A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  The pulse in Raif’s temples deepened. The earth fell away at the outlander’s feet, leaving nothing but gray sky. Six hundred paces in the distance the southern face of the Rift towered like the wall of a giant fortress. Steel flashed as the outlander drew his knife. His lips were moving, chanting, but the words belonged to no tongue Raif had ever heard. Something creaked. The air at the outlander’s feet rippled. All the Maimed Men were quiet now, still as stones.

  The outlander raised the knifepoint to his eye. His voice rose as he spoke a command, and the smell of blood metals, of iron and copper and sodium, puffed from his mouth like smoke. The updrafts died. Time hung. Something vented deep within the Rift, like the sighing of a child. And then, with the tip of the knife touching the center of his eye, the outlander stepped into the Rift.

  And did not fall.

  Air thickened at his feet, spooling out in a line across the Rift, and then a substance that was not air or mist or daylight parted, and a bridge came into view.

  Raif blinked. How could he have not seen it before? The bridge was a rickety construction of tarred rope and wooden lats, suspended from iron posts sunk deep into the cliff wall. It creaked in the breeze. The outlander turned to face the raid party, and Raif realized that his pupil was so enlarged you could see what lay behind it. The man swayed. Stillborn moved swiftly onto the bridge to steady him. “Make way, lads,” he said as he guided the outlander back. “Our brother needs rest.”

  The outlander raised his gaze to Raif as he passed him. Blood slid across the white of his eye.

  “He will not come with us?” Raif asked the cragsman, as Stillborn led the outlander into the lean-to.

  The cragsman shook his head. “He’d be naught but a burden. He’ll wait, though, if he knows what’s good for him. Uncover the bridge when we return.”

  Raif heard the distaste in the cragsman’s voice. Another clansman. He said, “How long has this bridge been here?”

  The cragsman spat. His saliva was streaky with mead. “We don’t keep no fancy histories in the Rift.”

  Stillborn called the men into file. As they were forming up, he thrust a length of brown wool into Raif’s hand. “For the pony,” he said, responding to Raif’s puzzlement. “No horse will take the bridge unless it’s blinkered.”

  Raif watched the other Maimed Men fashioning makeshift blinkers from pieces of leather and felt. Following their lead, he bunched and tucked the length of wool around the mare’s cheek straps until she was allowed only a limited field of view. The mare fought him as he led her forward, her stout little legs locking at the knees, and he had to slap her hard on the rump to get her going.

  In single file, the Maimed Men led their ponies across the Rift. Later that night, Raif would think of the dizzying height, the black drop beneath him, and the awful swaying of the bridge—he would think of it and his heart would knock in his chest. For now he managed to stay calm, as much for the pony’s sake as his own, and put one foot in front of the other until he was done. His legs shook as he stepped onto the hard rock of the clanholds.

  Stillborn grinned at him and punched him cheerfully in the back. “I’ll win coin on you tonight. Addie had you down as a jumper.”

  Addie was the name of the cragsman, Raif recalled. “Men jump from there?”

  Stillborn nodded merrily. Now that they had completed the crossing, the Maimed Men were pleased with themselves and showing it. One man took out his cock and pissed into the Rift. “Aye. Mostly green boys like you. Takes them in the middle. They start looking down, and the next thing you know they’re hearing the Rift Music . . . and it’s all downhill after that. And never was there a more considerable way downhill than jumping into the Rift.”

  The Maimed Men laughed as they mounted their ponies. Raif made himself as comfortable as it was possible to be on a saddle that was too small, and looked around. The badlands were narrow here, the flat plains warping gently into the Copper Hills. Heather clung to the rocks, and whitebark pines growing low to the earth provided nurseries for ironweed and mistletoe. Glint lakes and muskegs shone silver in the morning light, telling of a recent thaw. It was a different world than on the north side. Alive. Changing. Raif felt as if he’d emerged from a tomb.

  As they rode south for the hills, Stillborn explained that they were heading to a village of free clansmen, lately settled in the woods northeast of the Lost Clan. By rights it was Dhoone territory, but Dhoone was no longer around to defend her turf. Settlements of free clansmen often sprang up in times of war. A settlement could grow quickly into a village, attract more people, and in time might declare itself a clan. Clan Harkness had begun that way, and Otler, and the tiny Dhoone-sworn Clan Croog. Raif remembered Tem telling him that it was a natural cycle of the clanholds. “Clans rise and fall. Some fail, some are lost and some are cursed. New ones must be born to take their place.” Clan Innis had failed, and Morrow had been lost, and everyone knew Gray was cursed. Perhaps one day this settlement would grow to take Morrow’s place.

  But today I go to rob it. Raif pushed the thought down. Inigar Stoop had cut his heart from the Hailstone: Raif Sevrance was no longer clan.

  They rode east of the Dhoone hills, entering instead the highlands of Morrow. Smoke had been spotted coming from the old fort that defended the Dhoonewall, and pitched battles with armed clansmen were not the Maimed Men’s way. At midday they stopped in the hills to rest and water the horses. Stillborn joined Raif by the tiny stream that cascaded down from the hilltop.

  “Gods! This water is cold,” he declared, scooping up two handfuls and splashing it over his face. “Tastes good, though. Clean, like nothing in the Rift.” He glanced around, checking that they were out of earshot of other men, and said, “Stay close to me when we hit the village. First time out’s always hard—especially for a clansman. Just don’t do anything stupid, and don’t run scared. See the blackbeard over there, the one with the pretty cloak?”

  Raif nodded. He’d noticed the man earlier.

  “He’s Linden Moodie, Traggis’s spy. You can’t so much as take a leak without him knowing. Now, as far as raids go this’ll be a dull one. I’m running the show, so there’ll be no unusual punishment, if you get my drift. We go in. Seize the grain stores and livestock. And ride out. Everyone here’s ridden with me before. They know I won’t waste time breaking into strong-chests and chasing down women in fields. It’s food we need, not trouble. And I aim to get the first and avoid the other. Is that clear?”

  Raif nodded again. He could feel the quails’ eggs resisting digestion in his stomach. Searching for a safe place to send his thoughts, he asked, “Don’t your arms get cold, wearing nothing but the bullhorns?”

  Stillborn raised a hairy forearm to the sky, letting light gleam along the wickedly curved horn, and laughed. “Nay, lad. If your mam’s intent on setting you on a rock in the dead of winter, you learn early on how to make your own heat.” The Maimed Man stood. “Now, let’s get moving and head east.”

  The Copper Hills were losing their snow. The ground was softening, and in the deepest valleys, below translucent crusts of ice, bogs were forming. Uprooted saplings and newly churned-up rocks littered the slopes. The hill ponies made short work of the terrain, and the cragsman Addie Gunn knew the ways. Within half a day they were on the southern slopes, descending into the farthest reaches of the Lost Clan. The tree cover deepened as they passed into the foothills, and day gave way to night.

  Raif’s breath whitened in plumes. Addie Gunn slowed the party as they approached another of the little streams that veined the hills. “We follow this south,” he whispered to Stillborn. “Let the noise of the water mask our progress.”

  Without a single command spoken the Maimed Men drew their weapons. Raif slid from his mount, and led the pony forward. As he yanked his new sword from its sheath he was aware of someone watching him. Linden Moodie’s gaze was like a finger on his spine. Traggis Mole’s spy had a full black beard that almost hid the garrote scar that circled his throat. Hi
s rich, plum-colored cloak swished against his body armor as he drew his broadblade.

  Somewhere close by a lamb bleated. Stillborn extended his arm, slowing the raid party, and looked to Addie Gunn.

  A cragsman’s business was sheep. “There’ll be a dog,” Addie warned.

  Stillborn nodded. He turned to Raif. “Go with Addie and shoot it. Leave your pony here.”

  Raif felt Linden Moodie’s gaze upon him as he slid the Sull bow free of the pony’s saddle strap. Addie Gunn grabbed his arm, guiding him away from the raid party. “You do naught but silence the dog. I’ll take care of the sheep.”

  Raif pulled an arrow from his makeshift quiver. It was dark amidst the pines, the rising moon barely silvering their trunks. Addie moved swiftly along a path only he could see. Dry needles that crunched beneath Raif’s feet barely whispered beneath the cragsman’s. When a second lamb cry sounded, Addie signaled a slowdown. Directly ahead the established pines gave way to scruffy brush of black-rotted saplings and berry canes. Something in the shadows moved. Raif halted and drew his bow.

  “Ewe,” Addie hissed. “Cover me while I hog-tie her.”

  Raif held his draw.

  Addie navigated through the brush, a little man in a big crested helm. He must have spoke some sort of sheep talk, for the ewe did not shy from him as he approached. She was heavy with lamb and burdened with a shaggy winter coat. Addie cooed, and then in a flash he was upon her, felling her with a body blow and pinning her to the ground as he wound rope around her legs. And then two things happened at once.

  A dog streaked from the brush toward Addie, its hackles raised in spikes and its lips pulled back to its gums. Yet even as Raif tracked it, a twig snapped to his left and a man called, “Drop the bow.”

  Raif froze. The dog reached Addie and sank its teeth into his leg. The ewe bucked furiously, squealing in panic. Addie released his hold on her, letting the rope spool through his fist. He snatched off his crested helm and slammed it into the dog. The dog yelped and sprang back, and then immediately pounced forward for more. The ewe was free of Addie now, but its back legs were hobbled and it thrashed through the berry canes in panic.

  Raif saw this and felt nothing. He couldn’t see the stranger in the shadows, hadn’t even turned his head toward him, but already he’d marked the man’s heart. Fear jolted Raif’s chest . . . but he didn’t think it was his own. Herdsmen carry bows. They need them to shoot wolves. Chances were the stranger had an arrowhead trained upon Raif. Chances were that arrow would be loosed the instant Raif made a move. Raif knew he’d be lucky to get in a single shot.

  Man or dog?

  “Drop the bow!”

  Raif dropped along with his bow, rolling onto his side so that the bow fell parallel to his body and the ground. His weight came down on his bracing hand, and he struggled to hold the entire length of the six-foot bow free of the earth. He managed an awkward twisting half-draw. And chose his heart.

  The arrow loosed with a noisy twang, crossing paths with the arrow released by the herdsman. The herdsman’s arrow whistled over Raif’s head and stabbed the earth behind him.

  Raif’s arrow shot through the brush . . . and entered the sheep’s heart.

  The ewe stiffened for an instant, blood jetting from the entry wound between its ribs, and then collapsed into the canes. The dog hesitated for that same instant, giving Addie long enough to drive his crested helm deep into its snout. The herdsman let out a terrible cry and rushed toward the ewe.

  Raif dug his heel into the ground and spun his body around to face him. He could barely manage a half-draw this time because his trapped arm was shaking so badly. Yet, even so, the man’s heart was his. Raif felt its galloping beat, felt it catch in terror as the herdsman realized his mistake. Even as the man halted and drew his bow, Raif let his arrow fly.

  It was a poor shot, but it still floored its target, passing through the upper inch of the herdsman’s shoulder, gouging out a flap of muscle as it continued its flight to a point far beyond the clearing. Grunting, the herdsman fell.

  Raif let the bow drop from his grip and rested his head against the earth. All of him was shaking now. His body felt fevered, cold with sweat. He spat the taste of metal from his mouth and then braced himself to stand.

  Addie was already on his feet, his left leg bloody at the shin, his doeskin pants torn through. The dog was on its belly, whimpering as it crawled toward its master. Part of its nostril slid from Addie’s helm. Addie’s chest was rising and falling rapidly. The look he gave Raif was full of rage, but when he spoke his voice was quiet. “She was wi’ lamb.”

  Raif nodded. A lactating ewe and her lamb would be worth much in the Rift. Now she’d have to be butchered and hauled back as meat.

  In the distance another sheep bleated.

  Addie hesitated, his gaze hard on Raif. He looked weary. Blood seeping from the dog bites on his leg was collecting in his boot. Reluctantly, he reached a decision. “Take care of the herdsman and the dog. I have to find the other sheep.”

  “Should I butcher the ewe?”

  “No. That’s my job.” Addie Gunn turned in the direction from where the lamb’s cry had sounded. “I’ll be back later to open her up.”

  Raif dragged a hand across his face. He left the Sull bow on the ground and drew his sword.

  The herdsman had fallen on a pine sapling, bending the immature tree in two. The dog had reached its master and was sniffing at the arrow wound. As Raif approached, the dog shrank back onto its haunches, saliva leaking in strings from its ruined jaw. The herdsman’s eyes were open, blue as Dhoone and focused on Raif’s sword.

  Raif killed the dog with a single strike through the larynx. Spilling sand. He turned to the herdsman. “Get up.”

  The man didn’t move.

  Raif kicked his leg. “I said get up!”

  As the herdsman struggled to his feet, Raif pulled a shammy from his waist pack. He waited until the herdsman had dragged himself to his knees, and then shoved the shammy in the man’s mouth and gagged him. Needing something to tie the man’s wrists, he slid the blunt edge of the sword against the herdsman’s belly and cut his belt. The belt fell away from the man’s gut, sending his horn of powdered guidestone thudding to the earth. The horn was yellow and chipped. Its neck was sealed with a silver cap.

  The remains of the quails’ eggs curdled in Raif’s gut. “Where did you get this?”

  The man shook his head, unable to answer the question with a gag in his mouth

  “Is it Hailstone?”

  The herdsman widened his eyes, confused.

  Raif grabbed him by the arms and shook him. He couldn’t understand where his anger came from, but he couldn’t stop it either. “Does the horn contain powdered Hailstone?”

  Understanding dawned on the herdsman’s face. He gargled a denial through the gag, and then attempted a word that sounded like “ith”.

  “Withy?”

  The man nodded furiously. Raif let him go, and he slumped back to the ground with a groan of pain.

  Not a Hailsman then. Thank gods, not a Hailsman.

  Raif closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again he secured the man’s wrists and helped him to his feet. “Go,” he said. The man was wounded, gagged and tied: He could issue no warning or pose any threat. Addie had ordered Raif to take care of him, and Raif told himself it was done. He watched for a while as the herdsman lumbered south through the brush. Then Raif turned to join the raid party.

  A cloaked figure was heading away through the trees.

  Raif plucked the Sull bow from the loam. How long had Linden Moodie been watching? Had he seen Raif angle his bow away from the herdsman’s heart? Had he seen him let the man go? A tremor of fear altered rhythms in Raif’s chest. Had he heard the word Blackhail spoken?

  Thoughts dark with foreboding, Raif went to join the raid.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Spire Vanis

  Town Dog was digging for field mice. Crope would have liked to carry on w
alking until midday, but a mouse was a mouse, and he wasn’t in any position to turn down food. The little dog dug furiously, kicking up dirt. Crope could tell when she found the first mouse, for Town Dog had a special noise that she made, like the squeaking of a bat. It wasn’t a very doggy noise—but then, Town Dog wasn’t a very doggy dog.

  Crope sat on a fallen spruce log and waited for Town Dog to bring him the mouse. It was sunny in the foothills, the sky as clear as a diamond, and you could almost believe it was warm. There was a bit of shade under the great firs, and the kuk-kuk-kuk of a hairy woodpecker sounded over the rise. Ahead lay the shimmering phantom of a city, all pale walls and high spires, like cities in legends. It was his city. The bad place. The site where his lord was being held.

  Dutifully, Crope took the mouse from Town Dog’s jaw, and shook it clean of dirt. The little dog looked expectantly at her master, her tail thumping the mat of spruce needles that carpeted the slope. Crope looked at the dog and the dog looked back. With an elaborate sigh, Crope threw the dazed mouse into the trees, sending Town Dog tearing after it with tail-wagging joy. It was easier stealing eggs, he reckoned. By the time Town Dog was through with the mouse there’d be little but the head left. And mouse brains were passing small.

  Still, he couldn’t help grinning as he watched the little dog dive into a bush. It was good to have a companion, and mostly it felt better being hungry than alone.

  Crope stretched out his legs and groaned. His feet were hurting, and he was tempted to pull off his boots and thrust his toes into the cool loam of fir needles and melted snow. He’d never get his boots back on again, though—experience had taught him that—and he had to get to the city by sundown. He could not fail his lord.

  Come to me. The words echoed in Crope’s dreams, softer now, losing their strength a little each day. His lord’s voice was more beautiful than he remembered: softer, more complex. There had always been wisdom and command within it, but now you could hear other things as well. Crope knew he wasn’t good at words, but the one he kept returning to was loss.