By J. V. Jones
"Wonderful . . . J.V. Jones is a amazing 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 experience of Ash March and Raif Sevrance, outcasts whose fates are entwined via destiny and via desire, within the chilly, darkish global that threatens to be torn asunder by means of a warfare to finish all wars. they're yet of many that struggle the feared Endlords, yet either Ash and Raif are exact in distinct ways in which isolate them, but which additionally let them to accomplish heroic acts that would store their world.Raif, wrongly accused and bring to a halt from his extended family by means 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 higher 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 negative presents of her heritage.But as Ash learns extra of her higher destiny, Raif's job looms darkish and determined, for he needs to trip in the course of the nightmare realm of the wish, a spot the place even the Sull now worry to tread. For deep in the wish is the citadel of gray Ice, and there he needs to heal the breach within the Blindwall that already threatens the area. may still he fail, no longer even Ash's powers can keep them...
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Additional resources for A Fortress of Grey Ice: Book Two of Sword of Shadows
That got a smile from Merritt. No one worked harder or longer than Anwyn Bird. When the grand matron of the roundhouse wasn't cooking or butchering, she was down in the armory, tilling bows. Merritt pushed a flagon of sheep's-milk ale Raina's way. " Raina drank from the jug, savoring the milky coolness and the bite of malt liquor buried deep beneath the cream. As she wiped the froth from her lips, she wondered how best to approach this. Guile failed her, so she came straight to the point. " Merritt's nod was guarded.
He had Skinner's measure. The Dhoone chief-in-exile put no fear into Vaylo Bludd. Skinner had a high temper and he blew hard and long, but he had lived too many years in the shadow of his brother and no longer had his jaw. Any other man would have tried to retake Dhoone by now. A month ago he might have seized it if he'd had the balls, for Vaylo and Drybone were housed at Ganmiddich, and the Dhoonehouse held by Pengo Bludd. Vaylo snorted air. He had nothing but contempt for a man who had a chance but failed to seize it.
A soft chuffing sound broke his thoughts. The raven. The Listener's great black bird stood to attention on its bone perch, its wings tucked and folded, its sharp eyes upon Raif. Raif thought he would like to swipe it with his fist, but seriously doubted if he was faster than the bird, and didn't think it would be dignified to miss. So he turned his back instead. He was sick of ravens and their omens. And he didn't want to think about his lore. Ash had it, that was enough. The last time he'd seen the hard piece of bird ivory, it had been suspended from twine at her throat.