A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  Ahead, Guy raised his arm, signaling a slowdown and a slight change in direction. The Gnashhouse lay half a day’s ride directly west, but they were heading to the Old Round, and that lay nearer, along the Gloze. The company turned north until it hit the riverbank and then followed its course due west.

  Many songs had been written about the Gloze. It was said to be the most beautiful river in the clanholds, its water green and clear, and its banks gently sloping and grown over with moss. Old willows tapped into its waters, and it fed countless pools where water lilies bloomed and kingfishers hunted. Bram knew many of the ballads, sad songs where maids and clansmen met and parted, or where pitched battles were fought “On the rolling banks of the Gloze”.

  Thinking of the songs made Bram wish for his stringboard. It had been lost the night Bludd invaded the Dhoonehold . . . such a small loss amongst so many that he had never mentioned it to anyone. Algis Gillow had taught him how to play, how to find and finger the chords. Old Algis had never tired of telling anyone who listened that in his day it was proper for a Dhoonesmen to play at least one of three things: the strings, the drums, or the pipes. Bram hadn’t seen Algis Gillow in half a year, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the old man was dead.

  “Bram. Where’s your new cloak?”

  Bram looked over to see Diddie Daw drawing abreast of him. The fierce little swordsman was dark-skinned and golden-eyed, and people said his mother had slept with the forest folk. When Bram didn’t immediately answer, he said, “Best draw it on. We’re charged to make a good showing at the Round.”

  Diddie paced ahead, leaving Bram to bring up the rear. Four men ahead of him now, every one of them in fine blue cloaks.

  Here, Bram. Take this. I had Old Mother weave it for you.

  Bran let out a soft breath. Even Robbie’s gifts had thorns. It wasn’t just guilt that had given rise to the cloak, there was self-interest too. This was the first company Robbie had ever sent to meet with Skinner Dhoone, and that company must befit a king. Robbie Dun Dhoone couldn’t very well send out his brother looking less stately than one of his sworn men. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

  Turning in the saddle, Bram reached back to pull the thing from his gelding’s pannier. The cloak was creased, and three days of sitting in damp leather above the horse’s rump had done little to improve its smell. Bram grimaced as he shook it out. He used his father’s old cloak pin to secure it, and then carefully folded his old cloak away. When the visit was done he’d want it back.

  The company was moving at a brisk trot now, and the mid-afternoon sun shone in their faces. The trees had begun to thin, and sheep and cattle were out amongst the grazes. Gnash was a large and wealthy clanhold, with many thousands of acres of rich black soil. Three rivers served them: the Flow, the Gloze and the Tarrel. Bram had been here many times when Maggis Dhoone had been alive and chief, yet he had never seen or visited the Old Round.

  It was the old Gnash roundhouse, he knew that much, abandoned a thousand years earlier after Blackhail had torched it. Some violent dispute over Gnash’s northwestern reach had resulted in a fire that legend held could be seen from as far away as the Dhoonehouse. Bram didn’t believe that, but he did wonder about the fire. Stone buildings were hard to torch: they would often blacken but remain standing. The Scarpehouse had been doused with oil by Orrl marksmen shooting bladder arrows before it was set alight, but by all accounts it had still made a poor fire. The collapse had come two days later when one of the crucial supporting timbers had given way. Somehow the draft created by the collapse made the fire spring back to life, and this time it burned inside as well as out.

  Bram wondered about the Old Round. Gnash had not rebuilt it, and instead had chosen to relocate their roundhouse seven leagues to the west, on the southern banks of the Tarrel. It could be a defensive move, he supposed, for three rivers now stood between Blackhail and Gnash.

  Often Bram found himself thinking of such things, working out strategies in his head. He liked to know the reasons behind events, and sometimes wished he had been born in Withy or Wellhouse where the histories and sum of clan knowledge were kept. A little voice inside him said Too bad Robbie never sold you there, but its ugliness made him recoil and he pushed it aside.

  As the company emerged from a copse of water oaks they were greeted by the sight of nine armed and helmed Dhoonesmen riding at canter toward them. Big men with blond braids whipping clear of their thornhelms and the blue steel drawn but held at rest crossed the length of pitched graze, scattering sheep as they went.

  “Easy,” commanded Guy Morloch slowing to a walk. “Bram. Trot ahead and give the sign of no contest.”

  Bram nodded and drew his sword, kicking his stallion forward as the other four men fell back. It was proper in situations like this for the leader of a company to draw fire away from his men by raising his sword above his head—one hand on the grip, the other closed around the point—indicating no contest. But there was more at work here, Bram knew. It was galling for seasoned warriors to appear so vulnerable, especially when three of the four would be yielding to their own clansmen. And Bram knew he was small for his age. Fifteen, and not much taller than a child. Guy Morloch was counting on that smallness to give the Dhoonesmen pause.

  The point of Bram’s blade had been ground less than five days ago on the swordmill at Castlemilk and he could feel it biting through his boiled-leather gloves. His heart felt big and out of place, and he thanked the Stone Gods that his gelding was easy beneath him and not taking advantage of the slack reins. The head Dhoonesman raised a fist, slowing his men. Bram could not see his eyes through the thornhelm.

  Coming to a banking halt a hundred paces away, the head Dhoonesman cried out, “In the name of the Dhoone chief, who comes here?”

  Bram hoped that from this distance the man couldn’t see his sword shake. He concentrated on holding it level as he spoke. “Bram Cormac, Robbie Dhoone’s brother, come to treat with the chief-in-exile, Skinner Dhoone.”

  The head warrior pulled off his helm and shook out his braids. His face was flushed with trapped heat and sweat, and his skin was thickly laid with tattoos. Bram watched his gaze travel to Guy Morloch, Diddie Daw, and the other two swordsmen. Bram felt for Jordie Sarson as the man’s gaze rested upon him and his lip tightened in contempt. Just six weeks earlier Jordie Sarson had counted himself amongst Skinner’s men, but he had defected to Robbie Dhoone on the Milk, and now had returned as a member of Robbie’s company. Jordie kept his face impassive, but his skin was the pale kind that showed every change beneath it, and Bram saw spots of color rising on his neck.

  “Take me to Skinner Dhoone,” Bram was surprised to hear himself say. “My message will not wait upon custom.” With that he lowered and sheathed his sword, and stared levelly at the head warrior until he had forced the man to blink.

  The head warrior exchanged glances with his men. Most had followed their leader’s example and pulled off their helms, and Bram found himself recognizing several faces. Turning his horse, the head warrior addressed his men. “Ransom their weapons, and accompany them at canter to the Round.” He kicked spurs into horseflesh and started back at gallop across the graze.

  Guy Morloch hissed something under his breath. Diddie Daw muttered, “No sense fighting it, man,” and unhooked his scabbard from his sword belt and let it fall upon the earth. Bram did the same, and Jordie and Mangus Eel followed suit. Guy Morloch relinquished his blade last. No warrior liked to have his weapons ransomed, but only a fool would travel to a warring clan and not expect it. At least the Dhoonesmen didn’t further insult them by searching their bodies for hand-knives and other small weapons, and one of their number simply dismounted and collected the swords.

  When the formalities were done, the Dhoonesmen arranged themselves in point around the visitors, and led the way back to the Round.

  Somehow Bram found himself maintaining his place at the head of the company. The land was rich here, and soon graze gave way to plowed fields. Crofters’ st
one-built cottages nestled in little valleys, surrounded by hedgerows.

  The sun was very low now, beaming straight into Bram’s eyes, and he found it difficult to see the Old Round at first. He had expected something broken and charred, but had not counted on the force of nature. Exactly half of the old roundhouse still stood, forming the shape of a half-moon. The part that had collapsed was gone, stone and all, but the outline of its foundation could still be read beneath the gravel court that had replaced it. The standing half had retained its dome, but the roof had ceded to nature. Turf and ground willow grew there in thick mats, and Bram knew enough about their root systems to realize that pulling them up was no longer an option. They would break the stone if forced.

  It was an extraordinary sight, the shaggy half-moon dome set on a bank above the Gloze. Newly constructed lean-tos had been set against the flat end-wall, and horses and men trotted back and forth between makeshift stables and the Round.

  The Dhoonesmen increased the pace for the short climb, and then brought the visitors to a halt upon the half-circle court. Grooms came out to take their horses, and already Bram could tell that word had spread. Interest was high amongst Skinner Dhoone’s men, and Bram found himself treated with a queer mix of distrust and respect.

  Stupidly, he found himself staring at the women. Almost he had forgotten that Dhoone had any, and to see them here, carrying oats for the horses and pails from the well, was a shock. He couldn’t stop staring. The older ones stared back, hostile, but the younger ones regarded him with frank interest. He heard one whisper, “That’s Robbie’s brother, Bram.”

  Taking quick stock of himself and his four companions, he had to admit that Robbie had been right about the cloaks. They set the five of them apart, and endowed them with something long missing from Dhoone: the courtliness of an older Age. Strangely, Bram felt his confidence growing. If one good thing had come from the meeting with the Milk Chief, it had been the fact that Robbie had been forced to reappraise him. Wrayan Castlemilk was no fool. If she had asked for Bram Cormac it was for good reason.

  At least, that was what Robbie reckoned. Bram managed a wiry smile. He suspected the fosterage was just a game to Wrayan Castlemilk, something to throw Robbie Dhoone off guard . . . but he kept that thought to himself.

  “Follow me.”

  Bram and his four companions were bidden to follow a Dhoone warrior through a break in the end-wall, passing from the blaze of a red sunset into the dank shadows of the Old Round. The half-dome had been braced with bloodwood stangs a hundred feet tall and buttressed with rock pylons. The ground underfoot was little more than mud at first, with slabs of slate laid across it like stepping-stones. Deeper into the building greater effort had been made to render the place habitable. Gravel had been scattered to cover the mud, and fragrant woods burned to mask the stagnant-well stench of the stone. Some old corridors were still in place, and Bram could see where the women had been at work, laying down rushes and lime-washing walls. The warrior led them up a partial stair to a chamber that lay ten paces above ground level.

  After the dimness of the entrance Bram had to hood his eyes to stop the light from dazzling them. A large seven-sided chamber lay in front of him, and torches spaced at foot-long intervals ringed the walls. There had to be at least two hundred, Bram figured, yet even combined with the fires buming against three of the seven walls they didn’t create sufficient light or heat to drive away the atmosphere of decay.

  Skinner Dhoone sat on a big ugly chair carved with thistle barbs for armrests. He has aged, Bram realized. His braids were lank and graying, and his face had the florid puffed-up look of someone who drank too hard on a weak liver. His eyes were pure Dhoone, and all the arrogance of chiefs and kings lived there. Looking Bram up and down, he said, “I know you. You’re Mabb Cormac’s boy—you’ve even less claim to the Thistleblood than your brother Rab.”

  Bram nodded; he had not been charged to argue with Skinner Dhoone. All around, Dhoonesmen stood in silence and watched him. The chamber was full of them, all armed, many armored. Bram recognized the brothers Mauger and Berold Loy. Mauger acknowledged him with a grim nod.

  Skinner had been expecting Bram to be provoked by his statement, and Bram’s agreement confounded him. Curling his fingers around the carved wooden barbs, he said, “So you do not deny your brother has no claim on king or chiefship?”

  Behind him, Bram heard Guy Morloch hiss something in response.

  “What say you?” demanded Skinner, seizing upon this. “Step forward, Milkman, and speak your mind.”

  Guy Morloch laid a hand on Bram’s shoulder to push past him, but Bram jerked his head around sharply and said, “Guy. You speak out of turn. I was charged to treat with the chief-in-exile. No one else.”

  For a wonder, Guy Morloch fell back. Or perhaps Diddie Daw or Mangus Eel grabbed and held him. Bram would never know. He had turned to face Skinner Dhoone once more, his heart racing. This had to be done right.

  “Answer the question, rabbit boy.”

  Bram stilled himself. His mother had trapped many creatures: coaties, and ringtails, and foxes. She had not trapped rabbits alone, though even she would have admitted they were her favorites. A rabbit is good eating and skinning, she would say. Try putting a weasel in a pot.

  Feeling calmer, Bram said, “Robbie Dhoone relinquishes the chiefship to you.”

  Gasps circled the chamber. Dhoonesmen stirred. Mauger Loy crossed to the thistle chair and whispered two words in Skinner’s ear. Bram’s good eyes saw Mauger’s lips move and read them. Be cautious.

  Skinner Dhoone roused himself from the chair, and stood. His boots were deerskin and very fine, but the mud of the Old Round still clung to them. Approaching Bram, he said, “And what has brought about this change in Rab Cormac nee Dhoone?”

  Bram concentrated on looking at the drink-puffed skin on Skinner’s nose; the Dhoone blue eyes were too much for him. “It is not a change as Robbie sees it. He has been constant in his wish to see Dhoone united.”

  Behind him, Diddie Daw, Mangus Eel and the rest grunted their agreement. Even a few of Skinner’s own men nodded their heads. They had heard the messages Robbie had sent through Mauger Loy.

  Skinner Dhoone rocked back onto the heels of his boots and snorted. “So Robbie’s been constant, has he?” Lunging forward suddenly, he locked gazes with Jordie Sarson. “And what would you say to that, Jordie Treason?”

  Jordie swallowed. He’s not much older than I am, Bram realized. Tilting his chin up a fraction, Jordie said, “I’d say Robbie is an honorable man, who loves Dhoone more than his own life.”

  Bram made his face a mask. Jordie believed what he said, that was evident, and there was something about Jordie Sarson—the fairness of his skin and hair, his youth and fine looks and clear blue eyes—that spoke to Dhoonesmen. Any man here would be proud of such a son.

  Robbie had calculated well. It had been a risk sending Jordie with the company, and another risk not to let him in on the plan. But both risks had paid off. Jordie’s conviction was beyond price.

  Skinner’s lost a beat of concentration. His blue eyes weren’t as clear as Bram had thought; there was water in them. “Am I to hear Rab Cormac’s plan?” he challenged.

  Bram stepped forward to draw attention away from Jordie and back to himself. “Robbie has a deal to propose.”

  “Does he, now?” Skinner said quietly, unsurprised. “Go on.”

  “Robbie has men who are sworn to him, and he will not force them to break their oaths to return to you.”

  Skinner let out a gasp of foul air. “The arrogance of the bastard! He stole those men in the first place and now refuses to give them back!” The chief-in-exile shook his head, but Bram didn’t think it was in genuine amazement, more the show of it for his men. “And what else does Rab propose?”

  Bram took a breath to steady himself before speaking. “Robbie is willing to cede Dhoone to you. As long as you agree not to interfere with his taking of Withy, he will not interfere wit
h your reclaiming of Dhoone.”

  It took a moment for this statement to sink in. Skinner’s eyes blanked for a moment, and then focused sharply as all the implications occurred to him. “Withy?” he repeated and this time his amazement was unfeigned. “You are telling me Rab Cormac intends to take the Withyhouse?”

  Bram nodded. Only one final piece to say; relief gave him confidence. “We have made plans. Robbie believes it can be taken. It’s vulnerable, and the Dog Lord’s sons fail in their vigilance. Robbie will have a clanhold.” He looked Skinner Dhoone straight in the eye. “And he’s judged Dhoone impossible to retake.”

  Skinner shook his head, clearly agitated by Bram’s words. His lips moved, muttering something, and though he turned before Bram could catch it all, Bram recognized part of the Withy boast.

  We are the clan who makes kings.

  When Skinner turned back his face was changed, and some of the water had left his eyes. “If I agree to these terms, when will Rab take Withy?”

  “Within the month. I can say no more than that.”

  Skinner nodded, as if he had been expecting just such an answer. Drawing himself up to his full height, he said, “Go now. I must think on this. I will send Rab Cormac my word within the tenday.”

  They were dismissed, and as Bram made his way from the chamber he was struck by the fact that when cunning showed on the face of a Dhoone they all looked much the same.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Raid on the Shanty

  They halted when they saw smoke in the distance. Two bald hills separated them from the shanty; a distance of perhaps five leagues. Raif had led the party this last day, and it was he who called the halt. They were in Blackhail territory now, and he knew how easy it was to spot any sort of movement on the balds. They would make a dry camp until sunset, and then move under cover of dark.