By J. V. Jones
"Wonderful . . . J.V. Jones is a remarkable writer." So says Robert Jordan, the writer of The Wheel of Time epic delusion sequence. And Jones lives as much as that compliment within the hugely charged epic event of Ash March and Raif Sevrance, outcasts whose fates are entwined through destiny and by means of want, within the chilly, darkish international that threatens to be torn asunder via a battle to finish all wars. they're yet of many that struggle the feared Endlords, yet either Ash and Raif are exact in targeted ways in which isolate them, but which additionally allow them to accomplish heroic acts that will store their world.Raif, wrongly accused and bring to a halt from his extended family by way of the treachery in their new headsman, has a expertise for killing that's a part of his curse and his burden. yet he bears one other burden of larger weight. Ash is a sacred warrior to the Sull, an historic race whose numbers have declined.Raised as a foundling, she by no means knew her actual history, she needs to discover ways to settle for the bad presents of her heritage.But as Ash learns extra of her larger destiny, Raif's activity looms darkish and determined, for he needs to trip during the nightmare realm of the wish, a spot the place even the Sull now worry to tread. For deep in the wish is the fort of gray Ice, and there he needs to heal the breach within the Blindwall that already threatens the realm. may still he fail, no longer even Ash's powers can store them...
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Extra info for A Fortress of Grey Ice: Book Two of Sword of Shadows
And did you know what he came to tell me? " Angus did not nod this time, but Vaylo saw awareness in his copper-green eyes. "He came to warn me. " The words did not rest easy in the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes; cold currents caught them and blew them against the walls, creating sharp little echoes that hissed, Sull. Sull. Sull. Vaylo sucked on his black and aching teeth. He could not rid himself of Spynie Orrl. The old goat haunted him, he was sure of it, whispering words in the black of night as if he hardly knew he was dead.
He gives our clansmenback their pride. Five hundred years ago in the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, all the chiefs in the clanholds met to strip Blackhail of its badge. Ayan Blackhail slew a king, they said. A coward's shot to the throat. No Hail chief has challenged that judgment since; not Ornfel, or Mordrag, or Uthan ... not even Dagro himself. Yet along comes a Scarpe-born fosterling, winning wars and gaining territory, daring to wear the Hail Wolf at his breast. And that's not all. " "He's a subtle man, Mace Blackhail, I'll give him that.
Evil was frozen in the densely layered muscles of the face.