By J. V. Jones
The lengthy evening has all started. The Endlords and their darkish military of Unmade organize to unharness untold destruction upon the realm. each Sull warrior needs to leap forward and struggle, or hazard the North falling into everlasting darkness. Key to mankind's survival is the sacred warrior Ash March. yet for Ash to understand her real capability as a succeed in, and turn into the Sull's maximum weapon, she needs to hold herself secure because the perils that encompass her multiply. Raif Sevrance has an both perilous job. The exile needs to commute to the barren wastes of the purple Glaciers and get better the mythical sword named Loss. For Sull legend decrees that he who wields the Sword from purple Ice will carry terror to their enemies. yet fulfilment of those ambitions may possibly but come too past due. within the distant reaches of the sour Hills, the Endlords' minions have made a cataclysmic discovery: a crack within the Blindwall, an old and unguarded passage major without delay into the nation-states of guys.
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"Wonderful . . . J. V. Jones is a outstanding author. " So says Robert Jordan, the writer of The Wheel of Time epic fable 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 by way of destiny and via want, within the chilly, darkish international that threatens to be torn asunder by means of a struggle to finish all wars.
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Extra info for A Sword from Red Ice: (Sword of Shadows, Book 3)
People need reminding,' muttered Rothe. 'The Black Road is still there, in the north. Without those ruins to remind them, how soon would people forget? ' Kylane shrugged. 'You can't fault people for enjoying peace. ' 'You can fault them if they start to believe peace is forever. Every day, those beyond the Vale of Stones wake up thinking the Gods will return if only they could subject us all to their precious creed. ' Here, close upon the edge of the Glas Water, the road was in poorer repair and stretches of deeply rutted mud often blocked their way.
It had been high summer, exceptionally dry, and the waters were low enough for them to ride through some of the city's desolate streets. The muck- and weed-crusted ruins loomed over them, obscuring the sun. Orisian had thought it a haunted, ugly place and he had not been back, for all Fariel's good-natured taunts at his fearfulness. Fariel had never been one to pay much heed to fear. 'They should tear it down,' said Kylane, seeing the line of Orisian's gaze. 'Does no good to have that foul place rotting there.
Rats and dogs have inherited their palaces in Dun Aygll. ' 'As you say. But it is of no matter now. I am sending word south to Taim Narran that he is to return with those of my men who still live as soon as Igryn oc Dargannan-Haig is taken. I wished only to tell you that. ' The Steward nodded. 'Narran is yours to command, of course. ' 'I hope he will neither wish it nor do it,' replied Croesan. Behomun smiled. * * * The road south from Anduran was a well-travelled one. Orisian, Rothe and Kylane passed cattle herders and farmers, as well as carts carrying fleeces, furs and carved furniture from Anduran's workshops down to the harbour at Glasbridge.