Drybone’s direction. “Send him to those blasted rocks—he’s not one of us. He won’t be missed.”

  “Silence!” Vaylo roared, taking a step toward his son. Fifty-three years old Vaylo was, yet Pengo still flinched before him. “Cluff Drybannock is your brother by fosterage and a warrior of this clan. You will show him due respect, or as the gods are my witness I’ll beat you where you stand.”

  Pengo took a step back, his face flushing with blood. “That bastard thinks he’s as good as a chief since he took Ganmiddich. But what good did it do us? He held it for less than a month.”

  Cluff Drybannock regarded Pengo with such a depth of coldness it made hairs rise on Vaylo’s neck. It was not Dry’s fault Ganmiddich had been lost—Vaylo knew that blame lay with himself for sending Dry north to Dhoone when they were already undermanned—yet Dry did not speak up in his own defense. His pride allowed for no excuses.

  Addressing himself to Vaylo, Dry said, “I will take command of the Dhoonewall.”

  “No, you will not!” Vaylo replied hotly. “That charge falls to my second son.”

  “Let him take it, Father,” urged Pengo, sensing an advantage. “He’s unwed. He has no wife to drag north for his comfort.”

  Vaylo halted for a moment as he made sense of what his son said. Pengo couldn’t be thinking of taking his new wife to the Dhoonewall. The Dhoonewall was a defensive rampart spanning two major passes in the Copper Hills. It had lain unused since the time of the River Wars—and then manned only briefly. Built by Hawker Dhoone, it had once been a source of Dhoonish pride; a means of protecting the Dhoonehold and Dhoone’s precious copper mines from Maimed Men raiders, and preventing hostile clans from mounting northern attacks. Now the copper mines were mostly sealed. Iron had long since taken over as the metal of choice for forging weapons, and the number of Maimed Men had been declining for decades. As far as Vaylo knew, only one of the original hill forts was livable and that was a broken-down tower of crumbling mortar and mossy stones. No woman could be taken there. Especially one as heavy with child as Pengo’s wife.

  Vaylo heard his voice fall dangerously low as he said, “You will man the Dhoonewall and you will not take your wife.”

  “I don’t think so, Father. You may command the Dhoonehold, but I command my wife.” Pengo flicked a piece of straw from one of his braids. “And while I think on it, I’ll have her bring the bairns along as well. They’ve been so long in your care they think they’ve an old man for a father.”

  Vaylo wanted to strike him. Pengo’s two children were his sole r
emaining grandchildren. To even speak of putting them in danger was unthinkable. It made Vaylo see spots of red rage before his eyes. “Your wife stays here. She’s with child. You can’t drag her and the bairns to some broken piece of rock-wall. I forbid it.”

  “She. She. You don’t even know her name, do you? All Shanna is to you is a means of restocking your grandchildren. A brood mare. Well start looking for someone else to do your rutting, Dog Lord, for if you send me north to the Dhoonewall you’ll never see Shanna or the bairns again.”

  Gods help me not to kill him. Vaylo grabbed his braids in his fist and tried not to grind his teeth. There was truth in what his son said, he could not deny it. He couldn’t remember the name of Pengo’s new wife, though she had been a daughter of the clan for twenty years. Oh, he knew her well enough by sight—a striking girl with the dark skin and black eyes of her sister, Pengo’s first wife—yet the only time he’d spoken to her was when she became visibly heavy with child. It had been the same with all his sons’ wives: he valued them, but only as mothers of his grandchildren. Now Pengo’s wife was six months pregnant, soon to bring forth the clan’s first newborn since the massacre on the Bluddroad. Every effort must be made to keep her safe. Vaylo wanted that child.

  “So, Father. What’s it to be? Do you send a wifeless bastard from the roundhouse, or me?”

  Vaylo looked to Cluff Drybannock. Since he’d taken his final oath six years back Dry had gathered a troop of loyal swordsmen about him. His skill with the longsword was unmatched in the clanholds, and no swordsman could watch him in battle and remain unmoved. He was Vaylo’s right hand, silent and uncomplaining, and he would fight to the death to protect his chief. Yet I have given him so little; a sword, a bed, brotherhood in a hostile clan. I should have taken him as my son formally, spilt my blood over his. Yet he never asked for it, and I always thought there’d be time enough for such sentimental fussing when all wars and conflicts were done.

  The Dog Lord’s hand closed around his measure of guidestone, weighing the gray powder in his fist. He wanted Dry here, with him. When an attack came, and he knew one would, he would fight easier knowing Dry was at his back. Pengo was a fierce warrior and he rode with a fierce crew, but he lacked loyalty and obedience . . . and something else that Vaylo couldn’t name. Perhaps the cold and deadly grace of the Sull.

  Drybone’s gaze rose to meet his chief’s. Moonlight sheened his hair and ran along the sharply defined bones of his face. He was wearing a cloak of auburn wool, its hem weighted with bronze chains so it would not move with the wind; a gift from Ockish Bull upon his deathbed.

  Dry, I love you like a son.

  But I love my grandchildren more.

  The Dog Lord turned to his son. “You will stay here at the roundhouse with your crew. You’ll take charge of securing the perimeter. I want a station on the Flow to the south, and one on Lost Clan Field to the east. Plan for ranging parties to ride as far west as the Muzzle, and make sure every scout’s equipped with fire arrows and horns.”

  Pengo stood straighter. “Aye.”

  Vaylo was glad he said no more. Glad that his second son chose not to gloat, for he didn’t think he could have borne it. Weariness stole over him, and suddenly he wanted very much to be with Nan. Glancing over at where Drybone stood facing the lake, his beautiful long fingers resting gently upon the wolf dog’s neck, he knew he wasn’t done.

  “Pengo. Go now.”

  He meant to say more, to warn Pengo of the importance of his task, and advise him to learn the lie of the land—for Robbie Dhoone knew it only too well. Also he knew he should force a reconciliation between Pengo and Dry, make them clasp hands and speak hollow words so at least a semblance of unity could be maintained. But he didn’t have the strength for it.

  Pengo waited, and when no further words were forthcoming he grunted in dissatisfaction and led his horse from the lake.

  He wanted to stay, Vaylo knew. Listen to what he and Dry said to each other, like a jealous husband eavesdropping on his wife. Vaylo waited until horse and rider reached the torchlight and cobbled stone of the Dhoone greatcourt before turning to face Cluff Drybannock.

  “Dry. I’m—”

  “Don’t say it.” Dry’s voice was quiet, but there was no comfort in it. “I’ll take a hundred north. We’ll leave at dusk tomorrow.”

  “Take the full two hundred—at least until you make the hill fort livable.”

  “No. I would leave half at your command.”

  So much to say to each other, yet we can only speak the language of fighting men. “If you must leave some, leave only twenty. If you judge the post a folly send word and I’ll call you back.”

  Drybone nodded, once. “Chief,” he said, and Vaylo recognized the finality in it. The word was both an acknowledgment and a farewell. Dry clicked his tongue to beckon his horse and before Vaylo knew it he was on his way.

  Vaylo watched him leave. The wolf dog, torn between staying with its master and trotting alongside Drybone, raced back and forth in the growing distance between them. Time passed, and eventually the great orange-and-black hound came to heel. As Vaylo scratched and pinched its ears, he saw the lake was glowing. It reminded him of the chorus to an old clannish lament.

  Give me a maid at full moon, and on the banks of the Blue Dhoone we’ll dally as if it were day.

  With a heavy heart the Dog Lord turned for home.

  FOURTEEN

  Awakening

  Light pulsed against her eyelids, a breeze rippled across her face. Somewhere far in the distance a bird chirred, and then someone said, “She’s coming awake.” Am I? she thought lazily. I really don’t think I want to. It’s so much easier to sleep. The voice wouldn’t let her go, though. It called her name, and there was a force behind that one word that seemed to propel her straight from her dreams.

  “Ash.”

  She opened her eyes. Weak dawn light shrank her irises, and spots of light floated across her field of vision like bubbles in water. A face loomed over her. Dark eyes inspected her, and warm rough hands probed the pulse points in her neck. “Welcome home, daughter. I thank the gods for sending you back.”

  They were the most beautiful words Ash March had ever heard. She tried to reply, but her head felt woolly and her throat was so dry it hurt.

  “Hass, bring water.”

  Water was brought, and a thin stream of it trickled into her mouth. She swallowed. Hands slid under her, raising her head and slipping something soft under her back. She saw two faces now, both stark and subtly alien, the plates of bone beneath their cheeks somehow different from her own. Ark Veinsplitter and Mal Naysayer. She was pleased when the names came to her. It meant she wasn’t mad.

  She found her voice, and grimaced when it cracked and squeaked like a boy’s did when he came into manhood. “How long have I been asleep?”

  The two Sull warriors exchanged a glance. “Many days,” said Ark Veinsplitter.

  Oh. Ash couldn’t think why she wasn’t more surprised. She glanced around. A crown of peaks surrounded her, purple and blue, jagged as split bone and heavily freighted with ice. She felt as if she were floating amongst them like a cloud. A fuzzy, aching cloud. Directly ahead lay the trappings of a well-laid camp: a tent stretched on poles, a horse corral, a firepit, even a line suspended over the flames for thawing game and drying clothes. It should be cold, she thought abruptly. This high in the mountains, at dawn. Yet she did not feel cold, she felt numbed and protected. Only the gentlest breezes got through.

  “There was a cave,” she said as she took in the saddle of rock they were camped upon; the tufts of yellow goatgrass growing from chinks in the boulders, the rippling course of a dry streambed, the ledge that sheared away into thin air. “You took me there, into the mountain . . . I . . .”

  “We bled you.”

  With those three words she remembered everything. The pool. The razor on her wrist. Blood dyeing the water red. She shivered. Her arms lay beneath heavy white fox pelts and she labored to free th
em. They were thinner now, the veins showing like gray wire beneath her skin. Slowly she turned her palms to the sky. Oh god. The scars. Bands of livid pink scar tissue crossed her wrists.

  “Hass, breathe the blue.”

  Mal Naysayer rose and walked toward the horse corral. Ash saw the bright glint of metal as he drew his letting knife. She did not want to see as he knelt before the breathtaking blue stallion and sliced open the skin above its coffin bone, but she found she couldn’t look away. Horse blood bubbled from the gash, and the Sull warrior moved swiftly to catch it in a copper bowl. Mal’s hands were gentle upon the horse’s calf as he massaged the vein to keep it open. Ash couldn’t believe how still and calm the horse was; its great sculpted head held as steady as if it were being shoed. The bowl filled quickly, and Mal set it down whilst he stanched and then greased the wound. Before retrieving the bowl, his lips moved as he spoke words of thanks or blessing.

  Ash wasn’t surprised when he brought her the bowl. “Drink,” he said, in his low-timbred voice. “Grow your blood.”

  Ash took the steaming bowl in both hands, smelling the sugary, grassy odor of horse. She did not want to drink it, and had a brief desire to tell Mal that she hadn’t agreed to have her lifeblood drained for it to be replaced with horse blood. Yet when she brought the warm liquid to her lips a terrible craving overcame her, and she drank greedily, letting riverlets of blood spill down her chin in her haste. Only when she’d drained the bowl did her normal senses return. Sheepishly, she offered the empty vessel to the Naysayer.

  “It is the iron,” he explained. “Your body thirsts for it.”

  “You must sleep now,” Ark said, standing. “We will speak when you are rested.”

  But I don’t want to rest, Ash protested. But just as quickly she felt a wave of lethargy pass over her, weighing her eyelids and making her exhale. The horse blood was a delicious heaviness in her stomach, the fox pelts as soft as breath against her skin. She slept.