A Cavern Of Black Ice (Book 1)

by J. V. Jones

  Raif knew better than to argue. He and Angus had been traveling together for two weeks now, and Raif could spot one of his uncle’s diversions a league away. Angus Lok seldom took the most straightforward route anywhere. As the blind crow flies, as the wounded crow crawls, and as the dead crow rots were favorite sayings of his, used to excuse his eccentric methods of getting from one place to another. If there was a road, Angus would not take it. If there was a bridge, Angus would not cross it. If there was a city gate, Angus would examine it from a distance and then shake his head.

  “Come on, young Sevrance. Stare up at Hoargate any longer and the guards’ll have us pegged as a dimwit and his fool.”

  Raif continued to stare at the black and icy arch of Spire Vanis’s western gate. It was massive, cut from a single bloodwood as big as a church. The bark had been stripped away, and the remaining heartwood had the smooth gleam of obsidian. The carvings that chased around the arch were thick with hoarfrost, yet all things the west represented—the setting sun, the bloodwood forests, the Storm Margin, the Wrecking Sea and the whales that swam within it—could clearly be seen etched beneath the ice. In all his life Raif had never seen such a thing. Nothing in the clanholds matched it.

  Ever since they had caught sight of the city walls two days back, Raif had felt a cold chill of excitement quickening in his gut. The creamy white stone of Spire Vanis glowed in every kind of light that shone upon it. Sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and starlight: The city took something different from them all. Here, in the bright sunlight of late morning, the towering walls shone like forged steel. The entire city seemed to throb and breathe like a living thing. Smoke rose from the stone mass like exhaled breath, and beneath his feet Raif felt the earth shudder and rumble as if a dragon were sleeping in a chamber far below.

  “That’s Mount Slain,” Angus said, grabbing Raif’s arm, not gently, and guiding him away from the gate. “It moves year-round. You’ll get used to it after a while.”

  Raif nodded absently. Spire Vanis. He could hardly believe he was here.

  The journey around the Black Spill had taken a week. The Bitter Hills north of the lake marked the clanholds’ southern border, and it seemed to Raif that as every new day passed the clanholds receded deeper into the mist. He had not seen a clansman or clanswoman in days. The stovehouses they had stayed at were large and gloomy, not really stovehouses at all, rather places that sold ale. If you had no coin to buy food and drink, the stovemaster threw you out—in the cold—and when fighting erupted, there was no talk of stove laws or due respect, only the cost of broken tables and chairs. Raif had sat in these new nonclan stovehouses and watched these things happen and let the truth of them settle against his skin. Stoves were not sacred here. Old laws did not bind. The One True God of blind faith and fresh air had no love for the men who worshiped stone.

  Angus was as at home here as he was in the clanholds. He knew many people and had many different ways of associating with them. Some men he would laugh and talk with openly in full sight of all; others he would simply nod to or happen to meet outside near the jacks or the smokehouse and exchange a few words with as he pulled on his gloves and hood. Some men he pretended not to know at all, yet Raif had little to do but watch his uncle these past weeks and he had seen things a casual observer would not. Angus had a way of acknowledging men without even looking their way. He could communicate a thought with the smallest shrug of his shoulders or arrange a meeting with the slightest narrowing of eyes.

  Four nights back, when they were settling down by the fire in a dingy stovehouse on the western shore of the Spill, Raif had discovered he’d left his handknife in his saddlebag. When he’d run over to the stables to retrieve it, he’d come upon a man slipping a square of folded parchment under the bay’s blanket. Raif had pretended not to notice. If a stranger wanted to pass a note to Angus, it was nothing to him. The man, a toothless birch eater in a moose coat, was one of a group of five drovers who were driving their cattle upland in search of graze. Angus had not once looked his way all night.

  Although Angus liked to visit stovehouses, he seldom chose to spend the night there, and more often than not he and Raif camped out under the stars. The warmer temperatures in the cityholds made it bearable, yet the open farmlands and clear-cut hillsides made cover increasingly hard to find. Angus liked cover, Raif had noticed, and often traveled several hours past sunset in search of a dense stand of basswoods, a bank cut low into the hillside, or a favorable cluster of rocks.

  Angus set a hard pace, and Raif was glad of it. There was a lot to be said for falling into an exhausted sleep each night. Long days in the saddle, battling the wind, the ice storms, and the aches and pains of a mending body left Raif too tired for thought. He rode, ate, stripped logs for the morning cookfire, melted ice, skinned hares, plucked birds, and took care of Moose. He did not hunt. The blister on his right hand was purple and bloated with blood.

  Pain was something he lived with. The stitches on his chest itched and burned as the skin knitted itself together. The urge to tear off his clothes and claw the healing flesh was overpowering, and he would have scratched his chest raw if it hadn’t been for the sheer number of layers between his fingers and his skin. It drove him mad. He cursed his mitts, his oilskins, his softskins, his elk coat, and his wool shirt. To make matters worse, Angus had insisted that the wounds be covered in purified butter and he now stank like something kept a day too long in the sun. By comparison, the cuts and bruises on his face were bearable. A scab the size of a leech clung to the cheekbone directly below his left eye, and a hairline split on his lip made smiling more trouble than it was worth.

  “This way. We’ll make better time the farther we travel from the wall.”

  Raif followed Angus’ direction, leading Moose through the bald and rutted ground that surrounded the west wall. A sharp wind blew down from the mountain, hissing in his ears and driving ice crystals into his face. Ahead, the north face of Mount Slain rose above the city like a frozen god, its cliffs and high plains blue with compacted snow, its skirt black with pines. The air smelled of something Raif couldn’t put a name to, some faintly sulfurous mineral that belonged deep beneath the earth. Underfoot, the ground snow was hard and unforgiving, harboring no shadows to reveal its depth. The city itself tantalized Raif with brief glimpses of iron spires, blazing watch towers, and stone archways as smooth and pale as the bones of a long dead child.

  Angus was quiet as they made their way south along the wall. He had not applied any protective waxes or oils this morning, yet his face looked as pale as if he had. Leading the bay at a brisk pace, he grew impatient whenever snowdrifts slowed them.

  Raif glanced at the sky. Midday. “Do you come often to this city?”

  Angus sent Raif a sharp glance. “I have no love for this place.”

  It was the end of the subject as far as Angus was concerned, for he turned his attention to trotting the bay through the tangle of weeds and mud ice that lay in the storm channel ahead. Raif knew his uncle expected him to say no more, but his chest was itching and the devil was in him, and he was getting tired of Angus and his evasions. “Why come here, then?”

  Angus’ shoulders stiffened at the question. He pulled hard on the bay’s reins, causing the gelding to whiffle and shake his head. Raif thought his uncle wasn’t going to answer, yet when they reached the first in a series of giant buttresses that supported the main wall, Angus turned to face him.

  “I come here because I have people I must see and others I must take heed of. Don’t think, Raif Sevrance, that you are the only one in this world who is troubled and hard done by. The clanholds are just the start. There are people who would see more than Clan Bludd and Clan Blackhail at each other’s throats. Some of them are in this city, some of them scheme in bed each night and call themselves clansmen when they wake in the morning, and others are hidden in vaults so deep that even the sun can’t find them. There is danger here for me, and that means there is danger for you also. Soon enough you
will attract enemies in your own right. For now be content that the burdens of danger and protection fall on me.”

  Angus took Raif by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length. His face was grim. “I am your kin, and you must trust me. Save your questions for a place far away from these walls. There’s nothing but ill memories here for me.”

  Raif looked at his uncle carefully. He could see him shaking, feel the heat of his body through his sealskin gloves as he waited for Raif to speak. Raif wanted to know more. How was it that Angus knew so much about the Clan Wars? Was Mace Blackhail one of the clansmen he mentioned? Who were the men whom no sun could reach? Raif frowned. Although he didn’t much want to, he said, “I’ll hold my questions for now.”

  Angus nodded back at him. “That’s favor enough for me.”

  The sky darkened as they led the horses around the buttress walls and on toward the mountain. Snow clouds were rolling south and the sun was soon hidden from view. Two tall structures rose against the city’s west wall, one dark and ringed with metal outerwork, the other as pale as ice and so tall that Raif could not see its peak.

  “The Horn and the Splinter,” Angus said, slapping his coat in search of his flask. “That’s Mask Fortress on the other side of the wall. Home of the surlords of Spire Vanis.”

  Raif could not take his eyes from the tower called the Splinter. It wasn’t merely the color of ice, it was ice. A rime of it covered the stonework like fat around a skinned carcass, gleaming yellow then blue in the light. Raif shivered. He was cold and empty, and he needed a drink.

  Angus handed him the rabbit flask. The alcohol had been spiked with birch bark, and it tasted sweet and earthy like newly turned soil. One mouthful was enough. Thumping the cork in place, Raif said, “Does anyone live in that thing?”

  “The Splinter? Nay, lad. It was flawed from the day it was built. Too high, you see. Milks the storm clouds. By all accounts it’s little more than a broken shell inside. None except Robb Claw ever lived there, if living’s the right word for it. Holed himself up one winter, he did, and never came out. They found his corpse ten years later. Took five men to carry it to the light of day, as it had turned as hard as stone.” Angus sniffed. “That’s the story, anyhow.”

  Raif looked away. He knew little of the Mountain Cities and their history. Some of the border clans had dealings with Ille Glaive, but few clansmen had words, good or otherwise, to spare for the cities and their closely guarded holds. “Who was Robb Claw?”

  Angus slowed his pace as they reached the southwest corner-stone of the city and the bay was forced to pick its way through the rocks, dead rootwood, and loose shale that had rolled down from the mountain. The path steepened and narrowed, and then there was no path at all. Raif felt sweat trickle along his stitch lines.

  “Robb Claw was the great-grandson of Glamis Claw, one of the Founding Quarterlords of Spire Vanis.”

  “Was he a king?”

  “Nay, lad. No king’s ever ruled in Spire Vanis, though it’s not from want of trying. The Founding Quarterlords were the bastard sons of kings; their fathers ruled lands far to the south, and each king had enough true sons to ensure that neither lands nor titles would ever cede to their bastards. This pleased the Quarterlords not at all, and there were many battles fought and many knives slipped into princeflesh. Two of the four were the brothers Theron and Rangor Pengaron, and they joined with Glamis Claw and Torny Fyfe to raise a warhost and march it north across the Ranges. Theron was their leader, might have even crowned himself a king if it hadn’t been for the other three lords at his back. As it was, he led the host against the Sull, founded the city, and built the first strongwall of stone and timber where Mask Fortress lies today.” Angus wagged his head toward the Splinter. “Though it was Robb Claw who built the four towers.”

  As Raif followed his uncle’s gaze, the mountain shivered beneath his feet, sending chips of shale rolling down the slope. The ice on the tower made a soft, knuckle-snapping sound as a hairline crack ran down along the rime. “Why don’t they just knock it down?” he heard his voice say.

  “Pride, lad. The Killhound of Spire Vanis is said to roost upon the Iron Spire that caps it. Five hundred years ago they’d haul traitors up there by a great contraption of metal and rope and impale them on the spire. The winged beasties were said to gobble them up for breakfast.” Angus squinted into the clouds that wrapped themselves around the tower. “Or was it supper? I forget now.”

  They led their horses away. Raif grew hotter and more uncomfortable as they hiked across a shoulder of pitted limestone and then down into a ravine. Massive stone conduits built to divert the runoff around the city had to be crossed with care, as the ice was unstable and wet. Moose tore his left hock on a jagged edge, but Angus refused to stop and bind it, and they left a trail of horse blood in their wake.

  An hour later, when the gate finally came into view, Raif felt nothing but relief. His stitches itched like all the hells, and so much fluid had leaked from his blister to his glove that the hide had hardened to armor and set itself in a permanent curve around the reins. Raif wanted to go to some dark stovehouse and sleep. He was tired enough that he would not dream or, if he did, not remember it later.

  Angus gave the gate a name and struck a path down from the mountainside toward the wall. It was smaller than Hoargate, made of plain stone that arched as gracefully as a drawn bow. No road of any kind led from it. No one stood waiting for admission—indeed, there was nowhere for anyone to stand as the gate opened directly onto a grassy slope. As they drew level with the first gate tower, a hoarse cry split the air.

  “Get her!”

  A child stepped through the gate. A girl. Hearing the cry, she hesitated, glanced back, then started to run. Two men, dressed like beggars but carrying swords of bloodred steel, emerged through the gate and ran straight for her. The girl was weak and very thin, and they caught her in less than ten seconds. She fought them in a quiet, almost animal way, not making a sound, but kicking and jerking furiously, making it difficult for the men to hold her. Her hood was torn off and then her gloves. Her shoulder-length hair was caked in dirt. An ice sore cast a shadow across her lips.

  More men came. One man was massive, with hands that swung at his side like lead weights. His small eyes glinted like iron filings. Raif watched in growing anger as the big man approached the girl and smacked her full in the face. The girl’s neck snapped back, and she stopped struggling. Blood trickled from her nose to her lip. The big man said something to the others, making them laugh in an excited, nervous way that seemed more to do with fear than amusement. He struck the girl again, casually this time, with a half-closed fist.

  Raif felt his blood heat. He stepped forward.

  Angus put a hand on Raif’s arm, barring him from taking another step. “There’s trouble here we want no part of. That’s Marafice Eye, Protector General of the Rive Watch. If he chooses to torment a beggar girl outside one of his own gates, there’s nothing you or I can do about it.”

  Raif continued to press forward. The man named Marafice Eye tore off the girl’s cloak. Fabric ripped. A breath of fear puffed from the girl’s lips.

  “Easy, lad,” warned Angus, fingers digging deep. “We canna afford to draw attention in this place. More than your life and mine depend on it.”

  Raif glanced at his uncle. Angus’ face was grave, the lines around his mouth as deep as scars.

  “If it were just you and me alone in this, I would save her. Believe that. I would not lie about another’s life.”

  Raif did believe him. He saw what was in his uncle’s eyes. Angus Lok feared someone or something greatly in this city . . . and he was not a man who feared lightly. Raif stopped pushing. Angus released his grip.

  A group of six armed men now surrounded the girl. All but two were dressed in muddy cloaks and ragged pants, yet Raif began to realize that none of them were beggars. Their steel gleamed with linseed oil, their hair and beards were trimmed and clean, and their arms and necks were co
rded with the sort of hard muscle that was built during long practice sessions on a weapons court. The one named Marafice Eye was dressed in a rough brown robe, like a cleric or a monk. Despite his size he carried only a handknife. All the men deferred to him.

  The girl had lost the sleeves and collar from her dress. She was being held by three men, only one of whom was dressed in the same oiled and supple leathers worn by the guards at Hoargate. The girl’s body was twisted so that her skirt rode up around her thighs and her head hung down, unsupported.

  “Let her drop.”

  Raif heard Marafice Eye’s words clearly. Immediately the three men released their hold, and the girl slumped to the ground. She remained silent as Marafice Eye poked her with the toe of his boot.

  “Thought you’d run away, eh? Thought you’d made a fool of the Knife?” He jabbed her twice in the ribs. “Thought you’d get away with leaving one of my men to die.” Bringing the heel of his boot down on her hand, he drove her fingers into the snow. Something snapped with the soft click of rotted wood. Still, the girl did not cry out.

  Raif felt the anger come to him. He imagined killing the six men in slow and hideous ways. Clansmen would never do such a thing to a woman. A small voice whispered, What about the Bluddroad? but he cut it from his mind.

  “Go on. Run. Let’s see just how far you’ll get.” Marafice Eye shoved his foot under the girl’s back, raising her torso off the ground. “Run, I said. Grod here has a fancy for the hunt. You remember Grod, don’t you? You left him a lock of your hair.”

  The girl tried to struggle to her feet. She was so thin; Raif wondered where her strength came from. Making the mistake of putting her weight on her damaged hand, she inhaled sharply and collapsed back into the snow.

  That was when she spotted them.

  The six armed men had spread out, allowing her room to stand, and the space between her and Angus and Raif was now clear. Raif got his first real look at the girl free from shadows and darting bodies. Something in his throat tightened. She wasn’t as young as he had first thought.