A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  Grabbing hold of the ring, he heaved the flagstone back into place, plunging them all into darkness. “Hammie. Your spear.” Vaylo could hear the Dhoone King rushing forward, his feet pounding against the stone. Feeling his way in the blackness, Vaylo thrust Hammie’s spear through the ring, securing the entrance. It would hold for now—it was awkward enough to lift a sunken flag of stone without a handle, let alone one that was jammed in place with a spear—but it would not hold for long.

  For a period of perhaps six seconds, Vaylo did nothing but sit on the step and breathe. He was worn out. Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness he could see moonlight spilling in ahead. The tunnel passed under the roundhouse’s walls, leading north to the tomb, and blocks of quartz in the ceiling let in light.

  “Come on,” he said, his voice weary. “Down we go to pay our respects to the dead kings.”

  Everyone, including the dogs, rose at once. Vaylo felt Nan’s hand gently touch his arm. He had to push it away. His grief was too raw.

  The dogs understood what his lady did not, and followed him at a careful distance, their tails down. The wolf dog whimpered softly. Little Ewan began to sob. Vaylo had no comfort to give, not yet, and led the way to the tomb in silence.

  The Tomb of the Dhoone Princes was much as he remembered it: stale and haunted by memories of past glories. The standing tombs glowed pale in the moonlight, sentinels guarding the underworld. Vaylo shivered, and realized quite suddenly he was terribly cold.

  “Hammie. Nan. Pasha. Ewan,” he addressed his small party. “If we’re ever to get out of here we have to think. Last time I was here the ranger Angus Lok told me there was a tunnel leading north from this very chamber. Said it was so old that even Dhoone had forgotten it. Right now that tunnel’s our only hope. So what I need all of you to do is push, prod, knock and shove every bit of stone in this place to find the opening mechanism.” It sounded insane even as he said it, but all four of them accepted it calmly and began to spread out around the tomb.

  Vaylo frowned for a minute, trying to recall the little rhyme Angus Lok had said. How did it go now? “In the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes there be, a Bolthole for those who canna look nor see.”

  Everyone turned to look at him. “Is that the clue, Granda?” Pasha whispered excitedly.

  “Aye. It’s the clue,” he told her, not wanting to disappoint. The rhyme said as good as nothing, and the black thoughts circling his mind settled into place. First Ewan, then Pasha, Hammie, Nan, and then himself. The order seemed important, and he asked the Stone Gods for the courage to see it through. The Dhoone King had talked of yielding, but Vaylo had seen the truth of it in the pale blue eyes beneath the thornhelm. Robbie Dun Dhoone was not a man to be held to his word.

  And time was running out.

  “Granda! Why does this man have no eyes?” came Ewan’s high voice. The boy was too young to be afraid of death and all its trappings, and was swinging from the effigy of the Dark King, Burnie Dhoone.

  Vaylo shrugged. “The masons never got around to it.”

  Pasha was kneeling by one of the fallen tombs. Coming to her feet, she said matter-of-factly, “That means he canna look nor see.”

  Vaylo felt the gooseflesh prickle along his arms. Quick glances to Nan and Hammie told him they’d both felt it too. From the mouths of babes . . .

  All three of them walked toward the stone likeness of Burnie Dhoone. Pasha joined them, smug as could be. “It has to be the eyes, Granda. That’s why the masons never finished them.” With that she hiked up onto Burnie Dhoone’s feet, and pressed both fingers into the rough globes of stone that were his eyes.

  Something deep inside the chamber rumbled. Damp, fetid air wafted in as an entire section of wall swung inward. The dogs shrank back on their haunches, frightened. Ewan ran across to the opening, delighted. Pasha stepped down from Burnie Dhoone’s feet and said, “Well, I think we’d better hurry, then.”

  Vaylo stared at the opening on the opposite wall. It was black and lifeless, entirely unwelcoming, but to him it looked like hope.

  Calling his dogs about him, Vaylo led the way north out of Dhoone.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The Stand At Floating Bridge

  “Here,” Ark Veinsplitter said to Ash. “This is the last ice-spur of winter.” The Sull Far Rider handed her a delicate white flower as large as her fist. The petals shimmered with silver veins, and in the center its feather-like anthers glowed deep, midnight blue. “You crush them,” Ark explained. “And they will give you their scent.”

  Ash pressed the anthers between her fingers, smelled nothing at first and then a moment later the scent of winter—fresh snow, cinnamon, evergreens, apples, and woodsmoke: all of them rendered sweeter, fairer—possessed her completely. It made her remember things: falling in the snow as a child, so thickly wrapped up that she could not right herself; getting tipsy on mulled cider with Katia, both of them hiccuping and feeling a bit sick; running across the Quad, eager to see the Winter Candles that were lit each year in the great circular dancing hall in the Bight. Ash breathed deeply. She hadn’t thought about those candles for years.

  Ark was watching her carefully, his dark brown eyes searching her own. “This Sull believes that sometimes when you look back you may see things you have missed.”

  Ash nodded slowly, her understanding growing. He was right. She had missed things. Her life at Mask Fortress had been terrible in many ways, but there had been moments of real joy, silliness, anticipation—times when she had lived the carefree existence of a child. The ice-spur had showed them to her.

  “You are daughter to us now,” Ark said. “You have nothing to fear from the past.”

  Ash looked down at the flower, unable to hold his gaze. How did he know so much about her?

  “The Daughters of the Sull wear ice-spurs in their hair when they ride into battle.” He thought for a moment. “Also when they choose a mate. Sometimes this confuses the Sons.”

  Ash grinned, feeling big tears well up in her eyes.

  “Eventually the Sons learn, though. We know much about our Daughters’ hearts.”

  Tears plinked into the snow.

  “Come. We must ride long hours this day.”

  Ash looked up as the Far Rider moved away. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For the flower.”

  He bowed in acknowledgment and went to tend to his horse. Ash watched him crouch down by the gray’s forelegs and rub grease into the hooves. The bandage that she had wrapped around his hand only an hour earlier was already spotted with dark blood. Fixing the ice-spur in her hair, Ash went to help him break camp.

  They were in the Trenchlands now, a day’s ride east of the Bludd border, camped in a dense forest of towering trees. Five-hundred-year old cedars circled the clearing, giant trees with drooping branches, their needles blue as smoke. Somewhere close by, water was splashing over rocks, and the raucous calls of ravens at a kill disturbed the quiet. Yesterday they had ridden through a tract of burned forest that had taken them from noon to sundown to cross. Once or twice Ash had spied log cabins and hide tents raised at the edge of the burn-line. She had smelled smoke and heard dogs bark, but had seen no men. Ark Veinsplitter and Mal Naysayer had set a hard pace, choosing to ride through the burned forests to save time. They had no love of the Trenchlanders, and would ride on swiftly whenever they encountered signs of settlement. The Naysayer had not hunted in two days, and contented himself with bringing down ice hares and rabbits from the saddle with his bola. It seemed there was no weapon invented he could not use.

  The weather had held so far, but glancing up at the sky as she headed for the stream, Ash thought they might not be so lucky today. White clouds meant snow. It was just the right temperature for it, too—cold, but not icy.

  She shivered as she passed through the cedars. The stream followed the course of the land, falling in tiers as the forest floor dropped into a hollow. Pine needles had dammed it in places, sending water sheeting wide over rocks. The water tasted
of resin. Ash cupped it to her face and scrubbed. As she rubbed it from her eyes she spied a movement between the trees on the far bank. Ever since the night in the Deadwoods Ash carried her sickle and chain with her at all times, and she pulled it from the squirrel-fur pouch she had fashioned for it. Light was dim amongst the cedars. “Who goes there?” she challenged, settling the sickle’s weight in her hand.

  A tree rustled, and a figure sprinted away, heading deep into the forest. Trenchlander.

  Ash found she had to sit down for a minute, her legs shaking. The sickle glinted, its wickedly hooked blade looking starkly alien when set upon a mat of cedar needles. The Trenchlander had been afraid—of her. She didn’t know what to make of that. After a time she decided it was good. Very good. Nodding to herself, she filled the water-skins and headed back to the camp.

  “I saw a Trenchlander,” she said to the Naysayer as she dumped the heavy skins at his feet. “I scared him off.”

  The Naysayer raised an eyebrow; Ash had never seen him do that before. “A settlement stands close.”

  “Is that why you were away this morning, scouting it?” It seemed the confidence had gone to her head, for she’d never had the nerve to question the Naysayer’s movements before. The Naysayer did whatever he chose to, and not even his hass forestalled him.

  “Nay, Ash March. This Sull scouted no Trenchland settlement this day.” His ice-blue eyes regarded her levelly, but there was no invitation for further questions in them.

  Ash nodded in response to what he didn’t need to say. Some things she could not question. Not yet. Determined to take no offense, she went to brush and pack her horse.

  Snow began falling as she strapped the last of the saddlebags in place. Whilst she’d been gathering tent canvas and poles, the two Sull Far Riders had walked off to the far edge of the clearing. They spoke quietly at some length, and Ash couldn’t stop herself from glancing at them from time to time. At some point the Naysayer brought a package from his furs, something wrapped in faded red silk. Ark stripped off the bandage from around his hand, and held out his wounded wrist toward the Naysayer. The Naysayer unwrapped the silk and took out a small bulb-shaped container. He unstoppered it, and then poured a few drops of its contents straight into Ark’s wound. Ark stiffened, grasping his forearm. His lips whitened as he held a grimace, and then slowly regained their color as he relaxed. Mal rested one of his huge ice-tanned hands on his hass’s shoulder for a moment, and then went into the trees to open a vein. Ash knew that was his intention: she saw him reach for his silver letting knife before the cedars hid him.

  Suddenly cold, Ash thrust her hands into her lynx fur. Medicine. The Naysayer had gone off this morning in search of medicine for his hass.

  She had a bad feeling about the day after that. Once the snow had begun it grew rapidly thicker. No wind stirred, and the flakes fell heavy and straight as Ash and the Far Riders left the clearing. Visibility was poor. The path between the cedars was narrow and twisting, and icy boughs slapped against Ash’s legs. The Naysayer did not ride ahead as usual, taking instead the lead on the blue. No one spoke. The breadth of the Naysayer’s back as he sat his saddle seemed as wide as two men to Ash.

  At midday they halted briefly to feed and water the horses. The forested ridge they stood upon looked down over the valley they would cross later that day. Leaving her horse to its snuffle-bag, Ash hiked to the edge to take a look. A vast river flowed below, its surface the color of rust. Spring thaw had caused it to burst its banks, and its waters had spilled over into the surrounding forests and fields, creating leagues of shallow lakes. Above it stood a city the likes of which Ash had never seen before. It was made of timber and mud. Squat, unlovely log cabins, shanties and lean-tos were crowded upon a hump above the river, clinging to it like barnacles on a rock. An entire section of the city looked to be nothing more than felt-and-skin tents, and Ash could see that the river had already begun swallowing up some of them. Roofs and animal hides floated like rafts nearby.

  “Hell’s Town,” Ark said, coming to stand beside her. “It is the time of the flood. All the trenches are filled.”

  She risked a quick glance at him. The Far Rider’s skin looked pale and dry. “This is the Easterly Flow?”

  He nodded. “It swells. Many rivers drain into it.”

  “Kith Masaeri.”

  Ark seemed pleased that she had remembered its Sull name. “The River of Many Ways, that is what we named it.”

  Ash felt stupidly glad to have pleased him. Scanning the bloated length of the river, she asked, “How do we cross it?”

  “The Floating Bridge.”

  Something in his voice made her turn toward him.

  “Once we cross it we are home.”

  Ash thought of the Naysayer’s hand resting upon Ark’s shoulders, and suddenly she wanted to do the same. Just rest her hand there for a while. But she didn’t. She heard the longing and weariness in his voice, brought her hand up to touch him and then let it drop. She’d lost her nerve.

  “Let us go,” Ark said. “If we make good time we will arrive at the bridge before dark.”

  They didn’t make good time. The snow turned slushy in the river valley, and the ground underfoot became a bog of freezing mud. The Naysayer chose a path that lead them west of Hell’s Town, but even so they soon began passing people on the road. Filthy children and tired-looking women gave the Sull Far Riders a wide berth, often stepping off the path while they rode past. One man abandoned his cart in the middle of the road, and only returned to reclaim it once the Far Riders had passed by. Ark and Mal seemed indifferent to the stir they caused, and rode with their heads high, looking straight ahead. Ash wished she could have done the same. She felt the Trenchlanders’ gazes upon her, and found herself flicking her hair back and making unnecessary adjustments to the reins. Did she look like Sull to them? Or did they know her for the impostor she was?

  It was a question she couldn’t answer. She saw heads turn to track her silver-blond hair and appraise the golden richness of her lynx fur, but she couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

  As the day wore on they passed Trenchlander settlements set amongst the trees: muddy villages of log cabins wreathed in woodsmoke, surrounded by barrels for the curing of hides. They even passed an inn. But the Far Riders did not halt. Ash felt their anxiousness, their desire to be upon land they named wholly their own.

  By sunset they had still not reached the river. It grew dark early amid the tall trees, and the road began to empty. The snow became firmer underfoot as the temperature dropped, and it showed no sign of getting any warmer. Ash huddled in her furs, watching her breath whiten as she exhaled. The smell of cedar and woodsmoke made her drowsy, and she found herself slumping forward in the saddle. She’d just fallen into a sleepy daze when she heard a wolf howl. Blinking, she turned her head and listened. Nothing. Probably a dream.

  It was an effort to keep her eyes open. The road was passing through thick forest now, the trees forming a wall around the road. Stars were out, and there was a faint red tinge to the sky. Gods Lights. When the road made a sharp turn, Ash saw the glimmering waters of the river ahead of her . . . and then heard the wolf howl again.

  Straightaway she snapped awake. It was a wolf—she had heard them often enough on Mount Slain—but it was something other as well. Cold tingles passed up her spine, making her shoulders jerk. Another call came, this one pitched higher. Wolves. And they were Unmade.

  “Ark!” she cried, and he turned in the saddle to look at her. “They have come.”

  “To the bridge!” he called, falling into place behind her, waiting for her to start galloping before doing so himself. “To the bridge!”

  Ash’s mount sprang to life beneath her, and suddenly cold air and snowflakes were rushing into her face. Cedars shivered as she passed, dropping their loads of snow. All she could hear was the drumming of hooves and the beat of her own heart. Ahead, Mal Naysayer led the way to the bridge. Ash saw the river draw closer, saw the ripples
of currents on the surface, and then she saw Floating Bridge.

  Sull have made this, she knew with absolute certainty. It had to be made of wood, but it was blue and lustrous, and it came from no tree she knew. The fixed span at the shoreline swept down toward the surface in a series of reducing arches, while the movable spans floated like a ribbon of silver on the water, buoyed by pontoons shaped like great whales. The entire bridge seemed to breathe, rising and falling with the river’s swells. It was beautiful, but Ash didn’t see how it could save them from the Unmade.

  The howls were becoming louder, hungrier. Ash could hear the saliva snorting in the wolves’ throats as they breathed. She fell low in the saddle, digging her heels into the packhorse’s ribs. A mad desire to know seized her: she turned her head—and saw three wolves transformed into nightmares break from the trees.

  Gasping, she faced ahead, knowing she had lost a crucial beat of speed by the simple act of turning. Directly behind her, the tent poles rattled in their casings, and the saddlebags squeaked and sawed as they bounced against the horse’s rump. It occurred to her that Ark and the Naysayer should be pulling ahead—the two Sull stallions could not be matched for speed at full gallop—but they were keeping pace with her.

  If we are pursued, pull the strap. How could she have forgotten?

  Tugging her fingers from the reins took an effort; they just didn’t want to let go. The cold had made them numb, and when she thrust her hand along the horse’s belly she couldn’t feel a thing. Where was it? She found the trace and slid her fingers along it, working more by pressure than touch. There. Something sticking out. Grabbing onto it, she pulled down hard. A series of snaps sounded, like the cracking of whips, and then everything fell away except the horse’s saddle and harness.