A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  “What’s the matter, pretty boy? Never seen a Maimed Man before?” The man touched blades with him; a lightning-fast ring of steel that for some reason made him grin. “Oh. Oh. Oh,” he cried, stepping back. “You did steal that sword, I knew it! Damn! I should have put coin on it.” He parried forward effortlessly, matching Raif cut for cut.

  Raif realized he’d made a mistake. The sword wasn’t his weapon of choice, and whilst Drey and his fellow yearman had spent hours every day on the practice court drilling with master-swordsman Shor Gormalin, Raif had only practiced for the bare minimum. Shor Gormalin had warned Raif that once he’d taken his yearman’s oath, he’d expect Raif to report to the drillcourt every morning at dawn. But Shor Gormalin was dead. And Raif Sevrance was a traitor to his oath.

  The stranger mounted a series of rolling attacks, moving his blade in ever-decreasing circles around Raif’s sword. When Raif stepped back, dropping his sword against his body in readiness for a vertical cut, the stranger performed a dancelike move and was suddenly at Raif’s blade-side, slashing Raif’s knuckles and stealing the momentum from his attack. Angry, Raif struck wide. The stranger danced easily away, only to return with breathtaking quickness and apply his point to Raif’s chest.

  Blooded twice. What am I doing? Raif turned a jolting attack, both blades touching at their sweet points to produce a strange moaning sound and a handful of sparks.

  “Nice blade,” commented the stranger, showing no sign of strain. “I think I’ll take it in payment for the elk.” Exploding into motion, he executed a double turn that drove him sideways and backward into Raif’s unprotected left side, striking Raif with enough force to take the wind from his lungs and drop him to one knee. As Raif rolled back for a counterattack, the stranger drove forward with his sword, opening a hairline cut in Raif’s arm and smashing his sword’s basket guard into Raif’s elegant and unprotected crosshilt. The momentum of the strike sent Raif’s blade flying from his grip.

  Shor would kill me for losing my weapon.

  Before Raif could make a grab for the blade, the stranger hooked the tip with his sword edge and sent it skittering over the rocks. Raif looked wildly around in the free second this gave him. A chunk of unburned log protruded from the firepit. One leap and his hand was upon it. The wood was hot enough to make him wince, and it ignited pain in the old frostbite scars on his palm. The far end of the log was red and smoking, and the stranger looked less happy to see it than if it had been just another blade.

  The two circled each other. Raif felt light-headed from lack of sleep, and he could smell the elk blood on him, making him stink like something already dead. When the stranger struck, Raif was ready, barreling forward with no finesse whatsoever, trusting that the man’s fear of fire and scorching would force him into stepping back. He was right. Sort of. The stranger did step away . . . but sideways, managing to score a glancing touch on Raif’s shoulder as he danced past the smoldering log. Stung with pain and frustration, Raif resisted the urge to lash out. Think of the elk.

  His gaze met and held the stranger’s. The man’s eyes were hazel, fine and clear as two drops of rain; it was unnerving to see them in such a face. Deliberately, Raif dropped his gaze, skimming past the strange growths on the man’s forehead and cheek, down along his throat . . . to the heart.

  The strength of the man’s life-force was staggering. Raif felt it hit him like a blow to the gut, forcing him to fling out an arm to steady himself.

  He’d forgotten what it was to heart-kill a man.

  Metallic saliva squirted across his tongue. Things became known to him, strange things that he could barely understand. The scar on the stranger’s face was just the start. Organs and blood vessels were warped and displaced, the lungs mismatched and the spleen elongated like a fish. The heart was large and beating strongly, but it was scarred above the valve, as if an old wound had healed over. And it bulged gently to one side.

  Raif calmed himself. However misshapen, the heart was his. Settling the smoldering log in a two-handed grip, he charged. He saw the stranger’s eyes widen, saw him raise his basket-hilt sword in defense. An instant passed when Raif smelled scorching leather and he knew he had him, but bright pain exploded in his head, and then he knew nothing but diminishing circles of light as he fell.

  Raif awoke retching, and turned his head to vomit. The sight of regurgitated pieces of liver made him vomit again. His head throbbed, and his eyesight was strangely slow to react; he could feel muscles in his irises working to focus his gaze. It was sunset, and the cook fire he’d built earlier was still burning, but now there was nothing but a gnawed bone upon it.

  “Don’t make me feel bad now,” came the voice of the stranger. “You’re hardly in a fit state to eat.”

  Raif blinked. He couldn’t understand why one of them wasn’t dead.

  “I did save a splash of the berry tea. Even took it upon myself to improve it with a bit of hard liquor.” The stranger moved into Raif’s line of sight. He was holding Raif’s sword up to the firelight, inspecting the edge for dents. “It’s over there if you want it. ’Course, it’s a coin toss whether you should drink it or rub it on that lump. I’d sod it if I were you. Drink the whole damn lot and find myself a hat.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “One of those furry ones made from beaver, with the tail still attached.”

  Raif felt too queasy to speak. The stranger’s face looked hideous in the firelight, the deep cleft swallowing shadows and bristling with coarse black hairs. Raif looked away. He put all his strength into levering himself into a sitting position. Muscles that had lain upon cold stone for several hours were stiff and unresponsive, and his left calf threw a violent cramp.

  The stranger did not seem displeased by Raif’s pain. Nor did he offer to help. The pot containing the tea was well within his reach, yet he made no effort to pass it. “Nasty things, blows to the head. I’ve seen men walk about as frisky as spring lambs right after them, only to keel over and die the next day.”

  Raif could think of nothing to say to that. He looked around. His pack had been rifled through and the contents scattered. The Listener’s arrow had been unpacked, handled, judged unworthy, and thrown on the lumber pile ready to be burned. Raif’s sealskin blanket was currently unrolled by the fire, and it had the rumpled look of recent use. The stranger’s own pack stood close to the fire, and a weapon stand containing a bewildering array of cloth-bound shapes stood beyond it. A stout hill pony was pin-hobbled to a cleft in a boulder, and was contentedly browsing on mash. Overhead, the sky was rapidly darkening and the first stars were coming to life. The wind was restless with coming night, channeling along the gorge in sudden bursts only to die as quickly as it came. The gorge itself glowed red, revealing layers of ocher and blood marble deposited within its walls.

  Raif said suddenly, “What did you do to me?”

  The stranger grinned, showing surprisingly even teeth. “That’s for me to know and you to bribe from me. Though as I already own your most valuable possession I don’t think you’ve got much to work with. ’Course, I could take that fancy cloak. But I’ll have to insist on you washing it first. A great dirty blood-stain tends to spoil the look.” He continued to study Raif’s sword. “I’ll have to say, though, you’re pretty fierce with a burning log. God-awful with a sword, but a real demon with raw timber. What are you? The last living member of some clannish woodsmen’s cult? As you’re no knight, that’s for sure.”

  “How come you’re so sure I’m clan?”

  “Can smell it on you, boy. Clan turned sour. Stinks like all the hells I went through as a bairn.”

  “So you’re clan, too?”

  The stranger raised an eyebrow, and for just one moment Raif found himself forgetting about the scars. “There you go again. Asking when you should be bribing.” Abruptly, he turned the sword point down and thrust its tip into his pack. “Does it have a name?”

  “The sword? No.”

  “Good. That means I can give it one.” His eyes narrowe
d as he ran his fingers across the hilt, looking for inspiration. After a moment he glanced thoughtfully at Raif. “I think I’ll call it Finger.”

  Raif found his temper coming back as his queasiness subsided. “What makes you so certain you can keep it?”

  “I’m not,” said the stranger softly. “I saw what you did to that cow. A man capable of such a thing can certainly manage to win back a sword when he has a mind to. The game is seeing when and how.”

  The stranger sat, the cobbled armor of plate and turtle shells chinking softly as he bent at the waist. He retrieved the little iron pot containing the fortified tea, and drank deeply. He did not pass it to Raif when he was done. “So,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Let’s see if I can guess your story. Orrlsman, by the look of that cloak—though I wouldn’t put it past you to have killed and robbed one. As we’ve seen today you’re no swordsman, and you ain’t got the arms of a hatchetman, so I’d say by the look of those callused fingers you’re a bowman good and true.”

  The stranger looked to Raif for confirmation, but didn’t seem in the least put out when all Raif did was frown. “So, bowman. Now, you’ll excuse me for saying so but you look soddin’ rough. Oh, you’re pretty enough under that beard and muck, but you ain’t had the attentions of a good clanwife in quite a while, I can tell.”

  “You don’t look too good yourself.”

  The stranger put a palm to his chest. “Me? Not look good? So I take it the love charm hasn’t worked. Sod it! That witch swore I’d attract half the young maids in the clanholds. Or was it half the men? I forget.”

  “I hope for both our sakes it’s the maids.”

  The stranger laughed, throwing back his head in delight. Raif saw evidence of a second band of misshapen flesh, curling down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. Something white and pearly like a tooth grew just below his ear. Raif shivered. The stranger saw this and his smile ended.

  “Oh, you’re clan all right. Never seen nothing that wasn’t perfect before, eh? Everyone pretty as girls and whole. Gods forbid that a bairn like me could be born amongst you. Little evil troll must have fucked my mother, for no fine clansmen could have fathered me.”

  Raif dropped his head. Nothing was happening how it should. This man before him should be dead, not shaming him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. The world’s a hard place, and not once in my life have I known it to be fair. Only thing that’s even between men is death; we all get our share of that in the end. Me, I’m lucky to be alive, lucky that this god-ugly face inspired guilt as well as revulsion in me mam. Guilt saved me when me father would not. He was all for setting me on a rock and letting the vultures peck me, yet me mam wouldn’t let him. Oh, she wanted to, make no mistake about that. She wanted her teats to dry up quick so she could make another bairn and forget the first one ever existed. But she was gutless when it came to it. Didn’t want the stain on her conscience. She would have been glad if me father had stolen me from my crib in the dead of night and murdered me, but he chose to make her party to the deal. And that she couldn’t have. Sent me out to the woods to be fostered. Right from one hell into another.”

  Full night had risen while the stranger spoke, and only the dimming fire provided light. Grains of salt from the earlier cookery ignited every so often, turning the flames green.

  “What clan are you from?” Raif asked.

  The stranger shook his head. “Ah. Ah. Ah. No questions, remember.”

  “Fair enough. So how about a trade? Your name for mine?”

  The stranger considered this. He wasn’t as old as Raif first thought, and there was something vaguely familiar in the set of his jaw. Just as quickly as Raif was seized with the idea, it fled, and he saw nothing but a stranger before him.

  “You go first,” replied the stranger. “First name only. And if I like the sound of it I’ll trade mine.”

  “Raif.”

  The stranger opened and closed his mouth, almost as if he had bitten the name from the air and was tasting it. “Raif. Rhymes with safe, and it’s good and short and not a bit fancy. I’ll take it.”

  Strangely, Raif felt pleased by this odd pronouncement. No one had ever said anything—good or bad—about his name before.

  “Goods for goods, then. I’m Stillborn.” The stranger stilled, awaiting a reaction. Raif thought the name suited him, and said so. Stillborn suddenly looked dangerous. “A monstrous name for a monstrous man?”

  “No. A strong name. Not easy to forget.”

  Stillborn thought on Raif’s words a long time, and then nodded. “It’ll do.”

  Raif held out his arm and Stillborn leaned over to clasp it.

  “So,” Stillborn said, straightening up. “You’ll be wanting the last of the tea?” Raif nodded. The bull-horns clasped around Stillborn’s forearms gleamed wickedly as he deposited the pot by Raif’s feet. “Drink deep. Remember what I said about head blows; tomorrow you might be dead.”

  Raif drank. The liquor was very strong and bore little resemblance to any kind of tea. It stripped the lining from his throat on its way down.

  Stillborn watched approvingly, and then reached out toward the timber pile to load more logs on the flames. When Raif saw his hand close around the arrow named Divining Rod he put down the pot. “Don’t burn that. It’s very old. It was a gift from . . . from a friend.”

  “A gift, eh?” Stillborn inspected the arrow, running a finger along the flights. “I’ll keep it, then.” He shoved it in his pack, and resumed loading logs on the fire. “I suppose you’re out here looking for Maimed Men?”

  Raif didn’t answer straight away. The liquor had passed swiftly into his blood, and he reminded himself to be cautious. Tentatively, he felt for the source of pain on the side of his head. A lump, hard and exquisitely tender, made him suck in his breath. “And if I were?”

  “Well, you’d need to know a few things first.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maimed Men is what clansmen call us. And if we heard those words on your lips we’d likely kill you for it. We name ourselves Rift Brothers, and you’d be a fool to think we’re just another clan.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Good.” Stillborn pried Raif’s sword from his pack and began to oil it with a bit of rag. “The Rift’s no pretty clanhold with fine oatfields and clipped grazes. And men harder than clan chiefs rule there. We get the throwaways and the bastards and the oathbreakers—and not just from the clans. We get them all: foreigners, city men, pot boys, whores. They all come north in the end. It’s a desperate man who’ll travel to the far ends of the earth in search of shelter, and desperate men don’t make good friends.”

  Raif met Stillborn’s gaze levelly. The warning had been given . . . and received. The fire was crackling fiercely now, as a new green branch went to the flames. The wind had calmed with the onset of night, and now it blew the smoke through the space between the two men.

  “I wouldn’t expect much of a welcome if I were you. No one’s gonna light a fire for one more clansman. They’ll want to know what you can bring them, and as I’ve already taken your one decent possession you’re going to have to think fast about your answer. Oh, and another thing. You’re too whole.”

  There was a light in Stillborn’s eyes that made Raif wary. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Pretty boy like you. All your fingers and toes, and that fine whole nose. The first thing the brothers will do is hold you down and maim you.”

  “No one’s ever called me pretty before. I’ve taken my share of scars.”

  “Maybe so. But they won’t see that. They’ll just see a whole clansman. Nothing missing, nothing bent out of place, and they’ll hate you for it. They’ll have you pinned and under a knife before you can say God help me. And that’s one place you definitely don’t want to be. I’ve seen them take an arm off a man in their frenzy. Hands. Earlobes. Eyes. Depends whether the raiding’s been good. Good season, plenty of spoils, everyone happy and drinking t
hemselves soft, and they might let you off with a toe. Poor season and they’ll take a hand. And I’m sorry to tell you this, Raif, but winter’s been a long, dry season.”

  Raif watched Stillborn’s eyes as he spoke, searching for signs of deception. The Maimed Man’s face was hard, but there was nothing hidden within it.

  “You have to decide how much it’s worth, becoming one of us. Can you go back? Accept penalty for whatever trespass brought you here, and live a different kind of life? Because if you can, do. There’s nothing noble or heroic about being a Maimed Man. The only reason to be here is because you’ve got no options left.”

  Raif almost smiled. Bitterly. He wanted to ask Stillborn what brought and kept him here, but he was learning the ways of the Maimed Men already: no questions about a man’s past. He said, “If I returned to my clan they would kill me. I have nowhere to go and no one to turn to. I’d say I have no options left.”

  Stillborn nodded slowly, weighing the resolution in Raif’s eyes. Abruptly he seemed to come to some decision and stood. “Drink the rest of the brew. It’ll go easier on you that way.”

  Raif read the intent in Stillborn’s eyes, and it almost made him bolt. I made my choice when Ash left me. If this is the price, then so be it. He cupped the pot in his hands, but in the end decided not to drink. Stillborn was drawing close with the sword, and Raif wanted to savor the blood throbbing through him. He wanted to remember for always what it felt like to be whole.

  SIXTEEN

  Leaving Blackhail

  Effie spotted a fly buzzing in the rafters and set her gaze upon it. Mad Binny was naked and she didn’t know where else to look. Of course, that treacherous fly would go and start flitting past Binny’s head . . . and oh dear no . . . it landed on Binny’s shoulder. And that meant she had to look at those breasts. Effie tried to keep her face from reacting, but it wasn’t easy and she felt distinctly wooden as she listened to Mad Binny speak. All she could think of was: I hope I don’t grow any of those.