A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  The door to the Splinter was set in a wall carved with stone reliefwork. The Impaled Beasts of Spire Vanis sat with surprising triumph upon poles, and as always Iss was glad to put the sight of them behind him. Once within the Splinter he adjusted the flame on the lamp. He had forgotten how cold and utterly dark the oldest of Mask Fortress’s four towers could be. Even now, with spring showing in the city as budding trees and thawed lakes, winter held here. Hoarfrost plated the walls just as surely as steel plated the Killdoor. Seven thousand feet below the snow line on Mount Slain, yet the temperature and conditions were the same. Just as lightning rods drew lightning, so the Splinter drew ice.

  Iss shivered and moved quickly to the underspace below the stairway where the entrance to the Inverted Spire could be found.

  Speaking a word of command he revealed the portal, its gate rumbling back to display a descending flight of steps. He took them with some haste, not wishing to dwell on the weakness he experienced performing a single small act of sorcerery.

  The Inverted Spire was calm this day, its winds barely stirring. The small lamp Iss carried lacked the power to illuminate the great chasm at its center. Down the steps wound, past walls ground with lenses of ice and veined with hairline cracks. Have they been here all this time? Iss wondered. These flaws forking through the stone?

  By the time he’d finally descended into the first of the round chambers Iss was weary. The thought of having to climb back up disheartened him, and he wished suddenly he had not come. Steeling himself, he passed through the Inverted Spire’s upper two chambers and into the dark well below.

  The Bound One stank, not of the foulness of human waste, but of the sharp sourness of old men close to death. He lay in his iron cradle, his arms and feet drawn up close to his belly, his chains wrapped like an umbilical cord around him. He did not move, yet he seemed to for a moment as the lamplight impelled the caul flies crawling upon his body to take flight.

  Iss moved closer. The Bound One’s skin had a gray-yellow cast to it, the kind that came with a drawing inwards of the blood. The chafe marks on his wrists were no longer red, but black, and that same blackness had spread like welts around his pressure sores. Iss knelt to touch him, his heart aching softly in his chest. There had always been love between them; some deep, needful breed of it born out of dependency and isolation and the terrible act of Binding. For eighteen years the Bound One had drawn toward his master’s touch, had sought it like a dog seeks affection from its owner. And Iss had always felt the corresponding pull. He felt it now, as he touched the Bound One gently on his cheek.

  Nothing. Not even a tremor of acknowledgment or recognition. Iss let the linen pack containing the water and the honey drop to the floor, out of reach. Great sadness filled him. An end was drawing near, but it was surely better this way, letting the Bound One weaken gradually over many days and weeks. Less dangerous. Only a very great fool would forget who lay here. And only a greater one would attempt to end that life by other means.

  Iss leant over and laid a kiss on the Bound One’s head. It was over between them. Eighteen years—now this.

  With a heavy heart Iss departed the iron chamber, closed the door and drew the bolt.

  He waits, waits. Such a small and terrible thing to wait, such a relinquishing of self. Yet wait he must, and he concentrates on moving air in and out of his lungs in small degrees as he listens to the Light Bringer retreat.

  He knows he is failing, and sometimes that fills him with such despair that he begs the darkness to take him. Surely he has endured enough. When do you give in and say, This life is too painful, let me end it?

  Not yet, comes the reply from inside himself, surprising him with its heat. Not yet, Light Bringer. Not yet. So he waits and gathers his power about him, and sometimes the moisture in the chamber condenses and rains down upon him and he open his lips and lets its sweetness fall on his swollen tongue.

  Not yet.

  FORTY-ONE

  Desertion

  The earth tremor in the night had left the dogs uneasy, and the Dog Lord found himself impatient with their fussiness. They had not eaten the horse liver he’d cut up for them this morning, and they’d fought their leashes as he pulled them outside. Damn-fool dogs. So what if the earth was shaking? Did they think themselves safer in the roundhouse, chained to their rat hooks, than here under the open sky? Briefly, Vaylo wondered why no man had invented a dog whip—they worked passing well for horses, by the gods!

  “It’s just beyond the basswoods,” Hammie Faa said, leading the way from the Dhoonehouse. “You’ll see it in just a bit.”

  Vaylo huffed. Hammie Faa was getting fat. Some people did that, he’d noticed, grew into their names as they matured. Molo Bean had been the same way. His head had started out a normal shape, but somewhere along the way it had developed a certain off-centeredness—a bulbous forehead and a bulbous chin and a concavity in between. Bean-shaped, no doubt about it. The Dog Lord wondered what that meant for him. Quickly deciding it didn’t bear worrying about, he kicked some speed from his dogs and followed Hammie Faa through the trees.

  The day was a fine one, despite the violent shake-up in the night. There were clouds, but they didn’t mean anything, just some puffed-up sheep shapes in the sky. The sun was pale and still rising, and there was a tickler of a wind. The bare branches of the basswoods clicked together as they swayed; a dozen of them had been planted too closely and were now competing for the same space. If Vaylo had his way he’d chop them all down and be done with it. The basswood was a Blackhail tree. They hollowed them out and laid their dead in them—perhaps he’d have them felled and sent there as a gift. As always, thinking of Blackhail made the pressure build in his head. Seventeen grandchildren slain. And Blackhail had not paid for it. Vaylo woke every morning into a world where Blackhail had not paid.

  Breathing out heavily, he yanked on his dogs’ leashes to bring them into line. Some things a man could not think of and remain sane.

  Ahead, Hammie Faa had drawn to a halt by the curiosity he had brought his chief to see. There had been a well at the center of the grove, but Vaylo did not know what it could be called now. The entire bricked well-shaft had popped out of the ground like a cork forced from a bottle.

  The Dog Lord felt a chill take him. We are Clan Bludd, chosen by the Stone Gods to guard their borders.

  Hammie inclined his pink face toward the queer cylinder of stone. “Happened in the night. Tremor did it.”

  The dogs would not go near it. They were already spooked enough. Aware that Hammie was watching him expectantly, Vaylo kept his expression bluff. “Well, that’s one less place to draw water from, eh? We can always use the bricks to build another outhouse—you can never have too many of those.”

  Hammie had been hoping to astound his chief, and Vaylo could tell he was disappointed. Faa men had never learned to rule their faces; that was partly why Vaylo trusted them. Masgro, Hammie’s father, had been a devil of a man, a gambler, a wencher—and straight to the hilt.

  Vaylo made an effort. “It’s a sight, Hammie, I’ll give you that. Has anyone else seen it?”

  “I told Pengo where it was. He said to fetch you first thing to take a look at it.”

  Something about this statement struck the Dog Lord as odd. An instinct he didn’t fully understand made him glance in the direction of the Dhoonehouse. He and Hammie had come about a league east, and the trees and the slight rise in the land prevented him from seeing the domed and gated structure. “I think we’ll head back, Hammie,” he said, crouching to release the dogs from their tethers. “Go!” he commanded them. “Home!”

  The dogs raced off eagerly, and Hammie and his chief followed at a brisk pace. Vaylo noted the presence of a knife and sword slung from Hammie’s gear belt. Good. But he’d wished they’d thought to bring horses.

  What had been a moderate walk downhill was a climb on the way back, Vaylo swore it. His old Bludd heart was beating harder than it should have, and he felt a weariness that wasn’t
solely due to lack of sleep. True, he had been woken at midnight along with everyone else in the Dhoonehold—probably the entire North—as the earth shook and the roundhouse ground and rolled above him. But there weren’t many times when he slept through the night. His body was accustomed to hard use. No. This was something else. An accumulation of worry. Angus Lok’s visit had added to the tally, and now it had reached the point where he could find no restful place in his mind. And when that happened the body suffered.

  He saw one of his worries made real as he and Hammie gained the rise. The Horns and the two-storey stable gate had been thrown open and an army of Bluddsmen were assembling there. Grooms and boys were bringing out horses, spears were being thrust into saddle shoes, hammer chains fastened, wagons loaded, plate strapped across chests, barrels rolled over the court, chickens chased, swords oiled, bows braced, helms lowered, and sable greatcloaks fastened at throats. It was a sight to stir a Bluddsman’s heart, and Vaylo knew with a certainty he had no power to control it.

  A call to arms was mother’s milk to Clan Bludd.

  Hammie swore, taking the words right from Vaylo’s mouth.

  Pengo Bludd stood in the center of the field of men, high atop his great gray warhorse, allowing a young boy elevated on a mounting stool to fasten his hammer chains about him as if he were a chief. When he spied his father approaching, he raised a hand in greeting, his eyes triumphant.

  He had planned it well, Vaylo had to give him that. Frowning grimly, the Dog Lord approached the Horns.

  Pengo had the audacity to ignore him at first, finding himself much occupied with cradling his spiked hammer just so. Men milling around him had the decency to look shamefaced in their defiance, and none had the nerve to ignore their chief. They opened a space for him, nudging back their mounts to give him space.

  “Son,” Vaylo said quietly. “I see your spine still bends both ways.”

  Color flushed Pengo’s cheeks, and he made his stallion rear to disguise his feelings. “I’ve raised an army, Dog Lord. Time was when you would have done the same.”

  Silence spread through the men like a ripple on a pond. At that moment Vaylo would have given his soul for a horse. He shifted his gaze from face to face, taking tally, recalling names. Many here were Pengo’s men, but others were not. Cuss Madden, Ranald Weir, the three Grubber boys, Cawdo Salt, Trew Danhro . . . and so the list went on. Even the smith Tiny Croda was geared and mounted.

  It was pointless asking how this had been done. Bluddsmen prided themselves on their ability to ride to war at short notice. Jaw depended on swift, decisive action, not meticulous planning. Perhaps Pengo was right: thirty years ago he might have done the same. But that was a different time and there was less to lose, he told himself, but he wasn’t so sure he was right. Maybe there was always a lot to lose, but the young didn’t know it.

  “Where do you ride?” he asked.

  Pengo looked as if he couldn’t quite believe his father wasn’t giving him a fight. “South to Withy,” he said bullishly.

  Vaylo nodded. It was a flexible position. From Withy Pengo could monitor the Spire’s armies, move swiftly east to Haddo and HalfBludd, or strike against Blackhail at Ganmiddich. He probably hadn’t made up his mind which.

  The Dog Lord motioned to the wagons. “I see you’re taking a fair cut of my supplies?”

  “What would you have us do, Father? Starve?”

  You, son, in a minute. “And women, too?”

  Pengo shrugged, growing more confident. “A warrior must have other comforts beside food.”

  Vaylo sprang forward and grabbed his son’s booted foot, twisting hard. Pengo rose in his saddle, his eyes widening in shock and indignation. Vaylo thrust up. Somewhere in his son’s knee bone cracked.

  “Listen to me, boy. Take the men, take the women, take the food. But take my grandchildren and die.” Another thrust upward. “Do you understand?”

  Pengo winced. One hand had gone to his horse’s neck to balance himself and the other had gone to his knee. His gaze flicked nervously from side to side. Men were looking at their feet, their pommels, their fingernails: anywhere but at Pengo Bludd.

  “I said, do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Good.” Vaylo didn’t release his hold, though he slackened the upward pressure. “Now I’m going to send Hammie to that cart over there, and he’s going to take the bairns back inside. Aren’t you, Hammie?”

  “Yes, chief.”

  “And you and I are going to stay here until he’s done it.”

  Hammie moved with the speed of a Stone God, and his task was completed in under two minutes. Vaylo got a good long look at his second son during that time, and decided he very much disliked him. Pengo just got to look ridiculous, and that suited Vaylo well enough. When he was ready he released him.

  Pengo swung his weight back into his saddle. He was shaking with rage, and might have charged his horse if it hadn’t been for the five dogs moving to circle his father. He settled on sharply jerking its head toward the Dhoonehouse. “I hope you die there,” he said to his father.

  Vaylo wanted suddenly to be gone. Ignoring his son, he addressed his clan. “Bludd!” he cried. “A hard life long lived to us all!”

  Men cheered, and the army began to move out on his call. Pengo sent daggers to his father, and then shoved and bullied his way to the head of the train lest anyone forget who was its leader.

  Vaylo stood on the tower court and watched his clansmen trot south along Blue Dhoone Lake. The wagons churned the shore to mud, and a patch of yellow spring flowers Vaylo had admired that very morning was beheaded, crushed and finally driven beneath the dirt. It took Pengo’s army the better part of an hour to leave the court, with many warriors and wagons lagging behind. Someone had failed to catch all the chickens, and the stupid creatures flapped and fretted, declining to take advantage of their chance for escape. The dogs wanted at them, but Vaylo wasn’t sure yet how badly the Dhoone stores had been raided and he thought he just might need them himself.

  Already there had been waste; barrels split and leaking beer—it’d be a boon night for snails—sagging grain sacks discarded, a crock of butter smashed and oozing yellow grease onto the court. As Vaylo looked on a handful of women came forward to begin the clearing-up. They were nervous of him, wary of drawing too close or meeting his eye; Nan had probably sent them. Sighing heavily, he left his dogs to lick up the butter, and crossed into the Dhoonehouse.

  Loyal men were awaiting him inside the great blue entrance hall. Hammie and Samlo Faa, Odda Bull, Glen Carvo and more stood in a half-circle and greeted their chief with silent, telling nods. Most were warriors past their prime. Like me, Vaylo thought with a stab of black humor. I’ve been left in charge of an army of old men.

  Nothing for it but to send the young ones to do the legwork. “Hammie. Do the rounds and take a head count. I want every green boy and maid reckoned for, and weapons found for all of them. Samlo. I need you to ride out to the guard posts along the borders. There should be at least twenty swordsmen between here and the Flow. Bring them in.”

  Hammie and his younger, bigger brother nodded. Already some of the tension in their faces had eased: the Dog Lord would not fail them.

  As they rushed off to do his bidding, Vaylo sent Odda Bull to inspect the Dhoonehouse’s defenses and report back to him that night. Odda was graying but still hard. He’d been cousin to Ockish, and could play the pipes; a good man to have around.

  “Glen,” Vaylo said to Strom Carvo’s brother when he was done with setting tasks. “You’re with me.”

  They went to see Nan first. The Dhoonehouse was quiet and strangely echoing. Torches had gone out and no one had thought to relight them. In the tunnel leading down toward the kitchens Vaylo saw boot prints stamped in something sticky like honey. Flies were just getting interested.

  The Dhoone kitchens were a series of high-ceilinged chambers clustered together on the west wall of the roundhouse. “Kitchens” was perhaps too
simple a name for them, for some of the chambers contained granaries and butteries, game rooms and brewhouses, a mews for poultry and stock tanks for fish. The kitchens were a lot grander here than in Bludd, and Vaylo found himself wondering where a lad might go to beg scraps and fancies from the cook. He didn’t have to wonder long as Nan came out to meet him and guide him and Glen toward the proper part of the kitchens, where things were actually cooked.

  Nan’s movements were serene, her lovely sea-gray braid smooth as woven corn. “They waited until I’d left to help with the lambing,” she said, almost managing to keep the same serenity in her voice.

  Vaylo nodded, though he needed no explanation from her. Nan Culldayis’s loyalty had never been a question in his mind. She had loved both of them, that was the wondrous thing, first his wife and then him. Nan had been with Angarad the day she died, had held her like a sister as she spoke of the old times when they’d been girls together in Bludd. Nan had been a fair maid in her youth, with long chestnut hair and eyes to match . . . but Vaylo had never thought anything of her. Only Angarad had stirred his heart. Now, nearly forty years later, things had changed between them. Nan’s husband had been killed during a raid on Croser the year following Angarad’s death. Shared grief had brought some comfort and healing.

  The proper kitchen, as Vaylo decided to call it, was in the process of being cleared up. At some point Nan had run out of women to command, and had set a stable boy and the two bairns to cleaning. A lot of sweeping was being done, but Vaylo doubted its effectiveness. The stable boy would sweep one way, and Pasha and Ewan would sweep the dirt right back at him. Vaylo had a half a mind to pick up a broom and show them how it was done—he’d swept out his share of stables and yards over the years—but he suspected cleanliness wasn’t the point here. Nan was doing exactly the same thing with the grandchildren as he was doing with his men: keeping them busy.