Courage to Sacrifice

The Silent Champions (Book 4)

By Andy Peloquin

Copyright. First Edition

Andy Peloquin

©2019, Andy Peloquin

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book, including the cover and photos, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. All rights reserved.

Any resemblance to persons, places living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

Table of Contents

Courage to Sacrifice The Silent Champions (Book 4)

The Princelands

The Fehlan Wilds

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Epilogue

Want a Free Short Story?

Pronunciation Guide

The Princelands

The Fehlan Wilds

I will never forget the tremendous sacrifice and reputation of those who came before me.

With surprise, speed, and violence of action, I will hunt enemies of my country and bring chaos to their doorstep.

With Determination, Dependability, and Teamwork I will uphold the honor and the legacy passed down to me. I will do the right thing always, and will let my actions speak for me.

I will never quit, I will never surrender, I will never fail.

—excerpted from the MARSCO CSO Creed, 2nd Marine Raiders

Chapter One

The Lady’s Bell tolled for the dead of Icespire.

Long, mournful peals rang throughout the burned and ruined city. Thirteen chimes, one for each of the gods. The deep, booming sound rang out across Sanctuary Court, seeming to echo off the thick plumes of smoke that hung hazy and dark in the crystal-blue sky. A thundering throbbing that reverberated to the core of Aravon’s being.

The bell tolled a final farewell to the countless slain in the Battle of Icespire.

No, not countless, Aravon amended silently. Prince Toran had taken a reckoning of the dead. Forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twelve.

Forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twelve. Men, women, and children—far too many of the latter. Old and young, strong and infirm. Wealthy and impoverished, though the poor dead far outnumbered the fallen wealthier citizens of Icespire.

Of those forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twelve, only nine hundred and thirty-six were afforded a final send-off in the Sanctuary Court.

Legionnaires, clad in dented, battered, and crushed mail—much of it long ago gone rusty or covered with dust gathered over years hanging over a mantelpiece—lay atop shattered shields. Lifeless hands gripped swords atop chests that would never again rise and fall. Many, far too many, mangled beyond recognition, skulls crushed, necks snapped, and limbs smashed by heavy Eirdkilr weapons. The worst of them, Aravon knew, had gone to burial in the Legion encampment outside the Soldier’s Gate. Only those with recognizable features—fewer than two hundred—had been laid out on the white paving stones of Sanctuary Court.

A lump rose to Aravon’s throat at the sight of so many fellow Legionnaires. Soldiers who had served the Legion of Heroes with courage, fought to their last breaths to protect their city. Men and women of war, like him, beside whom he had marched, served, and battled. Legends in their own right.

General Rodalus lay at the northern edge of the broad plaza, somehow appearing even more commanding and dignified in death. Around him, seventy-five grey-haired soldiers had been arranged into an honor guard to march at their former General’s back, to escort the Legionnaires into the Long Keeper’s arms. Champions one and all, men who had given their lives in service to the Legion of Heroes, who had earned the Sword of the Princelands, the highest award bestowed upon the realm’s most stalwart defenders. Who had chosen to take up arms to defend their city one final time, rust and debility of age be damned.

Five hundred and seventy-eight men and women in fine cloaks, costly boots, and bright-hued silks and linens lay silent and still beside the soldiers. Azure Islanders, the wealthy and noble, those who had answered Prince Toran’s call to battle. They had followed behind Aravon and the Prince in their desperate charge across the bridges and into the Mains. They had given their lives to rid the city of Eirdkilrs.

The bodies of the nobility had been dressed in their finest raiment, bathed in perfumes, and embalmed by the Bright Lady’s Ministrants. Behind them, arrayed along the southeastern corner of the Sanctuary Court, lay one hundred and sixty-eight ragged, dust-stained, and emaciated corpses of the citizenry of Icespire. People of the Glimmer, Littlemarket, Portside, Eastway, Princetown, and the People’s Markets—those considered common in life, but honored in their valiant deaths. They, too, had died defending against the invaders, and Prince Toran had insisted they deserved to be honored beside the rest.

Acid twisted in Aravon’s gut. These were just a fraction of the corpses that even now were being committed to the Long Keeper’s arms. Thousands of Outwarders—not even the Icewatchers could get an accurate number—had died in the fire, gone to their eternal rest in Seggrholl in the arms of their god. Nuius, god of the Eyrr. Faegir, god of the Smida. Sattr, goddess of the Vidr. Those born to Fehlan ancestors needed no burial; the touch of flame and the words of their priests, the Seiomenn of their clans, would guide their fallen to the afterlife.

But for the Princelanders, one final ceremony was needed. A proper funeral, witnessed by all in Icespire, presided over by Prince Toran himself, with the rites of passing sung out by the priests of the thirteen gods of Einan.

A crowd had gathered in Sanctuary Court—not so numerous as mere days earlier when General Traighan and Duke Sammael Dyrund had been honored. The throng couldn’t number more than five or six thousand; enough to fill Honor’s Lane and the Eastmarch, yet not so densely packed the nobility of Azure Island were forced to jostle with citizens of the Mains for a place in the solemn wall of mourners surrounding the plaza.

Far too many men and women of Icespire were busy elsewhere, paying final respects to the fallen being interred in unmarked graves. Icespire Memorial Gardens could never hold such a vast number of dead. Icespire had never prepared for casualties in such terrible quantity.

Forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twelve. The number rang out again in Aravon’s mind. He struggled to believe it. He’d fought for fifteen years, in more than a hundred engagements ranging from minor skirmishes to pitched battles. In that time, had the Legion ever lost so many? Even adding in Eirdkilr and Fehlan dead, he couldn’t imagine the continent of Fehl had seen such death in centuries. Perhaps ever.

That thought, compounded by the sight of so many corpses laid out in Sanctuary Court, sent a shiver down his spine. Had the Grim Reavers not arrived, how many more bodies would lie there? Would Prince Toran have numbered among the slain? Would Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon gone to join their father-in-law and grandfather in the Sleepless Lands? How many more children would be orphans, or men and women widowed in the ensuing slaughter?

Aravon’s fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword hanging from his belt—an Ebonguard sword, a match to the black Shalandran steel armor, helmet, and face mask he wore—until his knuckles whitened. Fury burned bright and hot in his stomach.

Everything we did—in Bjornstadt, in Rivergate, with Eirik Throrsson and the Fjall—it was almost for nothing. All because of that traitorous bastard Lord Eidan!

The muscles in Aravon’s spine grew so stiff his borrowed Ebonguard armor clanked. Lord Eidan, the Prince’s spymaster, had betrayed the Princelands. Had betrayed Duke Dyrund and hired the mercenary that murdered him. Lord Eidan had arranged for the slaughter of those forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twelve Princelanders by helping Tyr Farbjodr, commander of the Eirdkilrs, to arrange the sea assault.

Lord Eidan had paid for his treachery with his life, but Aravon wouldn’t rest—couldn’t rest—until he knew for certain the threat to the Princelands had passed. And that would only happen when Tyr Farbjodr lay dead.

As dead as the Eirdkilr corpses piled on the docks of the Port of Icespire. No burning biers or fiery farewell for the monstrous barbarians who had invaded Icespire; the blackfin sharks of Icespire Bay would grow glutted on Eirdkilr flesh.

But those few—barely more than six thousand at last count—made up a mere fraction of the Eirdkilrs’ full force. With Tyr Farbjodr’s cunning to guide them, they had wreaked terrible havoc in the last few months alone. Their attacks on the Legion-held garrisons and strongholds, the massacre of Fehlan towns and cities, and their raids on the mines around Fehl had done far more than rack up a terrible body count.

Two days earlier, the Eirdkilrs had nearly won the war. Their attack on Icespire would have eliminated not only Prince Toran, but all of the most powerful nobles and Dukes of the Princelands. Until Tyr Farbjodr, the Eirdkilrs would never have conceived of so innovative a plan: distracting the Westhaven navy with an attack on a major stronghold, Eirdkilrs crewing Jokull-made ships, and using sieges on the Princelanders’ allies and garrisons to draw out the Legions stationed at Icespire, leaving the city virtually undefended. That made Farbjodr, not the tens of thousands of Eirdkilrs roaming southern Fehl, the greatest threat to the Princelands’ future.

A threat Aravon and his Grim Reavers would soon deal with.

Aravon had stifled his impatience when Prince Toran requested a day to consider their plan. One day, the Prince had insisted. One day, and a final farewell to the heroes who had fallen in defense of Icespire.

At that moment, Aravon felt no impatience; only sorrow over the deaths. So many dead, so many fallen in defense of their city. So many more unarmed, defenseless men, women, and children cut down in the streets or murdered in their homes. The sight of those nine hundred and thirty-six bodies laid out on the white paved stones of Sanctuary Court hardened Aravon’s resolve.

Tyr Farbjodr dies, no matter the cost!

The thirteenth and final toll of the Lady’s Bell rang out, echoing across the open plaza for long seconds, until the clangor died in the noonday air. A solemn silence descended over Sanctuary Court. For long seconds, no one moved. Even the wind that eternally rolled off Icespire Bay seemed to still, and the world around Azure Island held its breath. Clouds turned the brilliant blue sky to grey, as if the sun hid its face to weep for the fallen heroes.

Prince Toran’s voice broke the stillness. “My people, today we mourn.” His words rang out clear and strong across Sanctuary Court. He stood at the front of the Ebonguards lined along the square’s northern edge, but unlike his guards, he wore no mask or shining helm. Instead, he had removed his crown, baring his face and head in honor of the slain. “We mourn brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. We mourn friends, comrades, and beloved fallen to the wrath of the enemy. We mourn the good people of Icespire—our people—who have gone to the Long Keeper’s arms, and to the peace of the Sleepless Lands.”

He stepped forward, breaking away from his Ebonguards, and coming to stand just beyond the body of General Rodalus. His eyes darkened as he stared down at the old General’s face—now washed clean of the blood that had stained it hours earlier. Slowly, he knelt and placed a reverent kiss on the man’s forehead.

For long seconds, he remained kneeling, head bowed, silent and solemn. When he lifted his face, tears streamed down from his eyes, yet his voice had lost none of its power.

“But we also honor them!” Steel edged his words. “We honor their bravery, their strength in the face of adversity, and their sacrifice. A sacrifice they made freely and without hesitation, each and every one of them.” Still on his knees, he swept a hand toward the bodies arrayed across Sanctuary Court. “These, my people, gave their lives for our sakes. Bled and died so we may live. And so we give them the honor that they are due. The honor of our gratitude!”

At his words, the Ebonguards dropped to one knee. Aravon and Colborn—also wearing borrowed Ebonguard armor—followed suit, and before the clattering of armor had fallen silent, the crowd of men, women, and children surrounding the plaza had joined in. A wave of movement rippled through the crowd as thousands of citizens of Icespire knelt and bowed their heads to the fallen.

“Go into peace now, brave soldiers!” Prince Toran’s voice rang out across Sanctuary Court. “Into the arms of the Long Keeper, to join the Swordsman and stand watch for eternity.”

Those words—from the “Brave Soldier’s March”, the Legionnaires’ funeral song—honored the fallen. Though only a few had served in the Legion of Heroes, all had marched on to the end. They had died a soldier’s death.

Reverent silence hung over Sanctuary Court for long seconds. Then Prince Toran rose to his feet and addressed the crowd once more. “We have suffered a devastating loss, one from which our beloved city will take long months to recover. But recover we will!” He raised a clenched fist. “Together, our hearts and minds united in common purpose, we will rebuild what was burned, will raise up what was torn down. And as we do, we will carry with us the memory of those brave souls who gave their lives so we might endure. Our every word and deed will be in their honor. Our city will once again be the greatest on Fehl as a tribute to these men and women who paid the ultimate price so you and I did not have to.”

His head turned, as if his eyes locked on every person in the crowd. “We are Princelanders. We are citizens of Icespire. And nothing can shatter us!”

A cheer rose from the crowd, and cries of “For the Prince!” and “The Princelands!” echoed around Sanctuary Court. By the time Prince Toran turned away from the throng and the bodies laid out across the plaza, the shouts had swelled to a thunderous tumult.

The sound swelled Aravon’s heart. These people had been terrified for their lives not two days earlier, but now they stood firm and strong. Despite the blackened ruins that had once been their homes, they still lived. And where they lived, they could rebuild. No matter how bleak the situation, there would come a time when this would be a distant memory. Thus was the way of war: life always endured, no matter the suffering and torment. The roaring of the crowd was all the proof needed to know that Icespire would, indeed, recover.

Aravon climbed to his feet with the other Ebonguards, and he straightened as Prince Toran marched toward him.

“Come, Captain Snarl,” the Prince spoke in a low voice, barely audible beneath the crowd’s chanting. “We must discuss your plan to kill Tyr Farbjodr.”

Chapter Two

“I’ve given this a great deal of thought, Your Majesty.” Aravon’s jaw set in a stubborn clench. “And if there’s a better option, I’m too bloody blind to see it.”

The sourness on Prince Toran’s face had nothing to do with the wine in his goblet—a passable Voramian rose wine served cold from a sweating silver pitcher—or the simple meal of grain bread, corn cakes, fruits, nuts, crumbling cheese, and cold roast fowl spread out along the table.

“I know Duke Dyrund trained you to think outside the Legion shield wall,” Prince Toran said, “but something like this is impossible at best, suicidal at worst.”

“Yes.” A simple reply, but it was all Aravon could say. He’d had a great deal of time to consider the plan in the twenty-four hours since he’d first suggested it, and he could think of no other strategy or tactic that guaranteed the necessary outcome.

Prince Toran slowly set his goblet down on the table bordering the western wall of a chamber that bore a striking similarity to the War Room at Camp Marshal. The room was lined with shelves filled with scrolls, leather-bound volumes, and charts, and even had the table—or an exact replica—bearing the carved topographical map of Fehl. For long seconds, the Prince stared in silence at the various pieces and figurines arranged across the map table, each depicting the garrisons on the Eastmarch and Westmarch and the Legion Battalions stationed at each.

“We have Onyx Battalion here on the borders of the Fjall lands.” Prince Toran swept a finger toward the area just north of Eirik Throrsson’s territory, east of Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark. “Surely they could be spared—”

Aravon shook his head. “The Deid need the Legion’s help to repel the Eirdkilrs that survived the Battle of Hangman’s Hill.” He gestured to the two southernmost Westmarch garrisons. “And though we suspect most of the Eirdkilr forces in southwestern Fehl are scattered and leaderless, there’s no way we can be certain of it.” He raised an eyebrow in question.

Prince Toran scowled and nodded.

“Then there’s the matter of the scores of Eirdkilrs that went after the miners of Lastcliff.”

“Both Duke Leddan of Oldcrest and Duke Turlor of the Violet Fens have been notified, and they are sending forces to help hunt them down.” The Prince nodded. “It seems the men of the Black Xiphos succeeded in burning their boats and cutting off their retreat. It’s only a matter of time before the Eirdkilrs are found.”

Aravon smiled. “Good.” Scathan, Barcus, and the other Black Xiphos mercenaries had risked their lives to repel the attack on Lastcliff. He didn’t know what had happened to the sellswords, but the fact that the Eirdkilrs had been forced to flee inland proved that they had succeeded in preventing the capture and abduction of the miners. “Which leaves the two or three thousand Eirdkilrs still sailing somewhere north of the Princelands.” He gestured to the Frozen Sea that separated Fehl from the mainland of Einan. “They sailed off east, and the lands of the Vidr, Eyrr, and Jarnleikr aren’t exactly well-defended against sea assault.”

The easternmost Fehlan clans had no ships larger than fishing and whaling vessels—they’d stand no chance against Jokull-built, Eirdkilr-crewed warships. “Which means General Tinian’s going to have his hands full trying to keep the east protected while Duke Olivarr’s ships go hunting.”

Prince Toran picked up one of the carved wooden boats used to depict the Westhaven fleet and toyed with it. “Those longships are damned fast,” he said, almost as if to himself. “And if the Eirdkilrs are looking to get back to friendly territory, they’ve got a long way to travel.”

“But we can’t assume that’s what they’re thinking.” Aravon tapped on the broad stretch of the Eastfall coastline. “Last I spoke to Duke Dyrund—” He swallowed the lump that rose to his throat; it had grown smaller in the last day or two, but mention of the Duke still brought a flicker of grief and sorrow. “—he said his forces were stretched thin. It’s going to take every Eastfall regular from Wolfden Castle to Eastbay to keep an eye on the coast and make sure the Eirdkilrs don’t take advantage of our weakened eastern defenses.”

Prince Toran growled low in his throat. “You’re a damned ray of sunshine, you know that?”

“You honor me, My Prince.” Aravon bowed low, a harsh chuckle escaping his lips. “But the real reason that my plan’s the only option we’ve got is because of this.” He tapped a finger on Snowpass Keep, the Legion-built fortress guarding the western pass through the Sawtooth Mountains. “No way we’re getting any kind of army through there. Frozen hell, I doubt even two full Battalions could take that pass with the Eirdkilrs so dug in.”

Prince Toran’s scowl deepened as he stared at the wooden figurine depicting Snowpass Keep. The stronghold had been built more than two hundred and fifty years earlier to guard the larger of the two Sawtooth Mountain passes. When the Eirdkilr War had begun nearly a century and a half later, it had been the first target of the barbarians’ assault. Five long years had passed before the Eirdkilrs managed to overrun the defenders, and the Legion hadn’t managed to wrest it from the Eirdkilrs’ control. With the fall of Highcliff Motte fifteen years earlier, the Eirdkilrs now controlled the only way to get through the Sawtooth Mountains.

“And you think you and your Grim Reavers have a better chance of getting through?” Prince Toran raised an eyebrow. “While the big one—Ursus, you call him?—certainly looks the part of an Eirdkilr beneath his mask, the rest of you don’t exactly fit in.”

“True.” Aravon inclined his head. “That’s why we were planning on slipping through the Snowpass unseen.”

“Is that so?” Prince Toran’s second eyebrow rose to match the first. “And how, exactly, did you plan to do that?”

Aravon grimaced beneath his mask; he’d hoped the Prince wouldn’t ask that question. “I don’t know.” He held up a gauntleted finger. “Yet. That’s the sort of thing we figure out when we get there.” Between Zaharis’ alchemical tricks and Colborn and Rangvaldr’s Fehlan-bred woodcraft skills, he’d hoped they would find a way to make it work.

The Prince’s eyes darkened. “So not only do you intend something almost certainly suicidal, but you’re doing it with barely a ghost of a plan.”

Aravon shrugged. “We’ve done more with less.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt. No doubt remained in his mind: he had to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr. No one else on Fehl could do it. No other fighting force had the skill and capability to have even a hope of success. Even if he had no idea how they’d get through the Sawtooth Mountains—or how he’d find Tyr Farbjodr once they did—he knew he had to try.

Prince Toran studied him for long seconds. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “And what about Mylena?”

The words tore at Aravon’s heart. He’d wrestled with the question ever since he’d conceived his plan. If he went after Tyr Farbjodr, he had little chance of returning alive. The icy Wastelands were a cruel, forbidding place even under the best circumstances, and he’d be heading directly into the heart of Eirdkilr-held territory. One misstep, one mistake, and the seven of them would end up dead. Or, worse.

Going through with the mission all but guaranteed that his wife would truly be a widow.

But what sort of man would he be if he didn’t risk himself for the sake of his home, his kingdom, and his family? If he turned away from this mission—suicidal or not—he’d never be able to look Mylena or his sons in the eyes. He would be the worst sort of man: a coward.

“You have already given me your word that you will take care of them, Your Majesty.” Aravon locked gazes with the Prince. “If it happens that I don’t return, I will be at peace knowing that they are looked after.”

Sorrow darkened the Prince’s eyes. “You’re willing to risk death, Aravon?” Though they stood alone in the War Room, Prince Toran spoke the name in a quiet voice. Not only to maintain the secrecy of Aravon’s existence—concealed beneath the armor and mask of an Ebonguard—but out of respect for the monumental burden Aravon was taking on.

Aravon nodded his head. “Yes, My Prince. I accepted the possibility of death long ago, when I swore to serve in the Legion and protect the Princelands from the enemy. Every day I’ve had since then, I can count it as the Swordsman’s blessing.” He drew in a deep breath. “But I will risk death if it means putting an end to this war and protecting my family.”

Long seconds passed in silence, Prince Toran’s eyes fixed on Aravon. “He was right, you know?” he finally said. A hint of a smile—sad but filled with admiration—touched the Prince’s lips. “Sammael. Duke Dyrund. He said you were the man for this job, and you’ve proven him right time and time again.”

Aravon bowed, as much out of respect for the Prince as to hide the hint of moisture pricking at his eyes.

“You’re certain of this?” Prince Toran asked. “You’re certain you and your Grim Reavers will do this, even if it means you don’t come back alive?”

“I am certain, Your Majesty.” Aravon’s shoulders tensed. “But I won’t force any of my soldiers to go with me. It’s a choice they’ll have to make for themselves.”

“And if they say no?” Prince Toran cocked his head. “You will go alone?”

Aravon hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer that question. He couldn’t hope to make it through the Sawtooth Mountains alone, but if his Grim Reavers chose to stay, he still had to go, had to try to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr.

After a long second, he shook his head. “I don’t know, My Prince. One way or another, I’m going south. Today. Alone or not, I’m going. But I owe my Grim Reavers the respect to give them a choice. Even if it means they stay behind.”

Prince Toran studied him, then slowly nodded. “You are a good man, Captain Aravon. A good man, a fine officer, and a Princelander that puts his Prince to shame.” He rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder and stared him full in the masked face. “You honor me with your courage to sacrifice.”

“I have been blessed to know many men who served as great examples of that courage.” Aravon smiled—an expression lost beneath his steel mask. “General Traighan. Duke Dyrund. Even the late General Rodalus and every other soldier who gave their lives to defend the city. They gave their all. How could I do any less?”

A proud smile brightened the Prince’s face, though it didn’t fully drive the shadows from his eyes. “Indeed.” He squeezed Aravon’s shoulder once, the firm grip of a soldier acknowledging another soldier, a ruler recognizing his subject. “You intend to leave at once?”

“As soon as I talk to my Grim Reavers, yes.” Aravon nodded. He’d sent Noll to fetch the Kostarasar chargers from where they’d left the horses at the head of the smugglers’ trail. Though he hadn’t revealed his true plan to any other than Colborn, he had little doubt they all expected word of their next mission. And that they all knew it would be something big.

“Promise me you won’t depart until the sun has set.” Prince Toran fixed him with a stern gaze. “If you are determined to go through with this plan, I have some last-minute preparations to make.”

Aravon cocked his head, but when the Prince made no effort to elaborate, he nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. We will ride out after dark.”

“Good.” The Prince removed his hand from Aravon’s shoulder. “Good.” Without another word, he whirled and stalked from the room.

Aravon couldn’t help the curiosity burning in his chest. He had no idea what Prince Toran intended, but he recognized that gleam of determination in the Prince’s eyes. He’d seen it often enough reflected in Duke Dyrund’s stubborn expression.

The door clicked shut behind the Prince, leaving Aravon alone in the spacious War Room. Alone with the silence, the smell of the dust that covered the shelved books and scrolls, and the soft blue glow of the Icespire. Alone with his thoughts and the knowledge of what came next.

He had no illusions as to his chances of coming back from his mission alive. Just getting through the Sawtooth Mountains would be damned-near impossible, and that was the easy part. He’d have to locate Tyr Farbjodr in the vast expanse of the icy Wastelands and find a way to kill the Eirdkilr commander in the middle of his chieftains, advisors, and armies. Keeper knew how many other threats he’d face between leaving Icespire and locking blades with Farbjodr.

But after the attack on Icespire, after nearly losing his family to Lord Eidan’s treachery and Tyr Farbjodr’s ruthless cunning, he knew he had to go anyway. If he didn’t, the Princelands would never truly be safe. The Fehlans south of the Chain—Rangvaldr’s Eyrr, Colborn’s Deid, Eirik Throrsson’s Fjall, and all the other clans—would always face the threat of annihilation. The Eirdkilrs had deemed them traitors to their heritage and killed them as freely as they slaughtered the “half-men” of the Princelands.

No, the only way he could know his family and his people were safe would be to put an end to the Eirdkilr War. At the moment, that meant ridding the world of Tyr Farbjodr.

His fingers curled into a fist. Even if I have to go alone, I will.

His life meant far less than the future of the Princelands, so he would give it, freely and without hesitation. As he had sworn to the day he took the Legionnaires’ oath.

I have to put an end to this, at any cost.

Chapter Three

Aravon’s steps faltered as he approached the small chamber where the Prince had quartered the Grim Reavers in the northwestern corner of the Palace. Though the ornately furnished, lamp-lit corridors stood empty, no servants in sight, he couldn’t help glancing around and searching the shadows for threats. After what they’d faced—enemies in the Fehlan forests and Lord Eidan’s treachery here in the Palace—he wouldn’t take any chances with his safety or that of his men.

However, his hesitation had only a little to do with fear of discovery. Though he wouldn’t jeopardize the Grim Reavers by letting the wrong person see their faces—hence the Ebonguard mask he’d worn since the previous day—the real cause for concern lay in the knowledge of what he prepared to ask of his soldiers. The high price they would likely pay if they joined him on his hunt for Tyr Farbjodr.

Yet it was only a moment’s pause, then he gripped the door handle and pushed it open. Six faces turned toward him as he entered the room. Without the leather greatwolf masks or the borrowed Ebonguard steel face coverings, he could see the exhaustion, fatigue, and pain etched clearly into the features of the five men and one woman seated around the chamber.

Noll lounged in a plush couch, a wine goblet in one hand and a chunk of sausage-and-cheese stuffed bread in the other. Despite his relaxed appearance, sweat still plastered his hair to his forehead—the ten-mile trek to retrieve their horses and the ride back had taken him the better part of the morning. He’d left under the cover of darkness, ridden through the Soldier’s Gate before dawn, and skirted the entire outer circumference of Icespire’s wall before heading northwest toward the clifftop with the hidden path down to the smuggler’s beach.

Belthar hadn’t fully recovered from the wounds sustained in battle—even with Rangvaldr’s healing stones to speed up the process, he’d done little more than eat, rest, and drink for the past day. On the Seiomenn’s orders, of course, and much to Noll’s irritation. The scout had spent the last day needling Belthar for being a “no-good layabout”. None of the Grim Reavers had complained when Aravon finally dispatched Noll to fetch the horses.

Colborn hadn’t spoken much since the previous day, though he’d been a shadow at Aravon’s back any time he left the room to speak with the Prince, or to attend the mass funeral at Sanctuary Court. Rangvaldr hadn’t yet recovered enough strength to tend to his wounds, but Colborn had simply waved the Seiomenn away. “They’re nothing much,” he’d insisted, stoic as ever. The lines of pain tightening his face with every step and the slight limp in his left foot belied his words.

Zaharis’ right arm hung cradled in a simple sling, though thankfully the blow to his upper arm hadn’t cracked the bone, only damaged muscle. Rangvaldr had put off healing the Secret Keeper, too—he’d had more serious concerns to deal with.

No one, not even Skathi, had noticed the wound in the archer’s side until she collapsed in the middle of the Glimmer. Exhaustion and blood loss, Rangvaldr had discovered. The laceration to her kidney would have killed her without the Seiomenn’s healing magic. He’d given the last of his strength to close the wound enough to slow the bleeding. Even then, the journey back to the Palace had drained her. Rangvaldr, with the aid of Zaharis, Belthar, Colborn, and finally a direct command from Aravon himself, had finally gotten her to rest.

And Rangvaldr…the Seiomenn looked worst-off of all. He’d ridden and fought as hard as any of them, sustained wounds in the battle for Icespire alongside the rest of the Grim Reavers. But rather than giving in to the pain or healing himself, he’d healed the others until he’d nearly collapsed. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but at least he was sitting up and joining the others in their meal and quiet conversation.

Conversation that fell silent the moment Aravon closed the door. Six pairs of eyes locked on his masked face. Six faces tensed in expectation of his words.

Aravon removed the steel Ebonguard mask and dropped it onto a side table beside a tray of roast fowl, spiced sausages, herbed cheese, bread, and fruits. A part of him knew he should eat—he hadn’t touched food since the early morning meal—but he had little appetite. The weight of what he prepared to ask his soldiers had smothered any hunger.

He wanted to turn around and walk out of the room without saying a word. The Grim Reavers had served to their utmost, giving every shred of strength and skill to protect the Princelands and Fehl. They deserved far better than this.

But he didn’t move. After all they’d endured, they deserved his respect—respect enough to offer them the chance to make their own choices.

Drawing in a deep breath, he turned to look at those six faces staring back at him. The six soldiers who had marched, fought, killed, and bled at his side for so many weeks. Weeks that felt like a lifetime. In that lifetime, these people had become his family.

And now he had to ask his family to march to certain death. How could he possibly find the words?

“Keeper’s teeth, Captain!” Noll broke the silence. “Suspense like this is going to give me a heart attack, and if it’s all the same to you, I’ve nearly died enough for one week!”

“Noll.” Colborn’s voice echoed with steel, and a shadow darkened his ice-blue eyes. He alone among them knew what Aravon prepared to ask—knew the cost of their choice. “Give the Captain a mo—”

Aravon held up a hand to stop the Lieutenant. “No, he’s right.” He let out his breath. “We need to get on with it.”

Five faces tightened at his words, at the tone of his voice—only Colborn’s remained a carefully expressionless mask, neutrality marred barely by the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth.

“What I’m going to ask of you is more than I have any right to.” Aravon studied the six Grim Reavers in turn. “And I expect you to hear me out fully before you answer.” His gaze darted to Noll, who had already opened his mouth. “That means you, Noll!”

The scout’s face reddened a shade, but he snapped his mouth shut and gave a tight nod.

“Speak, Captain,” Zaharis signed with his left hand. “And we will listen.”

A tense silence descended over the room as Aravon drew in another long, quiet breath. Once the words were out of his mouth, he couldn’t take them back. The time had come to roll the dice.

“This attack on Icespire is something the Eirdkilrs would never have dreamed of during the days when my father was General in the Legion of Heroes. Hells, until a few months ago, I don’t think any of us could have imagined them capable of this kind of thinking.”

“The bastards didn’t exactly do it on their own,” Belthar rumbled. “They had help.” His lips twisted into a snarl—the expression mirrored the fury and outrage blazing deep in Aravon’s chest.

Lord Eidan’s treachery had shocked them all. Worse, the nobleman’s plans had come within a heartbeat of succeeding. Only the Grim Reavers’ intervention had kept Lord Eidan from bringing down the Deepshackle to allow the Eirdkilr boats into Icespire Bay, and he’d nearly gotten away with his hostages—Branda, daughter of Eirik Throrsson, and Eira, healer of the Deid village of Saerheim, and Colborn’s grandmother. In the process, he’d tried to kill Aravon’s wife and sons. His death—a fatal leap from the Palace rooftop—had been far too kind a fate for the traitorous spymaster.

“Indeed.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “But Lord Eidan’s treachery would never have worked in the past. The clan leaders of the Eirdkilrs have always rebuffed any attempt at diplomacy or negotiation with Princelanders. Until Tyr Farbjodr.”

At mention of the Eirdkilr commander’s name, all the faces in the room darkened. Though they hadn’t met the man in person, they’d all seen his handiwork. Villages burned to the ground. Fehlans and Princelanders slaughtered or hauled away as captives—to what grisly end, Aravon had no idea. Soldiers massacred, strongholds besieged, and countless lives in the Princelands and among the Fehlan clans destroyed.

“For the last fifteen years,” Aravon continued, “he has led the Eirdkilrs, commanded the clans and warbands. But in recent months, his attacks have increased, his actions growing more reckless and ruthless. From Bjornstadt to Rivergate to Storbjarg and now here, he has done things no Eirdkilr commander before him has ever been able to conceive of, much less pull off.”

He raised a clenched fist. “He is the greatest threat to the Princelands, and to the Fehlan clans.” His gaze moved to Colborn and Rangvaldr; both of them had suffered direct losses as a result of the Eirdkilr attacks. Colborn in Saerheim, the village of his Deid mother. Rangvaldr in Bjornstadt, his home and seat of the Eyrr’s power. “Until he is eliminated, we will never truly have peace. Our only hope for a future where the battles are won and the war is over is to kill Tyr Farbjodr.”

Aravon allowed those words to settle onto his Grim Reavers. As the realization of what he told them sank in, a tense silence descended over the room.

“The Eirdkilr have no center of gravity north of the Sawtooth Mountains, no stronghold we can attack to destroy their base of operations like they intended to do here.” Aravon’s gesture encompassed the Palace, Icespire Bay, and the city itself. “To our knowledge, Tyr Farbjodr has never left the icy safety of the southern Wastelands. So, if he will not come to us, we must go to him.”

Noll’s eyes narrowed. “You really saying what I think you are, Captain?”

“I am.” Aravon nodded. “I’m heading south, crossing the Sawtooth Mountains, and finding Tyr Farbjodr. With him eliminated, there’s a good chance the Eirdkilrs will once again become the leaderless group of clans that invaded the Fehlan lands when the war first began. Fighting among themselves for authority, no longer united beneath a single commander. Dividing them up is the best way to give our Legions a chance to drive them back and reclaim the lands of Fehl. By the Swordsman’s grace, to put an end to the war once and for all.”

Noll cocked his head. “The fact that it’s certain death doesn’t give you any pause?” He glanced around to his comrades for confirmation. “We don’t exactly look the part, so we’re going to stick out like a turd in a banquet hall.”

“I understand the risk of what I propose.” Aravon studied each of his Grim Reavers in turn. “Which is why I’m asking if you will come with me, not commanding you to.”

“We get a choice?” Noll’s eyebrows shot up.

“Of course.” Aravon inclined his head. “I won’t send any soldier to their death if they’re not willing. And, if you choose to stay, I know Prince Toran will reward you handsomely for your service thus far.” He gave the scout a small smile. “You could go home, Noll. Home to your family in Lochton, burdened with enough gold to give your sons and daughter the life they deserve.”

The words seemed to strike Noll with near-physical force, and he sucked in a breath.

Aravon turned to Rangvaldr. “You could return to Bjornstadt and the Eyrr, go back to your life of caring for your people.”

Rangvaldr said nothing, but his expression grew pensive.

“And you, Skathi.” Aravon looked at the red-haired archer. “You could return to your sisters in the Agrotorae, march beside the Legion once more. Hells, I’ve no doubt the Prince could put in a word with Commander Rosaia. The Agrotorae would be lucky having you command your own company of archers.”

A hint of crimson tinged Skathi’s cheeks, and her strong fingers tightened around the stem of her steel goblet.

Aravon glanced at Belthar. “You’ve more than earned a place in the Legion, Belthar. Or in the Eastfall guard, or here in the Ebonguard if you want to stay in Icespire. You say the word, and the Prince will make sure you find a place where you’d get everything you want.”

Belthar’s eyes darkened, and for a moment he appeared ready to respond.

Aravon drove on. “And the same for you, Zaharis.” He gestured to the Palace. “The Prince could find a place for you here. The Temple of Whispers believes you’re dead. You’ve got a chance to start anew. To do with your life whatever you want.”

When Aravon’s eyes went to Colborn, the Lieutenant shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath on me, Captain. I’ve had time enough to make up my mind.” He stood and looked Aravon full in the face. “You’d never get across the Sawtooth Mountains without me.”

“But what about you, Captain?” To Aravon’s surprise, the question came from Skathi. “You lost your father and Duke Dyrund, nearly lost your family in the process.” The archer remained seated, but leaned forward, sharp eyes narrowed at him. “Why are you so willing to risk yourself on something like this? Surely there are others that could do this far better than you.”

“Maybe.” Aravon frowned. “But something Lord Eidan said has kept me thinking for the last day. He said, ‘Everything we’re doing is just buying time for Tyr Farbjodr to grow stronger, to summon his true strength’. I don’t know what he was talking about, but if he didn’t see the attack on Icespire as the Eirdkilrs’ endgame, imagine how much worse things could get!”

Belthar’s eyes narrowed in thought—he hadn’t been present to hear Lord Eidan’s ranting.

Aravon shook his head. “After everything we’ve seen and dealt with over the last months, I can’t let this go. I can’t sit back and let it happen, not if there’s something I can do about it.”

“So why do you think it’s possible any of us could?” Now Skathi rose. Though she stood a few inches shorter than him, her broad back and heavy-muscled shoulders made her appear larger. Fire blazed in her emerald green eyes. “For months, we’ve been fighting side by side, but when things go to shite, you think we’d sit out and let someone else do our battling for us?”

“No.” Aravon shook his head. “I would never expect you to choose the easy way.” He looked from face to face. “Any of you. You’ve more than proven that you’re capable of doing the impossible. But you’ve also earned yourselves the right to choose whether or not to face certain death.”

“Death!” Skathi snorted and gave an indignant shake of her head. “I’m dead already!”

Chapter Four

“What?” Aravon’s eyes widened.

The muscles around Skathi’s strong jaw tightened, a hint of fire blazing in her emerald eyes. “He never told you, did he? The Duke.”

Confusion thrummed within Aravon. “Told me what?”

“Why I joined you lot.” A shadow passed across Skathi’s eyes and she spoke in a quiet voice. “How I ended up serving with dead men.” Something inscrutable warred in her face.

“No.” Aravon studied the archer; the muscles in her shoulders and neck had knotted, her posture gone stiff.

Skathi tore her gaze from Aravon’s face and, to his surprise, turned to glance at Belthar. “It’s because of my sister.”

Aravon struggled to mask his surprise; he’d heard Skathi mention her sister when Belthar had spoken of his history with the Brokers, but she hadn’t elaborated. “What happened?” he asked gently.

“There was a man.” Skathi’s face hardened. “A Legion Captain, the sort of man used to getting whatever he wanted.” Her jaw muscles clenched. “He set his eye on Nya, and nothing she did would make him leave her alone.”

Aravon’s stomach clenched; he’d met more than his fair share of bastards and cruel men abusing their power as Legion officers.

“Until the day he decided he’d get what he wanted, no matter what.” Skathi’s face twisted into a snarl, yet sorrow and revulsion mingled in her eyes. “Took three of his Lieutenants to hold her down to make sure of it. Only I was there to stop him. To take her place so she didn’t have to…” Her voice cracked, but the fire of fury and bitter hatred blazed in every line of her face.

“Keeper’s teeth!” Belthar leapt to his feet, a low grumble in his throat. “Tell me who he is and—”

“There’s no need.” An icy sharpness, like a sword left out in the bitterest Princelander winter, edged her voice, her words coming out in a harsh whisper. “That was fifteen years ago. Fifteen long years, every day living with the knowledge of what that bastard did, what he wanted to do to Nya. What he’d done to so many others, and continued to do until I tracked him down and put a dagger in his pathetic little prick.” Her fists clenched so tightly her hands shook. “Cut that bastard Captain open and watched him bleed out in the mud. And every damned one of his cronies with him.”

Icy feet slithered down Aravon’s spine. He’d known Skathi had endured a hard life, but her words set disgust churning in his stomach. No one should ever have to endure that!

“I’d have died if not for the Duke,” Skathi continued, her voice quiet. “He pulled me out the night before I was to hang. Brought me to Wolfden Castle, hid me away for a few weeks.” Now she turned back to Aravon. “Until the day we met at Camp Marshal.”

At that moment, hearing that story, so much about Skathi seemed to make sense. She had lived with the burden of what had happened to her for fifteen years, and it had hardened her as much as it made her strong. She’d built up defensive walls around her heart and mind, to protect herself from feeling that pain ever again. The fact that she’d finally spoken about her past after months spent together gave him hope that their small company had begun to break down those walls.

Before he could say a word, Belthar stepped forward. The big man placed one huge hand on Skathi’s shoulder, soft as a feather’s touch, yet backed by the solid strength of his massive frame. The archer’s muscles tightened at the contact, but she looked up to meet his eyes.

“Someone once told me something very wise.” Belthar’s expression was grave, earnest. “You did what you had to for her sake. But now you’re free.”

Skathi swallowed—she had spoken those words to Belthar to comfort him over the death of his sister.

“I’ll never escape my past with the Brokers. With Inaia.” Belthar’s eyes darkened. “But the past is a burden that’ll bury me alive if I carry it around. If we carry it around. So we’ve got to let it go.”

“Easy for you to say!” Skathi’s retort lacked real teeth, the anger reflexive and forced. “You’ve got someplace to go back to, a life awaiting you once this is all done. Me, I’ll just wind up dancing that hangman’s jig the day I take off my mask.”

“Just like I will face death at the hands of my brothers and sisters of the Temple of Whispers.” Zaharis rose to his feet and came to stand before Skathi. “They believe I am dead, but I can never go back to being the priest I was.” His eyes darted toward Aravon. “But that won’t stop me from being the man I swore to be when I took the Mistress’ oaths.”

He straightened, and in that moment, clad in borrowed Ebonguard armor, looked for all the world like the dignified, revered Secret Keeper they’d met back in Camp Marshal. Not the Zaharis plagued by the burden of knowing he had turned against his priestly order or defied his goddess by sharing her secrets with the unconsecrated, but the man who had given his blood, sweat, and tears to the cause of defending the Princelands at any cost to himself.

“The Eirdkilrs want the ghoulstone, and I think we all can suspect why.” From within his pouch, the Secret Keeper drew out the chunk of ghoulstone he’d been studying for the last weeks. Or, more accurately, what had once been the inert, lifeless black stone. Now, the knuckle-sized rock emanated with a soft blue glow—a match for Rangvaldr’s holy stones and the towering Icespire. The discovery that the Serenii-built tower was made of Icespire had been a shock, yet no less surprising than another truth they’d uncovered.

“Ghoulstone has magical properties somehow.”

Even exhausted, Rangvaldr managed a wry chuckle. “You all saw that! He said ‘magic’.”

Zaharis scowled at the Seiomenn, but that didn’t slow his fingers. “We know the Eirdkilrs have gone after miners, and now with this discovery, I suspect Tyr Farbjodr’s plan has something to do with those magical properties. Which means he’s got something far worse in mind than just unleashing his Eirdkilr armies on us.” His face grew solemn and he looked at each in turn. “We’ve all heard the legends of what the Serenii were capable of, and if he’s somehow found a way to harness their magic through the stones, we need to stop him. Or, at least, I need to stop him.”

Aravon studied the Secret Keeper; he appeared deadly serious, his face a solemn mask.

“I swore an oath to the Mistress to protect this world from secrets that could destroy it,” Zaharis signed. “And if the Eirdkilrs have somehow unlocked those secrets, it’s my divine duty to stop them.” He hesitated. “It doesn’t matter if the Temple of Whispers believes I have betrayed my oaths—I will serve my Mistress until my last breath in the best way I know how.” Now he turned to Aravon. “So yes, Captain, I will join you on your mission to stop Tyr Farbjodr.”

Aravon clasped the man’s good hand. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Which means you’re going to need someone to keep you young hotheads alive.” Rangvaldr climbed to his feet with a groan. “You lot collect wounds like a miser hoards coin.”

“Or like Noll collects crotch lice,” Belthar rumbled.

“Careful, you lummox!” Noll rounded on the big man, eyes flashing. “Else I might just find a nice tall Sawtooth Mountain peak to accidentally push you off.”

“So you’re coming, too?” Aravon asked.

“Please, Captain!” Noll gave a little snort and rolled his eyes. “If you’re planning on putting Tyr Farbjodr down, there’s no one better for the task. After all—”

“If you crow about the Blodsvarri one more time,” Skathi snapped, “I’m going to shove one of Belthar’s crossbow bolts so far up your arse you’ll be spitting wood for the rest of your life.”

“I’m sorry,” Noll mocked, “but is that jealousy I hear in your voice?” He drew himself up, a lordly expression on his face. “So tell me, how many Eirdkilr commanders have you killed?”

Skathi muttered something under her breath that Aravon chose to ignore.

“Seems like you’re not getting rid of us that easily, Captain.” Belthar’s rumbling voice echoed loud in the room. “We joined the Grim Reavers because we knew it was the right thing to do. Just because our chances of survival are shite doesn’t make it any less right.” He shrugged his huge shoulders. “Besides, it’s not like we’ve got anything better to do. Keeper knows I’ve spent far too much time lounging around this place for the last day. All this rest and relaxation has got me itching for some fun.”

Aravon grinned. “Kind of a twisted notion of ‘fun’, Belthar.”

The big man chuckled. “I blame that on you, Captain. Everything we’ve done in the last few weeks just makes it too damned hard to go back to living a normal life. So really, this is the only way we can have any sort of challenge. Pitched battles against impossible odds just seem too…boring. You’ve ruined us, sir.”

Despite the knowledge of what awaited them once they left the room, Aravon couldn’t help feeling a few moments of happiness. Pride in his team, in their commitment to their mission, filled his chest with a glow so brilliant and warm it threatened to outshine the sun.

“Thank you.” His voice came out quiet, hoarse around the lump that had risen to his throat.

Colborn gave a dismissive wave. “It’s our job, right?” He glanced to the rest of his comrades, a smile broadening his heavy, blunt features. “After all, we’re the Grim bloody Reavers!”

“Damned right we are!” Noll’s grin brightened his lean, narrow face. “And no one rips the Eirdkilrs new arseholes like we do!”

Aravon looked to the rest of his companions. Grim determination shone in the six pairs of eyes that met his. In that moment, his love and respect for his soldiers rose to new heights. He’d believed they would join him, but hearing it from their lips and seeing that resolve, hard as steel, in their faces filled him with admiration and gratitude. There was no one with whom he’d rather march off to certain death.

“So be it.” Aravon’s expression grew solemn. “Whatever you need to do, do it now. We ride out after dark.”

* * *

A knife twisted in Aravon’s heart as he watched his sons through the glass windows of the Palace’s northwestern corner. Rolyn chased Adilon through the lush gardens that spread across Palace Isle, joined in play by Prince Toran’s two young daughters and his son. Mylena and Princess Ranisia sat nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the children while enjoying a drink and a quiet, pleasant-seeming conversation beneath the gold, red, and pink sunset sky.

Despite his words to the Grim Reavers and the Prince, the thought of leaving his family nearly tore him in two. He’d come so close to losing them to Lord Eidan’s treachery, and now he’d chosen to travel more than a thousand miles away, trusting that they would be safe. The fact that it was the right thing to do didn’t make the doing any easier.

“Good-looking lads.”

Aravon nearly jumped at the voice from beside his elbow; he hadn’t heard Colborn come up the corridor or stand beside him.

“They take after their mother.” Colborn’s ice-blue eyes twinkled beneath his steel Ebonguard mask. “Lucky them, eh?”

Aravon gave a chuckle—the humor did little to push back the wrenching in his chest. These few moments spent watching his family was all he’d get. Perhaps the last chance he’d ever have. He couldn’t speak to Mylena or his sons one last time. Couldn’t take Rolyn and Adilon in his arms, kiss his wife farewell. He could only stand watching, separated by a pane of glass and a world of secrecy and intrigue.

For long moments, Colborn said nothing, simply stood at his side in companionable silence. That was his way, the stoic support that Aravon had come to rely on so completely. He couldn’t imagine this mission without Colborn—without any of his Grim Reavers, truth be told, but Colborn most of all. He was glad he didn’t have to.

Finally, as the sun dropped behind the western horizon, Aravon forced himself to turn away from the window. To turn away from his family—Rolyn, with his hair hanging down around his neck, just beginning to curl like Aravon’s hair did as a child; Adilon, his eyes shining bright with mirth and his chubby face dark with the telltale smears of jam-filled tarts; Mylena, her chestnut hair reflecting the light of the setting sun, that marvelous smile on her beautiful face. The simple act of tearing his eyes from those three figures nearly shattered his heart, his resolve. But the sight of Colborn standing at his side was enough to keep him from crumbling beneath the burden that weighed on his shoulders.

“It’s time,” was all the Lieutenant said.

With a nod, Aravon strode down the corridor, the Lieutenant at his side.

Through the Palace they marched, side by side, the silence between them at once companionable and thick with tension. The comfortable familiarity with each other clashed against the emotions roiling within their minds and hearts.

Aravon barely saw the lavish tapestries, the ornate carpets, the gold-and-silver statuettes and marble busts. His mind was consumed by the final image of his family—the image he’d carry with him every day as he traveled south on this impossible mission.

But he wasn’t alone in the turmoil, he knew. Though a mask hid Colborn’s face, Aravon recognized the shadow in the Lieutenant’s eyes. Only one thing could cause him such pain: family.

“Did you see her?” Aravon asked quietly.

“No.” Colborn shook his head. “There’s no point in it now. She’d never know it was me anyway.”

Aravon wanted to say more—Eira, the Saerheim healer, was all the family Colborn had left among the Deid—but held his tongue. If Colborn didn’t offer more, Aravon owed him the respect of letting the matter rest.

Long seconds passed before the Lieutenant spoke again. “The Prince is sending her to Ornntadr with the Hilmirsdottir and the Duke’s promised Wraithfever cure. Maybe on the way back…”

Aravon nodded. “That would be good.” Neither of them spoke the truth that weighed on their minds—it wasn’t a question of when they’d return, but if. They’d made their choices, accepted their possible fates. No more needed to be said.

Through the Palace they marched, neither of them speaking—what remained to say? Even the brilliance of the gleaming Icespire failed to lift the weight from their shoulders.

By the time they reached the Royal Stables, the rest of the Grim Reavers had already arrived and stood waiting. The seven Kostarasar chargers had been saddled, the equipment packed and ready for travel. All wore Ebonguard lamellar armor—they were too well-known in Icespire now to be truly incognito in their mottle-patterned leather armor and snarling greatwolf masks—but they’d change into their own gear once they left Icespire on their journey south. First to Camp Marshal, to resupply their armaments and provisions, then south of the Chain toward the Sawtooth Mountains.

None of the five soldiers spoke, simply nodded a greeting and climbed into their saddles. They all knew what needed to be done and, like the soldiers they were, had prepared to do it.

Aravon had just reached his horse—his pack secured in place, along with his spear and Fehlan-style longsword—when the sound of creaking hinges echoed behind him. Turning, he found the massive wooden door pulling open. Prince Toran marched into the stable, his gait confident and unhurried, surrounded by twelve of his Ebonguards.

“Your Majesty.” Aravon bowed, glad for the mask to conceal his confusion. Their departure was meant to be as secret as possible, so the Prince had no need to bring so many guards. A handful to protect him, certainly, but a full dozen?

“Captain Snarl.” Prince Toran’s voice was quiet, his face a somber mask. “Grim Reavers.”

“Your Majesty,” echoed the six Grim Reavers.

Prince Toran and his Ebonguards came to a halt a few paces away from Aravon. “I take it you’ve all accepted the mission laid out for you. And the potential outcome?”

“We have, My Prince.” Colborn’s voice held no trace of hesitation.

“You honor us, brave soldiers.” Prince Toran inclined his head. “Go with the gratitude of your Prince—” He turned to Rangvaldr. “—and all the Princelands.”

Rangvaldr bowed in his saddle, though he swayed slightly, not yet recovered from his exhaustion.

Prince Toran turned to Aravon. “I will not try to dissuade you from this mission, but I will do my damnedest to ensure you return alive.” From within his cloak, he withdrew a large silver coin and held it out to Aravon. “Take this to the Myrr town of Kaldrborg, and give it to a blacksmith by the name of Harlund. In return, he will tell you what he has uncovered about Tyr Farbjodr’s location, and with it a map of the Eirdkilr-held Wastelands.”

Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “A map?” To his knowledge—as confirmed by Duke Dyrund back at Camp Marshal—no one had managed to map out the icy tundra south of the Sawtooth Mountains.

“A crude one,” Prince Toran replied, “with what little directions and details my agents have managed to gather in the last few years. But perhaps, by the Swordsman’s grace, it will be enough to get you to Tyr Farbjodr.”

Aravon took the coin. “Thank you, My Prince.” With a map and a hint of Tyr Farbjodr’s whereabouts, they were one giant step closer to completing their mission.

“But that is not all.” Something strange gleamed in Prince Toran’s eyes. “Harlund will also serve as your guide to the base of the Sawtooth Mountains, to Cliffpass.”

Aravon’s eyebrows furrowed. “Cliffpass?” Confusion thrummed within him. The eastern pass had been closed for fifteen years, since the Eirdkilrs tried and failed to capture Highcliff Motte. “But Snowpass—”

“Is impassable.” To Aravon’s surprise, it was the Ebonguard at the Prince’s right hand who spoke. “There are too many Eirdkilrs guarding the western pass.” The man stepped forward and removed his war mask.

Aravon sucked in a breath. He’d recognize that face anywhere. Lingram? The man was too damned handsome even despite the cuts on his right cheek and forehead and the hints of black-and-purple bruising around his eyes.

“But that’s why I’m going with you,” Captain Lingram said. “I’m going to show you a secret way through the mountains.”

Chapter Five

Aravon’s mind raced. “Wait, you’re coming with us?” His eyes darted from Captain Lingram to the Prince and back again. “But…”

Captain Lingram held up a hand. “If you think you’re going to dissuade me by protesting that it’s paramount to suicide, you’d better think again.” A grin tugged at his lips as he stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low for only Aravon’s ears. “I thought you’d know me better than that by now, Aravon.”

Every muscle in Aravon’s body went rigid, and ice slithered through his veins. When Captain Lingram stepped back to his place at the Prince’s side, he wore a knowing smile, his eyes locked on Aravon’s.

How? Chaos whirled in Aravon’s thoughts. How did he know? He’d been so careful on the road from Saerheim, so it had to have been during the Battle of Icespire.

That thought sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. Lingram knows. His eyes darted to the men behind the Legion Captain. One look at the ill-fitting armor hanging off the giant that hovered protectively at Lingram’s back and the slim, narrow-shouldered Ebonguard in the huge one’s shadow, and Aravon knew they were the Legionnaires who had survived the attack at Saerheim.

He struggled to find words to speak, but none came out. The flood of information—Lingram’s presence and willingness to join their mission along with his Legionnaires, the fact that he recognized Aravon, and his mention of Cliffpass and a secret way through the Sawtooth Mountains—set his mind reeling.

Colborn came to the rescue. “All due respect, Captain, but where we’re going’s not really Legionnaire-friendly.” He gestured to the Grim Reavers. “This is the sort of thing we’ve trained for, while you and yours are better off in a shield wall.”

“True.” Captain Lingram inclined his head. “All the same, if you want any chance of getting through the Sawtooth Mountains undetected, you’re going to need me.”

“And where the Captain goes, we go.” The snarling voice of Corporal Rold issued from beneath one of the steel masks as he stepped forward, raising mailed and clenched fists. “You got a problem with it, I’d be bloody happy to hash that out here and now.”

Colborn didn’t rise to the challenge, but simply ignored the loud-mouthed Corporal. “That’s the second time you’ve spoken of Cliffpass, but as everyone knows, the pass was closed fifteen years ago by the Legionnaires of Ninth Battalion.”

“I know.” Captain Lingram’s eyes darkened. “I was there.”

Aravon’s eyebrows shot up behind his mask. What? In all the years he’d known Lingram, he’d never heard the man speak of it.

“I was there the day the Eirdkilrs attacked Highcliff Motte.” Captain Lingram’s tone was quiet, heavy with the burden of the painful memories that shadowed his face. “I marched beside the Legionnaires of Onyx Battalion’s Ninth Company as they retreated from the enemy. I watched the Screaming Howlers pick off Eirdkilrs by the hundreds, heard the shriek of their crossbow bolts. But we faced an army of thousands, and as they brought down the Cliffpass to crush the enemy, I was dragged through the darkness beneath the mountains.”

Aravon could find no words. How did I never know this? Judging by the darkness filling Lingram’s eyes and twisting his face with sorrow, it was a memory far too painful to share freely.

“I alone walked out of the Sawtooth Mountains alive.” Lingram’s jaw clenched. “My companions died beneath the mountains. I alone know the way through Cliffpass.”

Aravon’s eyes darted to Prince Toran, seeking confirmation. The Prince nodded but offered no words. This was not his story to tell, not his battle to fight.

“I’m your best hope of getting through this alive, Captain Snarl.” Lingram’s words drew Aravon’s attention back to the Legionnaire. “And I’ve got nothing to lose. Lord Aleron Virinus already had me court-martialed and expelled from the Legion of Heroes for what happened to his son and Saerheim. Until General Tinian or General Vessach returns to Icespire, I’ve got no way to appeal the matter. So instead of sitting around and waiting, hoping I can reclaim my place in the Legion, I’m better off spending my time joining you lot on this jaunt across the Sawtooth Mountains.”

“And your Legionnaires?” Aravon cocked his head.

Captain Lingram shrugged. “I’ve tried talking them out of it. Even gave them a direct order.”

“And we told you where you can shove that order, Captain.” Rold’s voice dripped honey and sweetness. “You’re not officially our commanding officer anymore, so we bloody well don’t have to obey you. Puts you in a bit of a Keeper-damned pickle, so it does.”

“Aye,” Endyn rumbled. “Helpless to stop us from coming along and watching your back.”

The slim Duvain shot a nervous glance at the Prince. “With His Majesty’s permission, of course.”

Aravon turned to Prince Toran. “You’re willing to risk them, too?”

“Legionnaires are a notoriously hard-headed lot.” Prince Toran’s mouth twitched—though into a smile or frown, Aravon couldn’t tell. “Simply won’t listen to reason unless it’s shouted in a direct command. Likely a problem you’ve encountered a time or two, yes?”

Aravon suspected the Prince was taking a shot at him—he’d been hard-headed and determined to go on this mission, despite the risks.

Prince Toran’s face grew serious. “But I meant it when I said I’d do everything in my power to give you the best chance of success. And at the moment, Captain Lingram’s way through Cliffpass is that chance.”

Aravon wanted to argue—anything to dissuade Lingram and his Legionnaires from joining their potentially suicidal mission—but the Prince was right. Getting through Snowpass to the west would prove nearly impossible, given the Eirdkilrs’ tight control over the only accessible trails across the Sawtooth Mountains. But if Captain Lingram could get them through on the unguarded eastern Cliffpass, they could remain undetected right up until the moment they sprang their ambush on Tyr Farbjodr. It wasn’t just a chance—it could bloody well spell the difference between success and painful, bloody failure.

Glancing over his shoulder, Aravon signed a question to his Grim Reavers. This was a decision they’d have to make together. All of them risked their lives in this attempt.

Though the steel masks concealed the Grim Reavers’ faces, their eyes spoke volumes. Hesitance, chiefly, a reaction Aravon understood. These Legionnaires had trained to march in straight lines and hold heavy shields, not sneak through the Fehlan wilds. Bringing the soldiers along would nearly triple the size of their company, making it far more difficult to conceal their movements through southern Fehl.

And yet, one by one, the Grim Reavers signaled their acknowledgement and agreement.

“More eyes to watch our backs,” Belthar signed.

“And to stand watch at night,” Skathi added.

“If nothing else, at least one of them ought to be able to slap together a half-decent meal.” Noll’s eyes twinkled. “Anything’s better than what Belthar puts up for dinner.”

Zaharis and Rangvaldr signed assent with wordless gestures.

That left Colborn. Aravon held the Lieutenant’s gaze, questioning silently. Did they dare bring these soldiers along knowing the fate that awaited them? Could they bear the deaths of these Legionnaires on their consciences? After a long moment, despite the reluctance etched into the lines around Colborn’s ice-blue eyes, he nodded.

Aravon turned back to the Prince and Captain Lingram. “So be it.” He held out a hand to the Legion officer. “If it gives us a better chance of success, we’ll take it.”

Lingram clasped his arm. “Good.” A smile tugged at his lips. “And here I thought we’d have to argue for another hour. You’re getting soft, Captain Snarl.”

Aravon couldn’t help smiling beneath his mask. “Like Foxclaw says, we can always use a few more hands to cook dinners on the road.”

“Whatever you do,” Corporal Rold growled from behind Captain Lingram, “keep the big one away from the food. Burns bloody water, so he does.”

Endyn ducked his head, a movement that set his heavy Ebonguard mail rattling.

That’s going to be a problem, Aravon thought. We can ride out of the city dressed like this, but they’ll need better armor if they’re going to keep up south of the Chain.

Prince Toran seemed to have already thought of a solution. “I sent a messenger off to Camp Marshal the moment I left you earlier. Polus will have supplies and equipment ready for all of you—” His gesture included the Grim Reavers and the Legionnaires. “—by the time you arrive.” He looked past Aravon and grinned at the sight of the Kostarasar chargers. “And a few of those from the Duke’s private stables.”

Aravon nodded. “Good.” They had twelve hundred and fifty miles to cross to reach the Sawtooth Mountains—the journey would go far more quickly if they went at the pace set by the specially-bred horses. “Thank you, Your Majesty. For everything.”

The Prince nodded. “It is I who owe you my thanks.” His gaze roamed over the Grim Reavers, Captain Lingram, and the Legionnaires. “All of you. Your courage does you all credit, and does the Princelands honor. May the Swordsman guide your steps and strengthen your arms.”

Aravon swept a deep bow and, without another word, for no more needed be said, climbed into his saddle.

Less than five minutes later, nineteen black-armored soldiers rode out of the Palace stables and across the courtyard toward the Northbridge. Colborn and Noll took the lead, with Aravon, Captain Lingram, and Zaharis on their heels. The rest of the Legionnaires filled up the column behind the officers, with Rangvaldr among the soldiers and Belthar and Skathi bringing up the rear. Mounted on the enormous Kostarasar chargers and the warhorses provided by Prince Toran, they were a fearsome sight, indeed.

Azure Island, home to the wealthy nobility of Icespire, had escaped the turmoil and violence. Or, the buildings had—the lavish mansions of marble, stone, brick, and wood, with enormous glass and crystal windows facing the blue-glowing Icespire, lush gardens, and pristine lawns. Many of the Azure Islanders had taken up arms in defense of the city. Nobility, guards, and servants alike, all fighting for homes and families. They felt the loss no less keenly than those in the Mains, though their homes remained standing, their wealth intact.

The Icewatchers guarding the Eastbridge saluted as they passed—they had no idea that the steel-masked soldiers riding across the bridge were the same who had fought to save their city two nights earlier.

But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Aravon’s eyes roamed south, toward the Glimmer. Or what remained of it. Between the fire and the rampaging Eirdkilrs, nearly half of the slums had burned to the ground. But there, Aravon knew, Gengibar Twist held court over his Brokers and those the rest of Icespire called “Glimmertrash”. They had sworn to kill Belthar—and Aravon, for good measure—if their paths ever crossed. Fortunately, they believed the big man had died in the battle for Icespire.

The Secret Keepers, too, believed Zaharis gone to the Long Keeper’s arms. They had watched a three-story stone building collapse and bury their renegade priest. Though they’d made no attempt to kill Aravon and the Grim Reavers on the streets—with the battle raging around them still—Aravon wouldn’t take chances. He and his men had worn the borrowed Ebonguard armor for the last day and a half, and they’d continue wearing it until they reached Camp Marshal. Only there, in the privacy of the secret training camp, would they once again don their alchemically-treated leather armor and the snarling greatwolf mask that had grown instantly recognizable throughout the Princelands.

Tales of the “Grim Reavers”—a name given them by Jade Battalion after the Battle of Broken Canyon and taken up by Topaz Battalion in the wake of Rivergate’s siege—had spread like wildfire among the gossipy Legionnaires, and from there to the civilians of the Princelands. That had worked in Aravon’s favor during the battle for Icespire; he’d used that reputation as leverage to threaten Gengibar Twist and convince the Icewatch to open the bridges to let the citizenry flee to safety on Azure Island.

But now, as they departed Icespire, hunted by Secret Keepers, Brokers, and any spies and allies the Eirdkilrs had north of the Chain, that armor would be far too recognizable. No one would question a contingent of the Prince’s Ebonguards riding out of the city, however.

Through Portside they rode, through the smoldering, smoking, and blackened ruins of taverns, inns, warehouses, and brothels. Wooden structures set to the torch, buildings of stone and brick torn down or crumbled beneath the Eirdkilr onslaught.

But the corpses—the slain civilians, defenders, and barbarian invaders—had been cleared from the streets. Though the mud was still a grim ochre, mingled blood and muck, the streets had once again returned to a semblance of normalcy. Laborers, stonemasons, and carpenters hurried through the streets, hauling the supplies needed to rebuild. The skeletal husks of buildings were even now being torn down, and the first signs of new structures erected in their stead. Little more than knee-high walls and replaced floors, but those signs spoke of a return of life, of order.

As the Prince had promised earlier that day, Icespire would rebuild. He would see to it. The Royal Treasury had been all but depleted hiring Legionnaires from the mainland, yet that hadn’t stopped him from opening his coffers to his people.

Battle and death had come to Icespire. Tens of thousands had died, and the Eirdkilrs had left an indelible mark on the city. Yet, as always, the Princelanders would pull together, restore what was lost and broken.

Life would flourish. It always won out, in the end. And one day—perhaps not in his lifetime, but some day, certainly—the stain of death and misery left by the attack on Icespire would be erased.

Already, the repairs on the Soldier’s Gate had begun. The old gate had been burned, its timbers splintered and stone core cracked, torn down by the Eirdkilrs. Yet the artisans, engineers, and architects of Icespire had set to work building a newer, stronger gate in its place.

Outside the city wall, only a few blackened wooden structures remained of the deserted Legion encampment. Yet it, too, showed the first signs of life. The Prince had ordered the camp and the Legion’s Harbor restored along with the rest of the city.

As Aravon and his companions rode south, his eyes drifted west. The Outwards had suffered worst of all. The buildings—wood, rope, canvas, and stone cobbled together in a warren of slums and hovels—had been set to the torch as the Eirdkilrs attacked the Prince’s Gate. But, as it had so many times before, the Outwards had already begun to re-grow. New shanties had sprung up amidst the ashes and ruins, as fragile and pathetic as their predecessors, in defiance of the destruction.

Pride swelled in Aravon’s chest. The Outwards, like the rest of the city, stood testament to the resilience of the Princelands. While the Princelanders still lived, Icespire still lived. Nothing short of utter annihilation would keep the people down. For as long as they drew breath, the men and women of this proud city would rebuild.

He cast one last glance over his shoulder. The Icespire rose out of the darkness, a monolith of shimmering glass emanating a brilliant azure glow that lit up the night. The tower, a marvel of architecture as old as the land itself, that ancient monument from a race lost to time, seemed to call to him. Its gleaming depths darkened, as if bidding him farewell.

Somewhere, bathed in that glow, were Mylena and his sons. Safe, he hoped—he had to trust Prince Toran would keep his word to protect them until he returned.

That thought brought a bitter taste to his tongue. Once, long ago, Mylena had made him promise to return. She’d given him a silver pendant shaped like a two-inch longsword. “May it bring you the Swordsman's favor," she'd told him that day. "And may it bring you back to me."

I’m sorry, Mylena. Sorrow weighed on him, a heavy burden that grew all the more ponderous with every thundering step of his massive horse. I’m sorry I can’t keep my promise.

A fist of iron clutched at his chest, squeezing his heart. With effort, Aravon tore his gaze away from the Icespire and the Palace, from the city that had been his home, from his family.

Now, he turned his eyes southward. Somewhere out there in the darkness, more than a thousand miles away, lay his enemy. Tyr Farbjodr, the leader of the Eirdkilrs. The man who had nearly killed his wife and sons, had commanded the barbarians that massacred thousands of Princelanders and Fehlans.

He pushed aside all thoughts of home and family, all worries about the future. Only the mission mattered now. That had to be his sole focus, his sole concern—anything else would shatter his concentration, divide his attention. It would take all of his ingenuity and shrewdness to get them within striking range of the Eirdkilr commander. Until Tyr Farbjodr was dead, he could think about nothing more.

Gritting his teeth, Aravon fixed the image of the Eirdkilr commander in his mind’s eye. He imagined him like any other Eirdkilr—white-blond hair and beard pulled into tight braids, blunt features stained blue with war paint, clad in a shaggy ice bear pelt and crude armor. He burned that visage into his thoughts, poured every shred of anger and determination into that focus until the world around him faded.

I’m coming for you, you bastard!

Chapter Six

The small company of soldiers rode through the night and well into the next day. The Princelands flew by in a blur of rolling hills, fields of crops, farmlands, settlements, and dense forests. By noon the day after they left Icespire, they crossed the boundary marker that delineated the border into the duchy of Eastfall.

Aravon couldn’t help being impressed by Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires. Though none of them had experience on horseback—that much became immediately obvious by the way they bounced around like sacks of flour—they clung stubbornly to their saddles and reins, refusing to be shaken by the jolting pace Aravon and his Grim Reavers set.

Despite their tenacity, Aravon took pity on them. All bore wounds from the battle at Icespire, and it appeared they hadn’t had much time to recover in the day since the fighting ended. For their sakes—and for Rangvaldr’s—Aravon called for more frequent breaks than usual, stretching out the rest periods. When they inevitably mounted up and rode onward, they followed with no complaint.

Well, not exactly no complaint. Aravon grinned beneath his mask. Corporal Rold hadn’t let up the stream of muttered curses since their last break an hour earlier, and those Aravon overheard proved surprisingly creative. That was the way of soldiers—obeying orders without hesitation, but plenty of bitching and moaning throughout the grind.

For the hundredth time that day, Aravon glanced at the sky. He searched for a glimmer of orange fur, his ears keen for the flapping of eagle’s wings. He had no doubt Snarl followed—though running along behind them or flying overhead, he didn’t know. He’d call the Enfield when they made camp for the night.

Speaking of night. The sun had begun a rapid descent toward the western horizon, leaving a brilliant trail of crimson, orange, and gold splashed across the cloud-dotted heavens. Night would be upon them in less than three hours. Best we start thinking of someplace to camp.

A part of him wanted to keep riding, to push hard to reach Camp Marshal. He couldn’t shake the strange sense of urgency that had descended over him since riding out of Icespire. Perhaps it was due to the fact that his family had been in danger, and he wanted to be damned certain that never happened again. But it wasn’t only that. Something else drove him onward—the fear in Lord Eidan’s eyes as he spoke of Tyr Farbjodr’s plans, and his terrified final words.

“Everything we’re doing is just buying time for Tyr Farbjodr to grow stronger,” the traitorous nobleman had said, “to summon his true strength.” Whatever “his true strength” meant, it could only bode ill for the Princelands. Aravon felt that drive in the core of his being, the insistent need to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr before he did whatever had made Lord Eidan so afraid.

But he couldn’t ride himself or his soldiers into the ground. He’d accepted Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires as part of the mission, which meant it now fell to him to look out for their wellbeing as well. While the Grim Reavers could ride through the night, it was probably best not to, given their conditions. Skathi, Belthar, and Zaharis were still recovering from serious wounds, and Rangvaldr hadn’t had a proper chance to rest and recover after healing them. The four of them needed a break as much as the sweating, cursing, exhausted Legionnaires.

As if reading Aravon’s mind, Colborn glanced back and signed, “Camp?”

Aravon nodded, as ever impressed by the Lieutenant’s ability to think ahead, to anticipate his orders. The Captains, Commanders, and Generals that refused to promote him were fools—the Legion of Heroes needed men with the mental acuity and strategic mindset Colborn had displayed.

When this is all over, Aravon vowed, I will make sure he has a chance to command his own men. If not the Legion, Prince Toran would certainly have a place where Colborn’s abilities as a leader and officer would prove useful to the Princelands.

If that’s what he wants, of course, he amended in his mind.

In the last few weeks, Colborn had changed a great deal. Truth be told, all the Grim Reavers had changed, but the Lieutenant more than most. Killing the Jokull besiegers at Rivergate had been the catalyst, and his encounters with the Fjall and Deid warbands, the destruction of Saerheim, and seeing his grandmother once more had furthered the transformation. Aravon had gotten a glimpse beyond the Lieutenant’s walls of stoic silence, had seen the man beneath. A man torn by his heritage—half-Fehlan, half-Princelander—accepted by neither and uncertain where he belonged.

If they survived the mission to kill Tyr Farbjodr, and that was a big “if”, Aravon had no idea where Colborn’s journey would lead. The Lieutenant had hinted at wanting to see his grandmother, Eira the healer, once more. Perhaps even explore more of what it meant to be a Fehlan. Aravon would encourage that path, even if it led Colborn away from the Grim Reavers. As he’d told Colborn the day after the Battle of Icespire, “You can’t know who you are until you understand where you came from.”

Oddly enough, Aravon found himself far more at ease with who he was. He’d defined himself by his father for so long—as the son of General Traighan, heir to a legend that felt both burden and curse. The guilt of his failure on the Eastmarch, the ambush that had killed his Sixth Company, had threatened to consume him. He had felt his father’s disapproval so strongly, felt that he’d failed to live up to the impossible standard he believed his father had set.

But the deaths of his father and Duke Dyrund had painted things in a different light. As he’d stood over his father’s grave, struggling to find words to speak, he had come to understand the truth: for all his faults and failings, General Traighan had been a father. Perhaps not the father Aravon had wanted—the kind, noble, empathetic Duke of Eastfall had filled that role—but one who loved him no less. He had followed his father’s footsteps in a childish attempt to make the General proud, and in doing so, had grown into the man the Princelands needed. Because of General Traighan, Aravon had the strength and courage to make this ultimate sacrifice, to risk his life for his family, his Prince, and the Princelands.

That was the man Aravon was, the man he’d become. With that realization came a sense of peace. He could ride onward knowing he was who he needed to be, doing what was necessary. Maybe even fulfilling the destiny the Swordsman had preordained for him.

Colborn called the halt half an hour later, with just enough light remaining to set up their camp amidst a stand of towering oak trees. Though the day and a half of riding had taken a toll, the Grim Reavers dismounted with only a few hints of groans—mostly from Belthar.

The Legionnaires, however, appeared far worse for the wear. Half of them slid from their horses in a clatter of armor and weapons, too tired to climb down. Endyn stumbled on the dismount, his huge feet tangled in the stirrups. He collapsed atop Duvain and his huge bulk bore them both to the ground.

“Steady on, Meat!” Corporal Rold shouted from his perch atop his warhorse’s back. “You’ve got Eirdkilrs enough trying to kill your brother, yeah? Your job’s to keep him and the rest of us alive!”

Duvain struggled to extricate himself from beneath the massive Endyn while helping his brother to stand. But the night and day of riding had left the huge Legionnaire too exhausted to rise.

“Rest where you are, Soldier,” Aravon called out. He leapt down from his horse and strode to where Duvain knelt protectively beside his brother. “You’ll take the morning watch. Both of you.”

Endyn rumbled low in his throat, nodding his appreciation, then lay back and closed his eyes.

“Thank you, Captain Snarl,” Duvain said, his voice quiet. “Riding takes more out of him than marching, but he’s too damned stubborn to say a thing.”

Aravon inclined his head. “I know the type.” His eyes went to Endyn’s neck—to the patches of thick, scaly grey skin, and the cracks of red, terribly inflamed flesh visible beneath his mask. “How’s his…condition?”

Even behind his mask, Aravon could see Duvain’s wince. “Fine, sir.” The slim Legionnaire’s tone belied his words. “Just needs a bit of rest, mostly.” His eyes darted toward Rangvaldr, a glimmer of hope shining there.

“Give Stonekeeper a chance to rest, too,” Aravon said. “He’ll see to your brother the first chance he gets.”

Duvain ducked his head, as if embarrassed that Aravon had read his thoughts. “O-Of course, Captain.”

Aravon clapped the man on the shoulder. “At ease, Soldier. Magicmaker’ll have something ready to eat soon enough.”

Duvain nodded and sat, hard, as if his last strength had given out. Aravon saw the way the soldier looked at his brother—Duvain was the smaller, and likely the younger, of the two but that didn’t make him any less protective of the giant Endyn. Though the shadows that had filled their eyes on the road from the destroyed Saerheim hadn’t left, they had grown lighter. The Battle of Icespire had given them a chance to redeem themselves—not in the eyes of their Captain, but in their own minds and hearts—and in doing so, lifted the burden. A fraction, no more. The loss of their comrades would persist, a deep-rooted ache that never truly faded. But it could be eased, as Aravon knew well.

He’d lost much—his mother, his friends, Sixth Company, Draian the Mender, Duke Dyrund, General Traighan—but, like the wound that rendered his left arm incapable of carrying a Legion shield, time could soothe most pains.

Aravon turned away from the two brothers and found the camp already well set-up. Colborn was locked in conversation with Captain Lingram, while the rest of the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires went through the motions of preparing for a night on the road.

All but Corporal Rold. He remained firmly seated in his saddle, his posture stiff and his spine ramrod straight.

“Aint’cha coming down, Corporal?” called one of the Legionnaires.

“In my own bloody damned time!” Corporal Rold snapped back. “Blind and deaf idiots like you wouldn’t hear a night ambush by a bloody herd of wildebeests, so it falls to me to get a proper view of our surroundings, prepare for any attack.”

“Attack, in Eastfall?” another Legionnaire muttered to a comrade.

“Maybe by a pack of rats,” the second soldier mumbled back.

Aravon grinned beneath his mask. He recognized the Corporal’s predicament—the blood had pooled in his legs, his knees and muscles gone weak after a day of riding. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to dismount, he simply couldn’t. Not without help, anyway.

Smiling, Aravon sought out Belthar and waved to catch the big man’s eye. “Help the Corporal down, will you? But try not to embarrass him.”

Belthar gave a quick nod and, setting down his pack, strode toward his horse, which stood just beyond Corporal Rold’s. A few steps away from the saddled Legionnaire, he made a show of tripping over his feet—believable to anyone who didn’t know how nimble and agile he truly was. As he “fell”, he grabbed on to Corporal Rold’s saddle to steady himself, half-dragging the man from his seat. Before the Legionnaire knew what was happening, Belthar had pulled him down, caught him, and steadied the man on his shaky legs, all while pretending to struggle with his own balance.

“Watch what you’re doing, shite-for-brains!” roared Corporal Rold when he managed to recover enough to find his strident, grating voice.

“Sorry about that.” Belthar’s tone held not a trace of remorse or apology.

“Keeper’s teeth!” The Corporal shook his head. “And here I thought they’d sent me the dreck of the Legion with Meat and Arrow-magnet over there!” His derisive gesture encompassed Duvain and Endyn. “How you’ve survived this long is a miracle of the Swordsman’s—”

“Enough, Corporal.” Captain Lingram’s voice cut into the man’s tirade.

Corporal Rold rounded on the Captain, eyes blazing. “Cap—”

“I said enough.” Lingram cut him off with an upraised hand. “We joined them, remember?”

“If this one’s any indication,” Rold said, jerking a thumb at Belthar, “we’re heading up a shite creek in a leaky boat and a twig paddle! Mouths wide open, too.”

“Then keep your mouth shut and maybe less shite will get in than you tend to spew out.” Captain Lingram’s voice held no anger, but an unmistakable edge of steel.

The fire in Corporal Rold’s eyes didn’t dim, but at least he remained silent.

“Well done,” Aravon signed to Belthar.

“Was saving his damned pride really worth all that?” The big man’s shoulders had gone tense, his hand signals stiff with anger.

Aravon shrugged. “For some men, that sense of pride is all they have. No one who knows you has any doubt.”

Belthar glanced around at the other Grim Reavers in the camp. Noll’s eyes sparkled and his fingers twitched, as if aching to sign something to mock the big man. Skathi simply rolled her eyes and turned back to her duties. Rangvaldr was too exhausted to do more than give a dismissive wave.

Zaharis, however, had a few words. “He’ll be thanking you soon enough. Just had to save face in front of his men.”

Understanding dawned in Belthar’s eyes and he nodded. “Right.” With one last halfhearted apology to the Corporal—who still hadn’t moved as his legs recovered sensation and blood flow—he strode toward his horse and lifted his huge axe and crossbow from where he’d secured them behind his saddle. The sight of those massive weapons did wonders to keep Corporal Rold’s lips sealed.

“Captain, a word?” Colborn’s voice sounded at his elbow.

Aravon turned to the Lieutenant. “Speak.”

Colborn switched to the Secret Keeper hand language. “We need to talk about the command structure.”

Aravon couldn’t help his surprise. Since joining the Grim Reavers, it had been eminently clear that he led, Colborn served as his second-in-command, but every one of the soldiers working with them were valued for their input and contributions. They’d had only the loosest command structure since Bjornstadt, and had grown so accustomed to each other that there was virtually no need for one.

Again, Colborn proved insightful. The Legionnaires had been trained to follow Captain Lingram, but now they found themselves following another officer—one they’d met briefly on the road out of Saerheim and fought beside in Icespire. While he had little doubt the Legionnaires respected him and his Grim Reavers, he needed to ensure their absolute obedience when he gave a command. Even the slightest hesitation or delay could be their undoing once they got deep into enemy territory.

“You’re right.” Aravon signed to the Lieutenant. “Better we address it now than wait for it to be a problem down the road.”

Colborn nodded and stepped back—his job as Lieutenant was to bring the matter to Aravon’s attention, then let the Captain handle it.

“Legionnaires, Grim Reavers, listen up!” Aravon strode toward the middle of the camp, where he had a clear view of the eighteen soldiers accompanying him. “Where we’re going, there’s no room for error. Even a single mistake or misstep could very well prove fatal, for one or all of us. So I want things to be perfectly clear in your minds: I am in charge. Captain Lingram takes orders from me, and you all take orders from him and my Grim Reavers.”

That elicited the expected response from Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires: a sudden stiffening of the spine, a slight bristling, wary tension in eyes that narrowed behind steel Ebonguard masks. There might have been a tacit understanding that Aravon commanded his Grim Reavers, a company that they’d joined, but they still marched under their Captain and answered to Lingram’s orders. The time had come to make certain all in the camp knew the proper order of things.

Aravon turned to Captain Lingram. “Will that be a problem, Captain?”

“Not at all, Captain Snarl.” Lingram had removed his mask, and a smile tugged at his lips. “The Deadheads are yours to command.”

Aravon glanced at Corporal Rold. “Will that be a problem, Corporal?”

Rold hesitated a moment, his eyes darting toward Captain Lingram, then shook his head. “No, Captain Snarl.”

Aravon looked to the rest of the Legionnaires. “Will that be a problem?”

The soldiers responded with an assortment of mutters, halfhearted “No’s”, and shaking heads.

“I want this burned into your minds.” He fixed the Legionnaires with a stern, piercing stare. “When I give an order, you obey it instantly. There will be time for debate and deliberation, and I expect that all of you will have the courage to speak up if there is something important to be said. But my commands are to be followed without question, is that understood?”

The Legionnaires assented—as soldiers accustomed to following rank and saluting the uniform would—but Aravon saw the hesitation written in their eyes. By following Captain Lingram, they had left behind anything resembling solid ground. The Legionnaires now operated outside the familiar military structure. At the moment, their Captain was the only thing keeping them together.

Aravon was an unknown quantity, a man in a mask. They had seen him fight, had seen him risk his life to protect them on the road from Saerheim and during the Battle of Icespire. But they had no idea what manner of man he was, what manner of commander they had now pledged to follow. They trusted Captain Lingram because they knew him.

And if they were to trust Aravon enough to place their lives in his hands—truly and fully, without hesitation—they needed to know him, too.

Slowly, Aravon reached up and removed the steel mask. Skathi, Belthar, and Noll gasped, and even Colborn appeared surprised by his actions. Yet he did it anyway—it was necessary if they were to succeed at this mission.

Lowering the mask, Aravon removed his Ebonguard helmet and stood straight. “I am Aravon, son of General Traighan of Icespire. For fifteen years, I have served in the Legion of Heroes, first in the infantry, then rising to become Captain of Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company. Now, by the Swordsman’s grace, I lead the Grim Reavers—and you with us—to victory over the Eirdkilrs and bring peace to the Princelands.”

Chapter Seven

Long seconds passed in stunned silence—the Grim Reavers shocked that Aravon had revealed his identity, and the Legionnaires contemplative as they studied his face.

Aravon saw the surprise in Skathi and Belthar’s wide eyes, the tension in Noll’s shoulders, the question written in Colborn’s gaze. This was something the rank-and-file soldiers never truly understood: the burden and responsibility of command.

In Camp Marshal, he’d fought and trained as hard as the rest of them to prove he was worthy to lead. He’d faced Colborn and Zaharis in bare-handed combat, all to show what manner of man they would be following. Every decision he’d made, every time he’d owned up to his mistakes and failings, it had cemented that respect in their minds.

He had no time to do that with these Legionnaires—their mission south didn’t permit the luxury of weeks spent training together and bonding as a cohesive unit. At that moment, he had to use the tools at hand: his father’s reputation, his rank as Captain in the Legion of Heroes, and the Legionnaires’ memories of his actions over the last few weeks. He’d saved them and fought beside them as a masked, faceless warrior. Now he stood before them as the man beneath. A man who deserved their respect due to his rank as Captain.

“I’ve known Aravon since my first days in the Legion.” Captain Lingram spoke in a voice at once quiet and firm. “I’ve spoken to his Commanders, and to the men who marched under his command. And all of them agree that he’s an officer worth following. Which is why I convinced the Prince to let me accompany him on this mission.”

Those words surprised Aravon—not only to hear his friend’s ringing endorsement, but the fact that he’d been the one to suggest joining the Grim Reavers in their attempt to kill Tyr Farbjodr.

Captain Lingram fixed his men with a solemn gaze. “So trust me when I say Captain Aravon is the right man to lead us.” He turned to Aravon and, straightening, clapped his right hand to his left shoulder in the Legion’s salute. “I follow your orders, Captain.”

Aravon’s surprise doubled as another man’s voice echoed through the camp. “I am Colborn Alsvartar of Whitevale.” Colborn removed his mask, revealing his broad, heavy Fehlan features. “For ten years, I have served in the Legion of Heroes, rising to become Lieutenant of Pearl Battalion’s Third Company.” He turned to Aravon and mirrored Captain Lingram’s salute. “And I follow your orders, Captain.”

The rest of the Grim Reavers followed suit.

“Belthar of Icespire, formerly of the Eastfall’s Hightower guard.”

“Skathi of Rockfort, formerly of the Agrotorae attached to Garnet Battalion's Fourth Company.”

“Noll of Lochton, scout in Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company.” The little man glared daggers at the Legionnaires. “Four years I served under Captain Aravon. A better officer you won’t meet.” He gave Aravon a solemn nod. “I follow your orders, sir.”

“Rangvaldr of Bjornstadt, Seiomenn of the Eyrr.” Those words and the sight of Rangvaldr’s heavy Fehlan features and white, braided beard and hair elicited surprised gasps from the Legionnaires. The Seiomenn didn’t rise, but winked at Aravon from where he lay. “I follow Captain Aravon’s orders, gladly.”

Zaharis removed his mask, revealing his face. “I follow your orders, Captain,” he signed. “Even if they’re bloody suicidal and bound to get us killed.”

Aravon struggled to conceal his smile—it would ruin the solemn moment. Instead, he turned to the Legionnaires. “I swear by the Swordsman and my eternity in the Sleepless Lands that I will lead you to the best of my ability. You have my pledge that I will not throw away your lives, and that I will always be the first into any danger we will face, together. In return, I expect obedience and loyalty without question. Not blind or deaf, but trusting that I will do my utmost to bring every one of you home.”

For long seconds, no one spoke. All the Legionnaires knew the dangers they faced ahead, the battles to come. Aravon had made no fool’s promise to keep them alive, but he’d given them the best oath he could. That, coupled with everything else they knew of him and had seen with their own eyes, had to be enough.

Corporal Rold spoke first. “I follow your orders, Captain.” His fist clanked against his Ebonguard armor.

“Us, too.” Duvain stood, helping an exhausted Endyn to rise. “To the end, Captain.”

The rest of the men followed suit, rising to their feet and offering the Legionnaire’s salute. Pride glowed within Aravon at the sight of the brave soldiers standing around him. Captain Lingram was the only Princelander among them, the rest Voramians, Malandrians, Praamians, and others from across the Frozen Sea. Yet in that moment, they stood united in purpose, two companies joined into one fighting force. A force that, by the Swordsman’s grace, would drive a dagger into the heart of Tyr Farbjodr and put an end to the war once and for all.

* * *

“That was well done.”

Aravon looked up from where he sat stroking Snarl’s furry scruff—the Enfield had been eager to see him after a long day shadowing their progress—and glanced over his shoulder, careful not to look at the figure silhouetted against the light of the fire. He’d heard the heavy boots crunching on the leaves, and now the quiet voice told him it was Captain Lingram approaching.

“You think?”

“It worked pretty damned well, so I’d say yes.” With a chuckle, Lingram took a seat on the fallen log beside Aravon’s perch. He’d taken the first watch—he needed time alone to think before the day’s exertions settled on his mind, fatigue clouding his thoughts.

Snarl gave a happy barking yip, nuzzling his wet nose deeper into Aravon’s hand.

Lingram’s eyes fell on the little creature seated in Aravon’s lap. “Who’s this?” he asked, crouching down to get a closer look.

“Snarl.” Aravon lifted the Enfield from his legs and held him up to Captain Lingram. Snarl sniffed at the air for a moment, then shook himself and yipped, flapping his wings in eager greeting to Lingram.

Captain Lingram gave an incredulous shake of his head. “I still can’t believe it. When I saw him up on the Palace roof, I could have sworn my eyes were playing tricks on me. I’ve heard the folk tales about Enfields, but thought they were nothing more than legends.”

“He’s a legend, all right.” Aravon scratched Snarl’s scruff. “He’s saved us more times than I can count. Fiery hell, I’d say he’s probably the most useful of all us Grim Reavers.” Happiness glowed in his chest; he’d missed Snarl over the last few days, and he shared the Enfield’s delight at being reunited.

“Can I...?” Captain Lingram reached out a hesitant hand and, at Aravon’s nod, rested his fingers lightly on Snarl’s furry neck. Snarl rubbed his head against the Captain’s hand, eager to get acquainted with the man that would be one more source of food, water, warmth, and, most important of all, scruff scratches. He gave a happy bark and wagged his furry tail.

“He likes you.” Aravon smiled. “I’d call that a ringing endorsement.”

Lingram’s eyes went wide in wonder and delight.

“How did you know?” Aravon asked.

“Know?” The Legionnaire looked up from the Enfield.

“That it was me beneath the mask.” Aravon studied the man. “That I was Captain Snarl.”

“Oh, that.” Lingram gave him a crooked smile—it just made his face all the more handsome. He’d always had a way with women, and looked every inch the hero. Truth be told, Aravon had been envious of the man during their days as young Legionnaires.

“I thought I recognized your voice back on the road from Saerheim, despite that ridiculous growling.” Lingram rolled his eyes. “But it wasn’t until after the battle at the Palace I knew for sure. The only other person who would say ‘Lingram’ like that is my mother, and I was fairly certain she hadn’t started swinging around a spear that day.”

Aravon chucked. “Damn, and here was me thinking I had you fooled.”

“You mostly did.” Lingram grinned and settled into a seat against a tree in front of Aravon. “But I’ve been called ‘Captain’ for so long that I take notice when someone calls me by just my name.”

Aravon grimaced. “I’ll have to work on that.” He dropped his voice to the deep, growling Captain Snarl tone. “I can’t have anyone else uncovering my true identity. After all, I’m dead.”

The humor faded from Captain Lingram’s eyes, replaced by a solemn frown. “Yeah, I heard.” His brow furrowed. “Not a good day, getting that news.”

Silence descended between the two of them. Aravon looked between Snarl and the trees concealing them from the Eastfallian plains and the nearby Eastmarch. Though they had little fear of ambush or threat in Eastfall, old habits died hard.

“Does she know?” Lingram asked in a quiet voice. “That you’re alive?”

A lump rose to Aravon’s throat. “No.” He had no need to ask who she was. “It was supposed to keep her safe, so no one came looking for her to get back at me. Now, given where we’re going…” He let out a long breath. “It just felt cruel to come back to life only to go off and die again.”

“Aravon.” The earnest tone in Lingram’s voice brought Aravon’s head around. The Captain’s eyes fixed on him, his gaze piercing. “She’d have understood. You know it as well as I do. She’d have wanted to know, if only to say goodbye.”

Aravon’s chest clutched, a fist of iron squeezing at his heart. “I…I know.” His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “But I don’t think I could have left.”

Lingram nodded understanding, and again the silence descended between them. Not as tense, perhaps, yet no less thick. Two men burdened by their pasts, the decisions they’d made, and the responsibilities they now carried.

This time, Aravon spoke first. “You never said anything about Highcliff Motte.”

Captain Lingram stiffened, just slightly, but enough that Aravon noticed. “Not exactly something we talk about.”

Aravon glanced at the man, found shadows darkening his eyes. “You were Ninth Company?”

Lingram shook his head. “Too young. Sixteen, not old enough to join the Legion. Not even a proper man yet.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow in surprise. He’d known Lingram was younger than he, but not that much younger. He had been in his second decade of life when the Eirdkilrs destroyed Highcliff Motte.

“But I was after.” A grim note edged Lingram’s voice. “We had to fight. Not just the Legionnaires. Everyone. I was lucky—I’d hung around the Legion enough that they taught me to swing a sword. But what I saw there…” He trailed off, and the gloom of the trees seemed to settle around him, a burden that weighed on his mind and heart. “Those memories never really dissipate, even with time.”

Aravon inclined his head. He, too, knew the wounds such events could inflict on the soul, the scars that remained long after.

“I thought about taking the out, you know?” Lingram continued. “After Myron and the court-martial, I actually gave it a thought.” A bitter grin twisted his lips. “I’ve never done anything else, though. I don’t know if I ever could. And something like this is far better than spending the rest of my life punching ghosts.”

“Indeed.” Aravon had met his fair share of retired soldiers who had carried the war in their minds and hearts. Men and women that had laid down swords and shields, yet ever sought someone to fight.

“When this is all over, maybe you take the out, Aravon.” Lingram’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “You’ve got Mylena and your boys. Me, all I’ve got is this.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Them.”

Aravon glanced at their simple camp, at the Legionnaires sitting beside the Grim Reavers. Battle, hardship, and loss had a way of binding men together with ties far stronger than family.

“Tell me truthfully, Lingram. Are they up for this?” Aravon studied the man. “After everything they endured at Saerheim and Icespire…” He trailed off; he had no need to put his question into words.

Lingram’s eyes narrowed in thought. “They’ll do their best, that much I can tell you.” He lifted his gaze to Aravon. “You should have seen the way they fought at Saerheim. Raw recruits standing up to the Eirdkilrs like veterans. Even with the city burning around them, they kept their heads. They do the Legion proud.”

Aravon nodded. “It’s up to us—to me and my Grim Reavers—to get them ready for what we’re going to face, then.”

“Aye.” Lingram’s jaw clenched, and lines of worry appeared at the corners of his eyes. “Icespire gave them back a bit of what they’d lost in Saerheim, put some of those old ghosts to bed. Maybe this is how they move forward.” He leaned forward, wrapping an arm around his knees. “It’s how I did.”

“Me, too.” Aravon’s missions with the Grim Reavers had helped him cope with his remorse and guilt over the loss of Sixth Company. “Best we can do is our best and hope we get them through it in one piece.”

Lingram nodded. “True, that.”

Another long silence descended. Less tense, this time, simply the absence of words. No more needed saying between them at that moment.

Finally, Captain Lingram spoke. “Well, I’m off to my bedroll.” He rose and, with a scratch of Snarl’s scruff, turned to go. “See if you can stop your brooding long enough to get some sleep tonight, yeah?”

“Brooding, me?” Aravon pretended outrage.

“Nobody better at it.” Lingram grinned. Again, it made him far too damned handsome for his own good. “It shows in all the little lines of your face. Or perhaps it’s just that you’re getting old. And that scar isn’t doing your face any favors.”

Aravon ran a finger along the scar on his right eyebrow and cheek. “This just means I’ve been fighting harder than you, rather than sitting in taverns drinking my days away.”

“Sure it does.” Lingram rolled his eyes. “It’s definitely not that you’re getting too slow to dodge when an Eirdkilr swings at you.”

Aravon hurled a halfhearted curse at the retreating Legionnaire, eliciting a laugh. After their conversation, it felt good to indulge in a bit of lighthearted banter.

Yet the sound of Captain Lingram’s fading laughter returned the solemnity to Aravon’s mind, the burden to his heart. Soon enough, they would be riding into enemy territory, off on what amounted to a suicide mission.

They’d have little to laugh about then.

Chapter Eight

Relief flooded Aravon as the palisade walls of Camp Marshal finally hove into view amidst the boggy marshland that concealed their secret base. They had risen before the sun and ridden hard all day, taking breaks only when the Legionnaires appeared ready to collapse. Sunset had found them riding past Wolfden Castle, but it had taken another three hours of riding through the settling gloom of evening to reach the hidden camp.

As the wooden gates of Camp Marshal swung open, Aravon felt that strange sense of homecoming that had washed over him the last time he returned. For weeks, the secret training camp had been a home of sorts. He’d recovered from his injuries here, had pieced together the man he’d been before the ambush on the Eastmarch. He had found his new company—soldiers that had become his family—and built the bonds that only grew stronger with every passing day.

He couldn’t help smiling as he caught sight of familiar surroundings: the training yard where he and the Grim Reavers had run the obstacle course over and over, the practice ground that had witnessed hundreds of mock sword battles, the archery range where they had tried—and failed—to match Skathi’s skill with a bow, and the stone building with its barracks, smithy, stable, and storage sheds.

“Welcome, Captain!” Clem, the white-haired, one-eyed guardsmen waved as Aravon rode through the open gates. “We’ve been expecting you. Polus has the forge fired up, and I’ve had Lenna send over a batch of her finest butter cookies.” The man grinned, revealing three teeth—two fewer than on Aravon’s last visit. “Might be there’s a few that survived my taste-test, if you catch my meaning.”

Aravon removed his mask and smiled down at the man. “If they’re half as good as the Duke proclaimed, I’m certain they’ll make a feast fit for the Prince himself.”

The Grim Reavers dismounted, with the Legionnaires following suit, albeit much more gingerly and with a chorus of groans. Only Captain Lingram seemed at ease on horseback, as expected from an officer. He, too, removed his mask and prepared to bark orders to his soldiers, but seemed to catch himself, glancing at Aravon.

Aravon gave the man an appreciative nod—one more reminder to the Legionnaires that they need to get accustomed to taking orders from me—and issued his commands.

“Noll, take two Deadheads to help you stable the horses. Belthar, Skathi, and Colborn, take our gear to Polus for a once-over, and find out when he’ll have the armor and weapons ready for our companions.”

The three named acted without hesitation—Noll summoned two Legionnaires, Praamians named Tassus and Annur, to help him with the horses, while Belthar and Skathi unstrapped the canvas-bundled leather Grim Reaver armor and Colborn collected Aravon’s spear, Belthar’s axe and crossbow, Zaharis’ spiked mace, and Rangvaldr’s shield and longsword.

Aravon turned to the others. “Rangvaldr, inside and get some rest. I’ll have food brought as soon as it’s ready.”

A stubborn look flashed across the Seiomenn’s face. “Captain, I—”

“That’s an order, Stonekeeper.” Aravon shook his head. “We’ll need you fresh when we ride out in the morning. And there are those in need of your magic.”

Rangvaldr’s eyes darted toward Endyn. The huge Legionnaire stood stiffly at attention, his jaw clenched so tight Aravon could almost hear the muscles and joints creaking. Even from this distance, the inflamed red cracks between the dark grey scales appeared painful. Aravon had no doubt Endyn endured terrible suffering, yet he bore it in silence.

“Yes, Captain.” The Seiomenn gave a quick nod and set about unstrapping his pack from behind his saddle.

Aravon sought out Zaharis. The Secret Keeper was busy unloading the wooden chest containing his alchemical supplies, piling his pack and bedroll atop it. “Zaharis, see if Polus needs your help with the armor, then take the night to rest and replenish.”

Too loaded to spare a hand to sign a reply, the Secret Keeper strode into the barracks carrying his gear.

“Duvain, get Endyn to the fourth room down the hall, and see about getting him out of that armor.” Aravon had no doubt the weight of the heavy Shalandran steel lamellar had to be terribly uncomfortable on his dragonskin, the metal rubbing his already inflamed skin raw. “I’ll see if the Magicmaker can prepare more of that unguent to ease your brother’s discomfort until the Seiomenn’s rested enough to attempt the healing.”

Duvain nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

Endyn, however, appeared unwilling to obey the command. “I don’t…need to rest,” he rumbled through clenched teeth. “I’m…fine!” That last came out in a gasp, belying the words. Shame burned in his eyes and turned his face a deep red.

Aravon strode toward the giant Legionnaire, stopping just within his shadow. Though he’d grown accustomed to Belthar’s height, Endyn towered above even the big Grim Reaver. His shoulders were broader, too, his hands large enough to encompass Aravon’s head. And judging by the thickness of his arms and legs, there was real power in that massive frame.

“Listen to me, Soldier.” Aravon beckoned for the big man to stoop.

Endyn bent halfway until his huge face hovered in front of Aravon. Big, blunt features, a thick nose and massive jaw, but in his eyes shone the humiliation and nervous uncertainty of a young man anxious to impress his commanding officer. And young he was—he couldn’t be far into his second decade of life—still fresh with inexperience. Despite everything he’d endured, he still had a hint of the innocence Aravon had come to envy in so many civilians. Life and war hadn’t yet hardened him the way it had so many others. As it had Aravon himself. Too much of what he’d seen could never be unseen, never forgotten.

Aravon spoke for the big man’s ears only. “Do you know why I, a Legion Captain, carry a spear instead of a sword and shield?”

“No, sir,” the big man rumbled in a voice like rolling thunder.

Aravon gestured to his left arm. “In the Eirdkilr ambush that killed Sixth Company, my left arm was shattered. I can never carry a shield again.”

Endyn’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Some soldiers would consider that an ailment or impairment.” Aravon looked the young man full in the face. “Far too many Legionnaires have been retired from service with injuries far less grave. But what if I told you that this injury saved my life?”

The surprise spread from Endyn’s eyes to his rising eyebrows. “How?”

“So many times, had I stood in the shield wall, I would have been cut down by enemies,” Aravon said. “Had I faced every battle as I did as a Legionnaire, I and everyone with me would have died. But because of this—” He gestured to his arm again. “—I found a new way to fight, a new approach to my battles. Everything we’ve managed to do, the Grim Reavers and I, it’s thanks to this injury.”

Endyn’s huge lips rounded into an “O”, though the word never formed on his lips.

“Sometimes, what appears as a weakness or infirmity to one person can actually be a salvation to another.” Aravon’s eyes went to the dark grey scales, thick and crusted, with the patches of cracked, red skin between. “The fact that you’ve borne the pain and discomfort without a word of complaint proves your grit to everyone. And I saw you fight, remember? Never once did you let it slow you down. So now, when you’ve got a chance to ease the misery, don’t fear that it will make you appear weak. Instead, consider it an acknowledgement of the strength required to bear that burden. Is that understood?”

A new flush rose to Endyn’s huge cheeks, but it held no shame or embarrassment. Instead, a hint of pride shone in his skin, a match for the bright glow in his eyes. “Yes, Captain,” he rumbled.

“Good.” Aravon nodded. “Now get inside and get that armor off. As soon as Rangvaldr is recovered, I’ll make sure he does what he can for the dragonskin.”

“Thank you, sir.” Endyn straightened, once more looming over Aravon, and strode with a steady, determined gait toward the barracks. The stiffness of his spine and the fists clenched at his sides spoke of the torment he endured, but his silence spoke even louder of his fortitude. Aravon had known many men who would have crumbled in the face of such misery—he doubted even he could bear it. The fact that Endyn still stood, marched, and fought beside his Legionnaire brothers paid testament to his iron will.

Tears of gratitude sparkled in Duvain’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.” He gave a quick bow and hurried after his brother.

Only once the two had entered the stone building did Aravon turn to the remaining soldiers. “Captain Lingram, Colborn, with me to the War Room. The rest of you, get to the kitchens and get some dinner going, then find someplace to sleep tonight. We depart at dawn.”

The Legionnaires departed without a word, accompanied only by the clatter of armor, gear, and weapons. Captain Lingram made to stride away, but Aravon caught his arm to stop him. He waited in silence until they stood alone in the darkness at the entrance to Camp Marshal.

“Did you know?” Aravon asked quietly.

“About his dragonskin?” Lingram nodded. “I found out about it after we reached Saerheim.”

Aravon’s brows knitted together in thought. Despite what he’d told the giant Legionnaire, he wasn’t certain what to do with Endyn. Unless Rangvaldr could heal the dragonskin, the man would likely slow them down.

“He’s never let it stop him, Aravon.” Lingram locked eyes with him. “But it’s more than that: it saved his life.”

Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“On the road to Saerheim. A woodcutter viper tried to take a bite out of his leg.” Lingram’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “The dragonskin shrugged it off like a feather hitting a Legionnaire’s shield.”

Aravon’s expression grew musing. He’d said what he said to Endyn not only to lift the soldier’s spirits—he truly believed it, though he’d never put that belief into words or given it much thought before tonight.

But belief or not, he couldn’t afford anything that slowed them down. Zaharis had already said he could do nothing for the dragonskin without the Elixir of Creation—more of it than he had left. And the chances of their finding the final ingredient, ice saffron, were far beyond slim. Which meant Rangvaldr was the big man’s only hope.

Thoughts of the ice saffron brought back memories of Zaharis and his confrontations with Darrak, his former Secret Keeper comrade. The man had led the priests that tried to kill Zaharis; they’d come damned close in Icespire. That wound doubtless cut deep, leaving a scar on the Secret Keeper’s heart. Aravon owed it to Zaharis to check on him.

But first, we need to figure out the best plan of attack. He had never traveled farther south than the Fjall clan lands, and had no idea what to expect on their journey to Kaldrborg and Cliffpass. Hopefully, Colborn and Captain Lingram could fill in the gaps.

“If you say Endyn’s up for it, then I trust you.” Aravon fixed Lingram with a solemn gaze. “I’ll have Rangvaldr see to him before we leave. But if we’re going to be ready to ride out at first light, I need to know what we’re going to face south of Anvil Garrison.” He gestured toward the barracks. “Come and show me what’s waiting for us deep in enemy territory.”

Chapter Nine

“Damn!” Captain Lingram whistled as he followed Aravon and Colborn into the War Room. “The Prince spared no expense here.”

A plethora of maps, charts, scrolls, and reports sat upon the heavy shelves that lined every wall of the room. Wooden chairs sat along one side, next to a table furnished with a pitcher of what Aravon hoped was wine and a stack of buttered, sugar-and-cinnamon dusted flatbreads. But it was the oaken table occupying the center of the chamber that held Captain Lingram’s gaze. Into the surface, an artist had carved a detailed topographic map of the continent of Fehl from Icespire in the north to the Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains. Lingram ran a hand over the peaks and valleys etched with breathtaking detail into the smooth, lacquered wood.

Aravon settled into place at the end of the table depicting the south of Fehl and the Sawtooth Mountains. “Tell me everything you know about Kaldrborg and Cliffpass.”

Colborn’s brow furrowed in thought. “That’ll take all of five seconds,” he grunted. “I know it’s the largest settlement in Myrr lands, within spitting distance of what used to be the southern end of the Eastmarch before the Eirdkilrs came and tore it up.” He shrugged. “And that’s it.”

“Kaldrborg used to be a hub of trade for the entire south of Fehl.” Captain Lingram’s voice held far more confidence. He tapped a small square marker a few dozen miles away from the Sawtooth Mountains. “The goods flowing through the town kept Highcliff Motte stocked with supplies, and the gold and iron ore mined near the stronghold kept the Fehlans pacified. Until the Eirdkilrs overran the fortress and Cliffpass was closed.” The shadows returned to his eyes, and his brows furrowed at the painful memories.

With effort, he smoothed out his expression. “Once the Eirdkilrs pushed the Legion back north, the Myrr threw their lot in with the southerners. Anything to keep them safe from the Bein flesh-eaters.”

Disgust twisted in Aravon’s stomach. “So that’s not just a story told to scare young children?” All his life, he’d heard tales of cannibalism among the southern clans but never truly believed it.

“When I was at Highcliff Motte, only a few of the oldest clans still kept up the practice, and always in secret.” Captain Lingram gave a disdainful grimace. “But the Eirdkilrs actually encourage that sort of thing. Now, all but one or two of the smaller families have returned to their savage ways. From what I’ve heard, the entire Bein clan structure has devolved to nothing more than warring families and settlements raiding each other, like the Haugr and Hafr.”

Aravon grimaced. “Which means we want to stay as far from Bein lands as possible.”

“Precisely.” Captain Lingram nodded. “Thankfully, our route should keep us mostly in Myrr lands.” He hesitated. “Unless we decide to head east, which means we’ll end up cutting through Fjall territory.”

Aravon traced the mostly-straight path that had once been the Eastmarch carving its way through the lands of the Jarnleikr, Fjall, and Myrr. The Eirdkilrs had taken special pains to destroy the Princelanders’ roads, severing their easy access to southern Fehl. Once they passed Anvil Garrison, they’d spend most of the journey cutting through forests, marshlands, grassy plains, and hilly lands that grew ever more mountainous the closer they drew to the Sawtooth Mountains.

But, as the Hilmir, Eirik Throrsson had made abundantly clear, he had no desire for Princelanders in his lands. Heading through the flatter Fjall terrain would make for faster going, though they’d have to go farther out of their way. On the other hand, they’d risk far less than they would cutting directly south through the highlands of southern Jarnleikr and northern Myrr domains.

But that was a problem for later. First, he needed to know how they were going to get through the Sawtooth Mountains.

A sudden tension knotted Lingram’s shoulders. “I…” Uncertainty flashed across his face. “I’m not certain.”

“What?” Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean—?”

“I know how to get through, but I can’t explain it from here, not on a map like this.” Lingram swept a hand toward the massive ridges depicting the Sawtooth Mountains. “There’s a way through the mountains. Under the mountains. But I need to be there, in person, and find it for myself.” His eyes darkened again. “It’s been fifteen years since I last saw it.”

Anger blazed in Aravon’s chest. He lied to us? His jaw muscles worked. “You said you knew a way!”

“I do!” Captain Lingram’s jaw squared and he stood straight, unflinching before the fire in Aravon’s eyes. “But it’s not something I can explain. I can’t just say, ‘Look for a tiny hole carved into a bloody mountain’! There are no maps, no way to tell you the path. It’s something I have to do myself. Something only I can do.” Steel echoed in his voice, resolute and unyielding.

Aravon locked gazes with the man. Lingram stared back at him, never wavering. Anger flared within Aravon. It had nothing to do with the fact that Lingram was following his gut instinct and taking a huge chance on something incredibly risky; Keeper knew Aravon himself had done that enough times over the course of the last few months.  No, his fury had everything to do with Lingram’s keeping the truth from him. Insufficient information could get good men killed. And given the impossibility of the mission they faced, even the slightest detail could spell the difference between success and certain death.

Yet Aravon forced himself to bite back an angry growl. “So be it,” he said. “We’ll get you where you need to go.”

“And I will get you through the mountains.” A hint of the Captain’s tension diminished, and certainty rang in his voice. “I swear, by the Swordsman and my eternity in the Long Keeper’s arms.”

“Good.” Aravon nodded, and his anger diminished, the fire burning in his belly guttering to a flicker of irritation. “Now get some food and rest. We leave in a few hours.” His words came out curt, with more biting force than he’d intended. But after everything that had happened with Lord Eidan—all the secrets that had turned out to be lies—and the knowledge of what awaited them in the south, he could ill-afford a problem like this.

Captain Lingram seemed to sense the sudden tension. Without a word, he gave Aravon and Colborn a little nod, turned on his heel, and strode from the room in silence, his posture ramrod straight and muscles stiff.

Colborn, however, made no move to follow. He stood with his arms folded across his broad chest, gaze locked on the retreating Captain. He only spoke once the door shut behind Lingram. “You trust him?” the Lieutenant asked without taking his eyes from the doorway. “After he kept the truth from us?”

Aravon bit back an angry answer—he had to think clearly, not let past fears and duplicity affect his judgement. He’d failed to see Lord Eidan’s treachery, but the nobleman had been far too good at concealing it, even from men like Prince Toran and Duke Dyrund. With Lingram, it wasn’t deceit that held him back, but something else…something deeper. Yet that didn’t change who the man was at the core of his being: an honorable, just, loyal Captain, Legionnaire, and friend.

A slow breath escaped Aravon’s lips. “I do,” he finally said. “I’ve known Lingram for years.”

“Maybe.” Colborn turned toward him now, a meaningful look in his ice-blue eyes. “You knew him years ago. But what if he’s not the same man? What if…” He trailed off with a shrug.

Aravon’s shoulders tensed; he wasn’t the only one made wary by Lord Eidan’s treason. But Colborn could read men as well as any soldier.

“What does your gut tell you about him?” he asked.

The question surprised Colborn. “My gut?”

“Yes.” Aravon studied the Lieutenant’s heavy Fehlan features. “Your instincts have led us right all this time. So what are they telling you about him?”

A pensive frown tugged at Colborn’s lips. After long seconds of pensive silence, he inclined his head. “I hope we’re both right about him.”

“We are.” Aravon had no doubt. Lingram was a good man. Not perfect, but good. During their years of training, he had given of himself for his fellow Legionnaires and officers far too many times to count. The fact that he’d earned the love and respect of his men proved Aravon’s belief true. Lingram wouldn’t do anything that put his soldiers—or Aravon and, by extension, the Grim Reavers—in danger. Whatever had led him to conceal the truth could be explained. He’d give the man a chance.

But not yet. Right now, he had more important things to do.

As if on cue, his stomach gave a loud rumble.

“Come, my friend.” Aravon clapped a hand on Colborn’s shoulder. “Let’s go see Clem about those marvelous butter cookies.”

* * *

The stone barracks were oddly quiet as Aravon carried the tray of food through the dining room. Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires lounged on the wooden benches and tables, sitting over their meager meals, resting their exhausted heads on tired arms, or sprawling on the straw-covered ground. After their days of travel from Icespire, the small meal—barley and oat porridge flavored liberally with coriander, honey, and cinnamon, served with generous pats of butter and a sprinkling of dried fruits—did wonders to soothe them into a peaceful sleep.

Let them sleep while they can, Aravon thought. Morning will come all too soon.

He, too, wanted to join the soldiers in slumber. The porridge sat heavy and warm in his stomach, soothing his body and bathing away the aches of too many hours spent in the saddle. But before he could rest, he had to see to his Grim Reavers.

The door to Noll’s room, first after the dining hall, stood closed, but the scout’s voice echoed through the heavy wood.

“…not the Eirdkilrs you’ve got to be worried about down there!” the scout was saying. “It’s the ice rats that’ll chew right through your boots, and your feet if you let them!”

Twin snorts of derision and disbelief answered his words—Skathi and Belthar had evidently joined the little scout, doubtless in one last drink of Polus’ special honeywine before their morning trek south.

Belthar’s door stood open, and a horrendous snoring echoed from within the small chamber. Corporal Rold had either staked his claim to the big man’s room or Belthar had given it to him—regardless, he lay fast asleep, boots still on his feet.

The door to Zaharis’ room, the third down the hall, was closed, but the unmistakable sound of movement echoed within. Lifting a hand, Aravon tapped lightly. “Zaharis? I brought dinner.”

The rustling and crackling from within fell silent, and a moment later, the door opened, revealing a soot-covered, tired-looking Secret Keeper. “Captain.” Zaharis’ eyes dropped to the tray in Aravon’s hand. “The last thing I expected was to find you playing maidservant.”

Aravon snorted. “Don’t get used to it.” He handed the tray over. “But I know you well enough by now. If we don’t make you eat and sleep, chances are you’ll forget.”

For answer, Zaharis only gave a shrug. “Have a seat,” he signed one-handed.

Aravon glanced around the Secret Keeper’s sparse room. “Cluttered” failed to describe it—bundles of dried herbs and flowers, over-stuffed pouches, jars and bottles of dry powders and liquids, stones of various shapes, hues, and sizes, and a hundred other items large and small covered every surface of the table, chair, shelf, bed, armchair, and wooden floor. “Thanks, but I’ve got to stretch my legs to keep working out the kinks from a day of riding.” Even if he’d wanted to sit, there wasn’t an inch of cleared space.

“Suit yourself.” Zaharis took the only seat in the room—the wooden trunk that held his alchemical supplies. Closing it with his foot, he settled onto the lid, tray in his lap. Despite the fact that he hadn’t eaten since their morning meal, he set the food aside after only a few spoonfuls of the grainy porridge. He looked up, raising an eyebrow as he realized Aravon hadn’t moved. His expression went flat. “You want to talk.”

“I want to make sure you’re good.” Aravon folded his arms across his chest. “After what happened in Icespire…”

“You mean Darrak and the others trying to kill me?” A bitter half-grin, half-grimace twisted the Secret Keeper’s lips. “Yeah, I’m all sorts of fine with that.”

“I know it can’t be easy—”

“Of course it’s not easy!” Zaharis leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over the half-full bowl of porridge. Fury blazed in his eyes. “The man I loved just tried to fucking kill me! For the third damned time!” His fingers flew, so quickly Aravon struggled to keep up with his signed words. “They see me as another oath-breaker, even though I’ve done every bloody thing in my power to follow my oaths to the Mistress and use Her divine secrets to protect this world. But because they don’t agree, they’re going to kill me. So no, Captain, to answer your question, I’m not Keeper-damned good!”

The uncharacteristic outburst caught Aravon by surprise. He’d seen anger in Zaharis before, but never…this. Sorrow, grief, fury, and bitterness mingled in his eyes, twisted his face into a bestial snarl. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Suddenly, he seemed to deflate. Like a marionette with severed strings, he sat heavily onto the wooden lid of the chest, and something akin to a strangled sob burst from his throat. “How does that happen, Captain?” Moisture sparkled in the eyes he turned up to Aravon. “How does the man who swears he loves you wind up being the one to put a dagger in you? I just…” He trailed off with a savage shake of his head. “I don’t…”

For the first time, Zaharis seemed at a loss for words. Aravon, too, had no idea what to say. So he said nothing. In silence, he stepped closer to the man and rested a hand on his shoulder. They remained like that for long seconds—Zaharis drowning in his grief, and Aravon offering the only thing he could: the reassurance of his presence, the comfort of a friend’s touch. He couldn’t wipe away the pain—the anguish of deep wounds that could only be inflicted by a loved one—but he could be there to offer the Secret Keeper his silent support.

The moment passed and Aravon stepped back as Zaharis scrubbed at his eyes. “Sorry,” the Secret Keeper signed, his movements brusque and stiff. “Noll’s usually the weepy one. Probably rubbed off on me.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Aravon knelt in front of the Secret Keeper, hand still resting on the man’s shoulder. “Running from emotions won’t make them go away—it’ll just make for a bigger explosion when they finally come out.” A grin quirked Aravon’s lips. “Take it from someone who knows all too well.”

Zaharis gave him a sad smile. He had been there after Duke Dyrund’s death, had found Aravon blind drunk and near-catatonic after General Traighan’s funeral.

“I’ll be fine, Captain.” Zaharis forced his smile to brighten, albeit unconvincingly. “Truly. Just need a bit of time to process everything. We’ve been going and doing so hard for the last few days that I never really had a chance to go through it all. I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard.” Sorrow darkened his eyes, belying the grin on his lips. “I’ve known since Rivergate that I’d never have a chance for the life I once had. I guess…” His fingers faltered. “I guess I just never gave up hope until now.”

“Hope?” Aravon cocked his head. “That the Secret Keepers would take you back?”

Zaharis nodded. “That I’d return with the ice saffron and prove that I was right, that the Elixir of Creation really could be possible.” His expression grew grim. “But now I know the truth. I’ll never be who I was again. I can’t go back. All I can do now is go forward. Be who I’ve got to be to pull off this mission. As for what comes after that?” He shrugged his shoulders. “That’s a problem that’ll come later, after we get through the Sawtooth Mountains and find one ugly Eirdkilr bastard somewhere in those icy Wastelands.”

“But it’s not hopeless, Zaharis,” Aravon pressed. “Remember what the Hilmir said that night after we escaped the Blood Queen?”

Confusion flashed across Secret Keeper’s face.

Aravon continued. “He spoke of the Reginkunnr”—the Flower Divine, as the Fehlans called it—"said that it only grew in the bitterest cold. But for those brave enough to travel the wastes of Fehl, it offered a reward fit for the gods themselves.” He leaned forward. “Think about it! Where else could that have been but the frozen Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains?”

For the briefest instant, a glimmer of hope flickered in Zaharis’ eyes. It died a moment later. “But he also said that it was a legend, from the days when the old, deep ice covered the lands. And that no one on Fehl has ever seen the Flower Divine.”

“Sure, but we’ve seen legends come to life!” Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “We run with an Enfield, harness the power of plants and flowers in a way that only the Secret Keepers could possibly imagine, and don’t forget the magic stone!” He gestured to the chunk of rock sitting on Zaharis’ bedside table. “That’s the power of the Serenii come to life. If that’s possible, think of what—”

Zaharis leapt to his feet, so abruptly Aravon whirled toward the door in expectation of an attack. Yet the doorway stood empty, the hall beyond silent. As Aravon turned back to Zaharis, the Secret Keeper snatched up the stone and dashed from the room.

Chapter Ten

What in the fiery hell?!

Zaharis’ sudden, frenetic action caught Aravon by surprise. By the time he recovered and raced after the Secret Keeper, Zaharis had crossed the distance to Rangvaldr’s room and pounded on his door. The thud, thud, thud of his fist echoed through the stone hall as he kept up the hammering for long seconds. Finally, the door opened, and a bleary-eyed Rangvaldr appeared within.

“What?” he snarled as he caught sight of Zaharis—and Aravon behind him—standing in the doorway.

“Come!” Zaharis signed one-handed. “I need your help testing out a hypothesis!”

“Now?!” Rangvaldr growled, a frown tugging at his bearded lips. “It’s too bloody late to—”

“Yes, now!” Zaharis lifted his left hand in front of the Seiomenn’s face and opened it, revealing the blue-glowing stone within the black cloth.

Rangvaldr’s eyes widened and his hand flew to the pendant at his neck. Confusion flickered across his face, replaced a moment later by comprehension.

Aravon sucked in a breath as he, too, understood Zaharis’ intention. For weeks, the Secret Keeper had studied the mineral properties of the stone considered worthless by the miners of Fehl. It had remained an inert chunk of rock until the night of the battle outside the Deepshackle tower. He’d dropped the stone into the water and sand on the jetty leading out to the tower, and in that moment it had started to glow.

But it was more than just that glow. Zaharis’ arm, injured in the battle with the Eirdkilrs, had moved more easily after he picked up the lustrous stone, as if it had healed the pain.

Realization struck Aravon like a blow. He wants Rangvaldr to test the stone, see if it actually works!

Rangvaldr seemed to sense it too, and uncertainty flashed across his face. Skepticism and doubt mingled with something more…was that fear?

“Come on, Stonekeeper!” Zaharis’ gestures held a strange urgency, and his eyes blazed with a burning light of mingled curiosity and an almost desperate desire. “I need to know the truth.”

Rangvaldr hesitated a moment, his gaze flickering toward Aravon, then reached out and took the stone from Zaharis. He winced as his fingers closed around the glowing rock, as if expecting pain or discomfort. Hesitance changed to wonder, and he held the stone up before his eyes, staring deep into its gleaming depths.

“It shouldn’t be possible,” he murmured in his native Fehlan. “And yet…”

“Use it!” Zaharis leaned forward intently. “Speak the words of your god and bring the stone to life!”

Rangvaldr’s eyes darted toward Zaharis, to the stone, and back again. Doubt etched deep lines into his aged face, and he seemed almost unwilling to move. But something—curiosity, perhaps—set his feet into motion.

“To my room,” Aravon said. “I gave it to Endyn and his brother.”

Rangvaldr didn’t respond, didn’t so much as nod. His spine had gone rigid, his jaw clenched tight, and he marched straight toward Aravon’s room. Zaharis darted ahead of them and hammered on the door with that same driving insistence.

Duvain had barely cracked the door open an inch when the Secret Keeper barged into the room, pushing past the slight Legionnaire without hesitation. He seemed filled with a frantic energy, his eyes darting and his fingers twitching as he stooped over the sleeping Endyn.

The pungent aroma of dried herbs, spices, and something earthy and rich hung thick in the room, twisting Aravon’s stomach. Endyn lay on the floor, knees bent to accommodate his eight-foot height around the chair and table. Though he slept, his rest proved fitful and uneasy. Sweat dripped down his face and shirtless torso, the moisture snaking in filthy rivulets through the red, inflamed cracks of skin that intersected the dark grey, stone-like scales covering his chest, sides, neck, and left shoulder.

“Captain—” Duvain began, but at sight of Rangvaldr and the glowing stone in his hands, snapped his mouth shut and moved aside for the Seiomenn.

Zaharis whirled on Rangvaldr. “Do it!”

Rangvaldr knelt beside the sleeping Endyn. His eyes went wide at the sight of the dragonskin. “Where do I even begin?” he breathed. “There’s so much of it.”

Zaharis caught Aravon’s eyes. “Ask him where the dragonskin first appeared,” he signed, indicating Duvain with a thrust of his chin.

Aravon repeated the Secret Keeper’s question to the soldier. Duvain seemed taken aback by the question but managed to stammer, “H-His chest. Right over his heart. That’s where it first appeared when he was young.”

Zaharis’ face hardened, his eyes going dark with worry and concern. Yet he seemed to have no better idea. Fingers twitching nervously, he turned to Rangvaldr. “Test the stone, Seiomenn. See if it will do what I believe it will.”

With slow, almost hesitant movements, Rangvaldr lifted the stone to his lips and muttered the words to bring it to life. A soft blue glow filled the room, bathing Endyn’s huge body with a glimmer that felt somehow soothing, warm even from where Aravon stood in the doorway. A strange sense of peace washed over him in the face of that azure radiance. He couldn’t tear his eyes away…didn’t want to. The brilliance beckoned him, drew him into its calming depths.

Rangvaldr lowered the stone to Endyn’s huge chest. Instantly, every muscle in the Seiomenn’s body went rigid and a gasp escaped his lips. He recoiled, dropping the stone onto the Legionnaire’s scaled skin. The moment the stone left his hands, the light diminished to a dull glow.

“What happened?” Zaharis demanded.

A strange darkness burned in Rangvaldr’s eyes. “Nothing.”

“What?” Zaharis’ eyebrows shot up. “But it glowed like—”

“That’s what I meant.” Rangvaldr spoke in a slow voice, his words heavy. “It felt exactly like what happened when I use my holy stone.” He drew out the pendant that bore the blue gemstone, the sacred artifact of the Eyrr, and held it up next to Zaharis’ glowing chunk of ghoulstone. “Nothing was different between the two. Nothing at all.”

Zaharis sucked in a sharp breath. “Truly?” An eager, delighted light gleamed in his eyes. “That’s wonderful!” His fingers twitched faster, the sign his mind was working frantically at some new problem.

“Captain?” Endyn’s rumbling voice broke the momentary silence.

Aravon glanced down, found the Legionnaire had awoken and was now staring up at them with confusion written on his huge face.

“At ease, Soldier.” Aravon spoke in a calm, firm tone. “Stonekeeper’s going to try and heal your dragonskin.”

Endyn’s eyes went wide, and his gaze darted to Rangvaldr. His puzzlement deepened at the sight of the two glowing stones, but rather than protesting or asking questions, he lay back and closed his eyes. “Okay.”

The young soldier’s tone took Aravon by surprise. Was that reluctance he heard? He’d seen Rangvaldr heal Branda of the Wraithfever, and he’d been present when Skathi collapsed from the serious wound in her side. He shouldn’t have doubts as to the holy stone’s efficacy after all that. So why the uncertainty?

“Try again,” Zaharis pressed Rangvaldr. “But this time use both stones together.”

Rangvaldr’s white eyebrows climbed upward, surprise piercing the gloom in his eyes. “Both?”

“Why not?” A smile broadened Zaharis’ face, his teeth gleaming brilliant white in the light of the glowing stones. “If it works, it means you get double the healing power!” His dark eyes twinkled. “And don’t tell me you wouldn’t want that.”

Rangvaldr’s expression wavered, and doubt etched the deep lines of the Seiomenn’s face. Yet, after only a heartbeat’s pause, he lifted both stones to his lips and spoke the words of power again. This time, Aravon could feel the power filling the room as the two gemstones sprang to life. Blue light washed over the five of them, the peaceful sensation humming to the core of Aravon’s being.

Slowly, with visible hesitance, Rangvaldr touched the stones to Endyn’s scale-covered chest. For an agonizing heartbeat, nothing happened. One second became two, and still nothing. The dark grey scales remained as thick as ever, the reddened flesh still painfully inflamed and raw.

A gasp escaped Endyn’s lips and his eyelids flew open. His left hand went to his cheek, and when he pulled it away, the scaled skin had retreated. Dark grey seemed to recede, thinning out and disappearing beneath skin that turned red, then pink, the blemishes fading. Flesh long ago lost to disease reclaimed ground like a wave washing across the sand. Cracks of bloody, raw skin knit together, leaving only healthy muscle and tissue where dry, dead disease had once ruled. One heartbeat at a time, yet so quickly it seemed almost instantaneous, the patches of dragonskin dwindled, faded, and simply disappeared altogether.

By the Swordsman! Aravon could find no words. He could do nothing but stare down in stunned surprise at the Legionnaire’s chest—once covered with thick, crusted scales, now perfectly smooth and free of inflammation. It’s…gone!

A shocked silence descended over the room. Duvain’s jaw dropped to his chest and incredulity filled his eyes. Triumph shone on Zaharis’ face, and the twitching of his fingers had stilled. Even Endyn seemed too stunned to react, to move. His hand rested on his neck, feeling smooth skin for what had to be the first time in only he knew how long.

Rangvaldr’s grunt broke the quiet. He gave a half-groan and slumped, would have fallen if Zaharis hadn’t caught him. The sight of the collapsing Seiomenn snapped Aravon from his stupor and he darted to the Seiomenn’s side, helping Zaharis support his broad shoulders and powerful frame.

“Too…much!” Rangvaldr’s voice sounded strangled, barely above a whisper. “Too…much…strength.” His eyelids fluttered closed and his head lolled to the side.

But not even the sight of the collapsing Rangvaldr could diminish the brilliant fire of Zaharis’ excitement. Aravon caught the gleam in the Secret Keeper’s eyes as he stooped to help. Together, they slung the Seiomenn’s arms over their shoulders and lifted Rangvaldr to his feet.

Duvain threw himself to the floor beside his brother and cradled the weeping giant’s head in his arms. He seemed at a loss for words, but the gratitude in his eyes spoke volumes.

“Captain!” A strangled half-sob, half-shout rumbled through the room. Aravon glanced back, found a teary-eyed Endyn staring up at the three of them. The Legionnaire’s huge hands played across the now-smooth flesh of his chest, a mixture of disbelief and awe etched into the lines of his healed face. “Thank you. All of you.” He swallowed. “I’d never dared to hope…” His voice cut off, drowned beneath a torrent of choking sobs that burst from his chest.

Aravon understood. Hope could prove maddening—there one moment, snatched away the next. With a nod, he turned and, with Zaharis’ help, carried the slumped, sagging Rangvaldr from the room. The Seiomenn was a big man, but in that moment, he seemed far too light. Though Aravon wanted to write it off as simply the lack of armor and weaponry to weigh him down, he couldn’t be certain. Only Rangvaldr knew how the magic affected his body, soul, or whatever else it drew on to heal.

But heal it did. Impossibly, what had once been a chunk of inert stone had just saved Endyn’s life. The implications of that staggered Aravon. It had to mean something…something not only to Rangvaldr, but to the Eirdkilrs that had gone out of their way to hunt it. But what? His mind struggled to comprehend what he’d just seen; he’d need time to figure out how it played into the enemy’s plan.

It was a short walk to Rangvaldr’s room. Gently, Zaharis and Aravon lowered the Seiomenn to his bed. As they released his arms, Rangvaldr managed to open his eyes, lock his gaze on Zaharis. His lips moved but his voice was so quiet Aravon nearly missed the whispered words. “Not twice…the power. Twice…the drain.” His strong fingers closed around the dimly glowing stones.

Aravon’s brow furrowed at the words, and concern hummed within him as he followed the Secret Keeper out into the hall and closed Rangvaldr’s door.

Zaharis rounded on Aravon, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Don’t you see what this means? The potential implications are—”

“Implications?” Aravon’s eyes narrowed. “Using both healing stones might heal faster, but it’ll also drain his strength faster. It’s useful in case of a potentially fatal wound, but otherwise, it’s just a risk to Rangvaldr.”

“Of course.” Zaharis nodded, but the exultation in his gaze never wavered. Concern for Rangvaldr seemed to take second place to his excitement. “But you saw what happened!” His fingers were a blur as they formed the signs. “I found a chunk of useless rock and turned it into something as powerful as the Eyrr healing stones! That’s not just some random accident of chance. I mean, maybe there was that accident, dropping the stone into the salt water, but that’s how some of the greatest alchemical discoveries have been made. But the power…” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “Don’t you see, Captain?”

Aravon grimaced at the repeated question. “Enlighten me, Zaharis.”

“The Elixir of Creation!” The Secret Keeper dug into his robes and produced the vial containing the bright blue liquid. “It’s exactly what I believed it was. A marvel of magic, used by the ancient Serenii to shape this world as they saw fit.” He jabbed a finger at Rangvaldr’s door. “I gave up my life in the Temple of Whispers because I believed that it was real, and that there was a chance I could be the one to find it. That stone is the proof that I’m right! I’m right in believing that the Elixir is powerful, which means that my search for ice saffron isn’t just a fool’s errand, but a task that, if I succeed, could change the course of mankind’s future!”

The intensity of Zaharis’ words surprised Aravon—until he remembered the conversation they’d had mere minutes earlier. About Darrak, and the Secret Keepers trying to kill Zaharis.

This discovery gave meaning to Zaharis’ life, the choices he’d made, the things he’d sacrificed. With that stone, he had all the proof he needed to know beyond a shadow of doubt that he was on the right path. Despite everything—being forced to leave the man he loved, being evicted from his priestly order, even hunted down by his fellow Secret Keepers—he now had a sign that filled him with certainty he’d made the right decision.

And for a man like Zaharis, a man of tangible evidence and facts, that was the greatest gift. Peace replaced his earlier turmoil. To Aravon’s surprise, he actually smiled and gave a little laugh. “Rest well, Captain!” he clapped Aravon on the shoulder. “Morning will come all too soon.” He fairly floated down the hall and into his room.

The Secret Keeper’s door closed with an audible click, leaving Aravon alone in the near-silence of the hallway. Save for Corporal Rold’s thunderous snoring, all had gone quiet. The sound of Noll, Belthar, and Skathi’s conversation had faded. No movement echoed from within the dining chamber. It seemed Zaharis’ pounding on Rangvaldr’s door and the commotion of healing Endyn hadn’t bothered the sleeping Legionnaires exhausted from their long ride.

Again, the weight of fatigue tugged at Aravon’s limbs. This time, he made no attempt to fight it. Zaharis had spoken the truth—dawn was just a few hours off, and he needed all the rest he could get.

Snatching up his bedroll from where he’d left it at the entrance to the War Room, he strode out of the barracks and crossed the open ground toward the archery range. He’d given his room to Endyn and Duvain, but he’d spent enough nights sleeping on hard ground to welcome the soft comfort of the hay bales erected around the edges of the archery field. Though the hay had long ago gone dry, it hadn’t yet rotted. A more-than-suitable bed for a few hours of sleep, once he spread out his bedroll.

Snarl scampered up to him as he settled onto one of the hay bales, leaping up beside him and curling up at his side. He’d spent a day flying and running through Eastfall, and the last hour or so racing around his favorite spots at Camp Marshal—the obstacle course, the southeastern corner where a family of robins had made a nest, a short stretch of the western wall that had large holes dug by marshland rodents. Now, however, he appeared content to rest his legs and wings.

Even after the Enfield settled in, however, Aravon could not find sleep. He lay on his back, his limbs glad for the rest, but chaos whirled in his mind. So much had happened in the last few days—too much for his mind to process. Captain Lingram’s deception. The strange change that had come over Rangvaldr. Zaharis’ discovery of the ghoulstone. The attack on Icespire. Lord Eidan’s cryptic words.

Thoughts of Icespire brought back the image he’d been trying to push away the last two days: Mylena sitting in the Palace garden, watching Rolyn and Adilon laughing and playing in the brilliant sunlight.

The memory brought a lump to his throat. It would likely be the last time he’d see them. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. Hadn’t had the strength to even try it. One word to Mylena, one look at his sons from up close, and his resolve would have crumbled. Though it had taken every shred of his willpower, he’d forced himself to leave once more.

And now, all he had was that memory. That, and all the others he’d accumulated over the years. They would have to carry him through the journey south, on his mission to find and kill Tyr Farbjodr.

Even if he never saw his sons again, never held his wife in his arms, that image of their happy, smiling faces would be enough. It had to be. He did this for them. He would risk his life—and those of his Grim Reavers—for their sakes, and the sake of everyone else in the Princelands.

Chapter Eleven

“…telling me you had two of those Keeper-damned Earthshakers left?” Noll’s voice drifted in through the open door of the smithy, followed a moment later by Zaharis and the scout himself. “It’s not like we could have bloody used them in Icespire or anything when facing a horde of pissing Eirdkilrs!”

Zaharis shot Noll a bland look. “Last I checked, a populated city isn’t exactly the best place to let one of these loose,” he signed. “Besides, I’ve only so much space in my chest for supplies.”

“Oh, if that’s the problem, I’m more than happy to take them off your hands.” The little scout’s eyes gleamed like a child unwrapping a nameday gift. “I’ve got plenty of space in my pack to carry them.”

“I’d rather charge into an Eirdkilr horde stark naked.” Zaharis rolled his eyes. “I’d have a better chance of surviving them than you playing with an Earthshaker.” He held up a finger. “And don’t even pretend you wouldn’t fiddle with them every chance you get. Treat those iron weapons like a bloody toy, you will, and we both know it.”

Polus’ arrival saved Noll from having to answer. “Here ye go, Captain.” The smith bustled into the front of the smithy, Aravon’s spear held in his hands. “Good to see ye heeded m’warning to keep this in good condition. Nary a dent or ding. Almost as if ye knew a thing or two about caring fer weapons proper-like.”

Aravon accepted his spear with a nod. “Love what you’ve done with it.” From the spear’s crossbar hung a collection of bones, feathers, and beads strung on leather strands, and the smith had covered the Odarian steel head with soot and dust, making it appear crude and primitive. Ideal for passing among the Fehlans and Eirdkilrs to the south, but definitely not the work of art it had been the previous night.

“Aye, and a bloody travesty ‘tis to mar such a beautiful masterpiece.” The blacksmith’s heavy eyebrows pulled together, and he wagged a sausage-thick finger at Aravon. “That don’t mean ye’ve the right to mistreat it, y’hear? Ye treat it like yer own precious bairns, or Swordsman be my witness, I’ll box yer ears right good!”

Turning away to hide a smile, Aravon twisted the metal band two feet from the spear’s iron-shod butt, nodding as the spike slid smoothly in and out of its casing. “I will do my utmost to return it in pristine condition.”

The blacksmith snorted in derision, muttering something about “lackwit soldiers treat m’fine works like sticks and stones” as he turned toward Noll and Zaharis. He produced Zaharis’ mace—the spikes freshly sharpened and the head cleaned of blood—with a similar lecture. Noll escaped the harangue by sheer virtue of his size; he kept out of sight behind Zaharis, busying himself collecting three leather-bound sheaves of arrows for his longbow.

Aravon met Belthar on his way out of the forge. “Best hope you’ve kept your weapons in good shape. Polus is in a mood.”

Belthar groaned. “I forgot to scrape the Eirdkilr blood off my crossbow butt.” He grimaced as he stepped into the smithy, shoulders squared for the anticipated confrontation with the finicky blacksmith.

Outside the forge, the pre-dawn air was free of the thick reek of smoke, burned charcoal, red-hot metal, and singed hair that hung heavy within. The familiar slightly sweet scent of rotting vegetation drifting off the marshlands came as a welcome relief, a reminder of where he was. It felt good to be here at Camp Marshal—a place that felt oddly like home—once more.

Aravon’s eyes went to the eastern sky; the sun had yet to make an appearance, but the first hints of blue already brightened the heavens. But instead of hurrying, Aravon allowed himself a moment to take a few long, deep breaths of the morning air. The moment he donned his armor and rode out of Camp Marshal, any shred of ease or peace would disappear, replaced by the single-minded focus on the mission. Though he’d only had a few hours of rest, he’d slept well in the knowledge that he was safe in the secret training camp. Beyond the palisade walls surrounding him, that feeling would evaporate.

The sound of delighted, rumbling laughter and heavy boots thudding on the ground shattered the moment of calm. Opening his eyes, he found the strangest sight he’d ever witnessed.

A giant was dancing, a strange jig Aravon recognized from the soirees he’d attended in Icespire. It was a Voramian shuffle-step, but the man dancing wore leather armor in place of costly silks, and his huge feet set the ground rumbling in a way no coterie of perfumed lords and ladies ever could.

Endyn beamed as he hopped from foot to foot, laughter bubbling from his lips. Duvain clapped and laughed alongside his brother, while Corporal Rold and the other Legionnaires—all dressed in simple leather, lacking the mottled pattern that had once adorned the Grim Reavers’ armor—stared at the two as if at madmen.

The giant Legionnaire caught sight of Aravon, and his shuffling feet stilled. The smile never left his face, though, as he straightened and gave a sharp Legion salute.

“Sorry about that, Captain,” Endyn rumbled, ducking his head. “First time I could move like that without pain, that’s all.”

Aravon gave a dismissive wave. “Make no apologies, Soldier.” He couldn’t help smiling at the young man’s delight. “Even a tiny sliver of joy can get us through the dark times ahead, so cling to it.”

Endyn’s smile faltered a fraction and the mirth left Duvain’s eyes. Aravon almost regretted his words—intended to be encouraging, but they had dampened the soldiers’ elation.

“How’s the armor?” he asked, changing the subject quickly.

“Marvelous!” Endyn raised his arms above his head, flexed his huge biceps, and twisted at the waist. “Far more flexible than Legion mail.”

“Not a bloody lot to it, though.” Corporal Rold scowled, tugging at the leather pauldron protecting his right shoulder. “Against the Eirdkilrs, leather’s about as useful as a flaccid prick in a brothel.”

“Normal leather armor, yes.” Aravon nodded, ignoring the man’s crudity. “But this is treated with something special. A bit of alchemy to harden the surface without affecting the leather’s suppleness.”

Skepticism burned brightly in Corporal Rold’s eyes.

“Trust me, Soldier,” Aravon said, “when in battle, you’ll be glad for it. You get more maneuverability and better speed. All that comes in damned handy when facing off against Eirdkilrs.”

“I suppose, sir.” Corporal Rold shrugged.

“I can always have Endyn here have a go at it.” Aravon gestured to the big man. “I’m sure there’s a Legion sword or Eirdkilr axe lying around somewhere that he can use to—”

“I’ll just be takin’ your word for it, if it’s all the same to you, Captain.”

“As you say.” Aravon chuckled. “Don’t forget the masks.” He gestured to the pile of leather face-coverings that lay on the table next to the helmets that accompanied the armor. “They’re an important part of the disguise and protection.”

All the Legionnaires stared suspiciously at the masks. Grimacing, Corporal Rold pulled one over his blocky face and secured the straps in place.

“They stifle at first,” Aravon said, “but once you get used to them, they’re not too bad.” He’d let them find out how irritating the masks were when trying to eat or drink. Truth be told, he’d grown so accustomed to his that it rarely bothered him anymore. It actually felt strange not wearing it—the mask had been a part of his life for months now, only coming off when in the safety of their camp and away from prying eyes.

“It’s the shields you lot will have to get used to.” Colborn’s voice echoed from behind Aravon.

Aravon turned and his eyes flew wide at the sight of the Lieutenant. Colborn had washed the dye from his hair and beard, returning them to their usual white-blond color. Even without his long, braided locks, there was no mistaking his square, heavy Fehlan facial structure and ice-blue eyes. He could pass among the people south of the Chain with little difficulty, more so now that he wore the proper garb.

Atop his leather armor, he had donned a heavy fur cloak—the pelt of a Sawtooth grizzly, found north of the mountains, their size nearly a rival for the Wasteland ice bears. Few would recognize the hints of Princelander in his features. With his Fehlan-style longsword and round wooden shield, he appeared as Fehlan as any man of Saerheim, Bjornstadt, or Storbjarg.

Colborn glanced at Aravon and nodded in recognition of the look—he’d donned the disguise of a Fehlan warrior, and wore it as well as he wore the armor of a Princelander Legionnaire—before turning back to the soldiers.

“We’ll make time to practice on the road south.” He spoke to Corporal Rold most of all—the only noncommissioned officer remaining under Captain Lingram—but addressed all the Legionnaires. “You’ll need to learn how to form a proper Fehlan shield wall and use your new weapons against the enemy.” He grimaced. “It’s a whole different style of fighting, and we’ll only have a few days to learn it. But if you want to get through this alive, you’ll bloody well learn.”

“Aye.” Corporal Rold nodded. “They’ll learn, all right, even if I have to beat it into every one of the wool-headed idiots!”

“Start now,” Colborn ordered. “All of you. Choose a weapon—axe, sword, or spear—and take up your shields. Get accustomed to carrying them, and maybe you’ll have half a chance of keeping them between you and the enemy when the time comes.”

Colborn’s brusque gruffness surprised Aravon for a moment. He’d grown so accustomed to the Lieutenant’s interactions with the Grim Reavers—a company of competent, experienced soldiers—that he’d forgotten a Lieutenant’s role in keeping a force of Legion infantry in line. The Captain shouted the Commander’s orders, but it was the Lieutenant that saw to it the noncommissioned officers received and understood those orders. Sergeants were the real bastards, but it was the Lieutenants who handled the complaints, discipline, and reprimands, all so the soldiers retained their respect for their Company Captain.

Now, with these inexperienced Legionnaires joining them, Colborn had once again been thrust into that role. He had to be the mouthpiece between Aravon and the soldiers, make sure that everyone stayed in line and played their parts to perfection—otherwise, he knew as well as the rest of them, they could all wind up dead.

Aravon caught Colborn’s attention. “Don’t be too hard on them right out of the gate,” he signed. “We’ve got plenty of time on the road ahead.”

“You saw them fight.” Colborn grimaced. “They’re not exactly the Legion’s finest.”

Aravon inclined his head. “We’ll do the best we can do to train them and keep them alive. But remember that men are like iron—place them under too much strain, and they’ll crack.”

Colborn scowled, but gave Aravon a curt nod before turning back to the Legionnaires. His instructions to the soldiers on how to hold the shields and swing their swords and axes lost a fraction of their gruffness, but he didn’t take it easy on them.

Aravon looked away from the soldiers, turning to his own armor, which lay spread out across a wooden table along the back wall of the stone barracks. Seeing it felt like looking at himself in a mirror—a strange sensation, indeed. Like the snarling greatwolf mask that lay next to his helmet, the armor had been a vital part of his life for months. The dents, scuffs, notches, and scratches spoke of the battles he’d fought, the enemies that had come within a heartbeat of killing him. Every time, he’d walked away—certainly not unscathed, as evidenced by the scars on his face and the myriad aches and pains in his body, but victorious.

Once he donned that leather armor, he would cease being Aravon and would once again become Captain Snarl, commander of the Grim Reavers. Now, with Captain Lingram and the Deadheads joining them, the burden of leadership would grow even heavier. He would be leading the soldiers around him to near-certain death. He and the Grim Reavers knew the full extent of what they’d face south of the Chain, but the inexperienced Legionnaires could never truly know until they faced it as he had. Though they’d fought at Saerheim and in Icespire, they hadn’t witnessed the Blodsvarri’s tortures of the Fjall, the utter destruction of Oldrsjot, the hordes of Eirdkilrs surging up Hangman’s Hill.

Yet they had chosen to join him on his impossible mission, so he owed it to them to keep them alive as best he could. With that light, supple leather armor came a weight of command far heavier than the thickest plate mail.

Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon reached for the armor and set about putting it on. He had chosen to accept leadership of the Grim Reavers all those months ago. He’d accepted the cost of that duty—that he had to remain dead to those who loved him most—and every additional price he’d paid in the execution of his mission. The deaths of Draian, Duke Dyrund, and every other friend and comrade he’d lost hadn’t shattered him. He would bear this added burden, his sacrifice to the Princelands he’d sworn to protect.

Chapter Twelve

By the time Aravon finished donning the leather armor, the rest of the Grim Reavers had joined him. Belthar’s axe had received the same decorative treatment as Aravon’s spear, and the feathers, beads, and bones jangled with his every step. He carried his massive crossbow in his arms, wrapped in thick canvas to keep it concealed until he needed it. A weapon like that would be immediately recognizable as Princelander—Eirdkilrs carried their six-foot-tall longbows, and the Fehlans relied primarily on shorter hunting bows—but only a fool would leave behind something with that much destructive power.

Skathi emerged from the forge carrying five leather-bound sheaths of arrows for her longbow. None bore the red fletching that marked them as Agrotorae, but all had glimmering tips of quality Princelander steel.

Zaharis went through his chest of alchemical supplies one last time, while Noll pretended to be busy checking his sword and assorted daggers, all the while peering into the chest with curiosity burning in his eyes. Probably looking for the Earthshakers, Aravon suspected.

From within his chest, Zaharis produced a large glass jar filled with a mud-colored liquid. “Here.” He handed the jar to Noll. “Make sure every Legionnaire has a mouthful of this. You all as well.”

Suspicion flashed across Noll’s face as he stared at the strange mixture—still dotted with bits of powdered herbs and spices. “What’s that now?” He glared at the Secret Keeper. “Unless you want us all to spend the journey south clenching our bowels—”

“It’s for wounds, idiot!” Zaharis rolled his eyes. “Speeds up healing, like it did with your leg back when.”

Noll’s eyebrows rose. “Oh!” He, like Aravon, had been seriously injured in the Eirdkilr ambush that slaughtered Sixth Company. With the help of the Mender, Draian, and Zaharis’ marvelous alchemical potions, his shattered leg had healed fully. Aravon, too, had felt the healing effects of that draught—though he hadn’t realized how utterly foul it looked at the time.

The Legionnaires seemed disinclined to heed Noll’s instructions to drink until Colborn overrode their objections. The disgust on their faces after tasting the draught reminded Aravon of how unpleasant it had been. But at the moment, its effectiveness was all that mattered.

“Aravon.” Captain Lingram’s quiet voice sounded at his elbow. “A word?”

Aravon turned toward the Legionnaire. Dark circles had formed beneath his eyes and it appeared he hadn’t slept more than an hour or two. His handsome face had a haunted look Aravon recognized all too well—how many nights had he, too, wrestled with dark dreams and painful memories?

He nodded. “Lingram.”

“About last night.” A shadow flashed across Captain Lingram’s face and his shoulders stiffened beneath his armor. “And the route through Cliffpass.” His jaw muscles worked. “I shouldn’t have kept the truth from you. Or, I should have told you the full truth from the beginning.”

“Yes.” Aravon nodded. “You should have.” He opened his mouth to speak, but Lingram drove on before he could.

“I needed to do this, Aravon.” Fire blazed in his eyes, and his expression grew intense. “Try as I might, I can’t stop feeling like this is the only way I can make up for Saerheim. Brash…” He swallowed. “Sergeant Brash, he’d been there since my first day in the Legion. The one who helped me put myself back together after Highcliff Motte.” The shadows on his face deepened. “And at Garrow’s Canyon. I’m only alive because he was there.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed. He’d heard the same story of Garrow’s Canyon the rest of the Princelands had—how Captain Lingram led his Legion company to victory against nearly four hundred Eirdkilrs. But as with any story, the retelling never truly got all the facts right. No bard or troubadour could capture the anguish of seeing so much death, the misery at losing friends and comrades, the pain of hours of battle. No epic saga ever portrayed the sheer gut-wrenching horror of wading through blood and mud, scrambling over corpses, hearing men scream and shriek as their lives bled between their fingers. The panic, fear, and sorrow—or, worse, the cold numbness that settled over a man at the knowledge that he could not escape fate. The guilt at surviving when so many others died. That truth only lived in the minds of those who survived it.

“I was going to hold the southern gate, you know.” Captain Lingram’s words came out in a hoarse murmur. “At Saerheim, I was ready to fight to the end to cover for the rest of Ninth Company. But Brash and Awr, Corporal Awr, wouldn’t let me.” He gave a bitter shake of his head. “They chose to stay and die so I could get out. Get them out.”

His eyes darted toward the eleven Legionnaires struggling to master the rudiments of the Fehlan-style weapons and shield wall.

“I know it’s my place as Captain to lead, even if that means from the rear.” Lingram grimaced. “But that doesn’t make it easier to let men go to their deaths.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Aravon had given the order—or followed one—that sent good men to die. Far, far too many times.

“That’s why I had to come with you.” Captain Lingram’s eyes locked on Aravon’s face. “The instant the Prince told me what you were doing, I knew it without a doubt. That was the purpose the Swordsman had for me—the reason I survived Icespire, Saerheim, and every battle I’ve been in, all the way back to Highcliff Motte. I’m the only one who can get you where you need to go to put an end to this war. And there was no way I’d let anything stop me from doing that.” He stiffened. “I understand if that puts a dent in your trust, but I hope—”

“No.” Aravon gripped the man’s shoulder. “It was the right choice. Maybe not the right way to go about it—you know how bad things can turn out when a commander operates on incomplete information—but I understand the why.” He fixed the man with a piercing gaze. “I trust you, Lingram. If I didn’t, I’d never have agreed to let you on the mission. Much less your Legionnaires. But if we’re going to get through this, I need you to trust me enough to tell me everything. Even if you think I won’t want to hear it or go with it. You’ve never had a problem standing up or speaking up to our officers before, so don’t you dare start now with me!”

Despite the shadows in his eyes, Lingram managed a confident nod. “Yes, Captain Aravon.” Respect and relief mingled in his voice.

“Good.” Aravon clapped the man on his shoulder. “Now get your weapons and saddle up. I want us on the road and riding hard by the time the sun’s up.” A glance at the sky revealed the brightening eastern horizon; false dawn was upon them.

As Captain Lingram strode toward his men, Aravon turned back to his own gear and weapons. Polus had refilled their packs with supplies for their journey south—food, bandages, waterskins, wool and furs for the colder southern edges of Fehl and the icy Wastelands beyond the mountains, and all the assorted tools and essentials the Grim Reavers carried. Aravon didn’t know if the food would last all the way to the Sawtooth Mountains—more than eleven hundred miles as the crow flew—and beyond. They’d have to resupply as best they could along their journey to hunt Tyr Farbjodr.

A hand touched his shoulder, and Aravon looked up to find Zaharis standing beside him. “I thought it best not to bother with the mottle pattern this time,” the Secret Keeper signed. “It’ll draw the wrong kind of attention if we run into any Fehlans, but without the camouflage, it could almost pass for crude Fjall or Deid armor. Hopefully enough that Colborn and Rangvaldr have a chance of talking our way out of any problems.”

Aravon nodded. “Good thinking.”

“And when we get far enough south,” Zaharis continued, “I’ve got a mixture that’ll turn the leather white and grey. Better for blending in among the ice and rocks of the Sawtooth Mountains and the Wastelands.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow—he’d been so focused on other aspects of their trek he hadn’t considered what happened once they got through the mountains. The green, brown, and black armor that concealed them in the Fehlan forests would be far too visible among the tundra south of the mountains.

“Excellent.” He inclined his head. “Now all we need is something that’ll keep the cold and damp out of our boots and harden our skin against Eirdkilr weapons, and we’ve got this in the bag.”

A wry smile quirked Zaharis’ lips. “I’ll just get to work on that, shall I?”

Aravon chuckled. “I’d expect nothing less than a miracle from you.”

“Speaking of miracles.” Zaharis’ gaze slid past Aravon. “After last night, I was worried he might not have it in him to get up.” Concern furrowed his brow. “If I had any idea that it would do that to him—”

“You’d probably have done it just the same.” Fatigue echoed in Rangvaldr’s voice. “You and I both know you’re far too inquisitive to let something like that rest.”

Aravon turned to find the Seiomenn striding toward them. The lines on Rangvaldr’s face had deepened, the circles around his eyes dark, and his cheeks had grown somehow gaunter, hollow with fatigue.

“Still—” Zaharis began, but Rangvaldr cut him off.

“Let it rest, Magicmaker.” The word held more bite than Aravon expected from the Seiomenn. “It worked well enough.” Rangvaldr’s eyes darted to where Endyn stood with the rest of the Legionnaires, listening to Colborn’s instructions on how to ride the Kostarasar chargers without flopping around like sacks of flour.

“You’re certain you got it all?” Zaharis signed when Rangvaldr turned back. “Dragonskin’s vicious, and you’ve got to eliminate all of it or it’ll be back.”

Rangvaldr’s brow furrowed, heightening the aged, exhausted appearance of his face. “I gave it everything I had.” No lie there—he’d all but fallen unconscious after the strain. “I didn’t see it on his skin or feel it on his body.” A grimace tugged at his lips but he gave an unconvincing shrug. “If it comes back, we’ll just have to have another go at it.”

Zaharis smiled. “Good.” He held out a palm. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

Rangvaldr stared down at the Secret Keeper’s outstretched hand, curious.

“You’ve already got a holy stone of your own, Stonekeeper,” Zaharis signed with his other hand. “I’d like mine back so I can keep studying it. I might not know your holy words, but there’s got to be more I can learn about whatever’s powering it or what it can truly do.”

Rangvaldr hesitated a long moment before producing the stone. His eyes locked on the dimly glowing rock, uncertainty on his face. Slowly, he held it out to the Secret Keeper.

“Thank you.” Zaharis plucked the stone from the Seiomenn’s hands and made it disappear into his pouch. His eyes darted to the side, and his jaw clenched. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to stop an annoying jack-ass from doing something stupid that gets us all killed.”

He half-sprinted away, racing toward Noll, who had crept over to Zaharis’ alchemical chest and peered into it, eyes sparkling like an excited child.

A little cough from Rangvaldr brought Aravon’s attention back to the Seiomenn. His eyes held a slightly vacant look, as if his mind struggled to remain awake and cognizant of his surroundings. His hair, already stark white, seemed to have thinned, a few strands fallen out of his long, braided beard. The wagon-rut lines on his face worried Aravon—the man had pushed himself too hard last night.

Rangvaldr seemed to notice his concerned look and waved it away. “I’ll be fine, Captain. Just tired, is all.” The strange look in his eyes belied his words. Something else had to be going on, something more than simple fatigue.

Or maybe it’s just my imagination, Aravon tried to tell himself. The exhaustion of battle could never rival the bone-deep weariness that settled over Rangvaldr after he gave his strength to heal. But beneath the fatigue, Aravon sensed something else bubbling beneath the serene façade the Seiomenn wore. He wanted to ask, wanted to press, but if Rangvaldr insisted he was fine, Aravon owed him the respect of giving him space. At least a little bit, until the Seiomenn came to terms with whatever inner turmoil plagued him.

With an inward sigh, Aravon nodded. “So be it. You need help getting your gear?”

“No.” The Seiomenn managed a small smile—it made his face appear even more tired, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes. “I’d like to say a few last words to Polus.”

Something about the Seiomenn’s tone felt terribly ominous. Realization struck Aravon like a blow to the gut: this would likely be their last time in Camp Marshal. The weight of that knowledge settled over him like a leaden blanket.

A sudden homesickness gripped him. Even as the rest of his small company mounted up, he could not bring himself to move toward his horse. Instead, he stared around the camp one last time. At the smoking, stinking smithy, the squat barracks of stone, the wooden palisade wall with its single watchtower, the obstacle course, archery range, and training ground. The place where the Grim Reavers had been born—where Captain Snarl had emerged from the wreckage of Captain Aravon’s life.

When he rode through the gates, he would be departing Camp Marshal one last time. Leaving behind the relative safety of the Princelands—and with it, his family.

Somewhere, deep down inside, a part of him knew he would never return. He’d accepted his fate before riding out of Icespire, yet now, staring it in the face, he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. It felt so…final.

Gritting his teeth against the sudden chill, Aravon forced his feet to move. To walk toward his mount, climb into the saddle, and set his horse into motion.

The rest of the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires fell into place around him as he rode through the gates of Camp Marshal—almost certainly for the last time.

Chapter Thirteen

Aravon’s mood improved with the rising sun. Well, perhaps not improved…who could smile at the thought of riding away from home and family off to face near-certain death? Yet with every passing mile, he grew more at peace with his chosen fate. He had made the decision to travel south, to sacrifice his life for the sake of the Princelands. Acceptance brought a measure of serenity, and that serenity assuaged the burden on his soul.

The lands of Eastfall passed in a dusty blur; the Eastmarch cut through hill lands, mile after mile of crops ripening in the sun, forests, and grassy plains. Colborn and Noll rode in the lead, keeping their pace steady, and the Kostarasar chargers ate up the miles with their loping, rolling gait.

Despite their inexperience, the Legionnaires managed to sustain a half-decent pace. By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon and darkness reached shadowy fingers across the eastern sky, they had put close to a hundred and forty miles between them and Camp Marshal. Aravon couldn’t help feeling satisfied—at this rate, they’d cross through Hightower the following morning.

He called a halt half an hour before full dark, following Colborn and Noll to the campsite they’d ridden ahead to scout out. A thicket of spikeberry hedges sheltered them from the wind and travelers passing on the Eastmarch, offering cover enough to light a fire without drawing unwanted attention. Though they were still within the borders of Eastfall—and unlikely to run into trouble—he needed Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires to start thinking less like soldiers and more like Grim Reavers, secretive and stealthy. The sooner they developed that mindset, the better their chances of survival in the south of Fehl and beyond the Sawtooth Mountains.

The exhausted, heavily-sweating Legionnaires hadn’t even finished dismounting, unmasking, and brushing off the road dust before Colborn started barking orders. Within minutes of arriving at their designated campsite, Zaharis had a fire going and a simple stew cooking, Belthar had led Endyn, Duvain, and a broad-shouldered Legionnaire named Draturr off to collect wood, and Colborn led the rest of the soldiers—Captain Lingram included—on a circuit of the forest around the camp to teach them the basics of standing guard the “right way”.

“Out here, there’s none of this ‘Halt’ or ‘Who goes?’ shite!” Colborn’s barked words echoed through the trees. “Anyone coming up on your camp’s going to want you dead. So you make damned sure you see them first, put them down, and ask questions once they’re bleeding out on the ground. Is that understood?”

Aravon didn’t hear the soldiers’ answers, but they must have been lackluster, because Colborn roared, “Is that understood?!” once more.

That elicited the desired enthusiasm. “Yes, Lieutenant!”

When Colborn returned ten minutes later, he was four Legionnaires short. Corporal Rold, Tassus, Annur, and another whose name Aravon hadn’t yet learned had been chosen to stand the first watch.

“Any man caught sleeping will stand a second and third watch!” Colborn shouted over his shoulder into the darkness. “And for the Swordsman’s sake, keep your eyes away from the fire! A night-blind scout’s about as useful as a flaccid prick at an orgy.”

“Speaking from experience, Lieutenant?” Noll muttered. The scout opened his mouth to bark something sarcastic to Colborn, but Aravon caught Noll’s gaze and gave a firm shake of his head.

“Respect first, jokes later,” Aravon signed.

Noll’s mask covered his expression, but he gave a curt nod and turned back to the task Aravon had assigned him: helping Skathi train the three Legionnaires—Nacil, Tark, and Zadan, Praamians judging by the sound of their rolling vowels and harsh consonants—that had claimed to have aptitude with a bow.

“Let’s see what you can do, then.” Skathi gestured toward her target, thirty yards away. “Any of you that can hit that fallen log by your third try gets to skip watch tonight.” With her other hand, she signed, “Noll will stand it for them.”

The little scout snorted. “Not bloody likely!”

That earned him scowls and glares from the three Legionnaires. Zadan and Tark hit the log on their first shot, though Tark’s arrow more grazed the bark on the log than struck it squarely. The five arrows Skathi handed Nacil to shoot all flew wide—too short, too high, then too far to the left. Nacil, a rangy man barely into his twenties with a sparse beard to match, reddened beneath the laughter of his comrades. But instead of cussing the young man out, Skathi sent the two Legionnaires off to retrieve their arrows and stepped up to his side.

“Watch,” she whispered.

Snatching the bow from Nacil’s hand, she drew and loosed five arrows in quick succession. The missiles hissed through the darkness, slicing the air mere inches from Zadan and Tark—one whistling between Zadan’s legs—to thump into her target. It was over so quickly the arrows were already quivering in the fallen log before the two soldiers had a chance to yelp in panic and shock.

Mischief twinkled in Skathi’s eyes as she turned back to Nacil. “Your problem’s a simple one to fix. Stop using the arrowhead to guide your aim. String, shaft, bowstaff—those are your guide points. Sight your shot, and only loose when your arrow’s aimed at the bullseye. Got it?”

When Nacil’s next arrow hit the log surprisingly close to one of Skathi’s arrows, the Legionnaire flushed with pride, a massive grin on his face. Skathi clapped him on the back and instructed him to repeat the shot three more times before taking a break.

Aravon nodded approval. Between her and Noll, we’ve got a chance of turning them into half-competent archers. They might never match Colborn or Noll at archery, much less an Agrotora as skilled as Skathi, but as long as they could shoot straight and hit an Eirdkilr, they’d serve a purpose.

The fact that Skathi had thought to bring four extra bows—nowhere near as fine as her Agrotorae longbow, but reliable Fehlan-style hunting bows—surprised and impressed Aravon. Again, he’d been so focused on the big picture and accustomed to trusting his Grim Reavers to prepare for every eventuality they could that he’d forgotten this critical detail. Now, with those additional bows and two sheaves of arrows distributed among each of the three archers, they had a half-decent force of archers. The fourth bow would go to Rangvaldr, who’d proven his skill at the battle at the Fornbryggja.

Aravon sought out the man himself; the Seiomenn had removed his mask and helmet and now lay against his pack with his eyes closed, furs pulled tight around him. Healing Endyn the previous night had drained him, and the few hours of rest he’d managed before their early-morning departure had barely given him time to recover strength enough to endure a day in the saddle. Aravon had ordered him to rest every chance he could—they had plenty of hands to take up the various tasks.

Worry thrummed in the back of his mind. Throughout the day of riding, Rangvaldr’s eyes had once again been shadowed—the same look he’d had on the road north from Saerheim. At the time, he’d been feeling his age, his body slow to recover after overexerting himself healing the Fehlans after the Battle of Hangman’s Hill, Belthar’s serious head wound, and the survivors of Saerheim. It could simply be the fatigue catching up to him and dampening his mood, but Aravon couldn’t be certain until he spoke to the Seiomenn. After Rangvaldr rested and recovered, of course. The farther south they traveled, the more likely his healing magic would be called upon.

Aravon returned to his own task: studying the map of southeastern Fehl. He’d found the Legion-made oilcloth map within Camp Marshal’s War Room. It was a crude thing, sparse on detail, with only a few of the largest Bein, Myrr, Jarnleikr, and Fjall settlements marked. Doubtless the land had changed since its creation, but at least the depiction gave him a rough idea of the route to take.

Anvil Garrison in the Eyrr-held lands was the southernmost Legion-occupied fortress. Once, Spear Garrison had stood on the borders between Fjall, Jarnleikr, and Eyrr clan lands, established to provide a base of trade with the allied Jarnleikr and keep an eye on the fractious Fjall. More than forty years earlier, the garrison had been destroyed in a wildfire—natural or Eirdkilr-incited, no one knew—and the Fjall under Thror Arvidsson, Eirik Throrsson’s father, had fiercely resisted any Princelander attempts to rebuild it.

South of Spear Garrison, the Eastmarch had cut deep into the western edge of Fjall lands before curving sharply southeast toward the Myrr domain and the Sawtooth Mountains. Before the southern stretch of Eastmarch had been destroyed—in the year following the assault on Highcliff Motte—the Princelands had paid heavy tolls to the Fjall to permit the passage of their caravans and Legionnaires.

Aravon had little doubt they could pass through Fjall lands unimpeded. Even if the Fjall had had enough warriors to guard the entire breadth of their territory, they would prove no true threat. He and the Grim Reavers had more than earned the Hilmir’s favor in the battle for Storbjarg and the Battle of Hangman’s Hill. Eirik Throrsson had thrown his lot in with the Princelands against the Eirdkilrs—one word of their real mission and the Hilmir would grant them safe passage.

But Aravon needed to ensure no word of their presence in the south reached the wrong ears. Eirik Throrsson’s own second-in-command had betrayed him in service of the Eirdkilrs. Better to remain out of sight and pass through southeastern Fehl undetected than risk discovery. He’d take no chances that the Eirdkilrs got word back to Tyr Farbjodr that the half-men were in southern Fehl—if they wanted any hope of killing the commander in the middle of his army south of the Sawtooth Mountains, it had to be a total surprise.

That’s going to be easier said than done! Aravon gritted his teeth. According to the crude map, southeastern Fehl was mostly hill country and mountains. No peaks as sharp and forbidding as the Sawtooth Mountains, but ridges and elevation enough that the journey to Kaldrborg could take longer than he’d hoped. That strange sense of urgency still thrummed deep within him. He couldn’t explain it, but he simply knew he had to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr before the Eirdkilr unleashed whatever “true strength” Lord Eidan had claimed he was summoning.

Long minutes passed as Aravon stared at the map, puzzling over the best route to take. Though the Eastmarch had been destroyed, the cobbled stones of the Legion-built highway torn up and scattered, it had run through terrain far more conducive to speedy travel. But the more direct route through Jarnleikr and Myrr territory, though more mountainous, would offer better concealment and less chance of discovery.

Something soft brushed across his legs, and amber eyes gleamed up at him. Snarl, as quiet and stealthy as ever, had slipped up to Aravon without his noticing. Then again, perhaps he’d simply been too engrossed in his thoughts to be paying attention to anything. All of the Legionnaires moving around the camp stared at the little Enfield with mingled wonder and surprise.

Sighing inwardly, Aravon set down his map—he wouldn’t figure the problem out tonight, certainly not without consulting Colborn and Captain Lingram—and picked up the Enfield. At close to three months of age, the Enfield had grown to the size of a small hound, his fur a radiant orange shot through with white at the belly. His wingspan was roughly as long as Aravon’s arms—more than broad enough to carry his furry body through the air at terrifyingly fast speeds.

Snarl had grown, just as the rest of them had. The little Enfield’s changes were more noticeable—his size and strength, as well as his instincts—but no less pronounced than the changes in the rest of the Grim Reavers. Each of them had endured much, and their lives as the Princelands’ silent champions had left indelible marks on them.

Aravon pulled Snarl into his lap and absentmindedly scratched the Enfield’s neck, half-listening to Colborn drilling the Legionnaires in shield and weapon work.

Most of the soldiers had chosen Fehlan-style swords—longer, slimmer, and heavier than the Legion-issue short swords, but highly effective when paired with the round wooden shields. Endyn had chosen a hewing spear, an excellent choice for a man of his height, arm’s length, and power. The two remaining Legionnaires under Captain Lingram’s command—a Malandrian named Tandel and a Voramian who answered to the name of Heap—had chosen single-bladed Fehlan war axes. They had surrendered their weapons when Belthar led the soldiers off to collect firewood, but now joined in the shield wall Colborn directed.

Legionnaires trained to crouch behind their body-length shields, but the Fehlan round shields only covered the face, torso, and groin, leaving the legs and helmeted head exposed. The shields also couldn’t take the same direct assault as the rectangular shields carried by the Legion of Heroes. Though the Fehlan warriors interlocked their shields in the same way Legionnaires did, they relied far more on strength to push and strike back at the enemy. Fighting in the Fehlan shield wall required more in the way of ferocity than discipline—a style the Legionnaires would now have to adopt in a few short days.

The training was going as well as could be expected. The Deadheads were mostly young—all but Corporal Rold, in fact, appeared to be mostly raw recruits and men with little experience in battle—and thus had few habits to unlearn before they could master the new fighting style. Then again, that inexperience also made them less-than-effective at maintaining the ranks, keeping their shields interlocked, and hitting back at the enemy without exposing gaps in their defenses.

The grimace on Colborn’s face had grown steadily larger over the last half-hour. Aravon knew exactly what the man was thinking: It’s going to be bloody hard to get them ready in time for the inevitable.

No matter how stealthy they were or how much they tried to avoid battle, the truth was that they rode toward hostile territory. The Myrr and Bein had joined forces with the Eirdkilrs and wouldn’t take kindly to the Princelanders’ presence in their lands. Even if they got through the Sawtooth Mountains unhindered, they still faced an army of Eirdkilrs beyond. Battle would come—it fell to Aravon, Colborn, and his Grim Reavers to make certain the Deadheads were ready.

Snarl suddenly perked up from his place in Aravon’s lap, then leapt down and stood at alert. His pointed ears twitched as his eyes locked onto something in the darkness, high in the trees.

Aravon reached for his spear instinctively, every sense immediately on the alert. He had no idea what Snarl saw—it could be nothing but a small bird the Enfield wanted for dinner—but he wouldn’t take any chances. He, too, scanned the night sky for any sign of threat.

A quiet flapping of wings echoed from the thicket. A moment later, a sleek, darker orange-brown shape padded into the circle of firelight and toward Aravon.

Skyclaw? Aravon’s eyebrows rose at the sight of the creature. He’d last seen Duke Dyrund’s Enfield, in the Palace at Icespire. If he was here, now, that could only mean one thing.

Snarl gave a delighted yip and leapt to meet Skyclaw, greeting him with happy barks and racing around the older Enfield. Skyclaw, however, ignored Snarl but came to sit on his haunches in front of Aravon, golden wings curling up around his dark orange-furred body. He barked, deeper and throatier than Snarl’s youthful yaps, and lifted his head to show Aravon his collar and the attached steel message tube.

Aravon reached out to remove the cap from the metallic tube hanging from Skyclaw’s collar. Drawing out the parchment within, he unrolled it and read.

The words sent a shiver down his spine. “Rumors of Eirdkilrs massing at Snowpass, full-scale offensive after Fjorlagerfa. Invasion plan unclear, but take no chances. Mission timeline must accelerate.”

Chapter Fourteen

Aravon’s mind raced. “Colborn!” He lifted his gaze from the message and beckoned the Lieutenant over.

Growling an order to the soldiers struggling to hold their shield line, Colborn hurried to Aravon. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Skyclaw sitting in front of Aravon, the shadows there growing deeper at the sight of the message in Aravon’s hand.

Aravon held out the parchment. “From the Prince.” The message bore no signature, only the stamp of a griffin bearing a sword and torch. “What do you think?” He steeled his expression to conceal the hint of uncertainty and fear that set his heart hammering.

Colborn read, and the tension in his shoulders, hands, and spine spoke volumes. “The Fjorlagerfa.” His voice echoed with a note of dread. “The Feast of Death.”

That tone and the look in Colborn’s eyes sent ice slithering through Aravon’s veins. His mind flashed back to the bloodstained tomb they’d spent the night in after the Battle of Hangman’s Hill. Piles of bones, human and animal skulls, and the heavy stench of decay had stood testament to the barbaric rituals of the ancient Fehlans.

As if reading Aravon’s thoughts, Colborn nodded. “The night the sacrifices were offered up to the gods of Fehl.”

“Not just the night.” Rangvaldr’s voice drifted toward them.

Aravon turned to find the Seiomenn sitting up, eyes open and locked on the two of them.

“In the early days of Fehl, the Feast of Death would last a day and night, from sunrise to sunrise.” Revulsion etched deep lines into Rangvaldr’s tired, age-worn face. “The earth and stones of the Hefjakumbl would be stained red with the blood of those sacrificed on the altar of death. It was said to be a day of great power—or of great evil, depending on the legend. The more blood one spilled, the more power obtained, so the ancient tales say.”

The breeze seemed to go suddenly chill at the Seiomenn’s words. That sounded like precisely the sort of thing the Eirdkilrs would believe.

Rangvaldr shook his head. “My people have long ago abandoned that practice, instead celebrating the Gnottmessa, the Time of Plenty. But after hearing of the Blood Queen’s use of the Tolfreadr to punish the Hilmir, I am not surprised the Eirdkilrs still indulge in such grim rituals.”

Colborn’s eyes darkened, his unmasked face growing tight. “Among my mother’s people, the Time of Harvest replaced the Feast of Death.” His brow furrowed. “But the Haustmessa begins in just two weeks.”

Rangvaldr nodded. “Sixteen days to the Gnottmessa.” He shook his head. “Which means there are just twenty days until the sun rises on the morning of the Fjorlagerfa.”

Twenty days! Less than three weeks until the Feast of Death, the day the Prince’s message indicated Tyr Farbjodr would begin whatever offensive he had planned.

Twenty days. Aravon glanced down at the map, did quick calculations in his mind. More than a thousand miles separated them from the northern edges of the Sawtooth Mountains—at least nine or ten days of hard travel at the pace set by the inexperienced Legionnaires. The mountain range stretched close to a hundred miles north to south, and the dizzying heights would add at least another four or five days of travel—if they were lucky. If they had to leave the horses and go on foot, they’d cross the mountains with only two or three days remaining until the Feast of Death. After that, they’d have to find and kill Tyr Farbjodr before he unleashed whatever he had planned.

Again, Lord Eidan’s words thundered through his mind. “Don’t you see?! There’s no stopping him! He is too strong, his forces too many for us to defeat. Everything we’re doing, it’s just buying time. Time for him to grow stronger, to summon his true strength. And in the end, we will die. Nothing we do will stop him now!”

Tyr Farbjodr was marshaling his “true strength”—doubtless as many Eirdkilrs as he could summon from among the clans inhabiting the icy Wastelands. When he finally unleashed them upon Fehl, the tide of war would turn against the Princelands and their Fehlan allies.

Mention of that day, the Feast of Death, brought back memories of the Hefjakumbl. Lord Eidan had raved about the earliest days of Fehl, when blood and death washed over the land. Prisoners of war had died beneath the sacrificial knife alongside warriors, women, and infants.

Prisoners of war. Icy feet danced down Aravon’s spine. Like the miners they captured at Silver Break and Gold Burrows. Like the miners they planned to take from Steinnbraka Delve and Lastcliff.

An image of all those people—men, women, and children, Princelanders and Fehlans—being offered up in ritual bloody sacrifice to Bani, the god worshiped by the Tauld, burned into his mind. The Eirdkilrs had taken hundreds of miners and their families. Was that gruesome ritual to be their final fate?

Something about that didn’t sit right with him. If the Eirdkilrs simply wanted sacrifices—Princelanders or Fehlans—they could find far easier and less specific targets than those working in the mines. Capturing the miners would halt the flow of gold and silver to the Princelands, depriving the Prince of the coin needed to bring in more Legionnaires. But everything he’d seen from Tyr Farbjodr, the Blood Queen, and Lord Eidan proved that the enemy never only acted with a single intention.

Somehow, it all ties in to the ghoulstone. The thought slammed into his mind, and his eyes darted toward the pendant hanging at Rangvaldr’s throat. That stone, believed for so long to be a gift from the gods of the Eyrr, might very well have once been an inert chunk of ghoulstone brought to life by the Serenii. The thought threatened to boggle his mind—magic, the ancient race, and divine power was far beyond a simple soldier’s realm of expertise—but he forced himself to follow the path.

That chunk of ghoulstone Zaharis had plucked from the wall of Steinnbraka Delve had healed Endyn, no doubt about it. Its color—the soft, azure blue identical to Rangvaldr’s pendant—was a perfect match to the Icespire itself. An artifact known to be built by Serenii hands, pre-dating even the earliest Fehlans.

So if the ghoulstone is inherently magical, or has the ability to become magic—he had no idea how to quantify that particular concept—what if Tyr Farbjodr is using the miners to collect it so he can harness that power?

That idea sent a shiver down his spine. Magic, in the hands of the Eirdkilrs. The very notion filled him with cold dread that settled like a lead weight in his gut. An army of giant barbarians armed with magic stones capable of healing their wounds would be unstoppable.

But no, that didn’t feel right. Everything he’d seen of Tyr Farbjodr hinted at something darker. Something…evil. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s planning it on the Feast of Death!

Acid churning in his gut, he motioned for Colborn to follow him. The two of them moved to crouch between the seated Rangvaldr and Zaharis working beside the fire. In a hushed voice, he relayed his suspicions, explaining the thread of thought that had led him to his impossible yet impossible-to-ignore conclusion.

“Keeper’s teeth!” Colborn hissed.

Rangvaldr appeared thunderstruck. “Nuius have mercy.” His fingers closed around the pendant, clutching it tight.

Even Zaharis’ face had gone white. “You think the Eirdkilrs are going to sacrifice their prisoners at this Feast of Death?”

Aravon shook his head. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past them, but I can’t be certain. Worse, I can’t know for sure they haven’t figured out the same secret of the ghoulstone as Zaharis did.” His jaw clenched. “Which means it’s even more important that we get across the Sawtooth Mountains and put an end to Tyr Farbjodr before he can unleash whatever evil he has planned.”

“Indeed.” Rangvaldr nodded. “And, if Tyr Farbjodr is as superstitious as his fellow Eirdkilrs, I suspect he will not hesitate to spill as much blood as he believes necessary to bring about his victory.”

“Then, as the Prince said, we accelerate the mission’s timeline.” Aravon looked between his three Grim Reavers. “We ride hard to Kaldrborg, find Harlund, and get to Cliffpass as quickly as possible. The faster we get through the mountains, the more time we’ll have to find and eliminate Tyr Farbjodr.” His eyes darkened. “And, if the Swordsman is merciful, perhaps even free the captives before they’re sacrificed.”

The grim looks that filled their eyes mirrored the dread within him. So many prisoners—three or four hundred taken from the two mines, perhaps more captured during the attacks throughout Fehl. It would be a bloodbath.

“So be it,” Zaharis signed.

Aravon noticed the eyes of the Legionnaires on the four of them. Worry, curiosity, and a hint of fear darkened the faces of the young men—they knew whatever the Grim Reavers discussed could only be dire.

“What about them?” Colborn switched to the silent hand language. “How much do we tell them?”

Aravon’s brow furrowed beneath his mask. Truth be told, he wasn’t certain the Legionnaires were fully up for the insane pace they’d have to set to reach Tyr Farbjodr in time. That sort of urgency could do more than tax their strength; it could instill in them fear, fear that might turn into panic.

“Nothing now,” Aravon signed. “Colborn, you’ll speak to Belthar during your watch, and Zaharis, you’re with Skathi and Noll. Tell them everything they need to know without saying a word aloud for the others to hear.”

The two nodded.

“And Lingram?” Colborn asked.

Aravon turned and searched out Captain Lingram from among the Legionnaires. Lingram knew his soldiers better than anyone. More than that, he’d been the one to suggest accompanying the Grim Reavers on this mission—one that had very little chance of returning alive.

“He needs to know,” Aravon signed. “But I’ll be the one to tell him.”

* * *

“Swordsman’s beard!” Captain Lingram let out a low whistle. “That’s…”

Aravon nodded. “A lot to take in.” He and Lingram had gone a few paces away from the camp, far enough that they could speak without the Legionnaires overhearing them. “The question is, now that you know, when do you think we should tell your soldiers and how much?”

Captain Lingram’s jaw set in a determined cast. “All of it.” He held Aravon’s gaze without wavering. “They’ve got to know the full truth of what lies ahead.”

“To give them a chance to back out?” Aravon asked. They hadn’t yet left the Princelands, so the soldiers had ample time to depart and make their way to the nearest Legion-held stronghold. He’d have to swear them to secrecy—a fact that left him uneasy, as the chance that one of them would let his and the Grim Reavers’ identities slip was far too high—but he owed them the opportunity.

“No.” Captain Lingram shook his head, no trace of doubt in his voice. “None of them will falter.” His brow furrowed as he turned to regard his men. “After Saerheim and Icespire, after everything they lost, they’re in this to the end.”

Aravon cocked his head. “You’re certain?”

Lingram nodded. “Rold’s got no one and nothing else beyond the Legion. Endyn and Duvain, I don’t know their story, but where one goes, so goes the other. And Endyn was the first one after Rold to step up when I told them I was leaving. He may be quiet, but he’s a bloody force of nature.”

Aravon smiled; he had one of those in his group. Belthar might not match Endyn for sheer size, but the big man had proven his determination, strength, and grit time and time again. He was a giant in heart, soul, and body.

“Tassus and Annur, they’re in this for each other, too.” Captain Lingram’s eyes went to the two Legionnaires who sat side by side in front of the fire, sharing a private conversation in the midst of their comrades. One look at them, and no one would doubt the affection the two Praamian Legionnaires shared.

“As for the rest?” Lingram nodded. “They may be young, but the battles they’ve fought have left their marks. What they lack in experience, they more than make up for in courage.” He turned and held Aravon’s gaze once more. “They’re with us until the end.”

Aravon remained silent a long moment, studying the figures crowded around the small, crackling fire burning merrily in the heart of their makeshift camp. The young Legionnaires—most no older than midway through their second decade of life—sat in a semi-circle facing Skathi, Belthar, and Noll, listening rapt to the scout’s recounting the Battle of Hangman’s Hill.

“…the Fjall raced down the hill and hurled themselves at the Eirdkilrs.” Noll’s voice was as animated as his hand gestures. “You should have seen it, lads! Hundreds of Fehlans standing against thousands of enemies. At least three or four thousand.”

“By then, closer to two,” Belthar corrected.

Noll shot a scowl at the big man. “Right,” he growled.

Belthar held up his huge hands. “Hey, if you’re going to tell the story, at least get the facts right!”

“Which is going to be bloody hard.” Skathi snorted. “Seeing as he wasn’t there.”

“Oh yeah?” Noll’s eyes blazed. “And who was it that put an—”

“—put an arrow in the Blood Queen’s eye from three hundred yards?” Skathi finished, parroting Noll’s voice. She rolled her eyes and, with a mocking shake of her head, turned to Belthar and the Legionnaires. “He does one thing worth mentioning, and he won’t shut up about it!”

That earned smiles all around, though Noll’s scowl deepened. “She’s just jealous I won the battle, while she was stuck on guard duty.”

Once, Skathi might have risen to the bait and leapt to her feet, snarling and cursing. Instead, she just leaned back against the tree and smiled. “Sure, Noll, I’m jealous.” Her tone left no doubt as to her true feelings. “It’s not like the Agrotorae train to put an arrow into a bull’s eye from four hundred yards. Oh wait, we do!” She cocked an eyebrow. “Or have you forgotten our little archery lesson back at Camp Marshal? Not to mention who racked up a higher count during the Battle of Icespire?”

Noll’s expression froze. Long seconds passed before he spoke. “Fine!” He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at her. “Then there’s only one way to settle this.”

Skathi’s smile hardened. “Damned right there is.” She, too, leaned forward, her eyes locked on the scout. “A proper wager.”

The scowl left Noll’s face, replaced by a wicked grin. “First one to put an arrow in Tyr Farbjodr’s eye—”

“His right eye, mind you!” Skathi held up a finger.

“—in his right eye,” Noll said, nodding, “is the undisputed champion of the Grim Reavers.”

“And what’s to be the stakes?” Belthar rumbled. His eyes were locked on the scout and archer, a hint of worry furrowing his huge brow. “We’re not exactly flush with coin for betting.”

Noll’s grin turned nasty. “If I win, Skathi has to tell the Captain and Prince Toran himself that I’m the better shot.”

A chorus of “Ooohs!” rose from the Legionnaires, and Belthar’s eyes widened a fraction.

Skathi’s smile never wavered. “And when I win, Noll has to finally burn those damned boots.” Her gaze dropped to the scout’s boots—once fine, fashioned for Legion cavalry, yet long ago past worn and faded. “We’ve endured the Keeper-awful stench more than long enough!”

Noll sat sharply upright and pulled his feet away, as if dragging them safely away from Skathi’s clutches. The frayed and tattered boots were his prized possession.

“Well?” Skathi raised an eyebrow. “You up for a little challenge, or afraid I’ll win and you’ll have to kiss those hideous things farewell before I throw them on the fire?”

Noll hesitated only an instant, his gaze dropping to his boots, then thrust out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a wager.”

Skathi gripped his hand and the two shook, eyes locked on each other.

“Enjoy them while you’ve still got them,” Belthar rumbled as the Grim Reavers broke off their handshake. “Only a fool bets against Skathi.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Skathi’s lips. Not mocking or sharp with sarcasm, but genuine and filled with warmth as she winked at Belthar. “Damned right.”

As the Legionnaires shouted out wagers, predictions, and jests, Aravon turned to Captain Lingram. “So we tell them in the morning, yes?”

The smile that had spread on Captain Lingram’s face darkened a fraction. “Yes.” He gave a slow nod. “They deserve to enjoy one last night.”

“Do you want to tell them, or should I?” Aravon had given the question a great deal of thought—he wanted there to be no uncertainty as to the plan moving forward, but perhaps hearing the news from the Captain they’d followed for weeks would make it easier to swallow than if he was the one to share it.

“It should come from me,” Lingram said in a heavy voice.

“So be it.” Aravon inclined his head. “Before we ride out in the morning, you’ll break it to them.”

“As you say, Captain.”

Aravon turned to march back to the campfire.

“Aravon.”

Lingram’s quiet call stopped him short, and he turned to glance over his shoulder at his friend.

“The mask.” Lingram pointed to his face.

For the first time, Aravon realized he hadn’t yet removed the snarling greatwolf mask. The mask had been a part of his life for so long, he’d forgotten he still wore it.

“You’ve got to wear the mask of Captain,” Lingram said, “but you don’t need to wear the mask, Captain.” A smile tugged at his lips at the turn of phrase. “It’ll do everyone good to see you for you. The man beneath the façade.”

The quiet words pierced to the core of Aravon’s being. As Lingram said, being Captain meant wearing a figurative mask—of calm confidence, remaining composed and alert at all times, cool through even the most difficult situations. But his leather Grim Reavers mask was intended as a barrier to keep people out, to conceal the truth of who he was from the world around him.

If he kept that barrier up, these Legionnaires would never truly come to know and trust him as his own men had. Captain Lingram and his soldiers weren’t just traveling alongside them—as had been the case with Jade Battalion at Broken Canyon, Captain Lemaire and his soldiers at Rivergate, Eirik Throrsson and his Fjall warband, the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve, and everyone who’d fought to save Icespire—but, united in purpose, had become part of them.

To lead them to victory, he had to pull down any obstacles that prevented them from seeing him as their Captain.

With a nod, he reached up and removed his mask. It was a strange sensation, removing the protective shield in the presence of these men—men who were all but strangers. But at the sight of the smile on the face of Captain Lingram, the friend he’d known for most of his life as a Legionnaire, the unease faded, replaced by a sense of rightness.

Turning, Aravon strode back toward the camp, past the resting Skyclaw and frolicking Snarl, to join the men—his men now—around the fire.

Chapter Fifteen

A tense silence hung over the nineteen soldiers crouching in the forest bordering the Eastmarch. None spoke or moved; all eyes fixed on the fifty armed clansmen marching north along the highway. Heavy boots tromped on solid stone, accompanied by the clank of armor and the clatter of axes, swords, and shields. Just being so close—barely thirty yards of forest and cleared ground separated their company from the enemy—set Aravon’s gut twisting. He fought his instincts, keeping his breath slow and quiet, his jaw muscles working as knots tightened in his shoulders.

Please, keep them silent! He prayed the silent prayer to the Swordsman.

The soldiers around him remained frozen, yet they’d stood immobile far too long, and Aravon could see them getting twitchy. They lacked the Grim Reavers’ woodcraft, and it was only by the Swordsman’s grace they hadn’t made a sound. Yet at any moment, one of them could move, cough, or do something else to draw attention.

Long minutes passed before the Deid warriors disappeared around the bend in the Eastmarch. Tension slowly drained from Aravon’s muscles as he relaxed and let out a long breath.

He opened his mouth to commend the Legionnaires, but Colborn’s voice cut through the underbrush first.

“Right!” The Lieutenant’s tone was gruff, his words harsh. “Who wants to tell me what was done wrong there?”

Corporal Rold snorted. “You mean aside from Arrow-magnet here nearly knocking down that birch tree when he hit it face-first?”

Aravon glanced at Endyn; the huge Legionnaire ducked his head, embarrassment sparkling in his eyes. He’d likely feel that impact for a day or two, perhaps even sport a bruise. The thump of Endyn’s masked face striking the tree had been loud enough for the approaching Fehlan warriors to hear.

“Yes,” Colborn growled, “aside from that.”

The Legionnaires looked at one another, and a bewildered silence answered the Lieutenant’s question.

“Uhh…” Duvain ventured. “We moved too slowly?”

Aravon stifled a chuckle. That’s always a good answer. And accurate in this case. From the moment Noll had galloped toward them with news of the oncoming soldiers, it had taken nearly three full minutes for the Legionnaires to scramble off the paved Eastmarch and take cover under a thicket of alder trees.

“Damned right!” Colborn gave a disgusted shake of his head. “Had they been Eirdkilrs instead of friendlies, you lot would be squaring up in front of the Long Keeper himself right now.” He studied the nervous-looking Legionnaires around him. “What else?”

Again, the exchange of puzzled glances, but none of the Legionnaires could summon an answer.

“The horses.” Colborn thrust a finger toward the massive Kostarasar chargers, who stood beside the Legionnaires, less than two paces from the edge of the forest. As if to illustrate his point, a pair of the chargers snorted loudly, one gave a soft nicker, and three more shuffled in place. The crack of twigs and the rustling of leaves echoed loud in the silence, eliciting winces from the soldiers.

“Always keep the horses as far from the enemy as possible.” Colborn moved toward the mounts. “The minute you take cover, you get your horse out of sight and somewhere it’ll keep quiet. The last thing you need is movement and sound to catch the enemy’s attention when you’re trying to stay unnoticed. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Lieutenant!” echoed among the Legionnaires.

“Good!” Colborn snapped. “Now saddle up and let’s move out.”

That was met with more than a few groans. Even now, four days after riding out of Camp Marshal, the Legionnaires were far from a fine cavalry force. Though they could all sit a saddle and match the fast pace set by the Grim Reavers, they still had a long way to go before they’d keep up with Aravon or Captain Lingram, much less an experienced scout like Noll.

Colborn hadn’t taken it easy on the soldiers in those four days. Since receiving the Prince’s message, a new urgency had gripped their entire company, but the Lieutenant more than most. Battle would come far sooner than he’d like, so it fell to him to ensure that the soldiers were ready for whatever their mission would throw at them.

That meant at least an hour spent training with their unfamiliar longswords, working together to form a solid wall with the circular Fehlan wooden shields instead of the heavy, man-high rectangular shields they’d grown accustomed to carrying in the Legion. Though he didn’t take them on overnight runs as he had with Aravon and the others at Camp Marshal, he and Rangvaldr had spent time teaching the eleven soldiers—and Captain Lingram with them—the basics of Fehlan survival, woodcraft, and tracking skills.

Aravon studied the eleven soldiers struggling into their saddles. They’re a long way off from being Grim Reavers, but the best we can do is prepare them for what’s to come. That had been his command to all his soldiers, one they’d each taken seriously.

Skathi’s three chosen archers spent every night loosing arrows until their fingers bled. Belthar, with Endyn’s help, played the role of giant Eirdkilrs attacking the shield wall with their huge axes, teaching the Legionnaires how to defend against the hulking barbarians with their new weaponry and armor. Aravon and Zaharis joined in, using spear and mace to illustrate the battle tactics used by the Eirdkilrs.

After Heap had proven himself a marginally competent horseman, Noll had taken the Voramian under his wing and taught him the rudiments of scouting, including the secret symbols used to chart directions and mark paths.

To their credit, the Legionnaires endured the training, hours of hard riding, insufficient sleep, and nights spent in the cold and darkness with only minimal complaining—the sort expected from soldiers. All officers knew that their grunts needed to moan about something; it was when the infantrymen went quiet that there was a real problem. Though the last four days had proven grueling, they were showing signs of improvement. Even the slim Duvain had found his place: as Zaharis’ assistant.

The Secret Keeper spent every night first cooking the evening meal, then cooking up alchemical surprises for the enemy. According to Zaharis, Duvain’s knowledge of plants and herbology bordered on “less than utter idiocy”—high praise from the alchemically ingenious Secret Keeper.

Only Rangvaldr remained apart from the rest. The days of travel had been hard on his exhausted body, and he recovered his strength slowly. He spent most nights shrouded in his furs, eyes locked on their campfire or closed in sleep. The lines on his face had grown deeper, the shadows in his eyes darker. Whatever bothered him wasn’t going away with time.

Aravon had grown more concerned about the Seiomenn, but every attempt to draw the man out had proven fruitless. Rangvaldr had waved him away, claiming fatigue, but Aravon knew the Seiomenn well enough to recognize that something else was going on beneath the surface. What exactly that was, he couldn’t be certain, and he’d been so busy with the training of the Legionnaires and planning their route south he hadn’t had a chance to dig deeper.

He resolved to do so the first chance he got. Tonight, for sure. He needed to make certain his healer and friend was up to facing what lay ahead.

But for now, they had to keep riding, keep pushing the pace to cover the distance south as quickly as possible. The last Eastmarch mile-marker they’d passed told him they’d traveled nearly two hundred and fifty miles south of the Chain. By noon, they would pass Anvil Garrison—still in the process of being rebuilt after the Eirdkilrs captured it weeks earlier.

At Colborn’s command, their little company of soldiers moved out. Noll and Heap rode ahead, scouting the Eastmarch south. With Colborn and Corporal Rold at the head of their column, they set off down the stone-paved highway at a steady pace. With the Kostarasar chargers’ rapid, rolling gaits, Aravon expected they’d cover close to eighty miles more before they had to call a halt for the night.

Less than a mile down the road, Aravon was struck with a strange sense of déjà vu. Something about this stretch of the Eastmarch was terribly familiar. That stand of pine trees growing far too close to the highway—close enough to be the perfect spot for an ambush. The little dip in the flat, grassy land east of the highway, shallow enough to slow down a charging enemy without offering cover from arrow fire.

A shiver ran down his spine. I’ve been here before. He suddenly knew why the land felt familiar. This is where it happened.

Aravon’s gut tightened into painful knots and every muscle in his body went suddenly rigid. His eyes roamed the forest, half-expecting to hear the howling war cries of Eirdkilrs, the hissing of black-shafted arrows darkening the skies, the panicked cries of dying men and terrified horses. His hand tightened around the shaft of his spear in anticipation of the enemy ambush.

None came. The forest remained quiet, nothing but the cries of the woodland birds and the thundering of hooves to break the silence that hung over the Eastmarch. No Eirdkilrs charged from the forest to hack down his men.

Memories washed over Aravon. Painful ones. Blood spraying from the mouth of a Legionnaire just in front of him, an arrow punched through the soldier’s back. Another crushed beneath an iron-studded club far too heavy for any Legionnaire to wield. A two-foot spearhead jutting out the front of Lieutenant Naif’s neck. Sergeant Bytin, Corporal Older, Strom, Hortin, Enthos, and Dreault—so many of Sixth Company lying dead on the stone. Crimson staining the ground, soaking into the grass, crusting on Aravon’s hands, face, and armor. The stink of death, the crush of bodies suffocating him.

It had all begun in this very spot. That fateful day when the men of Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company died at the hands of Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr. This very spot, where Aravon had believed himself dead, only to awaken amidst a mountain of blood, cold flesh, and silence. He’d clawed free of the mountain of his slain soldiers and staggered away into the darkness. Dying, drowning in sorrow.

Remorse and grief twisted like twin knives in his gut. He’d come to terms with their deaths, but being back here, seeing where it happened again, brought back all the pain. Darkness settled into his mind and heart, clouding his thoughts until it threatened to drag him into the murky depths of despair.

He wrestled with those memories, with the faces of men who had died following him. Joining them were others that had fallen at his side: Draian the Mender, Duke Dyrund, Lord Morshan, Myron Virinus, and so many more. So many, many more—Shalandrans, Voramians, Praamians, Princelanders, and Fehlans. Too many dead, slain in this senseless war.

The burden weighed on him far heavier than it had in a long time. He tried to lift his shoulders, to straighten his spine, but he could not. It was all he could do to grip his reins and keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Never seeing the bright sunlight and the colorful forest around them, his vision too full with the faces of the dead.

His mind barely registered Colborn and Corporal Rold turning off the Eastmarch and heading east, into the forest opposite Anvil Garrison. He turned his head, his eyes falling onto the figures going through the motions of rebuilding the stronghold, but as he rode past, he had no memory of what had been done to repair the high stone walls and solid gate.

The ghosts of his past haunted him all through the day and into the night. Even Snarl’s warmth and playful enthusiasm couldn’t fully comfort him, couldn’t dispel the gloom that filled his mind. He fell asleep quickly, his body exhausted from the day’s exertions and his mind seeking rest, yet none came. His dreams were plagued by painful memories of blood and death. Men and women—Legionnaires, Indomitables, Keeper’s Blades, Fjall warriors, and civilians died a thousand deaths that night.

The following morning dawned as grey and bleak as his mood. A thick bank of fog hung over the forest, painting the world with a colorless palette and muffling even the sounds of the Legionnaires talking and gearing up to ride.

His melancholy deepened as they rode down the Eastmarch—or the swath of rubble-strewn, weed-covered ground where the highway had once stood—and approached the destroyed Spear Garrison. The fortress had once rivaled the Bulwark, a massive stronghold with a heavy iron-banded wooden gate set into forty-foot stone walls. Now, nothing but crumbled stone remained of the walls—the Eirdkilrs had torn them apart. The gate lay twisted, bent, and burned, the iron long ago gone to rust, the rotting wood crawling with earthworms and woodlice.

Anger burned within Aravon’s gut, pushing back a hint of the numbness that had settled over him the previous day. The decaying ruins of Spear Garrison remained as a testament to the Eirdkilrs’ cruelty; of the twenty-three hundred Princelanders—Legionnaires, civilians, men and women, children and elders—that died in the slaughter after the garrison fell. No one who saw those torn-down walls and rotting wooden homes within the fortress could ever forget the threat that faced the Princelands.

The eyes of the Legionnaires around him darkened as well—they had all heard stories of Spear Garrison, but how many of them had seen it in person? Too few alive today remembered the horrors of that battle, yet none of them could ignore the sight of that once-powerful stronghold torn down out of sheer spite and wanton bloodlust.

Grim determination hardened in the eyes of those soldiers. Leather creaked as jaws clenched, hands gripped reins tighter, and men leaned forward in their saddles.

The sound of thundering hooves snapped Aravon’s head forward, just in time to see Noll and Heap racing back up the Eastmarch toward them at breakneck speed.

“Eirdkilrs!” Noll signed. “A mile back and closing fast!”

Chapter Sixteen

Every shred of gloom fled from Aravon’s mind, and in an instant his senses went on full alert. Gone were the despair, anguish, and grief, replaced by the bowstring-taut tension that settled over him when faced with a threat.

Before Noll and Heap reached them, Aravon spun toward the Legionnaires. “Into the forest, now!” he hissed. Fear spurred the soldiers to obey with alacrity—this was no drill, but a real enemy, one that wouldn’t hesitate to kill them. Within seconds, the seventeen soldiers had turned their horses east off the road and set off at a mad gallop toward the edge of the nearby forest. The two returning scouts followed as they raced through the thick undergrowth, dodging low-hanging branches and darting between thick-trunked firs and hazels.

Colborn, in the lead, reined his horse in fifty yards into the forest. “You four, horses!” His voice was a hoarse whisper, his finger darting quickly between Draturr, Tassus, Annur, and Tark. “The rest of you, stay!”

Without hesitation, he leapt from his horse and, handing the reins off to one of the Legionnaires, darted into the forest. He disappeared without a sound, heading back the way they’d come.

Aravon and the Grim Reavers dismounted, passed off their horses, and turned to follow. Captain Lingram made to join them, but Aravon shook his head. “Keep them calm and quiet,” he murmured to the Legion officer.

Captain Lingram’s mask hid his expression, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Instead of protesting, however, he nodded and turned back to his men.

The Grim Reavers fell into position around Aravon as he slithered through the forest toward the edge of the tree line. Noll and Skathi brought up the front, Zaharis and Rangvaldr at Aravon’s side, and Belthar at his back. Only the two archers drew weapons—their wooden bows wouldn’t stand out in the forest, and they left their arrows quivered—but every one of the Grim Reavers kept their hands hovering near their belts. They’d be ready if it came to battle.

Aravon and his Grim Reavers backtracked the way they came, slipping between the trees with barely a sound. Ten yards from the edge of the forest, Aravon nearly stumbled over Colborn, who’d taken up a position beneath a drooping willow tree. He barely saw the man in time to avoid him and slipped into place at the Lieutenant’s side.

At that moment, a band of massive, fur-clad figures appeared from the south, marching up the cleared stretch of ground that had once been the Eastmarch. Even from half a mile away, the sounds of their passage echoed loud: the clanking of their armor, the thumping of their heavy boots on the ground, the loud, snarling growls as they conversed in their guttural dialect of the Fehlan tongue. Sunlight shone on their filthy ice bear pelts, iron-studded leather armor, and steel skullcaps. Bright blue war paint stained their faces—a stark contrast to the white-blond of their braided beards and shaggy hair.

The sight set Aravon’s stomach twisting. Anger mingled with a hint of apprehension; no matter how many times he’d seen them, being so close to the seven-foot barbarians never failed to make him nervous. Especially when he had so many untrained, inexperienced soldiers far too close to the enemy.

“How many?” he signed. He kept his gestures small, moving only his fingers and wrists. Even the slightest sound of a clanking harness or creaking leather could give them away.

“Thirty so far,” Colborn signed. “More coming.”

Aravon turned and sought out Skathi, crouched at his side. “Can you get up high?”

The archer scanned the trees nearby, then nodded and disappeared into the branches of a thick cypress tree.

By the time the Eirdkilrs drew close enough for Aravon to make out their heavy, brutish figures beneath the war paint, he counted a full three score.

Sixty Eirdkilrs, here! The sight of those towering figures sent worry crackling through his nerves. After their defeat at Hangman’s Hill, the Eirdkilrs shouldn’t have enough men north of the Sawtooth Mountains to field a proper force. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t send out raiding parties to spread havoc among the Fehlans.

The fact that they were here, so close to Spear Garrison, meant they’d either come to spy on Anvil Garrison to the north or give the Fjall or Jarnleikr grief. Given the Hilmir’s alliance with the Princelands, Aravon would place his money on the Eirdkilrs raiding the Fjall lands.

At the moment, Eirik Throrsson had no hope of driving the Eirdkilrs out of his lands. He’d put an end to the Blood Queen and her army, but in doing so had nearly lost his entire warband. Those that had survived Wraithfever, the attack on Storbjarg, the desperate retreat, and the Battle of Hangman’s Hill would doubtless be with the Hilmir in Ornntadr. Though the Eirdkilrs could never hope to take the Fjall’s mountain stronghold, the Fjall had too few warriors to protect the vast clan lands. It fell to each settlement, village, and town to protect itself as best they could.

Sixty Eirdkilrs posed little real threat to the Legionnaires holding the stone walls and fortress of Anvil Garrison, but they could inflict serious damage on the Fjall. Doubtless as a punishment for Eirik Throrsson’s betrayal of his southern cousins.

Aravon’s heart sank. Which means we can’t go through Fjall territory. He hadn’t been certain which route to take to reach south—through Eirik Throrsson’s clan lands, or through the Jarnleikr highlands. The presence of the Eirdkilrs left him only one choice.

Skathi dropped from the lowest tree branch and landed lightly at his side without so much as a rustle of leaves. “Bad news, Captain,” she signed. Worry darkened her eyes. “They’ve set up camp in Spear Garrison.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed beneath his mask. So close! If the Eirdkilrs had settled in the ruins of the fortress less than a quarter-mile away, they’d be sending out men to forage and hunt for food and find a source of water.

He turned back to the others. “Go!” he signed. “We need to get out of here now!”

Anxiety lent wings to his feet as he hustled through the forest toward the spot where he’d left the Legionnaires. Twelve hands tightened on weapons at their approach, and twelve soldiers tensed as they emerged from the underbrush.

“Mount up,” Aravon spoke in a low voice, his words ringing with urgency. “The Eirdkilrs have set up camp at Spear Garrison, and we need to put as much distance between us as possible!”

Surprise flashed in the Legionnaires’ eyes—a hint of panic glimmering in more than a few—but the soldiers obeyed with impressive speed. Within less than a minute, all had scrambled into their saddles.

Aravon turned to Colborn. “Lead the way south,” he signed. “Take Heap with you.”

The Lieutenant nodded and, motioning for the Legionnaire to follow him, kicked his horse into motion.

Aravon sought out Noll. “Rear guard with Skathi, one mile back. We’ll leave signals for you to follow our trail.”

“Aye, Captain,” Noll and Skathi both signed.

“Be safe,” Belthar told the two of them. “We’ve got too much riding on our bet to lose either of you here.”

“Just make sure to get a good, hot fire ready to burn Noll’s boots!” Humor twinkled in Skathi’s eyes.

Aravon turned away before Noll signed his silent retort, but judging by Belthar’s rumbling chuckle, it must have been a good one. He addressed the last three Grim Reavers. “Rangvaldr, ride out front with Zaharis and keep watch out for Colborn’s trail. Belthar, bring up the rear of the column and stay sharp for any sign from Noll and Skathi.”

The soldiers nodded and fell into place, navigating their horses around the Legionnaires skillfully and silently.

Now Aravon spoke to the Legionnaires in a low voice. “Lingram, Rold, with me. The rest of you, fall in. Keep quiet and match our pace. We’ll move slow until we put some distance between us and the enemy, then pick things up to cover ground as fast as we can.” The farther away they drew from the Eirdkilrs, the better. Swordsman knows how many more raiding parties are out in the Fjall lands.

Two miles farther east, the forest thinned and gave way to flat, grassy plains. Those, however, quickly grew hilly, then rose to steeper inclines interspersed with jagged cliffs and sharp drop-offs. The grass turned from lush lowland grass to scrubby sedge dotted with colorful thistle-flowers. Without the trees to provide shelter, the Legionnaires were forced to ride into the teeth of the wind—a wind that turned colder and more bitter the farther southeast they rode.

No wonder the Jarnleikr avoid settling in the highlands! Aravon grimaced and pulled his heavy cloak tighter about himself. The scent of rain hung thick in the air, the promise—or threat—of a downpour only amplifying the biting chill that sliced through the craggy hills. Even the valleys, canyons, and gorges between the higher altitudes did little to keep away the cold; if anything, the wind seemed to blow hardest in the gaps amidst the mountains.

The path Colborn set for them cut directly between two jagged peaks, then up a sharp incline and around a rocky canyon carved by a now dried-up river between sheer cliff faces. It seemed the Lieutenant tracked the river back up the mountain, following its meandering path through the highlands, using the cleared riverbed as the most direct path south. Yet, after only a few miles, Colborn’s markings led their company out of the gully and straight up a sharply rising hill.

Finally, they caught up with the Lieutenant near the summit of a craggy mountain, where he’d chosen their campsite in a hollow, winding ridge that offered the best shelter from the wind they could find this high. Unfortunately, they couldn’t risk a fire—the light could be visible for a hundred or more miles in every direction, and the last thing they needed was Eirdkilrs tracking their movements.

That left them at the mercy of the biting chill that hung in the air, made worse by the occasional gust of wind that blew through the ridge.

“Break out the furs,” Aravon commanded as they set up their cold, dark camp. “Sit together for warmth.”

They shared a cold meal in darkness, with only the light of the moon and stars above for illumination. Noll and Skathi caught up before they finished their meager repast—cold dried beef and trail biscuits, washed down with tepid grain-ale. The two appeared as cold as the rest of them, all too glad to dive into the warmth of the heavy furs they’d brought against the chilly Sawtooth Mountains.

“Keeper take this cold!” Corporal Rold’s muttered voice drifted to where Aravon sat shrouded in his fur cloak. “I’d give my left bollock for a bottle of quality Drashi rotgut.”

“I’d give both for Nyslian brandy.” The voice belonged to Tark. “But the fine Ellestini stuff, none of that Sundran swill.”

“Wool-headed fool!” snorted Zadan. “Your bollocks aren’t worth a thimble-full of horse piss.”

“Yer mother’d disagree,” Tark shot back. “Way she went at ‘em, ye’d best get ready to call me ‘Da’.”

And so it went, back and forth, as was ever the way with soldiers. They moaned, complained, and insulted each other to take their minds off their dire circumstances and the danger they faced.

Aravon stopped listening—Captain Lingram or Corporal Rold would step in if things got out of hand, and he had more important matters to worry about.

Without a fire for light, he couldn’t study the map of southeastern Fehl. But he’d pored over it so many times in the last four days that he had the crude depiction all but memorized. Not that there was much to commit to memory. A few rough lines indicating the mountainous highlands, scratched marks that might have been wagon trails, and “Xs” to mark the presence of villages or towns.

As far as the map made clear, the five hundred miles south to Kaldrborg were virtually free of human settlements. Perhaps a tiny village, homestead, or farm along the way, but nothing worth noting on the map. Though that meant less risk of running into Fehlans—clansmen who could side with the Eirdkilrs against the strange masked men riding through their lands—the problem of the highlands themselves worried him.

He’d never been to the Jarnleikr highlands before, but it appeared they proved as forbidding and difficult to navigate as the stories told. Between the jagged cliffs, steep peaks, and rocky slopes, they were in for a rough trek south.

Rising, careful to keep the furs wrapped tight around himself, Aravon climbed the short incline toward the solitary figure standing a short distance away from the camp. Colborn perched atop the lip of a nearby ridge, studying the landscape spread out all around him. Beneath the light of the moon, the highlands appeared like a roiling, storm-tossed sea frozen in an eternal tableau. Peaks and valleys, stone and grass, cold and darkness, locked forever in this silent, undisturbed spectacle.

“Think we made the right choice?” Aravon pitched his voice low for the Lieutenant’s ears only. “Heading farther east before cutting south?”

Colborn remained silent a long moment, then shrugged. “I’d say the odds are about even. Terrain like this is going to make for slow going. We’ll be lucky to cover eighty or ninety miles a day, even if we push the horses hard.”

With the steep hills and deep valleys, they’d have to travel farther and slow their pace to cut through the highlands.

“But if there are Eirdkilrs in the Fjall lands, we could waste just as much time running or hiding.” Colborn turned to him now. Moonlight shone on an expression as solemn and stony as the rocks beneath his feet. “Worse, we could wind up having to fight. And they’re not ready for that yet.”

Aravon glanced over his shoulder. Between the thick furs and the dim moonlight, he could barely make out the figures of the soldiers following him. “Think they ever will be?” Again, he spoke so quietly the question dissipated on the wind the moment it left his mouth.

The furrows in Colborn’s brow deepened. “Probably not.” His lips twitched downward. “But we weren’t truly ready the day we rode out of Camp Marshal. Draian…” He let out a long breath. “Sometimes, we’ve no choice but to throw ourselves off the cliff and hope there’s a river at the bottom.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Words of ancient Deid wisdom?”

Colborn snorted. “Captain Leish of Whitevale.” He gave Aravon a wry grin. “He had all sorts of sayings like that. His favorite was ‘A stiff drink might not solve problems, but neither does water, and alcohol’s far less likely to kill you’.”

Aravon actually managed a laugh. “A wise man.”

“And a good one.” Sorrow tinged Colborn’s smile. “Right up until his last day.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow. “How did he go?”

“His heart.” Colborn tapped his chest. “Another of his sayings, actually.” The sadness deepened a fraction. “Said the Bright Lady had given his family a blessing and a curse: a heart big enough to love snot-nosed little runts, but it’d give out on him sooner rather than later. It did, a week after my eighteenth nameday.” He swallowed. “That was the day I signed up for the Legion.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Aravon said, his voice quiet.

Colborn gave a dismissive wave. “It was a long time ago, and at least he knew his death was coming.” A hint of a smile, half-bitter, half-wry, tugged at his lips. “He was my Duke Dyrund.”

Now it was Aravon’s turn to swallow. Mention of the Duke still brought the lump to his throat, though the pain of loss had grown easier to bear. Yet losing a man like Duke Dyrund, far better a man than Aravon’s father had ever been, would always bring back the sorrow.

“Though I’d wager the General was probably far less of a cunt than Lord Derran.” A sneer twisted Colborn’s lip.

“To be fair, there aren’t a lot of people who can out-cunt the Lord of Whitevale.” Aravon chuckled. He’d met the man in Icespire—the last time he’d seen Lord Derran, the nobleman had been cowering among his cronies, refusing to join the fight against the Eirdkilrs sacking the city. “You’re lucky your proverbial apple fell good and far from the sackless tree.”

That brought a little laugh rumbling from Colborn’s throat. For long moments, they stood in companionable silence, content in each other’s presence.

Colborn spoke first. “I’ve never navigated highlands before.” He didn’t turn his head to look at Aravon, but kept his eyes fixed on the craggy highlands spread out around them. “Give me a forest any day, but canyons and mountains and such, that’s a different beast. It’ll be slow going.”

Aravon rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’ll get us where we need to go.” His voice held no demand or insistence, only calm confidence. The Lieutenant already carried burden enough.

“Aye, Captain,” was all Colborn said.

Long moments passed before Aravon turned to go, leaving the Lieutenant alone with his thoughts. He had no need to pressure the man—Colborn knew the urgency of the situation, the importance of their mission.

He knew as well as Aravon that if they didn’t reach Tyr Farbjodr in time—in sixteen days, before the Fjorlagerfa—all of Fehl could very well be doomed.

Chapter Seventeen

Bloody hell! Worry knotted the muscles of Aravon’s shoulders as the final canyon gave way to forested lowlands and the Myrr town of Kaldrborg appeared in the valley below. Ten days to get here. Ten days since leaving Camp Marshal—half of their twenty-day allotment gone—and they were still so far from Tyr Farbjodr.

The last six days of travel through the highlands had been difficult, fraught with peril and hardships. The high ridges and mountain peaks had made for slower going than even Colborn had anticipated. The horses had been pushed to their limits on the narrow, rock-strewn trails, which had only sparse patches of highland sedge to keep the horses fed. Navigating the canyons and gorges had proven no easier, thanks to the heavy rain that had proven far too persistent. Through it all, they’d had the icy highland wind for a shrieking, biting companion. The thick bear fur pelts they’d packed for their journey south couldn’t keep out both wind and damp.

Thankfully, the rain had stopped the previous morning, the wind and chill decreasing as they descended from the heights to the lower, forested valleys and flatlands north of Kaldrborg. Yet Aravon couldn’t shake the feeling of urgency humming through his bones.

The Myrr town was a six-hour detour from the route Colborn had charted toward the section of the Sawtooth Mountains where Captain Lingram said they’d find the secret way through the sealed-off Cliffpass. That meant they had to sacrifice the better part of a day just to find the Prince’s agent in Kaldrborg. Harlund would not only serve as their guide south, but he had a map of the icy Wastelands and information on Tyr Farbjodr. It was worth the delay, but the fact that they would lose another day on the effort left Aravon uneasy. In just ten days, Tyr Farbjodr would unleash his forces on Fehl. They’d have to push hard to cross the mountains, find him, and put him down before that day came.

Colborn stopped their column a quarter-mile from the forest’s edge, deep enough within the dense beech forest that they were well out of sight of the nearby trade road that cut across the mile-wide plain surrounding Kaldrborg. The noonday sun had long ago dried up the dew, but the chilly mist that hung low to the forest floor filled the air with a sweet smell of damp. Brilliant daylight splashed across the bright orange and red beech leaves, and the rustling of the tree branches swaying in the wind muffled any sounds of their passage.

Aravon turned to Captain Lingram as the Legionnaires dismounted.

“Stay quiet and out of sight,” he instructed the Captain. “Anything happens, Skathi will know how to contact me.”

Though he hadn’t caught a glimpse of Snarl since they rode into the forest half an hour ago, he had little doubt the Enfield was close at hand. Doubtless off chasing mice, voles, or small birds. Snarl had subsisted on scraps of dried meat for the last six days, and he’d be thrilled to find live prey all around him. At least one of their company would eat well today.

“Aye, Captain.” Lingram nodded—he’d supported Aravon’s insistence that the Legionnaires stopped saluting, leading by example—and turned to his men.

“Keep a sharp eye,” Aravon signed to Skathi. “And be ready to ride at a moment’s notice. Should anything go wrong, you need to keep the others out of trouble.”

Skathi rolled her eyes. “So don’t let anything go wrong, yeah?”

Aravon gave a chuckle, but it felt forced. He’d be marching into a hostile Fehlan town with his face unmasked—a bit more dangerous than walking down the streets of Icespire.

Then again, given how friendly the Secret Keepers and Brokers are with us, I suppose it’s about the same. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. The Mistress’ priests had known his name, and though they’d left him alive at their last meeting, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come for him in the future. Especially if they found out Zaharis hadn’t, in fact, died beneath a mountain of stone and brick. If he hadn’t resigned himself to near-certain death on this impossible mission to hunt down Tyr Farbjodr, he’d be far more worried about what awaited him when he returned home.

But that’s not a problem I’ll have to think about. He grimaced beneath his mask. Not yet, and perhaps never. None of the Prince’s agents that crossed the Sawtooth Mountains had returned alive.

“We’ve got this covered, Captain.” Skathi gave a dismissive wave. “Noll will keep watch on the roads, I’ll set up a perch someplace high, and if anyone gets too close, we’ve got the big lads to handle anything.” She gestured toward Endyn, who had joined the other Legionnaires sitting on the ground.

Aravon’s brow furrowed as he caught sight of Belthar and Colborn standing among the trees a short distance away. Belthar’s huge body blocked his fingers as he formed the hand gestures of the Secret Keeper language. Long seconds passed in the silent conversation, then Colborn nodded once and strode toward Aravon.

“Let’s do this.” The Lieutenant glanced at Rangvaldr, then back at Aravon. “You sure you want to come, Captain? You’ve almost got the look of a Fehlan about you, but your accent’s rubbish.”

Aravon nodded. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, if that makes you feel better. But there’s no way I’m letting the two of you walk in there alone. Things go sideways, one more of us means one more chance we get out and go for help.” He knew the two Fehlans would do everything in their power to make sure nothing went wrong, but he’d learned always to prepare for the worst.

After a moment, Colborn shrugged. “Off we go, then.” Removing his mask, he passed it to Belthar. Aravon and Rangvaldr did likewise. In Kaldrborg, the face coverings would draw far more suspicion.

Aravon fell into step behind Colborn and Rangvaldr as they set off toward the edge of the forest. The two would take the lead, their heavy, thick features visibly Fehlan. Rangvaldr’s long white hair, braided beard, shield, sword, and Aravon’s spear marked him as a warrior, and he’d tucked his Eyrr holy stone beneath his leather armor. Nothing remained to mark him as a Seiomenn.

Colborn’s hair and beard had been cut short on their mission to Icespire, but according to him, that wasn’t uncommon among Fehlan merchants and traders. He wore heavy furs and roughspun wool over his armor—making him look blocky and clearly uncomfortable—and he’d left his shield in camp. His sword had been wrapped in furs and strapped on his back, out of sight beneath his heavy cloak.

At the Lieutenant’s insistence, Aravon had allowed Rangvaldr to pull his shoulder-length hair up into a tight, high braid. The beard he’d grown over the last weeks—since the day he stopped shaving at Camp Marshal—might not rival the flowing, braided locks of a Fehlan or Eirdkilr warrior, but it was a respectable length, long enough for Rangvaldr to thread with a few beads and colored bangles that he pulled from his own beard. With the heavy furs to conceal his leather armor, he could almost pass for one of the darker-haired Smida or Vidr that occupied northern Fehl. And, striding along behind the taller, heavy-framed Colborn and Rangvaldr, he was certain to draw little attention.

Colborn carried a bag slung over one shoulder. The carved antlers within—Endyn’s work, surprisingly artistic and delicate for someone with such massive hands, under the careful direction of Rangvaldr to add in the Fehlan runes—of the highland deer would serve them well trading in the markets of Kaldrborg.

Aravon drew in a breath as they reached the edge of the forest and stepped out onto the grasslands. Here we go.

He’d spent plenty of time in hostile territory, but never marching right into an enemy-held town. If anything went wrong, if any of the Myrr suspected that the three of them were anything other than what they appeared to be, the situation could go sideways in a hurry. And they’d be in no position to fight their way free of a town the size of Kaldrborg.

The Myrr town was far larger than Aravon had expected. It rivaled the Fjall capital of Storbjarg in terms of sheer land mass, though the buildings weren’t packed so tightly together, nor quite as large or well-maintained. A wall of earth and timber stretched around the town—or what had once been the town, before it expanded beyond its boundaries. At first glance, Aravon estimated that close to five or six thousand Fehlans occupied Kaldrborg.

But an equal number came and went through the busy trading town. Carts, crude wooden wagons, and horses and oxen laden with valuables trundled in and out of the gate set into the northwestern edge of the town’s wall. Fehlan men and women burdened beneath the weight of their trade goods plodded into the city, or appeared from within carrying the foodstuffs, pelts, or metal products for which they’d bartered.

The sun had already begun its descent by the time the three Grim Reavers reached the entrance to Kaldrborg. A handful of Fehlan warriors lounged around the open gate, barely paying attention to the people who came and went from the town. Aravon suspected their role was largely for show—to prove to the Myrr coming to Kaldrborg to trade that they had come to a place of law and order. But, according to Captain Lingram, the town was treated as neutral ground by all Fehlans. Fjall, Deid, Jarnleikr, Myrr, and even the Bein set aside enmities when they marched through the gates. The markets of Kaldrborg were intended as a place to exchange goods—any grievances or conflicts had to be left outside those earth and wood walls.

That didn’t stop many of the Fehlans from wearing weapons. Swords were rare, but more than a few men with the heavy braided beards and hair of warriors carried sheathed blades openly on their belts. Hunting bows and woodcutters’ axes proved far more abundant, and every man and woman in Kaldrborg carried at least one belt knife.

Heavy traffic of burdened men and animals flowed down a broad, wood-paved main avenue, yet the streets of the town were laid out in a perpendicular grid—far more orderly than Aravon had expected. Houses of wood, sod, and wattle-and-daub bordered the thoroughfare, set close enough together that their thatched rooves overlapped and interlocked. The Fehlans didn’t whitewash their walls like the Princelanders, but a thick layer of mud and dust covered every visible surface, painting the town of Kaldrborg a grimy brown.

A few of the narrow lanes between the houses had wood paving, but many were simply muck and puddled stagnant water. Or worse, as indicated by the reek that twisted Aravon’s stomach. The stench of so many people living and working in such close proximity—even with the outhouses built at the rear of the fenced plots—threatened to overwhelm him. The dung and droppings of animals, the stink of the tanneries, forges, slaughterhouses, and the plumes of dark grey smoke rising from every house along the muddy road made for a heady mixture that made Aravon glad he hadn’t eaten since their meager breakfast.

The noise of the trading town far exceeded his expectations. The wooden planks paving the road thumped and squelched beneath the tread of heavy boots, the hooves of draft animals, and iron-banded cart wheels. The clangor of smith’s hammers joined the whirring buzz of saws, the quiet lowing of draft animals harnessed to mill stones, and the bleating of sheep herded to market. In the distance, the shouts and cries of Fehlan merchants echoed loud from what Aravon guessed was the marketplace.

But as Aravon’s gaze traveled toward the markets, his gaze fell on a sight that froze the blood in his veins. A pack of eight men who stood a full head above the Fehlans thronging through the avenue, with bared weapons slung on their backs or carried over their shoulders. Ice-blue eyes that glared down at the Myrr around them, and broad faces that bared into snarls of disdain fierce enough to send men and women scurrying out of their paths.

Eirdkilrs!

These wore heavy pelts of dark brown fur, yet there was no mistaking their height and the brutish features—blockier and thicker than the Fehlans around them.

Careful to keep behind Colborn, Aravon kept his head down as they passed the Eirdkilrs. The three of them went far out of their way to avoid the giants, crossing to the far side of the wood-paved avenue as the barbarians swaggered past.

Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder at the retreating Eirdkilrs, only to find more of the giants ahead of them as he turned back to the road ahead. Keeper’s teeth! By the time they reached the marketplace, he had counted close to twenty Eirdkilrs moving through the streets of Kaldrborg. Even more roamed among the wooden market stalls, snarling in their guttural tongue and barking at the merchants. The Myrr unlucky enough to draw their ire and attention cringed in fear, offering up whatever item had caught the barbarians’ interests.

Aravon’s mind raced. He’d had no idea they would find Eirdkilrs here in Kaldrborg. The Myrr had chosen to side with their southern cousins against the Princelands, but he hadn’t expected the Eirdkilrs to be so prevalent in the trading town. Their presence had a marked effect on the Fehlans. One look at the way the Myrr responded to the Eirdkilrs—hurrying out of their path, hiding their faces to avoid attention, cowering beneath the giants’ bluster—made it clear who was in charge here.

“Damn,” Colborn signed, though his expression revealed nothing. “That’s a lot of Eirdkilrs.”

“They definitely outnumber the fighting-aged men of the town.” Rangvaldr’s eyes scanned the crowds moving through the marketplace. “It may be a Myrr town, but the Eirdkilrs definitely run the place.”

Aravon nodded. “Split up and find Harlund. We’ve got to get him and get the bloody hell out of here.”

The two men signaled acknowledgement and broke away from Aravon, pushing their way through the crowds thronging around the wood-paved marketplace. Aravon moved west, while Colborn and Rangvaldr went north and south.

Unlike the marketplaces Aravon had visited in the Princelands, the merchants of Kaldrborg seemed disinclined to adhere to any sort of order. Metalsmiths with fine jewelry of gold, silver, bronze, and scrimshaw held court next to stalls heaped high with homespun woolen cloth or tables laden with the butchered carcasses of game large and small. Tools of wrought iron and steel mingled with bowls of clay, wood, and stone, and one merchant offered animal pelts beside fresh-ground oats and barley. Barrels of mjod sat beside casks of ayrag and clay urns of what smelled like sour ale.

That disorder made it difficult to find Harlund the blacksmith. The man selling the metal tools had the look of a merchant, not the broad shoulders and strong arms of a smith. Aravon didn’t dare ask him where to find Harlund, for fear his Princelander accent would give his identity away. Aside from that one stall, he saw no sign of a smith’s work—no daggers, butcher’s knives, horseshoes, or the myriad of other items crafted and repaired by Fehlan blacksmiths.

The more Aravon explored the marketplace, the more concerned he grew. Goldsmiths, silversmiths, bronzeworkers he found in abundance, but the only steel items he’d seen were back at the one stall. Perhaps Colborn and Rangvaldr were having better luck in their sections of the marketplace.

But Aravon’s gut told him something was amiss. An undercurrent of tension ran through the stalls and wood-paved streets, darkening the eyes and lining the faces of the Fehlans around him. More than once, he caught sight of men and women whispering, then suddenly falling silent as Eirdkilrs swaggered toward them. The looks cast at the backs of the giants held mingled terror, worry, and enmity.

Aravon slithered closer to a group of merchants standing close together in the shelter of one canvas-covered stall. He pretended to examine the fine scrimshaw and bits of carved antler, all the while listening to overhear their conversation.

The Myrr’s accent was harsher than the northern Fehlan clans—closer to the Eirdkilr’s guttural language than Aravon had expected—making it difficult to understand their words. Yet he caught a few familiar words.

“…not right…” muttered one. “…dragged off…”

“…called him a traitor,” answered another. “But—” The man, a heavy-set Myrr with scarred hands and thick-bearded jowls, cut off quickly as he noticed Aravon studying his wares. The worry on his face gave way to a merchant’s eager smile, and he broke off from his fellows to attend to a potential client. After a few minutes of listening in polite silence to the man extoll the artistry and value of the scrimshaw he’d been holding, Aravon gave a noncommittal grunt and moved on.

The merchant’s cries rang out behind him, cajoling him to reconsider, but Aravon disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he could. He couldn’t be certain, but something about that word “traitor” had set worry humming within him. Colborn and Rangvaldr could find out more without fearing discovery. Yet, with every step deeper into the crowded marketplace, the tension knotted his shoulders.

He finally caught sight of Colborn moving toward him. The Lieutenant kept his pace slow but steady, sliding through the crowds with no visible hurry yet a grim determination to his steps. One look at the man’s ice-blue eyes, and Aravon’s gut clenched.

Something is wrong.

“We’ve got a problem,” Colborn signed. “The man we’ve come to see, the blacksmith Harlund. The Eirdkilrs discovered he’s a spy two days ago and hauled him off for execution.”

Chapter Eighteen

The sight of Harlund twisted Aravon’s stomach. The blacksmith had been a strong man, his heavily-muscled body and broad shoulders hardened by years spent working the forge.

No longer.

The Fehlan lay on ground strewn with gravel and sharp rocks, bound to four stakes—one for each limb. The ropes encircling his wrists had been pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. His hands and fingers had swelled and turned a hideous purple. Aravon had seen enough injuries to know the man would never swing a hammer or hold a smith’s tongs again. When those bonds came off, blood rendered poisonous by the lack of oxygen would kill him in a matter of minutes.

If blood loss and pain didn’t kill him first, that was. Crimson stained the rocks and turned the dirt around his body to a grisly mud. Blood seeped from scores, perhaps hundreds, of tiny wounds that covered every inch of flesh along his arms, legs, chest, and abdomen.

But these were no ordinary wounds inflicted at random. Each of the cuts in Harlund’s body depicted the same grisly runes: the Fehlan symbol for Tauld, the Eirdkilrs’ clan name; and the mark that proclaimed “traitor” over and over in dark, bloody letters.

The Tolfreadr. A shiver ran down Aravon’s spine. He’d witnessed it only once before—the Blodsvarri had executed scores of Fjall captives after the ambush outside the Waeggbjod. She hadn’t made it quick, either. She’d taken her time, carving into the flesh of her Fehlan prisoners with strokes of her knife that seemed almost tender. The strongest of the Hilmir’s warband had taken agonizingly long minutes to die. They’d had to endure torment beyond imagining as the Blood Queen dragged their internal organs from their bodies with hands stained red with their blood.

That image still remained burned in Aravon’s mind. He still heard the screams—shrieks of terrible agony, grown men, warriors all, weeping and wailing for death that came far too slow.

Harlund was far beyond screaming. Perhaps he’d cried out once, had raised his voice in anguished howls or appeals for mercy. Now, after two days—long, terrible days, with every moment an endless torment—nothing but a hoarse croak issued from his throat. His cracked, parched lips spoke of thirst and hunger. Surviving only on the droplets of blood that spattered his face.

The Eirdkilrs torturing him had no desire to let him die easy. Fifty of the barbarians stood in a loose semi-circle around the blacksmith’s head, laughing and shouting jeered insults down at their captive. One hawked a gob of phlegm and spat on Harlund’s chest. The spittle landed on a still-oozing wound, eliciting a weak cry—little more than a wheezing whisper—from the blacksmith.

Another barked a guttural laugh to his friends and, stepping forward, began fumbling at his trousers. Aravon struggled to hide his revulsion as the Eirdkilr began pissing on Harlund. The blacksmith was too weak to do more than cough and twist his head as the stream of filthy, steaming yellow urine soaked his face, splashed his neck, and seeped into his mouth and nose.

Disgust twisted an acidic dagger in Aravon’s gut. They’re going to take their time killing him. The fact the blacksmith hadn’t yet succumbed to fatigue, blood loss, thirst, and hunger was a miracle—or by cruel design. Even as the one Eirdkilr stepped back and pulled up his breeches, another came forward with a cup of water, which he poured into Harlund’s gaping mouth. The blacksmith managed to choke down a few mouthfuls. Just enough to keep him alive and miserable the entire time.

Every instinct within Aravon shrieked at him to do something. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sheathed sword until his knuckles whitened. He couldn’t simply stand by and watch while the Eirdkilrs tortured a civilian. Every warrior prepared to die in battle, and the execution of prisoners of war was a common practice. But this…this was an atrocity, proof of the Eirdkilrs’ barbaric nature.

Worse, the captive was the Prince’s agent. He’d been the source of the information about Tyr Farbjodr’s plan to unleash his next offensive after the Feast of Death. The man who lay bound, bleeding, and slowly dying was supposed to furnish them with a map of the Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains, perhaps even give them an idea where to find the Eirdkilr commander.

If he died here, their mission would fail. At the very least, they’d be walking empty-handed into the unknown, with no idea where they needed to go and far too little time to complete their task.

He had only one choice. We have to free him.

They needed the intelligence only Harlund could provide and his help to navigate the southern Myrr lands safely. And, if they could put an end to the man’s suffering, he owed it to the Prince’s loyal agent to do so. Perhaps Rangvaldr and his healing stones might even offer the man a chance at life. Well away from Kaldrborg, certainly. In the Princelands, with the Prince’s gratitude for his service to the Crown.

The knots returned to Aravon’s shoulders as his eyes rose from the captive Harlund to the Eirdkilrs. As usual, that’s going to be easier said than done.

Fifty Eirdkilrs had clustered around the prisoner, but Aravon had encountered another sixty or seventy in the streets and marketplace of Kaldrborg. West of the broad square, beyond the jeering, mocking Eirdkilrs standing over Harlund, Aravon caught sight of what looked like an Eirdkilr camp—scores of crude hide tents standing in disorganized ranks. Only this camp had a far more permanent appearance—heavy logs had been bound together and driven into the earth to form a Legion-style palisade wall ten feet tall. The enclosure was a crude, circular thing close to a hundred yards in diameter. Aravon guessed it held space enough for two to three hundred Eirdkilrs.

The fact that the barbarians had any sort of established camp was an oddity in itself. Eirdkilrs tended to roam, raiding and pillaging, striking at their enemy—Princelanders and their Fehlan allies—before disappearing into the heavily-forested and mountainous terrain of southern Fehl. That tactic had made it impossible for the Legion to march against them. They occupied no strongholds—aside from Snowpass Keep on the western pass through the Sawtooth Mountains—and held no land. Instead, they’d contented themselves harassing all of southern Fehl, as unpredictable and unstoppable as the harsh sea winds.

But the presence of a camp here wasn’t the only unusual aspect of these Eirdkilrs. As Aravon got a closer look at them, he realized they had as much in common with the Myrr as they did with their own Tauld clan. Their hair was darker, their features narrower, and they lacked the towering build of the Eirdkilrs Aravon had seen thus far. Indeed, they appeared lean, more like wolfhounds than the brutish, ursine physique of most Eirdkilrs. The war paint staining their faces was a deep black rather than Eirdkilr blue. In place of ice bear pelts, they wore the shaggy brown furs taken from the Sawtooth grizzly bears that roamed the northern fringes of the mountain range.

A soft nudge of Aravon’s shoulder tore him away from his examination of the Eirdkilrs. Colborn stood beside him, his face an expressionless mask, but icy chill in his blue eyes.

“We’re not leaving him to die like this.” The Lieutenant spoke in the silent hand language, his hands close to his broad chest, but the intensity of his gaze was louder than any shout.

Aravon gave a slight shake of his head. “No, we’re not.”

“So what’s the plan, then?” Colborn quirked an eyebrow, just a fraction. “Nineteen of us are nowhere near enough to pull off a proper raid. Stealth and surprise are our best chance.”

Aravon nodded and glanced up. The sky seemed to mirror Harlund’s suffering, with threads of deep purple and crimson splashed through the gold that painted the darkening sky.

“We’ve got an hour until dark.” The wheels in his mind began to turn, the parts of a plan clicking into place. “Time enough to get back to the others if you hurry. Tell Zaharis I said, ‘the night after the Waeggbjod’. He’ll know what it means.”

The corner of Colborn’s mouth twitched up into a half-smile and, with a nod, he slipped through the crowds, heading northeast. The few Fehlans near the open square seemed not to notice his departure, too busy frowning at the torments inflicted on their fellow townsman.

Aravon scanned the massed Myrr until he found Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn stood twenty feet to the south, but as he caught sight of Aravon, he slipped through the throng and rejoined him.

“Find Harlund’s smithy,” Aravon signed before the Seiomenn raised any question. “And see about finding us the fastest way to get there unseen.”

A querying look formed in Rangvaldr’s eyes, but he simply nodded and turned to depart as well.

“People of Kaldrborg!” A snarling shout from among the Eirdkilrs snapped Aravon’s attention back to Harlund and his captors.

The barbarian who stepped forward from his comrades was tall and lean, with a heavy, thick face that could have belonged to the bear from which he’d taken his fur cloak.

“Look well at this traitor!” he growled in the Eirdkilrs’ guttural bastardization of the Fehlan language. He thrust a strong, scarred finger toward the bound Harlund. “This man—this festering maggot of a coward—has betrayed you and betrayed us.” Hatred blazed in his eyes and edged his voice with iron. “He turned his back on our ways, our people, our blood!”

The Eirdkilrs snarled curses at the man, and even a few of the Myrr joined in, spitting on his bloody body or hurling rotted produce.

“And so,” the Eirdkilr continued, “he will face the ultimate punishment: dismemberment, disemboweling, and death!” His shout rang across the open ground between the people and the palisade enclosure. “He will die without his eyes, his tongue, his arms, his legs, and his guts. And in death, Megin will turn him away. Will cast him out into Helgrindr and eternal darkness as he deserves for his treachery!”

That sent ripples of muttering among the crowd. Fehlans had a strong belief in the afterlife—the feasting table of Seggrholl, where they sat beside their clan god. Aravon had seen proud, strong warriors weep at the prospect of damnation. The Fjall that betrayed their Hilmir had thrown themselves onto their enemy’s swords in a desperate attempt to regain their honor and die a warrior’s death.

“But with his death, we will honor Megin as we honor Bani!” A triumphant light shone in the Eirdkilr’s eyes and he raised a clenched fist. “When the Fjorlagerfa is upon us, his essence will be given to our gods.”

Steel glinted in the light of the setting sun as he drew a dagger. Kneeling beside Harlund, he carved the two runes—Tauld and traitor—into his forehead. Harsh laughter bubbled from his throat, rising higher and growing louder at the weak struggles of the blacksmith.

When he stood once more, he lifted the dagger, stained red with Harlund’s blood, high over his head. “The earth will feast on his flesh, blood, and bones. The stain of his existence will be erased, and in its place, a glorious gift to our gods.” The fire burning on his face grew manic, bordering on insane. “Hail Megin! Hail Bani, Mighty Destroyer!”

The Eirdkilrs took up the cries of “Hail Bani!” and “Mighty Destroyer!”, and a few of the Myrr added their own halfhearted calls of “Hail Megin!”—doubtless as much out of fear of the Eirdkilrs as reverence of their god.

Nausea twisted in Aravon’s stomach. They plan to sacrifice him at the Feast of Death. The thought of such a grim sacrifice made him sick, but the sight of the blacksmith’s flesh, cut to ribbons and seeping blood from countless wounds, sent a chill of dread through him. Which means they plan to keep him alive until then.

The Feast of Death was ten days away. The Eirdkilrs planned to keep Harlund alive for ten more days. That was why they hadn’t carved deep into his flesh and pulled out his organs as the Blood Queen had done to the Hilmir’s Fjall. They intended to prolong his death until they could sacrifice him to their bloodthirsty god.

Aravon’s fists clenched so tightly that his hands shook. I’ll be damned if I let that happen. With effort, he tore his eyes away from the Eirdkilrs and their tormented captive. His gaze once again roamed the palisade enclosure, sizing up the target.

When night fell and Zaharis made his move, Aravon would be ready.

Chapter Nineteen

Where are you, Zaharis?

Worry furrowed Aravon’s brow. The last threads of sunset had faded into darkness nearly an hour earlier, and still no sign of the Grim Reavers. He had no doubt Zaharis understood his message, but had something happened to delay him? Had their small company of soldiers been discovered in the forest, or in the darkness as they slipped toward Kaldrborg?

Nervous, Aravon shuffled in place, cast an anxious glance at Rangvaldr.

“They’ll come,” the Seiomenn signed. The darkness of night played tricks with his snarling greatwolf mask, casting shadows on his green eyes. Despite the gloom that seemed to hang over him—had hung over him since they first rode south of the Chain—he appeared calm. “Magicmaker won’t let us down.”

Aravon knew the man was right—Zaharis had come through for them time and again. Fiery hells, all the Grim Reavers had. Every time he asked more of them, they rose to the challenge. From the first battle at Bjornstadt to the siege of Icespire, the Grim Reavers had more than earned his trust.

But that didn’t stop him from worrying, as every good officer should. Any number of things could have gone wrong in the last three hours. Colborn might have been recognized as a Deid among the Myrr. The Eirdkilrs could have spotted him slipping into the forest and discovered the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires hiding there. The earth-and-wood wall surrounding the town shouldn’t have given his soldiers much trouble—the guards at the gate certainly wouldn’t be difficult for Zaharis, Colborn, and Noll to dispatch unseen—but any number of things could have gone wrong as they executed their plan.

That was ever the way of things. Every minute leading up to the battle spent in constant contemplation, going over and over the plan in his mind. The unceasing anxiety only stilled when the battle commenced. Fighting for his life had a tendency to make everything go dangerously quiet in his mind, until only the enemy remained.

As ever, the waiting grated on his nerves. The Eirdkilrs stood guard over Harlund less than twenty yards from where he and Rangvaldr lingered in the shadows of a Myrr longhouse, near the southeastern corner of the Kaldrborg marketplace. At any moment, the barbarians could look over, spot them hiding there. The last thing he wanted was to raise suspicions before—

Fire burst to life within the Eirdkilr enclosure, a brilliant wall of red and orange that reached flaming fingers toward the crude hide tents. A thunderous whooshing of air echoed above the noise of the Eirdkilrs, and the brightness grew blinding as the pillars of fire consumed the tents along the western edge of the wooden palisade wall.

Screams of panic, alarm, and agony rang out in the camp. Eirdkilrs stumbled from within their burning tents, hair, beards, and furs ablaze, shrieking and thrashing as the flames devoured their flesh. Cries of confusion and dismay echoed inside the enclosure as the Eirdkilrs found themselves under assault from an enemy they could not see, one that wielded fire with an invisible hand.

The ten Eirdkilrs standing guard over Harlund spun toward the sudden sound and the burning flames that consumed their camp. Surprise and shock rooted them in place for long seconds. The screaming grew louder as more tents burned, more fur-clad giants succumbed to the ravenous, fast-moving flames. Fires seemed to spring from the bowels of the earth itself, blazing to life at random spots around the camp.

Shouting in alarm, the Eirdkilrs charged into the camp, joining the throng milling about in confusion or scrambling around to put out the flames ravaging their homes and killing their comrades. Within seconds, only three remained to stand guard over the bound Harlund.

Yes! Aravon’s heart leapt. He and Rangvaldr could take on three Eirdkilrs any day. Especially Eirdkilrs with their eyes locked on the brilliant fire.

“Take the one on the left,” Aravon signed.

With a nod, Rangvaldr drew his sword. “Let’s do this.”

Aravon led the way out of the muddy lane between two wattle-and-daub buildings and raced through the marketplace, clinging to the shadows of the now-empty wood-and-canvas stalls. Spear held low, eyes locked on the Eirdkilrs, he moved at a stealthy run, careful to keep his footfalls light. Silent and deadly—they’d hit the barbarians before they knew it.

Five paces away from the giants, a loud splash echoed from behind and beside Aravon—Rangvaldr’s boot hitting a puddle of stagnant water. One of the three Eirdkilrs half-turned, glancing over his shoulder, and his eyes flew wide at the sight of Aravon. Aravon had only a split second to act. Without hesitation, he whipped his arm up and forward. The spear flew from his hand and slammed into the Eirdkilr. Steel sliced through fur, leather, and flesh, the twelve-inch spearhead buried to the crossbar in the Eirdkilr’s chest. The barbarian could only summon a gurgling, rasping gasp and coughed blood as he fell to one knee. The iron-studded club fell from numb fingers and clattered on the stone three inches from Harlund’s head.

For a heartbeat, Aravon dared to hope the shouts of alarm had masked the sound of the falling weapon and the Eirdkilr’s death rattles. That faint hope shattered as the second Eirdkilr turned. Turned and found Aravon charging toward him, empty-handed, sword still sheathed and spear embedded in the body of his comrade. Rage twisted the Eirdkilr’s face and he brought his huge axe whirling across in a blow aimed at Aravon’s neck.

Time slowed to a crawl as the massive weapon hurtled toward Aravon’s head. He had only an instant to react—he threw himself into a desperate backpedal, just outside the axe’s deadly range. Barely. The steel head carved a long, shallow furrow across his pauldron, missing the flesh of his neck by the width of a hair.

Rangvaldr barreled past Aravon and slammed into the Eirdkilr shield-first. The steel boss slammed into the Eirdkilr’s arm and chest with bone-crunching force, and the huge axe went flying from his hands. Before the barbarian could recover, a swing of Rangvaldr’s sword sliced through his braided beard and opened his throat. Blood gushed to the muddy streets, staining the muck and the bright yellow hair a filthy crimson.

The third Eirdkilr, caught off-guard by the attacks, raised his spear to strike, but Aravon was quicker. His sword whispered free of its sheath, the razor-sharp tip flicking toward the Eirdkilr’s right arm. Steel hacked through flesh and bone. Blood gushed from the stump of the Eirdkilr’s forearm as the severed hand spun away. Before the barbarian could open his mouth to howl in agony or unleash a war cry, Rangvaldr’s sword removed his massive head.

Three seconds, and the battle was over. Adrenaline set Aravon’s hands shaking as he gripped the haft of his spear and wrenched it free of the Eirdkilr’s chest, spattering the muddy, blood-soaked ground around the captive Harlund with fresh drops of crimson.

“Cut him loose!” Aravon hissed to Rangvaldr. The sounds of the chaos within the enclosure muffled his voice. The Eirdkilrs frantically trying to put out the flames and find the attacking enemy hadn’t noticed the two of them—yet.

As Rangvaldr hacked through the ropes binding Harlund’s wrists and ankles to the stakes, Aravon shrugged out of his heavy cloak. The Fehlan spy was shivering—from cold, hunger, thirst, and blood loss—and Aravon had no desire to worsen his discomfort. But to get to safety, he had to haul the man away.

Handing his spear to Rangvaldr, he threw his cloak over the delirious Harlund. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around the shredded ribbons of flesh and muscle that had once been the smith’s torso. Harlund made no protest; he barely had the strength for a weak moan of pain. With a grunt of effort, Aravon lifted the blacksmith onto one shoulder.

Aravon glanced back at the Eirdkilrs, just in time to see two massive figures bursting from the shadows of a nearby street. Belthar and Endyn thundered straight toward the wall and lowered their shoulders, ramming into the wooden logs with the force of charging warhorses. Logs splintered, ropes snapped, and a massive section of the palisade wall toppled inward, crashing atop the Eirdkilrs and tents along the enclosure’s northern side. The screams of fury, panic, and confusion redoubled at the sudden collapse.

A grin touched Aravon’s lips. That’ll buy us a few minutes to get the bloody hell out of here!

He spun toward Rangvaldr and found the Seiomenn had already turned and raced off through the marketplace. Aravon followed, his eyes tracking the fur-clad figure’s path between the wooden stalls and around the muddy puddles and wood-paved lanes of the market. His back and shoulders protested beneath the weight of the blacksmith, but for a man his size, he weighed far less than Aravon expected. Days of torment, hunger, and thirst had drained the strength from his limbs and the life from his body.

Through the marketplace they ran, Aravon doggedly following in Rangvaldr’s footsteps. Despite the evening chill, sweat soon streamed down his face and soaked his tunic. His heart hammered a pounding beat in his chest, his legs burning with the effort of the sustained sprint.

Hope surged within him as Rangvaldr ducked into the shadows of a darkened alleyway between two close-set wooden homes. No moonlight pierced the thick thatching of the overlapping roofs; the moment he disappeared into the darkness, the Eirdkilrs would never—

Howls of rage shattered the night behind him. Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder, and his heart sank. Keeper’s teeth! Five Eirdkilrs stood over the corpses of their comrades, eyes locked on the shadows of Kaldrborg.

Though the barbarians could have no idea which way their escaped captive had gone—or how in the fiery hell the half-dead blacksmith had managed to kill his guards and break his bonds—they’d be hunting him through every corner of the town now. Those not busy trying to control the spread of the flames consuming the enclosure and hunting their mysterious attackers would soon flood the streets in pursuit.

We’ve got to get indoors and out of sight!

Thankfully, he’d prepared for just such an eventuality. Rangvaldr hurried through the back streets of Kaldrborg, cutting a path directly toward the blacksmith’s shop as Aravon had instructed.

Aravon grimaced as their route led beneath low-hanging roof eaves, between buildings set far too close together, and through puddles of ankle-deep mud. The muck and mire of the narrow lanes clung to his boots and dragged on his legs, adding to the exhaustion of hauling the blacksmith. His back groaned in protest as he stood beneath a low thatched roof, twinging as he twisted to slide his body and the man on his shoulder between two mud-daubed walls. His breath came in gasps that sounded far too loud beneath the thundering of his pulse in his ears.

Yet he dared not slow for a rest. The sounds of the Eirdkilrs pursuing their freed captive echoed loud between the houses of Kaldrborg, and the light of torches shone close enough behind the two Grim Reavers that Aravon knew they’d be caught if they stopped.

Their only hope was to reach Harlund’s smithy and get out of sight before the Eirdkilrs flooded the town.

Come on! He gritted his teeth against the fire coursing along his spine and down his legs. Just a little farther, right? He had no idea how far away the smithy was; all that mattered was that he kept running, kept moving until they found safety.

They burst out of a muddy lane onto a larger wood-paved street, and Rangvaldr raced across the thoroughfare toward a squat building of stone and fire-hardened clay bricks. “Here!” he hissed. He didn’t bother lifting the latch or checking for a lock; he simply drove his shoulder into the door. Wood splintered and the door flew inward. Rangvaldr rushed inside and darted into the darkness within Harlund’s smithy.

At that moment, torches brightened the street not a hundred yards from where Aravon stood. A band of five Eirdkilrs raced into view, shouting at the top of their lungs.

Aravon’s heart clenched, ice slithering down his veins. He had no time to consider whether or not they’d spotted him—he could only race across the street, Harlund bouncing atop his back, and throw himself into the shadows of the forge. He’d barely crossed the threshold when Rangvaldr closed the door as quickly and quietly as he could manage.

But being here in the smithy didn’t mean they were safe. It was only a matter of time before the Eirdkilrs recovered from their surprise at the sudden attack and hunted down the traitorous Myrr. They had to know who Harlund was, which meant they knew to come to his shop. Those Eirdkilrs up the road could even now be on their way here. And if they broke into Harlund’s smithy, they’d find Aravon and Rangvaldr with the traitor.

Five Eirdkilrs, the two of them could take, with difficulty. But if the barbarians trapped him and Rangvaldr here, there would be no way out.

Chapter Twenty

The smell of burned charcoal, heated metal, and singed flesh hung thick in the smithy, but no heat rose from the forge. The bellows remained silent, the hearth gone cold.

Aravon set Harlund down on a wooden work table as gently as he could and, removing his cloak, rolled the blacksmith onto his back. The man made no protest, didn’t so much as groan. When Aravon placed his ear close to the Fehlan’s lips, he heard only the faintest breath sounds. Relief flooded him—Harlund hadn’t yet died, simply fallen unconscious during their flight through the marketplace and the back streets of Kaldrborg. A merciful, if momentary, release from his pain.

A thick reek of rotting flesh rose from Harlund’s face, neck, chest, and stomach. Aravon grimaced; infection had set in to the man’s wounds. He’d seen Legionnaires losing limbs or even dying from putrefaction far less severe. There was only one hope for the blacksmith now.

Aravon rounded on Rangvaldr. “Heal him!” His harsh whisper sounded eerily loud in the silence of the smithy, with the howls of the Eirdkilrs hunting them a nerve-wracking backdrop to underscore their dire circumstances. “Quickly, before they find us.”

To his surprise, Rangvaldr made no move to draw out his pendant. The Seiomenn seemed frozen in place, his eyes locked on the bleeding, dying Harlund.

“Rangvaldr!” Aravon hissed louder. “Hurry up!”

The Seiomenn’s gaze lifted from the blacksmith on the table to Aravon. A strange look entered his eyes. “I…can’t,” he said in a strangled voice.

“What?!” Aravon’s eyes flew wide. “What do you mean, you can’t? We need him alive! You’ve got a few seconds before the Eirdkilrs find us, more than enough time to heal him and put the stone away where they can’t see the glow.”

Again, something strange flashed in the Seiomenn’s eyes. “I—” he began, but stopped and seemed to reconsider whatever he’d been about to say. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the pendant and drew it out. He cradled the stone in his hands with the same reverence as always, yet his movements held a new uncertainty—or fear—Aravon didn’t understand.

But, as Rangvaldr lifted the pendant to his lips and spoke the words of power, the stone flared to life. The soft blue glow filled the smithy, glinting off the metal tools and weapons that hung from the walls or sat on the tables. The light cast Rangvaldr’s masked face in even deeper shadows. Aravon didn’t understand why the Seiomenn hesitated, but now wasn’t the time.

“Quickly!” He glanced over his shoulder; the cries of the Eirdkilrs grew louder with every passing second.

Rangvaldr stepped up to the unconscious blacksmith and pressed the stone to his chest. But he’d barely touched the man’s flesh for more than a second before he pulled the holy stone away.

“No.” He shook his head. “It won’t work.”

“What are you talking about?” Aravon’s eyes went from the glowing stone in the Seiomenn’s hands to the bleeding Harlund. “The magic is working. It—”

“Would require too much of me.” Tension and dread echoed in Rangvaldr’s voice. “The damage to his body—his lungs, his organs, his heart, his muscles, the infection—is too much. I could expend every shred of strength I had, and still it would not suffice to keep him alive.” He gave a curt shake of his head. “He is beyond my healing.”

Aravon’s jaw dropped. He’d never expected to hear that from Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn had nearly killed himself healing Fehlan warriors and Legionnaires at the Battle of Hangman’s Hill, and caring for the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve. If Harlund’s wounds truly were beyond his ability to heal, it was a marvel the man still lived.

“Healing him would kill me.” The shadows in Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened. “And still, there would be no guarantee he would survive his wounds and the infection.” A moment’s hesitation, and his gaze dropped away. “Our mission to stop Tyr Farbjodr is more important than one man’s life.”

The statement rocked Aravon to the core and his jaw dropped. Had he truly heard those words from Rangvaldr’s mouth?

His mind raced. “Then at least heal him enough that he can talk,” Aravon said. “We need the information that’ll get us to the Eirdkilr commander and anything else he can give us.” He fixed the Seiomenn with a piercing glare. “Just bring him back to consciousness so I can speak to him.”

After a second of deep contemplation, Rangvaldr nodded. “So be it.” He stepped up to the man, the stone in his hand still glowing bright blue. “But he will be in great agony. You must keep him quiet, lest we are discovered.”

Closing his eyes, Rangvaldr pressed the stone to Harlund’s forehead. The wounds on the blacksmith’s face began to close and his eyes fluttered behind their lids. But a moment later, the Seiomenn pulled the stone away and tucked it beneath his shirt, his face an unreadable mask of stone.

But Aravon had no time to wonder at Rangvaldr’s strange behavior. Harlund’s eyelids opened and he drew in a shuddering breath. Aravon clamped a hand down over the blacksmith’s mouth and pressed a finger to his lips. Panic flooded Harlund’s eyes and he tried to shrink away. Too weak to move, he simply gave up any attempt at resistance, his eyes closing once more.

Slowly, Aravon removed his hand. “Harlund.” He spoke in Fehlan, but gestured to draw the man’s attention to his Princelander features. “Your message to Prince Toran said you had information.”

Harlund’s eyelids popped open again and his gaze fixed on Aravon. “Who…?” he asked in a weak, barely audible voice. Confusion twisted his Fehlan features. “What…?”

“There’s no time for that.” From within his cloak, Aravon withdrew the Prince’s silver coin and held it up before the man’s eyes. “We need the information you promised the Prince.”

“In…formation,” Harlund croaked, his voice weak, barely audible. He shivered despite the absence of chill, fever and the pain of infection setting his body shaking.

“About Tyr Farbjodr,” Aravon pressed. “And a map of the Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains.”

“Map.” Harlund gasped as a fresh wave of torment washed over him. Agony set the muscles of his face twitching. “Map!”

“Aravon,” Rangvaldr murmured in the tongue of the Princelands. “You need to hurry.” The Seiomenn stood by the closed door. “They’re getting closer.”

Aravon gritted his teeth. The Eirdkilrs had to know Harlund’s identity; they’d be here any minute. He had to hurry to get what he needed before they were discovered.

“Where is the map?” he pressed. “Where can I find it? Where can I find Tyr Farbjodr?”

“Map…in—” He muttered a Fehlan word Aravon didn’t recognize.

“Hoard,” Rangvaldr translated into the Princelander tongue. “Hidden somewhere.”

“Where?” Aravon demanded. “Where is it hidden?”

“Look…under…my anvil.” A defiant light gleamed in Harlund’s eyes, and despite his pain, a savage smile twisted his face. “Bastards…would never…think to search…there!”

Aravon grinned. “Damned right they wouldn’t.” He gripped Harlund’s hand tighter. “A bloody clever hiding place, that is.”

Harlund’s face brightened despite the wracking pain. “I didn’t think…anyone would come…once the Rakki…took me.” He gave a weak shake of his head. “I thought…I would…die alone. A traitor…to my people…they called me.”

“No.” Aravon shook his head. “You’re no traitor.” Steel edged his voice. “You’re doing this to help your people. To free them from the Eirdkilrs, and bring peace to Fehl.”

“Peace…to Fehl.” A beatific smile broadened his lips and his eyes closed. “Stop…Tyr Farbjodr.” His voice dropped to a breathy whisper, so low Aravon had to place his ear to Harlund’s lips. With one weak, rasping breath, the smith managed to form a word. “Praell…boer.”

It would be the last word to pass his lips. The air rattled quietly from his lungs, and his heart gave a final beat before it fell silent. Harlund’s hand slackened in Aravon’s grip.

Aravon found he, too, could not draw breath. He stared down at the blacksmith—the man who had given his life to help the Princelands, to help his own people. With that sacrifice, Harlund could very well end the Eirdkilr War and restore peace to Fehl.

“Aravon,” Rangvaldr growled. “We’ve got to get that map and get out of here.”

But Aravon made no move. He gripped Harlund’s hand, remained at the man’s side for a few moments more. After all Harlund had given to help them, he owed the Fehlan that much.

The Prince owes you a debt of gratitude, as do we all. He passed a hand over the blacksmith’s eyes. Your service will not be forgotten. May you find rest in the arms of your god, and the peace of eternity forever more.

The moment of silence was shattered by Rangvaldr’s insistent voice. “Aravon!” The Seiomenn’s hand closed on Aravon’s shoulder and pulled him away. “Now!”

Aravon allowed the Seiomenn to haul him deeper into the smithy. He had to escape the Eirdkilrs, else Harlund’s sacrifice would be in vain.

The blacksmith’s single-horn anvil stood atop a cast iron base built around a thick hardwood log. One glance at the massive thing and Aravon knew he and Rangvaldr would never have a chance of moving it. Which meant Harlund hadn’t moved it, either.

Wherever he hid the map, it’s got to be somewhere accessible without shifting the anvil.

The sounds of approaching Eirdkilrs sent Aravon’s heart leaping into his throat. Dropping to one knee, he felt around the wood and iron base supporting the anvil, fumbling in the darkness for anything that could be—

Yes! His fingers encountered a crack in the base of the log, and one small piece of the hardwood moved at his touch. Digging his fingernails into the crack, he tugged the chunk of wood. It slipped free to reveal a small nook set into the bottom of the log. Triumph burned bright within Aravon as he drew out the small, rolled-up strip of animal hide from within.

He had no time to examine his prize. At that moment, the smithy’s front door burst open and torchlight flooded the main chamber. Aravon and Rangvaldr, hidden in the shadows at the rear of the forge, had only a heartbeat to race toward the back door before Eirdkilrs rushed into the smithy. Their howls of rage echoed loud—doubtless at sight of Harlund’s corpse atop the table—covering the sound of Rangvaldr and Aravon leaping out the door and rushing into the muddy lane behind the smithy.

Aravon’s heart hammered a frantic beat in his chest. The Eirdkilrs were mere steps behind him. On foot, he and Rangvaldr had little hope of outrunning the giants. Their only chance of survival was to lose the Eirdkilrs among the muddy back streets of Kaldrborg.

But even as the two Grim Reavers ducked beneath thatched roofs and darted between close-set wooden houses, the cries and shouts of the Eirdkilrs rang out behind them. Heavy boots splashed through the muck, drawing nearer with every passing second. Panic dug icy fingers into the back of Aravon’s mind—the Eirdkilrs would catch up long before he and Rangvaldr escaped Kaldrborg.

He refused to give in to the fear that threatened to turn his limbs to ice. They’d come too far, fought too hard to fail now. Harlund had given his life to pass on the critical information. Aravon would be damned if he let a handful of Eirdkilrs stop him from completing his mission!

“Spear!” he hissed to Rangvaldr.

Without slowing, the Seiomenn tossed Aravon his spear and drew his sword. Together, they raced through the narrow back lanes, their boots splashing through the mud, spraying muck and stagnant water onto the walls of the houses they passed. Yet, with every step, the light of the torches grew brighter, the cries of the Eirdkilrs drawing nearer.

Fear spiked within Aravon. Any contact with the enemy would slow down their flight, giving reinforcements time to catch up. In the middle of an Eirdkilr-held city, that could prove fatal. Escape was their only hope of survival.

They burst from a narrow lane and sprinted to the left, in the direction of the city gate, only to find themselves facing a handful of torch-bearing Eirdkilrs. Before Aravon and Rangvaldr could backtrack, the barbarians spotted them. Howling with glee, the five giants raced toward the two Grim Reavers, massive axes, clubs, and spears waving in the air.

Keeper’s teeth! Aravon planted his feet and braced for the charge. Five Eirdkilrs against the two of them—terrible odds any day, but he’d fight to his last breath if it meant—

Dark shapes thundered past Aravon and Rangvaldr. Heavy hooves splashed in the muck as three enormous warhorses charged straight toward the five Eirdkilrs. A longsword flashed once, twice. Crimson misted in the air, a grisly fountain bubbling up from deep gashes in an Eirdkilr’s neck.

A second managed to let out a howling cry, but it turned to one of agony a moment later. The giant fell, clawing at his face—at the furry creature digging razor-sharp talons into his cheeks, gouging out his eyes, clawing at his nose.

Colborn and the horses riding at his back simply trampled the remaining Eirdkilrs before the giants could think to cry out or raise their shields. By the time the Lieutenant reined in, Snarl had torn the last Eirdkilr’s face to shreds, and blood seeped from five deep gashes along the side and front of his neck.

Colborn twisted in his saddle. “Get a move on, Captain!” he called in Fehlan. “We don’t have all night.”

Aravon’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the lead rope gripped in Colborn’s left hand. Two horses with empty saddles reared and snorted at the Eirdkilrs—one drove his metal-shod hoof down into the shredded face of the dying barbarian with bone-crunching force.

Racing toward the horses, Aravon and Rangvaldr leapt into their saddles. He didn’t bother asking how he’d found them—Snarl had doubtless led him—or how he’d gotten into the city. The Eirdkilrs that pursued them from Harlund’s smithy were seconds away.

“The rest?” Aravon asked, also in Fehlan.

“They’ll meet us,” was all Colborn said. Digging his heels into his horse’s ribs, he set off at a mad gallop. Aravon and Rangvaldr spurred their mounts to follow. The flapping of wings in the darkness told Aravon that Snarl shadowed them from above.

Through the muddy back lanes and side streets of Kaldrborg they charged, following Colborn’s lead. The northeastern entrance to the town loomed ahead of them, the wooden gates thrown open and the two Fehlan guards knocked unconscious.

Yes! Aravon’s heart leapt as he and his Grim Reavers charged through the outskirts of the Myrr town and into the darkness of the plains beyond. Against all odds, they’d infiltrated the city, gotten the information, and escaped with their lives. Harlund had died, but thanks to his sacrifice, Aravon now knew where to find Tyr Farbjodr.

Praellboer. He’d have to consult the animal hide map Harlund had hidden beneath his anvil, but he clung to the hope that the dying blacksmith’s whispered words would point them aright.

Now we’ve just got to get away from Kaldrborg before—

As if on cue, the howls of the Eirdkilrs echoed through the streets of Kaldrborg. Aravon risked a glance back, and his heart sank. Dozens of the lean, fur-clad giants now raced through the open gate and pursued them through the town and out into the plains.

Chapter Twenty-One

Aravon’s gut clenched at the piercing war cries that reverberated through the streets of outer Kaldrborg. The sound pursued him, Colborn, and Rangvaldr into the darkness of the plains south of the Myrr town.

Another glance over his shoulder, and icy feet marched down his spine. Close to seventy Eirdkilrs were now visible running through the muddy, wood-paved lanes, torches flickering from the night wind and the haste of their pursuit. Though the giant barbarians were too far behind to spot the three Grim Reavers racing across the plains, not even a blind man would miss the signs of their flight. The thundering hooves of the massive Kostarasar chargers left deep divots in the mud and tore up the ground, sending chunks of sod and grass flying. With nothing but open flatland bordering the Myrr town for nearly two miles south, Aravon and his companions would have to ride hard and far to shake their pursuers.

Gritting his teeth, Aravon bent lower in his saddle and clung to his horse’s mane. The exertions of the last few days of travel through the Jarnleikr and Myrr highlands had taken a toll on his body, and every muscle ached in protest at the pounding pace of his horse. Twinges of pain ran down his spine; hauling the heavy blacksmith had strained something, and the mad dash through the muddy back alleys of Kaldrborg hadn’t helped.

But he bit down hard on the sensations, forced himself to ignore them. He could rest later, after they escaped the Eirdkilrs hunting them.

His heart hammered a staccato beat, thumping in time with the horses’ fast-flying hooves. Mind racing, he scanned the night ahead, searching the darkened landscape for anything that could serve to conceal them from their pursuers.

There! Two or three miles south—hard to tell in the darkness of the moon-lit night—the grasslands rose to hill country, rolling grassy ridges dotted with towering evergreens and thick shrubs. They could lose the Eirdkilrs amidst the trees, then cut sharply westward back toward their original path south to Cliffpass.

Aravon glanced over his shoulder again. The torches hadn’t drawn closer, but the Eirdkilrs hadn’t fallen far behind, either. Indeed, they appeared to be cutting directly toward the fleeing Grim Reavers. The enemy had found their horses’ tracks, as he feared.

Straight toward the hills the three Grim Reavers rode, crouched low in their saddles, clinging to their mounts with strength born of grim desperation. The wind seemed to carry the Eirdkilrs’ howling to Aravon’s ears, setting his already-taut nerves on razor’s edge.

Yet the next time he looked back, a faint hint of hope blossomed within him. The torches had fallen behind—the Kostarasar chargers gaining some distance on the Eirdkilrs running on foot—and spread out to the east and west. Perhaps the Eirdkilrs hadn’t found their tracks. Or, perhaps they’d simply failed to realize the significance of those hoofprints in the soft, grassy plains.

A fierce smile tugged at Aravon’s lips and he bent low over his horse’s neck once more. Triumph burned bright in his chest, pushing back the fatigue. They’d gotten out of Kaldrborg in one piece and, by the Swordsman’s grace, they would leave their pursuers far behind. He had to trust Zaharis, Belthar, Endyn, and whoever else had played a role in the diversionary attack on the Eirdkilrs’ palisade camp would also evade pursuit.

By the time the three Grim Reavers rode up the incline and crested the wooded hill, the howls of the Eirdkilrs had diminished to faint cries, barely audible from the distance. The sound faded altogether as Aravon charged down the far side of the hill and pushed through the sparse forest beyond.

On the three rode, deeper into the forested hills, their path cutting sharply to the southeast. For an hour or more they traveled, until finally Colborn called a halt for sake of the horses. The mad dash from Kaldrborg left the already-exhausted mounts winded, blowing, and lathered in sweat. A small stream provided the horses with fresh, cool water—water that Aravon gulped down as greedily as his mount. Sweat soaked his undertunic and streamed down his face, and the evening breeze caressed chilly fingers across his flushed cheeks.

Thirst slaked, he rose to his feet and tried to listen for any signs of pursuit—his pulse pounded so loud in his ears, and the sound of his gasping seemed deafening in the cool, silent darkness. Yet, after long seconds of listening, he heard nothing but the sounds of the trickling stream, the snuffling of the horses, and the song of evening forest birds.

“We lost them.”

“For now.” A grim note echoed in Colborn’s voice.

Rangvaldr nodded. “The Rakki won’t stop coming until they find us.” A sliver of pale moonlight cast the lines of his face in a glow as grim as his voice.

“The Rakki?” Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Harlund spoke of them before he died. Are those the Eirdkilrs hunting us?”

“Aye.” Rangvaldr gave a slow nod. “The word Rakki is Tauld. It means dog, but more an insult. Similar to your Princelander ‘cur’. A mixed-breed mutt, a pariah even among its own kind.”

Aravon didn’t miss the slight stiffening of Colborn’s posture, the tightening of his shoulders. His father, the cowardly Lord Derran of Whitevale, had treated him in similar fashion.

“The Rakki are those bastards born of Eirdkilrs having their way with the women of Fehl.” A frown darkened the Seiomenn’s face. “When they are born, they are cast out of their clan. But the Eirdkilrs will not take them, either. They are seen as weak, inferior.”

“They didn’t look either,” Aravon said. The Eirdkilrs back in Kaldrborg had been only fractionally shorter and leaner than those he’d spent the last fifteen years fighting.

“To the Tauld, they are outcast, inferior.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “Only those Rakki who prove themselves worthy of their forefathers are ever welcomed into the Tauld.”

“Prove themselves.” Aravon’s gut twisted; knowing the Eirdkilrs, it would doubtless be a test of bloodthirst and cruelty.

Rangvaldr nodded. “They serve as the Eirdkilrs’ enforcers among the southern clans. It falls to them to ensure the tributes are delivered, and they hunt men like Harlund, agents of the Princelands and the Fehlan clans disloyal to the Tauld.”

Aravon grimaced. He had no need to imagine what sort of torments they’d inflict on any uncovered—Harlund had died in front of him, succumbing to infection, fatigue, and hundreds of wounds.

“The northern clans have been fortunate to remain free of the Rakki presence,” Rangvaldr continued. “But we are in their land now, and they will be hunting us.” His tone grew even grimmer. “If we are to have any hope of success, we cannot afford to rest until we are someplace they cannot follow.”

“Indeed.” Aravon turned to Colborn. “I take it you’ve set a meeting point with the others?”

Colborn shook his head. “Snarl will lead us to them once they’re clear.” He gestured to the Enfield, who had landed and was now alternating between lapping at the cold stream water and darting around the clearing in pursuit of night birds. “But we should wait until we’re certain Lingram and the others are well away from Kaldrborg.”

“We should keep moving south,” Rangvaldr said, his tone insistent. “The Rakki can move with the speed of their Eirdkilr fathers, but they are lighter and leaner, and can run much farther before tiring. If we wait here, we risk discovery.”

Aravon frowned, his mind working at the calculations. They’d ridden for nearly two hours, which meant they’d put at least twelve miles between them and Kaldrborg. At the Eirdkilrs’ speed—eight to nine miles per hour at a full run, though likely slower given that the enemy had to track them through the darkness—they had at least an hour, maybe more, before the Rakki caught up. Long enough to give the horses a chance to rest before sending Snarl to find Skathi, he decided.

“We wait.” Aravon’s tone brooked no argument. “The mounts are in no condition to run just yet, and we want them fresh if we have to push them hard.”

Though the darkness hid Rangvaldr’s expression, there was no concealing his dour mood. Without a word, the Seiomenn drew out a pouch of his trail rations and his waterskin, sat on a fallen tree, and set about eating.

Colborn turned to Aravon, and the pale moonlight shone on the questioning look in his eyes as his gaze darted pointedly at Rangvaldr. Aravon shrugged and shook his head; he had no more idea what was wrong with the Seiomenn than Colborn.

Drawing out his own meager rations, he took a seat near Rangvaldr and drank deep of his waterskin. He grimaced at the tepid taste of dusty leather—he’d empty and refill it before riding away from the stream. After a few bites of the hard, dry trail biscuits and cured meat, he decided to try and broach the matter with Rangvaldr.

Whatever’s bothering him has to be resolved sooner rather than later. His jaw muscles clenched. Keeper knows we’ve got problems enough without adding more.

“What you said back there, about not being able to heal Harlund.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, his tone at once gentle and firm. “Was that true?”

Rangvaldr stiffened, but he didn’t look up from his food. “His wounds—”

“Were bad, I know.” Aravon nodded. “I smelled the infection and rot in his wounds, and I know that healing him would have taken a great deal of your strength. Perhaps all of it.”

Rangvaldr shook his head. “Not perhaps.” Now he looked up and met Aravon’s gaze. “If I’d healed him, I would have been too weak to flee. The Rakki would have captured me. Us.” His heavy Fehlan brow furrowed. “I wanted to help, but…” He drew in a deep breath. “I made the choice, and I stand by it.”

There was more to it than Rangvaldr let on—he was purposely not saying something.

Aravon leaned forward. “And that’s it?” He fixed Rangvaldr with a piercing gaze. “There was no other reason?”

Rangvaldr’s jaw clenched and he said nothing for long seconds, simply sat staring at Aravon. No, not at Aravon. Through him. His eyes rested on Aravon’s face, but he seemed to be seeing something within the depths of his own mind.

Finally, the muscles of his jaw relaxed, and the tension drained from his shoulders. “I—”

A loud, snarling bark cut off the Seiomenn’s words. Snarl barked again, a sound of mingled urgency and fear, then leapt into the air and disappeared in the darkness of the night sky.

Aravon tensed at the snap and crackle of something coming through the woods. Something heavy…too heavy to be an Eirdkilr. The noise came from the south, on the far side of the stream, and there was only one of whatever it was.

The tension in Aravon’s shoulders faded as a black bear, dark as the shadows of the forest, lumbered into view. Dark eyes locked onto the three Grim Reavers and their mounts, and the bear lifted its massive shaggy head to sniff at the air.

Keeper’s teeth! He’d never seen a bear up close—the thing appeared to weigh twice as much as the Kostarasar chargers, with paws larger than Aravon’s head and a jaw powerful enough to crush a man’s skull in a single snapping bite.

“Don’t make any sudden moves,” Colborn spoke in a low voice. “It won’t attack if it doesn’t feel threatened.”

Aravon had no intention of moving. He remained seated, his spear just out of reach, but if the bear attacked he could reach for his sword at a moment’s notice. Not that he was certain the blade would do much good against the bear’s thick hide.

But the huge creature simply grunted warning sounds, huffing and blowing air out of his massive mouth. Stooping, he lowered his head drank from the stream, his pink tongue flashing in and out to lap at the water. Long seconds passed before the bear slaked its thirst and lumbered off into the forest. The crashing and snapping of twigs slowly faded into the night, leaving the three Grim Reavers alone in silence.

Aravon let out a low breath and forced his shoulders to unclench, his spine to relax.

“We should move,” Colborn said, his voice still quiet. “Where there’s one black bear, there are likely to be more.”

Aravon nodded. “Good thinking.” He stifled a frustrated growl as he glanced at Rangvaldr; if only the bear hadn’t chosen that moment to arrive, just as the Seiomenn had been about to reveal the truth of whatever troubled him.

The three of them knelt to refill their waterskins, then quickly mounted up. With the Rakki behind and bears somewhere in the darkness around them, they had no desire to remain.

Aravon drew out the bone whistle and called Snarl. The little Enfield appeared from the sky, descending toward Aravon far too fast. He barely managed to slow in time before crashing into Aravon’s chest. Thankfully, Aravon had been prepared and steadied himself in the saddle, catching Snarl. The Enfield yipped in his ear and licked at his face and beard.

“Good Snarl.” Aravon scratched the Enfield’s scruff. Snarl had been the one to lead Colborn to him and Rangvaldr, and had given warning of the bear’s approach. Now, with Snarl’s help, they’d be reunited with the rest of their team. That certainly deserved his praise—and, the first chance he got, a reward in the form of a fine bone or a chunk of fresh meat.

Drawing out the strip of oilcloth-wrapped fabric that held Skathi’s scent, Aravon held it up to the Enfield’s nose. “Take us to Skathi, boy.” He spoke the command word, and Snarl leapt into the air, flapping his wings to gain altitude. The Enfield hovered within their eyesight, skimming along between the trees, moonlight dappling his bright orange fur.

Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and took off after Snarl. Colborn and Rangvaldr—still in his subdued gloom—fell in behind Aravon as they followed the Enfield into the forest and off to find the others.

* * *

There was no warning, no indication of anyone waiting among the dense thicket of mulberry trees. Simply a quiet question, “That you, Captain?” accompanied by a figure materializing from the shadows.

Aravon stiffened and bit back a surprised grunt. He hadn’t spotted Noll until he nearly trampled the man.

“No, it’s a bloody bunch of Eirdkilrs,” Aravon snapped. He hadn’t been startled like that in a long time, and he strongly disliked it. “You can tell by the way we’re moving all quiet-like and riding horses.”

The light of the stars shone on Noll’s masked face, setting his eyes sparkling with mischief and a hint of relief. “Good to see you too, sir.” He waved a hand. “This way.”

The little scout flitted through the trees with nary a sound, darting from shadow to shadow with an agility even Snarl would envy. A few seconds later, he gave a low whistle, answered from beneath a tall, leafy conifer.

“It’s the Captain,” Noll’s voice echoed from ahead.

Fifteen figures appeared in the darkness—Grim Reavers and Deadheads, all safely away from Kaldrborg.

“Good to see you, Captain Snarl.” Captain Lingram spoke first, reaching up to clasp Aravon’s hands. “And here we thought you’d stopped to take a nap.”

“Nah.” Aravon chuckled. “Just figured I’d lead the Eirdkilrs away, give you lot a proper chance to escape. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

“Last I checked, it was us being the distraction and buying you time to escape.” Skathi’s voice drifted from above Aravon’s head. The archer perched on a high tree bough, longbow in hand and an arrow nocked to the string. “Not to mention sending Colborn to haul your ass out of that particular fire.”

“Remember who gives the orders here, Archer.” Colborn’s mock anger lacked any real bite. “Else I might have you handle latrine duty next time we make camp.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir!” Skathi’s sardonic tone belied her words. “Maybe I’ll polish your boots while I’m at it. Or take a crack at removing that stick from—”

“If we’re all done with the niceties,” Belthar rumbled, “maybe we’d best be on our way.” His eyes darted toward the northeast, in the direction of Kaldrborg. “We’re not exactly safe on home territory right now.”

“Belthar’s right.” Aravon looked to the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires gathered around him. “Mount up and let’s move out.”

None of the soldiers spoke a word of protest; they all knew the danger they faced from the Eirdkilr pursuit.

Aravon sought out Zaharis. “Nice work,” he signed. “Quite the display of alchemy back there.”

“You’ve got the scrawny one to thank for that.” Zaharis thrust his chin toward Duvain, who sat his saddle in the shadow of his massive brother. “Turns out there’s a brain beneath that helmet. Spent time working in an apothecary before joining the Legion, he said. Knew a trick or two that came in handy.”

Aravon’s eyebrow rose. “A soldier, schooling you?”

Zaharis snorted. “Please, Captain, knowing a trick isn’t the same as being a bloody genius. Call it a valuable contribution to the effort.”

Aravon chuckled. “Of course.” The Secret Keeper could be prickly about such things. Before he could press the matter any further, one of the Legionnaires broke from the others and strode toward him.

“Captain.” Corporal Rold gave a respectful nod and held out something. “You’ll be needing this again, aye?”

Aravon stared down at the mask in the Legionnaire’s hand. His mask. He’d entrusted it to the soldier before departing for Kaldrborg.

“Thank you, Corporal.” Aravon inclined his head and took the mask. Strapping it in place felt somehow right, putting his mind at ease. It served as a shield between him and the enemies that hunted him, perhaps even as a barrier to keep the concerns of his command at bay. Behind that mask, he could conceal his anxiety, dread, and worries of the dangers that lay ahead. And the dangers that now pursued them.

He gave the order to mount up once again, and his soldiers obeyed without hesitation. None of them would sleep tonight—they had too far to go to accomplish their mission, and too little time to do it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Aravon had heard stories about the Sawtooth Mountains his entire life. Taller than a hundred Icespires stacked atop each other, the legends said. High enough to scrape the heavens, with tips that ascended to the halls of the gods. A barrier so vast and impassable they had kept even the hardened Wasteland-dwelling Eirdkilrs from crossing for centuries.

The stories failed to convey the true majesty and breathtaking awe of the mountain range.

Sharp, jagged peaks rose to soaring heights far above the mountainous land, standing silent, stern guardian over southern Fehl. Nine hundred and fifty miles across, from the sandy eastern shore to the rocky coastline to the west, the Sawtooth Mountains seemed an impossibility to behold. The sheer scope and size of those snow-capped summits—up to twenty thousand feet above the level of sea at the highest point—thrusting like stony daggers into the clear blue sky boggled Aravon’s mind.

Aravon and his soldiers would enter the foothills north of the mountain range before nightfall, yet even from a hundred miles away, the mountains appeared monstrous, an endless wall of sheer cliffs, snow-capped peaks, and dizzying heights. As if some ancient, gargantuan creature of nightmare had thrust its scaled and humped back up through the surface of the earth.

With effort, Aravon tore his eyes away from the breathtaking mountain range and glanced over his shoulder for the hundredth time since sunrise. No matter how hard he squinted, he could see no sign of the Rakki hunting them. No howled war cries reached his ears. Yet that meant nothing. It simply meant the enemy hadn’t caught up.

Yet. Anxiety plagued him throughout the day, worry tightening his shoulders until his muscles were a solid mass of knots. Their steady pace and infrequent rests—the Legionnaires had grown more accustomed to riding—meant they covered ample ground, ascending into the foothills bordering the mountain range before the sun dipped beneath the western horizon.

A part of him wanted to give the order to ride through the night—they needed to disappear into Captain Lingram’s hidden passage through Cliffpass as soon as possible. And, with another day gone, that left only nine days before the Feast of Death. Nine days until Tyr Farbjodr unleashed his Eirdkilr hordes, his “true strength” on Fehl.

Despite the urgency humming within his chest and setting his taut nerves twanging, he signaled Colborn to call the halt shortly after sundown. Not a moment too soon, it seemed, for both men and horses. The Legionnaires groaned in relief as they dismounted, and the horses’ movements were stiff and slow as they cropped the scrubby sedge grass sprouting from the rocky hill land.

Aravon stifled his frustration. Riding his soldiers and their mounts to death wouldn’t help anyone. Besides, he told himself, there’s no way the Rakki can catch up with us. Eirdkilrs could only run at eight or nine miles per hour, while the Kostarasar chargers could sustain ten miles per hour all day long. Aravon had pushed the pace as much as he dared, putting an even wider lead between him and their pursuers. Unless the Rakki could outrun their Eirdkilr fathers—and sustain the speed all day and night—they had little hope of catching up.

Colborn took charge of directing the Legionnaires and Grim Reavers in setting up camp, while Aravon sat and drew out the map he’d gotten from Harlund.

His gut tightened as he scanned the crude animal hide. Damn! He cursed inwardly. As he’d feared, the map offered little in the way of concrete information—it had been crudely sketched, doubtless by the blacksmith himself, with smudged dots and words marking the location of the few Eirdkilr towns and villages the man had learned about. Nothing that offered clear facts on distances, terrain, or the obstacles they’d face getting there.

Yet the map did provide the one thing he needed: the location of Praellboer, the place where Harlund had said they’d find Tyr Farbjodr. According to the blacksmith’s sketches, Praellboer was roughly a hundred miles south and east of Snowpass. The map marked another city, Saetavirki, as both larger and nearer the mouth of the pass through the mountains, but Harlund had said the Eirdkilr commander would be found in Praellboer.

He sought out the one person who might know something about the place. “Stonekeeper, a word?”

Rangvaldr looked up from his task—helping Noll, Duvain, and Draturr haltering the horses for the night—and his eyes darkened at the sight of Aravon. His dour mood had persisted through the day, but Aravon hadn’t had a chance to talk with the man since the previous night. Doubtless the Seiomenn worried about more prying questions, and it appeared he had little desire to speak about whatever weighed on his mind. Yet he hesitated only a moment before nodding and striding toward Aravon.

“Captain?” His voice was quiet, heavy with whatever burdened his heart.

Aravon pushed aside his worries for the man—for the moment, at least. Information first, then he could delve into the matter of Rangvaldr’s concerns after. “Before Harlund died, he told me where we’d find Tyr Farbjodr.” He held up the animal hide map and tapped his finger on the crude runes and the dark square depicting the location. “At a place called Praellboer.”

Rangvaldr stared at the map for long seconds, then looked at Aravon. “I see.” Bewilderment echoed in his tone.

Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Do you know anything about it?” he asked. “Any reason why the commander of the Eirdkilrs would be a hundred miles away from Snowpass on the day he prepares to unleash an offensive against the Princelands?”

Logistically, that made no sense. Princelander Generals commanded from far behind the battle lines, but Eirdkilrs led from the front rank. All the better to bathe in the blood of their enemies, to hear the screams of pain and fear, to watch strong men crumble before them. If Tyr Farbjodr was half as savage and barbaric as the rumors made him out to be, he’d march through Snowpass at the head of whatever forces he’d marshaled.

Rangvaldr shook his head. “Sorry, Captain. The name means nothing to me.” He shrugged. “The Wastelands are as much a mystery to my people as to yours.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed. He’d hoped the Seiomenn would have something, anything, he could use to get a better idea what they’d face south of the Sawtooth Mountains. Even the slightest bit of intelligence could facilitate their attempt to kill Tyr Farbjodr.

Before he could press, however, Rangvaldr spoke. “If that’s all, Captain, I’ll get back to work.” He made a show of glancing at the sky. “Darkness will be upon us soon.”

Aravon opened his mouth to speak—he wanted to use the opportunity to draw Rangvaldr out and uncover the reason for his dark mood—but held himself back. The Seiomenn wasn’t ready to talk yet. He’d try again later.

“Go.” Aravon waved him away.

With a curt nod, the Seiomenn strode away.

Aravon watched him go, and worry hummed deep within him. Something about Rangvaldr was off. It had been ever since they’d left Camp Marshal. Perhaps even earlier, though he couldn’t place what had been the cause of the Seiomenn’s ill-humor.

His eyes narrowed in thought. His age, maybe?

Back on the road from Saerheim, after healing the Legionnaires injured in the fighting, the Seiomenn had spoken of feeling the weariness of his advanced years creeping up on him. He could simply be exhausted from an endless cycle of fighting, healing, traveling, and fighting again. The fatigue could certainly be the cause of his mood.

But that’s not all there is, is it?

He’d seen Rangvaldr exhausted before—the man had nearly killed himself healing the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve—but this was something different. Something beyond bone-deep weariness. A profound weariness of his soul.

Aravon rubbed the tension knots at the back of his neck. The question is, what’s causing it?

All through their quiet evening, he cast glances at Rangvaldr, and every time found the man lost in his own thoughts, buried in his heavy furs. The presence of Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires meant he couldn’t speak to the Seiomenn directly—they didn’t yet have that bond of trust the Grim Reavers had developed. He’d have to wait until Rangvaldr stood watch, then seize the chance to speak to the man alone.

Without a fire to drive back the night’s chill or provide light, he, too, could do little more than huddle in his furs for warmth. An icy wind rolled down off the Sawtooth Mountains, dry and biting, seeping through any gap in their cloaks, tunics, armor, and pelts, driving a thousand needles of frost into his skin. He’d been prepared for cold—Keeper knew the winds rolling off the Frozen Sea could turn vicious and biting—but this unshakeable, unavoidable chill was far worse than he’d expected.

The temperature plummeted with every hour. More than once, Aravon considered giving the order to start a fire. They’d ridden hard all day, pushing the horses to their limits to outrun the Rakki. There was no way their enemies would catch up. At their current altitude, high in the foothills overlooking the forests and plains of southern Fehl, the light of their fire would be visible for miles in every direction. Even sheltered behind a cliff, the glow reflecting off the rocks could draw the Rakki’s attention. They couldn’t risk it, not so close to their destination.

And so he burrowed deeper into his furs, trusting the heavy brown bear pelts and the warmth of Snarl’s body to keep him warm. All around him, his soldiers did likewise. Duvain and Endyn shared their two furs, as did Tassus and Annur. The Legionnaires not on duty huddled together for warmth. Skathi had set her bedroll and furs down close enough to Belthar’s massive back that he shielded her from the wind. Noll huddled next to his horse, relying on the beast’s warmth to keep out the chill. Even Colborn and Rangvaldr seemed unable to avoid an occasional bout of shivers as they huddled for warmth within their heavy furs.

Inexorably, the heat within his furs seemed to wrap around Aravon like a soothing cocoon. The steady rhythm of Snarl’s breathing against his chest relaxed him, wiped all worries and concerns from his mind, and dragged him into the depths of his exhaustion. Sleep came over him, but it proved far from restful. His night was consumed with dreams of running, racing for his life, fleeing black-faced hounds that snapped at his heels and bayed for his blood with howling cries that sounded terribly akin to the war calls of the Eirdkilrs.

* * *

Aravon awoke to darkness and chill. The tips of his ears and nose felt numb, and even the helmet protecting his head had gone cold to the touch. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a world lit by stars and the last fading beams of the setting moon. He almost groaned—it seemed he’d just fallen asleep seconds ago, yet he knew dawn would touch the eastern horizon within the hour. Too many nights of insufficient sleep on the road were taking their toll on his mind and body.

The rest of his company seemed to feel the same. They rose from their furs, shivering and grumbling at the chill or simply too tired to moan. Bleary-eyed and silent, they went through the motions of packing up their little camp and preparing to ride out.

Dawn filled the morning with light—a spectacular array of vivid reds, fiery oranges, and a soothing golden glow—but little warmth. Even as the sun climbed high into the sky, the day’s heat failed to fully push back the chill that hung over the foothills or calm the icy bite of the winds whistling down the steep slopes. Only the exertion of riding kept the shivering at bay, but Aravon felt the cold to the marrow of his bones. Dread filled him at the sight of the mists that clung to the top of the Sawtooth Mountains—how frigid would it get up high with no sun to warm the rocky peaks?

Captain Lingram rode in the lead with Colborn and Noll, leading the way up the broad dirt road that had once been the Eastmarch. Gone were the deep ruts left by wagons and heavy soldiers’ boots, replaced by deep divots in the earth left by rainwater slithering down the mountainside. Stones had crumbled from the overhanging cliff walls and now littered their path, forcing the Grim Reavers to slow their pace. Without Legionnaires to maintain it, the remnants of the highway had gone as wild as the mountainous terrain through which it ascended.

Aravon’s eyes followed the winding road up, up, up the steep slope. Though the surrounding peaks rose up to ten or fifteen thousand feet above the foothills, Cliffpass cut through the mountains at an elevation barely sixty-five hundred feet above sea level. Together with Snowpass to the west, it had served as the only avenues to safely cross the mountain range without scaling the jagged peaks.

Until Ninth Company had brought down the pass walls and sealed it off. A mile or two farther up the mountain, the dirt road ended abruptly at a mound of rocks so high it rivaled the hundred-foot cliffs bordering the highway. According to the bardic tales and songs of that battle—"The Last March of the Ninth Company”—the collapse had brought down an entire mountain peak, burying ten miles of the road beneath enough rubble to close the pass forever.

Now, seeing it in person, Aravon could believe those tales. A full Legion Battalion could spend a lifetime working at the stone sealing the Cliffpass and still never clear it. No one would ever ride through the mountain pass again—even attempting to scale it on foot would prove nearly impossible.

But they had no intention of trying for Cliffpass itself. According to Captain Lingram, there was another way.

Sure enough, a mile up the trail, long before they reached the blocked-off pass, Captain Lingram turned them off the broad dirt road and down a narrow footpath that cut through a gap in two grey stone cliff faces. Aravon couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could read the hunch in Lingram’s shoulders, the tension in his spine. Being here once more, back where he’d nearly died fifteen years earlier, was clearly dredging up memories he’d rather remain buried.

The path was winding and steep, cutting a perpendicular path heading slightly east and sharply north. It grew so narrow at one point they were forced to dismount and lead their horses across in single file. With steep canyon walls on one side and a sheer drop-off on the other, it proved treacherous and slow going.

They made the crossing with little incident—save for a gut-wrenching moment when Endyn wobbled unsteadily on one particularly precarious section of the trail—but the ordeal left them nervous, tense, and, in a few cases, shaken. When they reached a small circular hollow nestled in a bowl between three rising cliffs, Aravon called a halt for rest.

Captain Lingram and Rangvaldr remained cloaked in their gloom and worry, and the rest of the soldiers seemed equally disinclined to talk. The sight of the Cliffpass had reminded them all of the price the Legion had paid to stop the Eirdkilrs from capturing the eastern pass through the Sawtooth Mountains. Every man of Ninth Company had died in that battle—only Lingram, little more than a boy at the time, had survived.

The only sound in their small camp came from Duvain and Zaharis. The Secret Keeper had removed a collection of pouches, bundled grasses, and vials from his wooden chest, and now he and Duvain worked to mix up something Zaharis called “flameweed”. The slim Legionnaire followed the instructions Zaharis relayed through Noll, though the little scout was clearly displeased at the situation.

“Bloody Secret Keeper!” The scout’s fingers flashed. “You wouldn’t let me even touch those Earthshakers, but you’re lifting your skirts and sharing all your alchemical secrets with him?” His gaze darted to Duvain, who sat hunched over a pile of assorted roots, dried flowers, and herbs wrapped in cloth.

“I’d rather lift my skirts for the entire Eirdkilr horde than let you touch an Earthshaker!” Steel shone in Zaharis’ eyes. “But if you must know, you sulky fool, I’d rather risk his fingers than yours. You’re not good at much, but when it comes to shooting, I’d take you over him.” He gave a wry shake of his head. “But it’s a close thing.”

“Aww.” Noll had to be grinning beneath his mask. “You do love me, Zaharis.”

“Despite your best efforts, you’ve grown on me,” Zaharis signed. “Not unlike a flaming crotchwart.”

“Hah!” The guffaw burst from Noll’s throat. Then, as if realizing he’d just laughed aloud, the little scout ducked his head and returned to the silent hand language. “No take-backs!” He looked to Belthar and Skathi. “You both saw that he said he likes me!”

Belthar and Skathi, who had looked up at Noll’s outburst, exchanged glances, shook their heads, and returned to their tasks. Belthar busied himself sharpening the metal heads of his axe, while Skathi checked and re-checked every one of the arrows in her quiver and the three bundles she carried strapped to her saddle. If they were to do battle, she’d be ready.

“The way you move your hands, you’re talking to each other, yeah?” Endyn’s rumbling voice drew Aravon’s attention from his meager meal of dried beef and trail biscuits.

“’Course they are, shite-for-brains!” Corporal Rold snorted. “Even a blind idiot woulda pieced that together by now.”

Endyn ducked his huge head, and his mask failed to hide the chagrin in his eyes. Long seconds passed before he spoke. “Can…” He hesitated. “Will you teach us?”

The question surprised Aravon. He’d grown so accustomed to the silent Secret Keeper hand language—both for secrecy around others and communicating in silence with enemies nearby—that he hadn’t bothered to think how the others traveling with him might feel. But every time he and his Grim Reavers spoke to each other, it alienated the Legionnaires that had joined their company.

“Of course.” Aravon glanced to his six Grim Reavers. “It’ll be useful if we can all speak to each other without a sound. Makes passing orders easier in enemy territory.”

After only a moment’s hesitation, the Grim Reavers nodded—all but Rangvaldr, who remained too lost in his own mind to pay attention to the conversation.

“As soon as we make camp tonight,” Colborn said from where he sat sharpening his longsword, “we’ll start teaching you the basics. Simple commands and orders to start. More once you get the hang of it.”

Excitement sparkled in Endyn’s eyes, and a few of the other Legionnaires seemed equally interested in the prospect of learning the silent hand language.

“You sure, Captain?” Colborn signed. His expression concealed the doubt evidenced by his words. “This sort of secret’s better off kept to as few as possible.”

Aravon gave a little nod. “For what we’re going to face ahead, we’ll need every trick and advantage we can get.” When the time came for them to sneak up on their enemies or relay orders while remaining silent and out of sight, they’d find it very useful to be able to communicate with the Legionnaires.

For an answer, Colborn inclined his head. Sheathing his sword and stowing his whetstone, he stood and called to the others, “Let’s move.”

To their credit, only a few of the Legionnaires groaned at the prospect of resuming the ride, and those so quietly Aravon barely heard them. The soldiers might not have had the same training as the Grim Reavers, but they’d adapted to the rigors of their mission with admirable tenacity. Within minutes, they had stowed their gear, mounted up, and prepared to ride out.

Aravon had just lifted his foot to his stirrup when something prickled at the back of his mind. A sense of something wrong, perhaps. An instinct.

No, a sound. The scrape of boots on stone, a clank of a jangling weapon. A cough or a low growling. Harsh whispers that carried on the wind and echoed through the canyon.

Dread set Aravon’s mind racing, his nerves twanging. There could only be one explanation for the noise.

The Rakki had caught up with them.

Chapter Twenty-Three

With the speed of a wound-up spring suddenly released, Aravon leapt into his saddle and spun toward the soldiers. “Enemies!” he hissed in a voice barely above a whisper.

Those Legionnaires not yet seated scrambled onto their mounts and took off after Colborn, Noll, and Captain Lingram. Within seconds, their entire nineteen-soldier column was charging up the trail, darting around the bends in the rocky canyons and between cliffs.

A ululating shrieking echoed off the high stone walls and sent a chill down Aravon’s spine. The Rakki would never miss the metallic thunder of steel-shod hooves ringing on the stony trail, or the clank and clatter of the riders and their gear. They had heard their prey, and eager delight echoed in their howling war cries.

Aravon’s gut clenched. Now there’s no way we’ll lose them! The Rakki had only to follow the sound of the racing horses through the silent, empty mountains. Nothing short of a miracle would get Aravon and his soldiers to safety before their pursuers caught up.

Gritting his teeth, Aravon gripped his reins tighter and locked his legs on his horse’s sides. Behind him, the Legionnaires struggled to remain in their saddles, swaying dangerously side to side as their mounts darted around the sinuous trail at a breakneck speed. All the while, the howls of the Eirdkilrs pursued them, the cries of battle and death ringing off the stone walls around them.

But soon the hard-packed earth of the trail turned rocky and uneven. Time and the elements had worn away at the cliff walls. Stone had crumbled and now lay strewn across the path, rubble that could prove deadly at their frantic pace.

Before he could shout the order to slow, a horrifying, bone-chilling shriek echoed behind him. High and ringing with agony, it was followed a heartbeat later by a man’s cry of pain, fear, and shock. The cries cut off in meaty thumps, and a clatter of shouts and screams, human and animal, resounded off the stone walls.

Aravon risked a glance backward, and horror twisted in his gut. One of the Legionnaires—the Malandrian, Tandel—had gone down, and his falling horse had fallen across the trail. Three more soldiers and their horses had crashed into the downed rider and mount, flinging men free of their seats to slam into the cliff walls and stony floor. The three riders at the rear—Belthar, Skathi, and Zadan—had barely managed to halt before plowing over their fallen comrades.

Keeper’s teeth! Aravon reined in his horse, and the soldiers around him did likewise. By the time he got his mount’s head turned around, Belthar had already leapt down from his saddle and was struggling to extricate the downed soldier from beneath his thrashing, shrieking mount. The horse’s every movement elicited new cries of pain from the man, whose legs lay trapped beneath the huge charger. Aravon had a sick feeling—he’d seen the sorts of injuries cavalrymen could sustain in a fall like that, and few walked away.

Agonizingly long seconds passed before Belthar managed to extricate the fallen Legionnaires from atop their comrade. None of the others had sustained more than bruises, but one of the horses moved with a pronounced limp.

Tandel and his mount, however, were in a bad way. The horse’s right foreleg had snapped, the bone twisted at a terrible angle with one long, sharp bone piercing its thick skin. Its left rear leg had been trampled and crushed. Its squeals and shrieks of pain reverberated from the canyon walls, the agony in its cries chilling Aravon to the core of his being.

Sorrow twisted in Aravon’s chest as he turned to Belthar. “Put the horse down.” Horses rarely recovered from broken legs; worse, its screams would only make it easier for the Rakki to find them.

Belthar wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck and, with a grunt of effort, lifted it just far enough off the ground for Nacil and Tark to drag Tandel out from beneath. Gently, speaking soothing words to the horse, he lowered it back to the ground and stroked its head to calm it.

Zaharis bustled over to the horse, a pouch of dried and crushed herbs in his hand. “A sleeping draught,” he signed one-handed. “To numb its pain.”

He emptied half his waterskin into the horse’s mouth, adding a handful of the herbs. Within seconds, the horse’s cries of pain diminished and it lay calm, snuffling and snorting gently.

Zaharis knelt at the mount’s side and stroked its long, black mane. “Do it,” he signed to Belthar without looking up.

Sorrow darkened Belthar’s eyes as he drew his axe and raised it over his head. Aravon almost imagined he heard the big man whisper “I’m sorry” before bringing the weapon down. Once, a single blow backed by his massive muscles. The axe slammed into the horse’s skull with bone-crushing force, pulverizing the brain in an instant. The horse never felt a thing.

Acid twisting in his stomach, Aravon turned away from the horse and sought out Tandel. The Malandrian lay on the rocky path, with Zadan and Tark crouched at his side. His right leg lay at an unnatural angle, his left knee crushed beneath his leather armor. Pain burned bright in his eyes, but he managed to stifle his cries of pain enough to protest through gritted teeth, “I can go on, Captain.” Even the simple act of speaking seemed to send another wave of torment through his leg. “I won’t be running too far,” he gasped, “but I can ride.”

Aravon knew better—Tandel wouldn’t get far with his legs like that.

Before he could respond, a loud creak and twang echoed from the rear of the column, followed by a howling shriek of pain. He spun toward the path behind him in time to see a Rakki slumping to the ground, an arrow embedded in his chest.

A moment later, another black-faced Rakki raced around the corner. Skathi’s second arrow took him in his right eye. But even as Skathi drew her third arrow and nocked it to her string, Aravon knew they’d run out of time. Running had been a desperate hope already; with these few minutes of delay and Tandel’s injury, they could run no longer.

“We fight!” Even as he shouted the words, his eyes scanned the cliff walls around them and the trail ahead. The narrow path through the rocks provided ample cover from enemy archers, but their position wasn’t defensible. The Rakki could come straight on in twos and threes, and the rocky, uneven ground would do little more than slow them down.

But fifty yards farther up, the steep incline, narrow cliffs, and a particularly rubble-strewn section of trail would offer a far better place to make a stand.

“There!” Aravon pointed to the spot. “That’s where we fight.” Nineteen of them—eighteen now, given Tandel’s condition—had a decent chance of holding that position. Though for how long? He pushed the thought aside. He couldn’t think about that now. One problem at a time—fight first, then figure out our next move after.

The Legionnaires scrambled to re-mount, save for the two at Tandel’s side.

“Go!” Belthar waved them away. “Get out of here. I’ve got him!” Before Tark and Zadan could protest, Belthar scooped the wounded Tandel up in his massive arms. The jolting motion set Tandel screaming, but his cry was drowned out a moment later by the howling scream of a Rakki dying to another of Skathi’s arrows.

That sound and the sight of yet another fur-clad barbarian racing around the bend in the trail was enough to snap Tark and Zadan into action. They, too, scrambled into their saddles and took off in pursuit of Colborn, Captain Lingram, Corporal Rold, and the others that had raced ahead.

Belthar set off at a run, doing his best to cover ground quickly without jostling Tandel too much and causing more pain. He’d barely run five steps before Tandel passed mercifully into unconsciousness. That freed Belthar up to break into a dash, and he raced the fifty yards up the trail toward the spot Aravon had chosen.

Finally, only Aravon and Skathi remained. “Skathi, break off!”

Another twang and a Rakki cry, followed by a second, a third, and more as the Agrotora’s arms moved with impossible speed. Yet every thundering beat of Aravon’s heart brought more Rakki around the bend. Ten, fifteen, twenty, too many for Skathi to bring down alone.

“Break off, damn it!” Aravon shouted.

Before the words left his mouth, Skathi loosed one last arrow, sending it into a Rakki’s exposed throat, and whirled to leap into her saddle. Aravon clapped his heels to his mount’s ribs and took off up the rocky trail as fast as he dared. The clatter of hoofbeats and the furious howls of the Eirdkilrs told him Skathi had fallen in behind him.

The horses raced up the fifty yards in a matter of seconds. Colborn was already calling orders to the soldiers, shouting them into the shield wall they’d practiced so many times over the last days of travel. The Legionnaires, though still not fully accustomed to their new weaponry, formed the line with surprising speed. Two ranks deep, five men across, shields interlocked and weapons held at the ready. By the time Aravon and Skathi reached them, a bristling wall of wood, steel, and masked faces greeted him. The Legionnaires parted just long enough to make way for the two riders before they closed the gap behind them, with Legion-trained efficiency.

Reining in behind his men, Aravon leapt from his saddle. He spared a glance for Tandel, who sat unconscious, propped up against the cliff face a few paces back from the battle line, round shield resting atop his shattered leg and leaning against his chest to protect his torso. Horror twisted in Aravon’s stomach at the sight of the man’s shattered and crushed legs—until Rangvaldr could heal Tandel, better he remain unconscious than suffer that pain. Turning away from the injured Legionnaire, he snatched up his spear and strode toward the battle line.

Skathi joined Noll and Zadan, and the three of them loosed a steady stream of arrows at the oncoming Rakki from behind the formed-up Legionnaires. The barbarians tried to hide behind their round wooden shields, but the steel-tipped missiles punched through their legs and knees, slowing them down further.

Yet one look at the Rakki surging up the path, and Aravon knew arrows wouldn’t suffice to stop the enemy. More than thirty of the rangy barbarians remained—twenty-nine, as Skathi’s arrow blossomed from one’s eye—and they’d reach the Legionnaires’ shield wall in a matter of seconds.

In those seconds, an icy calm descended over Aravon. His vision narrowed, everything around him swimming into crystal clarity. Sounds—the harsh, barked orders from Colborn on his right, the twang and hiss of Noll, Skathi, and Zadan at the rear of their battle line, the howls of the Eirdkilrs—filtered through his ears without registering in his mind.  He sensed more than saw movement from Captain Lingram at his left with the hulking Endyn beyond or Rangvaldr and Zaharis in the Legion shield wall in front of him.

The world seemed to fade—gone were the sheer cliffs of dark grey stone, the rock-strewn path beneath his feet, the slivers of sunlight shining through gaps in the high walls—until only the enemy remained. Those towering figures with corded ropes of muscle, clad in their cast-off leather armor and filthy grizzly bear pelts. Faces stained dark, not with blue Eirdkilr war paint, but a tint far darker, a black so deep it could only have come from ghoulstone. Eyes blazing with a wild, insane light. Swords, shields, axes, and spears held in strong hands scarred by battle.

This was his enemy. They had come to kill him, to kill the men under his command—the twelve Legionnaires. It fell to him to make damned sure they failed.

Aravon gripped his spear tighter, gripped Rangvaldr’s shoulder and braced for the charge. His eyes locked on the foremost of the Rakki, a lean, hungry-eyed man with a hand axe and spear. A snarl of rage twisted the barbarian’s lips as he hurled himself onto the center of the Legion shield wall.

The thunderous crash of Rakki slamming their line echoed through the canyon. The Legionnaire at the front—Aravon couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see anything but the back of his helmeted head—staggered beneath the impact, stumbling backward into Rangvaldr. A jolt ran down Aravon’s arm and set his shoulder twinging as he braced the Seiomenn. Held him upright long enough to regain his balance, then pushed him back into the fray.

He drove his spear forward, straight into the Rakki’s snarling face. Blood gushed from the man’s wide-open mouth as steel sliced his cheek and nose and tore out his left eye. A blow from a Legionnaire’s shield knocked the Rakki backward, sending him stumbling into the man behind him. The two fell to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs, furs, and fury, and were engulfed by the Rakki charging behind them.

Another came, slamming into the same Legionnaire. Aravon’s spear was waiting for him. Sharp steel tore open the savage’s throat, and blood gushed over the Legionnaire’s face, splashing his mask, neck, and chest. Screaming, the Legionnaire frantically pawed at his eyes. Aravon thrust out, bringing down the Rakki attempting to hack down the momentarily-distracted soldier. The Legionnaire’s helmeted head suddenly snapped to the side with a loud crack. He went down, taking with him the axe a Rakki had buried in his skull.

Aravon stabbed over Rangvaldr’s shoulder, again and again, thrusting with the long blade of his spear. No time to think, no thought of strategy or counterattack. Simply holding his place in line. Fighting to cut down the enemy before they cut him down.

The Odarian steel head of his spear punched through leather armor, furs, wood, and flesh. Blood sprayed in the air, soaked Aravon’s gloved right hand, and slicked the stones beneath his feet. One Rakki after another charged the center of the line. Rangvaldr stepped into the gap and met them shield to shield, weapon to weapon. Aravon at his back, supporting him, fighting for balance, hitting back at the enemy that slammed into his place in the shield wall.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Aravon felt as if he moved through mud—everything had gone numb, save for the fire in his spear arm, the thundering of his pulse in his ears. His arm drove forward, pulled back, drove forward again, again, again. His eyes never left the Rakki before him; steel swords, wooden clubs, bloodstained shields, and filthy furs. All that mattered was keeping them from cutting down Rangvaldr. He was all that stood between his friend and certain death.

His gaze locked with a charging spear-wielding Rakki. A wild light shone in the man’s eyes—the gleam of insanity, inherent or fueled by some intoxicating substance. The barbarian bared his teeth in a vicious snarl and raised his weapon to strike. Rangvaldr’s sword punched through his chin and up into his brain, then withdrew so suddenly the man staggered, brain already dead but his body slow to realize. Crimson gore gushed from the wound and then the Rakki was gone from his sight.

So suddenly it seemed almost from one moment to the next, the battle was over. Aravon thrust his spear forward out of reflex, only to strike empty air. The last of the Rakki fell to a Legionnaire’s blade, and the cliff walls around them fell silent. After the clash and chaos of the skirmish, the quiet felt oddly eerie. Almost unnatural.

Aravon blinked, and the world swam back into focus. The metallic tang of fresh-spilled blood hung thick around him, and beneath it the stench of bowels loosened in death. Aravon’s fingers squelched around the haft of his spear—crimson stained his arm to the elbow, turned his gloves sodden. His hand refused to release its grip on his weapon, his forearms locked up and the muscles of his arms burning. Every nerve and muscle in his body seemed to blaze with the rush of battle.

Adrenaline retreated and the thundering of Aravon’s heartbeat slowed. Reality washed over him in a sickening wave of pain—in his face where Rangvaldr’s head had struck him, in his spear arm, and in his knee, though from what, he didn’t know. He sucked in a shuddering breath, and found his world consumed with the groans, cries, and gasps of his soldiers.

Again, Aravon blinked and this time managed to turn his head. To take in the bloodstained masks and armor of the soldiers around him—Captain Lingram to his left and the hulking Endyn beyond, who bore a cut on his massive spear hand; Zaharis, his spiked mace dripping gore and crimson-tinged hair; the masked Legionnaires, men he had only known a few short days, staggering with exhaustion and the pain of their wounds.

Reality slammed into Aravon, and suddenly his mind seemed to function once more. A shout to his left drew his attention to Skathi. The leather mask muffled her voice, but after a moment, his brain registered her words. “One of them got away!”

Ice flooded Aravon’s veins. “What?” The sudden chill pushed back the last of the fire of battle coursing through his vein.

Skathi’s eyes were grim behind her blood-spattered mask. “One of the Rakki hung back while the others did battle. I looked away for two seconds, then he was gone.”

“A scout,” Rangvaldr said. “All of these were.”

Aravon turned toward the Seiomenn. Rangvaldr’s shield, mask, helmet, and legs were spattered with blood, and a thick coating of crimson stained his sword and right arm. Yet he seemed to have survived the battle without serious injury—a shallow gash to his leg and a blow that had knocked his helmet askew.

“These were the fastest among them, their advanced skirmishers sent to find our location and report back.” Rangvaldr’s tone was heavy with worry, his eyes dark. “The main force will be close on their heels.”

Aravon’s jaw clenched—the muscles ached, as if he’d gritted his teeth the entire battle. “How far behind?”

Rangvaldr’s green eyes darkened. “Not far enough. Minutes, at best.”

Damn it! Aravon snarled a silent curse. They’d have no time to rest and treat their wounds here. They’d need to hurry if they were to find someplace to hide—or, if the Swordsman smiled on them, disappear into Captain Lingram’s hidden way under the mountains.

His mind raced as his eyes roamed the soldiers under his command. Fourteen still stood, leaning on their knees, gasping for breath, or—in Belthar and Corporal Rold’s case—finishing off the wounded barbarians. The Rakki dead numbered close to forty, nearly half of them feathered with arrows loosed by Skathi, Noll, and Zadan.

But not all the corpses belonged to the enemy. Three masked, leather-clad figures lay among the mound of barbarian dead piled in front of their shield wall. Draturr’s mask had been sliced in half by the axe that crumpled his face inward and shattered his skull. The other two, Aravon didn’t recognize until Corporal Rold removed their masks to reveal the faces of Nacil and Heap.

All of the Legionnaires still standing bore injuries—even Captain Lingram bled from a shallow gash across the back of his sword arm—but at a glance, Aravon could see none were too serious. Painful, certainly, especially in the case of the deep gash on Tark’s left shoulder, but none would die outright.

“Bind up your wounds,” he commanded the Legionnaires, “and see to your fellow man. We move out in two—”

A groan sounded behind Aravon. He whirled in time to see Colborn slumping against the stone wall, doubled over and gasping for breath.

Aravon raced toward the Lieutenant and crouched at his side. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Just…a little…tap…winded me.” Colborn waved him away, groaning at the movement. “A few seconds…and I’ll be…just fine.”

Aravon gave the Lieutenant a quick once-over—his armor bore a deep furrow across the torso just above his solar plexus, but otherwise he appeared unwounded. With a nod, he turned to speak to Captain Lingram.

The Captain knelt at Tandel’s side, his head bent. Sorrow twisted in Aravon’s gut. A pool of blood stained the rocky floor around the slumped Legionnaire’s crushed legs. The shattered bones must have severed an artery or vein, and he’d bled out while his comrades fought.

“Lingram.” He spoke in a quiet voice. “We need to move.”

“I know,” Captain Lingram answered without looking up. “Just giving him his final farewell.”

Aravon nodded understanding; as Captain, Lingram owed Tandel at least that much. The same thing owed to Draturr, Heap, and Nacil. The four of them had fallen in battle, fighting as Legionnaires in service of the Princelands. They deserved a proper burial and a solemn ceremony.

But that would have to wait. First, they needed to get to safety.

“Wrap the fallen in their cloaks,” he instructed the Legionnaires. “We leave no soldier behind.”

It took less than two minutes to bundle the four Legionnaires in their heavy furs and strap them over their saddles. Yet, as the surviving soldiers mounted up and fell in behind Captain Lingram and Colborn, their eyes had grown grim and shadowed by sorrow.

Aravon felt the same sorrow, though perhaps not as keenly. He’d traveled with these men for two weeks, but they’d marched side by side for months. They had become friends and family as only fighting men could. Bonded by shared loss and united in purpose, these soldiers would fight for each other until the end.

Let’s just hope we don’t meet that end today!

Chapter Twenty-Four

We’ve got to find somewhere to lose them! The thought pounded over and over in the back of Aravon’s mind with a driving urgency. The Rakki pursuing his company would be coming fast—they needed to get out of sight before the enemy caught up.

For the tenth time in the last five minutes, Aravon shot a questioning glance at Captain Lingram. The Legionnaire riding at his side never took his eyes from the rocky cliffs, the winding trail ahead.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Aravon spoke in a voice low enough for only the Captain to hear. “You never said—”

“An old mining trail,” Captain Lingram answered without looking at him. “Leading up to an abandoned mine.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed. “A mine?”

Captain Lingram nodded. “My father once told me that the early Princelanders only pushed so far south because they expected to find gold and silver in the Sawtooth Mountains. The whole mountain range is riddled with old mine shafts and adits where our forefathers dug deep and wide.”

“And did they?” Aravon asked. “Find gold or silver?”

“Yes.” Now Lingram turned toward Aravon. “Near Highcliff Motte.” Beneath his mask, the anguish of his painful memories clouded his eyes.

Aravon’s brow furrowed. None of the official records of the Legion-held fortress had mentioned a mining operation. Then again, given how secretive the other mines around Fehl have been, should I really be surprised? Perhaps that had been the reason behind the initial assault on Highcliff Motte fifteen years earlier. To cut off the Princelanders’ access to gold and capture the pass through the Sawtooth Mountains.

The shadows in Captain Lingram’s eyes darkened. “Truth be told, when I last came this way, I was half-dead with fever and thirst.” He shook his head. “But I will never forget the paths I traveled through the deep darkness. Or how it felt to see the light after seemingly endless days trapped beneath the earth.”

After that, a gloomy silence descended over Captain Lingram, and he seemed to withdraw into himself. Into the dark memories of his desperate retreat and flight from Highcliff Motte, fleeing the Eirdkilrs howling for Princelander blood.

The rocky footpath wound deeper and deeper into the mountains, carving a sinuous trail between sheer cliffs, along dizzying drop-offs, and around boulders large enough to crush an entire Legion Company. An endless expanse of dark grey and brown stone surrounded Aravon and his companions, with barely a hint of highland sedge dotting the jagged slopes bordering the crude trail. With every step upward, the cold around them deepened, the chill wind biting sharper and cutting through their leather armor and heavy cloaks with more savage ferocity. Only the worry rushing within Aravon’s veins kept him from feeling the cold—he was too busy worrying about the pursuing enemy to have time for shivering.

He glanced back to where Noll and Skathi trailed twenty yards behind their column, the rear scouts to listen for any hint of the Rakki’s presence. Quivers refilled with arrows they’d cut from their enemies’ corpses, they could pick off any Rakki that pulled too far ahead. And, if the Swordsman smiled on them and led Captain Lingram aright, cover their tracks.

Yet, as five minutes gave way to ten, then a quarter-hour, the worry within Aravon mounted in tandem with his frustration. Captain Lingram hadn’t yet found the path for which he searched. Aravon dared not push the pace—after what happened to Tandel and his mount, they had to keep it to a trot for the horses’ sakes. But that meant the Rakki pursuing them would catch up sooner rather than later. There had been easily two or three hundred occupying Kaldrborg. If even half of those had come hunting, the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires would have a bloody fight on their hands.

The path suddenly curved to the right, cutting between two overhanging boulders and meandering down a short incline before ending abruptly in a bowl-shaped hollow nestled in the cleft between three rising slopes. The bowl neared a hundred feet in diameter, encircled by steep, impassable walls. The footpath they’d been following ran straight into the hollow, but Aravon could see no way out.

He whirled on Lingram.

The Captain spoke before he could. “I remember this.” Tension lined his eyes beneath his mask. “But…” He hesitated. “There was a way out last time. I swear it!”

With effort, Aravon bit back a growl of frustration. There was no mistaking the hint of panic in the man’s voice, the creeping doubt that tinged his words. He didn’t have to remind Captain Lingram of the stakes, of what would happen if his plans to find the mining path failed—the man had just helped wrap four of his comrades’ corpses in their own cloaks. And, given the pain he wrestled with at the memories of what happened the last time he came this way, he deserved compassion and understanding.

“Spread out!” Aravon called to the soldiers around him. “Look for anything we can use to get out of here.”

As Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires fanned out to search the hollow, Aravon glanced back at the two archers stationed at the entrance of the bowl. “Anything?” he signed.

Skathi shook her head, and Noll answered, “Not yet, but they can’t be far behind.”

Aravon gritted his teeth. He had to trust Captain Lingram—they had come too far to turn back now. And with the Rakki behind them, turning back meant fighting an impossible battle. A battle for which they had no time.

Twelve days had passed since Skyclaw delivered the Prince’s message. Twelve days gone, which left only nine until the sun rose on the day the Eirdkilrs called the “Feast of Death”. On that day, Tyr Farbjodr would unleash his hordes on Fehl. Again, Lord Eidan’s words flashed through his mind. “Summon his true strength”, the traitorous nobleman had said. Aravon had come to the conclusion that Tyr Farbjodr intended to harness the ghoulstone to strengthen his forces. Yet something about Lord Eidan’s tone forced him to re-think his assumption. The nobleman had spoken almost as if Tyr Farbjodr had called upon new allies, or found a way to bolster his forces beyond the Eirdkilrs he commanded.

The thought seemed impossible—who else could he summon from the icy Wastelands? The vast tundra was as cruel and treacherous as it was cold. The Eirdkilrs had invaded north across the Sawtooth Mountains for that very reason. They had chosen a hundred-year war to reclaim the lands of plenty rather than continue their harsh existence in the frozen lands of the south.

But what if the Eirdkilrs weren’t the only ones living beyond the Sawtooth Mountains? Again, it seemed an impossibility, but could he really dismiss the thought? No Princelander or Fehlan had ever mapped the farthest reaches of the Wastelands—they had little knowledge of the Eirdkilr-held Wastelands, for every spy sent south died before returning with concrete information. The crude animal hide map Harlund had given Aravon was the first any Princelander had ever seen of the land beyond the mountain range.

Aravon’s mind raced, his imagination running wild. Every child of the Princelands had heard the legends of ancient Fehl—alongside every tale of the Serenii and their magic was told a story of the hideous monstrosities that once roamed the continent. Creatures with skin of stone, the tails of serpents, wolf fangs, and eyes of pure darkness. Massive beasts that could tear an ice bear limb from limb—or flay the flesh and suck the marrow from the bones of fractious children.

He’d left those stories behind as he’d aged, matured, and joined the Legion. After fifteen years of battle, he had seen the horrors men inflicted upon each other in the name of power, wealth, and control. He had no need for monster stories—humans could be far crueler and more savage than any beast.

And yet, a part of him couldn’t shake the primal fear rooted deep within his mind, instilled by those stories told to him as a child. Stories that had spoken of mythical creatures like griffins, hippogriffs, even mighty dragons larger than any warship. Tales of the Serenii, who he knew had existed—he’d seen the proof with his own eyes. Those same legends had spoken of Enfields, creatures believed lost to time. With all Aravon had seen over the last few months, could he truly write it off as nothing more than myth and fable?

Let’s damned well hope we can! After the story Rangvaldr had told about the Farbjodr—a bloodthirsty monster so unstoppable that Gunnarsdottir and her fellow Tauld warriors had no choice but to bring down a mountain atop it—he couldn’t help being glad that the Eirdkilr commander that had taken the demonic creature’s name was nothing more than an Eirdkilr. A giant, a fierce and savage warrior, certainly, but still human. Flesh and blood rather than some unkillable monster.

As were the Eirdkilrs that marched at his side. If he’d found reinforcements somewhere, they, too, would be human. Warriors of the Myrr, Bein, and other clans of southern Fehl, perhaps, the Fehlans that had sided with the Eirdkilrs against the Princelanders. With the southern clans united, they vastly outnumbered the Legionnaires and the now-reduced warbands of the Deid and Fjall. Perhaps Tyr Farbjodr had even turned the Smida, Vidr, Eyrr, and Jarnleikr to his cause as well.

Much as he wanted to, Aravon couldn’t dismiss that fear. After the attack on Bjornstadt, what were the odds that the cowardly Chief Ailmaer would resist the Eirdkilrs’ attempts to cow them into submission? And with the assaults on Icespire, Rivergate, and Anvil Garrison undermining the perceived strength of the Legion and safety of the Princelands, could Tyr Farbjodr have convinced the allied Fehlan clans to turn against the invaders?

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Images danced through his mind: the united warbands of Fehl joining the Eirdkilrs in battle against the Princelands. Legionnaires outnumbered and surrounded, fighting for their lives in once-friendly territory now gone suddenly hostile. Every fortress and stronghold along the Chain torn down and set ablaze beneath a wave of joined Eirdkilrs and Fehlans.

His eyes strayed to where Rangvaldr sat on his horse, still silent and brooding. To Colborn, who had ridden back along the trail toward Noll and Skathi to help keep watch for the Rakki. He couldn’t imagine them—men who had become as his brothers—taking up arms with the Eirdkilrs. Facing him from across a field of battle, their faces, shields, and swords stained with Princelander blood, the howling Eirdkilr war cries issuing from their throats. Yet they were just two among thousands. Tens of thousands of Fehlans that would do whatever it took to protect their homes and families.

The realization crashed down like a boulder atop him. Whatever Tyr Farbjodr had planned, whatever “true strength” he intended to unleash upon Fehl, Aravon had to find a way to stop it from coming to pass. Even if it meant he died in the doing, he would make certain the Eirdkilr commander’s scheme failed.

A quiet cough snapped Aravon from his thoughts. He found Zaharis at his side, a strange look of mingled curiosity and amazement in his eyes.

“Those Rakki,” Zaharis signed, “you saw their faces, yes? The war paint they wore?”

Aravon nodded. “Black rather than blue like their Eirdkilr fathers.”

Zaharis leaned forward. “I believe it’s powdered ghoulstone.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow; something about the light sparkling in Zaharis’ eyes made it seem as if the discovery mattered, but its significance was lost on him.

Zaharis seemed to sense his bewilderment and explained with quick, sharp gestures. “Back in Steinnbraka Delve, when I spoke with Lord Morshan’s scholars regarding their research into ghoulstone’s properties, I was digging into what could cause the miners to believe the stones glowed.” Wry humor sparkled in his eyes. “This was before I knew that they actually could glow, of course.”

Aravon couldn’t help a smile; the Secret Keeper had been as stunned by the discovery that ghoulstone was the same mineral as the Eyrr holy stone Rangvaldr wore at his throat. “Of course.”

“Before I discovered the enhydro—” A name Aravon remembered: water droplets trapped within the stone, which had reflected the torchlight shining in the mine. “—I considered the possibility that it might be nothing more than a hallucination. Or, perhaps, a delusion similar to that brought on by opiates and other strong substances. Turns out I was partially right in that regard.”

Now Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” His mind raced as he tried to process the information. “You mean—”

Zaharis nodded. “My study of the stone indicated that ghoulstone has mind-altering properties not unlike certain mushrooms or Diviner’s Sage. While I have yet to crack the formula for mixing up such a concoction…”

“The Rakki might have,” Aravon finished the Secret Keeper’s train of thought. “You think they found a way to stain their faces with powdered ghoulstone, and it acts as sort of a drug?”

Again, a little nod of the Secret Keeper’s head. “If you looked in their eyes, you’d have seen the truth.”

Aravon couldn’t argue that point. The wild light burning in the Rakki’s eyes could only have been madness or the effects of a powerful hallucinogenic.

He opened his mouth to ask more, but a shout from down the trail shattered the quiet within the rocky hollow. A twang and a scream of pain echoed off the rocky cliffs, and a Rakki fell, Skathi’s arrow embedded in his chest. Before the body hit the ground, Colborn, Skathi, and Noll had turned their mounts and raced up the trail.

Aravon’s heart sank. We’re out of time. The Rakki had caught up. The fifteen of them couldn’t hope to hold this rocky hollow, and if Captain Lingram hadn’t found a way out—

“Aravon!” The Legionnaire’s voice echoed from the far end of the bowl-shaped clearing. “Here!”

Aravon whirled toward the call; Lingram stood before a section of cliff identical to the rest of the stony walls encircling the hollow. But as Aravon galloped over to the Legionnaire, he caught sight of what Lingram indicated: a five-foot-wide gap in the cliff face. Invisible from the entrance of the hollow, cleverly concealed by whoever had crafted the path up to the mine they doubtless intended to keep secret.

Lingram’s gaze locked on something etched into the stone, just above chest-height. His fingers traced the crude letters that formed a name. Koltun Blackhammer.

When he turned toward Aravon, his eyes were dark and filled with anguish. “This is the way we go.”

But before Aravon could speak, could even draw breath, the howling cries of their Rakki pursuers reverberated off the canyon walls. Scores of the black-faced, fur-clad barbarians surged around a bend in the rocky trail two hundred yards away and charged up the incline toward the hollow.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Aravon whirled toward the Legionnaires. “Get through the gap, now!” He leapt down from his saddle and snatched up his spear. He’d cover his soldiers’ backs until they got to safety.

The soldiers scrambled toward him, dragging their horses by the reins. The gap was too narrow to ride through, barely wide enough for the Kostarasar chargers to squeeze into. The Legionnaires could only enter one at a time—far too slowly for Aravon. The howling Rakki drew closer with every hammering beat of his heart. Even over the rocky ground, they covered ground at an incredible speed.

Aravon’s heart sank. The Legionnaires had seconds before the enemy hit. They’d have to fight.

“Belthar, Endyn!” Aravon sought out the two giants. “Cover our backs.”

Belthar didn’t bother to salute—he seized the heavy wooden shield from where it hung on Draturr’s saddle and turned to face the oncoming enemies. Endyn joined him, and together, the two giants formed a wall of steel, flesh, and wood barring the Rakki’s path.

Aravon slid into place behind them, spear gripped tightly in one hand, his other resting on Belthar’s shoulder. “When I give the signal, we pull back,” he told the two.

“Aye, Captain,” rumbled Endyn.

“No hurry.” Belthar gave a harsh chuckle. “I can do this all day.”

Aravon glanced over his shoulder—half the Legionnaires had already squeezed through the gap. That left only Colborn, Skathi, Noll, the two Legionnaires-turned-archers, and Rangvaldr. Zaharis had doubtless gone ahead with Captain Lingram; without a shield, he’d be more a liability here than his comrades.

Skathi and Noll stood facing the entrance to the hollow, sending a steady stream of arrows down the trail. They’d provide cover fire until the last minute and buy time for the others to get through. Colborn hadn’t drawn his bow, but instead kept his shield handy to guard the two archers with Rangvaldr at his side. All the while, he called orders to keep the Legionnaires moving through the gap.

Grim satisfaction settled into Aravon’s bones. The soldiers moved at a steady pace, pulling their horses into the narrow opening between the cliffs. He trusted Colborn to keep things progressing as quickly as possible.

“Reverse march!” Aravon called to the two giants and tapped Belthar’s shoulder.

Belthar took one long step back, Endyn a heartbeat behind him.

“Keep it tight!” Aravon moved his hand to Endyn’s shoulder. The callow Legionnaire needed the tactile commands, but Belthar had experience enough to maintain a steady pace and match his comrade’s speed, all the while keeping his face forward and shield presented to the enemy.

Five Rakki broke from the pack and surged ahead, howling as they raced into the bowl-shaped clearing. Their wild-burning eyes lit up with mad delight at the sight of their prey. With piercing war howls—like hounds baying for blood—they dashed across the clearing.

Two fell before they’d taken three steps. Noll’s arrow thumped into a Rakki’s chest a heartbeat after Skathi’s took down the first. A third shaft punched through another Rakki’s throat. Blood sprayed and crimson spattered the black-stained face of the Rakki on his left. That man fell screaming two seconds later, Noll’s arrow driven into his leg with bone-shattering force.

The fifth Rakki, however, made no move to charge. Instead, he drew back his longbow, the darkly gleaming iron tip of an arrow aimed high. A loud twang echoed in the space between his companions’ screams and the loosed missile hissed a few inches above Aravon’s head, right toward Skathi and Noll.

Thump! Right into Colborn’s upraised shield. The next instant, Skathi’s arrow buried to the fletching in the Rakki’s throat.

All this in the space of five seconds. And in that time, ten more Rakki appeared up the trail. Twenty, thirty, and still more, all racing into the hundred-foot-wide mountain hollow.

“Back!” Aravon shouted, tapping Endyn’s shoulder to signal the retreat. The two giants took another step backward, and another, crouching behind their huge shields. Aravon glanced over his shoulder. Rangvaldr had gone, as had the last of their horses. Noll was slipping through the gap, leaving only Skathi and Colborn on this side.

Colborn thrust his shield in front of Skathi just in time to stop a second arrow from finding her flesh. Skathi slipped out from behind the protective cover with her bow already drawn and aimed. She loosed the arrow, spun, and darted through the gap in one smooth motion, so fast she was already gone by the time her missile dropped a Rakki.

That left only Colborn. “Go!” Aravon shouted.

The Lieutenant hesitated only a heartbeat before he, too, slipped through the narrow gap.

Aravon turned back to the enemy in time to find the Rakki closing the distance fast. Less than twenty yards separated them from the two soldiers and Aravon. If they stood and fought, they would die.

“Now!” Aravon roared in the giants’ ears. He spun, trusting them to obey his orders, and darted through the gap. Heavy footfalls echoed behind him, boots pounding on stone. Even as Aravon spun back toward the enemy, Endyn stumbled into the opening, Belthar’s hand propelling him forward. The huge Grim Reaver twisted as he leapt through the gap, whirled, and planted his feet in the five-foot opening in the cliffs. Shield in one hand, his huge axe in the other, he prepared to meet the enemy.

Aravon’s gut clenched. Even with Belthar holding the gap and Endyn backing him up, the two had no chance of fending off the Rakki. More than three-score barbarians surging across the clearing toward them. The Grim Reavers and Legionnaires would run out of strength long before the Rakki ran out of men to throw at them.

He spun, searching the masked faces until he found the man he sought. “Zaharis, we need to bring the cliffs down!”

The Secret Keeper’s eyes widened a fraction, surprise rooting him in place. But for only a split second. The next instant, he whirled and tore open his chest of alchemical supplies.

Aravon turned back to the gap, to where Belthar fought to hold back the Rakki trying to squeeze into the opening. The big man’s shield formed a solid barrier blocking out the enemy, but his axe was too big and heavy to swing effectively with one hand. And, with the cliff walls so close together, he could do little more than punch out at the enemy. Powerful blows that crunched into the Rakki with bone-crushing force, but far from lethal.

Endyn seemed to have reached the same conclusion. Belthar had just turned aside a fierce club blow, driven the head of his axe into a Rakki’s face, and wound up for another strike when the giant Legionnaire threw himself into the gap, squeezing between Belthar and the oncoming enemies. His hulking frame and heavy shield formed a solid barrier, and his hewing spear swept out to cut down the lightly-armored enemy. What he lacked in skill, he more than made up for in sheer strength. Like a farmer scything a wheat field, he hacked and slashed at the oncoming Rakki with vicious determination.

But he could not stop them all. With every passing heartbeat, more of the Rakki crossed the clearing and threw themselves against Endyn’s shield. The huge soldier held firm, shoulder braced and knees bent, but the spear was ripped from his hands by a massive Rakki with deep scars cutting through the black ghoulstone staining his face. Another barbarian raised an axe high above his head and brought it crashing down onto Endyn’s shield with staggering force.

Before the massive Legionnaire crumbled, Aravon was at his back, shoving Endyn back upright and into place. He thrust his spear around Endyn’s shoulder and drove the steel head through the axe-wielder’s throat. With a roar, Endyn drove the steel rim of his shield into another Rakki’s face. Blood gushed from the barbarian’s crushed nose and shattered teeth. A kick from Endyn’s massive boot sent the bleeding man flying backward to crash into his companions. Four Rakki went down in a tangle of flailing limbs and weapons.

In that momentary opening, Endyn drew his sword—a long, heavy weapon that appeared like a dagger in his massive hands. He’d never practiced with it, only his hewing spear, but backed by the force of his strength and fury, the Odarian steel blade carved through shields, wooden clubs, leather armor, and grizzly bear pelts. His attacks held no rhythm or artistry; he was a butcher, wielding a weapon with a strength even the Rakki couldn’t hope to match.

To Aravon’s surprise, the Rakki actually fell back beneath the ferocity of Endyn’s strikes. The giant Legionnaire towered a full head over them, and their long, lean muscles couldn’t hope to withstand the force of his mighty strokes. Uncoordinated they might be, lacking in finesse, yet powerful enough to shatter weapons and shields, cleave through armor, flesh, and bone alike.

But that pause lasted only an instant, and the Rakki threw themselves at the giant Legionnaire with renewed force. Four of the barbarians rushed him, black-stained faces twisted in fury and hatred, the wild light of drug-induced madness burning in their eyes. They ran straight into the teeth of his attack, scrambling over the bodies that had begun to pile up in front of Endyn. Over their lifeless comrades, slipping on bloody stone and spilled guts, howling their fury as they hurled themselves at Endyn.

Endyn battered at them with shield and sword, but he fought a losing battle against enemies that felt no fear. Even with Aravon to support him, he could only turn aside so many blows. A low, growling rumble issued from the huge Legionnaire’s throat as the Rakki slammed into him. Again and again, swords, axes, and clubs assailing him from all sides.

One Rakki, taller and stronger than the rest, hurled aside his comrades and drove his shield straight into Endyn’s. The force of the rush sent the Legionnaire staggering backward. His huge elbow clipped Aravon’s helmet, hard enough to set Aravon’s brain rattling in his skull. The world whirled around him for a moment, his vision blurring. Blinking away the pain, Aravon struck out blindly, felt his wild spear thrust strike a shield and glance off. His eyes came into focus a heartbeat later—just in time to see the massive Rakki knock Endyn’s sword wide and drive his own steel blade at Endyn’s barrel chest.

“Noooo!” Duvain’s scream set the canyon walls trembling. A chilling, horrified sound that pierced to the core of Aravon’s being.

Time slowed to a crawl in that moment. Aravon, off-balance from his blind attack and still reeling from the blow to his head, could do nothing but watch the tip of the heavy iron sword plunge straight toward the giant’s heart. Zaharis’ alchemy had hardened the leather, but even his Secret Keeper artistry couldn’t stop a direct thrust. As Aravon had learned the day Draian died at the end of an Eirdkilr spear.

Horror thrummed within Aravon as the sword tip sliced through the alchemically-treated leather, fabric, and flesh beneath. He tensed in expectation of the meaty sound of a sword punching into flesh, the grating of metal on bone, and the gush of blood. The scream of pain or the quiet gurgle as Endyn died.

The sword never drove home. A loud clank, like iron striking stone, echoed, and the sword twisted out of the Rakki’s hand. The barbarian seemed as stunned as Aravon, and he stared in shocked surprise at his empty fingers. Endyn’s punch, backed by the weight of his sword, crushed the Rakki’s nose and crumpled his face inward. Crimson spurted over the Legionnaire’s face—not his own, as Aravon had expected, but the blood gushing from the Rakki’s shattered nose and mouth. Endyn slammed his shield into the man’s chest with force enough to send the barbarian stumbling backward. The flying barbarian staggered, tripped on blood-slicked stone, and fell, taking down two of his comrades as he fell.

“Captain, pull back now!” Skathi’s shout pierced the thundering of Aravon’s pulse in his ears.

Aravon, still shocked from Endyn’s miraculous survival, had no time for rational thought. Instinct honed over years of training and battle kicked in, spurring his feet to move as he seized Endyn’s collar and dragged the huge Legionnaire backward. Belthar threw himself between Aravon and the Rakki—too surprised by the sudden retreat to assault the opening—but just for a moment, until the two of them were clear.

“Do it!” Belthar roared and spun away from the gap, racing up the trail after Aravon and Endyn.

Aravon never saw what Zaharis did to bring down the cliffs—he only heard the scritch of a firestriker scraping against stone followed by a loud hissing. A moment later, the howls of the Rakki were drowned out beneath a concussive blast.

BOOOM! The very mountain beneath Aravon’s feet trembled violently, throwing him and Endyn off-balance. He stumbled and caught himself, managing to keep the enormous Legionnaire from falling. What had begun as a deafening roar settled into a deep-throated rumble, as if some gargantuan beast of legend awoke from slumber. Stone crashed down behind him and a massive pillar of dust billowed up the trail and washed over his back.

Long seconds passed before the clattering of falling stones fell silent. Coughing echoed from within the cloud of grit, and Zaharis and Belthar came stumbling up the trail, covered head to toe with fine powder the same dark grey as the cliffs around them. Behind the settling dust, Aravon caught sight of the gap in the trail—or what had once been a gap. Now, the cliff walls had crumbled beneath the explosive force of Zaharis’ alchemy and a massive mound of stone barred the way back.

“Hah!” Belthar’s triumphant outburst cut off in a fit of coughing dust from his lungs. He clapped Zaharis on the back, sending a spray of dust puffing up from the Secret Keeper’s clothes. “That ought to hold them off a while yet!”

“Let’s just hope it took a few of them down, too,” Zaharis signed.

As if on cue, furious howling echoed from beyond the pile of rubble. The Rakki’s rage and frustration resounded through the canyon. Far too many had survived the collapse. It would take them time to catch up—either scaling the cliff walls, clambering over the rubble, or finding another way through the jagged mountains—but not enough. Nowhere near enough for Aravon and his companions to give them the slip.

Worse, the Rakki, like the hounds for which they’d been named, now had the scent of their prey and wouldn’t stop coming until the half-men were dead. That was a delay Aravon and his companions could ill-afford. They had only eight days left to reach Tyr Farbjodr. Crossing the Sawtooth Mountains on foot—they couldn’t ride in a mine tunnel—would take the better part of four or five days. That left far too little time to cross the nearly three hundred miles that separated the southern end of Snowpass Keep from Praellboer.

As if that wasn’t already bad enough, he couldn’t take the chance that the Rakki would send word to the Eirdkilrs of the Grim Reavers’ presence. Though they hadn’t definitely identified Aravon and his companions as Princelanders—their clothing, armor, and weaponry could all pass for Fehlan, and the leather wolf masks concealed their northerner and mainlander features—Tyr Farbjodr would respond to the potential threat by heightening security. If Aravon wanted to have any chance of success, their attack on the Eirdkilr commander had to be a complete surprise.

That meant every one of the Rakki hunting them had to die.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Aravon spun back toward his soldiers. “We can’t keep running,” he told them. “Not if we’re to have any chance of getting through the mountains and hitting Tyr Farbjodr by surprise.”

Fourteen masked faces—two of which were covered in dark grey stone dust—stared back at him, a grim look in the soldiers’ eyes. They all knew he spoke the truth.

“We need to deal with the Rakki once and for all.” Aravon looked from one to another. “None of them can leave these mountains alive to tell the Eirdkilrs about us.”

The Legionnaires exchanged somber glances. They had trained for war in a Battalion, with scores of soldiers fighting at their sides; this fell far outside the realm of their limited experience.

The Grim Reavers, however, had fought battles of this nature enough that they met the challenge without flinching.

“Any idea how many there are?” Skathi asked.

Aravon shook his head. “Had to be close to two hundred back there, but there could have been more not yet caught up.” His jaw clenched. “Even with the casualties and those buried in the collapse, I’d still call it ‘a bloody damned lot’.”

“Fair enough.” The archer inclined her head.

“They know we’re here.” Aravon looked toward Lingram. “Are there any other ways in and out of this trail?”

“No.” Lingram’s eyes darkened. “Just solid cliff walls all around us until we hit the mine entrance.”

A memory flashed through Aravon’s mind. The low stone ceiling and narrow walls of Steinnbraka Delve. The deep shadows within the mine, the stench of blood, death, and fear hanging thick in the stale air. Dark, choking smoke flooding the tunnels, and the brilliance of daylight beyond. The echoing cries of terror, pain, and suffering, underscored by howling, shrieking, and shouts of “For Shalandra!”

With those flashes of battle came a deep, lingering chill. Dread twisted in his stomach at the thought of marching into that darkness again. Yet, with the mine to guard them, a force of fewer than two hundred Shalandrans had repelled and defeated nearly four times as many Eirdkilrs. Now, with only fifteen soldiers still standing, they had no better way to defeat their enemy’s superior numbers.

“Then that’s where we make our stand.” Aravon planted the iron-shod butt of his spear between his feet. “We make them come to us, and hold that mine entrance as long as it takes.”

The thought grated on his nerves; they needed to be traveling, not sitting and waiting for a fight.

Again, images of Steinnbraka Delve flitted before his mind’s eyes. Not just a single tunnel, but many smaller shafts branching out from the main passage. Perhaps once they reached this mine, they’d find a better place to make a stand. Or, if the Mistress’ fortune smiled on them, they might even lure the Rakki into a trap or lose them in the mine tunnels.

Whatever the case, the mine offered a better defensive position than out here in the open.

With a grim nod, Aravon turned to Lingram. “Lead the way, Captain.”

“It’s not far,” Lingram replied in a quiet, solemn voice.

Sure enough, the climb to the mine took fewer than five minutes. The trail ran sharply upward for a hundred yards before curving west. Around that corner, the mine came into view the distance less than a quarter-mile up the path. A single hole set into the side of a tall mountain of dark brown sandstone. Metal pillars rusted by age and the elements supported the entrance, with more support beams of wood, iron, and steel set at regular intervals within the mine’s main tunnel.

Aravon and Captain Lingram reined in just outside the dusty, rubble-strewn entrance and dismounted. Lingram strode into the mine without hesitation. “Go with him,” Aravon signed to Colborn and Zaharis. The two hurried down the darkened tunnel in pursuit of the Legion Captain.

Aravon addressed the Legionnaires. “Check your wounds, tend to your weapons, and make ready.” He fixed them with a stern look. “We make our stand here.”

The soldiers dismounted from their horses, securing their packs and heavy furs behind their saddles. Their shields and weapons remained close at hand—all of them knew it was only a matter of time before the Rakki caught up, and none wanted to be caught unawares.

A quiet flapping echoed behind Aravon, and he turned to find Snarl dropping from the sky to land in front of the mine’s entrance. The Enfield sniffed at the tunnel into darkness, sneezed, and gave a little bark of displeasure. Instead of padding into the mine, he trotted down the hill toward Skathi, who had taken up position with Noll and Zadan at the rear of their company, arrows nocked and bows held at the ready.

Aravon’s gaze moved from Snarl toward the towering Endyn, who was in the process of struggling to dismount. Blood showed on the bandage around his leg, but it was the blow to the chest that interested Aravon the most. It should have killed him, and yet…

“Endyn.” He spoke in a voice pitched for the Legionnaire’s ears only. “With me.” Switching to the hand signals, he signed to Rangvaldr, “You, too.”

A storm raged in the giant Legionnaire’s eyes as he followed Aravon into the tunnel. Duvain trotted along in his brother’s shadow. Aravon hadn’t the heart to tell the young man to leave them alone; the Legionnaire needed to know the truth Endyn had been hiding from him. From all of them.

Cool darkness greeted him within the mine. A scent both musty and heavy with dust kicked up by their feet hung in the stale air. Aravon’s heart beat faster—the walls seemed to press in close around him, and he almost fancied he could hear the screams and chaos of battle reverberating within the mine.

But he pushed those sounds and images from his mind. He had more important things to worry about.

He stopped five yards into the mine, just within the radius of daylight streaming through the entrance, and turned to fix Endyn with a piercing gaze. “Show me.” Only one thing could explain the huge Legionnaire’s miraculous survival.

Endyn froze, every muscle in his huge body going rigid. His eyes darted to Duvain at his side, to Aravon and Rangvaldr, and back to his brother. Duvain’s eyes were dark, mingled suspicion, fear, and surprise etched there. Slowly, Endyn reached up and set about unbuckling his breastplate. Aravon’s gaze never left the man as he loosened the strap on his right shoulder and peeled the leather chest armor away.

A gasp escaped Duvain’s lips. “Endyn, no!”

Aravon’s gut clenched, and a grim light filled Rangvaldr’s eyes. The dragonskin had returned with a vengeance.

The scales covering Endyn’s chest were thicker and darker than before Camp Marshal, the cracked and bleeding flesh between a darker red. Pus of a sickly green color mingled with the yellow-and-red crust that formed between the flaking patches of skin turned to stone. Endyn’s chest actually clicked when he moved—given how wide the stiff, brittle dragonskin had spread, it was a wonder he could move.

He met Endyn’s gaze. “How long?”

The leather mask concealed the big man’s face, but there was no mistaking the shadows filling his eyes. “It returned last night,” Endyn rumbled.

“Last night!” Duvain gasped. “B-But…”

Aravon grimaced. At Camp Marshal, Endyn’s skin had been as clear and healthy as his brother’s. But if the dragonskin had grown so much in just one day, only the Long Keeper himself knew how fast it would spread to the rest of his body.

“I-I’m sorry.” Endyn turned to his brother. “I should have—”

“Of course you should have said something, you big idiot!” Fire blazed in Duvain’s eyes, accompanied by the first hints of tears.

The huge Legionnaire ducked his head. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Worry!” Duvain looked ready to punch his brother. “It’s my job to worry about you, Endyn!”

“And mine to worry about you,” Endyn rumbled. “If the magic stones couldn’t stop this—” He gestured to his chest. “—there’s nothing that can.”

“So you thought you’d keep it to yourself?” Duvain’s voice rose to a shout. “That, what, I wouldn’t notice it spreading again?” His gaze went to Endyn’s neck, and gave a strangled cry of horror.

Aravon followed Duvain’s gaze to where the first tendrils of dark grey had begun creeping up the side of Endyn’s neck. They hadn’t been there ten minutes earlier during their clash with the Rakki.

“You didn’t think I deserved to know?! After…” His voice cracked, and tears spilled from his eyes. When he managed to continue, his voice came our hoarse, a harsh rasping whisper. “After everything we’ve endured.”

Endyn shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do, Duvain.” His voice was heavy with regret, sorrow, and resignation. “Nothing anyone can do.”

“No!” Duvain’s voice broke again. “No, I won’t accept that!” He spun toward Rangvaldr. “Heal him again! But all the way this time!” A desperate, pleading note rang in his words. “Please!”

Rangvaldr half-raised a hand to his neck, but hesitated. A war of indecision raged in his eyes—his desire to help fighting against his uncertainty, the knowledge that doing so would very likely kill him, and whatever inner turmoil he’d struggled with all these miles.

Before the Seiomenn spoke, Endyn placed a huge hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Duvain.” With barely a hint of effort, turned Duvain around to face him. “Enough.”

“No!” The word came out in a half-sob. “No, I won’t—”

“Yes, you will.” The big Legionnaire gripped his brother’s shoulder hard. “You will, because I’m asking you to.” He fumbled at the straps holding his mask in place and removed it. Beneath the sweat, grime, and blood that stained his heavy features, his expression revealed calm acceptance. “I’ve made my peace with it. The sooner you do, the sooner—”

Endyn’s words cut off in surprise as Duvain threw his arms around his huge waist and pulled him into a fierce hug.

“I won’t give up on you!” Duvain rasped.

“It’s not giving up.” Endyn held his far smaller brother tight. “It’s accepting the truth.” A small smile tugged at his lips, an expression both sad and serene. “And making the most of the time we have left.”

Aravon turned away—the two brothers deserved a moment of privacy to cope with the inevitable. Rangvaldr, however, remained unmoving. His gaze remained locked on the two brothers, and a strange light burned in his eyes.

At that moment, a shout echoed from deeper inside the mine. “Captain!”

Aravon spun toward the sound. Colborn rushed down the tunnel toward him, his heavy frame outlined by a soft blue light glowing farther down the passage. In his hand, he carried a bundle of what looked like cloth-bound reeds—the bundles Duvain and Zaharis had carefully crafted the previous night. A bright orange flame burned at one end of the flameweed bundle, but thanks to Zaharis’ alchemy, it didn’t consume the dried grass. The marvel of the improvised torch astounded Aravon.

Colborn’s words drew his attention back to the matter at hand. “Magicmaker has a plan,” the Lieutenant said. “This way.”

Aravon hurried after Colborn, racing toward the light burning thirty yards deeper into the mine. The blue light of Zaharis’ glowing alchemical lamp shone on what appeared to be a widening in the passage. The walls expanded outward to form an almost perfectly circular chamber fifty feet across. A gaping void occupied the center of the chamber, a hole into darkness easily forty feet from one end to the other. Zaharis and Captain Lingram stood on the far side of the chasm, on the opposite end of a crude bridge of wood and rope.

As Aravon approached, Zaharis dropped a stone into the hole. Long seconds passed before a faint clatter echoed up from the pitch-black depths.

“Look at this, Captain!” Zaharis looked up at the sound of Aravon and Colborn’s approach and gestured at the bridge, excitement sparkling in his eyes. “Deep enough to swallow every one of the Rakki, if we can get the bastards in here.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed beneath his mask. He glanced at Lingram, then back at Zaharis. “Let me guess, bring the bridge down with as many Rakki as possible?”

Zaharis nodded. “That’s about the extent of it.” He gestured to the bridge. “Wouldn’t take more than a few well-placed bundles of mixed sparkweed and Dragon Thorngrass to bring it down. I’ve got enough of both in my chest.”

Aravon inclined his head. “A solid plan.” He’d seen what Dragon Thorngrass could do—a few bundles of the spiked grass had set the marshlands south of Rivergate ablaze, water and all. “Just one problem, though. The Rakki aren’t stupid enough to charge straight into what’s clearly a trap.”

“No, they won’t.” Noll shrugged. “That’s why we’ll dangle a tempting bit of bait: us.”

“Set the shield wall,” Zaharis signed, “and after the first clash—”

“Pull back, retreating to the far side of the bridge,” Aravon finished, understanding the Secret Keeper’s plan. “When they give chase…”

“BOOM!” Noll mimicked an explosion with his hands.

“No, not boom. Definitely not a boom.” Zaharis shook his head and gestured at the stone ceiling and walls. “The structure of the chamber is too weak. A concussive blast could bring down the mine on our heads, killing us along with the Rakki.”

Noll’s eyes darkened. “Trust you to take all the fun out of it.”

Zaharis ignored the scout’s sulking tone. “We lure the Rakki onto the bridge, pull back just far enough to make them cross, then bring it down with as many of them as possible. The rest, we deal with.” He plucked a chunk of rock from the wall and tossed it into the shaft to illustrate his point.

Aravon pursed his lips in thought. A risky plan, but one they’d pulled off at the Fornbryggja against the Blood Queen. He doubted the Rakki would expect it, or they would simply be too invested in the battle to realize it.

His eyebrows shot up. Especially if they recognize us as Princelanders!

Reaching up, he removed his mask and turned to Captain Lingram. “Pass the word to your men: masks off. We want them to see who we are.”

Captain Lingram’s eyes narrowed, but Colborn understood. “Once they see your faces, they’ll stop at nothing to gut your corpses and bring your heads to the Eirdkilrs.” He, too, removed his mask, and a grim smile touched his lips. “Nothing like the sight of you half-men to make their blood boil.”

Aravon nodded. “Precisely.” Their armor, weapons, and clothing might mark them as Fehlans, but beneath their masks, all but Rangvaldr and Colborn were visibly foreigners to Fehl.

The plan had merits, but that didn’t mean it was perfect.

He turned to Zaharis. “You sure you can bring down the bridge while we’re busy fighting the Rakki?”

Zaharis, who had now removed his mask as well, grinned and nodded. “A nice little trail of sparkweed should do the trick. Run it along the ground and once it touches the Dragon Thorngrass, we’ll have a solid blaze that’ll burn through the ropes holding the bridge up. Perhaps even hot enough to kill a few before they plunge to their deaths.”

Aravon studied the Secret Keeper; no trace of hesitation shone in his eyes. Truth be told, Zaharis had never let them down. On the contrary, he’d come through every time, pulling from thin air one miraculous exploit after another. His alchemical skills had saved their lives far too many times to count. If he believed he could bring down the bridge, he’d damn well do it—and in style.

“So be it.” Aravon nodded. “Get it ready, and use as many hands as you need.”

With a nod, Zaharis hurried back up the tunnel.

Aravon turned to Captain Lingram. “Get your Legionnaires to bring the horses and gear across the bridge and as far up the tunnel as you think is safe. But make it quick. The enemy’s going to reach us all too soon.” It wouldn’t be long for the Rakki to scramble over the rubble or simply climb the cliffs. Every minute they had now was borrowed time—he’d be damned certain they made the most of it.

“Yes, Captain.” Lingram gave a crisp salute and turned to follow Zaharis.

“Colborn, take Skathi, Noll, Tark, and Zadan and get somewhere you can shoot at anyone coming up that trail.” Aravon grinned. “We want them frothing at the mouth and raging for blood by the time they reach us. Make sure they see your faces.”

Nodding, Colborn handed the bundle of fireweed to Aravon and hurried up the mine passage, calling out to Skathi, Noll, and the two surviving Legionnaires-turned-archers.

Aravon turned to study the far side of the bridge. After a moment, he stepped out onto the rope-bound wooden planking. To his surprise, it held firm, with far less sway and sag than he expected. Though the bridge had no railings, it was an easy crossing on steady footing. The solid ground on the far side of the bridge was twenty feet across, narrowing sharply inward toward the passage beyond.

Holding up the flaming bundle of grass, Aravon scanned the low ceiling within the tunnel. Sure enough, multiple seams and fissures crisscrossed the ceiling and walls. The wood and metal pillars within appeared solid enough to support the weight of all that stone, but if Zaharis feared an explosion could bring the tunnel down, Aravon knew better than to contradict the Secret Keeper.

His eyes went back to the cleared stretch of ground at the foot of the bridge. Twenty feet wide and nearly fifteen feet across, it offered ample space for their small company of Legionnaires to defend the bridge and lure the Rakki across. As long as the bridge fell with all the Rakki on their side, they could put an end to the barbarians. Once that was done, they could retrieve their horses and gear deep within the mine—and Snarl, safely out of harm’s way—and begin the underground trek toward Cliffpass.

Aravon drew in a deep breath and tried to ignore the twanging of his nerves. Their plan had far too many ways that it could go wrong, but given the time pressure, the enemy hunting them, and the forces at their disposition, it was the best they could do.

He hurried across the bridge and back toward the mine entrance. Please, mighty Swordsman, he prayed silently, give us the strength to pull it off, and get us through this battle.

The fate of the Princelands and all of Fehl rested on the outcome of this desperate attempt.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Aravon’s gut tightened as Noll charged down the mine tunnel toward the shield wall formed up on the southern side of the bridge.

“They’re coming!” he shouted. Behind him, the tunnel darkened as four more figures raced on the scout’s heels. An arrow pinged off the stone wall three inches from Colborn’s head and ricocheted down the tunnel, skittering across the floor before dropping into the mine shaft behind the shield wall. Before the five archers reached the formed-up Legionnaires, the first of the Rakki appeared in the entrance. One, two, five, ten, until their huge figures blocked out the sunlight as more poured down the mine tunnel.

Howls of “Death to the half-men!” echoed with deafening force off the stone walls, all but drowning out Captain Lingram’s command to “Open ranks!” But the soldiers had trained in the Legion shield wall long enough to expect the order. The shield wall split down the middle, opening a gap just wide enough for the five archers to dart through, then closed as smoothly as if they’d practiced it every day for the last months, not days.

The foremost Rakki slowed at the sight of the soldiers arrayed against them, their steps stuttering in hesitation. Yet as their comrades jostled and shoved them forward, they resumed their racing charge toward their prey. They had found the Princelanders, and nothing would deter them.

“Loose!” Skathi shouted. Five arrows hissed above the Legionnaires’ heads and slammed into the Rakki. Four barbarians fell to the hasty volley. Skathi, Colborn, and Noll managed to loose just once more, their shafts flying through the Legion ranks, dangerously close to the helmets of their comrades, before the barbarians closed the distance.

A loud whomph echoed in the mine shaft, and the bolt loosed from Belthar’s enormous crossbow sliced the air. Three feet of steel-tipped hardwood hurtled toward the Rakki and punched into the foremost warrior. The barbarian’s shield disintegrated into a mess of splinters and the bolt drove straight through his armor, body, and furs with such force that it hurled him backward into the Rakki behind him. The two fell, screaming, and for a moment, their bodies blocked the narrow mine tunnel.

Four more arrows hissed past Aravon’s head and slammed into the Rakki—two thumping into wooden shields harmlessly, the other two finding the exposed flesh of a barbarian’s face and leg. The man collapsed with a gurgling cry of pain.

But the Rakki raced past the now-bloodstained floor, leaping over the bodies of their fallen comrades, and thundered up the shallow incline toward the Legion shield wall. The cacophony of heavy barbarian boots pounded on the stone in time with Aravon’s fast-beating heart.

“Brace!” Aravon shouted. Tightened his grip on his spear, bent his knees, and pressed his arm against Belthar’s huge back.

A deafening crash echoed through the tunnel as the Rakki slammed into the shield wall. In twos and threes they came on, throwing themselves onto the Legionnaires with maddened ferocity. The front ranks of soldiers stumbled backward, thrown off-balance in the clash. A Legionnaire’s head exploded in a spray of blood and gore beneath the vicious swing of a Rakki club. Another screamed in agony as a Rakki’s sword dug deep into his arm.

But Endyn and Belthar anchored the center of the line. The two giants stood in the second rank, their massive tree-trunk legs braced against the impact. The Rakki charge hurled the front rank backward, but broke against Belthar and Endyn like a wave crashing into a rocky cliff. Belthar’s huge axe carved through Rakki flesh and bone, sending a head, an arm, and a hand flying. Blood sprayed in the mine shaft as three Rakki fell, cut down by Belthar’s axe and Endyn’s hewing spear.

The front rank recovered. Found their feet, regained their balance, and pushed back against the Rakki. With a roar, the soldiers in the front shoved the Rakki a step back, hacked out with their longswords. Barbarians fell, screaming. More came on in their wake. Pushing, shoving, striking at the Princelanders. Howling their fury as they clawed, grappled, and wrestled with Belthar and Endyn in the front rank. Thrown backward, staggering, and falling to meet their deaths trampled beneath the feet of their comrades.

A wounded Legionnaire staggered backward, opening a gap in the weakened front rank. Endyn and Belthar pressed forward, Corporal Rold guarding Belthar’s left side. Rangvaldr and Zaharis anchored the flanks of the second row. The Seiomenn’s shield held firm against the Rakki’s ferocity, his sword carving through their legs or hacking at exposed faces. Zaharis whirled his mace with blinding speed. The crunch of bones and the shrieks of wounded Rakki added to the cacophony of battle ringing through the tunnel.

Aravon drove his spear into the face of a Rakki trying to cut down the wounded Legionnaire, then seized the staggering soldier and dragged him backward. Away from the chaos of the battle line toward safety.

He shoved the man at Noll and Skathi. “Go!” he shouted. They and the two Legionnaires-turned archers obeyed without hesitation, scooping up the stumbling Annur and hauling him across the narrow wood-and-rope bridge.

Aravon spun back to the battle. Found Colborn had taken his place in line, bow shouldered and shield and sword now held in a firm grip. He fought at Corporal Rold’s back, supporting the man and driving his sharp steel blade between gaps in the front shield wall. Hacking, stabbing, chopping, cutting down any Rakki that tried to attack the two giant Princelanders’ flanks.

Another Legionnaire fell on the right, a gap opening for a heartbeat. Aravon leapt toward the falling man and drove his spear forward. Cut down the Rakki trying to shoulder his way through. The barbarian screamed and died, blood bubbling from the gaping wound in his abdomen.

Aravon struggled to keep his balance on the blood-slicked floor. His foot twisted on something soft—the arm of the dead Legionnaire—and he stumbled forward. A hand snatched out and seized the back of his armor, dragging him backward. Just in time to avoid a crushing blow of an enemy’s club. Crimson sprayed the stone wall as Zaharis’ mace crumpled the barbarian’s face. More spattered Aravon’s face—his eyelids snapped shut just in time to keep the blood from his eyes.

Stumbling backward, he scrubbed at his unmasked face, trying frantically to wipe away the blood. Something slammed into his chest—a glancing blow that rebounded off his side but sent a stab of pain twinging through his ribs.

Then the blood was gone from his eyes. Blinking, he raised his spear, prepared to drive it forward. Barely caught it before driving it into Zaharis’ back. The Secret Keeper had stepped into the gap. His mace whirled and spun, its spiked head tearing flesh and crushing bone. Any Rakki that came within his reach died. Blood soaked the Secret Keeper, slithered in gory rivulets down his arm.

Aravon sucked in a breath, took stock of the battle in the space between heartbeats. The Legionnaires held their own but the flow of Rakki never slowed. The low, narrow tunnel kept the barbarians from overwhelming the defenders with a massive rush, but they far outnumbered the beleaguered Legionnaires. More and more hurled themselves into the battle. Clawed at the Legionnaires’ shields, snarling and spitting, grasping at arms and pulling at legs. Trying to overwhelm the defenders through sheer weight of numbers.

Twin bellowing roars answered the Rakki’s howling war cries. Belthar and Endyn, shoulders braced against their shields, hurled the barbarians staggering backward. A single step, barely two feet of cleared ground. Some fell, tripping over the bodies of their dead comrades. For one heartbeat, empty air and bloodstained stone separated the two forces.

Now was the time to retreat.

“Break off!” Aravon roared. Without hesitation, he turned and raced down the tunnel toward the bridge. By the time he reached the far side, the pounding of his soldiers’ boots echoed hot on his heels.

Once more on solid ground, he whirled and planted his feet. The Legionnaires, expecting the order, made no attempt at an orderly withdrawal or reverse march. They fled the enemy, as if desperation and panic lent wings to their feet. No coordination or order—just a terrified flight.

Or so he needed the Rakki to think. The barbarians had to believe them routed; it was the only way to lure them into giving chase.

One by one, the Legionnaires sprinted across the bridge. Endyn came next-to-last, shoving Duvain along before him, shielding his brother with his massive body. Belthar brought up the rear, axe in one hand and enormous crossbow in the other. The bridge groaned and creaked beneath the weight of the two giants but held firm. Long enough for the last of the soldiers to cross and join the hastily re-forming shield wall.

The sudden flight had caught the Rakki off-guard long enough for the Legionnaires to flee without being cut down. A pair of arrows sliced the air above the Legionnaires’ heads, but they lacked accuracy, loosed in haste by barbarians surprised by the reversal in battle.

But they recovered quickly. Belthar and Endyn hadn’t even joined the shield wall before the Rakki recovered and gave chase. Howling, shrieking their bloodthirsty war cries, they raced in pursuit. Thundered across the narrow rope-and-wood bridge and charged the formed-up Legionnaires.

Arrows leapt across the chasm and struck them from the sides. Skathi, Noll, Tark, and Zadan, spread out along the walls, loosed a steady stream of missiles at the rearmost Rakki. The barbarians, eyes locked on the enemy ahead, never saw the archers picking them off from the sides. With Zaharis’ flameweed bundles burning and casting light on the southern end of the bridge, the shadows on the northern side were deep and dark, perfect for concealing the four bowmen.

The Rakki slammed into the Legion’s line—into Belthar and Endyn. The two huge men anchored the front of the line, directly in front of the bridge, and their massive weapons swept Rakki off into the chasm with bone-shattering blows. At their sides fought Colborn and Rangvaldr. Shields held in hands strengthened by years of battle, swords swung with expertise and experience. Aravon stood behind Colborn, in the shelter of the Lieutenant’s shield but close enough to drive his spear at the enemy. Cutting down any Rakki that escaped the giants and shield-wielding Fehlans at the front of the line.

The Rakki came on in pairs, stumbling across the bridge that swayed and sagged beneath their weight, and died in droves. Cut down by sword, axe, and spear or knocked into the yawning gulf. Screaming, plummeting to their deaths far below. Only to be replaced by the next Rakki in line, another in what seemed an endless wave of howling, snarling, snapping barbarians.

Blood soaked the bridge, slicked the time-worn wood. Rakki corpses piled up, a barrier that slowed the enemy, forced the barbarians to scramble over fallen comrades to attack the two massive Princelanders. Straight into the teeth of those huge weapons and mighty muscles the Rakki came. Came and died, felled by the finest quality steel or hurled off the bridge.

Aravon tore his gaze from the battle before him just long enough to glance at the rearmost Rakki. The barbarians shoved and jostled each other, pushing to join their comrades crossing the bridge. Even as he turned back to the fight—thrusting his spear into the face of a Rakki trying to tear Colborn’s shield from his grip—his mind raced, his ears listening for the expected order. He was needed to fight, so command of the battle had passed to Skathi. The keen-eyed archer would know when to—

“One step back!” Skathi’s voice pierced the din of combat. An arrow hissed past Aravon’s head, slicing through the air and punching into a Rakki on the bridge. Another hurled toward him a moment later, pinging off his helmet and thumping into something meaty behind him. He had no time to turn and look—he was too busy shoving at a Rakki trying to claw Colborn’s eyes out with sharp-nailed fingers. He brought his spear up and over Colborn’s shoulder, just above the rim of his shield. Drove it into the Rakki’s throat. Blood gushed over Colborn’s face, shield, and helmet as the Rakki fell back, shrieking, gurgling, and disappeared into the chasm.

“Back!” Skathi shouted again.

“Back!” Aravon roared, passing on the command. His voice registered in the battle-numbed minds of the soldiers before him. Gripping Colborn’s shoulder, he took a step back, opening a cleared space. The Lieutenant followed, and movement rippled down the rest of the line.

The gap between the Legion shield wall and the bridge widened—one long step of solid ground between the cliff’s edge and the Legionnaires. The Rakki hurled themselves into that gap, gained a foothold on the northern side of the bridge.

Just as Aravon intended.

The order came again. “Back!”

Another step backward, all but Endyn moving. The giant struggled with two Rakki clawing and hacking at his shield, trying to thrust their swords around the steel-rimmed edge to strike at him. Corporal Rold cut down one and Endyn slammed the boss of his shield into the other’s face. Blood gushed from his broken nose and he staggered backward into two of his comrades. In that momentary opening, Belthar dragged Endyn back a step and hastily re-formed their shield wall.

Again the Rakki charged, and again the Legionnaires fought to hold them back. Their plan demanded they lure the barbarians across the bridge, but the more that crossed, the greater the chance they were overwhelmed by the Rakki’s superior numbers. Aravon gritted his teeth and prayed to the Swordsman—give us strength!

Endyn, Belthar, Corporal Rold, Colborn, and Rangvaldr held the front rank, a solid wall of shields and brute strength to keep the enemy at bay. But within seconds, Aravon realized, the enemy would gain a better foothold and spread out to encircle the defenders from the side. If they didn’t do this soon, they’d be—

“Last step!” Skathi shouted.

Even as Aravon struggled to retreat, a faint hissing sound came from his right. A spark suddenly flared bright along the ground, tracing a line from behind Aravon, along the stony floor, toward the near edge of the bridge.

Hope surged within him. Yes! Zaharis’ trail of sparkweed hissed and crackled as the little spot of fire raced toward the bridge. Toward the bundles of Dragon Thorngrass the Secret Keeper had stuffed at various intervals along the bridge, each connected by more braided strands of sparkweed.

“Now!” Aravon shouted.

Endyn, Colborn, Belthar, Corporal Rold, and Rangvaldr leapt backward, opening a broader gap between their front rank and the Rakki. Between them and the bridge. Aravon’s gut clenched in anticipation of the sudden fwomph of fire, the brilliant burst of light and wave of heat that would bring down the bridge and the Rakki with it.

Suddenly, the foremost Rakki stumbled over a fallen comrade, slipped on blood-slicked stone, and fell. Right atop the wisp of burning sparkweed.

Horror thrummed within Aravon, froze him in place. No! Even as the barbarian scrambled to his feet, Aravon caught sight of the Secret Keeper’s hastily improvised fuse.

The spark had gone out. Their plan to bring down the bridge had failed.

The Rakki charged once more.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Time seemed to stand still in that moment. Aravon’s mind raced—their entire plan had hinged on bringing down the bridge, and the Rakki with it. Scores of enemies still filled the mine tunnel, crossing the gap and shoving to join the attack on the Princelanders.

With the bridge still intact, the Legionnaires and Grim Reavers had little hope of victory. The enemy far outnumbered them—he and his men would run out of strength before they ran out of Rakki to kill. If he didn’t think of another plan now, they would all die here and now.

But what? Chaos whirled in his thoughts. The handful of Princelanders alone, unable to retreat, how could they survive?

A mighty, bellowing roar shattered Aravon’s momentary trance, echoing through the cavern with deafening force. An enormous figure broke from the front of the Legionnaires’ ranks and charged the enemy. Endyn’s huge body, backed by the force of his powerful muscles, drove straight at the Rakki crossing the bridge. Shield held before him, shoulders and head down, he slammed into them with the force of a runaway carriage. Sent them stumbling or flying off the narrow bridge.

The sudden charge caught the enemy off-guard, and they fell screaming as Endyn barreled through their lines and tossed them aside like ragdolls. Trampled beneath his huge feet, faces and chests caved in by the steel boss of his huge shield, or plummeted into the gaping darkness of the chasm.

“Endyn!” Duvain screamed, chilling and ringing with terror. Aravon whirled and threw out an arm barely in time to stop the slim Legionnaire from hurling himself after his brother. Gripped him tight as the giant Endyn bull-rushed through the Rakki holding the bridge. Those Rakki too slow or stunned to move fell before the huge Legionnaire, but a few managed to evade his charge. And to strike back at him. Swords, spears, clubs, and axes thumped into Endyn’s back as he barreled past. Cutting deep, slashing the leather armor to ribbons, piercing the flesh beneath. Far too many, yet the huge Legionnaire never slowed in his charge—a charge that carried him to the southern end of the bridge and right into the heart of the Rakki crowding into the mine tunnel.

Belthar roared an answering cry and took off in pursuit of the giant Legionnaire. He hit the off-balance Rakki with terrible force, his axe carving through their thinned ranks in seconds. His powerful blows swept aside Rakki weapons, crushed limbs, and hurled the remaining barbarians off the bridge.

Colborn and Rangvaldr followed in Belthar’s wake, Aravon a step behind. But there was no need—the ferocity of the attacks had finished off the Rakki on the bridge, and those in the rear fell back before the two bellowing giants and the shield-bearing warriors on their heels. The remaining Rakki fled up the tunnel and disappeared into the daylight beyond, a wild edge of panic to their howling war cries.

Endyn stood alone on the far side of the bridge. Heaving, gasping for air, blood staining every inch of his body. The blood of his enemies and his own, seeping through dozens of cuts and slashes in his armor, tunic, and flesh.

With a groan, the giant slumped to one knee. Collapsed against the wall with a heavy thump, his shield falling away, his spear dropping from his huge fingers.

“Endyn!” Duvain screamed again. This time, Aravon let the slim Legionnaire go. Duvain burst through the ranks of Legionnaires and rushed across the bridge, threw himself to his knees beside his brother. “What did you do?”

Aravon ran after the Legionnaire and arrived in time to hear Endyn’s weak reply.

“What…I had to.” Endyn gave a wet, gurgling cough. “To keep…you alive.” Blood gushed from wounds in his sides, chest, neck, face, hands, arms—too much blood. What bits of flesh hadn’t yet turned to dragonskin were now torn and shredded. His nose and lips hung in grisly ribbons, and deep furrows crisscrossed his face.

“No, no, no!” Duvain scrambled to press his brother’s wounds shut, but there were too many. Too deep. Gashes in his chest that oozed deep, dark heart’s blood that ran in rivulets among the pus oozing from the inflamed cracks in his dragonskin.

Aravon turned to call for Rangvaldr, but Endyn’s voice stopped him. “No, Captain.” His rumbling voice held a note of grim determination. “Let me be.”

“What are you talking about?” Duvain fairly screamed. He whirled on Aravon. “Heal him! Please.”

“Duvain.” Endyn gripped his brother’s hand. “I don’t…want to die…”

“I know!” Duvain whirled back to his brother, tears in his eyes. “That’s why—”

“Listen!” Endyn’s voice thundered through the cavern, and his eyes blazed with the last of his strength. “Don’t want…to die…from dragonskin.” He coughed again, bringing up flecks of crimson-tinged spittle. “A soldier’s death…is far better…than what’s waiting...for me.” He struggled for each breath; the deep puncture wound in his chest had doubtless pierced the lungs, drowning him in his own blood.

“No,” Duvain half-sobbed, half-shouted. “No, no, no, not like this!”

“Yes.” Endyn squeezed his brother’s hand. “Better like this…than any…other way.”

“No,” Duvain protested. “Please, Endyn.”

A strong hand gripped the slim Legionnaire’s shoulder. “Duvain.” Captain Lingram had come up behind Aravon, and now spoke to the soldier in a quiet voice. “You—”

“Tell him, Captain!” Duvain whirled on Lingram. “Tell him to stop being a fool, and to let the healer work his magic.”

Captain Lingram’s bloodstained face darkened. “But that’s not what he wants,” he said in a quiet voice.

Duvain looked as if the Captain had struck him. His jaw fell slack, his breath caught in his lungs. Disbelief, fury, and horror flashed in his eyes.

“Listen to me, Duvain.” Captain Lingram spoke in a firm voice. “If you love your brother, you owe him the chance to make his own choice. To go out the way he’d want to.” He pushed past Duvain and crouched in front of Endyn, taking up the big man’s free hand. “A Legionnaire to the end.”

A smile tugged at Endyn’s mangled lips. “Thank you…Captain,” he gasped. Another fit of coughing racked him, ending in a wet, gurgling groan. “It’s been…an honor…”

“The honor has been mine, Endyn of Northpass.” Captain Lingram leaned forward and rested his forehead against Endyn’s. “March into peace now, brave soldier.”

A sob shook Duvain’s shoulders, but Endyn’s grin brightened.

Sorrow twisted at Aravon’s gut as he turned away; the brothers deserved a moment of privacy to say their final farewells.

“Captain…Snarl.” Endyn’s voice stopped him.

Aravon turned back to the young man. Endyn struggled to sit upright, but blood loss left him too weak to move. Instead, he simply nodded to Aravon. “Maybe…in another life…I’d be…a Grim Reaver, too.”

“Not in another life.” Aravon knelt at Endyn’s side and clasped the giant’s massive hand in his own. “You are a Grim Reaver. You proved that today, and every day since I met you.”

Tears of joy filled Endyn’s eyes. “You hear that…Duvain?” He struggled to draw breath. “I’m…a Grim…Reaver.”

“I heard.” Duvain tried to scrub the moisture from his cheeks, but only succeeded in smearing the blood spattering his face.

“Face the Long Keeper with pride.” The lump in Aravon’s throat turned his voice harsh and hoarse. “And know that you have earned your place at the Swordsman’s side.”

A beatific smile spread Endyn’s mangled lips, and his eyes brightened.

Now Aravon turned away quickly, his eyes burning. Even as he stood, Colborn raced down the tunnel.

“They’re regrouping outside the mine,” the Lieutenant signed. “They’ll be back soon. Two, three minutes before they come at us again.”

Aravon gritted his teeth. He wasn’t certain Zaharis could reset the sparkweed trail in time. The Secret Keeper had left his alchemical chest with the horses and Snarl a quarter-mile up the tunnel—even if he had enough of the dried, fast-burning reeds, the Rakki would renew their attack before he returned.

Tension knotted his shoulders. We’ve got to figure out another plan. Gritting his teeth, Aravon turned to Lingram. “Give him a minute, but when I tell you…”

Lingram nodded. “We’ll be ready to form the line again, Captain.” He hovered near Duvain, who had taken a seat at Endyn’s side, leaning his head against his brother’s huge shoulder.

Aravon left the three Legionnaires and raced across the bridge. Skathi crouched beside Annur, fighting a losing battle to bind up the gash in the side of the Legionnaire’s neck. Even with Tassus’ help, fresh spurts of crimson pumped from the deep gouge. Noll was prying arrows out of the Rakki corpses still on the bridge, and Rangvaldr tended to wounds—Belthar, Corporal Rold, and Captain Lingram had all sustained nasty cuts—and knelt over the fallen Tark to close his eyelids. Aravon couldn’t help noticing that the Seiomenn hadn’t drawn out his pendant to heal the Legionnaires.

Yet he had no time to question. As Aravon approached, Zaharis rose from where he’d crouched beside the bridge and fixed him with a dour look. “It’s bad, Captain.” He gave a grim shake of his head. “The blood’s so thick it’s turned the sparkweed sodden. No way it’ll light now.”

Aravon glanced down at the bridge and the crimson-stained stone at the northern edge. Though Belthar and Zadan had dumped the Rakki bodies into the chasm, deep puddles of dark red blood soaked the ground.

“I’ve got more Dragon Thorngrass and a few strands of sparkweed back in my chest, but that’s too far now.” His jaw muscles worked, frustration in his eyes. “Even then, there’s not enough for a fuse. The only way it would work is if someone set the firestriker to it directly.”

Aravon’s gut clenched. Trying to light the sparkweed while fighting the Rakki would be suicidal. His mind raced, his thoughts a swirling chaos as he racked his brain for another solution. They’d killed four or five score Rakki—Endyn’s desperate charge had hurled dozens off the bridge—but there had to be as many more preparing to renew the attack. And unless they wanted to risk the Rakki sending word of their presence to the Eirdkilrs, they had to find another way to deal with them. That bridge was their best chance of putting an end to the barbarians, but—

“What about your Earthshaker?” The question came from Noll, who stood a short distance away. “That could bring down the bridge, right?”

“And the passage with it,” Zaharis retorted, his expression as sharp as his hand gestures. “There are faults in the walls and ceiling that run for hundreds of yards down that tunnel. Keeper knows how far we’d have to run to escape the collapse. And after that mess, there’s no chance I’d trust a fuse to set it off.” He shook his head. “No, the only way an Earthshaker works is if we set it off ourselves.”

Noll’s expression soured, grew as dark as the shadows in Zaharis’ eyes. The scout knew full well what that meant. There’d be no escape from that blast. And yet…

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.

Zaharis’ eyebrows flew up. “What?”

“I said I’ll do it.” Noll turned to Aravon. “I’m the best one for the job, Captain, and you know it.”

“Noll—” Aravon began.

“Think about it, sir.” Noll drove on, almost as if trying to end the matter before he thought about it too carefully. “Colborn can handle the scouting, and Skathi’s almost as good a shot as me.” The taut lines of his face belied his grin. “Besides, you know how much I’ve wanted to play with one of Zaharis’ iron apples since the first time I saw them.”

Fire blazed in Zaharis’ eyes. “You know you’re volunteering to die, right?” His fingers flashed, gestures short and snappy. “Whoever sets it off has no hope of surviving the resulting cave-in.”

“So it’s not a perfect outcome.” Noll tried for a nonchalant shrug, failed. “I can think of worse.” Even his usual wry humor couldn’t pierce the gloom in his dour expression.

“But your family—” Zaharis began.

“Deserves far better than me.” Noll squared his shoulders, lifted his head. This time, he actually managed a convincing smile—sad yet sincere. “They’ve been well off enough without me all this time. This just makes it final.”

The words left Aravon speechless. He tried to think of what to say, but nothing came. Noll’s determination to make the sacrifice stole the words from his mouth. In all the years he’d known the scout, he’d never have imagined him making a choice like this. But looking at Noll now, he saw no deceit, disingenuity, or hesitation. The scout had accepted his fate as the best possible outcome for all of them—a sacrifice he’d make for the sake of his comrades. A true Grim Reaver to the end.

“Noll—” Belthar rumbled.

“No.” Noll rounded on the big man. “Don’t you dare try to take this from me, you big lummox. You go find your own moment to play hero. I’m staying here to make sure that bridge comes down.”

Sorrow darkened Belthar’s eyes. “B-But…” He swallowed. “There has to be another way!” An almost pleading edge of desperation echoed in his voice.

“When you think of one, come find me in the Sleepless Lands and tell me what it is, yeah?” Noll smiled up at the big man—a sad smile, yet no less determined. He glanced at Belthar, Aravon, and Zaharis in turn. “You don’t have time to waste arguing this. Every minute you spend here gives Tyr Farbjodr a chance to escape. So you lot scoot along and make sure to put an end to this. I’ll just settle in all cozy-like here and make sure you’ve got time enough to get out.”

Aravon’s eyes burned and a lump rose in his throat. He tried to think of a plan—any plan, no matter how desperate—that gave Noll a way out. Yet he could think of none. No plan to save his man. No words to express his gratitude.

“There’s another way.” A new voice echoed from behind Aravon. He spun to find Captain Lingram and Duvain helping a sagging, stumbling Endyn across the blood-soaked bridge.

“I’m the other way,” Duvain said. “I’ll stay behind and cover for you.”

“What?” Corporal Rold snapped. A moment later, the man himself shouldered between Belthar and Noll and planted his feet in front of the bridge, glaring daggers at the slim Legionnaire. “Like the fiery hell you will, Meat!”

Duvain gave Rold a sweet smile. “All due respect, Corporal, but go bugger yourself with a thornbush.” The grin turned nasty, edged with relief as if he were finally able to speak his mind. “Captain’s orders.”

Corporal Rold’s blood-spattered eyebrows shot up, surprise etched in every line of his face. Impossibly, he seemed at a loss for words, but his gaze darted toward Captain Lingram.

“He has the right to choose.” Lingram spoke in a quiet voice. “He’s earned that right.”

Gently, he and Duvain lowered the massive Endyn to the crimson-soaked stone in front of the bridge. Endyn struggled to remain kneeling, his body sagging with pain, fatigue, and blood loss. Yet with Duvain’s help, he managed to keep his head up, leaning on his huge hewing spear.

“But—” Corporal Rold began.

“Sorry…Corporal,” Endyn rumbled, voice weak. “I tried…to talk…sense into him.”

“This is the only way our mission gets done right.” Duvain gripped his brother’s arm tight, but his eyes fixed on Aravon and the Grim Reavers. “I don’t have your training, your skills, your savvy. I’m just a Legionnaire, and a half-shite one at that.”

“More than half!” Corporal Rold muttered.

Duvain grinned. “But this won’t take much skill, right?” He glanced to Zaharis for confirmation.

“Just pull the string and count to three,” Aravon translated the Secret Keeper’s answer.

“See?” Duvain’s eyes shone with an almost eerie calm, an inner peace that came with acceptance. “That sounds like the sort of job I can handle.” He gestured to Endyn. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

With those words, Aravon understood. Duvain and Endyn were family. Family stood by each other come fiery hell or tidal waters.

“Keeper’s teeth, Meat, but you’re one fiery hell of an undergrown idiot!” Corporal Rold snarled. “Getting all moon-eyed and thinking you’re capable of more than scratching your arse with both hands.” He threw up his hands. “You’d get yourself killed without a real soldier to watch over you!”

Duvain’s eyebrows shot up. “No, Corporal, you c—”

Rold loomed over the slim Legionnaire, his voice a cracking whip that drowned out Duvain’s protest “One more sound out of you, and you’ll spend your eternity in the Sleepless Lands on latrine duty!”

Duvain’s mouth snapped shut.

Corporal Rold turned to Captain Lingram and Aravon. “If we’re going to do this, might as well do it right, sir. Lure every last one of the buggers in here before springing that trap.” He shrugged. “Besides, we both know what’ll happen if I leave these piss-pots alone. I’ve seen them cock up the simple act of rolling out of their blankets in the morning. No way I’m letting them handle something like this without proper oversight!”

Captain Lingram hesitated, opened his mouth—to give an order or agree, Aravon would never know.

Corporal Rold spoke first. “We need the enemy to believe it, Captain.” His voice was quiet, all trace of his usual harsh vulgarity gone. “I’ll make sure we sell it enough to sucker the bastards in.”

“As will we.” Tassus rose from his crouch, helping Annur to stand. “We stay and fight.” Blood seeped through the bandage on Annur’s neck and he struggled just to remain upright, he, too, appeared ready to fight and die. Zadan stepped toward them with a silent twitch of his shoulders. The last of the Legionnaires still living, now willing to die for their mission.

Corporal Rold turned a wry grin on Aravon and Captain Lingram. “Six of us ain’t much, but we’ll give those Rakki piss-guzzlers a hell of a fight!” A wild light sparkled in his eyes. “They don’t call us Deadheads for nothing, right?”

Sorrow twisted in Aravon’s gut—how could he do anything less than give these brave soldiers the respect they earned with this choice? Captain Lingram’s face seemed frozen, as if he struggled to keep the emotion from his eyes, but there was no mistaking the moisture that rimmed his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Corporal Rold cut him off.

“Off with you, sir.” The Corporal gave a dismissive wave. “Someone’s got to lead these Grim Reavers through the tunnels. The Princelands’ finest are guaranteed to wind up lost without a proper Legionnaire to guide them.”

Aravon chuckled, a sound made harsh by the lump in his throat. He stepped forward and held out a hand to Rold. “Swordsman strengthen your arm, Corporal.”

The Legionnaire returned the grip. “Aye, and to you, Captain Aravon.” Releasing Aravon’s hand, he stepped back, straightened, and brought his fist to his breastplate in a crisp Legion salute. “Give that Farbjodr cunt a taste of Princelander steel for us!”

“Gladly.” Even the simple word proved hard to form. He clenched his jaw to keep the emotion from washing over him; he had to keep his head if they were to get out of this alive.

Captain Lingram opened his mouth to speak, but before any sound came out, a chorus of piercing, shrieking howls thundered down the tunnel. The Rakki had recovered their wits and courage, and they had resumed the attack.

“Go!” Corporal Rold shouted. He turned, scooped up his weapons, and rounded on Aravon and Captain Lingram. “We’ve got this handled. Piss off and go save the Princelands, you hear?”

Endyn tightened his grip on his hewing spear, leaning heavily, his face set in a grim cast as he turned his massive body toward the bridge. The Rakki would have a bloody hard time getting past him.

Zaharis drew out the Earthshaker and handed it to Duvain. Light from burning bundles of flameweed gleamed from the studded iron surface, painting the fist-sized metal orb in an eerie, vicious light. Zaharis simply pointed to the finger-length string that protruded from the top—Duvain nodded his understanding and thanks.

Then the tunnel ahead darkened, the bodies of scores of charging Rakki blocking out the light streaming through the opening. The howling grew louder, the chilling sound piercing Aravon to the core.

Gripping Captain Lingram’s arm, he turned and raced up the tunnel, away from the oncoming enemies and the Legionnaires that had chosen to stay behind and cover their rear. Lingram made no protest—he seemed at a loss for words, barely able to keep placing one foot in front of the other as he stumbled down the mine passage in pursuit of Aravon.

Aravon glanced back once—dozens of Rakki poured across the bridge, howling their furious war cries. Charging the six standing, kneeling, sagging figures holding the near side, standing firm on the blood-soaked stone.

Then the tunnel curved sharply to the right, around a corner, and the Legionnaires disappeared from sight.

A dread chill settled into Aravon’s chest as he turned back to the strangely cold, pale blue light streaming from Zaharis’ alchemical lantern. The Secret Keeper raced far ahead of them, with the rest of the Grim Reavers hard on his heels. Aravon and Captain Lingram brought up the rear—the burden of command and the weight of what they’d just allowed the Legionnaires to do dragging on their limbs.

The mountain seemed to choke off the war cries and howls of the Rakki, leaving only the thundering of Aravon’s pulse and the thump, thump, thump of his heavy boots on stone. His gut clenched, worry thrumming in his chest. Even as he ran, he listened for any sign that the Legionnaires had succeeded. Anything to tell him that they had set off the—

BOOM!

A tidal wave of sound washed over him, the thunderous report echoing off the solid walls around him and setting the ground beneath his feet rumbling.

Beside him, Captain Lingram stumbled, a snarling half-growl, half-cry of anguish bursting from his throat. He, too, knew what that sound portended.

The Deadheads had fallen, and in doing so, had saved the mission.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A heartbeat after the sound wave hit them, a pillar of dust billowed up the tunnel and washed over them. The stone walls and low ceiling gave an ominous rumble.

Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s gut clenched as a knuckle-sized chunk of stone crumbled from the roof and clattered off his breastplate. A heartbeat later, a second section of ceiling cracked and collapsed behind him. We’ve got to get the bloody hell out of here!

He broke into a mad dash, sprinting up the passage as fast as his feet could carry him. No time to see if Captain Lingram followed—he was too busy running for his life, racing to outdistance the tunnel collapsing behind him.

What started as a low rumble rose to a full-throated roar, then to a deafening bellow like some mountainous behemoth awoken from slumber. Wooden pillars sprayed splintered shards and metal snapped beneath the weight of the collapsing mine. The crack and clatter of collapsing stone echoed all around him. Dust billowed from behind him as section after section of the tunnel groaned, sagged, and yielded to the force of gravity.

Fear lent wings to Aravon’s feet as he raced through the darkened tunnels. Up the sloping incline, his lungs begging for air and fire searing through his leg muscles. He couldn’t slow, couldn’t even take a breath—if he stumbled or lagged, even for a heartbeat, the collapsing mine would bury him forever.

Something twisted under his foot. He went down, hard, skidding across the rubble-strewn ground. Panic gripped at his thoughts, digging icy claws into his mind. He leapt to his feet and raced onward, his ankle protesting with every step. Legs ablaze, spine aching, yet terror driving him forward. Ever forward, desperate to escape before—

An immense weight slammed into his back and bore him to the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. His face struck the floor hard. Stars whirled in his vision, the world spinning around him. Darkness. Immense and thick, heavy with choking dust. The ear-shattering tumult of the mine collapsing around him threatened to shatter his ears. Set his head racing, adding to the throbbing in his skull.

He tried to push himself upright, couldn’t. Blinked his eyes to clear them and spat a mouthful of gritty saliva. Stone cold beneath his fingers, a weight pressing down on his back. He lifted his head and the world spun around him again. Gasping, he fell back to the floor, struggling to draw breath. The weight on his back, so heavy, crushing his lungs.

Silence. Through the ringing in his ears, he realized the world had gone terribly mute. Save for a clatter of stone or the hissing of dust leaking from the shattered roof, no sound broke the stillness of the tunnel. From deafening to an all-consuming absence of sound.

Panic twisted in his gut. He still lived—the pain in his back and spinning head told him that much—but what of his soldiers? Again, he lifted his head. Found the passage utterly dark. Not even a hint of Zaharis’ alchemical lamp.

No! The icy fingers dug deeper, fear trying to claw its way free of his chest. He had survived the cave-in, so his Grim Reavers had to as well.

“Call…” He groaned as the world swam before his eyes—he’d fallen face-first, taken a hard hit to his forehead. Once the dizziness stopped, he tried again. “Call…out!” he managed to gasp.

“Here!” Belthar’s voice rumbled from the darkness.

“Captain?” Skathi called out from up the tunnel. “You good?”

“Just fine,” Aravon tried to move, found the weight of the stone atop his back shifted as he twisted to one side. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, he managed to wriggle out from beneath.

“Rangvaldr? Noll? Zaharis? Lingram?” The words came easier, though he had to spit another mouthful of gritty stone dust.

“We’re here!” Noll called out.

“Just got knocked off-balance by the earthquake,” Rangvaldr added.

A moment later, a glimmer of light shone up the tunnel. Zaharis’ alchemical lamp flared bright, shining n the Secret Keeper’s face—dusty and stained with the blood of battle, but uninjured otherwise.

“Aravon.” Captain Lingram’s hiss of pain echoed in the darkness. “My arm…” His voice sounded weak, strangled by pain.

“Get that light over here!” Aravon called.

Zaharis rose and, picking his way through the collapsed stone, hurried toward Aravon with his alchemical lamp held high. He paused only long enough to produce a firestriker and pass it to Colborn before continuing down the tunnel. A loud skkkritch echoed and a tongue of flame gleamed bright from the bundle of sparkweed Colborn lit.

As Zaharis approached, Aravon struggled to his feet, ignoring the pain in his face, and turned back to the passage. A wall of stone blocked their path—the tunnel had collapsed entirely behind them, cutting them off from the way back and sealing them in.

Two paces behind him, Captain Lingram lay beneath a mound of fallen stone. A few smaller stones had collapsed atop his legs and blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. But it was the boulder resting atop his left arm that concerned Aravon. Twice the size of the man himself and doubtless thrice the weight, it had fallen squarely onto Lingram’s shield arm.

“Shite!” Growling a curse, Aravon stumbled over to Lingram. He seized the stone and tried in vain to pry it off the Captain’s arm. He could barely shift it, but the slightest movement elicited a cry of pain from the trapped Lingram.

Damn it! Aravon spun toward his comrades. “Belthar! Give me a hand here.”

The big Grim Reaver was already heading in his direction, a few steps behind Zaharis.

“Easy,” Aravon said, kneeling by Captain Lingram’s head and gripping his uninjured shoulder. “We’ll have you out of there in no time.”

Turning, he found the rest of the Grim Reavers had joined him. “Get the rest of the rubble off him,” he ordered. “Colborn, Rangvaldr, give Belthar a hand.”

Noll and Skathi set about clearing the stones from atop Lingram’s legs while Belthar studied the huge stone by the light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern. After a few seconds, he nodded and stooped to grip the rock. His massive fingers dug into two cracks and he braced his legs against the ground.

“Get ready,” he rumbled to Aravon. Then to Colborn and Rangvaldr, “Once I lift it, help me keep it up long enough for the Captain to drag him clear.”

The two burly Fehlans nodded and bent to place their shoulders to the stone. Drawing in a deep breath, Belthar threw his back and body into the effort. The muscles of his huge shoulders and arms knotted, pulled tight like lengths of braided rope, and blood rushed through his limbs as he strained. His massive jaw clenched with the effort and a low growl rolled from deep within his chest.

Slowly, the stone shifted. Moved slightly, lifted upward. Belthar’s growl rose in volume and intensity, his enormous muscles straining with the effort. One inch, two inches, three.

“A little more!” Aravon called.

Colborn and Rangvaldr threw themselves into the effort, and together, the three of them raised the stone higher, higher, higher until—

Yes! Aravon dragged Captain Lingram out from beneath the huge stone, pulling him until he was certain the soldier’s arm was clear. He’d barely gotten the man away before the boulder crashed back down. Stone shards and chips of dark grey rock sprayed from beneath the falling stone. Belthar, Colborn, and Rangvaldr gasped and staggered backward, sagging with momentary exhaustion.

In the light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern, Aravon finally got a good look at Captain Lingram’s arm. Keeper’s teeth! The stone had shattered the bone and torn through flesh and muscle. It was only by the Swordsman’s grace it hadn’t also sliced the huge artery.

Lingram’s face was pale and drenched with sweat, his jaw clenched tight. “Set…the damned thing!” he gasped.

Aravon glanced up at Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn was still gasping for air, recovering from the exertion. He wouldn’t have the strength to set the bone—or heal Lingram—for a few minutes. Aravon had no choice; he had to do it himself. His gut clenched. He’d done it enough times in the field to know how agonizing it would be, but they needed to set and splint the arm until Rangvaldr had recovered enough to call on his magic. They couldn’t risk the sharp edges of bone cutting the artery in the meantime.

He met the Captain’s gaze. “This is going to hurt.”

Lingram clenched his jaw, braced his back against the stone floor, and nodded. “Do it,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Gripping the limb, Aravon pulled. The Captain’s agonized screams curdled Aravon’s blood and twisted the dagger in his gut, but he refused to stop. It seemed an endless eternity before the two ends of snapped bone finally settled into place and Aravon could finally release Captain Lingram’s arm. The Legionnaire lay weeping from the anguish, broken arm curled against his chest.

He lifted his gaze to Rangvaldr. In the two minutes it had taken Aravon to set the limb, the Seiomenn had recovered from his effort, yet curiously had made no move to come over and help. His hands remained at his sides, the holy stone still tucked beneath his armor, and he’d made no offer of healing.

“Stonekeeper.” Aravon’s tone held an edge of steel, commanding and insistent. “Can you do something for him?”

To Aravon’s surprise, Rangvaldr hesitated a long second before he moved toward the Legionnaire. Drawing out the pendant, he spoke the arcane words of power that brought it to life. The sound seemed to send a shiver through the tunnels, and the tunnel around them reflected the light of the blue-glowing holy stone with an unnatural brilliance.

Rangvaldr pressed the gleaming gemstone to Captain Lingram’s arm and held it there for two seconds. When he rose, his shoulders seemed stooped, weighted beneath a burden far greater than simple exhaustion. He moved away up the tunnel without a word.

Confusion hummed within Aravon. What is going on with him? He couldn’t understand the Seiomenn’s strange behavior, the odd reluctance and doubt that hung like a storm cloud over his head.

He had no time to voice his worries. The rock above them gave an ominous rumble and a loud crack. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and a chunk of stone broke off from the wall. Aravon was on his feet in an instant—no way he’d wait here and risk being buried in another cave-in.

“Can you move?” he asked Lingram.

The Legionnaire glanced at the shards of rock falling from the room and gave a hasty nod. Colborn and Belthar helped him to stand, and after a few shaky steps, he managed to find his legs. A hiss of pain escaped his lips as he tested the arm, but he gritted his teeth and said, “I’m fine.”

Aravon’s eyes narrowed. Captain Lingram held the injured limb cradled to his chest—had Rangvaldr not healed it? Perhaps the Seiomenn was simply trying to conserve his strength in case someone else was injured. But that didn’t seem like Rangvaldr. The realization only served to cement the wrongness of whatever inner turmoil gripped the Seiomenn.

Another growling rumble from the stone tunnel drove the thought from Aravon’s mind. First we get safe, then I’ll figure out what the hell is going on with him.

The other Grim Reavers seemed to reach the same conclusion. They collected their weapons in a hurry—Noll retrieved Captain Lingram’s sword, though his shield lay shattered and buried beneath the rubble—and raced off up the tunnel as fast as they could.

Aravon kept a close eye on Lingram as they moved. The Captain did his best to keep pace, but the lines of pain etched into his face grew deeper with every step. Finally, when Zaharis deemed it safe enough to slow down, visible relief shone in Lingram’s eyes.

A loud, eager yipping greeted them from up the passage. Snarl appeared in the meager circle of illumination streaming from Zaharis’ alchemical lantern, darting through the Grim Reavers to leap with a joyous bark into Skathi’s arms. The archer barely had time to defend herself from that wet, rough tongue before Snarl was leaping down and racing toward Aravon.

“Easy, b—” Aravon’s words cut off in a groan as the Enfield leapt up, wings flapping, and crashed into his chest. The same spot where the rock had struck him minutes earlier. He’d managed to plant his legs and thus survived the impact, catching up Snarl’s body in his arms. The Enfield licked at his dust-and-blood-coated face, his nose wet and cold.

“All right, all right! It’s good to see you, too.” Aravon couldn’t help chuckling as he pulled the too-exuberant Enfield off his armor and set him down. He was glad to be reunited with Snarl—glad he’d survived for the reunion—but if they were to have any hope of reaching Tyr Farbjodr in time, they had to keep moving.

The Deadheads had sacrificed their lives to buy the Grim Reavers a chance at success. He’d make damned sure it wasn’t in vain.

That same thought seemed to linger in the minds and hearts of his companions. The eight of them collected the horses—eighteen fine Kostarasar chargers, still loaded with the packs, furs, and gear of the fallen Legionnaires, four bearing cloak-wrapped corpses—and set off down the tunnel in silence.

Aravon took the lead with Lingram at his side. Zaharis produced a bundle of slow-burning flameweed and handed it to the Legionnaire to carry in his uninjured hand. Lingram’s horse was strung into place behind Aravon’s, and the rest of the mounts distributed among the Grim Reavers. With so many additional mounts, they had furs, food, and gear enough for twice their number—a fact that visibly weighed on every one of them. None spoke as they followed Lingram through the darkened passage.

The single tunnel ran straight—Aravon guessed due northeast—for the better part of a mile before they reached the first intersection. Three tunnels branched out ahead, though where they went, Aravon had no idea.

Captain Lingram strode toward the first tunnel and held the burning flameweed up to the wall. After a moment, he moved on to the next. “Here.” With the orange-glowing fire, he indicated a small symbol etched into the stone. “Any intersection we find, we look for this mark. That’ll lead us where we need to go.”

Aravon’s eyes went wide at the sight of the mark: two four-sided stars overlapping each other, creating an eight-pointed symbol. It bore a strong resemblance to the carbuncle that had once been the insignia of House Eidan—the house to which the treacherous Lord Ardenas Eidan had belonged before his untimely death.

Zaharis moved closer to study the symbol, then recoiled as if from a striking serpent. “You know what this means?” he demanded of the Captain.

The reaction caught Lingram by surprise. “No,” he answered after Aravon translated Zaharis’ words. “I just know it’s the symbols that led us through the mountains.”

By now, the rest of the Grim Reavers had left their horses to join them at the intersection. Even Snarl appeared interested by the gathering of his two-legged companions.

The Secret Keeper’s dust-and-blood-stained face grew grave. “That symbol is Secret Keeper script.”

Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

Zaharis nodded. “It is the symbol used for the mineral salamandrite, a stone given its name for the ancient fire-breathing salamanders of myth.” His gaze darted up the tunnel and back. “The same stone ground into powder and used to fill Earthshakers.”

Aravon’s mind raced. Those iron orbs packed an enormous explosive punch—how could that much devastation come from something as simple as stone?

“The Screaming Howlers had a Secret Keeper with them at Highcliff Motte,” Captain Lingram offered. “It was he who knew the route through these tunnels.”

Screaming Howlers? Aravon had never heard the name before; no stories of the assault on the Legion-held stronghold or the ballads of The Last March of the Ninth Company had mentioned any unit, mercenary or Legionnaire, with that designation.

Zaharis’ face went bone-white. “Tell me,” he asked Lingram through Aravon, “was this Secret Keeper named Dayn?”

Captain Lingram’s jaw dropped. “You knew him?”

“Yes.” A shadow darkened Zaharis’ eyes. “He was the Arch-Guardian who mentored me during my youth in Voramis. He crossed the sea nearly thirty years ago and studied among the Mistress’ priests in Icespire, Wolfden Castle, and Hightower. Until the day he disappeared.” His expression drooped to a somber frown. “He was never seen again, but somehow his writings appeared at the Temple of Whispers, though who bore them, no one ever told me.”

As Aravon translated Zaharis’ words, the surprise in Lingram’s face deepened—as did the pain etched clearly into his features. After the Secret Keeper’s hands fell still, long seconds passed before Lingram spoke. “I was the one who carried them,” he finally said, his voice quiet.

Zaharis appeared stunned. “You?” Surprise, curiosity, and interest flickered across his face in the space of a heartbeat. “Of course!” He stepped forward and gripped Lingram’s uninjured arm. “Then I and all my fellow Secret Keepers owe you our thanks. Arch-Guardian Dayn’s research has led to many marvelous discoveries, including that of the Earthshakers.”

“No.” Lingram shook his head. His eyes went dark, as if at a fresh and painful memory. “I owe Dayn a debt I can never repay. All of Fehl and the Princelands owe him our lives.”

A cryptic and loaded statement, to be sure, but Aravon chalked it up to one more instance of the grief Captain Lingram bore after losing everyone he’d known in Highcliff Motte and on the march across Cliffpass. More interesting at the moment was the fact that Lingram’s actions—delivering Arch-Guardian Dayn’s notes to the Temple of Whispers—had just saved his life. Saved all their lives. Just one more of life’s many coincidences that never truly turned out to be coincidental. Proof of the Swordsman’s guiding hand in everything they did and experienced.

That thought gave Aravon a measure of hope, easing the burden on his shoulders as he continued the trek through the tunnels. If the Swordsman truly did have control over their lives, it would mean his god had a plan for him. The Deadheads hadn’t died for nothing—the Swordsman would see to it that their bravery and sacrifice paid off.

In that moment, that was all he could cling to. It had to be enough, for all their sakes.

Chapter Thirty

A dour solemnity hung heavy over the Grim Reavers as they moved through the near-darkness of the mine tunnels. None of them had spoken in hours, leaving only the sound of the horses’ hoofbeats and Snarl’s talons clacking on stone to break the tense silence. Even Captain Lingram hadn’t spoken again at the various intersections they’d passed through, simply marched down the passage marked with the strange eight-sided star.

Aravon allowed them the silence—like him, they had just lost the Deadheads, the Legionnaires beside whom they’d marched, slept, ate, trained, and fought for the better part of three weeks. It didn’t matter that the young men had volunteered to remain behind—it made their sacrifices no easier to bear.

Even Snarl seemed subdued. He padded alongside Aravon without so much as a yip or bark. His amber eyes gleamed in the flickering light of the flameweed torches held by Captain Lingram, Skathi, and Noll in the rear, yet remained as shadowed and downcast as the rest of them.

Aravon knew Captain Lingram well enough to recognize the man’s anguish. Not just the pain of his injured shield arm, though the not-yet-healed bone doubtless compounded his misery. In the silent hours since they passed that first intersection, the Captain’s shoulders had drooped steadily lower, his back rounding and hunching forward as if beneath a great weight. He seemed to shuffle along in a daze, and though he responded to Aravon’s infrequent questions, he appeared ready to retreat into a dark place within himself—the same place he’d gone in Icespire at The Shattered Shield.

Much as Aravon wanted to give the Captain his chance to grieve, they couldn’t afford it. They needed Lingram paying attention to their route—a route he alone had trod before, one that led through the dark underground far beneath the Sawtooth Mountains.

I’ll have to talk to him when we call a halt, he decided. They had been traveling steadily for at least four or five hours—after a day of travel and battle, even the stalwart Colborn would soon grow weary enough to welcome a rest. Another hour, maybe two, then we rest.

Even as the thought formed in his mind, they reached the end of the low-ceilinged passage. The tunnel opened onto a circular mine shaft fifty feet wide and disappearing into the darkness high above their heads, far beyond the meager radius of illumination of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern or the flameweed torches.

Snarl gave a delighted yap and leapt into the air, ascending fast and disappearing from sight. The flapping of his wings soon grew quiet as he rose higher and higher—far too high for Aravon to follow him.

Thankfully, the earth-bound Grim Reavers had a way up as well. A spiral ramp of wood and metal clung to the walls, offering them a way to not only ascend the vertical shaft, but to bring their mounts and gear as well. Relief flooded Aravon. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that they’d have to leave the horses behind; he simply hadn’t enough knowledge of Princelander and Fehlan mining techniques to anticipate such an eventuality. Thanks to the ramp, he wouldn’t be forced to abandon the mounts—abandon them to cold, slow starvation within the barren tunnels. With all the gear and supplies strapped to the Deadheads’ saddles, their chances of surviving the icy Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountain just increased.

However, one look at the ramp filled Aravon with doubt. Though the tunnel had no wind, sun, or water to erode the spiral ramp, the construction itself appeared fairly rickety and unsteady. Indeed, the planking groaned and seemed to sag beneath Noll’s weight as the scout walked a few feet up the incline.

“Suggestions?” he asked his companions. “Those ramps are barely wide enough for the horses, and I can’t be sure they’ll hold up under so much weight.” He welcomed the potential challenge; anything to distract Lingram and the Grim Reavers from the fresh pain of their losses.

“We go one at a time,” Zaharis signed. He pointed to the iron and cast steel beams that anchored the ramp to the stone wall of the shaft. “As long as we put two or three of those supports between each of us and our horses, we should survive the climb.”

It took the Grim Reavers less than five minutes to tie the horses together with four-yard lengths of rope—long enough to maintain ample space between the massive chargers, but short enough to keep the horses moving in a train.

By unspoken agreement, Noll led the way. The lightest among them, he would be the one to test the ramp’s structural integrity. Aravon shot up a silent prayer to the Swordsman; it would take all the scout’s agility to survive if the ramps collapsed.

The flameweed bundle in Noll’s hand cast a pitiful circle of illumination around the scout, dwindling as he ascended the ramp. By the time Noll circled the ramp twice, his light hovered to close to forty feet above the stone floor.

“How is it?” Aravon called up.

“Like strolling down the Eastmarch, Captain.” Noll’s breezy tone sounded forced. “View’s much better from up here, too. Just be careful for falling dangers, Belthar!”

A moment later a loud splat echoed an inch from the big Grim Reaver’s boot, causing him to jump. When he recognized the danger—a gob of Noll’s phlegm—he growled curses up at the scout. Noll’s ringing, mocking laughter echoed through the mine shaft, lifting the heavy gloom that hung over the Grim Reavers.

Skathi went next, leading her horse with two more chargers strung along behind. This was the true test—putting the full weight of the enormous mounts on the wooden ramps. The incline was steep and the platform just barely wide enough for the broad-chested horses to gain solid footing. More than once, the clatter of steel-shod hooves scrabbling on the rickety wooden surface echoed down the mine shaft. Snarl appeared on occasion, swooping through the circles of Skathi’s light—though, to Aravon’s relief, he never landed near the archer.

But, as the circle of Skathi’s flameweed torch grew more distant, Aravon breathed a silent sigh. This just might work.

He glanced at Captain Lingram. The Legionnaire’s gloom hadn’t diminished—if anything, the man appeared to have sunk into his own mind even further. Aravon wanted to ask about Lingram’s journey through the mines years earlier, but doubted the man would have much to offer at the moment. He could wait until later, until Captain Lingram emerged from beneath the cloud of misery, to dig deeper into what awaited them above and ahead.

One question needed answering, however. “How far up do we go? Anything in particular we need to watch out for?”

Captain Lingram’s grunted. “To the top,” was all he could muster.

Aravon gritted his teeth. This won’t do. He called the instruction to keep climbing up to Noll and Skathi, then signaled to the others to precede him and Lingram. He needed a few words alone with the Captain.

A quarter-hour later, the last man in line—Belthar—had gone ahead, leading a string of horses. Aravon waited until the big man had climbed out of earshot then rounded on his friend. “That’s enough, Lingram!” His voice, though quiet, cracked like a whip. “Time to snap out of this.”

The Legionnaire eyes widened a fraction, surprise pushing back the daze of pain that seemed to hang like a numbing fog over him. “I-I…” He swallowed, let out a long breath, and tried again. “I’m sorry, Aravon. I didn’t think it would affect me so much.”

“You’ve lost men before, Lingram.” Aravon fixed the man with a stern gaze. “We both have, so trust me I know what you’re feeling. But you can’t let that affect the mission like—”

“No.” A strange light shone in Lingram’s eyes. “It’s not that.”

Aravon’s eyes narrowed.

“Or, it’s not just that.” Captain Lingram let out a heavy sigh. “Duvain, Endyn, Rold, the others…” He shook his head. “On top of Saerheim and Icespire, the burden’s growing heavier and heavier.”

Aravon nodded. That much he understood. “Feels like it’s too heavy to bear.”

“Yes, but this—” Captain Lingram gestured to the mine shaft. “—being here again, it brings back all those memories.” His face darkened and he seemed to shudder from an icy breeze only he felt. “The memory of so much blood and death.”

His eyes glazed over and for a few moments, he drowned in the tempest of his own thoughts. When he finally emerged from the depths of his mind and spoke, his voice came out barely above a grim whisper. “It was terrifying, Aravon. Every Keeper-damned second of it.” He swallowed and clenched his jaw muscles. “From the moment they attacked Highcliff Motte until I emerged from this mine shaft, I spent every second a heartbeat from pissing myself in terror. That leaves a mark. Deep ones. Scars that never truly heal.”

Again, a little shiver ran down Lingram’s spine. “I still wake up screaming at night.” Shame darkened his eyes. “Screaming for my friends, my father, my brothers. The Legionnaires I’d lived with for months. My life was ripped to shreds in one heartbeat, but it didn’t end there. Instead, I spent days living in constant fear of my life. Then the last fifteen years trying to swallow that terror.”

He struggled to meet Aravon’s gaze. “You want to know the truth, Aravon?” Lines of tension pulled at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “That terror never goes away. It may fade, may leave you alone for a while, but it always comes back.” His expression grew distant once more. “Every time I stand in the shield wall and face an Eirdkilr charge. Every clash of steel on steel, every howling war cry and scream of pain. It all comes flooding back, and I’m right there again, that scared young man fighting for his life.”

That, too, Aravon understood. He’d suffered from those same haunting memories—memories of trauma, pain, misery, and the death of his comrades and friends—in the wake of his first skirmish over a decade earlier. Again after the ambush that slaughtered Sixth Company, and after the many more battles he’d fought since then. Some of those things—the shrieks of the enemy, the stench of blood and spilled guts, the bone-deep panic of being in a shield wall—never truly went away.

Lingram gave a bitter shake of his head. “But those scared young men didn’t run and hide like I did.” His gaze traveled down the tunnel, back the way they’d come. Back to the place where the Deadheads had fallen. “They didn’t flee battle and leave everyone to die. Instead, they faced death like true soldiers.”

Tears slid down his face. “I’ve spent years running and hiding from those memories. And now I’m right back here. Right back where I was, watching my friends and comrades die.” He stared at his hands, a forlorn look twisting his handsome features. “I feel as helpless now as I was then. Helpless to stop them from dying—from choosing to die while I have no choice but to live.”

And there it was, the truth echoing in the bitterness that edged Captain Lingram’s words. He felt guilty. Guilty that he’d lived—impossibly, against all odds—while his men had died.

But not just the eleven Legionnaires who’d joined him on this mission. He bore the burden of guilt for all those who had fallen at Icespire, at Saerheim, and in every other battle he’d fought. Every good officer held themselves responsible for the lives of their men, and they felt the loss of each soldier under their command keenly.

Lingram’s wounds cut far deeper than Aravon had ever imagined. The man bore scars that ran back fifteen years, to the day when the Eirdkilrs attacked Highcliff Motte. The battle and ensuing fighting retreat had killed his father and brothers, the Legionnaires with whom he’d lived and trained, and the people he considered friends. His sense of home, safety, and comfort shattered in a single assault. Everything that had happened to him—every loss, every failure, every death—only added to his burden.

Yet if he continued down this path, he would find nothing but misery. The scars of his past would only stop him from moving forward. The burden would weigh on him until it dragged him to the depths of despair and oblivion.

Aravon couldn’t let that happen. He needed Lingram’s help to navigate the way through Cliffpass—without him, they’d never complete their mission and put down Tyr Farbjodr. But it was more than that. Lingram was his friend, his brother-at-arms. He owed the man his life and loyalty. It fell to him to do whatever he could to lighten the Captain’s burden—one he knew all too well. The Grim Reavers had helped him shoulder his load; it was his turn to give Captain Lingram the support Colborn, Rangvaldr, Skathi, and the others had given him.

But what could he say? Words fell short in the face of such pain. Lingram had lost far more than Aravon—he could only begin to understand the Legionnaire’s anguish, the scars that cut deep to the core of his being. Yet, given the challenge they faced, he had to try.

An image flashed through Aravon’s mind: Lingram stood before the canyon wall, gaze locked on something etched into the stone, just above chest-height. His fingers traced the crude letters that formed a name.

Aravon drew in a sharp breath. Koltun Blackhammer. The way Lingram had reacted, Koltun clearly had meant something to him.

“Koltun Blackhammer.” Aravon spoke the name aloud. “Tell me about him.”

Captain Lingram visibly recoiled, as if Aravon had struck him. He seemed to struggle with his words. Long seconds passed before he managed to speak.

“He was a Screaming Howler.” Lingram’s voice sounded tight, strangled. “One of their best. He loved to say he could put a crossbow bolt in an ant’s bunghole from three hundred yards out.”

Aravon chuckled at the colorful expression, and a hint of a smile tugged at Lingram’s lips. The shadows in his eyes retreated a fraction.

“It was him and his fellow Screaming Howlers that kept the Eirdkilrs from storming Highcliff Motte.” Captain Lingram’s brow furrowed at the distant memory. “He was the one who finally called for the retreat when the Legionnaires were about to crumble.” Now he lifted his eyes to Aravon. “He saved my life on the desperate flight through the Cliffpass. Twice.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like one hell of a soldier.”

“He was.” Captain Lingram nodded, and his smile grew even more. “Twice the Legionnaire, he loved to say, at half the size. It didn’t matter that he was barely four feet tall—he could shout louder than Belthar. Fight harder, too.”

“Damn!” Aravon mirrored the Legionnaire’s smile. “Sounds like the Grim Reavers could have used him.”

“And been better off for it,” Lingram replied quietly. “He was a good soldier, but we all thought he was a great man. Me more than most. He kept a snot-nosed teenager out of harm’s way even while trying to fight an impossible battle.” The shadows encroached on his expression once more. “I wouldn’t be here without him. He dragged me into these tunnels before Dayn, the Secret Keeper, brought the canyon walls down on top of the Eirdkilrs. Even bleeding to death, his arm hacked off by an Eirdkilr axe, he managed to haul me to safety while I was half-dead from fever and cold.”

Aravon didn’t need to ask what had happened to the man—Lingram had said he alone survived the battle. The name carved into stone had doubtless been the closest thing to an epitaph Lingram had managed while stumbling out of the mountains.

But the memories of this Koltun Blackhammer held sway in Lingram’s mind. Aravon could use that to help the Captain.

“If Koltun stood here now,” he said in a quiet voice, “what would he say?”

Lingram’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Everything you’re wrestling with,” Aravon continued, “that’s enough to drown a man in sorrow and misery. But I’d bet my left boot that Koltun would have had something to say on the matter.” He cocked his head. “So what would he tell you?”

Lingram’s brow furrowed and his expression grew pensive. For long seconds, he remained silent, deep in thought. “Probably something along the lines of—” His voice deepened to a harsh, rasping tone reminiscent of a Drill Sergeant. “—‘Either you drink a cup of suck it the fuck up, or I’ll shove my foot so far up your arse you’ll be spitting leather the rest of your life.’”

Aravon chuckled. “Wise words, indeed.” Not exactly the kind, gentle wisdom that Rangvaldr might have shared on his better days, but no less effective for their inelegance.

“Why do you think I kept Rold around?” A slow smile spread across Lingram’s face, driving the shadows from his eyes. “Every vulgarity out of his mouth reminded me of Kolt.”

Aravon rested a hand on Lingram’s shoulder. “I might not use such salty phrasing, but the sentiment stands.” He stared into the Legionnaire’s eyes. “Trust me when I say I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been where you are—fiery hell, far more than I’d like. After the ambush on the Eastmarch, the death of one of my Grim Reavers—”

Captain Lingram’s eyes rose in surprise at that. No one outside of Duke Dyrund and Lord Eidan—perhaps Prince Toran, too—had known of Draian’s death.

“—then the Duke’s death and that of my father,” Aravon continued, “I’ve felt that burden growing heavier and heavier. And I won’t bullshit you and say it gets any easier to bear. Especially when you bear it alone.” He glanced up the mine shaft, toward the tiny spots of light marking the Grim Reavers ascending the spiral ramp. “But sharing the load with good men and women is the best we can do to stop it from burying us alive.”

Captain Lingram’s brow furrowed. “You’re fortunate in that,” he said quietly. “I always had Awr—Corporal Awr—to lean on. But after Saerheim…” He drew in a long, deep breath. “I had to be strong for those few that survived the battle. I couldn’t let them see me hurting, because they were bad off enough as it was.”

“You don’t need to do that with us.” Aravon squeezed the man’s shoulder once. “Never with me. And the others get it. They’ve seen me at my worst, and each of them has had their moments. But together, we stand strong.” He clapped the man on the arm. “And you’re one of us now. For better or worse.”

“What an honor.” Lingram snorted. “I get to be a Grim Reaver just long enough to march off to my death.”

“And you’d better be damned thankful for it!” Aravon gave him a mock scowl. “We’ve got far better-suited candidates lining up for miles to join us.”

“I’ll just head home and let some of them go with you, then, shall I?” A wry smile brightened Lingram’s face, and Aravon found himself laughing with the Legionnaire. Though the shadows and anguish didn’t fully leave the man’s eyes, he stood straighter, his shoulders no longer so heavily-weighted beneath the burden he carried.

“Thank you.” Lingram inclined his head. “For understanding.”

Aravon gave a dismissive wave. “All part of the Captain’s job. Now, if there’s nothing else, what say we get on with our task of getting the bloody hell out of these tunnels?” He glanced up at the mine shaft. Noll’s light had grown so small it appeared like a pinprick amidst the pitch blackness of the underground tunnel. “We’ve got a long climb ahead, and Keeper knows we could all use a rest.”

At Aravon’s insistence, Lingram went first, leading his horse and the three that carried the four Legionnaire corpses. As Aravon waited for his turn to climb, he considered what to do with the cloak-wrapped bodies. They had no time for a proper burial but had to keep moving south, keep pushing their pace as much as they dared. Even if the ground had been soft enough to dig a grave, they couldn’t spare the effort.

We’ll have to find a suitable place for them, he decided. At the very least, somewhere to leave the cloak-wrapped bodies out of the way for later retrieval.

He glanced back one last time before leading his train of horses up the ramp. No chance we’re getting home the same way we got here. The passage behind them was sealed forever—they’d have to find another route home.

But that was a concern for the future. Once they had finished their mission and killed Tyr Farbjodr. If they survived, they could worry about mundane things like getting across the Sawtooth Mountains.

Aravon climbed at a slow and steady pace, careful to place his feet deliberately. The metal support beams holding up the spiral ramp seemed sturdy enough, but the wood creaked, sagged, and groaned beneath his weight and that of the three horses in his wake. His heart leapt to his throat again and again, his nerves growing ragged and strained with the stress. The exhaustion of the ascent only made things worse.

The wooden ramp rose at a steep incline, and it seemed to climb into the darkness forever. Worse, because he traveled around the circumference of the fifty-foot-wide shaft rather than climbing straight up, the distance of their trek multiplied. Even after the better part of what he guessed was an hour—he had no way to mark the passage of time in the lightless tunnels, save for counting the hammering beats of his heart—Noll still hadn’t yet reached the top.

Keeper take this damned climb! Aravon gritted his teeth and bit back a growl of mingled frustration and exhaustion. Sweat streamed down his face, mingled with the coating of dust and dried blood, stinging his eyes. His undertunic was sodden and clung to his back and chest. Every step sent new lines of fire racing down his legs and lower back, and his hand ached from gripping his horse’s guide rope. Even at a slow pace, he couldn’t stave off the fatigue that set his lungs burning.

Growling a silent curse, Aravon leaned into the pain and exhaustion and forced himself to keep climbing, keep putting one leaden foot in front of the other. The sooner we reach the top, the sooner we get the bloody hell out of these tunnels!

He couldn’t know that for certain. He knew nothing of the underground network of mine shafts and flat passages; Lingram had been too lost in his grief at losing the Deadheads and the painful memories of his past to offer anything helpful. But first thing after a night of rest, he’d find out everything the Captain knew about their trek through the darkness. They had little more than a week to find and put down Tyr Farbjodr.

“Captain!” Noll’s shout echoed down the mine shaft. His voice was faint, but there was no mistaking the delight in his tone and the final words of his call. “…at the top!”

Hope surged within Aravon. About bloody time! He still had a long way to climb, but if Noll had finally reached the top, it meant the end of this Keeper-damned ascent was in sight.

Aravon bent every shred of his willpower into not hurrying his pace. Captain Lingram’s light was barely a level-and-a-half above him; the last thing they needed was to collapse the ramp beneath the weight of too many heavily-laden horses and men moving too close together. Not so close to the top and a chance at rest!

Slowly, as he continued the trek up the spiraling ramp, the lights of the Grim Reavers above him drew closer, growing larger and brighter. He could actually make out the individual features of Noll, Skathi, and Colborn at the top of the ramp, staring down into the darkness of the mine shaft with worry-filled eyes. Rangvaldr soon reached the others, then Zaharis, and finally Belthar. Every time one of the Grim Reavers joined their comrades on solid ground, the anxiety in Aravon’s stomach lessened a fraction.

“Any day now, Captain!” Noll called down to him.

Aravon opened his mouth to growl a snappy retort—he was just four levels below the mouth of the tunnel where Noll waited—when the ramp beneath him gave a loud, creaking groan.

Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. Before he could move, a terrible ping and crack echoed down the mine shaft. Wood snapped in a shower of splinters and the ramp plummeted from beneath Aravon’s feet.

Chapter Thirty-One

Aravon had a split second to act before he fell hundreds of feet to his death on the cold, hard stone at the base of the mine shaft.

Instinct shrieked at the back of his mind and he hurled himself forward, tossing the spear up the ramp even as his right hand reached for the edge of the crumbling wood. His leather-gloved fingers caught on the wooden platform, held, then slowly began to slip.

A loud, terrible scream echoed from beneath him. The horses! Aravon forced the fingers of his left hand to uncurl from his horse’s lead rope the instant before the weight of the falling mount snapped it tight and shattered his wrist. Swinging his free hand around, trying his best to ignore the shrieking cries of the plummeting animals, he scrabbled at the edge of the wooden ramp. Caught, his leather gloves buying him a moment of traction, then slipped. His fingertips slid off the edge of the ramp and he fell.

In desperation, Aravon stretched out his arm toward the nearest support beam. Barely managed to latch the fingers of his right hand around the metal girder. The momentum of his arrested fall sent his body swinging around beneath the support, nearly ripping his grip free of its precarious handhold. Aravon’s left hand reached for the beam, snagged the metal with his three longest fingers, and clung to the beam for dear life.

Panic welled within him as he dangled hundreds of feet above the empty air of the mine shaft. Even as he struggled for a better handhold, a series of wet, crunching thumps and the clatter of falling equipment echoed up toward him. The screams and cries of the horses fell suddenly silent.

Before Aravon could move, the beam beneath his hand shifted. Pulled slightly, moved with a groan of metal on stone. Horror thrummed within Aravon—the metal support was tugging free of its anchors holding it to the wall.

Shite, shite, shite! Fear and adrenaline fueled his muscles. He couldn’t see—he’d dropped his flameweed torch with the rope—so he scrabbled desperately at the metal beam, trying to haul himself back up to safety.

“Captain?!” Noll’s voice was tinged with panic.

“I-I’m fine!” A quaver echoed in Aravon’s voice. His pulse pounded so hard in his ears it felt his head would explode, and his fingers ached from clinging to the metal beam.

“Hang on, Aravon!” Captain Lingram called. “I’m coming!”

“No!” Aravon shouted back. “Don’t get any closer!” The crumbled section barely supported his weight; adding Lingram’s would just hasten the ramp’s collapse.

“What can we do to help?” Noll called down.

“Nothing!” Aravon gritted his teeth and adjusted to get a better grip on the beam. “I’ve got this.”

He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He dared not move too quickly for fear of ripping the support beam from the wall, but if he hung here too long, he’d run out of strength—or the bolts anchoring the ramp to the stone would slip free or crack altogether.

One thing at a time! he told himself.

The light of the flameweed brands burning high above gave him a dim view of the beam from which he hung. He prayed a silent blessing on the artisans that had built it—they’d used a simple right-angle truss, long enough for him to swing his legs up and wrap around the smaller metal beam supporting the ramp. From there, it was a simple matter to drag his torso and head upward.

He sat on the beam and let out a long, relieved sigh. His shifting hadn’t pulled the beam free of the stone wall. Yet.

Snarl appeared in the darkness beside him, flapping his wings to hover in the air a few feet from Aravon’s precarious perch. Worry shone in the Enfield’s amber eyes and he gave a nervous yap.

“Skathi, call him back!” Aravon shouted. “Can’t have him making this collapse any faster.”

A moment later, the shrill of a bone whistle sounded. With one last look at Aravon, the little Enfield shot upward to land on the stone beside the archer.

Aravon let out a breath. Let’s do this. Slowly, he moved out along the length of the metal truss, one eye locked firmly on the anchor holding the support in place. It shifted once as he reached the outer end, driving an icy spike of panic through his mind. It took all his self-control not to hurry—thrashing and scrambling about would only speed up the ramp’s collapse—but kept his movements slow, unhurried.

Until he came to the end of the truss and found himself stuck. The wooden side of the ramp ended just beyond his reach—no more than two or three inches, but at this height, that tiny distance could prove fatal.

He clung to the metal support beam and considered his next move. He couldn’t climb up the truncated wooden planks that had once connected to the section of ramp that now lay crumbled far beneath him. His only way up would be to risk leaping out, catching hold of the wooden ramp’s outer edge, and hauling himself up that way.

Yeah, it’s just that easy!

An image flashed through his mind: he leapt, missed, and went plummeting to a painful death in the darkness below.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside the grim thought. Fear wouldn’t get him out of this before the ramp collapsed.

As if on cue, the metal support beam shifted again, metal grinding on stone. Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat—he’d run out of time.

Before he could think twice, he tucked his legs beneath him and hurled himself toward the edge of the ramp. His body hung in empty air for a gut-wrenching second, and he imagined he could feel the weight of his armor dragging him toward the ground. Then his fingers caught on the lip of the ramp and he gripped it with every shred of strength. He held on for dear life as his body swung outward. His fingers slipped, slid, and caught on the tips. Even as the ramp groaned and shifted beneath him, Aravon hauled himself upward—muscles powered by desperation and fear.

He dragged his upper body up onto the ramp and scrabbled with his hands, clawing at the planks for a handhold. The moment his knees and feet touched the ramp, he took off on all fours, like a wild animal sprinting up the ramp. A heartbeat later, the section of wooden planking behind him gave a loud groan and collapsed.

But Aravon was on solid—well, mostly solid—ramp. The wood beneath him held fast, no creaking or sagging. The metal support beams held his weight as he collapsed onto his back, heart hammering, his breath coming in great, ragged gasps.

“Captain?” came Skathi’s voice.

“I-I’m good!” Terror twisted at Aravon’s stomach. He’d never had a problem with heights, but lying here, his feet dangling over an abyss, set every nerve in his body jangling. “I made it.”

Long seconds passed before Aravon could rise. He scooped up his spear from where he’d thrown it—just beyond the collapsing sections of ramp–and struggled to his feet. His knees proved traitors, shaking as he stumbled up the incline toward the glowing lights of the Grim Reavers high above.

Seven anxious faces awaited him at the top of the ramp, but relief shone in the eyes of his Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram as he stepped gratefully onto solid ground. Snarl leapt toward him with an eager yipping bark—Aravon had to admit he was damned glad to see the Enfield, too.

“Keeper’s teeth, Captain!” Noll blew a long, low whistle. “You nearly gave old Stonekeeper here a heart attack!”

Rangvaldr ignored Noll’s gibe, shrugging off the scout’s clap on his back with no comment. “You good, Captain?” he asked, his eyes thick with shadows.

“I am.” Aravon grimaced and glanced down into the dark void of the mine shaft. “But I can’t say the same for my furs and supplies. Or the horses.” The only mercy was that their deaths had been quick and, hopefully, painless.

“We’ve got enough food and supplies,” Colborn said. Of the eleven horses that had once carried Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires, eight remained. “And just try not to lose your spear or sword, and you should be fine.” His attempt at a lighthearted joke was marred by the worry etched into every line of his face.

“Oh, is that all?” Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Good thing I had you to remind me of that, else who knows what idiotic stunt I’d dream up next.”

“That’s why I’m here to help, Captain.” A wry smile cracked the anxiety on Colborn’s face.

“Maybe we call that a sign from the Swordsman that it’s time to rest for the night, Captain?” Belthar rumbled.

Aravon contemplated giving them the order to move on. Keeper knows we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and nowhere near enough time to do it.

Yet one look at his soldiers, and he knew they all needed a break as much as he did. The exertions and battles of the day had taken a toll on their bodies, but it was the weight on their minds and hearts that sapped their strength most. They had all lost comrades—perhaps even friends—today.

“So be it.” Aravon nodded. “Six hours of rest, then we move on.”

“Time to consult the stars and see what time it is.” Noll gave a mocking laugh and glanced at the ceiling of the stone tunnel a foot above his head. “Looks like two hours past all gone to shite, Captain.”

Aravon scowled. “Sounds like someone’s volunteering for first watch.”

Noll groaned. “Swordsman’s beard, Captain, that’s just cruel!”

“Maybe.” Aravon shrugged. “Or maybe it’s what happens when you let your mouth run away from you.”

Scowling, Noll set about unloading his gear from the horses and unsaddling the mounts. Aravon, Belthar, Rangvaldr, Colborn, and Captain Lingram joined him—they had more horses than riders, and the beasts needed a rest after the long day of travel. Zaharis and Skathi set about preparing their evening meal—though cold trail biscuits, dried meat, and tepid water didn’t require much in the way of culinary mastery.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The eight of them sat in silence, eating the meager rations, and a solemn pall hung over their small camp. The single flameweed brand that illuminated their underground camp failed to drive back the shadows in the eyes of the soldiers around him. Aravon absentmindedly fed Snarl while racking his brain for something to say to lift his comrades’ spirits.

To his surprise, Colborn broke the dour stillness. “I’ve something to say.” He stood, his broad-featured face dark and his voice quiet. “I didn’t know them long, or well. But after what I witnessed in the last two days, I can truly say I was honored to spend what time with them I did.” He raised his leather waterskin. “To the Deadheads.”

“The Deadheads!” echoed all in their small camp—all but Rangvaldr, who sat hunched over his meal, a brooding on his features. He drank without a word or even lifting his eyes from the stone at his feet.

Aravon sought out Captain Lingram’s gaze, and gave him a small nod of encouragement. If anyone was going to say words for the fallen Legionnaires, it would be their Captain.

Lingram stood. He appeared less burdened and troubled than before they began the ascent—perhaps their conversation had helped to ease his inner turmoil somewhat. “Those men back there were considered the ‘dreck’ of the Legion. The outcasts, the arrow-fodder, and those too raw to join a proper Legion company.” His gaze roamed across the seven faces around him. “But in all the years I’ve been a Legionnaire, I’ve known few men their equal. None as big-hearted as Endyn—”

“Or as big, period!” Noll called back.

Captain Lingram inclined his head. “None as fierce as Corporal Rold—” He held up a finger. “—or as foul-mouthed.”

That elicited laughter from the Grim Reavers.

“None as caring as Duvain,” Captain Lingram continued. “As keen-eyed as Zadan, or as devoted as Tassus and Annur.” His voice softened. “Each of those men left a mark on each other, and on me. And now they’ve left a mark on the Princelands. Even if no one outside this small company ever knows what they did, it’s enough to know they did it.”

He raised his skin of watered wine. “To the Deadheads. Though their actions may never be recognized or their bravery rewarded, we recognize them in our memories.” A smile brightened his face. “And that’s a legacy as good as any of us could ask for.”

“To the Deadheads!” The Grim Reavers echoed. Again, Rangvaldr remained silent.

Captain Lingram lifted his eyes to the tunnel’s stone ceiling. “May you find peace at the Swordsman’s side, my friends.”

All of them drank, and the camp again fell silent. None of them had any more to say—Captain Lingram’s little speech had said everything important.

Noll rose first, brushing crumbs from his clothing, and strode up the tunnel a few yards. Setting a guard was largely a symbolic gesture, a nod to ritual and their need for standard operational security, but the Grim Reavers took their watch seriously, even on friendly territory. Enemies could come from anywhere at any time.

Aravon stood and followed Noll.

The scout turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Captain.” He nodded and settled into a comfortable guard stance, facing away from the camp and into the tunnel ahead.

“Noll.” Aravon stopped beside the man, leaned against the tunnel wall, and stared down the passage as well. The light of the flameweed burning behind Noll shone on empty stone, but Aravon hadn’t come with the intention of actually seeing anything important.

A long moment passed before he spoke. “What you did back there…volunteering to stay behind—”

“Surprised you, did it?” Noll gave a wry chuckle. “No more than it surprised me. Last thing I ever expected was to be the idiot foolish enough to volunteer for something like that.” He turned toward Aravon. “You’ve damned well ruined me, Captain.”

“Me?” The words took Aravon aback.

“All I ever wanted was to be a simple scout and soldier, but no, you had to insist on proving that we could be better. Tried to turn us into bloody heroes, so you have.” He shook his head. “Why’d we have to wind up following a ‘good’ man?”

Aravon laughed, and the tension drained from his shoulders. He clapped Noll on the back. “Don’t sell yourself short, Noll. There was always good in you. Sure, buried down deep.” His smile grew. “Way deep. Like the core of Einan deep.”

“Easy now, Captain.” Noll gave him a look of mock offense. “I’ve got feelings, you know? And not just the ones in my cave troll.” The gesture toward his crotch left no doubt as to his meaning.

“Like I said, way deep.” Aravon rolled his eyes, but his smile never wavered. “Yet it’s there. Every time you listen to it, it grows a bit bigger, a bit stronger. Until one day, it’s big and strong enough that it makes you do something you never thought yourself capable of.” He rested a hand on Noll’s shoulder. “That’s what makes a man truly noble, Noll. Titles and lands are just trappings, but it’s what’s inside us that counts. And as you proved today, you’re as honorable a man as any I’ve had the good fortune to meet.”

A flush of color rose to his cheeks. “Aww, Captain, you and that silver tongue of yours.” Despite his flippant tone, the words clearly had taken root in the scout’s mind.

“It’s true,” Aravon said. “And maybe, if I and the others can see it, your wife and children might be able to as well.”

That sobered Noll up in a heartbeat. His smile faded, replaced by deep furrows in his brow. “I…” He hesitated for a long second, then let out a long breath. “I thought of them, you know. The moment before I opened my mouth to volunteer. I thought of Finnia, of the boys, and little Tialla—probably not so little after all these years. But you know what I felt? Relief. Relief that I’d finally prove myself better than the man Finnia kicked out all those years ago. Even though I was gearing up to get dead, I actually felt happy at the thought that I was finally worthy of them.” His lips twisted into a sharp frown and he shook his head. “How damned stupid is that? I chose to let the world think I was dead because I believed my family would be better off without me. Now, I wanted to die to prove them wrong.”

Aravon fixed the man with a solemn gaze. “The man you thought you were, the worthless piece-of-shite father you’ve believed yourself to be all these years, maybe he did die long ago. The Noll who stepped up back there is the kind of man I am proud to call my friend, my brother. A man who would sacrifice himself to protect those he cares about.” He placed a hand on Noll’s shoulder. “Perhaps a man they’d want in their lives, if that was something he wanted to take a chance on.”

Noll’s expression froze, yet he chewed on his lip and a hint of moisture glimmered in his eyes. He seemed at a loss for words.

“Think on it.” Aravon gave the man an encouraging smile. “Might be there are some of us that have a hope of a better future after this is over. If we get through this alive…”

“Aye,” Noll managed, his voice hoarse and harsh. “I’ll think on it.” Neither of them needed to say their chances of survival were slim—slimmer now that only eight of them remained alive. But hope could be a powerful thing. Noll had something to live for, to fight for. That made him dangerous, indeed.

Aravon gripped the man’s shoulder once more. “Good night, Noll.” With that, he turned and strode back to the camp, leaving Noll to stand guard alone in silence.

Zaharis alone remained awake—he hunched over a book, scribbling furiously with a stick of charcoal. The blue light of his alchemical lantern shone on the faces of his companions, all sleeping. Belthar had simply leaned back against the wall, his huge head lolling on his shoulders. Skathi, Colborn, and Captain Lingram had curled up in their blankets, while Rangvaldr’s soft snores rose from a thick bundle of furs.

Aravon hesitated a moment before turning back to his bedroll. He could speak to Rangvaldr tomorrow; the Seiomenn needed his rest after healing Captain Lingram’s arm.

As Aravon settled onto his blankets, he found the fatigue and emotions of the day crashing atop him like a tidal wave on the shores of Icespire. Everything they’d endured—the battle with the Rakki, the deaths of the Deadheads, his own near-fatal fall from the ramp, and the myriad of emotions of the day—seemed to slip from his mind, replaced with a bone-deep weariness.

Tomorrow’s problems could wait. He needed sleep, needed to give his mind and body a chance to recover.

Snarl waited for him in his blankets, already deep in his dreams. The Enfield didn’t so much as shift or snuffle as Aravon curled into his bedroll and fell asleep in a matter of seconds.

Chapter Thirty-Two

A quiet whine in Aravon’s ear snapped him awake.

For a moment, he didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed. Pitch blackness pressed in on him from all sides, like a leaden blanket smothering him, suffocating the breath in his lungs. No currents of air drifted past him, and the world was utterly still and noiseless. Only thick, choking silence and all-encompassing gloom enveloped him.

Life returned to one sensation at a time. First came the aches and pains—the bruises on his chest, the throbbing in his face, the tight, exhausted muscles of his legs, and too many more to count. Snarl’s body warm against his chest, the Enfield’s soft fur ruffling his face. The smell of sweat, dust, blood, and something foul…Noll’s boots, perhaps, or a long-dead animal. The quiet clacking of Snarl’s talons on the stone, nearly drowned out beneath Belthar’s rolling snores. Amber eyes gleaming bright a few inches from his face.

But Snarl wasn’t looking at him. The little Enfield had lifted his head above Aravon’s shoulder and stared at something in the darkness beyond.

Rolling over in his blankets, Aravon sought the object of Snarl’s attention. A dark, broad-shouldered figure stood silhouetted against a soft blue glow. Little more than a glimmer of light, yet there was no mistaking that brilliant gleam.

Slowly, making as little noise as possible, Aravon rose to his feet and picked his way through the sleeping soldiers to where Rangvaldr stood at the edge of the tunnel, hand held out over the empty void of the mine shaft. The Seiomenn’s eyes locked on the shining gemstone nestled in his open palm. A seething torrent of emotions played across his face.

“Rangvaldr.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper.

Rangvaldr half-jumped and whirled toward Aravon. “Swina bqllr, Captain!” His fingers closed reflexively around his pendant, plunging them into darkness once more. Darkness that hid the turmoil digging sharp claws into his mind and heart.

“You ready to tell me what’s been going on?” Aravon asked, equally quietly.

Silence hung in the air for three long heartbeats before the Seiomenn responded. “What makes you think anything is wrong?”

“The Rangvaldr I’ve been marching with for the last few weeks would never have been caught off-guard,” Aravon said. “Nor would he have hesitated even a second before helping someone that needed his healing. I’ve seen that man nearly kill himself using his holy stones. But this Rangvaldr…” He trailed off; now came the Seiomenn’s chance to speak, but Aravon had learned that pushing the man too hard only made him all the more stubborn.

To his surprise, Rangvaldr’s derisive snort broke the silence. “Holy! What a lie.”

Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. He’d been prepared for all manner of responses, but the Seiomenn’s words took him by surprise. “How so?”

Rangvaldr uncurled his fingers, and the gleam of the blue gemstone once against pushed back the darkness. “What is holy about this stone?” The soft glow deepened the lines around his mouth, which curled into a bitter sneer. “To me, it looks like nothing more than a chunk of rock.”

“Rock that can heal,” Aravon insisted. “Using magic. Magic, Rangvaldr!” Wonder echoed in his voice. “That stone gives you the power to save lives, to pull people back from the brink of death.”

“Does it, though?” A bitter sneer curled Rangvaldr’s lip upward. “Tell that to Endyn.”

The biting vehemence in those words rocked Aravon to the core.

“I nearly died trying to heal him, and look how that worked out.” Rangvaldr gave a sharp shake of his head. “His illness came back, and far worse than before I touched him.” His words dripped venom and resentment. “I thought I could save him. Instead, I killed him.” A snarl twisted his face. “Bloody holy, indeed!”

Aravon’s eyes widened as the Seiomenn held his hand out over the abyss and twisted his palm, preparing to drop it.

“What are you doing?” Aravon snatched the gemstone pendant from Rangvaldr’s hand before he let it fall. “Just because you couldn’t heal Endyn, that doesn’t mean—”

“Not just Endyn!” Rangvaldr rounded on him, eyes blazing. “Harlund. The wounded of Icespire, Steinnbraka Delve, Hangman’s Hill, and so many more. Too many more. I was too weak. Like you said, I’ve nearly killed myself trying to help people these last few weeks. And for years now, ever since I took up the mantle of Seiomenn. But what for?” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Why have I given of myself when anyone can use the stones?”

Confusion twisted in Aravon’s gut. “What are you talking about? You’re the only one who can use them.”

“No.” Again, a vehement shake of Rangvaldr’s head. “I’m just the only one who knows the words. But as Zaharis proved, there’s nothing holy about these stones.” His hand reached out, as if to take the pendant from Aravon’s hand. “They’re just bloody alchemy!”

Aravon pulled his hand back, out of Rangvaldr’s grasp. “You’re angry because Zaharis found a way to make another holy stone using his alchemy?”

“I’m angry,” Rangvaldr hissed, “because everything I’ve believed for decades has been a lie!”

Aravon’s jaw dropped.

“All these years, I’ve known my faith brought these stones to life.” Rangvaldr’s mouth twisted as if his words left a bitter taste on his tongue. “That it was Nuius’ reward to me for my belief and trust in him. If my heart was true and my conviction unwavering, he would use me as his vessel to bless those around me. To bring his healing mercy to those who needed it.”

“And is that not the case?” Aravon raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that the magic of the stones isn’t the result of your faith?”

“Because even when I doubted, the magic still worked!” Rangvaldr hissed. “Back at Camp Marshal, since seeing what Zaharis’ stone could do, I felt my faith shaken. If a disbeliever like Zaharis could create such a thing, I asked myself, how could my pendant truly be holy? And when I spoke the words that brought this stone to life to heal Harlund, filled with doubt as I was, I knew the truth.” Fury blazed bright and hot in his eyes. “There is nothing holy about it.”

Aravon studied the man, speechless. Rangvaldr’s faith had been the source of his strength when he first took up arms against the Eirdkilrs—and his own kindred, the Jokull. The Seiomenn’s belief in Nuius’ call had driven him to join the Grim Reavers. Aravon had met few men as devout and sincere in their belief as Rangvaldr, so to hear the Seiomenn speak thus, to see the doubt tormenting him, tore at Aravon’s heart.

“Tell me, Rangvaldr.” Aravon spoke in a slow, calm voice. “What does the word ‘holy’ truly mean?”

Rangvaldr’s bushy white eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“The word,” Aravon pressed. “In your tongue, what does the word mean?”

Rangvaldr’s face drew into a scowl. “Heilagr,” he spoke the Fehlan word. “It means ‘of the gods’.”

“So, by that logic, for these stones to truly be holy, they would need to be ‘of the gods’?” Aravon asked. “Of Nuius?”

“Yes.” Rangvaldr nodded. “And, thanks to Zaharis, we all know they are not.”

“Perhaps.” Aravon gave a little shrug. “But in the language of the Princelanders, the Einari word ‘holy’ has a different meaning. Or, multiple meanings.” He gestured to the Seiomenn. “Yes, there is that connotation of something holy being ‘of the gods’ or ‘from the gods’. But some priests and scholars use the word to speak of something ‘dedicated to the service of the gods’. Something sacred. Either created or made sacred.”

The Seiomenn’s forehead furrowed, his eyes narrowing.

Aravon held up the stone. “As Zaharis proved, we can be fairly certain Nuius did not make this stone or give it its power. Or, better said,” he corrected, “Nuius is not the only source of that power.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Rangvaldr inclined his head.

“But tell me, Rangvaldr, can you truly believe that something with this much power—the power to bring life, to save, to heal—is not truly made sacred?” Aravon leaned forward, fixing the Seiomenn with an intent gaze. “Even if it was nothing more than Zaharis’ alchemical creation at first, would it not become a ‘holy’ object as it was used in service to Nuius? It became holy because of how it was used.”

That surprised Rangvaldr. His eyes widened a fraction and he seemed torn between confusion, the urge to argue, and a deep-rooted desire to believe in the god he’d served for decades.

“You have never used these stones in hatred or anger,” Aravon pressed. “You have never withheld aid from those in need. You have never attempted to turn their power against your enemies. Instead, you gave of your time and strength to attend to those fallen foes.” Back at Rivergate, Rangvaldr had spent hours praying for the Jokull slain in battle. “You have used them in your mission to bring peace to Fehl. The very same mission to which you believed Nuius called you.”

Rangvaldr appeared at a loss for words. He didn’t shift, didn’t open his mouth to try and protest, but simply stood silent, eyes fixed on Aravon.

Aravon looked down at the stone. “If this stone was created by the gods—Nuius, the Mistress, or any of the other gods of Einan and Fehl—we may never know.” He shook his head. “But does that really matter? Does it really matter where they came from? You don’t question where your sword and shield came from, simply how well they serve you in battle. You know they are tools that serve your purposes, so there is no room for doubt. They simply are, whether or not you believe in them.”

Now Rangvaldr’s eyes dropped to the glowing blue gemstone in Aravon’s hand.

“This stone is, Rangvaldr.” Hope surged within Aravon; he was getting through to the man. “As real and tangible as your sword and shield. And with it, you are given a gift that few in this world ever receive.”

“What gift?” A spark of his anger returned, yet tempered by curiosity.

“Proof.” Aravon smiled. “My entire life, I have served the Swordsman. I have dedicated my life to his service, placed my safety and that of my family in his hands, and trusted him to guide me down the path he has laid out for me. But what proof do I have that he even exists?” He gestured at the darkness of the mine shaft and the stone tunnel behind him. “I’ve seen no thunderclaps, heard no ringing voices in the night sky. Yet I serve the Swordsman because I have faith that he exists.”

“That makes one of us.” Bitterness laced Rangvaldr’s words.

“But don’t you see?” Aravon held the stone up before the Seiomenn’s face. “This is all the proof you need that your faith is real!” A smile broadened across his face. “Not your faith that Nuius exists or waits for you in Seggrholl. We won’t know the truth of that until this life is over and we go to whatever awaits us. But you have proof that you are obeying the call in your heart—Nuius’ call—to serve your people, to fight to bring peace, to spread his healing mercy across Fehl to those in need. And every time you speak those words and feel the power spring to life, you can know that you are doing precisely what he wants you to do. And in doing so, you consecrate it by using it in his service.” He pressed the stone into Rangvaldr’s hand and closed the Seiomenn’s fingers around it. “You make the stone holy.”

Rangvaldr’s jaw dropped. Long seconds passed in stunned silence. “B-But, Zaharis’ stone…”

“Think about why he was so intent on discovering it.” Aravon glanced over his shoulder at the Secret Keeper—Zaharis had fallen asleep with the book still open on his lap, charcoal writing stick in hand. “He did it in service to his goddess, the Mistress. It is her will that he dedicates himself to discovering the hidden secrets of this world. And what could be a greater secret than that? Because of his faith in the Mistress, it could be argued that his stone is as holy as yours, albeit in service to a different deity.”

Skepticism flashed across Rangvaldr’s expression. “That’s a wide gap to bridge, Captain.”

“True.” Aravon smiled. “But theology’s not really my strong suit. I’m a soldier, not a theorist.” He chuckled. “I’m more at home reading military history than the works of doctrine, theology, or, Swordsman forbid…” He gave a theatrical shudder. “…philosophy.”

“You certainly could have fooled me.” For the first time in what felt like weeks, a ghost of a smile cracked Rangvaldr’s deep age-and-trouble-lined face. “That sounded an awful lot like Seiomenn wisdom. You’re missing the hair and beard, but we might yet make something of you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Aravon gave a wry shake of his head. “I’ll leave that sort of deep thinking to you. Give me a battle map and an enemy to face any day.”

Rangvaldr’s smile widened. “Now you sound more like a soldier.”

Aravon grinned. “You’re too kind.” He sobered a moment later, his smile dimming. “I understand that something like this can shake you to the core of your being. But you might be surprised to find you’re not alone in this.”

Rangvaldr cocked his head, surprise flashing in his green eyes. “Oh?”

Aravon glanced over his shoulder again at Zaharis. “He’s dedicated his life to a mission he believes is holy, but his own brothers—the man he loved among them—want him dead.” He winced. “That’s not an easy draught to swallow for anyone.”

The Seiomenn’s expression grew pensive. Long moments of silence elapsed between them. Finally, Rangvaldr nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You’re not just a Grim Reaver, Rangvaldr—you’re my friend.” A sly smile tugged at Aravon’s lips. “And it’s my job to keep you from utterly and totally cocking up the mission, remember?”

Rangvaldr rolled his eyes. “And you just had to go and ruin our pleasant moment!” He threw up his hands, a look of mock exasperation on his face. “Now leave me in peace, so I can pray to Nuius to save your soul from the damnation that awaits all ignorant heathens.”

“Thanks!” Aravon laughed and clapped the man on the back. “Say a few extra prayers for Noll, yeah?”

Rangvaldr gave him a dismissive wave and turned back to the edge of the mine shaft without another word.

Aravon strode back toward his bed, but before settling into his blankets, he glanced back at Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn still stood at the edge of the abyss, staring down at the dim-glowing gemstone in his open palm. Yet his shoulders had straightened, a great weight lifted from his back.

Hope blossomed within Aravon. Rangvaldr’s faith had been rocked, the solid foundation upon which he’d built his life shattered. The journey back to belief and faith might take a while—Swordsman knew such deep-rooted convictions never came easy, even after such a devastating blow. But in the all-consuming darkness of these tunnels, the Seiomenn had taken the first step.

A smile spread Aravon’s lips as he curled up in his blankets and fell asleep once more.

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Captain, we’ve got a problem.” Anxiety echoed in Colborn’s voice. “We’re almost out of feed for the horses.”

Aravon looked up from his task—strapping his pack in place behind his saddle—and met Colborn’s worry-darkened gaze. “That shouldn’t be possible. We made sure to bring more than enough food.”

During their journey through the Jarnleikr highlands, they had ridden across vast hills carpeted with a type of sedge grass Zaharis had called Rustle Thickgrass. Evidently, when mixed with the oil of a very specific thistle—Crimson Thistle, which also grew in abundance in the highlands—it provided ten times the nutrition found in alfalfa, oats, and other horse feed.

Under the Secret Keeper’s direction, all of them had collected as much of the Rustle Thickgrass as they could carry, and Zaharis had spent his nights working his alchemical marvels to form tightly compacted cubes—a single pound of which could feed two horses for a day. The mounts had grazed on their journey south, and Zaharis had saved the specialized food for their journey across the icy Wastelands beyond the Sawtooth Mountains. They ought to have enough of the marvelous grass to sustain all their mounts for five full days.

Colborn’s next words answered his unformed question. “We did, but most of it was secured to Tark and Zadan’s mounts.”

Aravon grimaced. Those had been two of the horses secured to his lead train, fallen with his horse when the mine ramp collapsed.

Damn it! He stifled a frustrated growl—he should have known better, should have distributed the mounts better. That was the sort of mistake an inexperienced commander would have made.

Gritting his teeth, he asked, “How much do we have?”

“Two days’ worth. Maybe three.” Colborn’s ice-blue eyes darkened. “But nowhere near enough to get us all the way to Praellboer. And if the Wastelands are half as icy as I’ve heard, there’ll be nothing for the horses to eat once we get through the mountains.”

Aravon’s gut clenched. He had known what this trip could cost him and his Grim Reavers—they’d all resigned themselves to the prospect of death in their attempt to kill Tyr Farbjodr—but the horses deserved far better than plummeting to a rocky end, freezing, or the slow, cruel torment of starvation.

“What do you suggest?” Aravon asked.

Colborn’s brow furrowed. Long seconds passed in silence. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Never been this far south.”

Aravon’s mind raced. To his knowledge, none of his Grim Reavers had even seen the Sawtooth Mountains before. But he knew someone who had.

At his call, Captain Lingram left off packing his bags—a task made awkward with one arm still in a sling—and joined them. Aravon relayed the problem to the Legionnaire. “You know Cliffpass and you’ve seen the Wastelands south of the mountains. What can we do here?”

Captain Lingram’s expression grew pensive. “If we set a fast pace, we might be out of this mine by tonight, tomorrow at the latest. Cliffpass has scrub and shrubs, the sort found at such high elevation. Sparse, to be sure, but maybe enough for the mounts.” Uncertainty tinged his words.

“It’ll have to do,” Aravon said. There was no turning back now; the way behind had been sealed when the Deadheads brought down the bridge and the tunnel atop the Rakki.

“I’ll pass the word.” Colborn nodded. “Double-time until we reach the exit.” He turned and strode off to relay the instructions to the rest of the Grim Reavers, leaving Aravon and Captain Lingram alone.

Aravon turned to the Captain. The man appeared far less burdened than he had the previous day, but Aravon knew better than anyone that outward calm could easily conceal a raging maelstrom of inner turmoil.

“How are you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Surprise and puzzlement flashed across Captain Lingram’s face, replaced by understanding a moment later. “No worse off than yesterday, so there’s that.” He gave a halfhearted shrug.

“Dreams you’d rather avoid?”

Captain Lingram’s expression froze, lines of tension forming around his eyes and mouth. “Was I that loud?”

Aravon shook his head. “Nothing Belthar’s snoring didn’t drown out. But I know that tossing and turning all too well.”

Lingram’s jaw muscles worked. “Coming this way again, after all these years…” He let out a low breath. “Last time, I was delirious with fever, too sick to see straight, and running from enemies both real and imagined.” His eyes went to the darkness of the tunnel just outside the radius of light streaming from the two burning flameweed bundles. “Memories like that are hard to shake.”

“They are.” Aravon gave him an encouraging smile. “But you’re still here rather than turning tail. That puts you head and shoulders above most men I’ve met, Blacksword.” He spoke the man’s name like a compliment, the accolade it was intended to be.

To Aravon’s surprise, Captain Lingram’s mouth twisted into a dark frown. “That name, Blacksword.” His hand dropped to the hilt of the blade at his side. “Every time I hear it, it’s a reminder that I failed my men.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Failed?”

“We shouldn’t have even been in Garrow’s Canyon.” Lingram’s frown deepened to a scowl. “But Commander Bannabus wanted to punish me for questioning his orders, so he sent me and Fourth Company to scout the gully, make sure it was clear. That’s when the Eirdkilrs hit us. Hard. Hard enough that we had no choice but to dig in and fight. If we’d tried to pull back, they’d have cut us all down. Had Fifth Company not arrived when they did, the Eirdkilrs would have won.” Shadows grew thick in his eyes. “My men died because of me. And I walked away—walked away and got the damned Sword of the Princelands pinned to my collar.”

Again, a glimmer of Captain Lingram’s true feelings—the guilt, anguish, and remorse that he’d tried to bury down deep—cracked the surface. One more weight to add to the immense burden that rested on his shoulders.

Aravon had wrestled with that strain his whole life. It had grown heavier since the ambush on the Eastmarch, but he bore it with the help of his fellow Grim Reavers. Lingram, too, deserved a friend to lighten the load on his soul.

“The way I heard it,” Aravon said, “had you not held the canyon, those four hundred Eirdkilrs would have hit Groennrjodr.” The tiny Jarnleikr settlement had been directly behind the Legionnaires’ position—indeed, it had been the allied Fehlans that had gone for help, summoning Fifth Company from Anvil Garrison in time to save Lingram’s last few soldiers. “A part of me can’t help wondering if the Swordsman put you there for a purpose.”

Lingram’s eyes widened a fraction.

“Duke Dyrund once told me something about my father.” Aravon’s throat tightened at the mention of the Duke and General Traighan—their deaths were still fresh enough in his mind to bring the sorrow and pain bubbling up in his chest. He swallowed and pushed on. “One night, a few weeks after the Battle of Stormcrow Pass, the battle that earned them both the Sword of the Princelands, they got to drinking.”

Dark memories flashed through Aravon’s mind. His father had always turned to the bottle to drown his misery; the deeper he went, the worse the anguish grew. And the more likely he was to lash out, to try and inflict that same anguish—physically and verbally—on those nearest him. His young son among them.

Again, Aravon resisted the images. This was about Lingram; his own turbulent past could wait until after they survived their mission.

“That night, my father climbed to the highest tower in Wolfden Castle and stood on the parapet. Looking down at the streets far below, drinking and screaming into the storm.” Aravon grimaced—he could well imagine the picture. “He wanted to throw his medal into the night and himself with it. The Duke said he repeated the same words over and over. ‘I didn’t kill enough. I didn’t save enough.’”

Lines of tension tightened around Lingram’s eyes and mouth. It seemed he, too, shared General Traighan’s sentiment. The losses—at Highcliff Motte and the flight through Cliffpass, at Garrow’s Canyon, Saerheim, Icespire, and now here—grew so heavy. He could never kill enough enemies to keep his men alive. No matter how hard he fought, the soldiers under his command died. That realization was enough to shatter even the strongest man. Aravon’s spirit had nearly broken under the strain—he couldn’t let that happen to Lingram.

He spoke in a quiet voice. “I’ve felt like that, too, you know. After the ambush that destroyed Sixth Company. Everyone else, all the men I’d sworn to protect as their Captain, all dead. And yet somehow I walked away. I got to live. Then on our first mission out, I lost Draian, one of our original members.”

Lingram’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “I…didn’t know.” He glanced at the Grim Reavers. “When we met on the road out of Saerheim, you all seemed so…invincible.”

A lump rose in Aravon’s throat. “Once, we might have thought we were. But Draian’s death changed all that. I blamed myself for his death.” He gave a grim shake of his head. “I thought it was my fault. He wasn’t ready for battle—wasn’t even a soldier in the first place!”

Lingram’s eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on Aravon’s face.

“But a not-very-wise man said something that put it into perspective.” Aravon glanced at Noll and repeated the scout’s words, spoken to him after the battle that saved Bjornstadt and put Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr into the ground. “Sometimes it's easier to blame a man than to accept that shite happens, even to good people.” He looked back to Lingram. “For us, it’s instinct to blame ourselves for what happens. It’s our fault for not being better, faster, stronger, or smarter. We’re the ones who lead our men into battle, and the ones who fail to get them out alive.”

By the grim look on Lingram’s face, Aravon could see his words had hit the mark. He and Lingram shared the tendency to internalize everything, to take the guilt on their own shoulders. Even now, he struggled with it—it had been his mission, his plan, that led to the deaths of the Deadheads. They’d sacrificed their lives, true, but had he gone alone with his Grim Reavers or found a different path, they wouldn’t have been in the position where that sacrifice proved necessary.

But drowning under the weight of guilt would help no one, making nothing better. He had to push forward for the mission’s sake—for the sake of the Princelands and all of Fehl. Never forgetting the price others had paid to make their success possible, but honoring them by giving his last ounce of strength to succeed.

“We can’t take it on ourselves.” Aravon placed a hand on Lingram’s shoulders. “We’d die if we did. All we can do is accept that shite happens even to good people, no matter how hard we try to prevent it. And then do our damnedest to plan better, think clearer, and act quicker the next time around.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Bitterness laced Lingram’s words.

“It’s one of the hardest things we’ll ever do.” Aravon met the man’s gaze. “But we accepted that responsibility when we accepted our command of soldiers. It’s part and parcel of the job. The worst part, but the most important one.” He lowered his voice. “Because if we crumble beneath that burden, we can’t be strong enough to help our soldiers bear theirs.”

Understanding lightened Captain Lingram’s eyes, and the tension in his face diminished, replaced by something akin to acceptance.

“The Sword of the Princelands is proof that you have the strength to bear it.” Aravon gripped Lingram’s shoulder hard. “Now it’s up to you to live up to it. An impossible standard, I know, expectations you can never hope to meet. But that’s every commander’s greatest task. So we’ve no choice but to do it, for the sake of those following us.”

Aravon’s gaze left Lingram’s face and traveled toward his six Grim Reavers. Each of them struggled with their own challenges, inner turmoil, and emotional tempests. Some more than others. During their months together, all of them had suffered, lost, bled, and known pain. It was his duty to help see those soldiers through the difficult times. The Princelands had called the Grim Reavers to battle, and it fell to Aravon to ensure that they were fit—in body, mind, and soul—to face the enemy, ready and able to take up arms in defense of the innocent.

“For their sakes.” Lingram repeated the words back to Aravon.

Aravon nodded. “Because without them, the mission would fail.” His gaze roamed over the five men and one woman that traveled at his side. Every one of them brought a specialized set of skills to their mission. They were the key to putting down Tyr Farbjodr—Aravon just had to make certain they had the resources, plan, and coordination to succeed.

Before Captain Lingram could speak, Rangvaldr strode toward them. “Captains.” He nodded to Aravon and turned to Lingram. “With your permission, Captain Lingram, I’ll have another go at that arm.”

Lingram’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I thought you’d done all you could for it.”

Lines furrowed Rangvaldr’s heavy brows, and his lips twitched downward. “A night of rest and communion with Nuius has replenished my strength.” His gaze darted to Aravon. “I have faith that I can finish the job.”

The words filled Aravon with soothing warmth. Though the shadows in the Seiomenn’s green eyes hadn’t fully lifted, they had receded, lightened. His shoulders appeared less stooped, the tension and worry drained from his face.

“Of course.” Lingram lifted his arm from the sling, careful not to jostle the still-mending bone.

Rangvaldr drew out his pendant and brought it to his lips. His muttered words of power brought the holy stone to life, bathing the three of them in a brilliant blue glow. The last of Rangvaldr’s tension, worry, and doubt seemed to vanish in that gentle light. With no trace of the hesitation that had gripped him the last few weeks, he pressed the stone to Lingram’s arm.

Lingram gasped, stiffened. Though Aravon couldn’t see the bone re-knit, he had no doubt the Seiomenn’s magic—channeled through the ancient stone, a gift of the long-gone Serenii—worked. A few seconds later, the Seiomenn lifted the stone from the Legionnaire’s arm.

“Amazing!” Captain Lingram breathed. He moved the healed limb, testing the elbow and flexing his fingers. “You and your god have my thanks, Seiomenn.”

As Rangvaldr tucked the pendant away, a serene smile played on his lips. He gave Aravon a nod, gratitude sparkling in his eyes, and returned to his horse.

Wonder sparkled in Lingram’s eyes as he raised his clenched fist. “Damn!” he breathed. “That’s…”

“Pretty damned magical?” Aravon finished for him.

Lingram chuckled. “I couldn’t decide between ‘bloody brilliant’ and ‘impossible’, but yeah, that works.”

Aravon smiled and clapped the Legionnaire on the shoulder. “Then let’s get a move on. We’ve a long day of climbing ahead and no time to waste.”

Captain Lingram nodded and strode off toward his horse, still testing his arm’s movement as if disbelieving the bone shattered yesterday could be healed.

For a moment, Aravon remained unmoving. He stood watching his small group of soldiers go about their tasks of preparing for the day’s travel. The previous morning, there had been nineteen of them. Now, only eight remained. Eight soldiers to survive crossing the Sawtooth Mountains, navigating the icy Wastelands, and killing Tyr Farbjodr somehow. Odds not even the most reckless gambler would touch.

But they had no choice. Too many people had sacrificed too much to get them here. The Grim Reavers couldn’t fail, couldn’t let those sacrifices be in vain.

The moment passed, and determination hardened within Aravon’s gut. Striding toward his mount, he finished stowing the last of his gear—Annur’s gear, it turned out, as was the horse, the heavy bear pelt, and the bedroll. With his own belongings gone, he’d had no choice but to use the fallen Legionnaire’s equipment. Thankfully, everything of import—the Prince’s silver griffin insignia, Snarl’s bone whistle, and Draian’s pendant—hung around his neck or rested in his pouch.

By the time he finished packing, the rest of the Grim Reavers stood waiting and ready. “Let’s do this,” was all he said—all that needed saying. Their small company moved out without a word.

Captain Lingram led the way through the mine tunnels, Colborn at his side. Aravon paid little attention to their route through the seemingly endless maze of twisting, turning passages—with the tunnels closed behind them, they couldn’t return that way—but trusted Lingram to guide them aright. He remained in the middle of their line, content to lead a string of their horses while letting his mind wander to what lay ahead.

Lingram had said they’d find their way out of the mine tunnels by day’s end, or the following morning. Impossible to predict exactly when that would be, given the solid stone that surrounded them. With no light to mark the time—no light at all, save for the slow-burning bundles of flameweed Zaharis distributed among them, with strict orders to only use three at a time so as to conserve fuel—he had no way to measure the passage of the hours beyond the steady beating of his heart.

Aravon guessed the spiral ramp had ascended roughly a quarter-mile—again, impossible to tell without light for a visual estimation of the distance. From the moment they’d entered the mine, the tunnels had risen at a gradual incline. They could easily be approaching a half a mile above sea level. Given that Cliffpass only reached sixty-five hundred feet at its highest point, Aravon held out hope that they would emerge close to halfway up the pass. Though they’d had to journey through the mines on foot, once out of the tunnels, they could ride. The crossing would go far faster on horseback.

And then what? The question echoed in Aravon’s mind over and over as the hours of marching through darkness dragged on. What’s waiting for us on the other side of these mountains?

Every Princelander called the land south of the Sawtooth Mountains the “icy Wastelands”, but that was done mostly out of ignorance. No Princelander had ever ventured more than a mile into the barren tundra—or those who had hadn’t returned to tell the tale.

Aravon’s imagination conjured images of shaggy-haired creatures, half-man and half-beast. That wasn’t too far from the truth. The Eirdkilrs were fierce and savage, as bloodthirsty as any monster out of the ancient legends of Fehl. More so, in some cases. If they ruled the Wastelands with the same ruthlessness as they attempted to conquer the lands of their Fehlan cousins, the mission to find Tyr Farbjodr would be harder than he’d initially believed.

With effort, he pushed the fear-born thoughts away. “Work the problem, one step at a time,” his father had loved to say. An odd statement, coming from a General given the command of thousands of men and the responsibility of planning battle tactics and war strategies. But Aravon understood the intent behind the words. Every commander and tactician could come up with a grand plan, but when it came time to face the enemy, the only way to win was to deal with whatever problems, obstacles, and threats arose as they arose. Trying to win the war months down the line typically lost the battle fought tomorrow. To pull off the assassination of Tyr Farbjodr, first Aravon had to get his Grim Reavers across the Wastelands and into position.

That meant getting out of these mines first. Then crossing Cliffpass, all the while keeping an eye out for any Eirdkilrs. After passing through the crumbled remains that had once been Highcliff Motte, they’d face the arduous trek of navigating the tundra. Colborn, Noll, and Rangvaldr were all skilled at woodcraft, tracking, and hunting in the Deid forests—would those skills translate to wayfinding on a terrain utterly devoid of trees, plants, and flowering life?

The problem of the horses’ feed supply was another one they’d have to deal with. He couldn’t let the magnificent beasts starve, but he had no idea if grass grew beneath the thick layers of snow and ice of the Wastelands. Where the food for the mounts would come from, that was a question they’d all need to figure out soon.

As the hours passed, the worries in Aravon’s mind mounted, the burden on his shoulders growing heavier. Far too many problems could arise, and he couldn’t hope to anticipate them all. But as his training officers had drilled into him a thousand times, “The problem you don’t expect is likely the one that kills you.” The chaos in his thoughts and the turmoil of his anxieties swirled so fast his head began to reel beneath the pressure.

“Keeper take it!” The sudden outburst from Noll snapped Aravon from his thoughts. His eyes widened as the little scout, moving between Colborn and Aravon, threw himself to the ground and furiously tore at the laces of his right boot. When he’d finally loosened them, he all but ripped the boot off his foot and tipped it upside down. A pebble the size of his pinky fingernail clattered on the stone floor. Noll snatched it up and stared at the rock—a color so brilliant red and shot through with veins of pink and white that it couldn’t possibly have come from within the mine tunnels of dark grey stone.

Eyes narrowed, he glared up at his comrades, who had gathered around him as he wrestled with his shoe. “All day long this bloody thing’s been grating at me!” A snarl twisted his lips and his free hand balled into a fist. “Which one of you is getting a well-deserved thrashing?”

To Aravon’s surprise, Zaharis reached out and plucked the pebble from the scout’s fingers. “I’d say you’re welcome, but it seems my gift is lost on you.”

“Gift?!” Noll’s shout echoed through the tunnel. “What sort of gift is a Keeper-damned stone in my boot?”

“The sort that allows us to sleep next to you without the stink of your feet suffocating us.” Zaharis grinned. “I guess that’s more a gift to us than to you. Then again, it means we can tolerate your presence, so I’d say we’re all winners.”

Belthar’s roaring laughter echoed through the tunnel, and the rest of them joined in—all but Noll. The scout made no attempt to deliver the promised thrashing; he knew as well as the rest of them that he stood no chance against Zaharis. Instead, he glowered at the Secret Keeper and turned back to his boot. A steady stream of curses bubbled from his lips as he tugged on his boot and did up his laces. When he stood, he shot a glare at Zaharis filled with enough venom to kill every person in Icespire.

Despite the scout’s momentary fury, Aravon had little doubt Noll would let the matter pass. Noll had a temper like a firestriker—it flared bright and died quickly.

As they moved on, Aravon was surprised to find the mood among their small company lightened. The laughter had done them all good, and even Captain Lingram and Rangvaldr seemed able to smile, make an occasional joke, and share a few words with the others. Over the following hours, quiet laughter and murmurs echoed from Belthar and Skathi’s position at the rear of their line. Every time Aravon looked back, their faces grew suddenly solemn and they fell silent—like schoolchildren caught by their teacher. Doubtless making jokes at Noll’s expense.

But seeing that camaraderie between them and feeling the diminished tension in the passages did wonders to lift Aravon’s spirits. A faint hope dawned within him—maybe, just maybe, we can get through this. If not alive, at least victorious. It was the best he could hope for given the odds they faced.

“Captain!” Colborn called back down the tunnel. “You seeing this?”

Aravon moved to the side, glancing past the massive horses following along behind Noll, and his eyes widened. “Swordsman be praised!”

There, in the distance, so tiny it appeared but a pinprick, was bright daylight. The most beautiful thing he’d seen in what felt like an eternity trapped in this dark labyrinth of stone.

He had no need to give the order to move double-time; the glorious sight of sunlight ahead galvanized the Grim Reavers into action, and they broke into a run. Closer and closer the brilliance grew, until it became recognizable as an opening—the exit from the mines.

They had reached the way out!

Chapter Thirty-Four

Aravon emerged from the darkness of the mine tunnels and into a scene of breathtaking beauty. The light of the rising sun reflected off the layered clouds high overhead, painting the sky with vivid hues of crimson, purple, and deep amber. The growing brilliance bathed the jagged peaks, cliffs, and snow-covered mountaintops in a shimmering curtain of orange and gold. Gusts of biting mountain air wafted through the narrow gap between two close-set cliff faces, bringing with the icy chill the tang of fresh-driven snow.

After nearly two days of the lightless underground, with only the burning flameweed bundles for companions, the glaring morning light dazzled Aravon’s eyes. Despite the pain, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. The color and life of the world around him, the world outside the stale air and thick dust of the mines, filled him with wonder.

“Aravon.” Lingram’s voice pierced his thoughts. He turned to find the Captain at his side. “We’ve got to get moving if we’re to find shelter before dark.”

That snapped Aravon back to reality. The rest of the Grim Reavers had already mounted up and now stared at him in expectation. The color that rushed to his cheeks had only a little to do with the mountain chill.

Aravon hurried to mount, wrapping himself in Annur’s heavy fur cloak, and nodded at Colborn to take the lead. The Lieutenant and Captain Lingram led the way along the narrow path between close-set cliff walls. The trail twisted and turned, cutting through the rocky walls until it reached the broader Cliffpass a few hundred yards to the northeast.

As they rode out of the side trail and onto the main pass, Aravon couldn’t help glancing north, down the incline toward the base of the mountains. The lands of Fehl spread out below him, a stunning sea of dark grey foothills, rolling grasslands, dense forests in every conceivable hue of brown and green, and, far in the distance, the rising peaks of the Myrr and Jarnleikr highlands.

From their altitude, Aravon could see hundreds of miles in every direction—the lands of the Bein and Myrr, the Jarnleikr, and the Fjall. The mountain peaks surrounding the Fjall stronghold of Ornntadr rose just beyond the northwestern horizon. To the east, a shimmering blue ribbon marked the eastern boundaries of Fehl, the shores of the Frozen Sea and the vast expanse of ocean beyond.

Aravon found it difficult to tear his eyes from such beauty. He’d never ascended to such heights, and likely never would again. He ached to take a moment to enjoy the breathtaking view—this was what Snarl saw when he flew high above the lands of Fehl.

Then the icy wind hit him, and all thoughts of the stunning panorama faded from his mind. In the main pass, without the high cliff walls to shelter them, the air currents rolled down the mountain and slammed into them unhindered. Gusts heavy with ice and soft-powdered snow blasted across his face. The chill wind hit him like a physical blow to the face, so biting it nearly doubled him over in his saddle. Fingers of frozen steel seeped through his leather gloves and armor, slithered down his collar, and cut across his cheeks and nose with such force it felt his skin would peel away.

“Frozen hell!” Noll clapped his hands together and shivered like a wet dog.

“That’s what it feels like, right enough,” Belthar rumbled.

Aravon turned back to his horse, reaching for his fur-lined gloves, only to stop. His mount had fallen in the mine shaft. He dug through Annur’s pack, pawing aside the Legionnaire’s private belongings and supplies, near-frantic in his desperation to find the extra-thick gloves they’d all brought with their fur cloaks. Relief flooded him as his freezing fingers found the fur-lined coverings and he slipped them on, donning the heavy bear pelt over his cloak and armor.

After a moment, he pulled on his leather greatwolf mask as well. Though the wind cut through the holes for his eyes with eye-watering force, the mask protected the rest of his face from the icy chill…somewhat. Even without the wind buffeting his cheeks, nose, and mouth, the air of the mountain was still damned cold.

“Mask up,” he ordered his men. “We’re wasting daylight.”

Within two minutes, the Grim Reavers had disappeared beneath their leather masks and heavy furs. They appeared like two-legged monsters with the bodies of bears and the faces of snarling wolves—a fearsome sight, though the effect was marred by the shivering. Even Rangvaldr seemed to find it difficult to warm up.

The exertion of their ride up Cliffpass did little to ward off the cold. It kept the biting mountain air from freezing their limbs, but barely. Aravon could feel the chill seeping down his breeches and into his boots, and any time he moved too much, his cloak flared aside just enough that a gust of icy wind sliced through his armor and undertunic. The only thing that kept him from abject misery was Snarl curled against his back. The Enfield had decided to escape the cold by hiding under Aravon’s cloak; the warmth of his body acted like Aravon’s own private furnace to radiate heat up and down his spine.

Aravon pushed the pace as fast as he dared. Hours spent trudging through the mines had taken a toll on the Grim Reavers, though the chargers were fresh enough to maintain a brisk speed up the gently rising Cliffpass. But it was all Aravon could do to cling to his saddle and keep his head bowed. Any time he looked up to get his bearings, the stinging wind brought tears to his eyes, and the chill froze them to a crusty rime that made even the simple act of blinking painful.

The anemic warmth of the rising sun did little to help ease the chill. Though the golden brilliance brightened, the cold seemed to deepen and grow worse with every laboring beat of Aravon’s heart. Even as midday came and went, the damned cold seemed to grip the world in icy talons.

Aravon gritted his teeth and clung to his saddle, forcing himself to remain upright. He kept his eyes fixed on the back of Colborn’s horse as the two guided them through the twists and turns of the sharply rising Cliffpass. He was too damned cold to think—the journey through the gorge, the challenges of crossing the Wastelands, or the enemies that awaited them in the south. He simply clung to his mount and kept his jaw clenched to stop his teeth from chattering.

To his relief, Cliffpass cut sharply to the west, and a high-rising cliff wall blocked off the wind for a few marvelous minutes. In that time, Aravon managed to thaw out enough to bend his mind to the next step in their journey.

By his calculations, they ought to reach the highest point of Cliffpass before midnight, and the descent toward Highcliff Motte would take all the following day on horseback. With a day and a half spent navigating the underground tunnels, only six days remained to cross the icy Wastelands and reach Praellboer.

Every pounding hoofbeat tightened the knots in Aravon’s shoulders. We’re running out of time!

On familiar terrain, the roughly three hundred-mile journey to reach Praellboer would take fewer than three days. But he and his Grim Reavers had no idea what lay beyond, what obstacles they’d face. With less than a week left, he couldn’t help feeling the urgency mounting within him.

Something high in the mountains above him caught his eye: a towering monolith of black stone, far too sharp and angular to be a rocky peak. Instantly, he was on full alert, his hand dropping to his spear.

He’d been so cold that he’d failed to even consider enemies in Cliffpass. With the northern opening sealed forever, the Eirdkilrs had no reason to occupy the high mountain pass. Yet he cursed himself for a fool—he had to be more aware of their surroundings. Threats could lurk in every shadow or behind the next bend in the path.

But as they drew closer, Aravon realized what it was: a pillar of ghoulstone. No other stone could shine with such deep, dark radiance beneath the light of the now-setting sun.

Up the incline they rode, approaching the obsidian-black monolith. By the time they drew close enough for Aravon to have a clear understanding of its size—easily twenty feet across and fifty feet tall, appearing even larger given its position atop a rising peak high above the mountain pass—the sun had already dipped low toward the western horizon.

Then they rounded a bend in the Cliffpass, and the ruins of an ancient stronghold came into view. Built in the shadow of the towering ghoulstone pillar, the fortress was made of crudely worked stone, with a fifteen-foot-high wall surrounding it. Or had surrounded it long ago. The stronghold and encircling wall had been torn down in hundreds of places, leaving a myriad of ragged gaps in its defenses. No doubt about it, a bloody battle had taken place here.

“What is this place?” Skathi breathed, wonder in her voice.

“This,” Rangvaldr said in a solemn voice, “is Hafoldarholl.”

Captain Lingram glanced at him. “You know of this place?”

Rangvaldr nodded. “All Fehlans have heard of ‘The Hall of the Heavens’.” His eyes darkened behind his mask. “Once the seat of the Tauld’s power, in days long past, before the mainlanders came to our shores.”

Aravon drew in a sharp breath. This appeared to be a properly built, well-defended stronghold, the sort Legionnaires would build. Judging by the length of the wall—nearly four hundred yards across—the fortress within had also been home to civilians. It seemed impossible, but he couldn’t ignore the evidence of his eyes. The Eirdkilrs had had a city!

“When your people first conquered Fehl centuries ago,” Rangvaldr continued, “they gave each defeated clan a choice: submit or die.” His tone was grim. “Most of the clans chose submission, but not the Tauld. They refused to surrender, even when the invaders slaughtered their warbands to the last man and tore down their strongholds. Over the years, they were pushed back, closer and closer to the mountain range, their lands taken from them and given to the Fjall, the Myrr, the Bein, and the smaller clans of southwestern Fehl. Until they had only this place. Hafoldarholl, their last stronghold.”

Aravon studied the stronghold. The now-crumbling wall and the fortress built beneath the ghoulstone obelisk had once been a mighty defense, but even it couldn’t withstand the ravages of war—or the decay of age.

“For five years, the Tauld repelled the invaders,” Rangvaldr continued, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Five years of battle and death. Of watching their brothers, sons, and fathers die fighting the invaders that came to steal their homes. Some whispered that after their food stores ran out, they resorted to the old ways. The barbaric ways the rest of Fehl tried to leave behind. Blood sacrifices to appease Bani. Feasting on human flesh for strength and ferocity.”

Aravon grimaced, his stomach twisting. He’d seen the cruelties the Eirdkilrs could inflict on their captives and enemies—it came as no great surprise to hear they could do the same to each other.

“Until the day the invaders overran the walls.” The Seiomenn bowed his head. “And massacred every man, woman, and child in Hafoldarholl.”

That sent Aravon’s eyebrows shooting upward. What? It seemed impossible—the Legion of Heroes didn’t engage in wanton slaughter like the Eirdkilrs. They didn’t torture their prisoners and laugh as proud warriors bled and died at their hands.

And yet, he’d seen the look in the eyes of the Legionnaires and regulars at Rivergate. They’d wanted vengeance for the deaths of their friends and comrades. Had he not dissuaded them, they would have vented their wrath and fury on the Jokull prisoners taken in the battle.

No, in all truthfulness, he couldn’t deny the possibility that the Legion truly had slaughtered everyone in Hafoldarholl all those centuries ago. War could twist men’s minds and make them do cruel things—the very same things for which they condemned their enemies.

“But over the years of battle,” Rangvaldr continued, “the Tauld had prepared for the worst. The clan had sent people to find places in the icy Wastelands where they could make a new home, away from the reach of the invaders. Into the deep cold that the warm-blooded northerners could not endure.” The Seiomenn gave a grim shake of his head. “Hafoldarholl fell, and with it, the mightiest warriors of the Tauld. But the people lived on. They lived, and they remembered. For more than three hundred years, they carried the memory of what was done to them by the invaders. They rebuilt their strength until they were ready to take back their lands, and to visit Bani’s vengeful wrath upon the half-men.”

The Seiomenn’s story pierced to the core of Aravon’s being. He’d known the Eirdkilrs hated the “half-men” that had invaded their lands and conquered their northern cousins. But he’d had no idea that their enmity against the Princelanders was so personal.

Anyone who saw their kin slaughtered the way Rangvaldr had described the destruction of Hafoldarholl would doubtless feel justified taking up arms against those who perpetrated such atrocities. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t just suffered in the war—they’d been driven from their homes, forced to flee into the desolate Wastelands, and lost countless lives. All at the hands of those that now called themselves Princelanders.

That’s enough to make anyone hate us. A shiver ran down Aravon’s spine. And not just hate us, but want to wipe us out, to ensure it never happens to them again.

The cold, hard truth buried a steel dagger in his gut: the Eirdkilrs had been born in this very place, on the day the Legionnaires slaughtered the men, women, and children of Hafoldarholl. Those first Princelanders—the ruthless invaders from across the ocean—had created the savage barbarians that now threatened Aravon’s home and family.

Aravon could find no words—what could he say in the face of such a terrible realization?

Long seconds passed, and the Grim Reavers remained utterly still and silent, eyes locked on the ruins of the ancient Eirdkilr stronghold. The stillness was broken only by the sound of the whistling wind and the quiet crunching of the horses cropping the sparse shrub grass.

“Come,” Aravon finally said in a quiet voice. “We camp here for the night.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Silence hung like a thick blanket over the Grim Reavers. None of them spoke, but simply sat and stared into the dancing flames of their guttering campfire. The high stone walls of the fortress kept the worst of the wind at bay, but icy gusts seeped through the myriad of holes and cracks. The empty stronghold seemed to amplify the chatter of clacking teeth, the whisper of the frigid evening breeze, and the relentless crunching of the grazing mounts.

Zaharis alone of their company moved. He bent over Noll’s armor, using a stiff brush to paint on the viscous alchemical mixture that gave the armor its mottled pattern—stark white and various hues of grey and black instead of the greens and browns that had concealed them within the Fehlan forests. The scout sat nearby, huddled deep within his cloak, trying his best to fight the shivers wracking his body. The faint warmth emanating from the fire failed to drive back the chill in the drafty chamber.

Colborn sat by the shattered doorway, keeping watch on the dark, empty Cliffpass outside the crumbled walls of Hafoldarholl. None of them wanted to take the chance, however slim, that the Eirdkilrs caught them here.

Suddenly, a voice broke the silence. Rangvaldr’s voice, lifted in a tune at once mournful and wistful.

High among the stars

In the dark and moonlit heaven’s hall

Sings the Daughter of Winter

A ringing, lament for all

For all the days gone

And all the loves long lost

She sings her mournful tune

‘Midst the swirling, dancing frost

Snow for her cape

Eyes of stars and gown of frozen dew

Soft breeze lifts her tune

A song of memories old and true

Days past forgotten

Yesteryear’s solemn, mournful call

For the lost souls laid to rest

In the dark and moonlit heaven’s hall

The song had a strange effect on their small camp. The chattering of Noll’s teeth fell silent and his shivering stopped. Snarl’s head rose from where he lay buried in Aravon’s furs and his ears cocked as he listened to the tune. The wind whistling through the mountains seemed to still, as if the world held its breath to hear the lament. The fire grew brighter, lighting up the darkness, and in those golden flames danced the faces of “lost souls laid to rest”.

Aravon didn’t know who the others saw—he was too busy watching the familiar figures that appeared in the flickering tongues of fire. Duke Dyrund, that sly, knowing smile on his face. Draian, with kindness sparkling in his eyes, a light far brighter than the glowing embers. The Deadheads, the men of Sixth Company, the Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades, General Rodalus, and the countless others who had fallen at his side. His father, for once the dark look gone from his sharp features, his anger replaced with peace.

Then came the ghosts of his former life, the life he’d left behind the day he became Captain Snarl. Mylena. Rolyn and Adilon. The faces he’d never see again.

The loud clearing of a throat snapped him from his trance. With effort, Aravon tore his eyes from the dancing flames. Belthar had risen to his feet and moved close to the fire, an almost embarrassed look on his face.

“When I was young, our life in the Glimmer was far from luxurious.” He had removed his mask, and a hint of color rose to his heavy cheeks. “But every year, around this time, the Brokers took a page from the Fehlans’ books and chose to celebrate their Time of Harvest.” He turned to the Seiomenn. “Or, as you said your people call it, the Time of Plenty.”

Rangvaldr smiled. “My favorite time of the year.”

“Mine, too.” A small smile brightened Belthar’s face. “I’d spend the rest of the year hoarding what copper bits I could collect, just so I could see the smile on Inaia’s face when she awoke to find a present waiting next to her bed. She called it Goodie Day.” Happiness flashed in his eyes at the memory. “For that one day, we could forget everything else. Forget the fact that we were orphaned Glimmertrash scraping and begging to survive on the streets. None of that mattered for a little while.”

Aravon’s admiration for the big man rose even higher. No one who met Belthar could ever have imagined the hardship he’d endured in his life. With his quick smile and sunny demeanor even in the face of certain death, he numbered among the most good-natured people Aravon had ever been fortunate to encounter.

Belthar’s smile grew sad. “Since Inaia, I haven’t had anyone to share Goodie Day with. No one that really mattered.” His gaze traveled to the faces around the campfire, and to where Colborn sat by the door. “Until now. She was the only family I had until you all.” A blush of color rose to his cheeks once more. “So I figured I’d continue the tradition. Even if it’s one last time.”

Aravon’s eyes went wide as the huge man turned to him. Belthar dipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a shining metallic object hanging from a simple leather thong. “Captain, I know it’s not as good as the one you had.” He held it out to Aravon. “But maybe it’ll remind you of home and family—and of Draian—for as long as you wear it.”

A lump rose to Aravon’s throat as he took the pendant from Belthar’s fingers. Made of iron, it was shaped like a sword, a tribute to the Swordsman, god of the Legion and heroism. Though far cruder than the silver pendant Mylena had given him—the one he’d left with Draian after the battle at Bjornstadt—it was still a work of art.

“Thank you, Belthar.” Aravon struggled to form words around the emotions tying his tongue. He slung the leather thong over his head and looked down at the metal sword pendant. “It’s perfect.”

Belthar beamed, his eyes glowing. This time, when he reached into a pocket, he turned to Colborn. “According to Rangvaldr, the word ‘Deid’ in the Fehlan tongue means ‘stag’, because the first Deid were mighty hunters.” He glanced to the Seiomenn for confirmation. At Rangvaldr’s nod, he drew out another leather thong hung with a shining metal object: the head and antler rack of a deer made from shining bronze. “I saw this one in the People’s Markets before battle broke out in Icespire. I thought it would be a reminder of your mother. Of your Fehlan heritage.”

Colborn rose slowly, his face an expressionless mask as he accepted the gift with a curt nod. Yet as the Lieutenant turned away, the firelight glimmered off a hint of moisture in the man’s eyes, and he cradled the stag pendant carefully in his hand.

“Noll.” The big man moved toward the scout next. “There’s one thing always guaranteed to make you smile.” From within his saddlebag, Belthar drew out a small bottle of dark brown glass.

“Nyslian brandy!” Noll fairly leapt to his feet and, forgetting he stood in only his undertunic, threw off the heavy bear pelt as he snatched the bottle from Belthar’s hands. His eyes went wide as he stared down at the gift. “Ellestini gold!” He threw himself at the big man. “I could kiss you right now!” His lips puckered and formed loud, wet smooching noises.

“Don’t,” Belthar growled, fending off the little man with his huge arms, “and you can call it your present to me!”

“Deal!” Laughing in triumph, Noll returned to his seat, pulled the cork from the bottle, and took a sip. “Maiden’s teats, that’s good!”

“Share it around, then.” Skathi held out a hand for the bottle.

“Not a bloody chance!” Noll clutched the brandy to his chest with the caution of a mother cradling her newborn. “Get your own gift.”

When Aravon’s gaze returned to Belthar, the big man had drawn out something else.

“Seiomenn,” he said, “I had no idea what sort of gifts the Eyrr give each other, but Colborn said the Deid exchange gifts of food, clothing, seeds for planting, tools, and barrels of ayrag.” From within his cloak, he drew out a bottle the same size as Noll’s, but made of clear glass and filled with a thick white liquid. “I know it’s not much, but it was the best I could find in the Outwards.”

Rangvaldr’s bushy white eyebrows flew up. “Is it—” He took the bottle, removed the cork, and sniffed at its contents. “Is it Eyrr-made?”

Belthar’s eyes brightened and he nodded. “That’s what the Fehlan who sold it to me said. Made using the Oldrsjot method, I think, though I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

Rangvaldr took a sip, and a smile brightened his face. “A very fine thing, my friend!” The Seiomenn stood and pulled the big man into a bear hug. “Made even greater by the thought that went into procuring it.”

Blushing beneath the Seiomenn’s praise, Belthar turned to Zaharis. He actually hesitated before drawing out his gift for the Secret Keeper. “I-I didn’t know…” He swallowed and opened his huge hands. “I thought…maybe you’d like it.”

Nestled in his palms lay a simple wooden figurine bearing the beautiful features and lithe, feminine figure of the Mistress, goddess of trysts and whispered secrets. The patron deity of the Secret Keepers.

“Even though Darrak and the rest of the Secret Keepers have banished you,” Belthar rumbled, “I know that you still see yourself as a faithful servant of the Mistress.” He held the dark red wooden figurine out to Zaharis. “Everything you’ve done with us, your search for the ice saffron, it’s all in Her service. So perhaps this could be a reminder of that. Of who you are.”

Zaharis’ hands trembled as he took the carving from Belthar. Tears sprang to the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “Thank you,” he signed, his fingers fumbling the words. “Thank you for the reminder that no matter what happens, I am and always will be Her devoted priest.”

He stood, gripped Belthar’s hand, and looked the big man in the eyes. A slow smile spread on Belthar’s face, mirrored by the light shining on Zaharis’ face. After a long moment, the Secret Keeper released the big man and sat down, the figurine cradled in his hand.

Belthar cleared his throat and turned to Lingram. “Captain Lingram.” His grin turned lopsided. “I didn’t have much of a chance to find anything meaningful for you.” He shrugged. “We haven’t exactly had a lot of down time since leaving Icespire.”

Captain Lingram chuckled. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Yes, but I figured you might like this.” From within his pouch, he drew out a small bundle of waxed parchment and unwrapped it. Inside lay a finger-length strand of bright blue crystals crusted around what looked like a length of twine—rock candy, Aravon recognized, a costly sweet treat brought decades earlier from across the Frozen Sea that had become popular among the wealthy merchants and nobles of Icespire. “These were Inaia’s favorite. I thought if I was leaving Icespire and never coming back, I’d have some one last time. In her memory, you know?”

“Then I can’t accept it, Belthar.” Captain Lingram tried to wave the big man away. “It’s not—”

“You can.” Belthar’s hand never moved. “I always had to buy three of these for her Goodie Day gift. One for her, one for me, and one for Diedran, the cripple who shared our hovel. She was kind like that, my sister. She never would have enjoyed it alone.” He thrust the crystallized treat forward. “Take it, Captain. Don’t make me disappoint her, not on Goodie Day.”

A smile spread across Lingram’s face and he took the bundle with a nod. “For your sister.”

As Belthar turned slowly toward Skathi, uncertainty etched into every line of his face. “I…” His voice cracked, cut off. Doubt and hesitation darkened his expression.

The archer’s gaze never left the big man. She leaned forward, an eager light in her eyes, and seemed to hold her breath.

Belthar coughed and tried again. “For weeks, I’ve been trying to think of what to get you.” He swallowed. “Something that showed how much…” He hesitated. “How much you mean to us. All of us.”

Aravon stifled a wince—Belthar had come so close to speaking the truth of how he felt for her, only to retreat at the last moment. Fear was a powerful deterrent, especially in matters of the heart. Keeper knows how long it took me to confess my feelings to Mylena!

Skathi, too, seemed to sense the big man’s sudden recalcitrance. Though her expression never changed, the eager light faded from her eyes, and her face grew rigid, fixed, a stony mask that revealed no hint of emotion.

“Inaia….” Belthar swallowed again, cleared his throat. “Inaia hated fancy things, but every year, I promised myself I’d one day get her the most expensive item in the People’s Markets. Every year, I’d wander the marketplace and look at every stall until I found something I knew she’d love. I could never afford it, but I would bring her to the marketplace and say, ‘That is what I’ll get you one day when we’re wealthier’.” Sorrow filled his eyes. “She would always tell me, ‘I don’t need it, not when I have you.’ She’d take my hand, give me that big smile of hers, and we’d go home to our Goodie Day feast. But every time it killed me to walk away without it.”

Moisture rimmed his eyes and a tear slid down his cheek. “Then came the year I could finally afford it. I went to the People’s Markets and bought it. Brought it home and hid it under the floorboards, keeping it safe until I could give it to her on Goodie Day.” More tears flowed, but he made no attempt to stop them. “She died a week before I could give it to her.”

He opened his hands and in his palms lay a small silver statuette: the figure of a dancing girl, her slim form frozen mid-pirouette, with long, flowing hair made with breathtakingly thin strands of gleaming gold. Two tiny blue gemstones shone for her eyes, and at a butterfly made of translucent crystal perched at the tip of her outstretched fingertip. The Maiden, goddess of purity, devotion, and festivities.

Skathi gasped, and her eyes sparkled.

Belthar looked lovingly down at the statuette. “Inaia loved the Maiden. Loved her purity of spirit, the simple joy of a goddess dedicated to laughing, loving, and celebrating.” His eyes lifted from the statuette to Skathi’s face. “I thought…” His voice broke. “Maybe, since you’re so much like her—er, the Maiden, I mean—with your laugh and…”

Skathi reached out, took his huge hand and squeezed his fingers in hers. “It’s perfect.” Her voice grew husky, hoarse with emotion. “Perfect.” She rose, so suddenly Belthar stumbled backward, and hurried away into the darkness of the crumbling fortress.

Confusion twisted the big man’s face, and he took a half-step toward the fleeing archer, as if wanting to pursue her.

“Belthar,” Aravon called. When the big man glanced toward him, a hint of hurt mingling with the bewilderment in his eyes, Aravon shook his head. “Let her go.”

“B-But…” Belthar stammered.

“She said it was perfect.” Aravon gave the man an encouraging smile. “And it was.”

He’d caught the sudden flush in Skathi’s cheeks, the moisture brimming in the archer’s eyes as she turned away. He had spent enough time madly in love with Mylena to recognize the symptoms of that particular malady’s onset. After everything Skathi had endured, it would take her time to understand and acknowledge the feelings taking root in her heart. Belthar needed to give her space, but she would come around.

“All of them were, Belthar.” Aravon reached for the pendant around his neck. “Truly, thank you.”

As the other Grim Reavers echoed the sentiment, color rose to Belthar’s cheeks, accompanied by a dazzling smile that brightened his heavy face. Eyes shining, face flushed and glowing, he returned to his seat once more.

“Wait, that’s not the end of the Goodie Day gifts, is it?” Colborn asked from his place by the door. He rose to his feet with a broad grin on his face. “You forgot the last and most important Grim Reaver.”

“Oh!” Belthar’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course!”

Colborn crouched over his pack and drew out a sackcloth-wrapped bundle larger than his fist. To Aravon’s surprise, the bundle contained two massive beef kneecaps heavy with salt-dried meat, the bone gleaming white. “We’d have died long ago without Snarl.” He came over to crouch in front of Aravon, setting the twin bones down between Snarl’s paws. “So this is our way of saying thank you.” He rubbed the Enfield’s head.

With a happy bark, Snarl set about gnawing at the massive bones, his amber eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“To Snarl!” Noll raised his bottle of Nyslian brandy and took a drink.

Rangvaldr snatched the bottle from Noll’s hand. “To Snarl!” A healthy pour disappeared down his throat as he drank deep.

“H-Hey!” Noll spluttered, leaping to his feet and pursuing his prized possession. “Drink your own!”

Rangvaldr handed the bottle off to Zaharis, who spun as he too drank, placing his body between Noll and the prize. Belthar went next, and even Colborn had a quick sip before Noll managed to recover his bottle. Scowling and muttering dire curses on his comrades, the scout settled back in his place and disappeared into his furs.

All in the camp laughed—all but Noll, too busy glowering at them, and Skathi. The archer had returned during the fracas with Noll’s bottle and now sat staring at the gift in her hands. Her strong fingers held the figurine by the foot, twirling it like a dancer spinning on a stage. Belthar shot a glance at her, a flush of happiness coloring his cheeks.

The sight of his companions laughing and enjoying their evening warmed Aravon’s heart far more than their pathetic fire ever could. Despite everything they’d endured over the past days and weeks and all that lay ahead of them, on this day—the Deid celebration of the Haustmessa, the Time of Harvest—they deserved a few moments of happiness.

Tomorrow’s problems could wait. Tonight, they celebrated Goodie Day.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Dawn came early at the top of the world.

The eastern horizon brightened well before the fourth hour of the morning, the starry, pitch-black night sky giving way to gleaming blue. By the time false-dawn had given way to sunrise and the gold-red brilliance of first light, the Grim Reavers had already been riding for the better part of an hour.

Though he’d only slept four or five hours, Aravon felt strangely refreshed. The whipping wind hadn’t lost its bracing chill, but the fresh scent of snow and frozen stone came as a welcome change from the thick dust within the mine. And as small and simple as the previous night’s celebration had been, it had done wonders to lift his spirits.

The rest of the Grim Reavers seemed equally reinvigorated. Colborn set a brisk pace, with Captain Lingram guiding him through the twists and turns of Cliffpass without hesitation. That morning, Aravon had awoken to find Captain Lingram standing over the four wrapped corpses of the Legionnaires slain in battle with the Rakki. He’d removed them from their horses and placed them gently to rest in the stone hall where they’d spent the night. Aravon had given Lingram a few silent minutes before riding out.

Laying the soldiers to rest seemed to have done Lingram good. The shadows in the Legionnaire’s eyes retreated steadily throughout the day, and he’d even managed to smile and crack a joke about the smell from Noll’s boots before riding out of camp that morning.

Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr, riding at his side. The Seiomenn’s mask hid his face, but it seemed he’d left his gloom in the mine tunnels. At the rear of the column, Belthar and Skathi rode a companionable distance apart, but Aravon had caught their eyes darting toward each other—always when the other wasn’t looking. It seemed Belthar’s heartfelt gift—a surprise for all of them, but Skathi more than most—had struck a chord within the archer.

Snarl had refused to relinquish the beef kneecaps, keeping one tucked in his talons and the other clamped squarely between his teeth. When the added weight made it impossible for him to gain any altitude with his wings, he leapt onto Aravon’s horse and settled into place behind the saddle—content to gnaw on the bones and let the mount do the work of transporting him.

The horses, after a night spent cropping the scrubby sedge that sprouted from the barren soil within Hafoldarholl, moved with a lighter step. They made no complaint as the Grim Reavers rode hard up the gentle incline—if anything, they seemed eager to stretch their legs and run.

They reached the highest point of Cliffpass—sixty-five hundred feet above sea level—before the sun had fully risen over the tops of the towering cliffs that bordered the broad pathway through the mountains. After barely a quarter-hour of rest, they switched mounts and began the descent toward the southern side of Cliffpass. They had fifteen mounts for just the eight of them, more than enough to keep the horses fresh.

Aravon paid little attention to the high, rocky walls bordering the mountain pass; they were simple cliffs, after all, as rocky and sheer as any other he’d encountered. Instead, he watched the heights as best he could, one hand on his spear. Colborn had eyes forward, Skathi and Belthar guarded the rear, so it fell to him, Zaharis, Noll, and Rangvaldr to spot any Eirdkilrs.

Not that he expected any this high in the mountains. It wasn’t like the Eirdkilrs to settle in a place as barren and devoid of life as the rocky Sawtooth range. Down below, perhaps, closer to the icy Wastelands, but with the Cliffpass blocked on the northern side, they had no reason to occupy the ruins of Hafoldarholl or set up any sort of camp—temporary or permanent—in the mountain pass.

That didn’t stop him from keeping a wary eye on the skyline. He wouldn’t take any chances, not so close to the end of the first step on their journey. They’d gotten this far—and paid a heavy price for it—so he’d be damned if he let a moment of inattention ruin their chances at slipping into the Eirdkilr lands undetected.

By the time the sun reached its peak and began to set, the Grim Reavers had descended halfway down the Cliffpass. The rocky terrain of the pass was rougher than the Eastmarch or any road within the Princelands, but the nimble Kostarasar chargers had navigated the descent with the same sure-footedness that had carried the Grim Reavers through grasslands, forest, and the Jarnleikr highlands.

Aravon estimated they covered close to eight miles per hour. Cliffpass cut through the narrowest section of the Sawtooth Mountains—barely a hundred miles separated the Myrr foothills from the icy Wastelands south of the range. At their current speed, he guessed they’d reach the northern side of Highcliff Motte before nightfall.

That realization lifted his spirits further. Though they had only five days left, if they could just get out of the mountains and into the tundra beyond, odds were good they’d reach Tyr Farbjodr in time.

He gritted his teeth. We’ve got no other choice! He had no idea what the Eirdkilr commander had planned for Fehl and the Princelands, and even less desire to find out. They had to take out Tyr Farbjodr before he unleashed his armies through Snowpass.

Captain Lingram called a halt shortly before sunset. “Highcliff Motte’s about a mile down that way.” He gestured toward the broadest of the trails descending through the mountains.

Aravon nodded. They’d seen no sign of enemies all day, but he wouldn’t go riding blindly forward. With the Legion-built fortress so close to the icy Wastelands—barely half a mile separated the southern wall of the stronghold from the tundra below—he needed to be certain the way was clear.

“Colborn, Noll,” he commanded in the silent hand language. “Ride ahead and see if we’ve got any surprises waiting below.”

The two Grim Reavers kicked their horses into motion and trotted down the trail. Aravon and the others dismounted and set about rubbing down the horses. The mounts had ridden hard and needed a rest as much as they did.

All but Captain Lingram fell to the task. The Legionnaire climbed down from his saddle but remained standing by his horse, gaze fixed on the trail down which Colborn and Noll had disappeared. The lines of tension visible through the eye-slits of his mask spoke volumes.

Aravon slipped up beside him. “You good?” he asked quietly.

Lingram turned toward him, and a hint of the dark shadows had returned to cloud his eyes. “Never thought I’d be back here again,” he said. “Brings the memories flooding back.”

Aravon gripped his friend’s shoulder. “You need anything, you let me know.” He could do nothing to help Lingram wrestle with the dark images from his past—the blood, anguish, and death of the desperate flight from the Eirdkilrs—but sometimes a man simply needed to know he didn’t face the monsters in his mind alone.

Captain Lingram nodded. “I will.” He seemed to snap out of the gloom and once again became the efficient, competent Legionnaire that made him such a valuable member of their team. Without another word, he set about helping to care for the horses.

Less than a quarter-hour later, the last of the grooming had been finished and the Grim Reavers sat waiting in silence. The biting wind had fallen still, though the chill on the southern side of the mountains necessitated the use of the heavy furs. Skathi and Belthar worked side by side, re-securing steel heads to the arrows they’d dug out of the Eirdkilr bodies. Again, they shot sidelong, furtive glances at each other, yet never spoke a word beyond the basics of their simple task.

Captain Lingram, Zaharis, and Aravon each spent time caring for their weapons—sharpening, cleaning off any traces of blood, and applying a coat of oil—and doing a thorough once-over of their armor. Zaharis’ alchemical concoction had added an extra protective coating to the leather, as well as covering it with that grey, white, and black mottling. A pattern, Aravon realized, that provided effective concealment among the dark grey stones of Cliffpass. And hopefully in the ice-covered tundra beyond.

The sun set quickly as they waited. Darkness settled over them, bringing with it a bone-deep chill that had them all, even Snarl, huddling deeper into their furs. Even without the wind, the cold was hard to shake without a fire.

When Zaharis finished caring for his mace, he stowed the weapon and reached into his pack. But instead of pulling out his alchemical books or potions, he produced the little wooden figurine and sat back, toying with it, running a thumb over the Mistress’ ornately-carved face.

Rangvaldr’s voice broke the silence. “Zaharis, the stone you made, can I see it?”

The Secret Keeper’s head snapped up and surprise widened his eyes a fraction, but he nodded. Reaching into his pouch, he drew out the stone. A hint of blue gleam emanated from the light that shone deep within its depths.

Rangvaldr brought the glowing stone to his lips and spoke the quiet words of power. The inner gleam brightened, the radiance spreading outward until the entire stone glowed, bathing the Grim Reavers and the Cliffpass around them with a soothing azure brilliance.

“Amazing!” Instead of the darkness that had filled Rangvaldr’s eyes last time he held the stone, now only wonder shone there, dazzling and bright beneath his mask. “I still find it hard to believe you made magic.”

Zaharis snorted. “Nothing magic about it,” he signed. “That’s cold, hard science you’re holding.”

“Is that so?” Rangvaldr’s grin broadened. “So then can you explain how it works, Magicmaker?” He used Zaharis’ code name in jest. “How it draws on my strength and transfers it to whoever I’m trying to heal? How a few simple words can make a chunk of rock shine bright like this?”

After a moment, Zaharis shook his head.

“Here.” Rangvaldr turned to Belthar and held out the stone. “See if it works for you.”

Belthar, caught off-guard, froze, then hesitantly reached out for the glowing chunk of ghoulstone. The light died as it left Rangvaldr’s fingers, and the big man’s face fell.

“Repeat the magic words,” Rangvaldr said. He spoke the strange arcane words Aravon had heard from his lips so many times before, pronouncing them clearly for Belthar’s ears. Yet, when the big man attempted to repeat them—imitating the inflection and tone with surprising accuracy—nothing happened. The stone remained inert.

“Skathi?” Rangvaldr asked the archer.

Skathi stared at the stone in Belthar’s hand, then shook her head. “Something tells me it wouldn’t work for me, would it?”

Rangvaldr grinned and shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.” He plucked the stone from Belthar’s fingers and spoke the words once more. Again, the stone flared to light, and the soft blue gleam filled the rocky hollow. “My mentor, the Seiomenn Kunnigr, said that only the chosen of Nuius can summon the power.” He glanced at Zaharis. “You may have made the stone, but perhaps not even you could bring it to life. I do not know what it is about those words, but unless they are spoken by me—or another of Nuius’ chosen—the stone remains as lifeless as any other.” He rapped his knuckles on the rock upon which he sat.

Zaharis’ eyes narrowed, and his face twisted into a hint of a frown, as if suspicious of what point the Seiomenn intended to make.

Rangvaldr chuckled at the Secret Keeper’s expression. “It’s a funny thing, this. For years, you and I have been dancing this same dance.” He gestured to himself, then Zaharis. “Me with my holy magic, you with your science. As if one couldn’t exist alongside the other.”

The Secret Keeper’s fingers twitched the way they always did when deep in thought.

“But I’d like to think this is proof that we’re both right.” The Seiomenn held up the glowing stone between them. “This world is filled with mysteries that we can’t begin to comprehend. Things beyond our power to control. So we seek knowledge and understanding as a means of control. When we know without a shred of doubt, it gives us a sense of power.” He raised a clenched fist as if to illustrate his point. “It puts meaning to things that would otherwise appear meaningless.”

Zaharis inclined his head. “I can’t argue with that logic.”

“Logic.” Rangvaldr chuckled. “A sturdy wall to protect us from the chaotic nature of our world, from the dangers all about us.” His eyes went to the stone. “But a world of pure logic without emotion is empty, just as a world of raw emotion unchecked by rationale can prove deadly. It is only in the balance between the two that we find peace and calm.”

He tore his gaze from the stone and looked at the Secret Keeper. “So maybe the balance between your science and my magic is just as necessary.” He tossed the glowing rock back to Zaharis. “Science offers control and understanding. And magic?” His eyes sparkled. “That fills us with wonder, that the world truly holds marvels beyond our ability to comprehend. And what is a world without marvels?”

“Boring.” Zaharis inclined his head. “As cold and empty as a Shalandran mausoleum. Far better a life filled with the best of both worlds.” He threw the stone back to Rangvaldr. “The wonders of science and the marvels of magic.”

Happiness brightened Rangvaldr’s eyes as he caught the rock and held it up. “That is what makes us such a fine team, my friend. No matter what, we are united in our search for the one thing that matters most in the world: the truth.” He gestured to Zaharis, then to himself. “You, the truths hidden by your Mistress, the secrets of our world and its many wonders. Me, the truths hidden in the hearts of those around me.”

“Perhaps that is why your god chose you as Seiomenn,” Zaharis signed. “He needed someone who would look beyond the evidence of their eyes and search for what lies beneath.” His eyes, too, brightened. “You’d have made a damned good Secret Keeper.”

“Not a chance!” Rangvaldr gave a violent shake of his head. “I was never one for books and study—granted, not much of either in Bjornstadt, but just the thought of it…” He shuddered theatrically. “No, give me the feasting hall, the stories and songs of a Seiomenn, and—”

“All that ayrag?” Zaharis poked a finger into Rangvaldr’s midsection. The Seiomenn was far from paunchy, but age had begun to weigh on his gut, expanding it slowly outward beneath his armor.

Rangvaldr just laughed. “Definitely the ayrag!”

The sight of the two men sharing the lighthearted moment did Aravon’s heart good. Both of them had suffered devastating blows to the foundation upon which their lives had been built—Zaharis his service to the Mistress, and Rangvaldr his belief in Nuius’ anointing and the power of his “holy” stones. But both of them seemed to have recovered, at least enough that they could find a few brief minutes of companionship in the friendly debate that had evidently raged on for years, long before they’d joined the Grim Reavers.

In a sense, they were curious reflections of each other. Zaharis and his science, Rangvaldr and his faith—opposites, yet equally propelled by belief and trust in a higher calling. They were the perfect companions and brothers-at-arms, a comfort for each other during this turbulent time. Aravon doubted that any of the others could understand the true anguish caused by Zaharis’ expulsion from the Secret Keepers or Rangvaldr’s learning the truth of the holy stones. But because they had one another, they had someone to lean on over their journey of rediscovering who they were and what they believed in the aftermath of their discoveries.

At that moment, the sound of hoofbeats echoed off the stone cliffs. Aravon turned in time to see Colborn galloping up Cliffpass, Noll hot on his heels.

One look at Colborn’s masked face brought all the tension back to Aravon’s mind, and worry twisted his stomach in knots.

Colborn reined in just short of Aravon but made no move to dismount. “It’s bad, Captain,” he said, his tone grim. “There are enemies ahead, and there’s no way we’re getting through unseen.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Midnight found the Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram crouched behind an outcropping of rocks a hundred yards above Highcliff Motte. Or what was left of it.

Highcliff Motte had been constructed to straddle the entire southern edge of Cliffpass. Two hundred-foot- tall cliffs bordered its eastern and western sides. According to Lingram, the wall spanning the fifty-yard-wide Cliffpass was easily forty feet tall, with a gate that the Eirdkilrs hadn’t managed to bring down in their assault fifteen years earlier. Highcliff Motte had held a barracks for a hundred and fifty Legionnaires and auxiliaries, houses for nearly as many civilians, a two-story fortified command post, and ample storage buildings for all the supplies needed to keep those stationed here fed and warm.

Now, only crumbling ruins remained of the once-mighty stronghold. The Legion-built stone wall guarding the stronghold’s northern perimeter had been torn down, and through the gaping holes were visible dozens of squat, square buildings. The constructions appeared a crude amalgamation of Princelander and Fehlan design—stone to form solid walls of the longhouses, with wattle-and-daub to keep out the biting wind and mountain chill. Doubtless the longhouses had been built around or on top of existing structures, using stone taken from the northern wall.

The paving stones of the courtyard had been torn up, and the twin watchtowers guarding the southern wall torn down. Even the command post that dominated the center of Highcliff Motte appeared half-decayed—judging by the thick smoke rising from its now-tattered roof, the Eirdkilrs used it as a smokehouse and meat storage rather than a fortified defensive post.

Aravon scanned the giants that moved through the stronghold. Eirdkilrs, as evidenced by their enormous size and the ice bear pelts they wore.

Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s gut clenched. So much for getting into the Wastelands unseen.

In the half-hour he’d been studying the fortress, he’d counted the better part of three score. Doubtless more remained inside the strange-looking longhouses of stone and mud.

Yet he’d only seen a handful—five, maybe ten, hard to tell from this distance—that had the heavy build and long, braided beards of warriors. The rest had been women, children, and those too withered and stooped by age to fight.

The sight struck Aravon as terribly strange. He’d faced the Eirdkilrs in battle for fifteen years, had heard the tales of their cruelty and bloodlust dating back more than a hundred years to the first time they appeared over the Sawtooth Mountains. He’d stood across a battlefield from them, met their howling charge, fought men screaming for his blood. Had killed them before they killed him, and saw the fiery hatred burning in their eyes.

Never, however, had he imagined them as so…human. To most Princelanders, the Eirdkilrs were as terrifying as the demons that once invaded Einan at Kharna’s behest, a threat at once legendary and oddly distant, a foe faced by others yet never seen in person. To Legionnaires, ducal regulars, the Agrotorae, and the mercenary companies of Fehl, they were a fighter’s worst nightmare. Vicious enemies that never backed down from a battle, and who would keep fighting until every Princelander lay dead. Foes most dire and cruel, as monstrous as those ancient creatures of nightmare.

But never men and women trying to eke out a living.

A simple living, at that. The furs of small animals hung on drying racks alongside the longhouses. A handful of thick-wooled mountain sheep huddled together in a stone-fenced pen, and next to them a shaggy-haired creature Aravon had never seen—like a massive ox with a coat of fur thicker and shaggier than any bear’s—munched at the bits of mountain sedge sprouting on the mountainside. One man hauled a one-wheeled barrow of dung away from the pen; doubtless it would fuel their fires for a few more hours, driving back the chill until morning dawned.

Everything about the sight before him reminded him of the Fehlans he’d encountered at Bjornstadt and Storbjarg. Men and women going about the day to day tasks of their mundane existence, uncaring of anything beyond the confines of their village limits. Save for their enormous height—none of the adults shorter than seven feet tall—they appeared as Fehlan as the clans north of the mountains. Indeed, even the ice bear pelts they wore seemed far more practical than martial; against the biting mountain wind, those heavy furs proved a gods-send.

Seeing them like this—so Keeper-damned normal—made Aravon’s decision all the more difficult. If he and his Grim Reavers charged in weapons drawn, they would have little trouble cutting down the few fighting-age Eirdkilrs. They carried spears and bows, weapons better-suited to hunting than battle. And therein lay the problem.

Even if the men scratching out the meager living in Highcliff Motte had been Eirdkilr warriors, bloodthirsty and howling for Princelander blood, taking them down would undeniably lead to civilian deaths. Aravon had seen the women of Bjornstadt fight beside their men; they’d faced the enemy and protected their homes without hesitation, battling with the same ferocity as their husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons.

If we charge in, too many innocent civilians die.

An image flashed through Aravon’s mind, and suddenly he stood once more in the streets of Icespire. Surrounded by the thick, choking smoke rising off the burning Outwards and Mains, his ears ringing with the terrified shrieks of Princelanders dying beneath the Eirdkilrs’ savagery. The mud beneath his feet turned a gory crimson, rivulets of blood running around the corpses of massacred civilians. Men, women, children—far, far too many children—who could not escape in time.

A shudder ran down his spine. His mind recoiled from such cruelty, and he blinked away the images with effort. The sight of so much carnage in his city had filled him with disgust—how could the Eirdkilrs be so bloodthirsty and barbaric as to do that?

In that moment, Aravon knew that if he attacked this Eirdkilr village built in the ruins of Highcliff Motte, he’d be no better. He would be as savage and cruel as the Eirdkilrs he’d despised his entire life.

But we need to get through somehow. His eyes searched the shadows between the burning fires that dotted the interior of the once-mighty fortress. The Eirdkilrs had erected their longhouses with the same neat, orderly precision that marked most Fehlan villages, building close enough together that only narrow mud lanes cut between the wattle and daub-covered stone structures.

They had no chance of getting through Highcliff Motte unseen. It would be difficult if they attempted it just the eight of them; the addition of fifteen horses made it impossible. They had no hope of riding straight through without the Eirdkilrs fighting back, and that meant civilian casualties.

So what the bloody hell are we going to do, then?

Frustration set Aravon’s teeth grinding. Turning back to his Grim Reavers, he motioned for them to follow him back up the trail. The eight of them slipped down the outcropping and back onto Cliffpass, silent as wraiths. None of them spoke until they’d put an additional two hundred yards between them and the wall of Highcliff Motte—they wouldn’t take chances the Eirdkilrs would overhear them.

Rangvaldr broke the silence. “Captain, while I appreciate the nature of our mission, I hope you’re not thinking of—”

“I’m not.” Aravon shook his head. “Those are civilians there.”

“Not all of them,” Noll put in. “I counted at least fifteen warriors.”

“Hunters more than warriors,” Rangvaldr countered. “Left behind to defend their homes and families.”

“Defend them?!” Surprise echoed in the scout’s voice. “They’re the bloody Eirdkilrs! What could they possibly be defending from?”

“Wasteland predators.” Captain Lingram’s voice held a grim note. “Ice bears, chiefly.”

All eyes turned to the Legionnaire.

“A few of the Myrr that lived in the mountains before Cliffpass was sealed used to speak of it.” He met their questioning gazes. “A few times a year, the ice bears would wander up into the mountains, searching for safe places to mate on the highest peaks.” He shook his head. “Two came up Cliffpass while I was stationed here. It took a bloody ballista to put them down. Crossbow bolts just bounced off their thick hides.”

“Not this one.” Belthar patted the massive crossbow strapped to his back.

Captain Lingram inclined his head—one look at the enormous weapon with its three-foot bolts, and no one could doubt its power. “If the Eirdkilrs have made their home here—”

“The Tauld.” Rangvaldr’s voice cut into the Legionnaire’s words.

Now all eyes shifted to the Seiomenn.

“These are not Eirdkilrs,” Rangvaldr intoned. “They are Tauld.”

Skathi cocked her head. “There’s a difference?”

Rangvaldr nodded. “The Eirdkilrs are of the Tauld clan, but not all Tauld are Eirdkilrs.”

Aravon narrowed his eyes, digesting the Seiomenn’s words. The distinction wasn’t lost on him.

“Not all of those who live south of the mountains hate the ‘half-men’.” Rangvaldr met their gazes levelly. “Many, like those you see below, are simply struggling to survive in the Wastelands.” A hint of fire sparkled in his eyes, bright and defiant. “They were given no choice when the invaders drove them across the mountains. They were forced from their homes, condemned to live among the ice and cold.”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Those who took up arms against the invaders—those like Hrolf Hrungnir, the Blodsvarri, and Tyr Farbjodr—they stain their faces with the color of battle and death.” He tapped his masked face. “But not all of those who live beyond the mountains are Eirdkilrs, or so it is believed. They are content to live simply as the Tauld, as Fehlan as the Eyrr or the Deid.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow. Now that Rangvaldr mentioned it, he realized none of the giants he’d seen moving through Highcliff Motte had had faces stained blue with the Eirdkilr war paint. “If that’s true, why is this the first we’re hearing of it?” he asked.

“Because few north of the mountains believe it’s true.” Colborn spoke up now. His gaze went to the Seiomenn. “My mother’s people also spoke of the Tauld—not the Eirdkilrs taking up arms to slaughter us, but those she called the For-faras, the lost clan.” Something akin to wonder sparkled in his eyes. “My grandmother, Eira, loved to tell the tales of the For-faras and their journeys among the frozen south. Tales rife with creatures of icy magic and ancient places long lost to time.”

The mention of Eira as Colborn’s grandmother surprised all save Aravon. They had all met the white-haired Deid healer—first on the road from Saerheim, and again in the Prince’s Palace in Icespire—but hadn’t known that she was Colborn’s relative. He’d confided that to Aravon alone.

“These people are Tauld,” Rangvaldr persisted, gesturing down the path toward Highcliff Motte. “There is nothing war-like about them. It is all they can do to survive on what little they can scratch from the Wastelands. They are innocent of the cruelties inflicted by their cruel-hearted Eirdkilr kin.”

Aravon saw the look in Noll’s eye—the scout wanted to protest, to insist that the giants in the ruined Legion stronghold were enemies, but even he didn’t believe it.

“You saw what the Eirdkilrs did at Icespire.” Rangvaldr studied them in turn. “The pain, death, and misery they inflicted upon you, just as they did to my people, the Fjall, Deid, and every other clan on Fehl. We must be better than that.” He shook his head. “We are better than that.”

“We are.” Aravon nodded. “Which is why we’re not going to attack.”

“So then what the bloody hell are we going to do?” Noll cocked his head. “We can’t just ride up and ask them nicely to let us through!”

“Yes and no,” Captain Lingram said.

Aravon’s head snapped toward the Legion Captain. Lingram’s eyes sparkled beneath his mask, a hint of humor, as if at some joke only he knew.

Aravon gestured for the man to continue. “Speak, Lingram.”

Captain Lingram jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back when I lived here, there was a sally port built into the western wall, carved right into the cliff face.” He gestured to the sheer rock wall bordering the western side of Highcliff Motte. “We never used it when…” His eyes darkened, all traces of humor fading. “…when the Eirdkilrs attacked. That means there’s a good chance the Eirdkilrs—” His gaze darted to Rangvaldr, and he corrected himself. “—the Tauld living here don’t know about it.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed. “A sally port.” Most fortresses had them, smaller side openings that allowed a defending force to charge out and launch a surprise rear or flank attack. If it remained functional, it could provide a way out that didn’t involve riding through the front gate.

A bloody strong front gate, at that. The Eirdkilrs had battered in vain at the gate for two days before they finally gained a foothold atop the southern wall. If the Tauld occupying the ruined stronghold had it closed—very likely, given what Captain Lingram had said about ice bears occasionally wandering up Cliffpass—it’d be damned difficult to open. But a sally port would give us a way out, possibly even unnoticed.

“Again, we’re kind of stuck with the matter of riding through a hundred or so Eirdkilrs,” Noll said, then corrected. “Right, Tauld! Either way, they’re going to have a thing or two to say about a handful of Princelanders riding through their village…er…fortress…whatever!” He threw up his hands.

Aravon frowned. Based on the size of the village, he estimated the Tauld would have at least thirty or forty hunters and young men of fighting age, with spears and bows enough to pose a real threat.

“True.” Captain Lingram nodded. “But we just need to convince them it’s not an attack.”

“Gifts and kisses, then?” Belthar rumbled. He shot a glance at Noll. “You’ve got that last one covered, for sure.” Loud smooching sounds echoed from beneath his mask.

Noll snorted and drew himself up haughtily. “I save myself for only the really special people.”

“You two love-birds bat your eyelashes at each other on your own time,” Zaharis signed, rolling his eyes. “For now, shut up and let the Captain tell us his plan.”

Colborn shot a glare at the two Grim Reavers to silence them. “Continue, Captain.”

Captain Lingram nodded his thanks. “What I have in mind is a bit…unusual, but from what I’ve heard of the Grim Reavers, it might just be the sort of thing you lot specialize in.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Aravon drew in a deep breath and adjusted his furs one final time, pulling them as high as possible until they concealed his outline. In the dim light of the waning moon, he and the Grim Reavers appeared as little more than fur-clad lumps on the horse’s back.

Pulling Snarl from beneath his heavy cloak, Aravon tossed the little Enfield into the sky with the command word to “Fly!” Snarl would circle high in the darkness, out of sight of the Tauld below, and keep pace with them as they rode.

When Snarl had disappeared into the night, Aravon glanced at his companions. “Ready?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Noll’s hand popped out from beneath the cover of his fur. “No offense to Captain Lingram,” he signed, “but maybe we should have spent more than ten seconds planning this, yeah?”

“You wanted to play hero,” Belthar shot back, his cloak slipping for a brief instant as he formed the words. “Now you get your chance and you’re scared?”

“Scared?” Noll snorted. “I’m just worried you’re going to trip and take down over half the longhouses in Highcliff Motte in your fall.” A low, harsh chuckle emanated from beneath his mask. “Or worse, you hit your head on a rock and lose your memory. You’ll wake up and think you’re among your own kind. I can see it now: Belthar, five years from now, settled down with a Tauld wife and three—”

“Keeper’s teeth!” Colborn hissed. “Just get on with it already, Noll!”

Noll sniffed, pretending offense, but the fur-covered lump of his head nodded. “Let’s do this.”

He dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, setting the huge black charger trotting down the Cliffpass. The riderless horses moved behind him, strung together by loose-hanging ropes. Captain Lingram, Aravon, and Colborn came next, with the rest of the Grim Reavers bringing up the rear. They rode two abreast, giving the horses their heads. Slowly, the massive mounts picked up speed as they raced the few hundred yards around the trail.

Straight toward the widest of the gaps in Highcliff Motte’s rear wall.

Noll, in the lead, hunched low in his saddle—so low his fur-clad body was concealed behind his massive warhorse’s head. In the near darkness, with only the dim lights of the dung fires, he appeared as little more than a furry lump. More furs covered the saddles and the bags holding their gear. Beneath the cover of those pelts, Aravon had to hope he and his companions would be all but invisible. The Tauld would be too stunned at the presence of the horses stampeding through their village to get a clear look at the lumpy shapes clinging to their backs.

Mighty Swordsman, please let this work! Aravon prayed silently. He had no desire to draw his spear, but he couldn’t let the Tauld stop them from reaching Tyr Farbjodr in time. Swordsman willing, there would be no need. The burdens on his heart and soul weighed heavy enough without adding civilian deaths.

The horses picked up speed, their trot turning to a gallop. Aravon peered out from beneath his heavy fur cloak, his eyes locked on the backs of the riderless horses racing down the incline. Gritting his teeth, he clung to his saddle for dear life, legs locked on his mount’s massive ribs.

The near wall of Highcliff Motte seemed to loom suddenly larger. Closer it drew, one pounding hoofbeat at a time. A hundred yards. Seventy-five. Fifty. Aravon’s heart hammered in time with the horse’s rolling gait.

Twenty-five yards. Fifteen. Aravon gritted his teeth and drew in a shaky breath. Ten yards. Five.

Then they were through the gap. Racing into the muddy streets of the once-mighty Highcliff Motte. Though clouds of sickly sweet, animal-heavy smoke rising from the dung fires edged with the icy bite of snow. Wind set the flames flickering, setting the shadows dancing through the Tauld village.

The first of the Tauld appeared around a corner. Eyes going wide at the sight of the galloping horses. No one could have missed the deafening thunder of the horses’ hooves, yet the Tauld were no more expecting the stampede than a thunderstorm from the cloudless night sky. Even as Aravon and his companions raced past the first stunned villager, a shout of alarm and terror echoed behind him.

Aravon’s gut clenched. The wordless cry set a chorus of answering calls reverberating through the village. Men and women poured out of nearby houses, clutching hunting spears and bows. They fell back before the pack of madly racing horses. Shouted their surprise, fear, and confusion.

The very presence of the horses threw the Tauld into disarray. The massive chargers, specially bred for battle and endurance, towered as tall as the giants themselves, bodies heavy with ropes of muscle. The sudden appearance left them bewildered and panicked.

But for how long? Aravon and his companions had mere minutes, seconds perhaps, until the Tauld recovered their wits enough to hunt down the horses—food, a commodity so precious and scarce this side of the Sawtooth Mountains. Aravon had briefly entertained the idea of using one of the horses as a decoy, setting it free within Highcliff Motte to draw the Tauld’s attention away from them. But the idea of sacrificing one of Duke Dyrund’s specially-bred mounts rankled. Not only because the beast had been the Duke’s pride and joy. Crossing the icy Wastelands would be a harsh trip, and the more horses they had to carry them, the faster they could make the trip.

Speed was their only ally now. They had to get through Highcliff Motte and out the southern side before the Tauld thought to hunt the horses. Or looked too closely at the dark, fur-clad figures clinging to the mounts’ backs.

Hunched low in the saddle, Aravon’s spine and ribs bore the full impact of his mount’s pounding gait. Twinges of pain shot up and down his back, and every step jarred his seat, jolted his teeth, set his head aching. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow. They had to get out of Highcliff Motte—out of the encircling walls, away from the Tauld—before the villagers recovered from their shock.

Then came the cry he’d dreaded. “Meat!” The word, growled in the guttural tongue of the Eirdkilrs, rang out from one broad-shouldered woman. Aravon had no time to see if she goaded her fellow hunters to action—he raced past too fast—but the cry soon echoed throughout the village.

Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s gut clenched. Their time was running out.

The crumbling remains of Highcliff Motte’s stone command post loomed large in front of him. They’d reached the first checkpoint on their mad dash through the city.

Noll suddenly broke off from the column and veered to the left, racing down a muddy lane that led west. The riderless horses followed, pulled along on the guide line. Their massive dark shapes thundered into the darkness and disappeared from sight as Aravon and his companions rode past the command post traveling east, away from the direction Noll and the horses had gone. Their path led toward the postern gate that would give them a way out.

Just as rear and flank attacks could break an enemy’s spirit in battle, splitting his horses here would give them a better chance of escaping Highcliff Motte alive. The Tauld would waste precious seconds deciding which group to follow—more than enough time for the racing mounts to circle the command post, follow the broad avenue south toward the front gate, then cut back east toward the postern gate. A gate which, Swordsman willing, Captain Lingram would have open in time.

Through the streets of Highcliff Motte the six Grim Reavers galloped, hot on the heels of Captain Lingram in the lead. The Legionnaire alone knew the way through the muddy lanes toward the hidden sally port. They barreled past stunned Tauld, racing down street after street, charging between longhouses and leaping over the low-burning dung fires.

One Tauld managed to leap in the way, shouting and whooping, hunting spear raised to strike. Captain Lingram’s horse simply barreled past him, knocking him to the ground. These were no wild horses afraid of predators—the Grim Reavers rode war mounts, trained to charge the enemy.

The cries and shouts of the pursuing Tauld echoed off the cliff walls to the east and west, ringing out loud in the darkness of the village. Yet to Aravon’s relief, the sound came from behind them. Their speed had given them a lead, put them ahead of the Tauld hunters that had recovered their wits.

Come on! Aravon silently growled at Captain Lingram’s back. We need to get the bloody hell out of here!

Relief flooded him as the western cliff face appeared between the gaps in the longhouses. The sheer rock wall was just thirty yards away, so close Aravon could almost feel the cold radiating off the frozen stone.

Captain Lingram turned his mount sharply to the south, racing the last few yards along the cliff face. Now, the southern wall loomed large in front of them, barely fifty feet and closing fast. Ten yards short of the wall, Captain Lingram reined in his horse and leapt from his saddle. Aravon and Colborn pulled up short, barely stopping before they barreled into Lingram’s mount. By the time they recovered their bearings and managed to dismount, the Legionnaire had opened the hidden gate set into the cliff face.

Aravon grimaced as the rusted hinges squealed in protest, but had to hope the Tauld were too far to hear anything. He glanced into the shadows behind them—they’d left their pursuers a few hundred yards behind, but they’d be closing fast.

“Get in!” Captain Lingram hissed, gesturing frantically for the Grim Reavers to follow him through.

Aravon sent Colborn first. The Lieutenant raced through the low-ceilinged sally port on foot, his panting, sweating horse trotting behind him. Zaharis and Rangvaldr went next, then Belthar, who had to stoop to enter. Skathi hesitated before entering.

“Captain—” she began, worry darkening her eyes.

“Go!” Aravon rasped. “No time to wait!”

As if on cue, the thundering of hoofbeats grew louder, echoing off the cliffs surrounding Highcliff Motte. Dark shapes appeared in the distance—a hundred yards away, racing along the southern wall, straight toward them.

Aravon saw no sign of Noll, only the outline of a dark, furry shape clinging to the horse’s neck. Noll had slipped out of his saddle and now rode along his mount’s side, one leg hanging low, his body pressed against the horse’s side. A scout’s trick for avoiding enemy arrows, and a damned difficult one to master.

Ice slithered in Aravon’s gut as a half-dozen Tauld hunters emerged from the shadows far behind Noll. Even as they ran, they bent bows and loosed arrows at the horses. One missile struck a mount in the shoulder and the beast shrieked in pain. But the darkness of night and the speed of the massive horses confounded the hunters’ aims—the rest of their arrows flew high, wide, or splashed into the muck behind the pack.

Worry clutched at Aravon’s chest. One stray arrow was all it’d take to bring Noll down. But he had no more time to worry. Noll and the horses closed the distance at a gallop. If Aravon didn’t get through the sally port now, he’d be trampled in the stampede.

Turning, he seized his horse’s reins and charged into the door set into the side of the cliff. Zaharis’ alchemical lantern provided just enough light for Aravon to see the bend in the passage before he ran full into the wall. As he barreled around the corner, he caught sight of the Secret Keeper and Captain Lingram standing outside the open sally port.

Aravon raced toward them, but he was still five yards away when the pounding of the horses’ hooves rose to a thundering crescendo, echoing through the tunnel. He had no time to think—he threw himself into a mad dash toward the exit.

“Back!” he shouted. His voice was drowned beneath the tumult of the eight massive warhorses charging through the tunnel.

Fear fueled his muscles and hastened his mad dash. He crossed the distance to the exit and leapt into the night beyond, then threw himself flat against the wall. Just in time. Noll and the eight massive horses careened out of the sally port and charged down Cliffpass, away from the wall of Highcliff Motte.

Aravon’s heart pounded so violently he thought it would rip free of his chest. His hands and knees trembled, and he felt frozen in place against the stone wall.

But before he could swallow the acid that had surged to his throat, a deep rumbling echoed from behind him. The stones of the wall trembled, and the clank of heavy chains cut through the darkness.

Slowly, the gates of Highcliff Motte rumbled open.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Bloody hell! Aravon’s gut clenched. He ripped himself away from the wall and leapt into his saddle, digging his heels into the horse’s ribs. The charger took off at a gallop down the Cliffpass trail.

Behind him, the rumbling of the opening gate grew louder. The shouts and cries of the Tauld rose to a deafening roar.

Aravon risked a glance back, just in time to see the first of the giants spilling out of the city and racing down the trail in pursuit, hunting spears in hand, arrows nocked and ready to draw.

Horror twisted in his gut. He’d thought they had gotten through Highcliff Motte unseen!

Realization slammed into his mind. Of course! The stampede had surprised them, but they hadn’t seen it as an attack. Instead, they simply saw an unexplained and miraculous food source riding away. Perhaps they didn’t even think to question where the horses had come from or how they’d gotten through the walls without opening the gate. The Tauld weren’t hunting enemies, but meat.

That didn’t make those hunters any less a threat to the Grim Reavers.

Aravon had no doubt they could leave the hunters behind—the horses galloped down the Cliffpass trail at speeds three or four times what the Tauld could run, a pace they could sustain for the full quarter-mile to complete the descent. But they’d have to slow once they reached the Wastelands below. The horses would need to rest—or, at the very least, stick to a jog trot until they recovered from their mad dash through Highcliff Motte.

Darkness hid them at the moment, but once the sun rose, the massive dark brown and black horses would stand out on the endless expanse of Wasteland ice. Beneath broad daylight, the Grim Reavers would be visible for miles around—easily spotted by the sharp-eyed hunters accustomed to hunting and tracking on the tundra. When, not if, the Tauld caught sight of them, they’d realize it hadn’t been a random stampede. There was a very real risk the villagers would send word to Tyr Farbjodr.

We can’t let that happen! Aravon gritted his teeth. We’ve got to get out of sight before sunrise.

But that would prove easier said than done. Aravon had always known the Wastelands was a barren landscape of ice and snow, but he hadn’t expected it to be so damned flat.

An unending expanse of ice and snow stretched to the south, west, and east, utterly featureless and barren of life. The light of the waning moon shone on an empty world of white that spread out unending to the horizon and beyond, unbroken by a single tree, shrub, even the gentle dip of a descending hill.

Damn! Aravon growled a curse. That’s going to make things bloody difficult!

Midnight was but an hour or two past, but if they were to find shelter, they’d have to ride hard to pass beyond the horizon and out of sight of the hunting Tauld. Even at the horses’ steady pace, that would take hours.

Worse, the horses would leave tracks. The crunching of heavy hooves punching through ice and snow made that clear. When the sun rose, the Tauld hunters would only have to follow the deep depressions left by the massive warhorses and they would find Aravon and his companions.

Frustration and anxiety simmered within Aravon as he rode into the frosty expanse of the icy Wastelands. He risked occasional glances over his shoulder—staring at the stark, jagged peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains, painted glowing white and deep black by threads of moon and star light—and caught the glimmer of the Tauld’s torches. Far behind, but nowhere near far enough. They’d have to push the horses hard to get out of sight before the sun rose, and pray to the Swordsman that the hunters lost their tracks.

As if the gods had heard his prayer, a light snow began to fall. Tendrils of powdery white swirled around the horses’ legs, misty fingers that slithered up toward Aravon as he raced through. Shimmering, glowing in the light of the stars high above, a breath of cold and frost that reached out to embrace Aravon.

The snow came faster, the mist growing thicker, until Aravon could barely see the rider in front of him. All sound around him grew faint, dampened by the falling powder, the crunching of snow and ice under the horses’ hooves muffled to a dull hum. Though no wind whipped at Aravon’s clothing and masked face, the chill that hung over the Wastelands seeped beneath his arm and sent a shiver down his spine.

As the hours passed and the land passed in a blurry, misty haze, the cold settled deeper into Aravon’s bones. Even buried beneath his heavy bear pelt, he struggled to get warm. It felt as if his gloved hands had frozen around his reins, his toes too chilled to move. Only the exertion of riding the fast-moving horse kept him from succumbing to the cold, yet he could feel the icy claws sinking into his bones.

He glanced up at the eastern horizon, to where the first glimmers of pre-dawn light had begun to show. Elation and worry mingled within him—with the anticipated warmth of the sun, the radiance of the morning would drive back the mists and illuminate them clearly for the hunters pursuing them.

The mists receded as the sky slowly brightened. The snowfall slacked and fell still, leaving Aravon and his companions alone in the empty expanse of freezing white once more. Empty, devoid of life and shelter. They had nowhere to hide.

Again and again, Aravon’s gaze traveled upward, at the encroaching brilliance that crept across the eastern sky, moving inevitably west. Light filled the world—faint and pale, yet enough that he could see the world around him far too clearly. He scanned the horizon, desperation twisting in his gut.

They had to get out of sight, but there was nowhere to hide. Nothing but flat lands and unbroken snow, as far as—

Wait! Hope blossomed in Aravon’s mind. Miles in the distance, a hint of color broke the featureless terrain to the southwest. Green, so dark it almost appeared black. The only spot of life in the endless expanse of white. That has to be trees!

“There!” His shout seemed to carry across the vast tundra, far louder than he’d anticipated. He grimaced and tried again. “Look there.”

Colborn, Noll, and Captain Lingram turned in the direction he indicated. Without hesitation, they turned their mounts toward the trees. The rest of the column—Rangvaldr and Zaharis, bringing up the middle with the spare horses, Skathi and Belthar in the rear—fell in behind them, spurring their mounts to greater speed.

Aravon bent low in his saddle, gripping his horse’s ribs tighter. He raced the rising sun and brightening day. No matter how fast he rode, it seemed he could not outrun the light that spilled across the world, the glimmering threads of crimson, orange, and gold that filled the eastern horizon as the sun rose.

His heart hammered a frantic beat as he cast a glance over his shoulder. He saw no sign of torches or tiny figures moving behind them, but that didn’t mean they’d left the Tauld behind. Looking forward, the trees—now clearly visible—seemed so far off. An endless expanse of white stood between them and their destination. Their safety.

Biting back a frustrated growl, Aravon forced himself to keep riding, to not give in to the anxiety that grew louder, like a whine deep within his mind. Fear and panic could kill a man as surely as the sharpest steel. Nervous men made foolish mistakes. He had to keep a clear head, had to think straight.

Slowly, one step at a time, the trees drew closer. Now Aravon could see the single feature in the featureless landscape: a depression roughly one square mile-wide in the flat expanse of white, what appeared to be marshlands in the middle of the ice and snow. Impossibly, the air actually felt warm despite the deep freeze gripping the surrounding Wastelands. Trees with thick trunks of a deep grey-green wood spread branches laden with leaves so dark green they appeared near-black over muddy brown puddles of water. Even as they approached, the stink of rotting vegetation tinged with a hint of acid and rotting eggs drifted toward him.

Yet, no matter how unpleasant the marshlands, it would conceal them from their pursuers, give them a chance to rest. They could endure the stink for the sake of safety.

The sun had just peered over the eastern horizon when they rode into the dark, damp shadows beneath the marsh trees. A strange, almost unnatural warmth rose from the ground and the bubbling waters of the pool—doubtless that explained how such a place could exist among icy tundra. The stench of rot and sulfur grew chokingly thick, but Aravon ignored it. Fire burned in his muscles, his spine ached, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs. He needed the rest as much as the horses did.

The horse that had been shot by the Tauld hunters was moving more slowly, blood frozen on his shaggy coat. Noll’s mount, too, limped, and every step left crimson-stained hoofprints in the snow behind them. A few of the other horses—Captain Lingram’s, Skathi’s, and Rangvaldr’s, as well as a few of the spare mounts—showed similar injuries, though where they’d sustained the lacerations on their lower legs, Aravon couldn’t imagine.

He reined in just inside the cover of trees, a few yards away from a large pond. Wisps of foul-smelling steam rose off the bubbling, scummy water—water a dark, murky green that appeared far too unnatural. He didn’t need Colborn’s woodcraft skills to know they were better off drinking from their own leather waterskins.

“Did we lose them?” Noll slumped from his saddle, far more exhausted than Aravon had ever seen the usually stalwart scout.

Skathi, at the rear, peered between the trees. The rest of the Grim Reavers did likewise. The expanse of unbroken white spread out in all directions, broken only by the towering, jagged peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains, now splashed with the brilliant colors of daylight.

Skathi nodded. “I think so.”

Aravon glanced at Colborn, who had come up beside him. The Lieutenant had keener eyes than his.

“I don’t see anything.” Colborn shook his head. “But they could be far enough behind that they’re too small to see. We should keep moving, just in case.” He glanced at the other Grim Reavers, then at Aravon. “After a short break, that is.”

Aravon glanced at his seven companions. The hours of hard riding had taken a toll on them; even Colborn himself looked glad for a chance to rest. Snarl had landed on a rotting log nearby and now lay curled up, head tucked beneath one wing. He, too, appeared in need of time to recover from his long flight across the tundra.

He opened his mouth to give the order, but Rangvaldr’s voice cut him off.

“We can’t go anywhere.” A solemn note rang in the Seiomenn’s voice. “Not yet.”

Aravon turned to find Rangvaldr standing beside Noll’s horse, his eyes fixed on the mount’s legs. Blood trickled from the horse’s legs, just above its thick hoof, puddling in an ever-widening pool.

Aravon’s eyes went wide. “What the bloody hell happened?” That looked bad.

“Nothing!” Noll protested. He crouched beside his horse, staring at the wound. “He never stumbled or faltered, so I don’t know what—”

“The ice,” Captain Lingram said.

Aravon’s gaze snapped toward the Legionnaire.

Captain Lingram stood beside his own horse. “When the horses’ hooves break through the icy top layer of snow, it forms sharp edges that cut their legs. See?” He pointed to his mount’s legs. Its two forelegs and one rear leg bled freely.

At Aravon’s command, the Grim Reavers examined the rest of the horses. All but two bore wounds—one had a gash so deep it had nearly cut to the bone, and it bled profusely.

“Keeper’s teeth!” Aravon growled a curse. “We need to deal with that before we ride on, else we risk leaving a trail of blood for the Tauld hunters to follow.” He turned to Rangvaldr. “Think your healing stone will work?”

“Of course.” Rangvaldr drew out his pendant. He muttered the words of power and the stone flared to life, bathing the pond-side clearing in a soft blue glow. When he pressed the gleaming stone to the horse’s leg, the wound closed quickly, the flesh re-knitting in a matter of seconds.

Rangvaldr straightened, but before he could move on to the next horse, Noll strode toward him.

“Check their hooves, too,” the scout said, lifting the horse’s hoof. “I saw one limping and, yeah, look.” He pointed to the hoof, which was packed with a large, frozen lump of ice and snow. Drawing out a dagger, he set about scraping away the snow, talking as he worked. “The snow gets crammed in there and freezes, so it hurts them to walk. We need to wrap something around their hooves. Probably their legs, too.” Once done, he lowered the horse’s hoof and gave the beast a reassuring pat. “We’ll get you all fixed up in no time.”

“How about the furs?” Belthar pointed to fur pelts slung behind the eight empty saddles.

Captain Lingram’s eyes darkened, but he nodded. “Good thinking.”

Aravon recognized that look; he felt the sorrow at the loss of his men, but he pushed it aside. They had no time for mourning. Now, only the mission mattered. They could grieve later.

“Do it,” Aravon said. “We need to get them ready to ride as soon as possible.”

The Grim Reavers fell to the task of slicing the pelts to use as wrappings for the horses’ legs and hooves, moving quickly and with the efficiency he’d come to expect. But to Aravon’s surprise, Zaharis didn’t bend to the work. Instead, the Secret Keeper turned away from the horses and slipped toward the edge of the scummy pond. He crouched beside the murky water, his gaze fixed on something Aravon couldn’t see.

Curiosity flared within Aravon. There was something unnatural about the water—doubtless that had drawn the Secret Keeper’s interest.

“Zaharis?” Aravon called out. He moved toward the Secret Keeper. “Everything—”

Before he could take two steps, Zaharis whirled on him. “Silence!” he signed.

Aravon froze, his voice dying mid-sentence. But he alone had seen the urgent gesture. The rest of the Grim Reavers went about their task of caring for the horses, talking among themselves as they worked.

Fear flared in Zaharis’ eyes as he gave a loud hiss. All eyes turned toward him, and at his frantic hand gesture, the rest of the Grim Reavers immediately fell silent and went rigid.

“Nobody make a sound,” Zaharis signed, his fingers forming the words slowly. “Stay very, very still.”

“What is it?” Colborn signed with his left hand, his right gripping the hilt of his sword.

Zaharis thrust a finger toward a patch of bright green-and-white flowers growing along the edge of the pond. “Rankblossom,” he spelled out the letters to form the unfamiliar word. “A flower I’d only heard about in the legends of Fehl before now. It’s said to grow in only one place: near a gulon’s warren.”

Aravon opened his mouth to ask what a gulon was, but the question died on his lips as low, growling snarls echoed from all around the scummy pond, and hideous creatures appeared from the marshlands.

Chapter Forty

The monstrosities that emerged from the dark swamps were things of nightmare: four-legged beasts with the long, lean bodies and snouts of hounds, but with the thick, shaggy fur of a wolf and a line of spikes running down their spines. Foul green saliva oozed from their slavering jaws and dripped from razor-sharp canines. But where wolves and dogs had eyes, these had only unbroken fur. Their ears twitched up and their black noses lifted, sniffing and testing the air for the taste of their prey.

With a terrified yip, Snarl leapt off the rotting log and took to the air, flapping his wings to climb quickly into the thick-leaved trees. At the sudden movement, the gulons’ eyeless heads snapped toward Aravon and the Grim Reavers. Howls far more bestial and savage than any wolf’s shattered the eerie stillness of the marshlands. Gulons by the dozens burst from the shadows of their warrens and charged in a furious pack of snapping jaws, long claws, and spiked backs.

Aravon had a split second to act before the first monster reached him. The creature leapt toward his throat, saliva-coated jaws opened wide, three-clawed toes outstretched. Aravon whipped his spear around and dropped to a kneeling crouch in one smooth motion, driving the iron butt into the ground. The flying monster spitted himself on the sharp steel head of Aravon’s spear. Momentum punched the tip so deep the gulon’s ribs cracked against the crossbar. The eyeless creature’s howls cut off in a whining, gurgling bark, its writhing, thrashing body pinioned on the end of Aravon’s spear.

But before the first’s jerking stilled, the rest of the gulons leapt to the attack. Aravon shoved the dead monstrosity off the tip of his spear and spun it around to bring the iron-shod butt cracking down onto another’s head. The hound-sized creature gave a little yelping cry and fell, stunned. With a vicious thrust, Aravon drove the tip of his spear into the gulon’s spine-ridged back, just beneath the base of its canine skull. The beast’s panicked, agonized yowling fell instantly silent.

The howling, screeching cries of the gulons echoed all around Aravon. Whirling, he found four more of the creatures emerging from their warren on the western side of the pond, and another handful rushing around the eastern side, clawed toes digging into the soft, scummy mud as they raced to join the two dozen already launching into an attack on the Grim Reavers.

Arrows hissed past Aravon’s head, streaking toward the nearest gulon. One buried to the hilt in a creature’s shoulder, but did little to slow it down. The gulon simply howled louder and bared green-dripping fangs as it leapt toward Zaharis.

Crunch! The spiked mace in the Secret Keeper’s hands smashed skull bones and tore a massive chunk of furry flesh from the gulon’s face. The impact hurled the creature away, sending it splashing into the murky water of the pond. Filthy water sprayed Zaharis’ legs, and he leapt back, away from the reeking slime. Just in time to bring his mace swinging around to crush another monstrosity’s skull.

Even as Aravon raced to join Zaharis near the water’s edge, the rest of his comrades raced past, charging the oncoming monsters. Skathi and Noll’s arms never stopped moving as they drew, nocked, and loosed their arrows at anything that moved. Gulons fell in twos and threes, shafts buried deep in their furry bodies, but far too many rose and raced onward, barely slowed.

Those that survived the rain of arrows hurled themselves onto the warriors that now met them in a solid wall of shields and flashing steel. Colborn, Rangvaldr, and Captain Lingram stood between the gulons and the archers, hacking and chopping at any creature that drew within striking range. Aravon threw himself into place beside Captain Lingram and lent him the support of his spear. Sharp Odarian steel carved through gulon flesh and shattered bone with every strike, drawing dark green blood. The foul ichor oozed from the wounds and mingled with the scummy water of the pond. The muddy ground squelched and clawed at Aravon’s boots, as if trying to drag him into its murky depths.

With a growl, he leapt forward, onto solid ground, and drove his spear into a gulon’s wide-open mouth. The spear punched through the soft pink flesh of its gums and pierced the creature’s brain. It was dead before it fell limp at his feet.

Then, suddenly, the gulons seemed to retreat. The attack broke off so suddenly Aravon almost staggered. No more of the creatures charged him, but instead raced off around the edge of the pond. Their howling, yapping cries thundered through the trees as they fell back.

But not far, barely twenty yards, back to the safety of their warrens. Then they gathered themselves for another charge.

“They’re coming again!” Belthar’s shout echoed from where he stood beside the archers, axe in hand.

Before the words left his mouth, the gulons came on again. Moving fast, darting from side to side with the speed and agility of a mountain wolf. Jaws open and claws digging into the muck, the creatures raced toward the Grim Reavers en masse. More than twenty of them, their yowling cries filling the air.

Noll’s arrow zipped just above one’s shoulder, and Skathi’s loosed missile skittered off a spiny back as her intended target leapt to the side. The creature bounced off a tree and hurled itself, claws outstretched, onto Captain Lingram. Lingram braced for the impact and slammed his shield into the gulon’s mouth, and Aravon’s spear finished it off a heartbeat before the next gulon leapt to the attack. Only to meet Captain Lingram’s sword, a hacking blow that nearly removed its canine head.

Then the gulons were attacking, pressing Aravon so hard he had no time to think, to worry about Captain Lingram at his side. It was all he could do to keep his spear whirling, weaving a wall of steel and wood between him and the snarling, drooling fangs and sharp claws of the gulons. He thrust, slashed, stabbed, and sliced with every shred of speed, yet the gulons were too fast, too canny to let him get within striking range. They seemed to dart toward him but back off as he struck at them, opening his guard for another to dart in from the side. Only Aravon’s skill and battle-honed reflexes kept them at bay, but he could feel his strength flagging.

Suddenly, a loud shrieking scream echoed from up the incline, a few yards from their position. The sound sent a chill down Aravon’s spine. The horses!

He managed to tear his gaze away from the gulon for a heartbeat, long enough to glance at their mounts. Horror twisted in his gut. Nearly a dozen gulons encircled the chargers, darting in and leaping out as they slashed and snapped at the huge warhorses. The mounts, bred for war and battle, lashed out with flailing hooves—catching three of the beasts with bone-shattering kicks that hurled them away—but the gulons moved too quickly. They darted in at every opening, slashing claws across the horses’ legs or leaping onto their backs to sink fangs into their necks. One horse, the mount with an arrow in its shoulder, couldn’t keep the creatures at bay. It went down, shrieking and screaming, four gulons clinging to its back.

Aravon turned back to his own battle—just in time to cut down the gulon that leapt at him. He slashed his spear across the beast’s face with a blow that would have cut out its eyes, had it had any. The creature howled and retreated, spiky hackles rippling as it darted away, opening the way for one of its fellows to leap at Aravon. Far too many came on too quickly. He couldn’t break the line, leave Captain Lingram vulnerable and fighting alone. But he had to do something—they needed the mounts to get them to Praellboer.

“Belthar!” Aravon shouted. “The horses!”

“I’ve got ‘em!” The big man burst free of their little circle and raced the ten steps toward the horses. His huge axe flew with terrifying speed as he chopped at the gulon that raced toward him. Cutting his way through, he charged at the monstrosities attacking the mounts.

Again, the gulons pressed Aravon and Captain Lingram hard. Four of the beasts darted in, two leaping high and the other two attacking low. Aravon jumped to the side, evading a hurtling creature, and drove the iron-shod butt of his spear into its skull as he spun. He landed with the tip of his spear thrust downward. Steel punched through hard bone and the brain beneath.

Captain Lingram’s grunt of pain snapped Aravon’s head around. The Captain had evaded the slashing claws aimed at his legs but, caught off-balance, had no time to brace for the impact of the high-leaping gulon. He staggered backward with a snarling, snapping creature clinging to his wooden shield. Sharp claws digging in for purchase, the gulon tried to swipe at Captain Lingram’s face. Lingram ducked but another low-attacking gulon forced him to fend the creature off with his sword.

Aravon crossed the distance to the embattled Legionnaire in one long step and brought his spear swinging around in a two-handed blow. No finesse or control, but a strike backed by all the power of his muscles and the weight of his spear. The iron-shod butt crashed into the gulon’s side with bone-shattering force. The impact tore the creature free of its perch on Lingram’s shield and sent it sprawling in the muck five feet away.

But instead of leaping to its feet and attacking again, the wounded gulon gave a little yowling cry and retreated once more. Its comrades joined in, howling and yapping as they darted into the shadows of their warrens once more.

Aravon sucked in a breath. Every muscle in his body ached and fire raced through his right arm, but he’d escaped injury.

“Anyone hurt?” he called out.

“Nothing bad,” Colborn shouted back. “My boots have seen better days, though.”

Aravon tore his eyes from the marshlands and glanced down at Colborn’s feet. Three long slashes had opened his boots, but it appeared the claws hadn’t drawn blood. He’d been lucky to escape that. They all had—none of them bore grievous wounds.

Yet something told Aravon they weren’t in the clear yet. Low growling echoed from within the dark gulon warrens. At any moment, the beasts would emerge. Though more than a dozen gulon corpses littered the ground, far too many remained alive, enraged, and doubtless hungry for human flesh.

“Go, join Belthar!” Aravon hissed at Skathi. The archer darted up the incline toward where Belthar stood panting, his broad chest heaving, bloodstained axe in hand. She fell in behind him, taking up a defensive position to protect the horses.

Aravon scanned the marshlands, searching for any sign of movement. Nothing. The swamp appeared as eerily still and motionless as before, with only the low growling of the gulons to break the silence.

“Anyone see them?” Noll’s harsh whisper echoed from behind Aravon.

“No,” Skathi hissed back, fingering her bow. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not waiting to—”

She never finished the sentence; her words cut off as she drew her bow and loosed, so quickly she didn’t even seem to aim. She didn’t need to. Her arrow slammed into the gulon that suddenly leapt from the scummy pond, hurling it backward with a loud splash. It didn’t come back up.

But so intent was she on the threat behind Noll she failed to see the gulon slinking through the shadows behind her.

Aravon opened his mouth to shout a warning. “Ska—”

Too late. The gulon leapt at her throat, fangs bared and dripping foul saliva.

Belthar’s huge hand closed around the creature’s neck, stopping it mid-air. The gulon gave a surprised yowl and twisted toward the big man, jaws snapping. Belthar simply dropped his axe, gripped the gulon’s skull in his other hand, and heaved. A terrible crack and the creature hung limp.

Suddenly, gulons burst from new holes in the ground. They raced from behind the Grim Reavers, darting through the thick dark grey-green trees and hurling themselves onto Aravon and his comrades. Aravon barely had time to bring his spear around to his right before a gulon popped out of a concealed warren opening and slashed at his legs. Sturdy wood shuddered beneath the impact as Aravon blocked, then brought the sharp spearhead slicing upward. Steel tore through the gulon’s throat and sent dark green blood spraying.

Another leapt at Aravon from his left with a savage swipe of its three-toed paws. Aravon threw his head back and the sharp claws raked along his leather mask, leaving a deep furrow. Before Aravon could counterattack, a third gulon leapt at his throat, fangs bared.

Desperate, Aravon threw up his spear. The gulon’s dripping jaws closed around the ash haft, snapping tight. Its weight collided with Aravon’s chest and it dug sharp claws into his armor, scrabbled at his belt, tried to slash at his throat. Aravon gripped his spear in both hands and tried to shove the creature off, but it clung tight, clawed toes digging in for a hold.

Something sliced through the air above Aravon’s head and six deep cuts burst open on the gulon’s eyeless head. The creature howled, loosing its grip on Aravon’s spear haft. Just enough for Aravon to spin and bring the spear slashing across the beast’s throat. The gulon fell back, gushing dark green ichor from the wounds on his head and the gaping tear in his neck.

Snarl swooped down to slash at a gulon leaping toward Skathi, then disappeared into the trees once more. Aravon shot a silent thanks to the brave Enfield and turned back to the battle. A gulon leapt toward him, claws flashing. Aravon’s spear took the creature in the chest, shattered ribs, and drove through hard muscle, tearing a massive hole in its heart. Spinning, Aravon sent the dying creature flying into two of its comrades. Killed a fourth, then leapt onto the two struggling beneath the weight of the now-dead monstrosity. Skathi’s arrow punched into the first’s neck a heartbeat before Aravon drove his spear through the second’s skull.

Loud shrieks echoed from Aravon’s right, accompanied by the sudden thunder of hooves. Aravon snapped his gaze around in time to see three of the Kostarasar chargers racing out of the marshlands and across the icy tundra. Six gulons clung to their backs, digging claws and sinking fangs into horse flesh carved to ribbons.

Aravon whirled back to the fight, but he found no more enemies to kill. Belthar’s axe crushed one’s skull and severed its neck in one fierce blow. Captain Lingram spitted another, and Noll’s arrow found its mark in a gulon’s open mouth. The last of the creatures fell with Colborn and Rangvaldr’s swords hacking through the spines along its furry neck.

Silence descended over the marshlands. If any gulons had survived, no more appeared to renew the attack. Survivors would doubtless be back in their warrens, licking their wounds and cowering from the two-legged invaders that had slaughtered so many of their number.

Aravon counted nearly thirty gulon corpses, many strewn around the horses. His gut clenched at the sight of the downed mounts. Three of the Kostarasar chargers had gone down beneath those flashing claws and snapping teeth. Flesh torn to ribbons, throats opened, and bellies torn open to reveal coiled intestines. One of the beasts still lived, just long enough to give a final terrifying scream that answered the cries of the mounts racing off into the tundra with the gulons clinging to their backs. One of the fleeing horses had a familiar wooden chest strapped to its back.

Horror sparked in Zaharis’ eyes as he watched his horse disappear into the icy Wastelands east of the marshes. His shoulders slumped, and his hands hung limp by his side, dejected.

A hand rested on the Secret Keeper’s shoulder. “Look at the bright side, Magicmaker,” Rangvaldr said in the kind, reassuring voice that had encouraged them all on many an occasion. “You still live, and your sharp mind can always create more alchemical marvels.”

Zaharis couldn’t even manage a glum nod. “Everything I had…” The fingers of his free hand faltered and fell silent at his side once more.

“Everything?” Rangvaldr cocked his head. “I seem to remember you carrying the most important things with you.” His eyes twinkled. “Surely you have more.”

Slowly, the Secret Keeper reached beneath his heavy fur cloak and drew out his large Secret Keeper pouch. He opened it and dumped its contents onto a dry patch of swamp grass: the glowing rock that had once been inert ghoulstone, the studded iron orb that was the Earthshaker, a handful of bundled herbs and dried flowers, and a small bag of some strange, dark powder Aravon didn’t recognize. And, most important of all, the glass bottle containing the deep blue liquid known as the Elixir of Creation.

“See?” Rangvaldr plucked the vial from the ground and held it up before the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “All is not lost.”

The Seiomenn’s words didn’t quite lift the Secret Keeper’s spirits. Crestfallen, he reached out and took the vial.

“What matters most is up here, my friend.” Rangvaldr tapped the Secret Keeper’s forehead. “While you still live, you can create more.” He gripped the man’s shoulder. “And while you live, your mission and the search for ice saffron lives on.”

“Remember what the Hilmir told us,” Aravon put in. “The Reginkunnr is supposed to only grow in the bitterest cold, yet for those brave enough to travel the wastes of Fehl, it offered a reward fit for the gods themselves.” He gestured to the vast expanse of tundra beyond the circle of marshlands. “I’d say this qualifies as bloody bitter cold, right?”

That perked Zaharis up. He’d given up so much—some could argue everything—on his mission to find the ice saffron.

“Stonekeeper,” Skathi’s voice echoed from where she stood beside the horses. “Belthar—”

“Is perfectly fine!” The big man’s words cut her off. “It’s just a scratch.”

All turned to Belthar, and Skathi held the big man’s hand upturned. Blood soaked his palm, oozing from a deep puncture wound. When he’d caught the gulon mid-air, one of its snapping teeth had pierced his glove and the flesh beneath.

“A bandage is all I need.” Belthar tried to pull his hand from Skathi’s grip. “No sense wasting the Seiomenn’s strength on a little cut like this.”

Zaharis suddenly went rigid. “Wait!” Had he been able to speak, the word would have come out in a shout. He leapt toward Belthar and snatched his hand from Skathi’s grip. Tearing off the leather glove, the Secret Keeper studied the big man’s skin. “Look here,” he pointed to the cut. “See what the gulon saliva is doing to the flesh.”

The cut wasn’t just a simple puncture wound; the flesh around it had gone a dark, angry red, far more inflamed and infected than a cut that size should have been.

Zaharis spun and crouched beside the furry corpse of a gulon. Using one spiked tip of his mace, he lifted a thick strand of green saliva from the creature’s slack jaws and held it up.

“Gulon saliva is dangerously acidic.” He placed the thread of drool onto a leaf. In a heartbeat, the saliva began to sizzle, eating through the leaf in the space of two seconds

The Secret Keeper’s eyes darkened. “This will do far more damage than their bite.”

“He’s right.”

All eyes turned to Captain Lingram. The Legionnaire stared at Colborn’s boot. “Their claws and jaws are just one of the weapons they wield.”

Colborn recoiled at the sight of his boot. The gulon’s claws had torn three long gashes across the top, but a few strands of saliva had dropped onto the leather and now set it sizzling, bubbling, eating away at it and widening the tear. Colborn tore at his laces, struggling to remove the boot before the saliva consumed his flesh.

Captain Lingram pointed to Aravon’s chest. “And look at your armor.”

Aravon glanced down and found large droplets of dark green spittle flecked his breastplate. The saliva hadn’t eaten through the leather, but when Aravon touched it with the tip of his spear, he could feel the material gone soft.

“Keeper’s teeth!” His eyebrows shot up. “Their saliva eats through the alchemical treatment!”

“Get it off, now!” Zaharis signed. He snatched up a strip of fur that had been cut to wrap around the horses’ hooves and threw it to Aravon, who scrubbed the sizzling, bubbling slobber away before it could damage the armor further. The rest of the Grim Reavers followed his lead, wiping their armor clean with quick, frantic movements.

When Aravon looked up, he found Zaharis staring off toward the tundra where his horse had disappeared, his eyes dark. The Secret Keeper seemed to sense Aravon’s gaze on him and turned. “Sorry, Captain, now I have nothing to repair the armor with.”

Aravon felt for the man. Zaharis had already lost so much—his place among the Secret Keepers, the love of Darrak, the respect of his fellow priests—that this fresh loss threatened to shatter the already-weakened foundation upon which he’d built his life. That was a pain Aravon understood all too well.

“Then we’ll just have to be more cautious.” He affected nonchalance in an attempt to reassure the Secret Keeper. “Avoid fighting unless we’ve no other choice.” That had already been the plan, but it couldn’t hurt to reinforce it in his comrades’ minds.

“Aye, Captain.” Colborn nodded. “And, first chance we get, I’m looking for a new pair of boots!” Scrubbing off the gulon saliva had stopped it from destroying the leather, but a hole the size of Colborn’s palm had been eaten away. The stocking and foot beneath had gotten soaked in the murky water and muck around the pond.

“Noll, Skathi, Colborn,” Aravon called, “get the horses ready to ride. Rangvaldr, work your magic on Belthar’s hand.” He turned to the Secret Keeper, hesitating a moment before giving the order. “Zaharis, before we ride out, see if you can find any useful plants around the marshlands. Take Lingram to watch your back.”

The Secret Keeper cocked his head. A hint of interest sparkled in his eyes, doubtless at the prospect of exploring the plants that grew in this remarkable island of life amidst the barren tundra. He was off before Aravon finished speaking, his eyes darting around and fingers twitching in eager anticipation as he studied the flora sprouting around the scummy pond. Lingram followed at his back, far more interested in keeping the Secret Keeper alive than investigating the unusual plant life.

As the rest of the Grim Reavers set to their tasks, Aravon drew out the bone whistle and called to Snarl. The Enfield dropped from high among the trees and landed at Aravon’s feet. He limped slightly as he leapt up toward Aravon, favoring his right foreleg.

“You hurt, boy?” Aravon caught the Enfield, cradling Snarl in his arms, and studied the leg. No blood, a good sign, though Snarl gave an angry yap when Aravon prodded the bone below his kneecap. “Easy, easy.” He stroked Snarl’s head, and the Enfield curled up contentedly in his arms. “You did good, Snarl.”

His fingers found Snarl’s favorite patch of scruff and scratched it just the way the little creature liked it. The Enfield had saved Aravon’s life. Skathi’s, too. His attack had helped the archer protect the horses.

Aravon’s eyes went to the mounts that had died, then to those still standing. Nine of the Kostarasar chargers remained—one for each of them, and another to carry what remained of the supplies they’d hoarded on their journey south.

That lack of supplies would soon become a problem. They had less than a day’s worth of feed for the horses, and Aravon had no desire to let the mounts graze on the thick, dark grass surrounding the scummy pond. Even their own food supplies would run out in the next two or three days—much of it had ridden off into the tundra on the back of the fleeing mounts. They had more than two hundred miles to cover and fewer than four days to reach Praellboer. All riding through the unfamiliar icy expanse of the Wastelands. Without the extra horses to trade out when their mounts tired, the Grim Reavers’ chances of success had shrunk significantly.

But they hadn’t come this far to stop now, obstacles, enemies, and challenges be damned. Even if they had to march the rest of the way barefoot, they’d reach Tyr Farbjodr and put him down.

Chapter Forty-One

By the time Zaharis and Captain Lingram returned ten minutes later, Noll and Skathi had the horses ready to ride.

“Anything?” Aravon asked the Secret Keeper.

“Just these Wolf Tails.” Zaharis held up an armful of long, slim reeds. “They make a potent painkiller, so there’s that.”

“What about that Rankblossom?” Noll asked, gesturing to the bright green-and-white flowers that dotted the muddy edge of the pond. “With a name like that, there’s got to be something useful to it.”

Zaharis’ eyes narrowed in thought and he crouched down beside the odd-looking plants. After a moment, he plucked up a handful, careful to only touch the stems and avoid the leaves. “From what I remember, the oil makes a bloody thick and awful smoke when it’s burned. Other than that…” He shrugged.

“Well, then, that’s not nothing!” Captain Lingram’s voice was bright, as if attempting to inject a bit of cheerfulness into the fetid, gloomy surroundings. “Seems like things could have turned out far worse.”

“And,” Noll put in, “getting this disaster out of the way means it should be smooth traveling the rest of the way.” Humor sparkled in his eyes. “After all, as we all know, Grim Reaver lore insists that things can only go tits up once per mission!”

“Grim Reaver lore?” Belthar snorted. “That’s definitely not a thing.”

“Well it should be!” Noll retorted.

Despite the foul stench of the marsh and the scores of animal corpses that surrounded them, Aravon couldn’t help chuckling. He had a hard time finding the best in grim situations, but his soldiers had a way of finding it—if only to ridicule it. At the very least, their sniping at each other distracted from the harsh reality of the impossibilities they faced on a daily basis.

Once Colborn and Rangvaldr finished lashing the furs around the horses’ legs and hooves to protect the mounts from the sharp, cutting ice, the Grim Reavers mounted up and prepared to ride out. The time they’d spent in the foul-smelling, overcast marshlands hadn’t exactly been restful, but none of them protested. They were all too eager to leave the gulon corpses, the malodorous, bubbling pond, and the pursuing Tauld hunters far behind.

Aravon cast one last glance over his shoulder as they rode out of the dense marsh trees and back onto the wind-swept tundra. The Tauld had to have spotted the fleeing horses on the flat lands by now. That could work in the Grim Reavers’ favor—if the hunters went off in pursuit of the horses, they’d be too distracted to notice Aravon and his companions. But it was just as likely to work against them; one look at Zaharis’ wooden chest and the Princelander equipment on the horses, and they’d know the horses weren’t wild. If the Tauld came to the marshlands, they’d find the gulon corpses for certain.

Either way, we can’t wait for them to find out. He gave a grim shake of his head. Our best hope is to keep pushing southwest, keep as much land between us and them as possible and hope they don’t catch up in time to be a bother. Only one thing mattered: taking out Tyr Farbjodr before the Tauld alerted the Eirdkilrs to the Grim Reavers’ presence.

The sun shone down bright on the tundra though it failed to drive back the chill. The brilliance of early morning daylight reflecting off the snow grew quickly blinding, like daggers of pure light slicing through Aravon’s eyes and driving into his skull. The whistling wind made things even worse, evaporating every shred of moisture and leaving his eyelids feeling heavy, the skin stretched tight. The simple act of blinking proved painful. Finally, he had no choice but to turn his head away from the glistening snow, watching only out of the corners of his eyes.

An hour before the sun reached its peak, the sky darkened with thick, grey clouds—not the dark and boiling clouds of a storm, but the dense, billowing layers of white that presaged a chilly day. Here on the tundra, chilly came nowhere near describing the cold that settled over the land. The wind grew more biting, cutting through Aravon’s leather mask, working its way beneath his furs, freezing his limbs and seeping slowly into his bones. No matter how much he adjusted the heavy bear pelt, he could never quite manage to seal all the tiny cracks and openings into which the wind seemed determined to permeate.

Relief came in the form of a small fox-eagle. Snarl, tired from his flight and fight, took up his new place curled up behind Aravon’s saddle. The Enfield’s body was warm against his back, radiating heat that helped to keep out the cold. A little, at least.

For hours they rode without resting, ever-present in their mind the threat of the Tauld hunters at their backs and the urgent need to reach Tyr Farbjodr in time. Praellboer lay roughly three hundred miles southeast of the mouth of Cliffpass. Aravon’s best guess—without landmarks or anything on the horizon to mark distances, it was a poor estimate—placed them roughly forty miles from Highcliff Motte. That meant they had more than a hundred and fifty miles left to travel, and four days and nights to do it.

The absence of sunlight sent the temperature plummeting. The chill settled deeper and deeper into Aravon’s bones until not even Snarl’s warmth could keep the shivers at bay. It was all Aravon could do to grit his teeth against the biting wind and seeping chill, lower his head, and keep riding.

But as the sky darkened with the setting sun, the winds picked up. Icy breezes quickened and blew harder, driving bits of snow and ice into Aravon’s face, chest, and gloved hands with cutting force. The world around him blurred into a featureless void of white—sky, land, and everything in between, an expanse of white so vast and endless Aravon half-imagined he had died and gone to the frozen hell.

At one point, Aravon almost imagined he glimpsed something in the distance. Four dark fingers of black stone jutting up from the icy Wastelands, towering high above the impossibly flat terrain. Yet they appeared for only a moment. He blinked to clear his frost-blurred vision and found the stones had gone, swallowed up once more by the impermeable white.

It had to be his imagination. Those black stones had stood on the plains south of Icespire, monuments to the lost Fehlan clan of the Skyldr or the ancient Serenii—no one knew. There was no way they could be here—it was just his cold, exhausted mind playing tricks on him, trying desperately to fill in the featureless void with something familiar. Anything to break the utter barrenness of the Wastelands.

A strange sense of relief flooded Aravon as the wind died, the clouds thinned, and the lands around them turned to gently rolling hills. Calling them hills was generous—the tallest was barely higher than his horse’s head—but their presence marked a change in the monotonous, eternally flat landscape they’d just crossed.

As the biting wind receded, Aravon could finally lift his head and glance at his comrades. None of them glanced his way—they were too concentrated on staying in their saddle and ignoring the exhaustion and cold that gripped them to pay attention.

Something about Colborn, riding in the lead, caught Aravon’s attention. The Lieutenant bounced in his saddle with an awkwardness strangely at odds with his skill as a horseman. The closer Aravon looked, the more unusual it appeared. So much so that he called a halt.

The Grim Reavers reined in with visible relief, shoulders slumping, fatigue darkening their eyes.

“Colborn, what’s wrong with your foot?” Aravon asked before any of the others spoke.

The Lieutenant looked down. “I-It’s fine.” He sounded confused. “It was cold for a while, but…” He trailed off and his eyes flew wide. Pulling his foot free of the stirrups, he set about removing the strip of bear pelt he’d lashed around his ruined boot. The sight of the foot beneath the fur and boot twisted the acid in Aravon’s gut.

“Keeper’s teeth!” Belthar rumbled.

The skin had gone white as the snow, with blotchy hints of blue around his toes. Colborn hissed as he tried and failed to move his foot.

“Damn!” Captain Lingram sucked in a breath. “That’s frostbite, no doubt about it.” A grim light shone in his eyes. “I’ve seen men lose hands and feet to the cold.”

Colborn recoiled. “Lose…?” His eyes darted to Rangvaldr and an almost pleading tone echoed in his voice. “Tell me you can do something, Seiomenn!”

Rangvaldr leapt down from his horse and strode toward Colborn, boots crunching loudly in the snow. Drawing out his pendant, he spoke the words of power and the holy stone flared to life. The blue light, usually so warm and soothing, bathed Colborn’s bone-white foot in an eerie glow that underscored the pallor of his skin. The Seiomenn placed his stone against Colborn’s foot and closed his eyes. After a long, breathless second when nothing happened, the blue blotches began to fade from Colborn’s toes. Five hammering heartbeats passed before the pink hue of healthy skin returned to Colborn’s foot.

Rangvaldr staggered and caught himself on Colborn’s saddle horn. “There.” Bone-deep weariness echoed in his voice—the damage done by the cold must have been deeper and more severe than they realized, required more of his strength. “That should do it.”

“Thank you!” Colborn sounded relieved, and with good reason. One-armed soldiers could still fight, hunt, track, and scout, but losing a foot or leg would limit him far more definitively. The Lieutenant lifted his gaze to meet Aravon’s, and embarrassment burned in his ice-blue eyes. “I-I’m sorry. As soon as it stopped feeling cold, I thought I’d just warmed up, gotten the blood flowing. I should have known!” He growled a long, vicious string of curses in the Fehlan tongue. “I’ve heard stories enough of the cold south of Fehl to know better.”

It might have been the cold or the exhaustion, but to Aravon’s numbed mind, it felt like he was seeing Colborn for the first time. Or a different side of the man, at least. The Lieutenant was a man of countless skills and capable to an extreme, yet just as human as the rest of them. He had his limitations, flaws, and failings. He could make mistakes. As could Aravon and all the others. What mattered now was that they worked together to stay alive and succeed in their mission.

“We should all know better.” Aravon turned to the others. “We’ve all known cold, but nothing like this. None of us have any experience with this much ice, snow, and chill, so we all need to be hyper-aware and extra vigilant. Anything feels wrong, you share it aloud rather than keeping it to yourself. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain,” the six Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram echoed.

Aravon glanced at Colborn’s boot, then at the sky. Night would descend soon, and though the wind had fallen mostly silent, the chill of full dark would be far worse than anything they could imagine. They needed to find a place to get out of the cold. In the flat Wastelands, the short hill upon which they stood would be their best hope of shelter—from the wind, if not from the cold and ice.

“We stop here for the night.”

“Here?” Noll looked around.

Aravon nodded. “We can’t take chances with Colborn’s foot.” He glanced at the Lieutenant. “See about using the leftover furs and any spare leather we’ve got to wrap it up good and tight.” At Colborn’s nod, he turned to the others. “Right here, we’re in the lee of the wind. There’s nothing else for miles around—” His eyes traced the horizon, empty save to the north, where the jagged peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains still rose high into the sky. “—which means this is as good a place as any.”

“And with all the snow, we’ve got a decent chance of escaping the cold,” Captain Lingram said.

All eyes turned to the Legionnaire.

“A story I heard when I was younger and living in Highcliff Motte.” Lingram spoke without hesitation. “Of scouts caught in a storm building a burrow of snow and ice to keep out the cold.”

“And keep the heat of their bodies trapped inside with them.” Zaharis’ eyes flew wide. “Like a bear’s den or a fox’s warren.” His gaze darted to Snarl, who had poked his head out from beneath Aravon’s heavy bear pelt and watched his eight human companions with sparkling amber eyes.

Aravon translated the Secret Keeper’s hand signals, and Captain Lingram nodded. “Precisely.” The Legionnaire dismounted and stamped a booted heel down onto the ice-and-snow-covered ground. The layer of ice crunched and his boot disappeared to the ankle in what appeared to be soft snow. “Beneath the upper icy crust, there’s enough soft snow to build a proper shelter. Think of it as a hut made of snow rather than wood or stone.”

The Grim Reavers exchanged glances of mingled curiosity, interest, and suspicion.

“Let’s get to it!” Aravon ordered. “Night’s coming fast, and when it does, it’s going to be bloody cold.”

* * *

“Bloody cold” proved to be a colossal understatement. Even with the ice hut and its bear pelt “door” to shield them from the worst of the wind, they couldn’t escape the cold. The eight humans and one Enfield huddled close for warmth. Aravon almost wished they’d built their shelter large enough for the horses. Almost. Adding the heavy, sweaty smell of their horses would make an already unpleasant night even worse.

The mounts had been hobbled in their own shelter—really more a lean-to than a proper hut, with a roof and two pathetically fragile walls of hard-packed snow to keep out the chill of the wind. The ice hut built for the Grim Reavers had a low ceiling, barely three feet tall, and space enough for the eight of them—plus Snarl—to sleep back to back. Not the most comfortable accommodation, to be sure, but at least they could escape the worst of the snow.

The brilliant sunset—a breathtaking array of gold and bright orange splashed by broad swaths of crimson that deepened to purple in the gaps between the dark clouds—had long ago faded, and darkness settled like a shroud over the land. Now, only darkness remained.

Darkness, and that damned biting wind.

The Grim Reavers could light no fire—even if they’d had the kindling and wood, they didn’t dare risk the light drawing the Tauld’s attention. A meal of near-frozen dried meat and too-cold water had made for a quiet evening. Noll, finding his waterskin empty, had gathered a handful of snow to eat, but Captain Lingram stopped him. “It’ll make you sicker than not drinking at all,” the Legionnaire had said. “My father called it the ice fever.”

Aravon had heard stories of something similar happening to sailors that tried to eat ice cut from the icebergs drifting around on the Frozen Sea. Instead, he’d stuffed the snow into his waterskin and placed it under his armor to let the heat of his body melt it for water. The lumpy skin made lying on his back uncomfortable, forcing him to spend the night on his side.

Snarl curled against Aravon’s chest, shivering and whining with every gust of wind that seeped into their meager shelter. The bear pelt across the opening proved infuriatingly ineffective at stopping the biting chill from finding cracks. The horses that had fled the gulon attack had carried away Zaharis’ fur cloak and three that had belonged to the Deadheads. Now, with only one fur cloak apiece, the Grim Reavers felt the cold keenly.

Aravon shuddered as another icy breath of wind crept across his neck. Frozen hell, this is going to be a long night! Burrowing lower into his cloak, he pulled Snarl tighter against his chest, closed his eyes, and tried to will sleep to come.

With effort, he forced all thoughts of cold from his mind and filled his thoughts with pleasant memories. The warmth of the Icespire sunlight glittering off the Frozen Sea. A hot fire and a succulent wild boar spit-roast that dripped sizzling fat into the flames. The comforting salty breeze that rolled off Icespire Bay and cooled Azure Island during the heat of the summer. Bright, sunny days spent in the gardens of his father’s mansion.

That brought back the memory of the last time he’d seen his family. Mylena’s chestnut hair lustrous and dark in the bright sunlight, her smile cheerful and gleaming as she laughed and talked with Princess Ranisia. Rolyn and Adilon chasing Prince Toran’s children through the lush, flower-bedecked gardens of the Palace.

A lump rose to his throat, and sorrow panged deep within his chest. He’d bid Icespire farewell knowing he would likely never see his family again, but that failed to make the truth easier to bear. Just seeing Mylena at Lord Virinus’ party had torn a hole in his heart; walking away from that window without going to her to say goodbye, to kiss her and his sons one last time, had nearly shattered him.

He knew he’d made the right choice. He had sworn his life in service to Prince Toran and the Princelands the day he joined the Legion of Heroes. If that meant laying down his life to defeat the Eirdkilrs—and, by the Swordsman’s grace, hasten the end of the war—he would do it without hesitation.

Yet that didn’t make the burden any easier to bear. Didn’t make it easier to ride forward with the full knowledge that he would remain dead to his family. They might never know the truth. A part of him hoped Prince Toran kept his presence in Icespire a secret from Mylena, even if he divulged Aravon’s true fate and mission with the Grim Reavers. He hoped she never knew how close he’d been to her, how close he’d come to giving up everything else just to see her one last time.

During the day, with the thoughts of survival, battle, and the mission, he could forget about his family. Could forget the pain of knowing he’d never see them again. But at night, when the world was quiet and dark, shadows hanging thick around him, the pain of loss weighed heavy on him.

He had no illusions about his chances of escaping the clash with Tyr Farbjodr alive. He’d do his damnedest to fight smart and find a way to survive, to be certain. But when it came down to it, Tyr Farbjodr’s death mattered far more than his life. Killing the Eirdkilr commander came first; everything else—survival, escape, home—all came second.

The lump in his throat thickened, the tension in his chest tightening. He wrapped his arms around Snarl’s warm, furry body and pulled the Enfield close. He couldn’t let the tears come, couldn’t give in to the anguish he’d tried so hard to bury. He needed to be strong for his soldiers, for the mission. If the Grim Reavers saw his resolve cracking, they, too, might begin to doubt. Doubt could lead to uncertainty and hesitation, and that would get them killed. He needed the strength to face certain death so his comrades would have that same strength when the time came.

The emotions slowly receded, and with it went the chill. A soothing warmth settled over him, his limbs relaxed, and the chaos of his thoughts fell silent. The cold disappeared. The pain of his loss drained away. His fatigue lessened. The world faded around him and it seemed he floated in a lifeless void absent of all sensation.

Darkness pressed on his mind—not the darkness of the ice hut, but a heavier, all-permeating void utterly empty of anything. No pain, no sorrow, no cold, no fatigue. Simply…nothing.

Aravon drifted deeper into the haze. Let his thoughts dissipate, as if carried away on the swirling wind. Numbness stole over him, pulling him down, down, down toward rest. He could lie here buried beneath the snow, warm forever.

Yet something about that soothing warmth felt…unnatural. It wanted to drag him into a sleep from which he need never awake. From which he could never awake.

Horror roiled within him—a sensation as faint and imperceptible as the beat of his heart. Lethargy sank sharp claws into his mind, and his thoughts grew fuzzy, unclear. He struggled to rise from the depths of slumber, but it felt like wading through mud. Hot, warm mud, as heavy as a mountain atop his chest, head, and limbs.

In that moment, a terrifying thought pierced his hazy mind: the cold was killing him!

Chapter Forty-Two

For agonizingly long seconds, Aravon could not move, trapped within that cocoon of gentle, soothing warmth. He wanted to stay still, to let the languor of cold wash over him and bathe away his worries and cares.

But if he did that, he’d never waken. It wasn’t sleep that awaited him—the Long Keeper’s arms opened to greet him as life and strength seeped from his limbs.

Every shred of effort went into moving. The tiniest movement, barely a twitch of his index finger. Yet with that single motion, sensation returned. The warmth enveloping him shattered. Gave way to the numbing chill of a body mere sluggish heartbeats from an icy grave.

Gritting his teeth, he forced his whole hand to move. His fingers jerked, spasmed, and flexed. Blood rushed through his palm, infused his wrist, and warmth slithered up his arms. He lifted his hand, gripped the furs around him, squeezed his fist as tight as he could. With the return of movement, blood rushed sluggishly through his veins, bringing heat and life.

Aravon struggled out from beneath the smothering leaden blanket of cold and fatigue. Pushed himself upright onto his hands and knees, crawling toward the entrance of their icy hut. The moment he twitched aside the hanging bear pelt, icy wind slammed into him with the force of a charging horse. But the pain and cold told him he still lived. Snarl, somehow still clutched in Aravon’s left arm, stirred and gave a whining bark. Quiet, so quiet Aravon felt more than heard it. Aravon brought the Enfield close to his chest and rubbed Snarl’s furry body.

“Get…up!” The words formed on his tongue, thick and slurred by the numbness of cold. With a leaden right foot, he kicked out at the nearest boot. Colborn’s, wrapped in furs. The Lieutenant made no move, but remained still, his chest rising and falling far too slowly.

Awkwardly, Aravon swiveled around on his knees and hands, set Snarl down gently, and shook Colborn’s legs. “Get up!” Stronger this time, with more force and determination. He shook the Lieutenant and clawed his way up the man’s side. “Colborn!”

Colborn’s face emerged from the furs. His eyelids opened sluggishly, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Aravon shook the Lieutenant harder. “Get up, Colborn. Now!”

Colborn’s heavy face barely moved, too numbed by the cold. “Wha…”

“Move!” Aravon dragged at the man’s arm, hauling him to a sitting position. “Move, or the cold will kill you!”

At those words, life and light flooded into Colborn’s eyes. He, too, rose to his hands and knees. As the movement sent blood flowing through his body, he gasped at the shock of the chill and the warmth flooding his muscles.

Aravon glanced back at the sleeping forms of Skathi, Belthar, and Noll behind him. They’d never experienced such cold before—none of them had. They had no idea how far the temperature could drop, or the dangers that posed to them. He needed to wake them up and get them moving before the cold killed them.

“Help me with the others.” Aravon gestured to Zaharis, Captain Lingram, and Rangvaldr on Colborn’s side of the ice hut.

With a sluggish nod, the Lieutenant set about waking his comrades.

Aravon turned to the nearest Grim Reaver—Belthar, his huge body far too cold, his chest rising slowly.

“Wake up!” Aravon shook the man.

Belthar rumbled a quiet protest at being awoken, but Skathi seemed to understand the threat the moment Aravon awoke her. By the time Aravon scuttled around her to wake Noll, the archer was chivvying the big man.

“Wake up, you big fool!” She slapped Belthar’s cheeks, gently but with force enough to rouse him.

“Let me sleep.” The big man tried to push her away. “So warm—”

“Get your arse up right bloody now, Belthar!” Skathi shoved at the big man until his eyelids opened.

Aravon shook Noll’s shoulder with jarring force.

“Cap…tain?” The scout looked up at him through bleary eyes. “What’s…going…on?” His lips barely moved, stiff with cold and slurring his words.

“We’re taking a little walk,” Aravon said, dragging the scout to a sitting position. “Because if we don’t, if we stay here and sleep, the cold will kill us.”

Noll protested with a wordless growl, his limbs too numb and leaden to move. But Aravon’s incessant shaking and the repeated warning finally dragged him out of his stupor. Slowly, as sensation returned to his body, understanding dawned. He’d doubtless spent enough cold nights in the Fehlan wilds to recognize the dangers of the cold.

Icy wind hissed down Aravon’s back. Turning, he found Colborn dragging a half-kneeling, half-crawling Rangvaldr out of their ice hut. Captain Lingram followed on their heels, Zaharis behind them. The four of them shivered as they climbed to their feet outside the hut. The rest of the Grim Reavers joined them in the exodus, until all eight of them stood shivering in the icy wind, bear pelts clutched tight. Yet the fact that they stood meant they still lived.

“Keeper’s…teeth!” Belthar gasped. “It’s…bloody cold!”

“It is.” Aravon clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. “Which means we’re going to move out now, before the cold gets to us.”

“Nothing…like a nice march…to get the blood up,” Noll found it hard to form the words through his cold-numbed lips.

“Right!” Aravon picked up a shivering Snarl and cradled him to his chest. The Enfield’s fur kept him mostly warm, but even he couldn’t escape the chill that gripped the tundra. “So get the horses and let’s move.”

The five-yard walk to the horses’ ice shelter proved the most arduous trek on what had already been an exhausting journey. Aravon’s boots sank calf-deep in the fresh-driven snow, and more snow clung to his feet and legs with every step. Yet the exertion helped to restore some of the life and vigor to his limbs—by the time he reached the horses, he could feel his chest beginning to warm.

The mounts stood huddled together for warmth, facing into the wind. A light dusting of snow covered their shaggy coats and long manes, but they had inherited the resistance to cold that had made their wild mountain-dwelling ancestors so hardy. A wide swath of cleared ground surrounded them—unlike humans, they could eat the snow with no ill-effects, a viable method of hydrating when water wasn’t available.

Water! Aravon drew out his waterskin and took a long drink. His body heat had melted the snow enough to wet his mouth without risking ice fever. The taste of the cold, crisp water restored even more life to his limbs.

“Come on!” He beckoned to the Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram struggling through the snow toward him. “We march until we’re warm, then we ride.” They needed to cover ground quickly—they had only three days until the Fjorlagerfa—but they needed the exercise to restore blood flow and heat to their bodies first.

Night still hung heavy as they set off at a brisk march through the calf-high snow. Stars twinkled high overhead and the moon flooded the land with a pale glow that seemed to deepen the cold. Yet as sensation and warmth returned to Aravon’s limbs, the chilly pallor of the landscape gave way to a stark, pristine beauty. Something about that tundra, unstained by the mark of humans, held an elegance—as marvelous as the sapphire vastness of the Frozen Sea and the breathtaking heights of the Sawtooth Mountains. A wonder of nature, something no artisan, painter, or sculptor could ever truly capture or replicate.

Then the sky seemed to change. The star-studded blackness brightened, and color sprang to life in the heavens. Curtains of light mingled, with long arcs of emerald swooping through the darkness, intermingling with threads of crimson and gold. Blue and violet danced among the waves of color until it seemed the sky above had come alive with the power of the gods.

Aravon didn’t know when he’d stopped—one moment he was moving, the next he found himself standing, his eyes locked on the heavens. The Grim Reavers stood beside him, transfixed by the spectacle playing out high above. Shimmering waves of vivid luminescence hurtled across the sky. Like some ancient goddess or spirit, the light cavorted, spun, and swirled with a grace that no dancer could ever hope to match.

The auroral display stole the breath from his lungs and filled him with wonder. The very snow around them seemed to shine, reflecting the glow that lit up the heavens. The dancing, cavorting arcs of radiance splashed the endless white landscape around them in brilliant hues. Tonight, the gods themselves painted on the canvas of the earth with light as their medium, Aravon and his companions the sole witness to the singular phenomena.

How long the lights danced across the sky, Aravon would never know. His hand lifted of its own accord, reaching for the brilliant colors. They seemed so close he could almost touch them. He wanted to touch them, wanted to be drawn into their swirling depths, to let the lights sweep him up into this dance of the gods.

But, as the light slowly faded and the heavens returned to black, a sense of profound wonder settled over him. He had seen something few Fehlans or Princelanders ever did. No matter what happened after—what trials they faced ahead—this was an experience for which he’d be eternally grateful.

His companions seemed equally at a loss for words. None of them spoke, but simply looked at each other with amazement sparkling in their eyes. When Aravon mounted his horse, the rest of them followed without a need for spoken or signed command. They set off in silence, the stillness of the night only broken by the quiet whisper of the wind and the crunching of their horses’ hooves.

Long minutes passed before Aravon emerged from his stupor. The images of the dancing lights remained burned into his memory—and would forever linger—but thoughts of the road ahead and their mission filtered back into his mind.

He glanced at the sky, now gone dark, lit only by a moon and stars that seemed terribly faint and far away after the nearness of the dazzling lights. Midnight had passed three or four hours earlier, which meant dawn was not far off.

Reining in his horse, Aravon turned toward Colborn. The Lieutenant slowed and came to a stop beside him, the rest of the Grim Reavers doing likewise.

“Are we heading in the right direction?” Aravon asked Colborn.

The Lieutenant cocked his head. “Southwest, right?”

At Aravon’s nod, Colborn turned his attention to the sky. Long seconds passed as he studied the heavens, the position of the stars and moon. “Yes,” he finally said, though he shot a questioning glance at Rangvaldr and Noll for confirmation.

Rangvaldr nodded. “We follow Nuius’ Hammer.” The Seiomenn thrust a finger toward a cluster of stars—three running horizontally across the sky, with four more spread out beneath it like the handle of a smith’s hammer.

“You mean Olfossa’s Bow?” Humor sparkled in Colborn’s eyes. “You Eyrr never get it right!”

Aravon looked again—the array of stars could resemble a drawn bow with nocked arrow.

Rangvaldr chuckled, but Noll shook his head. “You heathen Fehlans know full well the constellation is called the Swordsman’s Mallet.” He drew up to his full, less-than-impressive height, and spoke in a voice of mock hauteur. “A name worthy of the true gods, not the ones you pagans worship.”

Colborn and Rangvaldr rolled their eyes. Once, centuries earlier, the Einari invaders had attempted to spread the message of the thirteen gods of Einan among the conquered Fehlans. That had not gone over well. The Fehlans might accept the Einari presence in their lands, but nothing short of utter annihilation would deter them from the worship of their clan gods. Eventually, Denever, the first ruler of the Princelands, had mandated that the priests of the thirteen permit the Fehlans to practice their religion unimpeded—a better solution than all-out war.

“Whatever it’s called,” Colborn said, “it’ll guide us southwest.” He gave a little shrug. “Though, to be fair, without a clear map of the Wastelands, we’re not exactly certain where we’re going.”

“I’m not worried.” Aravon grinned beneath his mask. “Between the three of you, our chances of getting where we need to go are about as good as we could hope for.”

Whether or not they’d get there in time, that was a different story. That thought Aravon kept to himself. They had roughly a hundred miles to cover, and three days to do it in. They’d have to ride hard to reach Tyr Farbjodr before the Feast of Death.

Dawn found them racing across the Wastelands. Ice and snow sprayed from the horses’ flashing hooves as the massive mounts carved a direct path southeast, up and down the shallow hills and over seemingly endless miles of flat land.

But the sun had barely come up before Colborn reined in. “I’m sorry, Captain.” A grim look darkened his eyes. “My foot’s bad.”

Aravon studied the thick strips of fur Colborn had wrapped around his ruined boot. “The cold?”

“No.” Colborn untied the cords holding the furs in place. “I mean, the cold’s bad, but the pain—” His words cut off in a gasp as he removed his boot.

The flesh of Colborn’s foot had swelled and turned a hideous mixture of inflamed red and a blue so dark it nearly appeared purple. Cracks gaped between his toes, and a foul-smelling liquid oozed from the sores.

“Keeper’s teeth!” Noll recoiled.

“And here I thought Noll’s boots smelled awful!” Despite the joke, worry shadowed the glance Belthar shot at Colborn.

Noll folded his arms. “Hey, my feet were never that rotten!”

“It’s the cold and wet combined,” Zaharis signed. He had dismounted and now stood beside Colborn, gently prodding the swollen and discolored flesh. Each touch elicited a hiss. “The moisture and chill cause the flesh to deteriorate and decay, destroying blood vessels and the surrounding flesh. If not cared for, the damage could be…” He faltered a moment. “…irreversible.”

Colborn’s eyes widened, and he turned to Rangvaldr. “Tell me you can do something for it!”

Without hesitation, the Seiomenn dismounted, drew out his pendant, and spoke the words that brought it flaring to life. This time, healing Colborn’s foot took far longer—nearly half a minute—and it left Rangvaldr staggering.

Zaharis held the Seiomenn upright with one arm and signed instructions to Colborn with the other. “Keep it warm and dry, no matter what.” Concern lined the corners of his eyes. “And pray that the Seiomenn got to it in time.”

The flesh of Colborn’s foot was red and still slightly swollen, but the cracks had sealed and normal color mostly restored. With a nod, the Lieutenant bound his foot in the furs once more, careful to remove his wet stockings and apply fresh, dry wrappings.

Aravon grimaced beneath his mask. That’s going to be a problem. Colborn couldn’t live in the saddle, but without proper boots, he couldn’t risk his feet marching, either. We’ve got to find a solution, and soon.

He had no idea how the Tauld or Eirdkilrs protected their feet from the cold and snow—he hadn’t thought to examine the footwear of the hunters at Highcliff Motte, and the Eirdkilrs he’d fought north of the Sawtooth Mountains had worn boots.

For now, Colborn would have to stay in the saddle and keep his foot wrapped in furs. But they needed to find something—anything—to serve as replacement boots before they reached Praellboer. Perhaps Zaharis could come up with something alchemical, a way to repair the damaged footwear or turn the furs into something serviceable. When they stopped that night, he would make sure to ask.

His gaze went to Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn, with Zaharis’ help, had managed to climb into his saddle, his exhaustion stooped his shoulders. When he removed his mask to wipe away sweat from his heavy brow, the lines in his face had deepened, pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Aravon moved his horse toward the man. “You good?” he asked in a quiet voice.

The Seiomenn nodded, but fatigue thickened his words. “I…will be fine, Captain. A bit of rest…should do it.”

Aravon studied the man. Rangvaldr had traveled hard since they rode out of Hafoldarholl, fought the gulons, and healed Belthar’s hand and Colborn’s feet—twice—all with only a few hours of sleep. He needed a break—fiery hell, they all did. After the last few days’ exertion, every one of the Grim Reavers looked a few hours from collapse. But as Aravon scanned the empty, unbroken expanse of white around them, he could find nowhere to rest. Nothing but snow and ice as far as he could see.

“We’ll find someplace to hole up and take a break,” Aravon promised. “First chance we get.” Someplace they could rest without fear of freezing to death. Though where they’d find that in the Wastelands, he had no idea.

Rangvaldr nodded slowly, as if the weight of his head threatened to drag him from his saddle. “Don’t slow for me, Captain. Our mission to stop Farbjodr is far too important.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to sacrifice any of you to do it.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “We’re going to get there and stop him together, as the Swordsman is my witness.”

“If it is Nuius’ will, so it shall be. If not?” Rangvaldr gave a little smile and shrug. “Who am I to question the will of my god?”

Aravon raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the Grim Reavers had gathered around Colborn, helping him tie up the new fur wrappings around his foot, or were busy checking their own feet. “So your faith has returned?” Aravon asked quietly. In the mine, the Seiomenn had come within a heartbeat of throwing away the symbol of his belief and service to Nuius.

“It has.” A slow smile spread across Rangvaldr’s unmasked face. “I have heard the voice of Nuius in my heart—” He tapped his chest. “—and found peace with the duty to which I have been called. Both as Seiomenn to my people, and now as a Grim Reaver.” He rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “Nuius sent a good man to guide me back to the path he has laid for me.”

Heat rose to Aravon’s cheeks. “I simply spoke from my heart.”

“And that is what made your words ring true. You may not have the tongue of a philosopher or the mind of a Seiomenn—” Rangvaldr’s grin turned mischievous. “—but sincerity of spirit often speaks far louder than even the best-planned argument.”

Aravon inclined his head. “Then I am glad for what little I had to offer.”

“As am I.” Rangvaldr clapped him on the shoulder. “I might have made a decision we’d all regret, but now I can see my path forward far more clearly than I have in a while. So thank you, Captain.”

Aravon nodded. “Always, my friend.”

He turned away to hide the flush of embarrassment. His companions sat waiting in silence, a respectful distance from where he and Rangvaldr had been talking. Aravon was glad they hadn’t overheard the conversation—the Seiomenn’s gratitude left him already flustered enough.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a long day of riding ahead.”

The day, indeed, proved long—far longer than he’d expected. The morning clouds receded and the sun rose high into the sky, bathing the stark white landscape in a light so dazzlingly bright that it seemed to burn Aravon’s eyeballs. Shielding his brow from the sun did little to block out the glare rising off the snow. He resorted to covering his eyes with his hands; the radiance pierced his closed eyelids, leaving bright spots dancing in his vision.

Noon came and went, and the land around them grew even brighter as the sun approached its peak. The welcome warmth helped to keep the chill of the wind at bay, but the blinding daylight made it near-impossible for him to see the path ahead. Even Colborn and Noll, experienced scouts both, seemed to struggle. Finally, they simply pointed the horses in the direction they wanted to go and let the mounts have their heads.

The hours dragged by in a strange blur of blinding light, the darkness beneath his covering palms, and the incessant jolting of the horse. He could ride well enough without seeing the way ahead—nothing to see along the flat, barren landscape—matching his movements to the horse’s rolling gait. Yet the fact that he traveled with his eyes closed made him feel terribly vulnerable.

He cracked open one eyelid, held it open for a few seconds, then switched eyes. The world was still a blinding blur of dazzling brilliance, though the light above had faded to the golden orange of afternoon.

Something in the distance caught his eye. For a moment, it seemed a mirage—there one moment, then faded into the blur of his snow blindness. He opened his other eye, blinked, blinked again.

Can it be?

There was no mistaking it: from beyond the horizon, far to the southwest, rose a thick plume of dark grey smoke.

Chapter Forty-Three

Aravon froze. Smoke like that could only mean one thing: people. And this far south of the Sawtooth Mountains, chances were more than good that they’d run into Eirdkilrs.

“Smoke!” he called, little more than a hiss.

The Grim Reavers reined in, a sudden tension gripping them, tightening their muscles. The seven turned to squint at Aravon, who pointed to the smoke.

Tears formed in his eyes as he squinted against the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the snow, but the more he looked, the more certain he became. What had initially appeared as a single column of dark grey was actually many small thinner plumes of smoke joining together.

Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. “Fires burning in longhouses?” he asked.

After a moment, the Seiomenn nodded. “Possibly.”

“Almost certainly,” Colborn put in.

Aravon studied the horizon. The smoke was at least two or three miles beyond the horizon—too far for him to see where it originated. On the upside, he and the Grim Reavers were still out of sight of the people responsible for the fires. How close they could get without being spotted remained to be seen.

“Orders, Captain?” Noll asked from his place in the lead beside Colborn.

Aravon considered the smoke. It came from south-by-southwest, barely a half-mile off the path they’d been traveling. To avoid it, the Grim Reavers would have to ride at least five miles out of their way to remain out of sight below the horizon. But he needed to know precisely what it was they avoided before making that detour. The last thing he wanted was a force of Eirdkilrs behind them when they rode toward Praellboer—they had threat enough waiting for them at their destination.

“We get closer, get a better look at it,” Aravon decided. “See what there is to see.”

Colborn cocked his head. The leather mask concealed his expression, but curiosity burned in his eyes. “You’re thinking it could be enemies?”

“Everyone this far south will see us as an enemy,” Zaharis put in.

Aravon nodded. “But what kind of enemy, that’s what I want to know. Tauld or Eirdkilrs.” He glanced at Rangvaldr, and the Seiomenn inclined his head in acknowledgement. To him, at least, there was a clear distinction. Now that Aravon had seen the people scraping out a miserable existence in what had once been Highcliff Motte, he, too, began to understand the difference. “If it’s Tauld, we stay far out of their way. If it’s Eirdkilrs…” He trailed off with a shrug. “First step is to see what’s ahead.”

The Grim Reavers obeyed without hesitation or question, riding in their usual column: Colborn and Noll in the lead, Aravon and Captain Lingram next, Rangvaldr and Zaharis behind, and Belthar and Skathi bringing up the rear. They no longer needed the order to form up—they simply fell into place out of force of habit.

The knots in Aravon’s shoulders tightened with every step closer to the rising smoke. He squinted at the gleaming white horizon, trying to make out the details. One mile became two, then three, and the first shimmering hints of something solid came into view. Closer and closer, until Aravon could make out the dark brown and white-flecked forms of longhouses near the horizon.

He reined in then, still out of sight of the people in those buildings. From this distance, he could only get a vague estimation of the size of the settlement—no more than ten longhouses, which, according to Rangvaldr and Colborn, could hold up to thirty people but typically fifteen to twenty. Roughly the size of a Princelander hamlet, too small to count as a village. And, he saw as he pulled out the crude animal skin he’d taken from Harlund’s smithy in Kaldrborg, too small to warrant a marking on the map.

Definitely not a real threat to us. A settlement that size would have a few dozen hunters, perhaps a few warriors. The rest would likely be women, children, and the elderly—civilians.

Unless, of course, they decide to report our presence to the Eirdkilrs.

That thought gave him pause. If the people in those longhouses were Tauld and they alerted Tyr Farbjodr to the strangers riding across the Wastelands, the Eirdkilr commander would flood the tundra with his warriors to hunt them down. Their best hope lay in getting past the settlement unseen.

Easier said than done, unfortunately.

Aravon’s eyes traveled south of the settlement, where a ribbon of dark black was just visible on the southern horizon—almost certainly an icy river cutting through the tundra. If the Grim Reavers tried to head south, they could find their way barred by the river. They’d lose precious hours, perhaps even days, trying to find a crossing. Worse, they might have to backtrack and pass the Tauld anyway.

North of the settlement, however, the land was empty and featureless, far too flat for the Grim Reavers to simply ride past unseen. They’d have to detour far north, perhaps as much as ten miles, to evade the Tauld.

A thought struck Aravon, and he glanced at the sky. The afternoon light had just begun to take on the garish hue that preceded sunset. Threads of orange, gold, and crimson splashed across the clouds as the sun made its final descent toward the horizon.

So be it. It was the best way forward.

“Here’s the plan,” he told the Grim Reavers. “We rest here until near-dark, then we ride past the settlement to the north, as close as we can while still remaining out of sight.” He gestured to the river in the distance. “We’re not going to waste our time trying to find a way across the river, and it’s not worth riding far out of our way to take a detour.” By his calculations—confirmed by Colborn and Noll—they’d traveled close to eighty miles that day, far too few if they wanted to reach Praellboer before Tyr Farbjodr unleashed his armies on Fehl.

Colborn’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe we don’t have to avoid the village altogether.” He glanced at Rangvaldr. “When darkness and the cold come, they’ll likely shut themselves inside their longhouses, yes?”

The Seiomenn nodded. “When winter came to Bjornstadt and the nights grew cold, we would retreat into the warmth inside the longhouses and spend our nights singing, drinking, eating, and telling the stories of our ancestors.”

Belthar groaned. “Don’t talk about food now, Seiomenn.” His stomach grumbled. “We’ve had nothing but trail rations for far too long.”

“Which is exactly why I suggest reconnoitering the Tauld settlement.” Sly humor sparkled in Colborn’s eyes. “Might be we’ll find some food, not to mention more furs and maybe even some boots.” He gestured to his fur-wrapped foot.

The Grim Reavers exchanged glances. The prospect of food held undeniable appeal, and more furs to keep out the cold were always welcome.

All but Rangvaldr seemed excited by the prospect. The Seiomenn’s eyes had darkened and a worried hunch settled onto his shoulders.

“What’s the matter?” Aravon asked.

“Back at Highcliff Motte, you saw how little the Tauld there had.” Rangvaldr spoke slowly, his words measured and pensive. “Life in the Wastelands is hard, and food is beyond scarce. If we take what they have…” He signed. “The idea of starving and freezing to death in this barren land of ice holds no appeal to me, but I doubt they want it, either.” His gesture made it clear who he referred to by “they”.

The words surprised Aravon, though on second thought, he realized they shouldn’t have. Rangvaldr had always been a good-hearted man. He genuinely cared for people—not just his own Eyrr, but all Fehlan clans, even those like the Jokull that had aligned with the enemy, and the Princelanders. Was it so impossible to believe his concern extended to the Tauld...perhaps even the Eirdkilrs?

“Our mission demands that we survive long enough to put down Tyr Farbjodr. I can accept that necessity, yet I cannot stop believing that we must be better than the Eirdkilrs.” Rangvaldr studied them all in turn, his gaze piercing and intense. “We will not pillage and plunder as they do. If we are to take from this settlement, let us not take so much we cause them suffering.”

Aravon considered the words. He couldn’t argue with the Seiomenn. “So be it.” He looked to the Grim Reavers. “Check your supplies, and see how much food we’ve got.”

It took less than five minutes to get the total count—less than one day’s worth of food. It would take two days of hard travel to reach Praellboer, and who knew how much longer to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr. And after? That thought was on everyone’s mind, but no one voiced it. They had brought supplies enough to get them into position to eliminate the Eirdkilr commander. What came next, only the gods knew.

“We take what we need,” Rangvaldr repeated, a grim light in his eyes.

“What we need, and no more.” Aravon turned to his Grim Reavers. “But we’re not all going in. Colborn, take Lingram, Skathi, Belthar, and Zaharis and wait for us southeast of the settlement. Far enough away to stay out of sight in the darkness, but close enough you can lend support should anything go wrong.”

The Seiomenn’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing. Keeper knows I don’t want to fight, Aravon thought, but I’m not going to take any chances.

Colborn and the others named nodded.

“Noll, Rangvaldr, you’re with me,” Aravon said. “We go in as quietly as we can, get what we need, then get the bloody hell out.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Darkness hung heavy and thick over the Tauld settlement, a blanket of gloom barely repelled by the light of the stars shining in the heavens. No fires burned outside the twelve longhouses—only a fool would waste the warmth, and fools didn’t live long in such harsh conditions. Judging by the thick plumes of smoke that rose periodically from within the wattle-and-daub buildings, fires burned bright and hot within the fire pits common to all Fehlan longhouses.

Up close, Aravon had a far better look at the longhouses. The Tauld built larger than the Eyrr and Fjall—fifty to seventy yards long, and up to twenty yards wide—perhaps housing two or three families in each building to conserve warmth. Judging by the ice-walled pen that held nearly two dozen of the shaggy-haired cow-like beasts identical to those he’d seen at Highcliff Motte, dry dung served as their chief source of fuel. The heat and light generated by dung paled in comparison to wood fires, but on the barren tundra, they had nothing else to burn.

Longhouses, by design, had no windows, nothing to let in the cold air or permit the warmth of the fires to escape. In place of wooden doors, heavy pelts were strung across the entrances at the front and rear of the longhouses. The thick furs—ice bear, chiefly, though Aravon was all but certain some of them belonged to the wooly ox-creatures standing placid and calm in the pens—kept in the heat but failed to muffle the sound of voices that drifted from inside.

Laughter, conversation, and even a song or two echoed within the longhouses. It seemed so strange to imagine the fur-clad giants as anything but the vicious, bloodthirsty killers he’d battled for fifteen years, and which had threatened the Princelands for over a century. But those were the Eirdkilrs, the ones that had taken up arms against the invaders. The people here, the ones scratching out a simple existence amidst that endless expanse of ice and snow, were Tauld. Save for their size and the fact that they lived south of the Sawtooth Mountains, they seemed as Fehlan as the people Aravon had met at Bjornstadt and Storbjarg.

These people were no warriors, no savage brutes howling at the lands of Fehl and the walls of the Legion garrisons. They doubtless fished from the river, tended to their shaggy-haired beasts, and carved their existence from the land that yielded far too little. Aravon could only begin to imagine how difficult life was here in the icy Wastelands—a life to which the Princelanders had condemned them centuries earlier—yet the laughter within the longhouses rang with genuine mirth, their songs as melodious and joyful as any Icespire tavern drinking song.

Such an odd realization, yet it served to drive home the truth of the war they fought. It wasn’t against an entire race of people, not even a clan. The Eirdkilrs, enraged by the actions of the Princelanders so many years ago, had taken up arms against their enemy. Yet to the rest of the world—the Eyrr, Deid, Fjall, Jarnleikr, Vidr, and, it seemed, the Tauld—life went on. Battles raged as battles tended to. Men and women died in combat or of old age. Seasons came and went, and still life went on.

That was what Duke Dyrund had realized. The war they fought wasn’t to achieve some high-minded aim. They didn’t battle to bring down a tyrant or liberate oppressed people. They fought an enemy that hated them for past misdeeds—an enemy they had made when they pushed the Tauld south of the Sawtooth Mountains—and who sought to escape a hell to which Aravon’s forefathers had condemned them.

Duke Dyrund had wanted to end the war with the Eirdkilrs because he had known that life needed to move on. For all on Fehl, the drums of battle needed to fall silent. With peace once more spread across the continent—perhaps even here, south of the Sawtooth Mountains—people that had known nothing but blood and death for centuries could have a chance at a fresh start. A better future. He had lived, strived, and fought for that end. He’d died doing everything in his power to make that dream a reality.

And now I carry on his dream for him. The thought settled over Aravon’s shoulders, a sobering reality. A year ago, he’d never have imagined anything beyond his job as a Captain, the burden of command, keeping his men alive long enough to get them home. He was a military man, through and through. The idea of something beyond the Legion of Heroes had never occurred to him.

Until the day Duke Dyrund stood by his bed and asked him to pledge his life and loyalty to something larger than the Legion of Heroes. Larger than Icespire and the Princelands, even. Duke Dyrund had opened his eyes to the greater picture, the full scope of the Eirdkilr War, beyond what he’d been able to see as Captain Aravon.

Every fight, every death, every painful loss had driven the point home further. The battle at Icespire had been the final straw. After seeing so much bloodshed, misery, and senseless deaths—the Eyrr at Oldrsjot, Draian at Bjornstadt, the miners at Silver Break and Gold Burrows, the Westhaveners and Legionnaires at Rivergate, the Fjall in Storbjarg and Hangman’s Hill, the Deid at Saerheim, the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve, and his own Princelanders in the capital city—he had lost all illusions as to the meaning of the war. Plain and simple, it came down to the Eirdkilrs’ hatred of the Princelanders, and the attempts of rich and powerful men to grow richer and more powerful.

Aravon had looked into Prince Toran’s eyes, had seen the pain there as he spoke the words of farewell to the brave men and women fallen in the battle for Icespire. He’d heard Duke Dyrund’s opinion on the Prince. If the opportunity arose to lay down arms and broker peace, he would take it.

The problem, then, was Tyr Farbjodr. The Eirdkilr commander had negotiated with Lord Eidan, but only with the intention of expanding his power and hastening the destruction of the Princelanders. He would never sue for an end to the war. He was the driving force behind the Eirdkilrs, the source of the plague that spread across Fehl—a plague of bloodshed, death, and battle.

The only way to put an end to this war was to take Tyr Farbjodr off the board. Perhaps then the Eirdkilrs might consider diplomacy. If not, losing their commander would weaken their army, throw them on the defensive as they hunted the enemies that had slipped behind their lines and assassinated their commander. Aravon and his Grim Reavers were buying the Princelands a chance for a better future, a future where the war ended. A world where his sons could grow up without worrying about howling savages, where the Legion of Heroes was no longer needed. Where brave men like Duvain, Endyn, and Corporal Rold could return to their homes across the water.

That was the world Aravon wanted. And he’d do his damnedest to bring it about, even if it meant giving his own life in the attempt.

But to make that attempt, they’d need to reach Praellboer and find Tyr Farbjodr. Without supplies, furs, and boots for Colborn, their chances of success—of ending the war—were nonexistent.

Aravon focused his eyes on his surroundings, scanning the moon-lit settlement for any sign of a smokehouse. A lumpy white shape between two longhouses caught his gaze. No smoke rose from within—a fire would melt the ice walls—but there were only a few reasons such a building of hard-packed ice would exist. Chief among them, the storage of foods best kept frozen.

He glanced at Rangvaldr and signaled at the building. “There?” he asked in the silent hand language.

The Seiomenn’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. Darkness made it hard for Aravon to see the man’s gestures, but Rangvaldr’s nod indicated his assent. It seemed the Seiomenn had come to the same conclusion as him.

Aravon drew in a breath and shot a glance at the shadows southwest of the village. Noll would be hiding in the darkness, waiting with the horses for a quick getaway. The scout would keep a close eye for any movement—either Aravon and Rangvaldr, or any sign the Tauld had detected their presence in the settlement. He and Rangvaldr had left behind spear and shield, carrying only swords. Neither had any desire to use them, but they couldn’t go into hostile territory unarmed.

Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon gestured for Rangvaldr to follow him, then slipped out of the shadows between the longhouse. Like every other Fehlan village or town he’d visited, the twelve longhouses were built around a broad open space in the heart of the settlement. A dark hole in the middle of the snow-covered square indicated the presence of a well—a far closer source of water than the river a mile to the south.

But Aravon and Rangvaldr steered clear of the main square, slithering through the night as close to the longhouses as possible. Though the journey around the open space would take far longer than crossing it directly, nearer the wattle-and-daub structures they’d be near enough to leap for cover in the shadows should anyone emerge from the longhouses.

Hundreds of hooves and heavy Tauld feet had churned the snow around the square to a slushy mud, but the wind whistling off the tundra covered the squelching crunch of the Grim Reavers’ boots. Long, nerve-wracking minutes passed as Aravon and Rangvaldr circled the open space, eyes darting between the twelve fur-covered openings to the longhouses.

Aravon forced himself to take long, steady breaths—holding in air always led to a too-loud, gasping exhale—and kept his pace slow. Hurrying now would only increase their chances of alerting the Tauld to their presence.

Light flared suddenly to his right, spilling out from one of the longhouses on the northern side of the settlement, across the square from him. Aravon and Rangvaldr threw themselves into the shadows of the nearest longhouse and pressed against the wattle-and-daub wall. The scent of dried and frost-hardened mud filled Aravon’s nostrils, and his pulse rushed in his ears, his heart hammering a nervous beat against his ribs. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the light.

A Tauld man appeared in the entrance and stepped out into the plaza. The bear pelts fell quickly shut behind him, leaving him alone in the moon and starlight of the open square. Heavy boots squelched and crunched loudly as the blond-haired giant strode toward the lumpy ice hut that had been Aravon and Rangvaldr’s destination. He disappeared within but reappeared a moment later, a long, dark shape slung over his shoulder. Meat, Aravon guessed, or a bloody large fish.

Despite his frustration at being forced to wait for the Tauld to disappear, triumph thrummed within him. He’d been right about the purpose of that building. Fehlans and Princelanders salted or cured their meat to preserve them, but with so much ice around, the Tauld could simply let their meat freeze. It would last far longer and remain fully edible even after months sitting on ice. The same couldn’t be said for the brined and smoked meats popular in the north.

Relief flooded him when the Tauld finally disappeared into his longhouse and the furs fell shut behind him, plunging the square into darkness once more. After a long moment of waiting—just to be sure no more Tauld emerged—Aravon gestured for Rangvaldr to move on.

“Collect the meat,” Rangvaldr signed. “I will find the rest of the supplies.”

With a nod, Aravon turned away and resumed his trek. He reached the lumpy ice hut within a minute and ducked into the cool darkness within. Aravon ran a hand along the wall. Damn! He grimaced beneath his mask. So this is how you build a proper ice hut.

The ice structure they’d built the previous night had been flimsy, crumbling far too many times before they finally managed to pack the snow together hard enough to stay up. These walls, however, were far stronger and more solid than Aravon expected—sturdy enough to withstand even the heaviest winds and snowfall.

But he quickly turned his attention away from the structure, instead focusing on what lay stored within. Meat, butchered and frozen. Fish, some smoked, some cured, some simply left to freeze in the cold. Something that looked revoltingly like Snarl—a snow fox, perhaps—or a gulon hung on an iron hook driven deep into the snow.

There were no vegetables or grains he could see—if such things could even be cultivated in this cold, they would doubtless be kept dry below ground—but there was meat and fish enough to feed the Grim Reavers.

Aravon had just reached toward the nearest haunch of what looked like cow—most likely from one of the shaggy-haired beasts in the ice pen—when light flooded the square behind him, and the squelching crunch of boots tramping across the slushy snow echoed loud across the open space.

He whirled, found a Tauld had emerged from the nearest longhouse. The giant strode straight toward him, eyes fixed on the darkness within the ice hut. The same darkness where Aravon now stood.

Chapter Forty-Five

Lightning crackled through every muscle in Aravon’s body, galvanizing him into motion. With a single bound, he leapt toward the nearest pile of meat and ducked behind it.

The crunching of snow grew louder as the Tauld approached. One slow, steady step at a time, in no apparent hurry. Aravon forced himself to take slow, silent breaths. His fingers toyed with the hilt of his sword. The giant had no light, but if he heard or sensed Aravon’s presence in the ice hut, he could raise an alarm.

Rangvaldr’s face flashed through Aravon’s mind. If the Seiomenn were here, he’d doubtless be staring at Aravon with hard, determined eyes. Rangvaldr would insist he avoid killing at all costs.

Aravon wanted that, too. He had no desire to leave Tauld corpses. Not only because the people living in this tiny settlement were civilians, but because it would draw attention to their presence.

Yet he couldn’t risk discovery. If it came to the man’s life or the success of Aravon’s mission, the scales tipped slightly—so very slightly, as if a feather rested on one side of the Watcher’s golden balance of justice—in favor of maintaining their presence a secret. Though it would grieve him to do it, Aravon would have no choice but to deal with him. A bloodless death, if possible. A snapped neck, covering his mouth with a hand to muffle his cries. The cold snow would hide his body long enough for Aravon and the Grim Reavers to flee.

But not if I don’t have to. Aravon forced his fingers to uncurl from around the sword hilt. Quietly pressed deeper into the shadows within the small ice hut, crouching behind a pile of frozen meat and fish. Please don’t make me have to!

The squelching crunch grew louder, until Aravon could hear the Tauld’s muttering. His harsh, guttural accent made it difficult to understand his words, but Aravon recognized a tone all too familiar to soldiers—the tone of a man grumbling his displeasure into the darkness, doubtless about the cold.

The muttering grew louder, echoing off the ice walls around him. Aravon’s heart hammered harder against his ribs. Blood rushed in his ears, so loud he feared the Tauld would overhear the thump, thump, thumping of his pulse. It was all he could do to remain motionless in his crouched position, every muscle still, and fight down the urge to burst out from the shadows, to fight, to flee.

The Tauld’s muttering continued for a long minute, accompanied by the loud, sharp thwack of sharp metal cutting into frozen flesh. Again and again, the sound growing meatier every time. Until finally the last thwack rang out and the muttering Tauld turned to crunch his way out of the ice hut. The sound of his complaints and squelching footprints grew quieter and quieter, fading into the distance, until Aravon could hear it no more.

Relief washed over him and he let out a long breath. He rose and found his knees shaking, his hands clenched so tightly into fists his forearms ached.

That was too damned close! Aravon swallowed, his mouth terribly dry in the cold. Better get what I came for and get the bloody hell out of here!

He scanned the dark shapes within the shadows of the ice hut, found the hunk of meat the Tauld had hacked at. The sizeable haunch would make the Grim Reavers a few good meals. Unfortunately, the meat would need to be cooked. On the tundra, they had no fuel to start a fire, and they couldn’t risk a light.

Instead, he filled his arms with fish—both frozen raw and salted. Salted fish, while very salty and less-than-appetizing, necessitated no cooking. As for the raw fish, Aravon had heard stories of Westhaven fishermen eating their catch fresh out of the ocean. Not the fanciest feast, but given their circumstances, the best solution they had.

Arms loaded down with meat, Aravon ducked out of the ice hut and slipped off into the shadows between the longhouses. He moved quickly and quietly toward the southeastern corner of the settlement. Less than a minute later, Rangvaldr appeared from the shadows, arms loaded with heavy furs. Without a word, the two set off toward the southwest, following the constellation Rangvaldr had called Nuius’ Hammer.

The wind picked up as they trudged through the snow. Without the longhouses for shelter, it howled and whirled around them, the cold slicing through the light Grim Reaver armor. Aravon clamped his jaw tightly shut to keep his teeth from chattering and forced himself to march faster. His warm furs waited with Noll and his horse. He just had to get there before the biting chill turned his inside to ice.

To his relief, Noll stood waiting at their prearranged locations, two hundred yards southeast of the settlement—far enough that the noise of the horses was lost beneath the wind, but close enough that the cold march through the ankle-deep snow didn’t seem utterly interminable. At Aravon’s hissed greeting, the scout lowered his bow and returned the nocked arrow to his quiver.

Aravon dropped his armload of salted and frozen fish into the cloak Noll spread out—they had no other way to carry it, and Annur wouldn’t need his spare cloak any longer—and bundled himself deep within his heavy bear pelt. Warmth slowly returned to his limbs as the furs blocked out the worst of the wind and chill.

“Fish?” Noll’s voice rang with a note of disgust. “You had to get fish!”

Aravon chuckled. “Better than meat we couldn’t cook or eat.”

Noll gave a loud groan. “Tell me you got something good,” he muttered.

From deep within his bundles of stolen furs, Rangvaldr produced two objects: a pair of boots and a leather waterskin that sloshed as he held it out to Noll. The scout pulled out the stopper and gave a sniff. “Faugh!” He recoiled, then sniffed again. “What is it?”

“Ayrag,” Rangvaldr answered, “or the Tauld’s version of it. Doubtless made from the milk of whatever those creatures penned up in the settlement were.”

The image of the shaggy-haired, horned cow-looking beast flashed through Aravon’s mind. Some distant relation to cows or oxen, perhaps. A source of meat, fuel—in the form of dung—and milk, it seemed.

Noll took a sip, hissed in displeasure then took another sip. “Not bad,” he finally declared. “After all these days of nothing but water, it’ll be nice to have something real to drink.” He turned to Rangvaldr, eyes sparkling. “I could kiss you, Seiomenn!”

“Don’t,” Rangvaldr warned him off with a glare. “You’ll make Belthar jealous.”

Laughing, Noll set about wrapping up the bounty of fish in the cloak and strapping the procured furs into place behind their saddles.

Aravon stepped toward his horse to help, but Rangvaldr’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Thank you, Captain.” Rangvaldr said in a quiet voice. “For being better.”

Aravon nodded. “We’re here because we want a better future for all of Fehl.” He rested a hand on the Seiomenn’s shoulder. “But that means we have to start being that better future ourselves before we can expect it of anyone else.”

Rangvaldr’s green eyes glowed in the starlight, shining as bright as his holy pendant. “Indeed.” He clapped Aravon on the back and turned away. No more words passed between them—none were needed. Rangvaldr knew Aravon had heard and understood him.

Less than a minute later, their newly acquired supplies strapped in place behind their horses, the three Grim Reavers mounted up and set off southwest to rejoin the others.

* * *

Despite the urgency crackling in his nerves, Aravon found it difficult to keep moving forward. Dawn had come and gone four hours past, and he guessed they’d covered the better part of fifty miles since riding away from the Tauld village. But between the fatigue of too many hours spent in the saddle and the blinding glare of daylight reflected off the snow, it proved a struggle to keep his eyes open. Only the exertion of lifting his body to match his horse’s rolling gait kept him from falling asleep.

The all-permeating cold had lessened slightly with the rising of the sun, but only a fraction. Even Aravon’s thick bear pelt couldn’t quite keep out the chill or the bite of the wind slicing through his armor and clothes to find flesh beneath.

He wasn’t alone in his misery. Snarl hadn’t attempted to fly since sunrise, but lay curled in Aravon’s lap, shivers racking his little body. He whined and tried to burrow deeper into Aravon’s furs to hide from the wind. It seemed his glossy, bright orange coat hadn’t grown thick enough to withstand the rigors of the Wastelands.

Though the Grim Reavers voiced no word of complaint, Aravon could see the exhaustion and cold was getting to them. They sat stiffer in their saddles, shoulders drooping with fatigue, spines stiff to stop themselves from sagging. Even the tireless Colborn seemed to be flagging.

For the fifth time in the last hour, Aravon glanced at the sky. Though clear blue shone high overhead, the clouds to the north worried him. The forbidding wall of dark, angry grey loomed larger with every passing minute, like the crest of an enormous tidal wave racing toward them. If they couldn’t outrun that storm, they’d have to find shelter before it struck.

But where? Save for the icy river snaking through the landscape south and east of them, the tundra was a featureless expanse of white. No hills to offer even the most pathetic wind-break, no gullies or valleys in which to seek cover from the storm.

The tension in Aravon’s shoulders tightened as they rode on. One mile, then two, and still no hope of shelter. Shadows spread across the tundra as the clouds swarmed across the face of the sun. First wisps of white that turned to light grey, then darkened to a deep, furious gloom.

Come on! Desperation set his stomach churning. And still nothing, nowhere to hide from the oncoming storm.

It seemed the world grew dark from one moment to the next. The cold cut deeper, the fangs of the biting wind sharpened, rose to a keening whine, then a shrieking howl.

Keeper’s teeth! Horror thrummed within Aravon’s bones. Snow swirled around them, intermingled with daggers of ice that slashed at his helmet, masked face, and gloved hands. The gale grew stronger and louder with every heartbeat, pulling at his cloak as if trying to drag him from his saddle.

Beside him, Captain Lingram reined in so suddenly Aravon had no time to slow.

“We’ve got to stop!” The shrieking wind nearly drowned out Lingram’s shouted words. “We need to dig down, make our own shelter before the storm hits us!”

Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Dig down? His mind flashed back to the Tauld ice hut. If they could pile the snow high enough, it might act as a shield against the wind. With their recently acquired ice bear pelts, they had a chance of weathering the storm.

“He’s right!” Aravon threw himself from his horse, dropped to his knees, and set about digging at the snow with the blade of his sword. The sharp steel cracked through the upper crust of frost with ease, exposing soft, powdery snow beneath. All around him, the rest of the Grim Reavers fell to the task, their movements frantic, driven by fear of the raging storm.

The storm grew fiercer, the wind howling louder, and the cold biting deeper with every heartbeat. Aravon tore his gaze from his task long enough to glance around, to search for his comrades. Driving snow and icicles enveloped him and blocked the others from view. Fear for them twisted in his gut but he had no time for worry—he had to focus on his own survival.

He dug with every shred of strength, carving out a hole large enough for him, Snarl, and his mount. Even the mighty warhorse couldn’t hope to weather the terrible gale. And Aravon and Snarl needed the beast’s warmth to stay alive.

Then came the driving piles of snow, falling so fast they seemed to fill the hole faster than Aravon could dig it. The cold cut through Aravon’s gloved hand, sank fingers of ice into his spine, and clawed at his skin. The wind howled and shrieked its fury, scrabbling at his mask, clawing at his cloak as if trying to strip him bare so it could tear his flesh to ribbons and strip it away until nothing but frozen bone remained.

Aravon abandoned the effort to dig. Stumbling to his feet, he scrambled toward his horse—barely visible two feet away—and fumbled at the straps holding his gear in place. Eventually he gave up, drew a dagger, and slashed the cords that bound the stolen Tauld furs to his saddle. Though it went against every instinct, he tore off his own brown bear pelt and spread it over the snow. A shivering, miserable Snarl dropped into the fur as Aravon then hauled on the horse’s reins. The horse knelt and lay down without protest, and Aravon scrambled to pull the treated ice bear pelt over their heads, curling up with Snarl against the horse’s belly.

Not a moment too soon. The wind blew with such force Aravon had to cling to the shaggy fur just to keep it from being dragged away in the gale. Shards of ice flew fast and furious, and the fur grew terribly heavy beneath the weight of the piled snow.

Please, Aravon prayed silently to the Swordsman, keep the others safe! Trapped in the darkness beneath what felt like a mountain of fresh-driven snow, that prayer was all he could do for his comrades.

Chapter Forty-Six

Time stood frozen as Aravon lay trapped within the cocoon of ice. Darkness consumed his world—he only knew his eyes were open when he felt the dryness bring stinging tears. The thump, thump of his pulse echoed loud in his ears, accompanied by Snarl’s quiet breathing and the occasional snort of his horse. The sweat-heavy scent of horse hung thick around him, and the warmth rising off Snarl’s furry body felt stifling when paired with the heat emanating from his horse. Surrounded by heavy furs, crushed beneath the weight of the snow mounded atop him, he could do nothing but wait.

Wait as the storm raged above his head. He could barely hear it—a thick layer of freshly-driven snow muffled the shrieking wind—but he could feel its intensity humming through his bones. If it couldn’t tear his flesh from his bones, it would bury him alive forever.

Worry twisted in Aravon’s gut. He hadn’t seen his fellow Grim Reavers get to shelter; the storm had been too thick, the swirling ice too dense, for him to see. He had no idea if the others had managed to dig deep enough. Even now, they could be battling the biting wind while he lay here, warm and comfortable between his furs. Worse, they could be dead, frozen in the chill, their blood turned to ice in their veins. What would he find when he emerged from his shelter? The air pressed in around Aravon, a suffocating, choking pressure that weighed on his chest and made it hard to fill his lungs. He pushed aside grisly images of death in the freezing cold—he had to trust the others were, too. He couldn’t allow himself to think the worst.

The battle ahead was already challenge enough. The eight of them prepared to take on an unknown force of Eirdkilrs in the closest thing the enemy had to a stronghold or capital. None of them knew how large Praellboer was, or how many Eirdkilr warriors would be waiting there. All they knew was that Tyr Farbjodr would be there. It fell to them to find their enemy and take him down at any cost. It was what Duke Dyrund had gathered them to do.

Thoughts of the Duke brought back the familiar pang of sorrow. Though Aravon had said his final farewell to the man’s gravestone, the pain of that loss hadn’t truly faded. He could ignore it most of the time—strict focus on the mission kept all other thoughts at bay. But in times like these, the quiet moments, the grief and anguish returned.

Aravon had known few truly good men in his life. General Traighan might have counted—the Princelands certainly seemed to believe him worth their reverence—but Aravon had never truly known the man he called Father. He’d known officers in the Legion that were loyal, trustworthy, brave, perhaps even honorable.

But good? Men like that were few and far between. Rangvaldr counted among that small number. Perhaps that was why his god had chosen him to serve as Seiomenn of the Eyrr. From what Aravon had seen of Prince Toran, he seemed a good man, too.

Duke Dyrund, though, Aravon had known well. The Duke had been a good man to the core of his being—for all his faults and failings, he had a heart as noble, courageous, and upright as the heroes spoken of in the legends of Einan.

For all the Duke’s cunning, his sharp intellect, his understanding of politics and military tactics, it had been his heart that Aravon truly admired and grown to love. With Duke Dyrund’s death, the Princelands hadn’t just lost a man of power and influence—they’d lost a bit of the good that kept the world from descending into evil.

Evil like Hrolf Hrungnir, the Blood Queen, and Tyr Farbjodr.

Aravon had faced many Eirdkilrs across the battlefield, and he could recognize the distinction between a warrior fighting for honor, glory, blood, or vengeance and a cruel, bloodthirsty brute taking out their lust for violence and death on their enemies. Men like Asger Einnauga and the countless Eirdkilrs that had tried to kill Aravon were often simply fighting the war they’d been born into—just as Aravon, Colborn, Captain Lingram, and countless other Princelanders and Einari.

But there would always be those who used war as an excuse to unleash their innate cruelty. Hrolf Hrungnir hadn’t just defeated Sixth Company in the ambush on the Eastmarch—he’d massacred them, slaughtered them to a man. When he attacked Bjornstadt, he’d fully intended to punish the Eyrr. Men, women, and children, all would have died to send a message to the other Fehlan clans.

The Blodsvarri had achieved victory over Eirik Throrsson, forcing him to surrender or die in battle. But instead of capturing the Fjall or even executing them, she’d reveled in the torture and gore of the Tolfreadr. That sort of inhuman cruelty could never be anything short of evil—not some supernatural concept, like the demons of old, but the evil that pervaded the hearts, minds, and souls of humans and caused them to inflict such horrors on their fellows.

And Tyr Farbjodr was the worst of the lot. It had been his strategy that led to the attacks on civilians at Silver Break, Gold Burrows, Steinnbraka Delve, Saerheim, Oldrsjot, and the countless other Fehlan villages, towns, and settlements ravaged by the Eirdkilrs. It had been his authority that gave the Blood Queen command of the Eirdkilrs, by his allowance that she unleashed her brutality on the Fjall. And his had been the mind to plan and execute the attack on Icespire. Tens of thousands of Princelanders—civilian and soldier alike—had died. All so he could cripple the Princelanders’ power and instill holy terror in the invaders.

Had Duke Dyrund been alive, he would never have suggested any tactics that could lead to such mayhem, turmoil, and misery. He’d planned battles that led to the deaths of thousands of soldiers on both sides of the field, but only a truly cruel mind would plan to kill civilians. From what the Black Xiphos mercenaries had said, Duke Dyrund had risked his own life to help protect civilians.

The equation was simple: if Tyr Farbjodr lived, many more innocents would die. Killing him might not end the war, but it could go a long way toward ending the cruelties his armies inflicted, doubtless on his orders.

Perhaps the next Eirdkilr commander would be less ruthless, less willing to spill innocent blood. At the very least, he might be less capable, and the Legion and Fehlan warbands would be more effective at combatting their attacks. All that mattered was that the Grim Reavers’ actions now would put an end to the evil pouring into the world through the mind and actions of Tyr Farbjodr.

Even if it costs us our lives. He’d prepared himself for death the moment he determined to ride out of Icespire. A selfish part of him had hoped his Grim Reavers would stay—he had no desire to lead any of them to their deaths—but only a fool would try to attempt this mission alone. He knew it, they knew it, and they had joined him without hesitation.

The journey to get here had come at a cost. Eleven Legionnaires lay dead, leaving Lingram a Captain with no soldiers. They were all exhausted, wounded, and suffering the cold, hunger, and thirst. Yet they were here. Alive, still far from their target, yet filled with determination and the hope that they’d reach Tyr Farbjodr with strength enough to put him down once and for all.

And after? None of them would speak or think of after—they’d all resigned themselves to the hands of their gods, the fate that awaited them once they fulfilled their mission.

Snarl shifted against his chest, gave a little whining bark, and his body tensed. A moment later, the Enfield’s head lifted, furry ears brushing against Aravon’s neck. Something wet and rough rubbed Aravon’s skin—Snarl’s tongue—and again the Enfield whined. Paws digging into Aravon’s armor, Snarl clambered onto his chest and pushed against the furs atop them.

For a moment, confusion hummed within Aravon. He had no idea what Snarl wanted—perhaps the Enfield had grown tired of being confined within their underground burrow and was going stir crazy. But if he tried to dig his way free, they’d both be caught in the storm. Even Snarl’s thick fur couldn’t hope to survive that piercing storm for long.

Then something struck him. He listened, ears straining to hear even the slightest howling of wind. Nothing. Of course! Aravon’s eyes widened in the darkness. Snarl had ears far keener than any human’s. He can hear the storm has stopped.

He didn’t know for certain, but for the last minutes—or hours, Aravon couldn’t be certain—Snarl had been subdued and remained quiet, resting against Aravon’s chest. He’d been as afraid of the storm’s fury as the horses and the Grim Reavers. He’d only perk up and try to claw his way to freedom if he no longer felt that fear. He’d know when it was safe to come out of his burrow.

Aravon struggled to shift, but the weight of the snow pressed down on the fur covering him. He managed to turn onto his back, to scoot into the space just beside his horse’s rounded back. The smooth, round wood of his saddle horn dug into his spine and back muscles as he squeezed as close as he could manage. There, the horse’s bulk took the pressure off him, just enough that he could roll over onto his stomach, then rise to his hands and knees.

Arching his back, he pushed upward with his limbs. The weight of the snow-buried fur refused to budge, no matter how he strained and heaved with every shred of strength. Finally, he gave up the attempt and slumped onto his stomach, gasping for breath. The heat within the tiny fur-lined cocoon set sweat streaming down his back and his face. Panic clawed at his mind—he had to get out of here, had to find a way to reach the surface.

But how? Buried beneath the Keeper knew how much snow and ice, he could waste his energy trying to shove the snow aside. No, if he was going to get out of here, he’d have to work smart.

The snow was too deep for him to simply push it off from atop him. That meant he was buried at least two or three feet below the surface. His best hope, then, was to take a page from Snarl’s fox kin and dig his way out.

This time, instead of trying to push upward, he dragged himself forward, his fingers feeling blindly along the furs until his gloved hands found the rough edges and the snow beyond. Bloody cold, but it hadn’t been packed too thick. With a smile, he began to dig.

Forward first, one measly handful of snow at a time. He shoved each handful off to the side, pushing it out of his path. His horse snorted in irritation as it was buried beneath the dislodged snow, but it was trained well enough to remain still until it heard the command to rise. Aravon tried his best to keep the snow away from the horse as he dug toward the surface. One foot became two, and the arm-wide tunnel expanded to a space the breadth of his head, then his shoulders.

The snow shifted and collapsed, burying Aravon’s arm to the elbow. Yet it was loosely packed, easy enough to scoop to the side and out of the way. Into the narrow space Aravon squeezed his upper body, twisting as he moved until he could sit upright. This proved a foolish choice, as every attempt to dig upward brought more snow raining down atop him.

Idiot! He cursed as he shook his head to clear a pile of powder from his eyes. Digging straight up to the surface would do him little good—he needed to work at an angle gentle enough that he could worm his way out without bringing the snow down atop his horse and Snarl.

To his surprise, a strange scratching echoed from beside him. He had no idea what it was until Snarl’s fur tickled his neck. The Enfield’s taloned claws dug deep into the snow as Snarl scratched his way up Aravon’s angled tunnel and disappeared into the darkness. Even as Aravon began to dig upward, a thread of light blossomed above him. A moment later, Snarl’s body disappeared from sight, and a stream of grey sunlight streamed down the tunnel.

Aravon blinked, blinded by snow and the sudden brilliance. Yet he couldn’t help marveling at Snarl’s impressive digging ability—the Enfield had clawed his way to the surface in a fraction of the time it had taken Aravon to hollow out enough space for his upper body.

To his surprise, the hole into open skies hovered just a foot or so beyond the length of his outstretched arms. He began clawing at the snow around him, pulling it down faster and faster as he dug toward that glorious stream of daylight.

He scrambled out of the hole less than a minute later, gasping for air, his fingers chilled and going numb, yet no less triumphant. Rising slowly, he looked around him, searching for any sign of his comrades.

The world had gone white. Endless mountains of fresh-driven snow disappeared to the horizons—a horizon thick with light grey clouds that hung as thick and heavy as a fog over the heavens. The dark, angry clouds had disappeared, the storm’s wrath spent. Snarl’s bright orange-and-white fur served as the only spot of color in the unbroken landscape of pristine white.

Dread coiled like a serpent in Aravon’s gut. Without the sun, landmarks, or any idea which direction they’d traveled, he had no idea how to figure out where the other Grim Reavers had been positioned before the storm hit. He could spend an eternity digging into the snow and still never find them. Unless they found their own way free of the snow, he had little hope of finding them.

But he could find his horse. Kneeling, he set about widening the hole and clearing away the top layers of snow over the spot where his mount lay. He guessed their little cocoon of fur was roughly three or four feet beneath the surface. It took him the better part of five minutes of scraping the snow away with the blade of his Fehlan-style longsword before he saw any sign of movement. At his whistled command, the horse rose, bursting through the snow. A few minutes of effort later, and the mount, furs, and gear had all been pulled free of the now gaping chasm in the snow and stood on ice-covered ground.

One problem down, he thought. On to the next.

He drew in a deep breath to shout, but stopped himself. No way they’d hear him buried beneath the snow. He’d have to find another way to let them know the storm had died. He listened. Nothing. No sound of scratching or even a hint of movement that indicated they were trying to dig their way free.

His mind raced. How the bloody hell am I going to find them in all this? Gritting his teeth, he set his mind to figuring out the problem of finding his comrades.

Snarl solved the matter for him. The little Enfield was a few paces to Aravon’s left, yipping and barking eagerly as he clawed at the fresh-driven snow. His sharp talons had already dug down a good foot-and-a-half. With surprising speed, he raked at the white powder, his back legs sending it flying behind him. All the while, he kept up a steady stream of happy yipping.

Aravon slogged toward the Enfield. With every step, his heavy boots cracked through the thin layer of ice, burying his legs to mid-calf. By the time he reached Snarl, the little creature had dug a three-foot hole into the snow, enough for Aravon to recognize the rough texture of snow-covered fur.

“Hello in the hole!” he called out. “Nap time’s come and gone. Time to get a move on!”

The furs shifted, and a head of fiery red hair appeared in the hole. Skathi emerged, blinking at the brightness, and accepted his hand up to help her out. Something grunted beneath her as she stepped out. A moment later, Belthar burst up from the snow, spraying powder in a wide arc around him like some shaggy bear emerging from hibernation.

Aravon’s eyebrows rose behind his mask, but he said nothing. Neither of the two Grim Reavers seemed inclined to speak, either. Skathi swept Snarl up into a hug, and the Enfield nuzzled happily into her neck with a happy barking, his pink tongue licking at her face.

Aravon offered a hand into the hole and dragged Belthar onto a section of snow he’d packed as solid as he could.

“Good to see you in one piece, Captain,” the big man rumbled.

“And you, Belthar.” Aravon clasped the big man’s hand. “And here I was worried you might have frozen off something important.”

Belthar’s mask hid his face but failed to conceal the deep, dark flush that rose to his neck. “Er…n-no, sir.” He shot a sidelong, almost embarrassed glance at Skathi, then quickly looked back at Aravon. “The, uh, horses kept us pretty warm.”

“I’ll bet.” Aravon’s tone was bland, his eyes revealing nothing. “Dig out your horses while Skathi and I find the others.”

“Aye, Captain.” Belthar turned back to the hole and set about widening it to make way for the horses. It seemed they, too, had possessed the presence of mind to spread out the furs above and below them as Aravon had. That and each other’s warmth had kept them alive.

“Go, Snarl!” Skathi said. “Find the others.”

At her command, the little Enfield leapt from her arms and promptly disappeared in a puff of snow. He reappeared a moment later, shaking his bright orange head and flapping his wings to clear off the powdery snow. A half-hop, half-glide brought him to another patch of fresh-driven white, and he set about digging.

Aravon slogged toward the spot, Skathi at his side. “Good to see you both alive,” Aravon said in a quiet voice. “And Belthar still in one piece.”

Skathi shot him a sidelong glare. “Next time, I’ll keep Snarl, and you get Belthar.” Her words lacked any real barb or edge of scorn.

“No deal!” Aravon laughed aloud, throwing up his hands.

Following Snarl’s example, he and Skathi set about digging at the spot where the Enfield clawed at the snow. Noll, Colborn, and Captain Lingram had huddled together, four horses and a pile of the heavy ice bear pelts stolen from the Tauld village keeping off the cold. Skathi set off after Snarl the moment the Enfield bounded away. By the time the three Grim Reavers emerged from their snowy cocoon, the archer had found Rangvaldr and Zaharis and set about digging them free.

Relief flooded Aravon at the sight of his Grim Reavers. The cold hadn’t done them any favors, but a few of them—Colborn, Noll, and Captain Lingram—actually appeared rested, as if they’d used their time trapped beneath the earth to doze. It was ever the soldier’s way to sleep as and when they could.

“Anyone in need of healing?” Aravon asked.

“My nostrils!” Colborn gave a theatric groan and pressed his hand over his masked face. “You’ve no idea how many times I nearly decided to get out of that miserable hole. Death by icy storm has to be better than smelling Noll’s boots for that long!”

“Aww, Lieutenant, and here I thought we were bonding over our shared love of rotten feet.” Noll’s tone held an edge of mock outrage. He gestured at Colborn’s new footwear—soft-soled boots made of the strange shaggy-haired bovine’s hide—courtesy of the Tauld. “You get a new pair of boots, and all of a sudden you’re too good for bad smells?”

Captain Lingram elbowed the scout in the ribs. “You left bad behind years ago, Noll! Those boots could defeat an Eirdkilr horde on their own. Send them into battle and we’d never need to fight again.”

Noll drew himself up and spoke in a haughty tone. “An effective Grim Reaver uses every weapon at his disposal.”

Captain Lingram and Colborn laughed, and Noll joined in. The sound—mingled with the grunts and groans of Belthar, Skathi, Rangvaldr, and Zaharis digging their horses free—washed over Aravon and filled him with relief. They had come out of the storm alive and little worse for the wear. Colder, certainly, but oddly well-rested. The tiredness numbing his mind and slowing his muscles had gone. Even Rangvaldr appeared to have shaken off the fatigue that had settled in after he healed Colborn’s foot.

His momentary relief soured in his gut as bright daylight streamed through the thinning clouds. The sun had passed its zenith more than two hours earlier and would set within four or five hours. They’d lost nearly half a day to the storm.

“Come on,” he said, a new urgency ringing in his voice. “We need to get riding. We lost too much time to that storm.”

That stopped the laughter cold, sobered up the Grim Reavers in a heartbeat. They set about the task of freeing the horses and collecting their gear with a determined energy.

Aravon slogged back to his own hole and hauled out the two bear pelts. He spared a moment of gratitude to the Tauld—their furs had saved his life and the lives of his Grim Reavers. If he had a chance, he’d find a way to repay the debt he owed them.

The eight of them mounted up and rode out five minutes later, gear and spare pelts securely strapped behind their saddles, weapons within easy reach. The wind had lost its biting edge, though the cold still set Aravon’s eyes watering as they raced across the rolling landscape of white.

With the passage of the storm and the clouds, the Wastelands took on a strange allure. The light of the afternoon sun shimmered over the pristine white expanse, reflected off the icy rime and sparkled like billions of tiny diamonds scattered across earth untouched by humans. Even though the glare soon hurt Aravon’s eyes, he couldn’t help marveling at the still, silent beauty of the tundra. The land was at once savage, unforgiving, and utterly exquisite, like a fresh canvas ready for the hand of a master painter.

As the sun slowly descended toward the horizon, the landscape turned into gently rolling dunes broken up by a single sinewy thread of black—the same river they’d seen south of the Tauld village. The thick fog that encircled them parted, revealing the Sawtooth Mountains far to their north.

Yet something about their position seemed wrong. Aravon could sense it, even before Colborn reined in and turned back to him. “We’re off course,” the Lieutenant said.

Aravon’s gut clenched. “You’re sure?”

The Lieutenant nodded and pointed to the sun. “If we were on a proper southwestern course, it would be farther to our right. We’d be riding away from the mountains, too, rather than alongside. Or worse, we might be riding toward the mountains.” His finger lowered to the river. “We’ve been unconsciously following the river northwest.”

“Damn.” Aravon gritted his teeth. “How far off course are we?”

Colborn glanced at Noll. The little scout’s eyes had gone dark with worry. “Ten miles.” He shook his head. “Maybe more.”

Aravon grimaced. They’d already been cutting it dangerously close before the storm had wasted half a day. A ten-mile detour would cost them two hours, but every hour would prove precious. They’d need all the time they could get to reach Praellboer—still more than a hundred miles away—and find a way to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” Colborn continued.

“It gets worse?” Zaharis’ hand gesture was sharp, scornful.

“We need to get across the river.” Colborn gestured to the ribbon of black cutting through the pristine white landscape.

Aravon grimaced. Of course we do. He’d gotten a good look at the river a half-hour earlier—the current was fast enough to churn the ice-cold water to white. Worse, rocks jutted up from the depths, and large chunks of ice—heavy enough to crush bone or knock a horse off its feet—were borne downstream on the racing flow.

“What are the chances we can ford it?” he asked Colborn and Noll.

“About as good as Belthar’s chance of skipping a meal at the Prince’s table.” Even the joke failed to crack the grim worry that darkened Noll’s eyes.

“Even if the river wasn’t too deep for the horses to cross, it’s cold enough that it’ll kill us before we make it to the far bank.” Colborn shook his head. “Our only hope is to find someplace to cross it ahead.”

Aravon heard the grim tone of the Lieutenant’s voice. “Which means going even farther off course.”

Colborn nodded. “I’ve no idea how far, but yes, we’re going to have to head northwest with the river until we find a crossing.”

He left the if unspoken. The river flowed southeast, which likely meant it originated somewhere in the Sawtooth Mountains. There existed a possibility that they’d have to ride all the way back north to the mountains before they found someplace safe to cross. They would end up scores of miles out of the way—too far to even hope to find Praellboer before the Feast of Death in two days’ time.

Yet what choice did they have? Aravon wouldn’t risk his soldiers’ health or the horses trying to swim the freezing, fast-flowing river. Their only option was to ride northwest and hope they found somewhere safe to cross.

Every one of the Grim Reavers understood what that meant. They hunkered lower in their furs, gripping reins tighter, and adjusted their feet in their stirrups. Aravon didn’t need to give the order to ride; Colborn set off at a fast pace, pushing the hungry, tired horses as much as they’d allow. The remaining soldiers fell into place in their column without a word.

The journey northwest along the river seemed to drag on for an eternity. Every crunch of his horse’s hooves digging into the snow tightened the knots in his spine and shoulder. They served as a reminder that they drew farther and farther away from their target. They could very well run out of time, and not a damned thing any of them could do about it.

A faint hope blossomed within him as the black ribbon of water suddenly ended at a vast expanse of white. Dark threads shone through at various spots in the ice covering the frozen-over river, but the farther west they rode, the thicker the ice grew. Finally, nothing but snow-covered ice stood between them and the opposite bank, and Colborn called a halt.

Colborn and Noll dismounted and strode toward the edge of the frozen river. The two crouched low, studying the ice, testing it with a hand first. Noll placed a foot on the ice, shifted his weight. No loud crack. No sudden collapse of ice. He placed another foot, then walked a few paces away from the shore.

“Well?” Aravon asked.

“It’s definitely ice,” the scout called back.

Aravon snorted. “Thanks for that keen insight, Noll.”

Noll swept a mocking bow. “Anytime, Captain.”

“What the buffoon means to say,” Colborn growled, “is that it appears solid, but it’s bloody tricky.” He joined Noll on the ice, gingerly walking out a few paces. “Ice that appears solid and thick can give way at a moment’s notice.”

“Best way to do this is to cross on foot.” Noll was all business, the sardonic edge gone from his tone. “With the horses far enough behind to spread out the weight.”

“And a good ten or twenty feet between us,” Colborn added. “Maybe even using rope to secure us to each other in case the ice cracks.”

Aravon nodded. “Let’s do it.”

The eight of them dismounted and set about preparing for the crossing. Out came the ropes they’d used to string together the horses in the underground mines. Ten-foot lengths secured the Grim Reavers to the horses, with twenty-foot lengths between each horse.

All the while Aravon worked on securing his gear and lashing the rope to his horse, Snarl had remained seated behind his saddle, swathed in the heavy furs. He seemed disinclined to move and whined when Aravon reached up to lift him down. Once out from under the heavy bear pelts, he shivered and whined louder, tried to nuzzle into Aravon’s cloak.

Damn, Aravon thought as he held the Enfield close, stroking the soft orange fur. This cold must really be getting to him.

He had little understanding of how well an Enfield’s fur insulated it from the cold, but it was clear the icy chill of the Wastelands was taking a toll on Snarl as much as on any of them.

Cradling Snarl in his arms, he directed the Grim Reavers’ crossing. Noll went first, the lightest of them to test the ice. Halfway across, he turned back. “Careful here,” he gestured to a spot vaguely off to his right. “Ice thins out a bit here. Stay clear just in case.”

Aravon finally let out a breath as Noll hopped onto the opposite bank and dragged his horse up behind him. It felt as if an hour had passed in the two or three minutes it had taken the scout to cross the forty-odd yards to safety.

He sent Colborn next, along with the extra mount that carried all their supplies. Rangvaldr followed, with Captain Lingram on the Seiomenn’s heels.

Then came his turn to make the crossing.

Aravon set a whining, shivering Snarl down. “Fly, boy.” He spoke the command word to set the Enfield airborne. Snarl alone among them had no need to fear the ice.

To his relief, Snarl spread his eagle’s wings and took off. He flapped hard to gain altitude and glided the two score yards across to the opposite bank.

Drawing in a hesitant breath, Aravon stepped gingerly onto the ice. It held fast. No sudden crack as he placed first one foot, then the other. Still nothing as he pulled on the rope that secured him to his horse and the mount plodded along in his wake.

Step by nerve-wracking step, he crossed the river. One foot in front of the other, he told himself. Slow and steady. He kept his movements small, his spinal muscles tight to maintain balance. Though a layer of snow covered the ice and gave him decent traction, one slip could bring him down hard. Hard enough to crack the frozen layer atop the river and send him plummeting into the icy depths.

His gut tightened as he drew nearer the section where Noll had indicated the ice was thinnest. He could actually see the river rushing through a dangerously fragile-looking section—like the pane of Lord Aleron Virinus’ crystal glass windows. He gave it a wide berth, his eyes locked on the opposite shore. He glanced back only once—just long enough to catch sight of Zaharis crossing in his wake, and Skathi preparing to make the journey behind the Secret Keeper.

Solid ground drew slowly nearer. Twenty yards became fifteen, then ten. Twenty feet, ten feet, five. Relief flooded him as he reached up to take Colborn’s outstretched hand and clamber onto the bank.

A terrible crack echoed behind him, as loud as the concussive blast of Zaharis’ Earthshakers. Aravon spun toward the sound in time to see a monstrous figure of white burst through the section of thin ice. Water and glassy shards sprayed in every direction as the creature splashed onto the frozen surface of the ice.

Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s breath froze in his lungs. An ice bear!

The massive beast turned beady black eyes on Skathi and Zaharis. It reared to twice the height of a man and opened its mouth, revealing a powerful jaw filled with scores of razor-sharp teeth. With a deafening roar that thundered across the empty landscape, the ice bear charged the two Grim Reavers.

Chapter Forty-Seven

The ice bear was the largest creature Aravon had seen. The bear they’d encountered after fleeing Kaldrborg paled in comparison to this beast. On all four legs, it stood taller at the shoulder than one of the Kostarasar war horses, with shaggy, white fur-covered legs as thick as Aravon’s chest. Its head rivaled the size of Colborn’s round shield, its mouth filled with gleaming rows of razor-sharp teeth as long as a grown man’s hand.

But what terrified Aravon most was the ice bear’s speed. The creature had emerged from the ice not ten yards from Zaharis; it crossed the distance in four lumbering steps and leapt at the Secret Keeper. Zaharis had no time to turn his horse aside. It was all he could do to leap clear before the massive ice bear barreled into the mount. Enormous jaws clamped around the horse’s neck and an explosion of blood misted in the air, stained the ice a gory crimson. The horse managed a single chilling scream before the bear’s teeth bit clean through its spine and heavy neck muscles.

Even as the ice bear ripped the horse’s head off, it swiped out with a massive paw. The blow crashed into Zaharis’ chest and side before the Secret Keeper could move, sending him flying through the air to crash onto the ice twenty feet away.

The force of Zaharis’ hurtling body tugged on the rope that tethered him to Skathi, tugging her forward. Pulled suddenly off-balance, she staggered, her boots slipping on the ice, and fell hard, striking her head with a loud crack. Just three short paces from the ice bear.

Aravon tore his spear free of its place beside his saddle, but before he could race across the ice toward the enormous beast, the bear turned its attention toward Skathi. Beady black eyes fixed on the dazed archer and a thick white muzzle stained with blood opened. The horse’s head fell from between its teeth as it loosed a deafening roar that set the ice beneath Aravon’s feet trembling. With terrifying speed, the ice bear barreled toward the dazed archer and raised its paw to swipe down at her. A crushing blow that would shatter her skull and pulverize every bone in her body.

A bellowing roar answered the bear’s fury. Aravon had just taken his third pounding step across the ice when Belthar’s enormous bulk slammed into the massive creature mid-strike. The force of the big man’s charge knocked the ice bear back a single half-step. Furious, it reared on its hind legs once more, rising to tower over Belthar, twice his height. Massive, claw-studded paws swiped at Belthar’s head and chest.

But the big Grim Reaver didn’t back down. With a wordless shout, he ducked beneath the swiping claws and threw himself shoulder-first into the beast’s belly. The driving charge sent the beast staggering back again. A full step this time, widening the distance between the bear and the dazed Skathi.

Before Belthar could retreat, the bear locked its enormous arms around his back and crushed the big man to its chest. A loud gasp and cry burst from Belthar’s lips. Bone cracked audibly as the bear’s embrace snapped ribs.

Then Aravon was within striking distance. “Hyah!” he shouted. Drove his spear at the back of the bear’s enormous head. Odarian steel punched through fur and flesh but skittered off bone harmlessly. Before Aravon could pull back, an arrow hissed past his head and slammed into the bear’s furry back. This, too, struck bone, bouncing off its spine but burying deep into flesh. Two more missiles followed in the next heartbeat, punched through fur, found muscle and drew blood. Little more than irritating, but they served the same purpose as Aravon’s shout: they pulled the bear’s attention away from Skathi.

The ice bear turned, still reared up and standing on its massive hind paws, its beady eyes locked onto Aravon. It bared bloodstained fangs and loosed a deafening roar into Aravon’s face. Dropping Belthar, the ice bear dropped to all fours—his forepaws a hair’s breadth from crushing Belthar’s head—and barreled toward Aravon.

Raw, primal fear sank fangs deep in Aravon’s mind. For a heartbeat, terror at the sight of that massive predator rushing toward him froze him in place, the ear-splitting power echoing in that roar locking his muscles.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come. Aravon had to face the bear, had to run toward the beast rather than flee despite every instinct that screamed within him. He couldn’t outrun the bear—worse, if he tried to run, his friends died.

The ice bear bore down on him at the speed of a hurricane, all fur and teeth and fury. One snap of those jaws, one blow of those massive paws, and Aravon would be as dead as Zaharis’ horse.

But he had no intention of facing the beast in a direct charge. He just needed to get the beast far enough away from Belthar and Skathi.

Closer and closer, his heart beating so fast he felt it would rip free of his chest. Razor-sharp teeth, blood, and beady black eyes filled his vision. At the last second, he threw himself to the side and out of the path of the bear. He tucked into a roll and came to his feet. Slipped on the ice, fell hard, and struggled to rise once more. The ice bear skidded and slid ten feet past him before it managed to slow. The harsh skkkriitch of its claws digging into the ice jarred Aravon to the bone, but he had no time to think, to react as the bear wheeled and charged again.

Again, Aravon threw himself out of the bear’s path, but this time the bear anticipated his attack. Pain shot through Aravon’s knee—a claw clipping his leg—and he careened out of the controlled roll, landing hard. Hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. His face and head cracked off solid ice. The world spun in his vision, stars flashing before his eyes. Pain twinged in his knee, his calf, his thigh. Warm wetness trickling down his leg. His lungs refusing to draw breath.

He blinked hard, clearing his vision, in time to see the bear looming over him. Tall, a giant twenty feet tall, its vast bulk blocking out the light of the sun. Massive paws swiping down with crushing force toward his head.

Aravon threw himself to the side. The bear’s claws slammed into the ice barely a hand’s breadth from his shoulder. Aravon kept rolling, rolling, trying desperately to put distance between him and the enormous bear. Rose to one knee and spinning toward the massive creature, only to find his hands empty. His spear lay ten feet away—behind the bear that growled and snarled for his blood.

Horror twisted in Aravon’s gut. With frantic movements, he tore at the sword on his belt, struggling to draw it. In vain, he knew. The bear would hit him before he unsheathed it. Even had he managed to pull it free, the longsword would do little against the enormous beast.

The bear filled his vision. Aravon’s eyes locked with the bear’s—with those beady, dark eyes that stared at him with the cold calculation of a predator preparing to feast on its prey.

His time had come, Aravon knew. His friends and comrades were too far away. None of them could reach him before—

The bear’s claw descended toward his head.

A bright orange blur shot past Aravon’s eyes, swooped through the air in front of the bear’s enormous muzzle. Raking claws slashed out and blood sprang from six long furrows carved across the beast’s snout and eyes. Crimson blossomed dark against its white fur and trickled off its black nose. The bear’s attack flew high above Aravon’s head as the beast clawed at the little figure hurtling past. Struck empty air, Snarl’s wings carrying him out of reach. Another angry roar and the bear spun, tried again, swiping in vain at the Enfield.

Relief flooded Aravon—he still lived and Snarl swooped out of the bear’s reach, soaring high into the air on outstretched wings. Without hesitation, he rose to his feet and threw himself toward his spear. Took one step and sagged on his wounded knee. Agony shot through the leg and the joint gave way. He fell hard, rolled, and rose once more. Staggered on, stumbling and limping as fast as his injury permitted.

Just ten feet! His eyes locked on the spear. So close, yet it seemed an endless distance away.

Another angry roar and the hiss of an arrow skittering off the ice. Aravon risked a glance back, saw another missile thump harmlessly into the bear’s chest. Backed by the power of Noll’s horsebow, the arrows bounced off the bear’s thick hide and barrel ribs beneath. It did little more than irritate the already infuriated beast.

But again, that moment’s distraction bought Aravon time to act. He dove for his spear, snatched it up, and spun, lashing out in the same movement. The desperate slashing strike carved a deep gouge in the bear’s padded paw. Blood welled from the soft, dark pad and dripped onto the ice. Roaring its rage, the huge beast lunged toward Aravon.

Aravon threw himself to one side. His knee gave out halfway through the movement. His leg wobbled, stiffened, then failed. Aravon’s desperate dodge ended in a fall right in the bear’s path. The charging beast’s forepaw slammed into his breastplate. Air exploded from Aravon’s lungs and he found himself hurtling through the air. Flying a half-dozen yards before crashing onto the ice. Pain flared up and down Aravon’s spine and legs. He slid across the ice and ground to a halt not two paces from the still-dazed Skathi.

The bear reared up, sniffed at the air, turned to find its prey. Dark eyes locked on Aravon once more and the beast charged. Behind him, the figures of Colborn and Rangvaldr drew nearer—the two had drawn swords and shields to join the fight—but too slow. Aravon struggled to rise, but the pain in his back, knee, and head slowed his movements.

Ten steps before the bear reached him, Snarl swooped low again, raking his claws across the bear’s face. The ice bear roared and swiped at the Enfield, barely missed. Snarl winged away and circled back for another attack.

Shaking its shaggy head, the bear scrubbed a furry paw over its eyes, wiping away the blood trickling from its nose and forehead. Roaring its rage, it spun toward the retreating figure of Snarl, whipped toward Aravon, then spun back in search of Snarl.

Then the beast staggered forward as something slammed into its back. Belthar’s left arm locked around its neck, his legs wrapping around its barrel ribs. Roaring his rage, the huge Grim Reaver raised his huge axe and brought it down hard on the back of the bear’s head. Steel met bone and bounced off its skull, but blood welled from the wound. Again and again, Belthar slammed the axe down with all the strength of his massive arms.

The ice bear reared up, roaring its rage, and swiped at the figure clinging to its back. Dragged razor sharp claws across Belthar’s arm, slicing through leather armor and carving the flesh to ribbons. Belthar let out a scream of pain but held on tight, hacking, hacking, hacking. His axe rose and fell with impossible speed, and the blows grew meatier as he chopped his way through flesh and bone. His massive muscles corded with the effort of clinging to the bear’s back.

Snarl swooped past again, talons raking. Too close to the bear’s swiping paws.

“No!” The cry burst from Aravon’s throat. Horror writhed within his gut as Snarl spun through the air and slammed onto the ice. One wing snapped beneath the impact. Blood gushed from a long gouge along his soft underbelly. Crimson stained his orange fur and seeped onto the white snow. With a little whining bark, the Enfield tried to rise, failed, and fell back.

Rage blossomed within Aravon, drowned out his pain. He surged to his feet, snatched up his spear, and raced toward the bear, injuries forgotten. Ducking a wildly striking claw, he thrust out with every shred of strength. The tip of the spear darted toward the bear’s open maw and punched through the roof of the beast’s mouth. With a furious growl, he buried the spear to the crossbar until he felt the steel slice through the soft flesh of the bear’s brain.

The bear’s slashing claws struck reflexively once more, faltered. The cold light in its black eyes wavered. With a quiet, moaning groan, it toppled backward and crashed onto the ice. Right atop Belthar.

“Belthar!” Skathi’s shout came from behind Aravon. The archer, still dazed, staggered toward the downed bear, skidding and slipping on the ice. She barely missed falling into the open hole, her eyes were fixed on the massive corpse at Aravon’s feet. With a wordless cry, she threw herself onto the bear and fought to wrestle its enormous bulk off Belthar.

Colborn and Rangvaldr arrived in that instant and joined the effort. Aravon, staggered and half-stunned by the ferocity and speed of the attack and the pain of his wounds, barely had the presence of mind to pull his spear free of the bear’s brain before the three Grim Reavers rolled it to the side.

The sight of Belthar snapped him back to reality. The big man’s arm was a gory mess of shredded flesh, the bone of his forearm laid bare and the muscle falling away. Crimson gushed from the wound—only by a miracle the artery hadn’t been severed, but one wrong move and he’d bleed out. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His feet lay twisted at a terrible angle, the bones snapped or simply crushed flat by the bear’s bulk. The way his breath came in labored, gurgling rasps, at least one rib had been driven into his lungs.

Skathi dropped to one knee at the big man’s side. “You Keeper-damned idiot!” She grasped at his shoulder, but her hand slipped free, blood staining her palms and fingers. “What in the fiery hell was that? Throwing yourself into battle like that when you had a bloody crossbow!”

“No…time to…load.” Belthar gasped, gave a weak cough. Pain shone bright in his eyes as he struggled in vain to move. “Call it…a tactical decision.” Every breath cost him an immense effort. “If anyone… can take down…Farbjodr…it’ll be you.”

Whatever Skathi had been about to say died on her lips unspoken. She seemed at a loss for words, too busy trying to keep him from bleeding out to think of her usual clever, cutting retort.

“Besides...” Belthar groaned and lay back on the ice. “I couldn’t…just do nothing. Not while…you were…in danger.”

“You idiot!” Skathi snapped again, but her voice lacked any real barb. “You can’t do things like that!”

“Of course…I can.” Belthar gave a weak laugh. “It’s what you do…for people…you love.”

Skathi sucked in a sharp breath. “But…” Again, words failed her.

“Easy.” Rangvaldr knelt by the big man’s side. “Save your strength, Belthar.”

Belthar’s eyes darted toward the Seiomenn. “Had to…say it…just in case—”

“No!” Skathi’s voice cut into the big man’s words, cold and sharp. “Stop it with that shite!” Her eyes flashed and she gripped Belthar’s hand. “You’ve already died on me twice, you lummox. You don’t get to do that a third time, not after dropping something idiotic like that on me. Here, now.”

“It’s…true.” Belthar’s huge fingers closed around hers. “From the day…I saw you…at Camp Marshal…”

“I know.” Skathi’s voice was surprisingly gentle, and she reached her free hand down—blood and all—to run a hand along the side of his masked face. “And that’s why you’re going to shut your Keeper-damned mouth and let the Seiomenn work his magic on you. Keep you alive long enough to give me a chance to call you out for being a wool-headed fool.” She whirled on Rangvaldr. “Heal him!”

The Seiomenn had drawn out his pendant, but his eyes were grim as he stared down at Belthar. “Skathi, it’s—”

“Do it!” The archer’s shout echoed across the ice. “Please, Rangvaldr!” A pleading tone entered her voice. “Bring him back to me.”

Rangvaldr hesitated again. “But the Captain and Zaharis will—”

“No, Rangvaldr.” Aravon cut off the Seiomenn. “Use your strength to heal Belthar.” His head, wounded leg, and bruised spine would doubtless ache for a few days, but he could bear that pain.

Rangvaldr glanced at Zaharis. The bear’s attack had knocked the Secret Keeper down hard, and he stood hunched over his right side. Yet Zaharis, too, waved the Seiomenn on. “Do it.” He shook his head. “I’ve got nothing that won’t fix on its own.”

With a nod, Rangvaldr turned his attention to Belthar. The big man had gone silent, his eyes closed, though his chest still rose and fell. Barely. Aravon pressed two fingers to his huge, bloodstained neck. Belthar’s pulse was faint, thready.

“Do it quickly,” Aravon said. “He’s running out of time.”

Rangvaldr spoke the words of power that brought his holy stone to life, but paused with the pendant still held near his lips. “Captain, Colborn, grab his legs. When I tell you, set the bones back in place.” His eyes darkened. “It’ll hurt like the twisted hell, but it’s the only way he walks away from this.”

Aravon and Colborn took their places by Belthar’s legs. The bone in his right leg had been snapped in half, but the left leg was crushed, the flesh and muscle flattened. He would never have walked again—even now with Rangvaldr’s healing magic, he couldn’t be certain.

The gemstone flared to life, bathing the white ice with a soft blue glow—a glow that turned the bright red blood seeping from the shredded flesh of Belthar’s arm a hideous violet. Drawing in a deep breath, Rangvaldr lowered the gleaming stone to Belthar’s arm and closed his eyes.

Every muscle in the Seiomenn’s spine went rigid, and air hissed between his teeth. Belthar’s shoulders began to jerk and twitch and a tremor shuddered down his body to where Aravon gripped his legs. To his surprise, Aravon could actually feel something humming through the muscle and flesh beneath his gloved fingers. A slight tremor, like the way the ground quaked beneath the thundering hooves of distant cavalry. Yet there was no mistaking the crackling, simmering power transmitted through the holy pendant to heal Belthar.

The flesh of Belthar’s arm began to re-knit before Aravon’s eyes. The blood slowed to a seeping trickle, a few drops, then stopped altogether as skin re-knit and formed pink scars. The sight held him rapt, and in his astonishment, he nearly missed Rangvaldr’s barked command. “Now!”

Colborn’s movement snapped him back to reality, and Aravon gave a quick twist of Belthar’s foot. Bone snapped back into place with a gut-wrenching pop. Belthar’s eyes flew open and a shriek of pain burst from his lips. His screaming rose to a terrible crescendo until the merciful embrace of unconsciousness claimed him once more.

With every hammering beat of his heart, Aravon could actually feel the bone hardening and re-forming beneath his hands. The pulverized muscle and crushed flesh stiffened, grew strong once more, until Belthar’s thick legs were as solid as they’d been before the battle.

Rangvaldr slumped with a gasp, half-falling, but managed to catch hold on Belthar’s armor. His hands trembled as he steadied himself, fought to stay in his upright kneeling position. Exhaustion hunched his shoulders and back, but as he turned to Aravon, relief flooded his eyes. “He’ll dance again.”

Aravon let out a long breath. “And his arm?”

Rangvaldr nodded. “The muscle will pain him for a day or two, but it will heal.”

“Thank you!” Skathi gripped the Seiomenn’s shoulders hard. “Thank you!” She turned back to Belthar and leaned over him, pressing her masked face to his. Quiet words drifted from beneath her mask, her voice too low for any of the others to hear, intended for Belthar’s ears only.

Aravon and Colborn helped Rangvaldr to his feet, then moved away to give the two their space. Aravon glanced at the far shore, where Noll still stood with his bow in hand, Captain Lingram holding the reins of their horses. He gave them the hand signal for “all’s well”, and the tension drained from Noll’s shoulders.

That left just one member of their company. Zaharis remained hunched over, a hand pressed to his side.

Before Aravon could ask the Secret Keeper about his injuries, a quiet whimpering whine echoed from behind him. Snarl! He whirled, his eyes locking on the little orange figure behind him.

The Enfield was struggling to rise, but his right front leg hung at a terrible angle, his left wing drooping and the bone bent. Blood stained his orange fur along his side and seeped from the soft white of his underbelly.

No! Aravon raced toward the little Enfield and reached him just before Snarl collapsed. He scooped up the fox creature and cradled him as he’d cradled the infant Rolyn and Adilon.

“Easy, boy.” Tears blurred Aravon’s eyes and a lump thickened his throat. “Rest easy now. I’ve got you.”

Snarl ceased his struggling. With a little whine and a shiver, he nuzzled closer. Pain filled his amber eyes, but he stared up at Aravon with a look of utter trust.

“I’ve got you, Snarl.” Aravon turned against the wind, shielding Snarl’s body from the wind with his own. “You did good, boy. You did so good.”

He clutched the Enfield close to his chest, felt the beat of the little creature’s heart growing weak. Snarl lost a lot of blood—too much—and the cold only made things worse. Aravon stumbled toward Zaharis’ downed horse and tore at the furs strapped there until one came loose. He wrapped the heavy pelt around Snarl as another shiver racked the Enfield’s lean body.

In that moment, Aravon knew the Enfield was dying. Dying because of his loyalty and bravery. Snarl had attacked the bear—a creature far, far larger, stronger, and faster—to protect Aravon. Aravon would have died had Snarl not intervened when he did. Skathi, Belthar, Zaharis, too, most likely, as the bear would have gone after them once it finished tearing Aravon to shreds.

Snarl had seen the danger to Aravon and Skathi and flown into action without hesitation. He’d risked his life to protect his fellow pack mates.

A hand rested on Aravon’s shoulder. “I will do what I can with what strength I have left.”

Through the blur of tears, Aravon met the Seiomenn’s gaze. “But Zaharis—”

“Insists that I help Snarl.” Kindness shone in Rangvaldr’s eyes.

Aravon’s looked to the Secret Keeper.

Though Zaharis still struggled to stand upright, he signed without hesitation. “We all owe Snarl our lives a hundred times over. The least we can do is save his.”

Aravon wept, gratitude and relief surging within him. The thought of losing Snarl struck him a blow as visceral and real as if he’d been about to lose his sons, his wife, or any of the Grim Reavers. Snarl was family.

He stroked Snarl’s head, scratched the Enfield’s scruff, speaking soothing words in the fox’s ears as Rangvaldr once more spoke the words that brought the gemstone to life. Snarl gave only a little whine before closing his eyes and lying still in Aravon’s arms.

Long seconds passed before the light of Rangvaldr’s gemstone darkened, and the Seiomenn stumbled backward. He’d have collapsed if not for Colborn’s strong arms.

“I-I’m sorry.” Rangvaldr’s voice was weak, a hoarse rasp. “That is all…the strength left to me!”

But it was enough. Even as Colborn helped the Seiomenn to hobble back toward the horses, Snarl’s head perked up and his eyes popped open. The Enfield’s bright amber eyes fixed on Aravon’s face, as if surprised to find himself still alive. After a moment, he began to squirm and struggle in Aravon’s arms.

“Take it easy!” Aravon lowered him gently to the ice.

The Enfield tested out his injured leg, found it held him. His wing flapped, the bone re-knit. Though blood still darkened his fur, the wounds no longer bled. He would need time to heal, but he would live.

A triumphant laugh burst from Aravon’s throat. Snarl would live!

Snarl bounded a few paces away, turned, and darted back toward Aravon. He leapt high, flapping his wings, and managed to get a few feet off the ground. Just high enough to crash into Aravon’s chest as he usually did when coming in for a landing. Off-balance, Aravon barely managed to catch the Enfield without falling. Though the impact sent pain flaring down his spine, he couldn’t help laughing aloud, delighted at the return of Snarl’s enthusiasm.

With a happy yip, Snarl set about licking Aravon’s neck and masked face.

“All right, all right!” Aravon pulled the little Enfield out to arm’s length. Snarl’s wings flapped eagerly and his amber eyes gleamed with their usual buoyant exuberance. It seemed he was little worse for the wear—thanks to Rangvaldr.

Yet one look at the blood staining Snarl’s fur, and the happiness within Aravon gave way to sorrow. His smile faded beneath his mask. He stared deep into Snarl’s eyes, and a strange feeling of grief settled over him.

Snarl had followed him across a continent, under the mountains, and into the unforgiving expanse of the icy Wastelands without hesitation. But unlike the other Grim Reavers, Snarl hadn’t known what lay ahead. He had simply followed Aravon, the leader of his pack, with the same brave devotion that had led him to attack an ice bear ten times his size.

Enfields were loyal creatures; loyalty had nearly gotten Snarl killed. Would get him killed if he continued farther south with them. He couldn’t endure the vicious cold, and every moment spent outside Aravon’s furs would be misery. They had little to no food to spare, and there were no small creatures for the Enfield to hunt. Then there was the unknown number of Eirdkilrs that waited for them at Praellboer. On the flat lands of white, Snarl had nowhere to hide, and his bright orange fur would make him far too visible a target for Eirdkilr bows.

No, the best way to keep Snarl from certain danger was to send him home.

Sorrow weighed heavy on Aravon’s shoulders as he brought Snarl close and hugged the little Enfield tightly to his chest. “Go home, Snarl,” he whispered. “Go home, and be safe.”

Snarl seemed to understand him—if not the words, the intention. A low whine issued from his throat and he dug his claws into Aravon’s armor. For the first time, the Enfield refused to obey a direct order.

The lump in Aravon’s throat thickened. Snarl didn’t want to leave him. Didn’t want to say farewell to his pack. He was too loyal, too determined to remain with his family—the two-legged humans he’d adopted since his days at Camp Marshal. The Enfield wouldn’t go. Not unless Aravon gave him no other choice.

Kneeling, he set Snarl down on the ground, then reached into his pouch and drew out a strip of parchment. With one of the charcoal writing sticks Zaharis had given him, he scratched out a short message to Prince Toran. A few simple words, yet it would suffice.

He rolled up the note, removed the cap from Snarl’s steel message tube, and inserted the parchment. Snarl perked up at that, his wings flapping eagerly, amber eyes gleaming. He bounded a few paces away then raced back toward Aravon.

Aravon swallowed hard. This would be the hardest thing he’d done since walking away from his wife and sons in Icespire. “Go home, Snarl.” His voice came out hoarse, thick. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Go home.” He added the command word that would send the Enfield flying away.

Snarl’s ears perked up and his muscles quivered with anticipation. With a happy, yipping bark, he leapt into the air, flapping his wings to gain altitude. His furry body grew smaller and smaller as he rose into the air. Higher, higher, higher, until he was little more than a blur of orange. Circling once, he gave a yapping bark, then sped away to the north.

Aravon watched until the little shape disappeared in the grey clouds. Then his face fell and tears flowed down his cheeks. He stood silent and solemn, sparing a moment of grief for the little Enfield he would likely never see again.

Prince Toran would make certain of it. The Prince would understand the message Aravon had sent him, would understand what to do with Snarl.

“Shields strong and swords sharp,” Aravon had written. “The Grim Reavers march to one last battle."

Chapter Forty-Eight

A loud groan snapped Aravon from his thoughts. Whirling, he found Zaharis falling to one knee, struggling to breathe.

Aravon raced toward the Secret Keeper, catching him before he toppled. A hiss escaped Zaharis’ lips as Aravon slung an arm around his chest. The way he hunched over his left side, Aravon could see he’d likely broken a rib or three.

Then he caught sight of the damage to Zaharis’ leather breastplate: scratch marks, left by a massive bear paw. Grunts of pain escaped the Secret Keeper’s lips with every breath.

“Damn it, Zaharis!” Aravon growled and lowered the man to his back, careful not to shift any fractured bones within the Secret Keeper’s body. “You’re in bad shape, aren’t you?” He set about unbuckling the straps that held Zaharis’ breastplate in place, but the Secret Keeper pushed his hands away.

“Not too bad.” Zaharis’ fingers shook as he signed the words. He gave a strained chuckle, which quickly cut off into a sharp, pained hiss. “I’ve felt worse…after a night of too many drinks.” He barely finished the sentence before his hand went back to pressing against his left side.

“I’m sure you have,” Aravon said, though he knew the Secret Keeper well enough to recognize Zaharis’ attempt at playing tough. “But you’re in no condition to ride. We should have used the Seiomenn’s strength to heal y—”

“No!” Fire pierced the pain in Zaharis’ eyes. “It was my choice that Rangvaldr heal Snarl. The right choice.” He coughed, a weak, rasping blessedly free of fluid—at least there was that small mercy that he hadn’t punctured a lung. “I’ll survive until he recovers his strength.”

Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. It would be at least a day, perhaps more, before the Seiomenn recovered enough to heal Zaharis. He’d expended most of his strength on Belthar’s mortal wounds, and healing Snarl had drained the rest. Now he was too exhausted to do more than sit huddled in the pile of furs Colborn had arranged on the ice-covered southern bank of the frozen river. The Lieutenant, Lingram, and Noll stood beside the Seiomenn and the horses, but at Aravon’s silent hand signal, Noll hurried over to help Zaharis limp toward his mount.

Aravon knew he ought to scold the Secret Keeper—each one of the Grim Reavers would prove vital for the success of the mission, and Zaharis’ alchemical knowledge made him invaluable—but the man was in pain enough already. Besides, they had only a few hours of riding before night fell and they could rest. If Zaharis believed he could endure that long, he deserved Aravon’s respect and trust enough to let the matter lie.

“Lingram, get Rangvaldr to his horse and help him mount up,” Aravon called to the Legion officer. “And keep an eye on him until he has a chance to rest.”

With a nod, Captain Lingram stooped to help the exhausted Seiomenn rise.

The scuffling of heavy boots sounded behind Aravon. Glancing back, he found Belthar limping toward the southern shore, one huge arm draped across Skathi’s powerful shoulders. Something had transpired between them in those quiet moments. Something between them had changed…for the better, it seemed. Belthar had risked everything to speak his truth. A truth, it appeared, that Skathi shared. At the very least, she hadn’t rejected him outright.

Aravon studied the big man’s faltering gait. The simple fact that he could stand paid testament to the miraculous power of Rangvaldr’s healing stones. His legs, pulverized mere minutes earlier, held him upright, though Belthar grunted with every step. The bones had healed but the pain would remain a while yet.

His armor, however, was far worse off. The bear’s raking claws had torn away the leather pauldron and armor protecting his arm from shoulder to elbow. The biting wind and cold of the tundra would pose a serious risk, but when it came time for battle, that vulnerable spot in his armor left him far too exposed to enemy weapons for Aravon’s comfort. Without access to leather or metal-working tools, they had no way to repair the armor. Belthar would have to keep the arm covered in the heavy ice bear and wolf furs they’d taken from the Tauld village—it was the best they could do.

Aravon’s eyes strayed to the massive figure of the ice bear slumped atop the ice. A grisly halo of red radiated outward from the beast’s head, blood staining the pristine snow—a single spot of color amidst a world of white.

“Damn!” Colborn’s voice echoed at Aravon’s elbow, quiet and grim. “No wonder the Eirdkilrs prize their pelts so much.”

“Aye.” Aravon nodded. The bear’s fur and thick layer of fat had shrugged off Noll’s arrows as if they were mere stones thrown by a child. Legends of the Eirdkilrs claimed the giant barbarians had to kill one of these bears to earn their warrior’s pelts. Aravon could imagine such stories held a grain of truth—the Eirdkilrs he’d faced in battle had proven themselves fierce, fearsome fighters, indeed, hardened by the bitter cold and harsh living south of the Sawtooth Mountains. That explained why the Eirdkilrs continued to wear their massive, filthy ice bear pelts even in the warmer north—those furs were their badge of honor, the warrior’s mark.

“Shame we don’t have time to skin and treat the pelt,” Colborn said, adjusting his own bear fur cloak higher on his shoulders. “It’d come in mighty handy.”

Aravon shrugged. Even if they’d had the time, they lacked any of the typical preservatives—such as salt, sawdust, or potash—used by Fehlan and Princelander furriers. Yet perhaps it wouldn’t be useless. “What about the meat? That’s got to be at least a few hundred-weight we could take with us.” They would grow tired of frozen, dried, and salted fish very quickly.

Colborn shook his head. “The meat of carnivores can do strange things to the mind and body.” He shot a sidelong glance at Aravon. “It can turn men savage. Some believe that’s what happened to the Eirdkilrs.”

Aravon’s lips twisted into a frown. Perhaps Colborn was right and the consumption of the ice bear meat had twisted the Eirdkilrs’ minds, turned them into the bloodthirsty barbarians that had waged war on Fehl for more than a century. But it had to be more than just that. The Eirdkilrs had sprung from their hatred of the Princelanders—the invaders that had driven them from their homes, forced them to flee to the cold, cruel south. That rage, resentment, and animosity was enough to turn the fierce, proud Tauld warriors into the feral Eirdkilrs.

“But we can save the horse’s meat.” Colborn’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Croup and quarters for sure, maybe even the loins. Though we’ll have to butcher it quickly before it freezes.”

Aravon looked at Zaharis’ horse…what was left of it. The beast’s head lay a half-dozen paces from its body, its blood already soaked into the white snow and frozen hard as ice. His supplies, pack, and furs were either stained crimson or shredded by the bear’s claws.

Damn! Another of the Duke’s prized horses, worth a fortune and specially bred for their hardiness and endurance, the key to the Grim Reavers’ mobility, lost to the mission. They’d nearly lost Zaharis, Belthar, Snarl, and Skathi, too.

Aravon forced the grim thought from his mind. He had no time to dwell on how close they’d come to death here. They needed to push on, cover as much distance as possible before nightfall.

“Do it,” he told Colborn. “Get what you can, and let’s move before the ice cracks.” The frozen surface of the river had supported the bear’s weight without issue, but he wouldn’t take chances. Besides, they had already lost far too much time—time was running out to reach Praellboer, and they had a lot of ground to make up.

“Might want to take a look at that.” Colborn gestured to Aravon’s leg. “It’ll get worse before it gets better, and the cold won’t do your body any favors.”

Aravon glanced down and his eyes widened at the sight of the three long, deep furrows gouged into his calf and the side of his knee. He hadn’t felt the pain or the sensation of the blood freezing to his skin. But as he strode toward his horse to retrieve bandages to bind the wound, the pain made itself known.

His skull, face, chest, and back ached where they’d struck the ice hard. His knee twinged with every step; the joint hadn’t torn and the bone escaped unbroken, but his movements grew sluggish as swelling set in. A biting chill radiated along his leg; the frozen blood surrounding his wound slowed circulation to the limb.

He wrapped thick layers of bandages around the wound, hoping the warmth of his body would melt the blood in time, keep the bite of frost at bay. He’d also have to check on it again later to make certain it wasn’t infected.

By the time he’d finished treating his injuries, Colborn returned with the meat butchered from the slain horse. The rest of the Grim Reavers had already saddled up—Skathi with only a hint of unsteadiness as she swung up onto her horse, though she waved away any attempts to help her. Zaharis sat hunched over in the saddle of their last remaining horse, pain bright in his eyes. Rangvaldr looked half-exhausted, half-dazed, his gaze unfocused. Captain Lingram held the lead rope to the Seiomenn’s horse; he’d ride beside Rangvaldr, make sure he remained in his saddle.

By the time they rode away from the frozen-over river and the grisly corpses of the slain bear and horse, the sun had dropped to just a hand’s width above the western horizon. The cloud-covered sky grew slowly dim, the light grey giving way to increasingly darker shades. Less than two hours after their battle with the ice bear, Aravon gave the order to halt and make camp on the leeward side of a snow dune.

Not a moment too soon. Rangvaldr wobbled and wavered in his saddle, held upright only by Captain Lingram’s hand on his arm. He seemed not to notice anything, simply collapsed into Lingram’s arms as the Legionnaire helped him to dismount. The Seiomenn settled into the pile of furs Colborn arranged for him and promptly fell asleep.

Belthar’s limp had grown more pronounced, though he managed to dismount with only a few grunts of pain. Skathi moved toward him and he made no attempt to dissuade her efforts to help him. Indeed, he seemed to welcome them, welcome her presence near him. And the archer, too, appeared to have grown suddenly more comfortable with the big man. Not just staying close to his side—far closer than Aravon had seen her to anyone besides Snarl—but even holding his arm and hand as she helped him sit on the pile she’d made of both their furs.

Aravon glanced at Zaharis, found the Secret Keeper struggling to dismount. The pain in his chest and ribs had worsened over the pounding miles of riding. Thankfully, Noll sprang to action, unrolling his furs and blankets across the ice. The Secret Keeper settled to the ground with a grateful nod for the scout.

The evening meal was a solemn, quiet affair. Rangvaldr never stirred from sleep. Zaharis ate sparingly, moving as little as possible. Without a word, Colborn doled out their rations—the dried fish they’d taken from the Tauld; none of them were ready to eat the meat taken from their slain mount just yet—and the Grim Reavers ate in silence. Only the whistling of the wind, the snuffling of their horses, and the crunch of their boots on the soft snow broke the stillness.

One by one, the Grim Reavers settled into their furs. Zaharis first—or he simply stopped moving and closed his eyes, though whether he slept, Aravon couldn’t be certain. Noll produced his little bottle of Nyslian brandy and took a quick sip, tucking it away before the others could steal his prized possession, then rolled himself in his furs. Captain Lingram settled onto his back, his eyes open and fixed on the cloud-covered blackness filling the heavens.

Quiet whispering passed between Skathi and Belthar as they moved away from the fire. The archer spoke into the big man’s ear, her hand toying with his. A storm of emotions warred on Belthar’s face, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. When Skathi pressed a fierce, passionate kiss to the big man’s lips and pulled him toward her furs, Aravon and Colborn, the only two still sitting upright, made a point of turning away from the pair. It was the closest semblance to privacy they could offer.

A smile tugged on Aravon’s lips. Good for them. Belthar had harbored feelings for the archer since the beginning, and it was good to know Skathi returned them. The knowledge that two of his Grim Reavers had found a moment of happiness amidst the darkness lifted his spirits.

Aravon settled back into his blankets, but sleep would not come. He’d only eaten a handful of the salty, dried fish before his stomach rebelled, and even the water he’d gulped down didn’t help it sit quite right. The throbbing in his muscles, spine, head, face, and wounded leg made it difficult to rest.

But it was Snarl’s absence that kept sleep at bay. For weeks, he had curled up every night with the Enfield at his side. Without the warmth of Snarl’s furry body, the night felt cold, the wind sinking icy fangs deeper than ever. And the emptiness between his arms, the space where Snarl had nestled, filled him with a terrible loneliness—a loneliness that drove home the truth of everything he’d given up for the sake of this mission.

Rising to his feet, Aravon stood and climbed the slope of the snow dune. The bracing wind hit him square in the face, a shock of cold that sent shivers down his bruised and aching spine. Yet he forced himself to stand straight, to take a deep breath of the fresh air, and to let the stinging chill wash away the gloom that filled his soul.

His words to Prince Toran echoed through his mind. “Shields strong and swords sharp. The Grim Reavers march to one last battle." Despite everything they’d endured since leaving Icespire, the Grim Reavers still survived, still stood with strength enough to fight. Tyr Farbjodr would die, one way or another. He would live long enough to make certain of it.

But after…well, he had written “one last battle” for a reason. In his heart, he knew that they wouldn’t live to see home again. The odds were stacked too high against them, and the stakes too high to fail. They had all resolved to succeed even at the cost of their own lives. And given everything this mission had thrown at them, that was a price he expected to pay.

The sound of boots crunching on snow echoed behind him. Aravon glanced back, found Colborn climbing the dune. The Lieutenant took up position at his side in silence and together, the two soldiers stared southwest. There, somewhere over the horizon, they would find Tyr Farbjodr. Find him, and Keeper knew how many Eirdkilrs at his side. But no matter how strong his army or how mighty his defenses, the Grim Reavers would find a way. That was what they did, what they’d done so many times in the past.

“You did the right thing, you know.” Colborn’s quiet voice cut through the whistling wind.

The words caught Aravon by surprise. He shot a quizzical glance at the Lieutenant.

Colborn’s gaze never left the dark expanse of empty land to the southwest as he spoke. “Sending Snarl home.”

“I know.” Aravon swallowed the lump in his throat, forced a quiet chuckle. “A part of me wishes I could do the same for the rest of you.”

Colborn snorted. “And leave you to have all this fun alone?”

A smile spread on Aravon’s lips. Colborn could downplay even the gravest threats—a soldier’s way of stealing the fear from dangers that would paralyze or shatter the souls of the untrained.

“In all seriousness, though,” Colborn said, his voice growing solemn, “a part of me knows that this is what we were meant to do.”

Aravon turned a questioning look on his Lieutenant. “What do you mean?”

Colborn met his eyes now. “Look at us.” He gestured to the six Grim Reavers sleeping below them. “Nowhere else will you find a group as mismatched and disparate. But put us all together, and we’ve got exactly what is needed to pull off something of this magnitude.” He gave a little shake of his head. “No way the Duke could have known that it would come to this, but there’s a voice inside me that tells me that we were all called for a reason.”

Aravon’s eyebrows rose. He’d never expected something like that from Colborn—the Lieutenant had never shown the slightest inclination toward superstition or faith.

“Don’t look at me like that, Captain.” Colborn gave a wry chuckle. “Facing certain death tends to make a man wax philosophical.”

“Well said, Scholar Denethar!” Aravon laughed. “But I agree with you. The Duke called us together for this, but he couldn’t possibly have known what would be asked of us. It is the Swordsman’s guiding hand that has brought us this far, and by his grace, we’ll reach the end together.”

“Aye.” Colborn nodded. “And even if there’s no ‘happily ever after’ for us, it’s enough to know our people get a chance at a better life.” His words grew quiet, heavy. “Your family. My grandmother. Noll’s wife and children. Princelanders, Fehlans, and mainlanders.” He shrugged. “That’s good enough for me. Good enough to go out with you and the others. The best end a soldier like me could ever have asked for.”

Aravon inclined his head, but said nothing. No words were needed. Colborn, like Aravon, had accepted the fate that doubtless awaited them. The Lieutenant had gone into this mission knowing it would likely end in his death—all the Grim Reavers had. All that remained was to pull off the miraculous victory and execute Tyr Farbjodr. After that…

Well, he could deal with after if he ever had that chance.

Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon lifted his face to the heavens. The clouds above his head had parted to reveal a few stars twinkling high in the night sky. There was something beautiful about those tiny pinpricks of light. The gods smiled down at the Grim Reavers, offering a glimpse into the brilliance of the Sleepless Lands and the afterlife that awaited the deserving. Hopefully, he and his soldiers would earn that place by the Swordsman, to join the heroes gone to stand watch for eternity. Could join General Traighan, Duke Dyrund, Lord Morshan, General Rodalus, and every other brave man and woman that had fallen in service to—

“Captain!” Colborn’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Take a look at that.” A strange urgency edged his words.

Aravon looked down to find the Lieutenant staring off into the distance. He followed the Lieutenant’s gaze, and the sight that greeted him set his heart racing.

Far off, easily twenty or thirty miles west of them, was the unmistakable flicker of light. Not the stars shining in the sky—no, these were far closer, and they moved. A long strand of orange-glowing lights that snaked along the horizon, disappeared into the darkness, then reappeared farther south.

Aravon sucked in a breath. “Torches!”

“Yes.” Eager anticipation echoed in Colborn’s voice, and excitement surged within Aravon’s chest.

They had found their enemy.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Blessed Swordsman!

Horror twisted in Aravon’s gut as he peered down at the column of ragged, fur-clad figures slogging through ankle-deep mud and snow. From where he lay just beneath the crest of a hill overlooking the crude trail, he could see only the front end of the line of torches that stretched at least a mile north before disappearing around another gently rising snow dune.

The flickering flames shone on the men and women marching with their emaciated, terrified children clutched in their arms, clinging to their ankles, or trudging along wailing and whimpering in their wake. By Aravon’s count, more than eight hundred souls.

All Princelanders and Fehlans.

Some had the white-blond hair of the Eyrr, blockier features of the Deid, and a few the bright red hair native to the Fjall. Others wore the ragged clothing of the Myrr or bore the malnourished, uncoordinated gait that marked them as Bein flesh-eaters. But among the Fehlans, Aravon caught sight of far too many dark-haired Eastfallians, rangy Westhaveners, and even a few of the stockier men and women of Oldcrest.

All bore bruises—some faded and yellowed with age, many more fresh and a vicious purple-and-black—and blood trickled from countless wounds, broken noses, and split lips. None wore furs capable of staving off the cold; many were clad in clothing torn by enemy hands or long ago gone threadbare, and shivers wracked their bodies as they struggled to keep pace with their captors.

Keeper’s teeth! The ice beneath Aravon’s belly seeped into his veins. So many of them!

More than a hundred Eirdkilrs herded the captives south. The crack of whips echoed loud in the darkness, underscored by growled commands and barked orders in the guttural language of the Eirdkilrs. Fur-clad warriors with enormous axes, spears, and metal-studded clubs shouted down at the gaunt, shivering, exhausted prisoners, shoving any who lagged or slowed in the march through the frozen tundra.

Not one of the captives had the look of a warrior, but their backs and shoulders had been broadened by years of labor rather than swinging swords or carrying shields. Wagons heaped high with picks, shovels, sledgehammers, chisels, and hand carts rumbled through the mud, drawn by the shaggy-haired beasts Aravon had encountered at the Tauld village. More came on behind, canvas covering the mound of stone that rattled and clacked every time the carts’ iron-rimmed wheels bumped through the ruts and potholes in the bemired road.

Aravon’s gut clenched. The miners and their ghoulstone!

The Eirdkilrs had taken captives from the mine at Silver Break Mine in Eyrr Territory and Gold Burrows in the Deid lands. Their attempts to capture Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve and Princelanders at Lastcliff had only failed because of Aravon and the Grim Reavers. But he had no doubt in his mind: these were miners. Perhaps not the same ones taken from the two mines, perhaps not even skilled at working stone. But the Eirdkilrs would put them to work nonetheless. Doing what, Aravon couldn’t know. Not yet. Instinct told him that he’d find the answer if he followed the ragged column of captives south.

The Eirdkilrs’ torches flickered and guttered in the icy wind rolling across the snow dunes. The cold seeped through Aravon’s furs and sliced into bones—he could only imagine the misery endured by the barely-clothed prisoners below. A shudder of disgust rippled down his aching spine as he gave the signal to fall back.

He, Noll, Colborn, and Skathi crawled backward down the shallow incline to where the other Grim Reavers and the horses stood waiting.

“Miners,” Colborn signed, his fingers flashing in the pale moonlight. “I’d guess close to eight or nine hundred.”

“Going where?” Belthar asked in the silent hand language.

“My guess,” Aravon put in, “Praellboer.” According to the map he’d gotten from Harlund, only one settlement of any size existed this far south of Saetavirki, the larger fortress built near the mouth of Snowpass. And if Tyr Farbjodr was in Praellboer, Aravon wouldn’t be surprised to find the Eirdkilr commanding whatever he’d taken so many captives to accomplish.

Again, Aravon couldn’t help his confusion. If it was me planning a mass invasion of Fehl, I’d be closer to Snowpass. It made no sense for Tyr Farbjodr to marshal his forces so far south—nearly eighty miles, by Colborn and Noll’s rough calculations. Which makes me wonder what in the fiery hell he’s really got planned.

He and his Grim Reavers had come here to find out. And, by the Swordsman’s grace, to stop it from happening and put an end to Tyr Farbjodr. They’d left everything behind; home, family, friends. They’d given their strength to reach this point. Had lost comrades, brave souls who sacrificed themselves to help the Grim Reavers arrive here. They had passed the point of no return—now, only success and the death of the Eirdkilr commander mattered.

“Colborn, Noll,” Aravon signed, “ride ahead, and see where the road leads.” It was far from a proper road—little more than a muddy track carved into the snow by heavy boots and wooden wheels—but it was the closest to civilized they’d encountered south of the Sawtooth Mountains. “We’ll follow more slowly, keep an eye on the column. Make sure they’re actually going where we think they are.”

He couldn’t be fully certain what the Eirdkilrs intended with the miners, or where they marched their captives. But that was just an excuse—he needed to set a slower pace for the sake of Rangvaldr, Zaharis, and Belthar. The big man tried to hide the pain of his still-healing legs, but the tension in his shoulders and the little hiss that escaped his lips every time he walked belied his efforts. Rangvaldr, thankfully, had recovered enough energy to remain in his saddle, but little more. Even the simple act of concentrating on their conversation seemed to exhaust him.

Zaharis was by far the worst off. Whatever injuries he’d incurred grew worse with every passing hour. He sat nearly doubled over in his saddle, keeping his seat only by sheer stubbornness and force of will. Once, Aravon could have sworn the Secret Keeper wiped a thread of blood on his furs after a bout of weak coughing, but the shadows of night concealed any trace of crimson. A part of him wanted to give the man a dressing-down for making such a foolish choice, but he couldn’t. Zaharis had chosen to save Snarl. For that, Aravon owed the stubborn man his pretense of concealing his injuries until Rangvaldr recovered enough to heal him.

Truth be told, the arduous trek south had begun to take a visible toll on all of them. Aravon’s collection of wounds, aches, bruises, and cuts sent painful reminders with every movement. Try as she might, Skathi couldn’t hide the discomfort from her head wound, though she no longer reeled or swayed when moving too quickly. Though Colborn, Captain Lingram, and Noll had avoided injury since the fight with the Rakki, exhaustion weighed as heavily on them as the rest. All were hungry, thirsty, and in dire need of sleep.

But at the sight of the Eirdkilrs and their captives, the Grim Reavers knew they had no choice but to push on. Grim determination hardened in the seven pairs of eyes staring back at Aravon. They’d keep going, he knew, until their last breath, for the sake of the mission.

Colborn and Noll rode out a minute later, their saddles loaded with enough supplies and furs to keep them going for four days—as much as Aravon and the others could spare. The snow muffled the thumping of their horses’ hooves, and the shadows of night swallowed them long before they reached the next hill.

Aravon and the remaining Grim Reavers moved out five minutes after the two scouts. They hurried only as needed—just long enough to draw abreast of the front of the Eirdkilr column—then slowed to match their pace to the plodding captives. The land around them rose to shallow hills and snow dunes that offered just enough concealment to keep out of range of the Eirdkilrs’ flickering torches. For now. When the sun rose, they would be hard-pressed to remain hidden.

But as one mile traveling southwest turned to two, the hills sloped downward and turned into flatlands once more, depriving the Grim Reavers of concealment. Pale moonlight bathed the endless expanse of white; the glow would illuminate them, make them clearly visible to the Eirdkilrs marching south. They had no choice but to head east for nearly two miles, until they reached a hollow cleft in the ground—likely the remnants of a river long ago frozen over. The depression offered ample concealment, though it made for slow going as they followed its curving, twisting path along the muddy road southwest.

Aravon glanced at the sky and cursed. Keeper’s teeth! Only a few hours of darkness remained. When the sun inevitably rose and daylight brightened the tundra, the Eirdkilrs would spot them. Unless they wanted the fur-clad giants pursuing them, a battle none of those around him could afford, they needed to get out of sight before the sun rose.

He scanned the land as far as he could see in the pale moonlight, and hope surged within him as he caught sight of gently rising hills five miles southwest of their position. Though they had to cross a vast expanse of flatlands to reach them, it was a risk worth taking.

The five-mile ride took less than an hour, though every minute proved nerve-wracking. Aravon’s neck ached from glancing west at the Eirdkilr column again and again. He half-expected to hear a shout of fury piercing the eerie silence of the tundra, to see the torches racing toward him and the howling war cries of the enemy drawing nearer. But, to his relief, the wind blew east, carrying the sounds of their passage away from the enemy to be lost forever in the empty tundra. The heavy snow muffled the horses’ pounding hooves, and they reached the nearest hill without incident.

Safely in the darkness of the hollow valley between the hills, Aravon slowed their pace, giving the horses and their exhausted riders a chance to rest. Climbing to the crest of a nearby rise, he stared west and north, searching for the light of the Eirdkilr torches. He estimated the column of prisoners was a mile or so behind them—they could afford a few minutes to wait, to rest.

We can afford it, but can those captives? Aravon’s shoulders tightened. The sight of those wagons filled with mining tools made it clear that Tyr Farbjodr wanted these captives to work stone—though how the Eirdkilr commander intended to use it, Aravon had no idea.

Yet it couldn’t be a coincidence that his plans revolved around the Fjorlagerfa. The Feast of Death, a day of great power—and of great evil. The Eirdkilrs worshipped Bani, the Mighty Slayer, god of death and suffering. As the Blodsvarri had proven the day she subjected the Fjall to the bloody cruelties of the Tolfreadr, the Eirdkilr commander believed in the savage practices of the ancient Fehlans. Was it so hard to believe Tyr Farbjodr would spill blood—the blood of his Fehlan and Princelander captives—to obtain power?

A shudder ran down Aravon’s spine. Is that what Lord Eidan meant when he said Farbjodr was ‘summoning his true strength’? The more he considered, the more certain he became. A commander planning an invasion would position his forces at the most tactically advantageous place. If Farbjodr kept this many of his Eirdkilrs so far from Snowpass, it meant he believed this was the best spot to begin his invasion.

Images of the Fjall warriors dying at the Blood Queen’s hands flashed through Aravon’s mind. So much blood—spilling from hundreds of cuts, shallow and deep, and runes carved into the flesh of screaming, shrieking, dying men. What horrors would these captives endure when Tyr Farbjodr sacrificed them at the Feast of Death in the name of power?

It didn’t matter that Aravon had no idea what power—if any—the Eirdkilr would gain by so much death. What mattered was that Tyr Farbjodr died. And, if the Swordsman was merciful, the captive Fehlans and Princelanders escaped the slaughter the Eirdkilr intended.

Aravon glanced at the eastern sky, where the first hints of daylight warned of the approaching dawn. He reached for his bone whistle and placed it to his lips—he needed to send word of their position to Colborn and Noll, make sure the two knew where to find them.

He drew in a breath to blow, but caught himself. Exhaling, he let the whistle fall from his lips. Snarl was gone, sent back to Icespire. He had no way to find his two Grim Reavers in the darkness now. He’d have to trust that the two men, experienced scouts and trackers, would find them.

Returning to his companions, he mounted up and resumed the journey southwest. Though the ever-brightening sky filled him with an increasing sense of urgency—the day after next, the sun would rise on the Feast of Death—he forced himself to keep his pace slow and steady. They had to stay within sight of the Eirdkilr column—little over a mile to the west and slightly north of their position. As long as they did, Colborn and Noll had a chance of finding them.

Slowly, the day brightened, and the threads of blue-grey crept steadily westward. The sun peered over the horizon, flooding the icy landscape with brilliant hues of gold, orange, and crimson.

To Aravon’s relief, he caught sight of two dark figures riding north among the hills. Even from a mile away, he knew it had to be Colborn and Noll.

Yet the sight of them set his mind racing. They’d only come back so quickly if they found something important. They couldn’t have traveled more than twenty or thirty miles in the time it had taken Aravon and his companions to catch up. Worry gnawed at his gut, his nerves growing ragged. It seemed an eternity before Colborn and Noll finally reached them.

“It’s Praellboer, no doubt about it,” Colborn signed. He jerked a thumb over his shoulders. “Six miles southwest, right about where Harlund’s map said it would be.”

Something in the Lieutenant’s eyes set Aravon’s teeth on edge. “And?”

Colborn and Noll exchanged glances, a moment of puzzled hesitation passing between them. “But the Eirdkilrs aren’t stopping there,” the Lieutenant continued.

Aravon’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“They’re taking the captives through the city and heading farther south,” Noll’s fingers flashed.

Confusion thrummed within Aravon. He’d assumed Tyr Farbjodr would want the captives close at hand—as sacrifices for the Feast of Death, or for whatever other reason he’d brought them this far south. But if the prisoners were being herded beyond the city, it meant that Tyr Farbjodr wasn’t in Praellboer as Harlund had said. Either that, or he wanted them for some other task somewhere else.

It doesn’t make sense! Aravon’s brow furrowed. Then again, so much of what Tyr Farbjodr has done over the last few months didn’t appear to make sense until it did.

He racked his brain, trying to figure out Farbjodr’s plan. The Eirdkilr commander had proven utterly unpredictable, his attacks seeming random until Aravon and his Grim Reavers deciphered the pattern and purpose behind each action. Farbjodr wanted to not only strike at his Fehlan and Princelander enemies, but he intended something with the ghoulstone.

The answer lay in the ghoulstone, of that Aravon was certain. His eyes darted to Zaharis, dropped to the man’s pouch. Within lay a chunk of inert stone that had, through the marvels of alchemy, come to life with the same magic that filled Rangvaldr’s healing stone.

It’s all about that magic. Chaos whirled in Aravon’s thoughts. Why else would he take pains to capture and bring so many miners south? He followed that thread of thought. Which means there’s a ghoulstone mine somewhere south of Praellboer.

The thought sent icy feet dancing down Aravon’s spine. There was no other reason to keep the miners alive and drag them down here. But eight hundred of them? If the Eirdkilrs had a mine large enough for so many miners, they truly had a vast fortune in ghoulstone.

A fortune in whatever magic the stone possesses when brought to life.

Horror twisted in Aravon’s gut. Though he’d only seen the stones healing, every Princelander grew up hearing legends of the Serenii and the earth-shattering power that served their bidding. The Icespire and its magical luminescence stood testament to the ancient race’s might. Who knew what else they had summoned, or what other creations had sprung from their minds?

Again, the thought chilled Aravon to the bone. Images flashed through his mind: Tyr Farbjodr marching at the head of an army of Eirdkilrs, wielding artifacts of terrible power. Glowing gemstones that brought death instead of life, that destroyed instead of healed. If the Eirdkilr commander knew the secret of transforming the ghoulstone the way Zaharis had, who knew what sort of power or weapons of magic he could wield?

He wanted to write it off as impossible—Zaharis had claimed that even the Secret Keepers knew only a fraction of the Serenii’s true abilities—but could find no other explanation for Tyr Farbjodr’s actions. Nothing else made sense. Until he was certain what threat the Eirdkilr commander planned to unleash on his enemies, he had to trust his instincts.

That gave him two problems to deal with: the ghoulstone and Tyr Farbjodr. Eliminating the latter might not solve the former. He and his Grim Reavers had to find a way to handle both at the same time. The eight of them against however many Eirdkilrs surrounded their commander and the enslaved miners.

He explained his reasoning to his soldiers. “We need to get into Praellboer and find out if Tyr Farbjodr’s there. If so…” He drew his finger across his throat.

“That’ll be a piece of piss, sure enough.” Noll snorted. “Not that there’s a bloody village filled with Eirdkilrs or anything.”

Aravon inclined his head. “We’ll figure out a way to deal with them.” Until he saw Praellboer up close, he couldn’t be certain how to deal with the enemy there. And they would have to deal with the Eirdkilrs. Nothing could stop the Grim Reavers from taking down Tyr Farbjodr. “But first, we’ve got to find out what Farbjodr wants with the miners and what he’s going to do with the ghoulstone. That means heading south and following the captives.”

Noll and Colborn’s eyes darkened, and again they exchanged glances.

“That’s going to be no easy task.” Colborn’s voice was grim. “Not with the river in the way.”

“River?” Aravon cocked his head.

“Three times as broad as the one we crossed yesterday.” The Lieutenant gestured back in the direction they’d come. “Flowing fast, no doubt bloody cold, and cutting through the land just south of Praellboer.” He shook his head. “There may be someplace frozen-over to cross, but from where we were sitting, we didn’t see one.”

He looked to Noll, and the scout nodded confirmation. “The only way over the river is across the bridge,” Noll said. “The same bridge the Eirdkilrs are herding all their captives across.” His eyes darkened. “Bloody bastards have hundreds more already locked up in Praellboer just waiting their turn to be dragged south.”

Hundreds more? Aravon’s mind raced. More than a thousand miners in one place meant work on a massive scale. Even with the high attrition rate that came from underfed and under-clothed men toiling in the freezing conditions, the mine they worked would be enormous—easily as large as the operation Lord Aleron Virinus had run at Lastcliff, the largest mine in the Princelands.

All those miners, harvesting ghoulstone for Farbjodr. The thought sickened him, both at the terrible conditions the workers doubtless endured and at the knowledge of so much power in the Eirdkilr commander’s hands. How much ghoulstone has he collected, ready to be transformed? If the legends of Fehl were to be believed, the power he’d harvest from the blood of his sacrifices at the Feast of Death was far greater than Aravon could begin to imagine.

Noll seemed not to notice Aravon’s distraction. “Then there’s the fact that it’s going to be damned near impossible to sneak into Praellboer dressed like this.” He gestured to his leather armor. “All the Fehlans and Princelanders I saw down there wore chains and rags, not armor and furs. No way we’re getting in unnoticed.”

Silence descended over their small company. The Grim Reavers exchanged glances, eyes shadowed by worry, fear, and uncertainty.

A thought sprang to Aravon’s mind—terrible, utter stupidity, a plan so foolish no sane man would ever consider it. Under any other circumstances, he’d have brushed it aside and tried to find some other way.

But here, alone with only seven companions, in the midst of the Wastelands, there would be no other way. No other option that enabled them to both scout out Praellboer and find out what Tyr Farbjodr was doing farther south.

He hesitated, unwilling to speak the thought aloud. Once he said it, he would have to go through with it, and that would make life utterly miserable for those that joined him in his folly. He had no desire to put his companions through such suffering—frozen hell, if he was being honest, he had no desire to endure it himself.

But what other choice is there? He glanced around, at the empty expanse of white that surrounded them. They were too far out of their element. Away from reinforcements, with the Sawtooth Mountains between them and safety. They couldn’t rely on the tactics that had worked for them thus far. Now, they could only take risks—big risks, risks that could get them killed, but that could lead them to victory.

This insane plan was the only plan Aravon could dream up that had a chance of success.

“Then we go in the only way we can,” he said in a quiet voice, his gut tightening. “As captives of the Eirdkilrs.”

Chapter Fifty

A thunderous silence met Aravon’s statement. Colborn’s eyes narrowed and Captain Lingram cocked his head, but Belthar and Skathi exchanged shocked glances.

“Say what now?” Noll’s tone echoed doubt and incredulity. “I must have an ear-full of ice, because I could swear I heard you say something about getting captured.”

Aravon nodded. “You heard right.” He met the gazes of his comrades. “Belthar’s the only one of us that can pass as Eirdkilr, and you’ve all heard him try to speak Fehlan.”

Both Colborn and Rangvaldr cringed visibly. Belthar ducked his head, embarrassment sparkling in his eyes.

Aravon didn’t say it to shame Belthar, simply to state a fact. Fiery hell, even his Fehlan couldn’t pass scrutiny. And given the guttural inflection of the Eirdkilrs’ tongue, it was doubtful Colborn or Rangvaldr would avoid suspicion—height notwithstanding.

And therein lay the real problem. “The rest of us are just too small.” Aravon looked to each of the Grim Reavers. “And, as Noll said, everyone not an Eirdkilr down there is a captive. Which means if we’re going to get into Praellboer and find Tyr Farbjodr, we’re going to have to blend in.”

“I get that, Captain, but…” Noll trailed off. He glanced at his comrades for back-up. “Really, no one has a better idea than getting ourselves locked up with the rest of those poor bastards?”

“We could always set you loose in the tundra and have the Eirdkilrs hunt you down,” Colborn offered. “But that’ll only draw a few away. It won’t take all of them to capture one mouthy scout.”

Noll’s scowl deepened.

“If there was any other way, trust me, I’d take it.” Aravon looked at his companions. “But unless you’ve got another idea, it’s the only option we’ve got.”

A long, tense silence descended over their company. Clearly not a popular plan, but in lieu of another option, none of them had a particularly strong argument against it.

Aravon made a show of removing his mask. The chill wind buffeted his face, stung his cheeks and nose, but he forced his expression to calm. “So who’s coming with me?”

“With you?” Steel edged Skathi’s voice. “What makes you think you’re the best-suited for the job?”

“Because there’s no way I’m sending anyone else in there and not going myself.” Aravon’s voice brooked no argument. “It’s a bloody risky proposition, and I’m damned well going to be there to make sure it goes off without a hitch.”

The rest of the Grim Reavers exchanged glances. Silence one moment, then an explosion of voices. All seven volunteered—even Zaharis and Rangvaldr, the worst-off of their company, spoke up without hesitation.

Pride glowed bright and hot within Aravon. Impossible odds and suicidal plan or not, the soldiers under his command never wavered, never shirked from their tasks. He couldn’t have asked for a better company to captain.

But he couldn’t take them all. In the end, he settled on three: himself, Colborn, and Captain Lingram, the three least likely to draw the Eirdkilrs’ attention.

Skathi’s red hair could blend in amongst the Fjall, but her ability with a bow made her best-suited to covering their retreat. Belthar’s enormous build would stand out immediately among the captives—the Eirdkilrs would instantly know something was amiss if a giant appeared in their ranks. With Colborn going in, they needed Noll’s scouting abilities to watch for their escape. And, despite their insistence, Aravon had no intention of letting Rangvaldr or Zaharis anywhere near danger. The Seiomenn needed rest almost as badly as the Secret Keeper needed to recover from his injuries.

“Whatever happens, we’re likely going to have to flee in a hurry,” Aravon told them. “Without Snarl, I’ve no way to contact you.”

“We’ll keep an eye out, Captain,” Noll said. “You just focus on staying alive long enough to put Tyr Farbjodr in the ground, and we’ll have a warm cloak and hot meal waiting for you.”

Aravon gave him a grim smile. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

The eight of them undertook the journey to Praellboer in tense silence. Aravon spent the time going over their plan—what little he could conceive with the scarce information Colborn and Noll could provide him. The sooner they got what they needed, the sooner they could escape. Before the cold, the work, or the Eirdkilrs killed them.

Dread settled in his belly when Colborn finally reined in. “We go on foot from here,” the Lieutenant said in a quiet voice.

Aravon dismounted and, before he could change his mind, he shrugged out of the heavy fur cloak. The icy wind blasted him full in the chest, the cold constricting his lungs with such force he struggled for each breath. His fingers grew numb within a minute of pulling off the fur-lined gloves and made it near-impossible to loosen the straps and buckles holding his armor and helmet in place. By the time he removed his boots, he could hardly feel his hands and his ears and nose throbbed with the chill. He struggled to wrap the strips of ice bear pelt around his feet for makeshift boots as crude and ragged as those used by the captives—but hopefully warmer.

Relinquishing his sword and spear left him feeling vulnerable. He hadn’t been without a weapon in more than fifteen years—now, he had nothing, not even a belt knife. Last he took off Snarl’s bone whistle, the Prince’s silver pendant, and the crude iron Swordsman pendant Belthar had given him. He felt naked without them—in this biting chill, wearing nothing but his thin undertunic and rough leather trousers, he practically was.

By the time he finished, Colborn and Captain Lingram stood equally unclothed and empty-handed. And as bloody damned cold as he.

He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering and forced a smile. “Swordsman be with you all,” he told the five Grim Reavers. “And for the Keeper’s sake, find a way to get us the fiery hell out of here once we’ve completed our mission!”

* * *

Approaching Praellboer proved far easier than Aravon had expected. The rising sun shone bright at their backs, the slanting rays of morning light casting a harsh, blinding glare into the eyes of any Eirdkilrs watchers looking east. But given their location—in the middle of the Wastelands, far south of any potential enemies—it seemed the barbarians beyond the Sawtooth Mountains didn’t bother with such trivialities as guards or defenses.

Praellboer was a vast settlement, stretching nearly two miles east to west and a little over one mile north to south. To Aravon’s surprise, the town appeared as organized as Kaldrborg, Storbjarg, or Bjornstadt. More than a hundred stone-and-mud longhouses stood in neat rows intersected by muddy lanes and interspersed with smaller, round structures built from blocks of ice. A low wall—also built of stone, mud, and hard-packed ice—stood up to chest height, tall enough to give ice bears and other tundra predators pause but of little defensive value. But the ferocious Eirdkilrs ruled the Wastelands supreme. They needed fear no assaults or enemies.

Until now, that is. A grim smile touched Aravon’s lips as he slipped into cover behind the stone-and-ice wall. To his knowledge, this was the first time the Princelanders had managed to slip any sizeable fighting force this deep into enemy territory. He could see why it hadn’t been attempted before. The chill was an effective defense all on its own. Legionnaires with heavy shields and weapons and armor of metal would doubtless freeze to death long before they reached Praellboer. Even the exertion of the half-mile trek toward the Eirdkilr town did little to push back the chill.

The damp only made things worse. Already the first hints of moisture had begun seeping through his foot wrappings, which could lead to the same sores and frozen feet that had given Colborn such grief.

Aravon rose slowly and, peering over the wall to make sure no Eirdkilrs were around, vaulted over and darted behind a nearby longhouse. Colborn and Captain Lingram were a step behind him, and they kept close on his heels as he slipped around an ice hut toward the nearest of the large muddy lanes cutting through Praellboer.

In the distance, they caught sight of the first captives being marched into Praellboer. The time had come to play their roles as captives.

Crouching, Aravon scooped up a handful of freezing cold mud and rubbed it across his face, hands, and clothing. Added to the blood, sweat, and dirt staining his simple undertunic, the additional layer of muck completed his ragged appearance. Next he removed the bandages covering the ice bear claw wound on his leg. Unless the Eirdkilrs looked too closely, he would have no trouble passing for any one of the captives.

An equally muddy Colborn and Captain Lingram followed him along the longhouse toward the muddy road. There they crouched behind a mud-built house, watching the progression of the captives. More specifically, of the Eirdkilrs driving their prisoners along the muddy lanes. With only a hundred or so barbarians to herd more than eight hundred Fehlans and Princelanders, there were ample gaps in the lines.

Aravon chose his moment carefully, moving only when he was certain the nearest Eirdkilrs looked away. Five quick steps brought him close enough to slip into the crowd of exhausted, filthy, battered captives shuffling slowly up the muddy lane. The nearest paid him no heed—too tired and miserable to look up—as he took his place among their ranks. Head hanging low, shoulders hunched, he leaned into his limp and matched his pace to their limping slog.

He studied the city from beneath the curtain of his long, dark hair. A part of him had half-expected Praellboer to be as chaotic and tumultuous as the Eirdkilr encampment he had attacked outside Anvil Garrison, all those long weeks ago. A place of roaring, shouting, drinking, swearing, and battling warriors. A home filled with blood, torture, and death.

Praellboer had little in common with the image most Princelanders had of the Eirdkilrs. If anything, the Eirdkilr town bore a strong resemblance to Kaldrborg, though with structures made of ice, mud, and stone rather than wood. The blood that ran in the streets trickled from the slit throats of animals hung up to dry over dung fires. Noise echoed loud all around him—the crack of the Eirdkilrs’ whips, the shouts and barked orders as they herded their captives, but also the sounds of barter, the conversations of men and women, the laughter of children splashing through the streets.

The utter humanity of Praellboer seemed so at odds with the Eirdkilrs he’d spent the last decade-and-a-half battling. Yet those had been the warriors; these were the civilians, the people who lived simple lives and rarely strayed far from home. Men and women who had no choice but to survive the harsh climate of the barren tundra any way they could.

So are these Eirdkilrs, then, or Tauld? Or both? A strange thought struck him. Do the civilians here see the Eirdkilrs the same way Princelanders see the Legion of Heroes?

To the citizens of Icespire, the Legion of Heroes was the strong shield and sharp sword that kept the savage Eirdkilrs at bay. Was that the same here for the Eirdkilrs? Did the people here see the ruthless warriors as heroes battling in a valiant war to reclaim land stolen by the invading “half-men”?

The women and children of Praellboer called greetings to the slavers, who answered with friendly words in their guttural tongue. That sight unsettled him, set chaos whirling in his thoughts.

The things he’d seen since coming south of the Sawtooth Mountains—from the settlement at Highcliff Motte to the nameless village he’d raided to this Eirdkilr town—contrasted sharply with everything he thought he knew about the Eirdkilrs. What he’d been taught by his father and his Legion commanders, and what men like Lord Derran believed. Even Duke Dyrund had seen the Eirdkilrs as nothing more than savages. Yet had the Duke seen this, seen the simple mundanity of the Eirdkilr life, things might have been different. He might have pressed the Prince to try harder to negotiate with the Eirdkilrs.

The man before him, a Princelander, suddenly stumbled and fell, splashing into the muck. Before Aravon could move to help him, the nearest Eirdkilrs were on the emaciated, ragged man. Whips cracked and long red lines of blood burst open on the man’s back. Crying out, the man struggled to rise, but cold, hunger, and exhaustion left him too weak to stand. He fell back to the mud and lay still as the Eirdkilrs beat him again and again, first with whips, then with savage blows of their heavy boots. All the while, they snarled curses in their guttural tongue, heaping verbal abuse on the “pathetic half-man”. When they finally stopped, the Princelander did not rise. Did not move.

The man beside Aravon, a Fehlan with the thick features of a Deid, tripped, but Aravon caught him before he fell. Steadying him, he helped the Deid to struggle onward, carrying most of the man’s weight. The Deid could do little more than stumble along at his side, one foot plodding wearily in front of the other, too lost to his misery and fatigue.

Aravon kept his pace steady, supporting the Fehlan while keeping his head down, eyes locked on the muddy street. Melting snow and ice trickled in long rivulets through the foot-churned muck. Yet slowly, Aravon realized the nondescript brown of the mud turned to a deep, dark rust color.

The streets ran red with blood.

Aravon lifted his eyes, and horror twisted in his gut. In the distance, in the broad open space that marked the heart of every Fehlan town, massive pens had been erected. Stone served as the solid foundation and metal provided the framework and crude ceiling, with blocks of muddy ice thrown up haphazardly for walls. Hundreds of eyes peered through the barred iron gate of the nearest pen, faces gaunt and dark-eyed, covered in blood, mud, and snot. A steady stream of crimson trickled under the gate, joining the mud and water thickening the streets.

The crack of the Eirdkilr whips grew louder as they herded their captives toward the square and the prison that awaited them. Shouts and barked orders echoed off the longhouses, accompanied by the frantic, terrified wailing of men, women, and children.

Ten Eirdkilrs stood at the front of the line, towering over the haggard figures of their Fehlan and Princelander captives. These carried no whips, but instead held drawn spears, clubs, and axes. They studied each of their prisoners in turn, then divided them into two streams. Screaming, shouting children were torn from the arms of their weeping and begging parents, husbands and wives separated despite their pleas to remain together. The sights and sound of such misery tore at Aravon’s heart.

An Eirdkilr shoved him roughly toward one of the awaiting warriors, and only his fast reflexes kept him from sprawling in the muck or losing his grip on the exhausted Fehlan at his side. He kept his head down and his shoulders hunched as he came to stand in front of the club-wielding warrior.

He felt the giant’s stare on him, but resisted the urge to lift his gaze. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself—he needed to stay unnoticed, just one more prisoner, until the time came to act.

“Move,” came the guttural order. A huge hand clamped around his arm and shoved him to the right. The Eirdkilr snarled something in his native tongue, which Aravon barely understood to mean, “He’ll be a good one to work the mines.”

Another Eirdkilr grunted. “Maybe he’ll live longer than the rest of these pathetic half-men.”

Aravon had just taken his first step when the Fehlan was torn from his grip and dragged away, to the line on the left.

“Put this one with the others!” called another Eirdkilr. “He’s no use to us.”

The chill that ran down Aravon’s spine had little to do with the cold. That sounded more like the Eirdkilrs he knew. They took no prisoners, but slaughtered any enemies left alive on the battlefield. Not as a mercy, nor to take trophies. They did it to ensure those enemies never came back to fight again. A cold practicality that, added to the other atrocities they had committed, lent weight to the belief that they were savages.

Anger flared bright and hot in Aravon’s gut. He wanted to lift his head, to snarl in the Eirdkilrs’ face as he fought and killed them. But doing that would get him nowhere. He had to bite his tongue and bide his time.

Someone shoved him, hard enough to send him staggering forward, fur-wrapped feet squelching and slipping in the muck. He managed to stay upright, to keep back the fury simmering in his chest.

Then he caught sight of the pen. Of the scores of ragged, filthy, gaunt people already imprisoned there. A few women and children, but mostly men. The ones strong enough to work the mines—until the cold, hunger, and fatigue killed them.

Through the bloody, muddy snow he splashed, moving to the tune of cracking whips and shouted orders. Toward that cage of stone, snow, and ice, and the pathetic figures within.

A sharp, shrieking cry echoed from beyond the pen. Aravon’s gaze snapped toward the far side of the square. There, a smoky fire blazed on the western side of the square, and the scent of burning dung hung heavy in the air. Captive men and women moved around the periphery of the fire, throwing on more dried dung chips to keep the blaze going.

The sound of the scream had come from one of the workers, who had collapsed in his exhaustion and fallen into the blaze. He was too weak to rise, but his cries of agony rang out across the open square. The captives nearest him made no move to help, and the Eirdkilrs watching them just laughed.

In that moment, realization struck him like a blow to the gut. The Eirdkilrs were as human as any Princelander or Fehlan—both in the good and the bad. They had homes, families, husbands, wives, and children. Doubtless hopes and dreams, too. They also had the same potential for evil, the same cruelty and bloodlust that existed down deep and dark within every man, woman, and child that lived north of the Sawtooth Mountains and across the Frozen Sea.

But while men like Duke Dyrund, Prince Toran, and Rangvaldr—men of power and influence among Fehlan and Princelander society—tried to curb the vicious and brutal nature of their people, Eirdkilr culture encouraged it. At the very least, people like Tyr Farbjodr, the Blood Queen, and Hrolf Hrungnir did.

That was what separated the Eirdkilrs from their Fehlan cousins and the Princelanders. The people that had risen to power were the cruel, ruthless, and barbarous, the ones that gave way to their most inhumane tendencies. Tyr Farbjodr—and all those like him—was a poison flooding the veins of the Eirdkilrs. If they wanted any hope of putting an end to the war, Tyr Farbjodr had to be eliminated, the cancerous evil excised. Only then would the bloodthirsty, war-like Eirdkilrs have a chance of returning to their Tauld roots.

A hard push sent Aravon stumbling into the cage, and this time his crude footwear slipped on the mud-and-blood-slicked stone. He fell, hard, his hands and knees slamming into the stone floor. Before he could rise, another captive was sent hurtling into him, tripped, and fell atop him. Another, another, and still more were herded into the pen, piling up in a clump of flailing limbs with Aravon at the bottom.

He grimaced as a heel kicked his ribs, an elbow dug into his back. With effort, he dragged himself forward, out from beneath the pile, and managed to pull himself free. A hand gripped his arm—Colborn’s…no, wait, another Fehlan he didn’t recognize, with blocky features and dark brown hair—and hauled him upright. Just in time to avoid being trampled by the other captives struggling to their feet. More and more prisoners flooded into the pen until Aravon could barely move, and still the Eirdkilrs crammed in men and women.

Finally, when the crush of bodies grew too thick to fit any more, the Eirdkilrs slammed the gate shut. The resounding metallic boom sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine.

He’d become the one thing he feared most, the one thing he’d dreaded his entire military career: a prisoner of the Eirdkilrs.

Chapter Fifty-One

Aravon was a prisoner, yes, but neither a willing nor docile one. Unlike the poor souls around him, he hadn’t yet given up hope. The cold, bruises, and hunger served to fan the fire of his anger, momentarily pushing back the chill. He’d make use of that and find out what he could.

He turned to the nearest captive, a Fehlan with a severed stump of a once-proud beard braid. “What are we doing here?” he spoke in hushed Fehlan. “Why bring us south instead of just killing us outright?”

The man looked at him through shadowed eyes. “Don’t know,” he muttered, his accent marking him as Eyrr. “But does it really matter? The end will be the same.” Despondency stained his features and stooped his shoulders.

Aravon didn’t waste time with the man—the Fehlan had the glassy-eyed look of a man beyond exhaustion, drowning in fear, grief, and misery. The bleakness of the situation had shattered his spirit, leaving only a husk of flesh.

Instead, he turned to find the Fehlan that had helped him up. The man—he recognized the dark brown hair and square features—had shoved his way toward the western edge of the cage, pressed himself up against the bars. To get the warmth from the fire, Aravon realized. Those nearest that side of their pen were the strongest, the ones who could defend their position against the other captives trying for what little bits of heat rose off the burning dung fires.

Aravon stood not five steps from the Fehlan and the pen’s wall, but more than a dozen captives stood in the way. Gritting his teeth, he began shoving his way through the tightly-packed mass of men—and, he realized, a few women and children. The sight of those wide, terrified eyes and gaunt, hungry faces drove a dagger into his heart. He couldn’t imagine Rolyn or Adilon enduring such ghastly conditions.

A few Fehlans and Princelanders growled or barked threats, but their insults and protests lacked real teeth. Most were simply too tired to fight as Aravon shouldered between them and struggled to reach the edge of the cage.

To his surprise, the far side of the cage proved warmer than he’d expected. Heat seeped through the wall, widening the cracks and holes in the ice. Though thick, choking smoke drifted into the apertures with the heat, he could actually feel the warmth of the nearby fire.

And, through the holes in the ice, he could see some of the town around him. Could see the women and children gawking at the captives locked within the pens, the warriors herding prisoners from within a nearby enclosure down a road that led south. Wagons heaped high with mining tools or covered with canvas trundled south as well, metal-shod wheels splashing mud on the Fehlans and Princelanders stumbling along in their wake.

Aravon studied as much of Praellboer as he could through those holes in the ice wall. Save for the massive pens holding potentially thousands of prisoners captive, it resembled any other Fehlan village or town he’d visited. He saw no sign of marshaled Eirdkilrs or Tyr Farbjodr’s army preparing to march. No sign of the commander himself, either. He’d never seen Farbjodr, never even heard a physical description, but he had little doubt he would find it easy to spot the man who led the Eirdkilrs. Warriors like that—like the Blood Queen, Asger Einnauga, and Hrolf Hrungnir—tended to stand out.

Finally, he’d seen all of Praellboer he’d be able to from within the cage—little more than the main square, the muddy roads leading south and west, and the nearby longhouses. Frustration twisted in Aravon’s gut as he turned away from the wall. Though the day had just begun, he had to find Tyr Farbjodr before the Feast of Death the following morning.

He turned his attention now to the captives locked up with him. Chiefly men, but a handful of women joining them and children huddled in the arms of their parents. Terror, panic, hunger, and exhaustion stained the faces of all around him. A few, the fathers and mothers most of all, tried to wear brave, stoic faces, but a fear of death hung like a storm cloud over the scores of captives.

Aravon caught sight of the prisoner that had helped him up. The dark-haired Fehlan stood over two small children and a woman sporting bruises on her face and arms. The man’s shoulders were bloody from the lash but squared in a protective stance as he wrestled and jostled with the other captives to keep his place in the warmest part of the cage—not for himself, but for his wife and children.

Good. A grim smile touched Aravon’s lips. That is a man with fire burning in his belly. He hadn’t yet lost his determination to fight, not with his wife and children to protect. Hope and resolve could carry a man a long way. He wouldn’t give up until his last breath.

Aravon elbowed his way through the tightly packed mass of captives, shoving toward the Fehlan. He ignored the growls of protest but kept pushing until he reached the man. The dark-haired Fehlan saw him coming, turned to square off against Aravon, as if expecting him to try and steal his place near the warmth.

But Aravon held up a hand in the Fehlan greeting. “What do you know about our situation?” he asked, again in the man’s tongue.

Surprise cracked the defiance burning in the man’s eyes. It was uncommon for Princelanders to speak Fehlan, especially with as little accent as Aravon had. Yet his defensive stance never changed, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’d thought it fairly obvious, Northman.” His accent reminded Aravon a great deal of Colborn’s—a Deid, perhaps one of those captured at Gold Burrows Mine. “We’re prisoners of war.”

Aravon grinned. Yes, the grim circumstances hadn’t yet snuffed out the man’s fire. “They don’t take prisoners.” He had no need to clarify who “they” were. “They burn, destroy, and plunder, and they execute those they deem traitors to their blood.” He gestured to the Fehlan man and his family—the Eirdkilrs believed the clans that chose to align with the Princelanders had betrayed their ancestors and sold their souls to the half-men. “The fact that we still live means there is more going on here. And I need to know what.”

“What does it matter?” For a heartbeat, despondency flickered in the man’s eyes and his shoulders drooped a fraction. “There is no escape. Outside these walls, there is only death. At their hands or in the cold.” His gaze darted toward his wife and two daughters. “Or worse, if we do not comply.”

Aravon’s gut tightened. The Eirdkilrs had only to threaten the women and children to force the men to submit to their fate willingly.

The Fehlan gave a grim shake of his head. “Our only hope is to do what they ask of us and live as long as we can.”

“And what is it that they ask of you, min brodir?” Colborn’s voice echoed from Aravon’s side. The Lieutenant appeared a moment later, shoving his way through the crowd.

The man’s dark brown eyebrows rose at recognition of his own clansman. His surprise grew as he took in Colborn’s heavy muscles, sloped shoulders, and strong hands—a warrior’s physique, hidden beneath mud and filth. “I do not know,” he finally said. “But my Asta said she might have heard something.”

The older of the two little girls huddling behind the Fehlan man perked up at the sound of her name. “Fadir?” Her voice was high, piping, her face stained with mud and tears.

Turning, the Fehlan scooped the girl up into his arms and held her close. “What is it you heard, svassmeyla?” he asked quietly.

“I heard one speak of someone called Dróttinn waiting in the south.” The girl’s tear-and-mud-streaked face twisted into a pensive frown. “But their words sounded funny. Like Arna when she is coughing.” Her eyes darted to her little sister—no more than two or three years old—who clutched her mother’s skirts. A deep, racking cough escaped the toddler’s lips, and the Fehlan woman lifted the child into her arms until the fit passed.

Aravon glanced at Colborn. “Dróttinn?”

“Leader of the host,” Colborn signed back. “Like General or Commander.”

“Farbjodr.” It was no question.

Colborn nodded. There could be no other.

The confirmation set the fire burning within Aravon’s belly. He turned back to the Fehlan man. “Is there nothing else you can tell us?” he pressed. “Anything else you have heard?”

The man stared at Aravon with suspicion, then at Colborn with a flicker of distrust.

“He can be trusted.” Colborn gestured to Aravon. “The chieftain has sent us to help. The Princelander serves our cause.”

The Fehlan’s eyes widened. “The chieftain?” Hope blossomed in his eyes. “But how?” he gasped. “They came upon us so quickly, killed all the guards and hauled us away in the dead of night.” He shook his head. “When the warband never came to free us, we feared no one knew what had happened.”

“It is known.” Colborn’s square jaw clenched, the muscles working. “And your prayers to Olfossa have not fallen on deaf ears.” He clasped the man’s hand. “But if we are to find a way out of this, we must know everything possible.”

“Of course.” The man nodded eagerly and returned Colborn’s grip. “Perhaps some of the others have heard more.”

He glanced at his wife, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he turned away and shouldered into the dense mass of captives.

Aravon watched the man go, then turned to Colborn. “A kind lie you told,” Aravon signed.

“Sometimes it is necessary to give men hope,” Colborn answered in the Secret Keeper hand language. “Even if it is false.”

Aravon nodded. In such misery and cruelty, even the faintest glimmer of hope could keep men alive—long enough for Aravon, Colborn, and the Grim Reavers to find some way to help them. He had no idea what or how—his mission was Tyr Farbjodr first and foremost—but he’d do whatever he could. He owed them all, Princelanders and Fehlan alike, that much.

A few minutes later, the Fehlan man returned with two more men in tow. Both were blond, though they had the same heavy features common to the Deid, and they seemed to know the dark-haired man. “Skuli, Hrani, tell him what you told me.”

The larger of the two shot suspicious glances at Aravon and Colborn. “You’re certain, Hallad?” His shoulders and neck muscles bunched. “They are no miners, and their backs bear far too few whip marks.”

Hallad gave an eager nod and dropped his voice to a whisper. “They are sent by Chief Hafgrimsson to free us.”

Mention of the Deid chief immediately changed the two men’s attitudes. Again, a faint glimmer of hope brightened their ice-blue eyes.

“I am called Alsvartar,” Colborn put in. “To others, an unfortunate name. But for our purposes, the blackness of night will serve as our ally. Our shield against the enemy and our path to salvation.”

Aravon struggled to mask his surprise. Colborn had only voiced the name aloud once. It was a cruel name, given to him by his father, a reminder that Lord Derran considered him a stain of “pure black”. To hear it here, in the presence of these men—men of the Deid, like him—spoke of a change within Colborn. No longer wrestling with his two halves, Fehlan and Princelander, or struggling to ignore the voice of hatred that had been a constant in his life since his earliest days. Instead, acceptance. Acceptance of who he was. A man of Whitevale in The Violet Fens, and a son of the Deid at Saerheim. He had found a measure of peace from the inner turmoil that had nearly torn him apart at Rivergate.

“But first,” Colborn continued, “I must know what awaits us beyond the walls of this cage.”

Hallad glanced at his fellow Deid, giving them an encouraging gesture to speak.

“I heard two of our captors talking while we marched, speaking of Illtgrund,” put in the smaller of the two.

The word meant something akin to “unhallowed ground” or “place of evil”—never a good name.

“I, also, overheard men speaking as Skuli did.” The larger Fehlan, evidently Hrani, frowned. “That, and laughter as they spoke of the piles of corpses waiting to feed something.” He shrugged. “Though what, it seemed they did not know.”

Aravon’s gut tightened. Something to do with whatever power Farbjodr plans to unleash on the Feast of Death. Few creatures feasted on carrion; none were the sort Aravon wanted to encounter while trying to fight a horde of Eirdkilrs.

“I have heard that none who go south ever return,” Hrani was saying. “And the wagons filled with the black stone always travel north empty.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed. That confirmed what Noll and Colborn had seen, the wagons and columns of prisoners crossing the bridge. And mention of the black stone—doubtless ghoulstone—only lent strength to his belief that Tyr Farbjodr needed it for whatever he had planned.

“What of their Dróttinn?” Aravon pressed. “Tyr Farbjodr. Have you heard any news of his whereabouts?”

Hrani nodded his shaggy-haired head. “Even his own people fear him. They speak of him with hushed whispers and darting eyes, as if he is the Farbjodr of nightmare reborn.”

Rangvaldr had told them the story of Gunnarsdottir, the heroic shieldmaiden of the Tauld that slew the monstrous Farbjodr, said to be a creature with a serpent’s tail, wolf’s fangs, and skin of stone. Perhaps Tyr Farbjodr had taken on the name to instill fear into his enemies—it seemed to have worked on his armies as well.

“This thing he is building, even they do not know what it does,” Hrani continued. “Only that if it is not complete before the Fjorlagerfa, Farbjodr will offer their blood on Bani’s altar.”

Thing he is building? That took Aravon by surprise. This was the first he’d heard any real evidence of how Tyr Farbjodr intended to use the ghoulstone—but to build something? That struck him as odd. The Eirdkilr way was to destroy rather than create.

So what the fiery hell is it, then?

Hallad’s deep voice pulled him from his thoughts. “So what is our Chief’s plan?” An eager light gleamed in the Fehlan’s eyes and he looked between Colborn and Aravon. “How has he determined to free us and bring us home?”

“He is working on it.” Colborn cast a sidelong glance at Aravon. “Our task is to find out everything we can about our destination and our purpose.” His expression grew grim. “And to stay alive as long as possible. To keep each other alive.”

“Aye.” The three Fehlans nodded, the light of battle and defiance springing to life in their eyes.

Colborn’s eyes fixed on them, his gaze piercing and intense. “We are the Deid, children of Olfossa.” He raised a clenched fist. “We do what we have always done—survive!”

The words poured from Colborn’s lips with the confidence Aravon had heard ringing in Prince Toran’s voice as he rallied his troops to battle. The voice of a commander, a leader of men, a champion that even the strongest warriors would follow. Gone was the doubt, the uncertainty, the stoic silence of a man wrestling with inner turmoil. The man who spoke now exuded a calm control, an assurance of purpose and certainty of spirit that could win battles and conquer kingdoms. This was the Colborn Aravon had always known the man could be.

Colborn gripped Hrani and Hallad’s shoulders and leaned closer. “Whatever happens, we stand together, united in mind and body.” His strong jaw muscles clenched. “And, by Olfossa, when the time is right to make our move, we will be ready!”

Hesitation flickered in the eyes of the three Deid. Colborn spoke of battle, but they were miners, not warriors.

“Long have the Deid roamed the lands of Fehl, the mightiest hunters of all the clans.” Colborn’s eyes shone bright. “Warriors in heart and soul. Nothing, nothing, will shatter our spirit!”

The doubt in the Fehlan’s expression faded, replaced by confidence. “Damned right!” Hrani rumbled.

“Then we fight,” Colborn hissed, anger blazing in his eyes. “Not for glory or riches or to earn our place at Olfossa’s table.” A fierce snarl twisted his face. “We fight to live. We fight for our families. We fight for our people!”

Hallad glanced down at his daughters, and steel hardened in his expression. “By Olfossa, so we will!” Hrani and Skuli exchanged eager glances, their callused hands flexing as if around the hilt of a weapon.

“Pass the word to the others.” Colborn’s voice held an insistent urgency. “Not just the Deid, but all the clans. The Princelanders, too. The time will come, and when it does, we will strike!”

Defiance and determination blazed bright on the faces of the three Fehlan men. Yet not only theirs—all those around Colborn had heard him speak, had heard the ferocity and authority ringing in his voice. Whispers rippled through the pen long before Hallad, Hrani, and Skuli disappeared to spread the word.

Colborn turned to face Aravon, his face as hard as iron. “I can’t do nothing,” he signed before Aravon spoke. “If we have a chance, we’ll have to take it. For their sakes.”

Aravon glanced around. The ragged, filthy, exhausted, and battered men and women around him were far from an army. If they fought the Eirdkilrs, they would die.

But he couldn’t argue Colborn’s words, nor had any desire to. He had joined the Grim Reavers to protect the Princelands—and that extended to the Fehl that had aligned themselves with the Princelands. The Deid, Eyrr, Fjall, and other Fehlans captive were as much his responsibility as the Westhaveners and Eastfallians. They needed him and the Grim Reavers. He would not turn a blind eye, not if it lay within his power to do something.

Without hesitation, he nodded. “Bloody right we will!” His fingers formed the words with sharp, strong movements. When the time came—if the chance arose—they would do something to help these people. “They are the mission, too.”

A hand on Aravon’s elbow brought him spinning around, and he found Captain Lingram standing behind him, a hint of a grin on his lips. “Whispers of battle have stirred every man and woman in here,” he said in the language of the Princelands. “Your doing?”

“Not mine.” Aravon gestured to Colborn. “The Fehlans have found a champion of their own to rally behind.”

Colborn blushed, but the light in his eyes never faded. “I simply spoke the words they needed to hear.”

“As any good commander and leader does.” Captain Lingram clapped the Lieutenant on the shoulder. “Every Princelander I have spoken to also stands ready when the time comes.”

Aravon raised an eyebrow. “You work quickly.”

“Not much else to do in here.” Lingram shrugged, but a hint of a smile broadened his handsome face. “I’ve been digging around for information, but no one seems to know much. Nothing beyond the fact that Tyr Farbjodr’s somewhere in the south—in a place called Illtgrund—and that they’re all being dragged off to build something. Though what, they don’t know.”

Aravon nodded. “That’s what we’ve heard, too.” He frowned, his mind working. “I can’t imagine what he could be building, but whatever it is—”

“Not something we’d want to let him complete, yeah?” Captain Lingram’s smile was wry. “Our best bet is to get wherever this Illtgrund is, scout out whatever’s going on, then find a way to make like the wind and blow out of there.”

“As good a plan as we’ll have.” Aravon glanced around. Already, a low hum rippled through the cage, an undercurrent of excitement that settled over the captives around them. Eyes once dull now flared with life, a hint of anticipation pushing back the shadows of hunger, thirst, fatigue, and pain. Men squared shoulders, clenched fists, bared snarling teeth.

Grim satisfaction blazed within Aravon. They were ready to fight. Exhausted, beaten, afraid, and trapped within a hellscape of ice and cold, yet no less determined. With no armor or weapons, nothing beyond the ragged clothes on their backs, but burning with the knowledge that they would have to battle for any hope of survival.

They might not look like much, but by the Swordsman, when the time comes, this ragtag army will fight with the ferocity of men born to blood and battle!

Chapter Fifty-Two

Hours passed at an interminable crawl as the prisoners within the pen waited. For what, they knew not. Aravon was all but certain he and those around him—the strongest of the captives—would soon be sent to work the mines for whatever Tyr Farbjodr had planned.

But when? Aravon chafed at the delay. Every moment he spent locked away in this pen brought the Feast of Death ever closer. If he and his companions didn’t get out of here soon, they might not have enough time to scout Tyr Farbjodr’s position, rejoin the others, and make a suitable plan of attack before time ran out.

He ground his teeth and, with a supreme effort of will, forced himself to calm. Hrani’s words flashed through his mind. “This thing he is building, even they do not know what it does. Only that if it is not complete before the Fjorlagerfa, Farbjodr will offer their blood on Bani’s altar.”

Hopefully, that need to finish the construction, whatever the fiery hell it was, would work in their favor. Tyr Farbjodr would likely throw all his captives at the task.

As if on cue, the massive iron bolt of the cage was drawn back and the hinges gave a ponderous squealing groan as the gate opened.

“Out!” came the shout in guttural Eirdkilr. “Now!”

The captives stumbled out of the pen, shoved or dragged by huge hands, lashed if they moved too slowly. A flood of filthy, exhausted men and women surged out through the open gate and stumbled onto the mud-covered stones of the main square.

Icy wind slammed into Aravon’s chest with jarring force the moment he stepped out of the cage. The heat of the fire and the warmth of the hundreds of captives had kept him warn inside the pen, but now he had nothing but his thin cloth tunic and trousers to ward off the biting cold. He gritted his teeth against the chill but could not stop them from chattering.

“This group’s ready to go!” called an Eirdkilr. His harsh accent made his words difficult to understand. “But hurry them up.” Aravon didn’t comprehend his next words, but there was no mistaking the end of his shout to his companions. “…or he’ll start slitting throats and chopping heads.”

He had no doubt they spoke of Tyr Farbjodr. Eirdkilrs never showed fear or hesitation in battle, but there was a visible unease running through the giant barbarians that herded them past the burning dung fire, through the muddy square, and toward the muck-and-snow-covered road leading south. The Eirdkilrs cracked whips, shoved their captives, and barked rough insults to chivvy their prisoners to move faster.

More than a hundred Fehlan and Princelander captives—mostly men but with a few women and children among them—slogged south through freezing, ankle-deep slush. Puddles of muck and stagnant water formed in deep ruts left by the heavy metal-rimmed wheels of the wagons at the front of the column. All around them, Eirdkilrs watched from the warmth of their longhouses, jeering and shouting insults at the prisoners marching past.

It took the better part of half an hour to reach the southern edge of Praellboer. By the time the last longhouse came into view, Aravon’s hands and feet had gone numb. Even tucking his hands under his armpits failed to keep the cold at bay. The animal hides he wore in place of his fine Legionnaire boots were mostly waterproof, but far too much of the muddy water had trickled in, chilling his feet and making each step utter misery.

Things only grew worse when they left Praellboer. Far, far worse, thanks to the vicious wind rolling off the tundra. The river south of the Eirdkilr town filled the breeze with a stinging bite that sliced through Aravon’s thin clothing and numbed him to the core. Shivers racked his spine and set his teeth clacking. Try as he might, he could not get warm.

All around him, the captives huddled closer in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. Hallad and his wife each carried a child cradled to their chests, arms wrapped around their daughters’ slim bodies in a desperate effort to keep them warm. The Eirdkilrs seemed not to notice the chill, wrapped in their heavy ice bear pelts and thick boots, but simply drove the captives as fast as they could.

Aravon clamped his jaw shut so tight the muscles ached, and he focused his efforts on studying the land around him. The terrain west of Praellboer was mostly flat, though a few hills rose to the south. More low hills rose to the east, offering ample hiding places for the Grim Reavers. His eyes roamed the expanse of white but he could find no sign of Noll, Skathi, Rangvaldr, or the others. A part of him was glad for that—he couldn’t risk the Eirdkilrs seeing his comrades—but he couldn’t shake the tension in his chest and shoulders. He knew they were out there, watching over him, yet catching a glimpse of them would have reaffirmed their presence.

With effort, he tore his eyes from the eastern hills and focused south. There, the broad expanse of the river—easily seventy or eighty yards across at its widest—cut a dark swatch across the landscape, a ribbon of fast-flowing black thick with white ice floe dragged downstream by the racing current. The river ran from the east, meandered through the flat lands south of Praellboer, and disappeared between the western hills.

As far as Aravon could see in both directions, the river had no frozen-over places to cross. No one could ford that river; between the fast-flowing current, the massive chunks of floating ice, and the wicked chill of the icy water, any attempt would lead to certain death. The only way to get to the southern bank of the river was to cross the bridge toward which they now marched.

The bridge, an ancient thing made of dark grey river stone, rose at a sharp incline to form an archway supported by thick columns that disappeared beneath the surface of the water. It spanned the narrowest section of the river, just thirty yards across, and was wide enough to allow five men to cross abreast.

There’s no way the Eirdkilrs built this, Aravon realized as he approached. The crude stone, ice, and mud longhouses he’d seen in Praellboer could never compare to the artistry of the high-arching bridge. It had taken skilled stonemasons, masters of their craft, to erect such a structure. Which begs the question, who did build it, and how long ago?

The earliest legends of Fehl spoke of the Fornlid, the “Ancient Ones” who ruled the continent before the first Fehlan clans arrived. Doubtless the Serenii, though the Fehlan myths offered scant details on who or what the Fornlid had truly been. Aravon had seen the masterpieces of Serenii handiwork—the Icespire itself was a breathtaking creation that no Einari or Princelander could ever hope to rival.

But so, too, the legends of Fehl spoke of creatures far less awe-inspiring: Farbjodr, the ancient demon that plagued the Tauld that lived south of the mountains; the Hveorungr, a creature that haunted men’s nightmares; the gulon that had attacked the Grim Reavers, vicious ice bears, and mythical beasts like griffins and hippogriffs, even mighty dragons larger than any warship.

Those legends could not have sprung from pure imagination. They had to have come from somewhere—doubtless distorted by time and re-telling, but based on a kernel of truth. Stories told by the early peoples that settled the lands of Fehl thousands of years earlier. People that had traveled this far south and made their home in the icy Wastelands.

Had they, then, built this bridge? Such mastery of stonework was rare among even the most advanced of the Fehlan clans; he could hardly imagine the Tauld building something so impressive.

The more he traveled the lands south of the Sawtooth Mountains, the more Aravon realized how little they knew of the icy Wastelands. No Princelander had ever mapped out the full extent of the tundra. According to Zaharis, little was known of the myriad of flora and fauna that existed in this strange, harsh land of snow and ice.

Perhaps, when the war had ended, someone would have a chance. When Tyr Farbjodr lay dead, the Eirdkilrs either defeated or pacified, perhaps the Secret Keepers, the Lecterns of the Master’s Temple, or someone else would brave the harsh cold to see what secrets and marvels the Wastelands had to offer.

But first, we’ve got to end this damned war! Aravon bowed his head against the bitter wind and forced himself to take one plodding step after another. And we can only do that if we don’t bloody freeze to death.

The cold grew sharper, the wind stronger and more piercing, the farther south they went. Snow soon began to fall around them, huge, heavy flakes that clung to his clothing, melted, and soaked his skin. A wall of swirling white encircled them, blinding them to the icy tundra around, trapping them within a prison of ice and cold.

The Eirdkilrs cracked their whips louder and pulled heavy fur cloaks higher. The captives huddled closer together for warmth, tried to move their exhausted feet faster. Yet try as they might, they could not escape the cutting wind, the bone-deep cold.

Slowly, the chill leeched the strength from Aravon’s muscles, sapped every hint of warmth from within his body. Ahead in the line of captives, Captain Lingram shivered and flexed fingers that had grown dangerously white. All around him, Fehlans and Princelanders leaned into the cold, trying desperately to keep their feet moving, to not succumb to the vicious bite of the wind.

Colborn and the Deid, however, appeared fractionally less miserable. The Lieutenant, Aravon knew, had spent countless nights in the Fehlan wilds, and his Deid blood gave him greater resistance to the cold. He still shivered, his shoulders hunched against the wind, but he seemed to have strength enough to whisper to the handful of Fehlans—Hallad, Skuli, Hrani, and a few others—clustered around him, who cast furtive glances toward the nearest Eirdkilrs.

Crack! The sound of a striking whip echoed terribly loud beside Aravon. He recoiled, but it wasn’t aimed at him. Colborn’s shirt suddenly split open and a long, vicious tear opened on his back. Crack, crack! Twice more the whip struck, ripping the Lieutenant’s shirt and the flesh beneath. Colborn cried out at the sudden pain and fell to his hands and knees in the muck. Blood welled from the wounds and froze to his skin.

An Eirdkilr appeared from the swirling snow beside Aravon, looming over the downed Colborn. “Shut your mouth and keep moving!” he barked in his guttural tongue. The whip rose and fell again, drawing another line of blood down Colborn’s back.

“Up!” roared the Eirdkilr.

Colborn seemed unable to move, trapped within the cold, shock, and pain. Aravon’s gut clenched. Get up, damn it!

The Lieutenant’s back moved, then his shoulders and arms. Barely a tremor at first, then slowly the muscles coiled and he pushed himself up. One hand, then the other, until he rested on his knees. His head lifted, the muscles of his jaw working. Spine stiff as a spear, he struggled to rise.

The Eirdkilr raised the whip again, but Hallad and Skuli quickly fell to helping Colborn. They managed to get the Lieutenant onto his feet and moving again before the giant barbarian struck out again.

“Keep up the pace!” The Eirdkilr shouted into the wind. “Or you’ll all taste the lash!” Lowering his whip, he strode back to his place in line, keeping pace with the limping, shuffling captives.

Aravon gritted his teeth. Bloody bastard! It took every shred of willpower not to turn his head and glare at the Eirdkilr—the last thing he needed was to call attention to himself. With a company of forty armed and armored Eirdkilrs herding the hundred or so prisoners heading south, they had no chance of success if they struck. Even if they managed to take down the guards, they would be fleeing blind into a snowstorm. Making a move now would be foolish. He’d have to keep biding his time until the opportunity to escape presented itself.

His eyes went to Colborn, who limped along between Hallad and Skuli. The Lieutenant was clearly in pain, as evidenced by the tension in his shoulders and back muscles, but he was playing up his weakness. Doubtless to disguise his warrior’s musculature among the malnourished and exhausted captives.

Through the ragged tears in the Lieutenant’s shirt, Aravon caught sight of old, white scars crisscrossing his back. Long, deep wounds long ago healed, yet the flesh was raised and visible—the mark of whips, switches, or canes.

Aravon’s gut clenched. And I thought my father was bad. Colborn had spoken of Lord Derran’s abuse—it hadn’t stopped at just verbal, it seemed. In his younger years, growing up as the bastard half-Fehlan son of a Fehlan-hating nobleman, the Lieutenant had endured far worse than anyone would guess.

Yet despite it all, despite the beatings and insults and scorn and rejection, he had become the man he was. A capable Lieutenant, an impressive warrior, a leader of men. Not only the Grim Reavers that had followed him, but the Fehlans clustered around him. Though they kept their heads down and their voices low, Aravon could see a new life flooding their exhausted bodies, a renewed determination in their steps. Colborn’s promise of helping them fight for freedom, even under the farce of being Chief Hafgrimsson’s envoy, had galvanized them and bolstered their hopes.

Good, Aravon told himself silently. They’ll need it.

On they marched, through the ripping wind and biting cold, the wall of white swirling around them with the howling cry of a gale. Snowflakes and bits of ice lashed at Aravon’s face, back, arms, and legs with the force of a million cracking whips. But instead of drawing blood, they froze him to the core, slowing the beat of his heart as his body struggled to keep warm.

A dull, languid stupor descended over him. His eyelids grew heavy, his world narrowing to a hazy blur. He was too tired to do little more than stare down at his feet, watching them lift, move forward, and splash into the slush of the road as if seeing through another man’s eyes. The cold seeped into his limbs until he could feel nothing, not even the beat of his heart or the ground beneath his feet.

The only sensation that remained was hunger. It gnawed at his belly, sinking fangs of acid deep into his gut. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten—he could barely think beyond the immediate, the white haze around him, the cold in his bones, the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. So numb was he that he never noticed the man in line ahead of him falling. His foot struck the body and he fell, hard. To his hands and knees in the muck. His strength gave out and he collapsed face-first. Thick, choking mud on his cheek, seeping into his ears, nose, and mouth.

So cold…so…

“Up!” A voice, faint and distant, as if it came from a thousand leagues away, speaking the language of the Princelands. A familiar face: handsome, blond, with worry-darkened eyes. “Come on!”

Lingram. The name pierced the haze filling Aravon’s mind. He blinked, blinked again, forced his head to lift from the muck. Hands gripped his arms and pulled him upright. Up, up from the muck, up to feet gone leaden.

“Come on!” Lingram growled. “Before they get here and crack those whips.”

Aravon stumbled forward on numb legs, his body propelled by instinct buried deep within his unconscious. He could hardly think to move, barely had the presence of mind to step over the next fallen body. His eyes drank in the details—blond hair, blocky features, tattooed runes of a Fehlan—without comprehension. It was all he could do to remain upright and stumble forward one step after another. Farther and farther into the blistering cold and the empty abyss that awaited him.

How long they marched like that, Captain Lingram gripping his arm and helping him to stand, Aravon never knew. It seemed he blinked and the wind had fallen silent, the sun emerged from behind the clouds, and brilliant light filled the world. Light, and with it, a shred of warmth.

Aravon lifted his face, closed his eyes, and basked in the brilliance of the afternoon sun that washed over him. The glow pushed back the chill…barely. Yet even a hint of heat came as a welcome relief after the deathly cold that refused to leave his bones.

But when next he opened his eyes, the sight that greeted him lit a fire in his belly.

A mile-wide hole had been carved into the endless expanse of white, and a muddy path descended along the nearest of the stepped stone walls, descending nearly a hundred feet into the hollowed-out pit. Hundreds of figures moved in the depths of the crater—fur-clad giants with bared weapons and faces stained by blue war paint; men and women covered from head to toe in black mud pushed wheelbarrows, swung picks and hammers, or hauled buckets laden with stone. The cacophony of the mining tools echoed so loud it drowned out the shouted orders of the Eirdkilrs herding their column south.

Mingled dread and amazement surged within Aravon. Swordsman’s beard! His jaw dropped as he stared at the enormous pit mine and the hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of captives working in its depths.

They had reached Illtgrund, the place where he would discover Tyr Farbjodr’s ultimate plan.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Something in the center of the pit mine drew Aravon’s eyes. Four massive monoliths of pure black stood arranged in a circle, one pillar set at each point of the compass. They were identical to the black menhir that stood amidst the flatlands south of Icespire—made of the same stone, darker than onyx or obsidian—yet these showed no sign of wear. Age and the elements hadn’t worn smooth the runes etched deep into the monoliths, hadn’t dulled the corners of the four-sided pillars.

The monoliths encircled a smooth stone surface that appeared to have been carved from a single enormous stone. Twenty yards across in a circle far too perfect for even the most skilled craftsman, it appeared like an inverted table—flat, near-glossy surface with four “legs” thrust upward into the sky. The strangest thing Aravon had ever seen, yet even from this distance, he could feel the power that hung in the air. Crackling, surging, writhing, an invisible force that pressed against his chest and tugged at his mind.

This, he knew, could never have been crafted by human hands. Only the Serenii—or creatures as ancient and powerful—were capable of such mastery. They alone had known the secrets of bringing the magic from deep within the bowels of Einan to the surface and commanding it to do their will. A place like this could very well have been a focal point for their power, similar to the glowing gemstone tower that was the Icespire.

So what in the fiery hell are the bloody Eirdkilrs doing here? Aravon’s mind raced, the dread coiled tight in his chest pushing away the cold. The Eirdkilrs had no written language or recorded history, so how was it possible they could hope to understand secrets lost to mankind—secrets men like Zaharis dedicated their lives to unearthing?

Aravon tore his gaze from the four black monoliths, turning his attention to the strange, crude-looking construction being erected just outside the smooth circle between the menhirs. Twin arms of stone jutted up from the muddy ground, rising forty feet into the air and tilting toward each other, as if forming the two sides of a massive archway. The two pillars were easily ten feet around, made entirely of the same black rock as the four obelisks.

Aravon sucked in a breath. They’re made of ghoulstone. All the ghoulstone Tyr Farbjodr had taken from Silver Break, Gold Burrows, the town square of Oldrsjot and Storbjarg, the sacred Blotahorgr at the Fjall capital, and everywhere else around Fehl.

At one side of the pit mine’s round base, scores of captives worked at crushing the ghoulstone, while others hauled the powdered black stone to where more prisoners mixed it in buckets with mud and water. To form a mortar, Aravon realized, which then went toward the wooden scaffolding erected around the pillars. From there, it was passed up hand to hand until it reached the topmost level of scaffolding, to be added onto the top of the growing back pillars to provide a firm surface for the next layer of ghoulstone.

It was a crude construction, but that was to be expected of ghoulstone, a mineral too light and soft for the Princelanders or Einari to use. Indeed, it was clear none of the captives had anything close to adequate building experience, as evidenced by the clumsy way they handled the mortar and the fist- and knuckle-sized chunks of ghoulstone that went onto the pillars.

And yet, despite that, through sheer force of manpower, with more than a thousand Fehlan and Princelander prisoners working on it, the construction was proceeding. Aravon estimated the archway needed rise only a few more feet—no more than ten—before the two arms joined at the crown. The project would be completed before the sun rose on the day of the Feast of Death.

But what is it for?

An Eirdkilr hand shoved him forward, sending him stumbling down the incline. He caught the cliff wall, steadied himself, and continued the descent down the mud-slicked stone ramp. Yet his eyes never left the crude archway, his mind racing.

He could see no reason for the Eirdkilrs to build such an unusual and seemingly worthless structure. The archway opened onto empty air, with nothing but mud on either side.

Yet its proximity to that strange stone circle and the fact that it was built using ghoulstone gave Aravon pause. Through his mind’s eye flashed the image of the inert chunk of black stone growing bright in Zaharis’ hand. Rangvaldr had used it alongside his holy stone to heal Endyn, and he had found no distinction between the two.

He wants it for magic, then? The very thought felt so terribly odd. Six months ago, he’d never have believed magic existed. Meeting Rangvaldr and seeing the holy stone work had changed that. Now, he couldn’t shake the notion from his mind.

What sort of magic, he couldn’t begin to imagine. He only had experience with Rangvaldr’s healing magic, which drained power from the Seiomenn’s body to pass strength to his patient, sealing wounds and restoring broken bones.

He sucked in a breath. Is that what he plans, then? The idea drove a dagger of ice into his gut. But instead of using his strength to give to another, he intends to take his captives’ strength into himself?

Again, the idea threatened to boggle his mind. The idea that someone could steal life and energy from another human being seemed impossible.

And yet, after watching Rangvaldr crumple after over-exerting himself, Aravon couldn’t shake the image of all those captives—thousands of them—collapsing as Tyr Farbjodr used the magic of the ghoulstones to drain their strength. Take their life energy into himself, use it to amplify his own power somehow. A proposition that defied belief to a rational-minded man, yet the only explanation that remotely came close to making sense. After everything he’d seen of the Eirdkilrs and all he’d heard of the man who led them, he had no trouble believing Tyr Farbjodr would willingly slaughter thousands of enemies for the sake of power.

Power he’ll then unleash on Fehl and the Princelands! Fear curled like a serpent in Aravon’s gut. He had an image of Tyr Farbjodr marching at the head of his armies, every one of them brimming with the strength of ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred men. Strength enough to run a thousand miles without slowing and tear down the walls of Icespire with bare hands.

That thought sent a shiver of worry down his spine. Keeper’s teeth! He gritted his teeth, his fingers clenching into tight fists of their own accord. We’ve got to find out a way to stop him!

This went beyond the tactics of battle and war. An army of Eirdkilrs he could defeat—had defeated time and time again. But this…this was something no Legionnaire, ducal regular, mercenary, or Fehlan warrior could hope to withstand. Eirdkilrs, powerful giants armed with massive weapons, wielding power drained from the captives held here.

Not only would Tyr Farbjodr be unstoppable, but all the men, women, and children around him would die. That was far more civilian casualties—any casualties, in truth—than Aravon could stomach.

Already, the death toll proved far too high. Aravon’s eyes strayed to the eastern edge of the pit, where four men were struggling with two corpses—a man and woman, Fehlans both, eyes wide and unstaring. Blood stained their bruised, battered, and emaciated bodies, but they were far beyond pain. Hunger, exhaustion, thirst, or Eirdkilr cruelty had claimed them. Them, and the hundreds more already lying on the twenty-foot-tall pile formed against the cliff wall. The tiny bodies of children lay intertwined with the men and women thrown—no, discarded like so much refuse—onto the ever-growing mound of carcasses.

“The pile of corpses waiting to feed something,” the Fehlan, Hrani, had said. Disgust shivered in his stomach. Had the Eirdkilrs adopted the way of their Bein cousins and taken to feeding on human flesh? Not that he could see; the three score barbarians moving around the base of the pit mine gave the pile of bodies a wide berth, disdain etched into their brutish faces.

So what, then? Aravon slipped on a patch of mud, but Captain Lingram’s arm held him upright. Nodding gratefully, Aravon focused on the descent, but he couldn’t help glancing back at the pile of corpses time and time again. What in the fiery hell are they keeping them for?

Even the Eirdkilrs had to know that dead bodies brought disease. The Ministrants of the Bright Lady and the Trouveres of the Bloody Minstrel taught that upon death bodies released a foul miasma that carried sickness. Keeping that many corpses so near the living captives increased the risk of plague a hundred-fold.

No, Aravon decided, they’re keeping them there for a reason. The question is, what?

Try as he might, he couldn’t decipher its purpose. Or, for that matter, the reason for the archway in the first place, or how Tyr Farbjodr could possibly know the secrets of the ancient Serenii—much less use them to unlock the power that crackled in the air above the pit.

Then he caught sight of the figure standing in the heart of the stone circle: a giant even among his own people, easily eight feet tall from the top of his blond-haired head to the tips of his heavy boots, with shoulders to rival the ice bear he’d killed for his fur cloak. A massive single-headed axe hung on his back, its blade larger than the head of the Eirdkilrs that flanked him as his honor guard. He carried no shield, and no dagger sat on his belt, but one look at the brute and Aravon knew this particular Eirdkilr could tear him apart with bare hands.

This, then, was Tyr Farbjodr.

A sharp intake of breath echoed from Aravon’s right. His head snapped around, and he found Captain Lingram frozen, every muscle in his body rigid. The Legionnaire’s eyes were wide, horror mingled with fear as his gaze locked on the giant within the stone circle.

“Lingram?” Aravon whispered. “What is it?”

“That’s him!” Captain Lingram’s voice came out in a harsh whisper edged with steel and hatred.

The sharp reaction confused Aravon. There was more than just simple recognition of the enemy they’d come hunting—this was something more. Something deeper…personal, even.

“He’s the one!” Captain Lingram whirled toward him, and a fire of fury blazed in his eyes. “He’s the bastard who led the attack on Highcliff Motte!”

Icy feet danced down Aravon’s spine. Highcliff Motte. Where Lingram had lost his father and brothers, his friends, everyone he’d lived beside for years. This had just gotten very personal for the Legionnaire.

“But-but…” Confusion twisted Lingram’s face into a frown and he faltered mid-step. “He shouldn’t…it’s impossible!”

The outburst caught the attention of a nearby Eirdkilr, who barked an insult at them and stormed down the ramp, raising his whip to strike.

Aravon grabbed Lingram’s arm and dragged him down the ramp before the barbarian could lash them. “What are you talking about?” he hissed, his voice pitched low for the Legionnaire’s ear only. “What’s impossible?”

Captain Lingram stumbled, his eyes glazed and unfocused. When he spoke, his voice was thick and hoarse. “I saw him die.”

That nearly stopped Aravon in his tracks. “What?” Surprise hummed within him. He tore his eyes from Lingram, glanced down at the giant Farbjodr, then back at the Captain. “Are you—”

“Yes!” Anger blazed on Lingram’s face, pushing back the shock of his surprise. “Koltun put a crossbow bolt into him.” He tapped his chest. “Right in the heart. I saw him fall in the battle just minutes before Arch-Guardian Dayn brought the canyon down on top of the Ninth Company and the Eirdkilrs.”

Aravon’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he wondered if the cold had shattered Lingram’s mind. Or, worse, if the horrors he’d endured during their desperate flight from Highcliff Motte had warped his memories. Keeper knew that happened all too often when the rush and terror of battle consumed a man.

But that hesitation only fueled the fire of Lingram’s fury. “Don’t look at me like that, Aravon!” His voice came out in a spitting hiss. “I know the fog of war and the confusion of battle as well as you do!” An angry glint sparkled in his eyes and he gave a vehement shake of his head. “This isn’t that. I saw him die!”

Aravon held up a placating hand. “I believe you.” He glanced at Tyr Farbjodr, now just a hundred or so paces away from where he and Lingram descended the muddy ramp toward the base of the pit mine. “But somehow he survived. Survived and took command of all the Eirdkilr forces. Whatever happened at Highcliff Motte is in the past. All that matters is that we’re here, now. And this time, we’re going to put him down once and for all. This, I swear!”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Killing Tyr Farbjodr would prove far easier said than done.

Two hundred Eirdkilrs stood between Aravon and the enemy commander. Massive, heavily-armed brutes with clubs on their belts, axes on their backs, or spears in their hands. The blond-haired giants cracked their whips, shouted at the captives to work faster, and shoved the freezing, exhausted newcomers down the ramps to join the other miners working with hammers and picks at the walls of the pit mine.

Aravon, Colborn, and Captain Lingram had no armor—nothing beyond their thin woolen undertunics and leather trousers—and only the miner’s tools for weapons. Even if they could somehow get within ten yards of Tyr Farbjodr between the stone pillars, they’d have to deal with the dozen or so Eirdkilrs that surrounded the commander as his guard of honor. Taking on all the enemies in the pit mine alone, without reinforcements or proper armaments, was suicide.

Urgency set his nerves twanging. The day was far advanced—they had only two or three hours before twilight—and the Fjorlagerfa would be upon them when the sun next rose. He had to find out everything he could about the mine, its captives, and its guards, then make a break for freedom.

The chaos of the pit mine would hopefully offer ample distraction, keep the guards occupied long enough for the three of them to get out. He studied the activity that consumed the mine: hundreds of workers chipped black ghoulstone free of the wall, while bucket chains and decrepit wooden handcarts transported the mineral down the ramp to be distributed to the grinding and building.

By his count, at least thirteen hundred captives worked within the pit mine. Thirteen hundred prisoners guarded by two hundred Eirdkilrs? He ducked his head to hide a grim smile. Not the best odds, but it could be far worse.

Most of the captives already within the mine were Fehlan—Eyrr, judging by the ragged and torn remnants of their clan clothing, though many appeared to have come from the southern clans, including the Haugr and Hafr, the Myrr, and Bein. Some bore the darker hair and thicker features of the Deid clan and the broader build of Fjall. Only a handful—perhaps a hundred or so—had come from the Princelands.

The rest, to Aravon’s surprise, were Tauld. Giants as large as the Eirdkilrs, but with the long, lean build of hunters, trappers, fishermen, and herdsman of the shaggy-haired oxen that pulled the wagons and carts hauling supplies. Their faces were free of the blue stains left by war paint, but had the gaunt, hungry look of men and women living on far too little food in the cold, harsh Wastelands.

The sight of the Tauld prisoners twisted a dagger in Aravon’s gut. They’re not just taking captives from their enemies; they’re imprisoning their own.

Aravon’s eyes went to Tyr Farbjodr, who stood amidst the circle of black pillars and stared at his captives, a cold, calculating expression on his blunt face. Even from hundreds of yards away, something about the giant sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. There was something utterly devoid of humanity in the way the Eirdkilr commander watched his captives slave away. Disdain, or was that a hint of glee written in his expression?

Damn you, Tyr Farbjodr! Aravon resisted the urge to snatch up a hammer or pick and charge the giant. He’d be dead before he took two steps, and that would do nothing to help those imprisoned here—or stop the bastard from unleashing his magic-enhanced armies across the mountains. I swear, by the Swordsman, you will pay for this!

His gaze went back to the filthy, black-stained, exhausted-looking Tauld slaving away beside their Fehlan cousins. His mind flashed to the night he and Rangvaldr had crept into the nameless Tauld village and raided their stores for food, furs, and supplies. Those supplies had saved their lives, enabled them to get here. He’d vowed to repay the debt—now he had a chance.

But first, we figure out what we’re up against and how to deal with it. And, he added, almost as an afterthought, how the bloody hell to get that intelligence to the others.

Thirteen hundred captives could inflict serious damage on two hundred Eirdkilrs, but if he wanted to guarantee success, he needed to ensure Tyr Farbjodr was isolated with as few guards as possible. The enslaved Tauld, Fehlans, and Princelanders would only fight if they had hope. Even a faint hope, barely a glimmer, like a candle in the eye of a hurricane, but that one spark would be enough.

It fell to Aravon and his comrades to give them a chance.

As he marched down the ramp, he studied the movement of the guards. There seemed to be no real pattern to their watch, but they busied themselves scowling, growling, and shouting at whichever cluster of miners and workers moved slowest. Eirdkilrs were warriors, not prison-keepers or slavers. They could pound the life out of their captives with ease, but they couldn’t possibly hope to keep an eye on every corner of the pit mine.

Especially after dark. Aravon shot a glance at the sky. Just a few more hours, then we make a break for it.

And not a moment too soon. He’d taken a huge gamble getting the three of them captured on the last day before the Feast of Death. It had paid off, but even once they managed to get free, they’d be cutting things damned close. Whatever plan they hatched would have to go off quickly and without a hitch to take down Tyr Farbjodr before the sun rose on the Feast of Death.

At the bottom of the ramp, a wooden yoke and pair of buckets were thrust into his hands and an Eirdkilr shouted orders at full volume. “Get hauling, you filthy little goat-face!” The giant, believing Aravon couldn’t understand his guttural language, gesticulated wildly with his whip and shoved Aravon toward the nearest group of miners chipping ghoulstone from the wall. Aravon made a show of stumbling and staggering in the direction indicated, feigning weakness and exhaustion.

Not much of an act, truth be told. Though the depth of the pit mine blocked the worst of the wind, the biting cold of the tundra settled into the stone around him, chilling him to the bone. He hadn’t had anything to eat for far too long, and his muscles ached from endless hours of riding and marching.

Yet he bent to the task with only a little groan of fatigue. As chunk after chunk of ghoulstone went into the buckets, his eyes never stopped roving the pit mine, his mind analyzing every aspect of the layout—the arrangement of the Eirdkilrs whipping the captives, the workers themselves, the sections of the pit mine where only a handful of prisoners worked at the smaller lodes of ghoulstone visible along the cliff wall.

He had dedicated his life to evaluating and understanding troop movements. Fifteen years as a Legionnaire—first as a soldier, then as an officer—had taught him to scrutinize an enemy’s position and recognize their stances. A defensive stance, as marked by the presence of a protective barrier against potential threats. An offensive stance on terrain perfect for a charge or sneak attack. A holding position of a defensible fortress or terrain, or a temporary bivouac as an army rested overnight before moving on. He could read the field, analyze the arrangement of the soldiers, and use it to gauge the enemy’s intentions.

Here, everything he saw told him the Eirdkilrs had no intention of remaining here any longer than necessary.

The giant barbarians were spread out in positions intended to concentrate on the prisoners, their collective attention focused inward, never bothering to scan the tundra around Illtgrund for enemies. After all, who would be foolish enough to invade the icy Wastelands? Even if an army managed to force the Snowpass, defeat the Eirdkilrs doubtless stationed at Saetavirki, and survive the hundred-mile march south, they would have to first attack Praellboer long before they reached the mine.

Tyr Farbjodr knew it. The Eirdkilrs serving as his bodyguards, prison guards, and slavers knew it. The enslaved Fehlans and Princelanders knew it. Here, in the middle of nowhere, there was no fear of attack. The Eirdkilrs’ brutality kept the captives docile and compliant. Hunger, thirst, cold, and exhaustion sapped their strength and killed them. An enemy attack on a place like this was no more likely than the sky opening and diamonds falling to the earth.

But impossible’s what we do, right? A cold smile tugged at Aravon’s lips as he slung the yoke over his shoulders and hauled his burden across the muddy ground toward the twin pillars being built in front of the stone monoliths.

The Eirdkilrs roaming the pit mine were focused on their slaves, beating them into submission and keeping them from fleeing. They delighted in tormenting the half-men and the Fehlans they considered “traitors to their blood”. But they had no fear of them—not even fear enough to leave guards posted at the top of the ramps leading into the mine. The captives were too tired and battered to resist, much less fight back, and no enemy could possibly attack from without.

Which makes this the perfect target for us. Aravon emptied his buckets and trudged back toward his section of the wall. Surprise is our best weapon here.

The assault on Icespire had nearly succeeded—would have succeeded, had Aravon and the Grim Reavers not repelled the invaders—because the surprise attack came from an unexpected direction. A force of just eight thousand Eirdkilrs had come dangerously close to capturing and destroying the largest and most powerful city in the Princelands.

Now, the time had come to turn the tables on Tyr Farbjodr.

As Aravon set about filling his buckets again, he scanned the bottom of the mine for Colborn. A hint of fear tightened his gut. He could find no sign of the Lieutenant. Or Captain Lingram, for that matter. He forced himself to calm, pushed back the anxiety roiling within him. Colborn’s blond hair and beard would be difficult to spot among the Fehlans—that was a part of what made him so indispensable as a Grim Reaver.

Relief flooded Aravon when he finally caught sight of a handful of familiar figures working a section of the mine wall a few hundred yards away. Colborn and Hrani swung hammers while Hallad and Skuli worked picks. Of Hallad’s wife and children, however, Aravon caught no sign.

Again, he hauled another load of ghoulstone to the pillars, slogging through ankle-deep muck and mud. With every step, his eyes roved the pit mine, searching for any sign of the captives’ families. Plenty of women worked alongside the Fehlan and Princelander men, but Aravon could see no children.

Then his eyes fell on the dark mouth of a tunnel set behind a jagged section of cliff on the western edge of the pit mine. Ten Eirdkilrs stood guard with weapons drawn and bared, blocky faces as hard as the stone behind them. Aravon had no doubt the captives’ families were being held there.

Damn! He bit back a growl of frustration as he emptied his bucket and trudged back toward the wall. That’s going to make things more difficult. The miners would hesitate to attack their captors if they knew the Eirdkilrs would slaughter their children.

Aravon’s mind whirled. We’re going to have to find a way to do something about them. The question was, what?

As he strode past the spot where Colborn worked, he caught the Lieutenant glancing at him. Miners’ families, held captive to the west, he signed.

Colborn gave the tiniest nod of acknowledgement. We’re talking about how to deal with it, he signed back.

Then Aravon was past and Colborn swung his hammer at the wall again, the exchange too quick for the Eirdkilrs to notice. But Aravon couldn’t help smiling inwardly as he bent to re-fill his bucket. Never one to be idle, Colborn. The Lieutenant had lied when he said Chief Svein Hafgrimsson had sent him, yet he’d taken to his role of liberator seriously. It seemed his mind was already working in the same direction as Aravon’s. Between the two of them—and Captain Lingram, wherever he was—they’d find the best way out of Illtgrund and a solution for taking down Tyr Farbjodr. Freeing the captives, too, by the Swordsman’s mercy.

Someone jostled against Aravon’s shoulder hard enough to send him staggering. His yoke and buckets slipped from his shoulders and splashed in the muck, and only Aravon’s quick reflexes saved him from joining them.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

Captain Lingram’s voice accompanied the shove. The Legionnaire bustled around Aravon, bent, and lifted the buckets from the mud. “Here, let me help you.” He made a show of retrieving Aravon’s yoke and replacing it on his shoulders. All so he could get close enough to Aravon to whisper, “I count thirteen hundred and fifty. Seven hundred strong enough to fight.”

Aravon gave no response, for an Eirdkilr was splashing through the muck toward them, eyes blazing. Captain Lingram managed to get Aravon’s buckets back in place before the giant reached them and unleashed the fury of his coiled whip, and together they set off to fill the buckets with the ghoulstone chipped free of the wall.

“Against two hundred Eirdkilrs, it’s not going to be enough,” Lingram said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aravon nodded. “I know.” They had to thin out their enemies if they wanted a chance. “But I’ve got a plan I think might just work.”

Captain Lingram’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but he didn’t look up from his task. “Now we find the way out, yeah?”

“First chance we get after dark,” Aravon replied. “See what you can come up with. The three of us, no more.”

Captain Lingram’s brow furrowed for only a heartbeat before smoothing out once more. He knew as well as Aravon that trying to break out of Illtgrund with just the three of them would prove difficult enough. Attempting it with dozens of Princelanders and Fehlans in tow would draw too much attention.

Without a word or a nod of acknowledgement, Lingram abandoned the task of filling the buckets and strode toward the cliff wall. He snatched up a nearby hammer and set to work pounding the stone beside the Fehlan captives. Between the strikes, Aravon caught snatches of muttered Fehlan. The captives working there seemed surprised to hear a Princelander speaking their tongue, but after a few moments, answered back in equally quiet voices.

Good. Aravon slogged through the muck, loaded down beneath the weight of the stones filling his buckets. The more Captain Lingram and Colborn learned, and the more they spoke to the captives, the greater the chance this mission would prove successful.

Again, Aravon’s gaze lifted skyward. It seemed the sun had barely moved, still hanging far above the horizon. His muscles ached from the exertion and the yoke dug painfully into his neck and shoulders. The work only pushed back some of the cold, but he could feel the icy black mud seeping into his improvised foot wrappings.

Exhaustion settled over him as time dragged on. Numbness crept into his mind, like wool that filled his head and dragged at his eyelids. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other, to keep moving when his ice-numbed fingers begged for warmth and his spine protested beneath the weight of the yoke.

It took all his willpower not to shut down, not to retreat into his mind to escape the chill, hunger, thirst, and fatigue. Instead, he struggled to keep focused on the pit mine, and on the giant figures cracking their whips, barking orders, or beating Fehlans or Princelanders that collapsed beneath the strain. No rest was given, no food or water distributed. Simply endless, back-breaking toil beneath the furious, scowling glare of the Eirdkilrs and their cold-eyed master.

Aravon glanced at Tyr Farbjodr. The Eirdkilr commander remained standing, his gaze locked on the growing archway. The influx of fresh workers had sped up the construction of the strange black pillars; now, the two arms tilted inward, so close together they nearly touched.

Anxiety wormed into Aravon’s gut. It’s almost done, he thought. The construction is almost complete, and when it’s done, every one of these captives will die.

His eyes traveled to the black stone circle upon which Tyr Farbjodr stood, and a shudder ran down his spine. In that moment, it appeared like the top of some hideous sacrificial altar. Up close, Aravon could see grooves etched into the surface, like the channels that irrigated the farmlands around Icespire.

But no water would flow through those grooves, only blood. The blood of thirteen hundred captives, all of whom would die upon the morrow to feed Tyr Farbjodr’s lust for power and conquest.

Aravon’s fingers gripped the smooth wood of his yoke tighter. Fire coursed through his veins, energy crackling along his nerves and flooding his muscles with vigor. He stood just twenty paces from the Eirdkilr commander. Was he fast enough to cross the distance and crush Tyr Farbjodr’s skull with the heavy yoke?

The thought burned into his mind, then faded in an instant as an Eirdkilr stepped between him and the stone circle. The brute growled down at him. “Faster, cur!” He jabbed the wooden handle of his whip into Aravon’s chest. “Move or taste the heel of my boot!”

Aravon ducked his head, pretending ignorance, and hurried with his empty buckets back to the wall. The Eirdkilr didn’t follow, but splashed off across the muck-covered ground toward another group of miners wrestling with a handcart that had gotten enmired and refused to move. The crack, crack, crack of the whip echoed loud, accompanied by shrill cries of agony. Aravon gritted his teeth and forced down the anger that surged within him. He could do nothing to help…yet. The time would come when the captives would taste their freedom—and vengeance against their captors.

The world around him grew steadily darker, yet something about it seemed somehow…off. He glanced at the sky, and his gut twisted. The setting sun had just dipped below the western horizon, but instead of brilliant colors of sunset, the heavens had turned an angry, violent crimson. Like blood gushing from a gaping wound.

The sight sent a shiver of worry down Aravon’s spine. This was far worse than the blistering red sky that presaged a storm—this was something unnatural, an omen that could only bode ill. The heavens had turned red in anticipation of the Feast of Death. Of the blood that would flow upon the morrow as Tyr Farbjodr massacred his captives in the name of power.

Urgency set Aravon’s nerves on edge. We’ve got to get out of here. The days this far south had grown longer, and they’d have far too few hours of darkness before the sun rose on the Fjorlagerfa. We’re going to have to move bloody fast if we’re going to pull this off!

He scanned the captives until he found Colborn among the Deid, and Captain Lingram among a handful of Princelanders. Worry darkened both their eyes, and tension lined their shoulders. They both knew the stakes, what would happen if they couldn’t get out in time.

The Eirdkilrs, too, seemed to feel the insistence. “This must be finished!” A guttural voice, ringing with such power it could only be Tyr Farbjodr’s, echoed around the mine. “Before the sun rises, or by the gods these fools worship, they will know a fate far worse than death!”

Scores of whips cracked around the pit mine, and their shouts to “Work faster!” drowned out the cries of those they beat. Torches and lamps were lit one by one, pushing back the falling darkness within the mine. The work seemed to reach a feverish pitch as the giants whipped the captives into a frenzy. Exhausted men and women slumped beneath their heavy loads, tools dropped from fatigue-numbed fingers, but still the Eirdkilrs snarled, shouted, and cracked their whips. They would heed their commander’s orders, even if it killed every one of their captives.

In that moment, Aravon knew their time had come. With the Eirdkilrs consumed by the work and the captives too weak and tired to rise, he, Colborn, and Captain Lingram would have the best chance of escape. The commotion and thickening shadows of night would cover their movements.

He sought out Colborn and Captain Lingram, found them staring at him, their muscles tense and eyes alert.

“Let’s go,” he signed, his movements quick and sharp. “We break out of here, now.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

“Northeastern corner.” Colborn’s fingers flashed in the silent hand language. “That’s our way out.”

Aravon glanced around and, finding no Eirdkilr eyes on him, quickly discarded his wooden yoke and one of the two wooden buckets. The other he kept, if only to maintain the appearance of working should any of the giants happen to glance his way.

He turned his steps toward the darkness away from the circle of light shining from the torches burning around the black stone pillars. The Eirdkilrs had already lit half a dozen with more catching ablaze every second, but until they dispersed around the base of the pit mine, the descending night offered ample concealment from watching eyes.

That suited Aravon’s purposes just fine. Eyes darting around for any sign he was being watched, he hurried toward the corner of the pit mine Colborn had indicated. Captain Lingram appeared from the shadows and fell in at his side, a hammer and pick slung over one shoulder. It didn’t matter that he spoke no sign language—he’d read Aravon’s intentions clearly enough, and simply had to follow.

Aravon’s heart hammered a nervous beat as he splashed through the mud and muck toward the northeastern corner of the mine. The sound of the mine—the metallic clink of picks digging into the cliff wall, the thunk of hammers crushing stone, the crack of the Eirdkilr whips, and the pained cries of their victims—echoed terribly loud through the blood rushing in his ears. His gut twisted in knots and his muscles tensed in expectation of a shout. At any moment, his captors would spot him, call out, and their attempt of escape would be delayed. Given how little time they had until sunrise—no more than eight hours—they couldn’t afford any setbacks.

Yet the shout never came. No Eirdkilrs loomed out of the darkness in front of him to bar his path to escape. They were too busy driving the rest of the captives to work harder, to complete the project before sunrise, or collecting the torches that would illuminate the mine after dark and enable the work to continue through the night. Aravon and Captain Lingram reached the northeastern corner of the mine unhindered.

There, Aravon found a thirty-yard stretch of wall utterly ignored by miners and Eirdkilrs alike. By the last threads of daylight, he could see the stone—all solid grey and brown, utterly devoid of ghoulstone. Either the miners had depleted the vein of black stone or there simply had been none to begin with. Whatever the case, the Eirdkilrs had no interest in working this section of the mine.

This is our way out, then.

Dropping his bucket, Aravon ran a hand up the wall, felt the rough, jagged stones protruding from the cliff. It would be a daunting climb, but they could make it.

What choice do we have? The thought drove an icy dagger into his gut. Either we get out of here now or we die.

And not just them. If they failed to stop Tyr Farbjodr, everyone in Illtgrund would die as well. All thirteen hundred Fehlans, Princelanders, and Tauld. He’d be damned if he let that happen.

“Go!” he hissed to Captain Lingram. “Get up there.”

Without hesitation, Captain Lingram dropped his hammer and pick and began the climb. Muscles hardened over years of swinging a sword, carrying a shield, and marching beneath the weight of a Legionnaire’s armor and pack carried him up, up, up the cliff face at an impressive speed. In less than a minute, he had nearly disappeared into the deepening gloom.

Aravon let out a long breath. That’s one. He turned back to find Colborn—he just needed to collect the Lieutenant and they’d be out of here.

Dread settled like a weight over his shoulders. Colborn stood not twenty yards away, but behind him came Hallad, Hrani, Skuli, and two more men of the Deid.

What are you doing, Colborn? Aravon couldn’t sign the question—the night had grown too dark for his hand gestures to be visible from this distance—but his mind raced. There’s no way we can all escape!

The three Grim Reavers had a chance, but the exhausted, starving, and battered Fehlans would slow them down. Worse, every additional man increased the risk of being spotted. The Eirdkilrs had already lit most of their torches and begun to disperse them toward every corner of the mines, lighting the prisoners’ labor. At any moment, one of the giants would march in their direction. If they weren’t high enough up the cliff wall, the light of the torches would illuminate them, and an Eirdkilr arrow would bring them down.

He waited until Colborn drew within earshot before hissing in a voice barely above a whisper, “What are you thinking?” He gestured toward the five Deid trailing Colborn. “If they come with us, we’ll never get out of here.”

The question seemed to surprise Colborn. He glanced over his shoulder and froze as his eyes fell on the Deid.

“No!” Colborn waved the five men back. “Go back!”

“Not until you tell us what you’re planning,” Hallad hissed. A defiant light blazed in his eyes. “Chief Hafgrimsson wouldn’t command you to leave us here, which means you’ve got a plan.” His gaze darted from Colborn to Aravon and back again. “So tell us what the plan is and how we can help.”

Colborn’s muscles went rigid, his jaw muscles working. “The plan—”

Aravon cut in. “The plan is to cause a distraction in Praellboer that will pull as many Eirdkilrs away from this place as possible.” He shot Colborn a meaningful glance; he hadn’t filled in the Lieutenant, but he knew the man was smart enough to fill in the gaps for himself. “Isn’t that right, Alsvartar?”

Colborn nodded without hesitation. “It is.” He turned back to the Deid. “Even now, we have men waiting for us on the tundra, preparing to strike at the Eirdkilrs holding the village.” Realization dawned on his face. “At the pens holding all the captives.”

Aravon hid a smile. Once again, Colborn proved his ability to intuit Aravon’s strategy.

“So you’re leaving us?” Hrani, the biggest of the Deid, rumbled.

“Only until we can come back and free you all.” Colborn gripped the big man’s arm. “By Olfossa, I swear we will return and help you. All of you.” He looked to Hallad. “Including your wife and children.”

Hallad’s expression hardened. “You saw where they are being held, yes?”

Colborn nodded. “Ten Eirdkilrs will not be easy to deal with. Not yet, at least.” He shot a glance at Aravon. “First we must thin out the ranks guarding the mine.”

The five Deid exchanged determined glances. “We are no warriors,” Skuli protested. “We—”

“But we fight for our families.” Hallad cut him off with a slashing gesture. “And for our people.”

Light behind the cluster of Deid caught Aravon’s attention. His gut tightened at the sight of a torch-carrying Eirdkilr striding toward them. The giant moved in no apparent hurry but his tree-trunk legs ate up the ground quickly. They had only seconds before the light of the torch revealed them huddling in the darkness by the base of the unguarded section of cliff.

“We need to go!” he hissed in Fehlan.

“Go,” Colborn told him, an unmistakable note of command ringing in his voice, and turned back to his fellow Deid. “Be alert, watch for your moment. You will know when it is time to strike.”

“Olfossa be your strength, Alsvartar.” Hallad gripped Colborn’s forearm. “Until we meet again, in this life or at the feasting table of Seggrholl.”

Aravon turned away, began climbing the cliff wall. A moment later, the scrape of Colborn’s boots echoed below and beside him.

“Come, my brothers.” Hallad’s quiet voice drifted up from the muddy ground. “Let us buy them a few minutes.”

Aravon’s eyebrows rose, but he couldn’t afford to tear his gaze from the cliff wall above his outstretched arms. The rough surface offered ample hand and footholds, but his muscles were exhausted from the work and the chill within the mine’s depth weakened his fingers. He’d climbed barely five feet off the ground and already he felt ready to collapse.

“You bastard!” Hrani’s voice echoed from twenty yards away. “Get your own damned hammer!”

“That was mine first!” Skuli shouted back. “I put it down for one moment to—”

The loud crack of a whip cut off his words, and Skuli cried out in pain. Another crack, crack and Hrani’s agonized bellow followed.

“Shut up and get back to work!” a guttural Eirdkilr voice roared. “Or by Bani, I’ll tear out your eyes and piss in the empty sockets!”

Now Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder, and gratitude surged within him. The Deid’s scuffle had distracted the Eirdkilr. The giant stood glaring down at the two captives, whip upraised to strike again. But Hallad moved faster, helping the smaller Skuli stagger to his feet and away from the Eirdkilr before he could lash out. The other two Deid did likewise with the broad-shouldered Hrani. The Eirdkilr snarled and followed after the five Fehlans, growling curses at their retreating backs until they retrieved Aravon’s dropped yoke and a few mud-covered tools dropped by captives too exhausted to work.

With a silent thanks for the Fehlans’ courage, Aravon turned his attention back to the climb. Like most adventurous children of Icespire, he’d tested his strength on the cliffs that rose west of the Port of Icespire. Few ever made it to the top of those jagged bluffs, but he had experience enough to scale these walls, which offered ample protrusions and crevices for hand and footholds.

But it was the height of the climb that proved most daunting. The pit mine had been cut deep into the tundra, at least two or three hundred feet straight down. Had Aravon been at full strength and in the spring warmth of Icespire, he’d have managed the climb with little difficulty. Yet now, exhausted, hungry, and chilled to the bone, it proved a near-impossibility.

The muscles in his shoulders, arms, and legs burned with the effort of supporting his weight. His lungs begged for air, setting his heart beating with such force he feared it would burst free of his chest and send him plummeting to his death. Worst of all, the chill grew heavier as the encroaching darkness brought biting cold. A cold far worse than anything Aravon had imagined on his icy journey across the Wastelands.

His fingers went numb, until he no longer felt the pain of the myriad of shallow wounds the jagged stones carved into his flesh. The mud staining his improvised foot wrappings froze, hardened, cracked every time he jammed his toes into a crack in the cliff. A fierce, shrieking wind tugged at his clothing as if trying to pull him free of the stone wall and drag him down, down, down to a muddy grave.

Gritting his teeth against the pain and cold, Aravon forced himself to climb. One hand over the other, one foot at a time. Upward, a single painful step after another. Fingers clutching at stone until his forearms burned and his muscles spasmed. Toes scrabbling at hard, unyielding rock as cold as ice and as sharp as steel.

Every movement drove the icy chill deeper into his bones, sent the numbness climbing farther and farther up his limbs until he could no longer feel his hands and feet.

And still he climbed. Climbed toward freedom, toward hope—not only for himself and his companions, but for the captives trapped within that pit mine. If he faltered, if he weakened, even for a minute, thousands would die. His people, fellow Princelanders. Beside them, Fehlans captured and dragged south across the Sawtooth Mountains. And the Tauld, those struggling to scrape a living from the barren Wastelands, imprisoned and enslaved by their own.

Determination hardened within Aravon and he forced himself to keep moving. Up, up, up, one handhold at a time, one desperate foothold to push off. Face and chest grinding against hard stone, his teeth chattering from the cold, he climbed with every shred of strength he possessed.

The darkness thickened, enveloped him, and consumed his world. At first, it came as a welcome shelter from the eyes of the Eirdkilrs below. The light of their torches burned too far below, and the shadows of night hid him from their sight.

But the farther he climbed, the more perilous the darkness became. He could no longer see his way up the cliff; he could only feel with fingers that had long ago gone numb. His progress slowed, until it felt as if he crawled up the stone wall slower than Rolyn the day he’d taken his first tottering steps. Too slow! The thought echoed in his mind in time with his racing pulse. The longer it took them to escape, the less time they’d have to plan their attack. We have to get out of here now!

He glanced up, but only unbroken blackness met his gaze. Hundreds of feet of unbroken stone towered above him. Beyond, the first stars twinkled high in the heavens, but how much remained to climb, he could not tell.

All he knew was that he had to keep moving. Had to keep climbing, one agonizing, bitingly cold step after another. He had no idea how far above Captain Lingram had climbed, or how far below him Colborn clung to the cliff wall. He could see no hint of their presence, no sign of their dark shapes in the night. The only thing he knew was cold, hunger, exhaustion, and the unwavering urgency to climb.

Climb, damn it! Aravon growled a silent curse, clenched his jaw tighter to stop his teeth from chattering. His muscles groaned, shrieked in protest, quivered from exhaustion. His right leg refused to support his weight but trembled so violently Aravon feared he’d fall. Drawing in a deep breath, fighting to ignore the burning in his lungs, he let his right leg hang free until the flow of blood returned and the muscles responded once more.

The simple act of resting for those seconds sent fire coursing through his arm and shoulder muscles. His forearms cramped, the muscles tightening and loosening with such force he nearly lost his grip. One hand at a time, he forced his fingers to release their grip on the cliff and gave them a few seconds to rest.

“Dróttinn!” A shout pierced the racing pulse hammering in Aravon’s ears. It came from the top of the nearest ramp—the one that led to the muddy track back toward Praellboer.

Aravon’s head snapped in the direction, found a torch-carrying Eirdkilr racing down the muck-covered ramps. The giant barreled through slow-moving captives without hesitation, sending a pair screaming and plummeting to their deaths. The falling bodies crushed three Fehlans as they splashed into the muck. Two of the struck prisoners shrieked and cried out at the agony of broken bones. The third and the pair that fell lay still and silent.

Aravon’s gaze darted back toward the racing Eirdkilr, followed his movements down into the pit mine. Tyr Farbjodr turned to face the newcomer, and exchanged a few sentences in the guttural Eirdkilr tongue. The wind carried away the words long before they reached Aravon, but there was no mistaking the urgency in the Eirdkilr’s message, and the sudden tension in Tyr Farbjodr’s massive frame. The moment the messenger fell silent, Tyr Farbjodr began shouting orders that galvanized the nearest Eirdkilrs into action. More than a score of the giants abandoned their captives, drew their weapons, and lumbered up the ramps.

What in the fiery hell? Aravon had no idea what news had provoked such a reaction, but it couldn’t be good.

Worry wormed like acid in his gut. Had the Eirdkilrs spotted the Grim Reavers? Were Rangvaldr, Zaharis, and the others even now fighting or fleeing for their lives? If so, Aravon, Colborn, and Captain Lingram would be in serious trouble. Even if they reached the top of the pit mine, only the icy expanse of the tundra awaited beyond. Aravon’s plan hinged on Noll and Rangvaldr keeping a sharp eye on their position.

“Climb!” He hissed into the darkness. It didn’t matter if Colborn and Captain Lingram heard it; they knew as well as he what happened if those Eirdkilrs spotted them on the tundra around the mine. The three of them stood no chance against so many armed and armored giants. Their only hope of survival lay in disappearing into the darkness and rejoining their comrades. But would the Grim Reavers be waiting for them? What else but the presence of armed enemies could have stirred the heretofore unflappable Tyr Farbjodr?

Aravon’s breath came in great, ragged gasps as he hauled himself up the cliff face one agonizing step at a time. The icy wind grew colder, fiercer, more biting as he ascended, but he forced himself to ignore the pain in his hands, arms, shoulders, legs, and feet. All he could think about was climbing, getting out of the pit mine before—

His reaching hand brushed something too yielding to be stone. Furs, he realized. The furs wrapping Captain Lingram’s foot!

Looking up, he found the Legionnaire crouching just above him. Little more than a shadow dark against a landscape of black, his shape silhouetted against the light of the stars high above.

He opened his mouth to call out, to ask why Lingram had paused, but instinct stopped him. The utter stillness of Lingram’s body warned him that something was amiss.

Slowly, Aravon fumbled his way along the cliff wall to the right, climbing until he could move around Lingram, then draw abreast of the man. He felt more than heard Lingram’s presence, his breath, the tension that radiated from the Legionnaire.

Then Aravon heard it: voices. Low, harsh, and guttural, they came from just above Lingram’s head. Eirdkilrs!

Chapter Fifty-Six

A chill ran down Aravon’s spine. Yet with it came a flicker of hope. If I’m hearing Eirdkilrs, we’ve got to be near the top! He’d scanned the cliff face before darkness concealed its craggy features. There had been no ramp or vertical benches on this section of the wall. The only place where Eirdkilrs would be stationed would be on the tundra overlooking the mine.

Fear shuddered through him. How long had the Eirdkilrs been standing there? Had they spotted the three Grim Reavers climbing and even now waited with drawn weapons to strike down the escaping captives?

Yet the only shouts came from the Eirdkilrs below. Shouts of disdain and barked orders for the prisoners to work faster. If the Eirdkilrs above had seen them trying to climb, they clearly had no fear of the three captives.

Or they don’t know we’re here, and they’re just set there to guard the mine. Aravon clung to that faint shred of hope. Slowly, hand by hand, one inch at a time, he clawed his way silently up the wall of the cliff. The voices grew louder until he could make out the words.

“…wonder what that’s all about?” spoke one Eirdkilr. The guttural accent made his words difficult to understand, and every gust of wind carried his voice away, leaving only fragments of the conversation audible.

“…gone to look…”

“…come to Praellboer to deliver…”

The wind fell silent, and Aravon heard the last sentence as clearly as the Lady’s Bell ringing out the midday hour.

“If they’re really out there, Mattr will find them,” the Eirdkilr said.

Icy feet danced down Aravon’s spine. They! He had no doubt of whom they spoke: the Grim Reavers had been discovered, and now the Eirdkilrs hunted them.

Keeper’s teeth! Clinging to a rocky wall, hundreds of feet above the base of the pit mine, Aravon had no choice but to reconsider his plan. If the Eirdkilrs were hunting the Grim Reavers, would Noll and the others still be waiting for them nearby? Close enough that they’d spot Aravon, Colborn, and Lingram in the darkness? Or would they be riding hard, leading the Eirdkilrs on a wild chase?

That sounded like the sort of thing Noll would do. Had done countless times before. His abilities as a scout and horseman made him bloody difficult for even the fastest-moving Eirdkilr to catch.

But this wasn’t the grasslands or forests of Fehl. The icy Wastelands was the Eirdkilrs’ home, and they had to know the surrounding terrain far better than the Grim Reavers. If Noll did try something so desperate, he could very well be riding to his death.

And yet, that was the sort of sacrifice every one of them had been prepared to make. Noll would risk his life to lead the Eirdkilrs away, if only to give the others a chance to scoop up Aravon, Colborn, and Captain Lingram. Even if it left them with one fewer when it came time for battle, Noll might count it as a chance worth taking.

He’d be right. Though it pained Aravon to the core, he knew the Grim Reavers would make the right choice. None of them would leave their companions to rot in the pit mine, not with the Feast of Death so close at hand. Noll would take the risk, for the sake of the mission.

Aravon’s plan remained in effect. Somewhere in the darkness, his Grim Reavers waited and watched. Aravon had no idea where or how they’d find each other, but he had to try. If they didn’t, Tyr Farbjodr would slaughter all the captives, harness the magic of the ghoulstone, and Fehl would burn.

So be it. Determination hardened within Aravon’s chest. Now we’ve just got to deal with the Eirdkilrs up there.

He’d heard only one voice, but that meant at least two Eirdkilrs. Between the three of them, they had a chance—albeit a slim one—of getting out alive.

He glanced to his left, to where Colborn and Captain Lingram clung to the cliff wall. With effort, he climbed closer to the Legionnaire, close enough that he could whisper in a voice pitched low for Lingram’s ears only. “We deal with them, quick and quiet.”

A hint of rustling cloth as Lingram nodded, then the Legionnaire passed the message on to Colborn.

Aravon climbed first, careful to put enough distance between himself and the other two. He had no idea how many men awaited him at the top or how they stood arranged. First he had to get up top, then he could formulate a plan of attack.

The lip of the cliff hovered just ten feet above him, and the light of a torch filled the air with a soft orange glow. The wind set the flame flickering, nearly blew it out altogether, but the fact that the Eirdkilrs held torches meant they would likely be fairly night-blind.

A cold smile spread on Aravon’s lips. That works out nicely, doesn’t it?

Up he climbed, the top of the cliff drawing closer one breath at a time. Eight feet. Six feet. Five, four.

The shaggy-haired head of an Eirdkilr appeared above the clifftop. First one, then a second. The torchlight came from the one on the right. After a moment of listening, Aravon heard only the two voices of the Eirdkilrs conversing.

Turning to the Grim Reavers climbing on his left, he held up two fingers. Nodding, Colborn moved slightly to the left, while Captain Lingram went straight up.

Aravon paused, drawing in a deep breath. They had only one chance to do this right. If the Eirdkilrs spotted them too early, they were dead.

He tensed his muscles, gritted his teeth. Here goes everything!

Hand over hand, he fairly flew up the last few feet of the cliff wall and threw himself over the lip and onto the icy tundra in a forward roll. He lashed out with a foot as he did, felt a satisfying thump as his kick connected. Bone crunched and the Eirdkilr’s knee buckled at a terrible angle. The torch-wielding giant had no time to cry out in surprise or pain. The force of Aravon’s kick sent him stumbling backward, onto his ruined leg, and he toppled over the edge, taking the light of the torch with him.

But the remaining Eirdkilr had already seen Aravon. Starlight glinted off the edge of the giant’s massive axe as he swung it in an overhand chop. Right toward Aravon’s head

Aravon had only an instant to act. He threw himself into an ungraceful sideways roll. Barely in time to avoid the descending axe. Steel plowed through thick snow and thunked off hard stone, spraying shards. One slashed Aravon’s face and opened a line of fire along his cheek.

Yet that desperate move had saved his life. Now, the night-blind Eirdkilr couldn’t see him, but his darkness-trained vision could just make out the blurry shadow of the giant’s form. And the two figures that pulled themselves over the cliff behind him.

The Eirdkilr roared a wordless cry and swung out with his axe. The blow whistled past Aravon’s head, so close he could feel the wind rustling an inch from his face. A loud thump echoed in the darkness, accompanied by a quiet grunt and a meaty crack of bone breaking. The Eirdkilr screeched and the axe fell from his huge hands. One of the figures twisted so quickly he was barely a blur in the darkness. The giant seemed to fly off his feet and hurtled into the air over the cliff. A terrified gasp was all the sound he made as he plummeted to his death far below.

Captain Lingram straightened from his grappling throw, stumbled on a patch of snow, and nearly toppled off the cliff’s edge. Aravon snatched at the Legionnaire’s arm and held him firm.

After a precarious moment, Lingram managed to find his feet and stumbled into the deep snow away from the lip of the pit mine. “Thanks!” he hissed.

“Good work,” Aravon murmured. “Colborn?” he called a bit louder.

“I’m here.” Exhaustion strained the Lieutenant’s voice, but he stood, moved toward them with a determined stride. “Let’s…get the bloody hell…out of here.” His breath came in ragged gasps—the climb had left them all winded and struggling for air. The biting wind, fierce and savage without the high stone walls to shelter them, made even the simple act of breathing agony.

“Any idea…where we can find…the others?” Aravon spoke through teeth gritted against the wind.

“Hills half a mile…to the northeast,” Colborn replied, tension clipping his words. “Best place…to keep watch…and stay hidden.”

“Let’s go.” Aravon’s gut tightened as he turned away from Illtgrund and strode into the tundra, Colborn and Captain Lingram at his side. Clouds hid the moon from view and only a few stars flickered in the heaven, providing just enough light to see the empty sea of white that surrounded the mine. The lights of Praellboer seemed a world away, far to the northwest, but Aravon’s eyes locked on the featureless mass of ice to the northeast. It was their only chance of survival.

The snow grew deeper with every step, until the three of them struggled through drifts piled knee-high. The cold burrowed into Aravon’s bones and seeped into his muscles. Lead filled his limbs; he could no longer feel his hands and legs. Not even a spark of warmth in his fingers or toes, nothing but the slowing, agonizing thump, thump of his laboring heartbeat.

Time slowed to a grinding halt. All thoughts faded from Aravon’s cold-numbed mind. His ears registered nothing but the howling of the wind. The landscape around him faded into a blurred expanse of nothingness. White and black faded to shades of grey. Dark, empty, cold, unforgiving grey. A void absent of life and warmth. Nothing but the biting chill of the tundra.

Fear settled deep in his gut, the only sensation in a world gone numb. He no longer felt the pain and exhaustion in his muscles, the cold in his limbs. He felt…nothing. Nothing but the knowledge that death came for him. The Long Keeper’s arms opened to welcome him into an icy embrace. Inevitable, as inescapable as the wind thrashing at his clothing and driving ice into every inch of exposed flesh.

Something struck his face. Hard. He blinked, found snow filling his eyes. Cold against his face, pressed against his lips. He blinked again, felt a hint of warmth from his breath. His face was buried in snow. He’d fallen and hadn’t felt it. Mind as senseless as his limbs, he tried to move. Tried, but failed.

Hands grasped his arms. Weak, barely with strength enough to haul him upright. He found himself standing, supported between two men as unsteady as he. Somehow, they managed to stagger onward. Lingram fell, Aravon and Colborn helped him to stand. Colborn sagged, his strength failing. Aravon and Lingram dragged him to his feet. Supported him, leaning on each other with every shred of determination and willpower they possessed.

“Just…a little…farther!” Aravon managed to gasp. He had no idea how far—it could be two steps or two thousand leagues—or if the Grim Reavers even waited for them. He only knew they had to keep walking, keep moving, one frozen, miserable step at a time. Keep moving until they could move no longer.

“Cap…tain!” A voice, faint, distant, borne on the wind. Impossible. A voice that shouldn’t have been there in the empty darkness.

Another sound. Thud, thud, thud. Hooves on hard-packed snow.

Aravon lifted his head, found his eyes had fallen shut, and forced his eyelids open. A dark shape appeared before him. Not the empty void, but something solid, tangible. Radiating warmth, strong hands that clasped his arms, dragged him upright before he fell.

“—on the horse!” the voice shouted at him.

A huge shape loomed in front of him. An Eirdkilr, Aravon’s cold-numbed mind screamed. He tried to recoil, tried to flee the fingers that clamped on his arm.

“Damn it, Belthar, hurry up with them before they freeze!”

Belthar! Aravon recognized the name, the breadth of those powerful shoulders. Belthar’s muscles corded as he shoved Aravon bodily up into his saddle. Clutching at his reins, Aravon could do nothing but sit, shivering.

“Here, Captain.” Skathi’s voice sounded at his elbow. Something soft and warm wrapped around his shoulders. His ice bear pelt!

His horse jolted forward, leaping into motion so suddenly Aravon nearly fell from his saddle. Only instinct and years spent on horseback kept him seated. It was all he could do to cling to his horse’s mane and hold on for dear life.

They rode—for a minute, an hour, an eternity, he couldn’t know—the wind whipping at his hands, face, and feet. Yet he felt none of it. Drowning within the blessed warmth of his furs, too cold and exhausted to lift his head, he let the world pass around him.

The horse slowed. More voices, accompanied by faces. A glimmer of light, now. Soft blue tinged with red. The light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern. Held in Rangvaldr’s hands, but no sign of the Secret Keeper.

That sight snapped Aravon from his exhausted haze. Pulled his mind back from the brink of collapse.

He blinked, stared at the four masked faces around him. Noll, Skathi, Belthar, Rangvaldr, worry darkening their eyes.

“You…found us!” he managed to croak.

Relieved breaths exploded from their lungs. “Hah!” Noll managed a laugh. “Damned right we did!”

Aravon allowed Belthar to help him down from his saddle, then to a seat amidst a pile of heavy furs. “How?”

“By the Mistress’ fortune, really.” Noll shrugged. “We weren’t certain what your plan was, but we knew damned certain you’d need us to keep an eye out for you. When we saw that Eirdkilr torch suddenly disappear into the pit, I took it as a sign from the Swordsman.” Relief sparkled in his dark eyes. “Good thing, too. We found you just in time.”

“Aye, so you did.” Aravon swallowed, found his tongue thick with thirst and hunger. Behind Noll, Belthar was helping Captain Lingram to a seat where Skathi swaddled him in heavy furs.

Colborn still hadn’t dismounted. He appeared frozen in his saddle, though the slight rise and fall of his shoulders told Aravon he still breathed. Yet, before Belthar could rise from helping Captain Lingram to a seat, the Lieutenant seemed to sway in his seat. Swayed, his eyes rolling back in his head, and he toppled to land face-first in the snow.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“Colborn!” Skathi’s voice cut through the harsh wind. The archer crossed the distance to the Lieutenant in two long steps, grasped his arms, and pulled him onto his back. A sharp intake of breath burst from her lips. “No!”

Even from where he sat, Aravon could see the deep, dark threads of crimson staining the snow where Colborn had fallen. The light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern shone on a ragged gash across his chest.

“Keeper’s teeth!” Skathi sucked in a breath.

Aravon struggled to his feet and stumbled over to where Colborn lay. The gaping wound had laid open his chest to the sternum and shattered a rib, perhaps two. Only the cold had kept him from exsanguination—blood had frozen over the gash, almost sealing the wound. Almost. A trickle of blood ran down his side and dropped onto the snow, staining the pristine white ground beneath him a grisly red.

How—? The image of the battle on the edge of the pit mine flashed through his mind before the question fully formed. The axe strike that had missed him struck something. Colborn’s chest. The tightness in his voice hadn’t only been cold or exhaustion, but pain he’d kept hidden.

Aravon’s head swiveled to where Rangvaldr crouched beside Colborn. Even with the mask to hide his face, worry shone in his eyes. He had no need to say it—one look at the long, ragged tear that ran from Colborn’s shoulder to beneath his ribs, and everyone knew it was bad.

Noll said it anyway. “Bloody hell, Lieutenant!” He whistled quietly though his teeth. “What’d you do, throw yourself at an Eirdkilr axe?”

Colborn had recovered enough to growl a Fehlan curse at the scout. His words cut off in a hiss and grunt of pain. Even the slightest movement had to send pain rippling through the gash.

“Get him into some furs,” Skathi snapped to Belthar. The big man bustled off to collect a handful of the Tauld ice bear pelts and set to work spreading them out beside Colborn.

As Belthar, Skathi, and Noll moved the Lieutenant carefully onto the furs and bundled him as tight as they dared, Aravon stood and beckoned for Rangvaldr to follow him. They moved a few steps away, far enough to hopefully be out of earshot without depriving the Grim Reavers of their only light source.

Aravon studied the Seiomenn’s masked face. “Can you do it?” he asked quietly.

Deep shadows lingered in Rangvaldr’s eyes, and the lines of exhaustion hadn’t yet disappeared. Yet he hesitated only a minute before speaking. “I rested enough to have the strength to spare, but…”

The Seiomenn’s gaze darted to Zaharis. The Secret Keeper lay unmasked and curled within his furs a few paces away from the standing horses, sheltered in a hut of ice the Grim Reavers had evidently built while they waited. He hadn’t stirred once since their return, and he appeared to be sleeping. Sleeping! In all the months Aravon had known Zaharis, he’d only ever seen the Secret Keeper asleep when bone-tired. Or, in this case, exhausted by the pain of his broken ribs and the exertion of travel. Even so, his sleep appeared uneasy, and every other breath brought a hiss.

“I’ve just enough strength for one,” Rangvaldr said quietly.

Aravon’s gut clenched. The reason for Rangvaldr’s hesitation was clear. He’d only now recovered sufficient strength to offer healing to their wounds. Zaharis had refused to allow them to check his injuries, but he’d been close to collapse a day earlier. In the faint light of the alchemical globes held in Zaharis’ hand, the flecks of blood around the corner of his mouth were clearly visible. The Secret Keeper could be dying, but he’d been set on Rangvaldr healing Snarl. Now the time had come to make a choice…

He thought he and Rangvaldr had spoken quietly, but Colborn evidently overheard them. He made the decision. “Heal…him!” He thrust his chin toward Zaharis. “You’ll need…him for the plan…to succeed.” A grimace twisted his face and he groaned, pressing a hand to the bandages Skathi applied over his chest.

Aravon’s jaw muscles worked. He stared down at Colborn, at the pain written in every line of the Lieutenant’s face. Few men could match Colborn’s ability at arms—none of their company fought as well in a shield wall, or had the scouting, hunting, and tracking skills that made him such a valuable member of their team. But for any chance of success, the Grim Reavers would need Zaharis’ alchemy. Even without the chest that contained his alchemical supplies, the Secret Keeper still had a lifetime of knowledge and experience that had proven vital countless times over. His ingenuity had saved them over and over, and he was as fierce a warrior as any of them.

Colborn was right about Zaharis’ importance to the team. Every one of the soldiers around him knew it.

That didn’t make the decision any easier to make. Skathi and Belthar exchanged worried glances and Noll muttered something about “thick-headed Fehlans” in a voice clearly intended to reach Colborn’s ears. Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened and a burden weighed on his shoulders, as if he somehow took upon himself the blame for not being strong enough to heal both his comrades.

Captain Lingram fixed Aravon with an intense stare; he knew the burden of command better than any of them, the weight that now rested squarely on the leader of their company. Aravon felt the pull on his heart. Heal Colborn, the man who had become like a brother to him, or Zaharis, the linchpin of his plan to stop Tyr Farbjodr? He wished he could spare both the pain, take it upon himself, if that were possible.

But he could not. He had a choice to make—one few men would be capable of making. One few men should ever have to make.

Therein lay the greatest trial of command. To him fell the duty of reaching a decision when both options could kill his friends. Both would insist on fighting in the battle to come. Whichever didn’t receive healing would likely die—either by wounds already inflicted, or, slowed by pain, would succumb to the enemy assault.

He had to choose which man lived and which died.

It was the hardest decision he’d ever had to make. Yet he could not run from it. He alone could bear the burden.

And bear it he would.

“Do it,” he told Rangvaldr quietly. “Heal the Secret Keeper.” Saying the words aloud nearly shattered him. It might have, had he not seen the grim reassurance written in Colborn’s eyes. The Lieutenant nodded once and lay back, curling deeper into his furs.

A lump rose to Aravon’s throat, but in that moment, he knew he’d made the right choice.

Drawing out his holy stone, Rangvaldr muttered the arcane words that brought it flaring to life. A soft blue glow bathed Zaharis as the Seiomenn set the gleaming gemstone to his chest. When Rangvaldr finally pulled the stone away, his shoulders dropped in exhaustion and he sat hard in the snow.

“I-It was bad. Worse than he led us to believe.” The Seiomenn’s voice echoed with strain, the lines around his eyes deeper than ever. “I-I did what I could. He will live.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed. Worse than he led us to believe? He stared down at the sleeping Secret Keeper. Why would Zaharis keep the truth from them? He’d insisted that Rangvaldr heal Snarl, but if he was so badly off, why conceal the extent of his injuries?

At that moment, the Secret Keeper’s eyelids fluttered open. He moved slowly as if expecting pain, then bolted upright, his hand going to his healed ribs. A strange light shone in his eyes as he stared at Rangvaldr, at the blue-glowing gemstone in the Seiomenn’s hands. He drew in a slow breath, then another. No pain.

He lifted a hand to sign something, but at sight of Aravon, his gaze slid past Rangvaldr to take in Captain Lingram and Colborn. Colborn, lying in pain, his furs and chest stained with blood, his face twisted into a grimace.

Fire blazed in his eyes and he leapt to his feet. “No!” His fingers flew, forming the words with short, sharp gestures thick with anger. His gaze darted to Rangvaldr. “Why?” His face twisted with a pain far deeper than any broken rib.

“I had the strength…for one.” Exhaustion thickened Rangvaldr’s words. “You were—”

“No!” Zaharis cut him off with a slash of his hand. “You should have healed him!” He stabbed a finger at Colborn. “Should have gotten him back on his feet. You wasted your strength on me. I’m…useless!”

Aravon’s jaw dropped at those words, his eyes flying wide. He’d never expected that from Zaharis.

“Don’t you see?” Tears sprang to Zaharis’ eyes but he didn’t bother to brush the moisture away. “I have nothing to offer! My alchemical supplies, gone! My belief in the Mistress, shattered! My fellow priests want me dead. The one thing—the one Keeper-damned thing—I’ve spent my life trying to accomplish is nothing but a fool’s dream!” Bitterness twisted his lips into a sneer. “Here I am in the middle of the bloody Wastelands, and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing but the scars of battle, the empty ramblings of a man my own people—even Darrak, the man I loved above all others—consider a misguided fool. Everything I ever wanted, ever dreamed could come to pass, where is it?”

He scooped up a handful of snow and threw it up into the air, where the wind carried it away in little white puffs. “Here it is!”

When the Secret Keeper rounded on them, the darkness of despair filled his eyes. “My life’s work failed. I failed.” His shoulders slumped. “I am a failure.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Stunned silence hung thick in their camp. The Secret Keeper’s tirade seemed to have come out of nowhere, yet it left them all, even the usually irreverent Noll, speechless.

Zaharis straightened and fury blazed across his face. “You wasted your effort on me, Rangvaldr!” He jabbed an angry finger at the Seiomenn. “Wasted on a man too pig-headed to listen when everyone else with half a brain told him his mission was a fool’s errand. And they were right!”

He slumped to his furs, his strength and the ferocity of his anger spent. “They were right.” He buried his face in his hands.

Aravon stared in silence down at the Secret Keeper. He’d seen a glimmer of this pain and sorrow long ago, the first time Zaharis had raced off into the forest alone to hunt down the ice saffron. It had deepened after Rivergate. After meeting Darrak. Though he’d gone to Icespire in defiance of the Secret Keeper’s intentions to kill him, Aravon had seen the anguish that Zaharis suffered after his final confrontation with Darrak and the Mistress’ priests. It had bubbled up to the surface at Camp Marshal, though Zaharis had tried to brush it off, had found welcome distraction in the wonders of his alchemically-made holy stone.

But now, he could no longer run from it. Could no longer hide from the voice that had wormed deep into his mind and heart. The voice of recrimination that echoed over and over again that he had failed.

“No.” Colborn’s gasp echoed with pain, yet iron edged his words. “We’re only here…because of you!”

Zaharis didn’t move, didn’t lift his head, as if he hadn’t heard the words. Or he simply drowned too deep in his own remorse, guilt, anguish, and feelings of inadequacy for them to register.

“Everything we’ve done,” Belthar rumbled, “from saving Bjornstadt to retaking Rivergate to repelling the attack in Icespire to crossing the Wastelands, we only did it because you were with us. Because of your alchemy and your brilliant mind.”

Skathi moved to kneel beside the Secret Keeper. “You might not have found the ice saffron, but you’re far from a failure.” She gripped his shoulder with a strong hand. “You’re our friend. You’re our brother. And we’re only alive—all of us—because of you.”

Zaharis’ shoulders stopped shaking, but his face remained buried in his hands.

“And because of you, we have a real chance of taking down Tyr Farbjodr.” Aravon’s voice rang with confidence—perhaps more than he felt, but his exhausted, cold, and hungry soldiers needed to hear it. “That’s why we chose you. That’s why Colborn insisted that Rangvaldr heal you, and why Rangvaldr gave you his strength. Because we need you. We need your brilliant mind, the secrets of alchemy that only you know. But it’s not only that.” He came to stand beside Zaharis. “We believe in you. All of us do. In your holy service to the Mistress, in your abilities as a Secret Keeper, and your desire to serve your goddess and the people of Einan.”

“We may not know a bloody thing about ice saffron,” Noll put in, “but we’re damned well going to do what we can to help you find it.” He gave a derisive snort. “We’re all freezing our arses off in this frozen hell alongside you, aren’t we?”

Aravon smiled. Flippancy aside, Noll’s words held a kernel of truth.

“Every one of us would do whatever we could to help you complete your life’s mission.” He gripped the Secret Keeper’s shoulder. “But to us, it doesn’t matter whether you find the ice saffron or not. We believe in you, Zaharis. Not what you might do, but who you are. Who you’ve been all these years.” Kneeling, Aravon spoke in a quiet voice. “It’s time you believe in yourself. You are not defined by your hunt for ice saffron and the discovery of the Elixir of Creation, but—”

Zaharis’ head flew up, so fast he nearly sent Aravon sprawling. The Secret Keeper leapt to his feet, darted toward Colborn, and flung himself to his knees at the Lieutenant’s side. One hand darted into his pouch while the other tossed aside the blood-stained furs over Colborn’s chest and removed the bandages.

Aravon sucked in a breath as Zaharis’ hand emerged from his pouch holding a familiar glass vial. Even without a source of light, the liquid within glowed a gentle light blue.

The Elixir of Creation!

Zaharis pulled open the cork and, without hesitation, emptied the last threads of liquid onto Colborn’s chest. The effect was instantaneous; the ragged edges of flesh began to re-knit, the muscle beneath once more filling out, thickening, growing strong. The fracture in Colborn’s sternum repaired itself in the instant before the wound sealed shut seemingly in the space between two heartbeats.

Colborn gasped, his spine going rigid. A moment later, however, he sat up. No hiss of pain escaped his lips, but his jaw dropped as he stared down at his chest. Nothing, not even a hint of scar tissue, remained to mar the skin. Almost as if he’d never been wounded in the first place.

“By the Swordsman!” Colborn breathed. Surprise etched into every line of his face, and he lifted his eyes to Zaharis. “B-But…” He seemed to be at a loss for words. Swallowing, he tried again. “But that was the last of the Elixir of Creation.”

“It was.” To Aravon’s surprise, all trace of anguish and misery had fled from Zaharis’ face. Now, only a look of utter calm, of deep-rooted peace and contentment, remained. “I’ve hunted ice saffron for more than a decade, but not because of what it offered me or the Mistress’ priests.” The Secret Keeper hefted the empty bottle, and a beatific smile broadened his lips. “I searched for it in the hopes that I could change the world. Perhaps…” He looked to each of his seven companions. “Perhaps leave it a bit better than the world I was born into. I sought it because of all the lives I thought it could save.” He smiled at Colborn. “And now, knowing my obsession saved the life of a man I consider my brother, my true friend, that alone makes it worth it.”

Emotions warred in Colborn’s face. Reaching out, he grasped Zaharis’ hand and pulled him into a fierce hug. The Secret Keeper returned the embrace with abandon—two comrades, brothers in spirit and purpose.

Long moments of silence passed, all in their small company digesting Zaharis’ words and the truth of what he’d just given up for Colborn.

“Aww, aren’t they cute?” Noll’s irreverence shattered the stillness. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were—OW!”

A meaty thump cut off his words, and the scout went sprawling into knee-deep snow. He came up spluttering and growling at Belthar. “What in the fiery hell?”

“Sorry,” Belthar rumbled in a voice that held no tone of apology. “Got a sudden cramp in my arm.” He made a theatrical show of loosening his massive bicep.

Colborn and Zaharis broke off the embrace as Noll clambered out of the deep snow. The scout glared daggers at Belthar and muttered under his breath, shaking the snow off his armor like a wet dog. Aravon chose not to hear the choice remarks on Belthar’s parentage, bathing habits, girth, prowess with the women, and other insults Noll heaped on the big man. All went unnoticed by Belthar, who was staring down at Skathi, who sat leaned against his shoulder—a posture that had grown decidedly more familiar in the last day.

Aravon drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs for what felt like the first time in ages. His Grim Reavers were whole—exhausted, hungry, still in pain from far too many wounds, yet still standing and ready to fight. They had lost too many hours of darkness already. If they were to stop Tyr Farbjodr’s plan and the slaughter of all the captives in the pit mine, they needed to move fast.

“I’ve got a plan that will give us a real shot at taking down Tyr Farbjodr.” Aravon looked from face to face. Though the masks hid their expressions, a grim light of determination shone in the eyes that stared back at him. “I don’t need to tell you how impossible this us. We have no Legionnaires, no Fehlan warband, no Shalandrans, no Princelander regulars or mercenaries. We’re alone in this. Just the eight of us against more than four hundred Eirdkilrs.”

He couldn’t be certain how many warriors dwelled within Praellboer, but he’d counted at least a hundred and fifty guarding the captives. Add to that the two hundred at Illtgrund and those hauling the prisoners south, and they had less-than-ideal odds to deal with.

Yet that had never stopped them before, and it wouldn’t now. “But,” he held up a finger, “if we can make absolutely certain every part of our plan falls into place, we’ve got a chance. A bloody slim one, but a chance nonetheless.”

He fixed his Grim Reavers with a piercing stare, drawing strength from the confidence in their eyes. Confidence in him, in his ability to lead, and in each of their skills. They might be just eight, but together, they were a force to be reckoned with.

A giant of a man with strength to rival the Eirdkilrs and a stubborn streak fierce enough to stop an army in its tracks. A scout so clever and lucky he alone had survived the slaughter of his entire Legion company. An archer without peer even among her own Agrotorae. A Lieutenant with a keen mind, a strong will, and the skills of both Princelander and Fehlan. A genius with the ability to turn simple plants into marvelous alchemical weapons and even more remarkable skills at hand-to-hand combat. A Legionnaire and officer who had survived impossible battles and emerged victorious, a hero of Icespire. A wise Seiomenn, revered among his own people, gifted with a magical stone capable of healing fatal wounds.

All of them had chosen to follow him here. Had volunteered for this mission knowing full well it would be their last. They’d signed on to join him without hesitation—none then, and none now. Only determination and grim resolve shone in their eyes.

“I could think of worse ways to die, Captain.” Colborn broke the silence. “Saving our people from the Eirdkilrs is about as good an ending as a soldier could ask for.”

“Worse places, too,” Belthar added. Then he glanced around and seemed to reconsider. “Well, uglier places, at least.”

“Seems like we’ve got a bit of fun ahead, sir.” Noll’s voice had lost all trace of irreverence and mockery, but rang with unwavering certainty. “Best we be getting on with kicking Eirdkilr arse, says I. Keeper knows we’ve got little enough darkness left to get in place, eh?”

Aravon looked at each in turn. Masks hid Skathi, Belthar, Rangvaldr, and Noll’s expressions from view, yet he saw courage written in their eyes. The same bravery and steadfastness etched into every line of Colborn, Zaharis, and Captain Lingram’s faces.

Yes, the Grim Reavers had indeed made their peace with their fates. Now, the time had come to do what they’d come here to do.

“Then let me tell you how we’re going to defeat Tyr Farbjodr once and for all…”

* * *

“No bloody way!” Noll folded his arms defiantly across his chest and shook his head. “Belthar gave it to me for Goodie Day, and there’s not a snowflake’s chance in the fiery hell I’m giving it up!”

Aravon said nothing, simply fixed the scout with a stern gaze and focused on chewing his meager meal of dried fish. Noll knew what he had to do; he’d just be difficult until he relented.

“Captain!” Noll pleaded. “Don’t make me do this. I’ll give up anything else. Keeper’s teeth, I’ll throw in my left bollock instead!”

“Not much call for that,” Belthar rumbled, a generous helping of sarcasm in his voice.

Noll scowled at Belthar, at Aravon, at Colborn, at the ice and snow around him. His shoulders squared in a stubborn set as he tried in vain to think of an argument. Anything, no matter how desperate, that would keep him from giving up his prized possession.

Long seconds passed before Noll finally threw up his hands. “Keeper take each and every one of you!” Reaching into his pouch, he drew out the little glass bottle of Nyslian brandy and cradled it as he would a newborn. More so, knowing Noll’s fondness for the liquor. When he handed it over to Colborn, he appeared crestfallen, as if he’d just given up his first- and last-born children. “This is just cruelty!”

Colborn’s eyes twinkled beneath his mask. “If there was any other way, Noll—”

“We’d probably still do this anyway.” Laughter echoed in Belthar’s deep voice.

Again, Noll glared daggers at Belthar, but it had little effect on the big man. Indeed, Belthar seemed to derive a morbid sense of pleasure from tormenting Noll. Anything to take his mind off the battle to come.

All of the Grim Reavers seemed equally determined not to think about what they now prepared to do. Captain Lingram checked and re-checked his gear for the tenth time in the last five minutes. Skathi applied another layer of beeswax to her bowstring and ran an expert finger over the fletching of her arrows—the last three sheaves, fewer than three score, all tipped with good steel heads. Zaharis knelt beside Rangvaldr, helping the Seiomenn drink a foul-smelling slurry filled with ground-up herbs and melted snow—”something for a little jolt of energy,” Zaharis had said, doubtless similar to the draught that had kept him, Aravon, and Eirik Throrsson moving during their flight from the Blood Queen.

The seven of them appeared as exhausted as Aravon felt—Rangvaldr more so than the rest of them—yet they moved with purpose, resolve. They had no more time to rest, no more time for planning. All that remained was the battle to come. They’d fight it until their strength gave out, or until the Long Keeper gathered them into his arms.

The eight of them had come all this way for this specific purpose. No turning back, no hesitation now.

Their small company moved out five minutes later. Midnight approached fast and a blanket of darkness lay thick and heavy over the icy tundra. Aravon huddled deeper into his furs, glad for the warmth after a day spent miserable and cold. The solid weight of his armor and weapons reassured him. This, at least, held an almost welcome familiarity.

Give me a weapon and men to fight beside, and I will battle to the bitter end.

Noll led the way, pushing their pace steadily. They’d gone less than a mile before Zaharis and Rangvaldr broke away from their pack, riding northwest. Aravon didn’t pause to watch them go—he gave only a farewell wave, lost in the darkness—as he and the remaining five Grim Reavers turned northeast. On they rode for the better part of two hours, deeper into the darkness and vast expanse of ice-covered snow.

Worry gnawed in Aravon’s gut as the distance to Praellboer increased. They had only a few hours until sunrise, until the Feast of Death. He needed to make damned certain that they stopped Tyr Farbjodr before he slaughtered the prisoners.

When the hill lands gave way to a flat, unbroken expanse of ice, Aravon understood why they’d traveled so far off course. They couldn’t simply use the bridge south of Praellboer, not without alerting the Eirdkilrs. To follow him, Colborn, and Captain Lingram south, the Grim Reavers had had to find another way to cross the fast-flowing river. It was only by the Swordsman’s grace the crossing was only ten or fifteen miles out of the way. On foot, it would take more than three hours to get from Praellboer to the frozen-over section of river.

Hopefully, this will slow the Eirdkilrs down long enough for us to execute our plan. To execute Tyr Farbjodr before he ordered the deaths of more than thirteen hundred captive Fehlans, Princelanders, and Tauld.

Once across the river, Noll led the way due west. An hour or so later, the lights of Praellboer’s dung fires appeared on the horizon.

The Grim Reavers didn’t slow until they reached the last hill bordering the land east of Praellboer. Now came the time for one final division of their forces.

Aravon turned to Noll, Skathi, and Colborn, the three lightest and most capable riders. “Swordsman strengthen your arm and guide your aim,” he signed.

Skathi gave him the two-fingered acknowledgement of the Agrotorae, and Colborn clapped his hand to his breastplate, a Legionnaire’s salute.

Noll’s farewell proved a bit more long-winded. “I’d ask if you were sure about this, Captain,” the scout signed, “but we both know that dances well beyond the line of madness.” Despite his words, a glint of eager excitement sparkled in his eyes. “So let’s settle for good luck and good hunting, yeah? Save all the weepy speeches and hugs for after we’re done kicking Eirdkilr arse.” He turned to ride after Colborn, but paused and looked back. “And when this is all over, I’m giving Zaharis an earful about how pissed I am he’s letting Colborn play alchemist instead of me!”

Aravon chuckled and waved the man away. The three of them had much farther to ride to get into place for the attack.

He watched until the Grim Reavers disappeared into the shadows north of Praellboer, then turned his attention back to the Eirdkilr village below. The dung fire still burned in the main square, and the cracks of whips and the cries of prisoners echoed on the wind. There were still enemies in the village, and slaves in need of freedom.

Closing his eyes, Aravon drew in a long breath. We have no Legionnaires, no Fjall, no Shalandrans, no Princelanders. We’re alone in this. Just the eight of us. A cold smile touched his lips. Fiery hell, but this is going to be insane!

Yet if anyone could do it, it was Captain Lingram and the six Grim Reavers riding with him. After a long moment, Aravon opened his eyes and met the gazes of the two soldiers at his side.

“Let’s do this,” he said in a quiet voice.

As one, the three soldiers kicked their horses into a slow trot, riding toward the top of the hill—and to the impossible battle that awaited them beyond the rise.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Aravon checked his weapons one last time. Spear in hand, its leaf-shaped Odarian steel head sharpened to a razor point. Regular oiling had kept the moisture and cold at bay, ensured the iron spike built into its butt extended smoothly without rust or tarnish slowing its twisting mechanisms. The longsword on his belt sat loose in its sheath and ready to draw in a moment’s notice. If it came to drawing the blade, he’d be in dire straits. But in the battle to come, he had to be ready for anything.

He gave his armor one final examination. The breastplate had sustained dents and scratches aplenty. Gulon saliva had worn holes in Zaharis’ hardening treatment, leaving the leather cracked and weak. Without that alchemical finish, it was plain leather—a pitiful protection from the Eirdkilrs’ massive weapons.

A grim smile touched his lips. I’ll just have to make sure none of the Eirdkilrs hit me. Easier said than done, given the odds they faced.

He drew in a deep breath, glanced at the two soldiers at his side. He’d chosen Captain Lingram and Belthar to accompany him—the big man’s strength and Captain Lingram’s shield and skill with his sword made them the perfect support for his half of the mission.

At his nod, the three of them crept over the snowy ridge and down the hill toward the edge of Praellboer. The horses’ hooves crunched in the snow, but the chargers remained as silent as the men who led them, as if aware of the need for stealth. The chest-high wall of stone and ice drew nearer, one slow, quiet step at a time. Aravon’s heart hammered in his chest as he ducked into the shadow of the wall.

That’s the easy part out of the way!

The darkness of the tundra gave them ample cover to slip in close to the village. Now, the hard part would be getting close enough to their target to strike before the enemy knew they were there.

The three of them crept along the outside of the wall, circling the perimeter of Praellboer, heading toward the southern edge of the city. The closer they could get to the slave pens, the easier it will be to race out of the Eirdkilr village when the time came.

Voices drifting between a nearby longhouse froze Aravon in his tracks. The squelching crunch of heavy boots slogging through ankle deep snow and mud echoed from within Praellboer, accompanied by the guttural sounds of the Eirdkilr language. He was too far away to understand the words, but there was nothing ambiguous about the sight of five heavily-armed and armored giants marching down the street, naked weapons held in their huge hands.

Aravon and his companions moved on after only a moment’s pause; the enemy was too far away to see them, and their focus remained locked on the streets within Praellboer. None of them had thought to look at the ice-and-stone wall outside their village for any sign of intruders.

Lucky for us! A wry grimace twisted Aravon’s lips. Let’s just hope the Mistress’ fortune keeps smiling on us tonight. It would take a miracle to pull off his daring, desperate plan.

Finally, Aravon raised his fist and gave the silent signal to halt. They’d come as close to the southern edge of Praellboer—and the road leading south toward the bridge and Tyr Farbjodr’s pit mine—as he dared. They couldn’t risk their horses being discovered. The entire success of their plan hinged on lightning-speed attacks, feints, and withdrawals.

They didn’t bother hobbling the horses; the highly-trained warhorses wouldn’t move unless directly threatened, and they’d attack enemies before abandoning their position. Instead, they directed the horses to kneel, then lie down, and covered them with ice bear pelts—both to keep them warm and hidden from enemy eyes.

With the horses taken care of, the time had come to enter Praellboer. Colborn’s team would be making their move at any moment. He and his team needed to be in position when the time came.

He had no need to give the order to move—the two men behind him followed him over the wall and through the muddy alleys and lanes that ran between the Eirdkilr longhouses without hesitation. Captain Lingram and Belthar knew the mission as well as he. They’d do whatever it took to complete it, no matter what happened to him.

The shadows of Praellboer hung thick between the close-set longhouses and the wind fell blessedly silent, blocked by the mud-and-stone buildings. The stink of muck and offal—human and animal—pressed in around him, digging reeking fingers into his nostrils. The quiet squelching of his and his companions’ boots sounded terribly loud in the near-silence. Blood rushed in Aravon’s ears, his heart beating with such force he could feel each pulsating throb running through the veins in his neck.

He drew in a deep breath, forced his mind to calm. Locked his fingers tighter around the wooden haft of his spear. No time for hesitation or fear; only the enemy and the promise of battle ahead.

Memories of his trek through Praellboer the previous morning flashed through his mind, and he turned his companions down a street that headed southwest. They had to reach the heart of the Eirdkilr village, where the forged metal pens held the captives. There had been easily a thousand men, women, and children locked within the pens when he’d marched out of Praellboer—how many of them had survived the day? What was more, how many had strength and spirit enough to fight?

We’re about to find out.

The cloying reek of the dung fire thickened around them, and the faint glow of the blaze appeared through a gap in the longhouses ahead. Aravon moved more slowly, placing each foot with caution. So close to the enemy, he couldn’t risk discovery until the perfect moment.

Yet he had to get close enough to see the enemy’s position, their strength. One careful step at a time, he and his two companions slithered through the shadows, drawing nearer the shadows at the edge of Praellboer’s center plaza.

Aravon’s gut tightened as he caught sight of the Eirdkilrs guarding the pens. At least three score, standing with weapons bared and eyes alert. Something about them appeared terribly wrong. Instead of the relaxed, careless stance that had marked them when he’d marched into Praellboer as a prisoner, they appeared wary, as if expecting an attack.

Aravon’s eyes narrowed. But how—

Then his gaze fell on the prisoners huddling in the nearest pen and his question was answered. A handful of giants, as large as the Eirdkilrs but with faces free of blue war paint, sat battered and bloodied among the Fehlans and Princelanders. Their ice bear pelts had been stripped away, revealing rough clothing made from the shaggy hide of the ox-like beasts Aravon had seen in Highcliff Motte and the Tauld village.

More Tauld, here? They hadn’t been there the previous morning, so where could they have come from?

A memory flashed through his mind—the memory of an Eirdkilr racing into the pit mine, delivering a message to Tyr Farbjodr. A message that had galvanized the Eirdkilr commander into action and sent scores of giants rushing off into the tundra.

Icy feet danced down his spine. It can’t be!

The Tauld hunters had followed them from Highcliff Motte. They’d found the runaway horses, recognized Zaharis’ alchemical chest and the slain Legionnaires’ belongings, and come all this way to deliver the news of enemies in the Wastelands to the Eirdkilrs. Only that could have prompted Tyr Farbjodr to pull men away from Illtgrund to send them out onto the tundra—to hunt whatever fools had invaded his land of ice.

And see how Farbjodr repays the Tauld for their warning! Aravon gave a grim shake of his head. He locks them up, doubtless to be sacrificed on his bloody altar to Bani.

Thirteen hundred Fehlans, Princelanders, and Tauld worked the pit mine, slaving away to build the Eirdkilr’s strange stone archway. Yet, when the sun rose on the Feast of Death, Aravon had no doubt every one of the captives held here in Praellboer would join their comrades in death. Their blood would stain the ghoulstone circle. The muddy ground would run crimson, and Tyr Farbjodr would complete whatever foul ritual he intended. More than two thousand men, women, even children would die to give Farbjodr’s four hundred barbarian warriors their strength.

Not a bloody chance we’re letting that happen! He scanned the eight pens within the square, studying the captives packed within. Eight pens, with more than a hundred prisoners apiece. Not a half-bad army, if we can get them to fight.

The first step lay in freeing them.

He glanced at Belthar. “Take the pen on the far right, and I’ll take that one in the middle, the one with the Tauld.”

Belthar cocked his head. “Think they’ll fight?”

Aravon frowned. The Tauld were hunters, not warriors like the Eirdkilrs. Yet he suspected that even hunters could put up a fierce fight if pushed. After their mistreatment at the Eirdkilrs’ hands, he had a feeling they’d be willing to strike back at their captors.

“Worth the risk to find out,” Aravon signed back.

Nodding, Belthar unlimbered his huge crossbow and set about cocking it as quickly and quietly as he could.

Aravon turned to Lingram. The Legionnaire didn’t know the Secret Keeper hand language, but he understood the silent signal to “go left” clearly. Aravon had no doubt Lingram would make the smart tactical choice and go for the pen that held the strongest-looking of the captives.

That left Aravon going down the middle. Straight toward the largest cluster of Eirdkilrs, who stood gathered close to the dung fire for warmth. He’d have to punch through them to reach the centermost pens, but hopefully Colborn’s distraction would pull enough away to give them a chance.

Tension tightened Aravon’s chest. His gloved fingers locked around his spear and his muscles coiled tight as a watchmaker’s spring, ready to leap into action. The beating of his heart rose to a furious crescendo as he waited. Waited and watched, his eyes locked on the western edge of the open square. To the darkness where Colborn, Noll, and Skathi prepared to unleash their distraction.

Aravon prayed a silent prayer. Swordsman, give us strength. He reached up, touched the pendant at his neck. Twin crossed swords made of crude iron hung from a leather thong—Belthar’s gift to him, a replacement for the jewelry he’d left on Draian’s funeral pyre. The smooth, hard metal comforted him. Or, perhaps it was the knowledge that the Swordsman had always fought at his side. Through countless battles, against impossible odds, the Legionnaire’s deity had been there to fortify him, shield him from the enemy, and bring victory. Not for the glory of one Captain Aravon, but to defend the innocent. To protect those who could not protect themselves.

He drew in a deep breath, forced his mind and body to calm. Pushed aside the anxieties that whirled in his stomach. So many things could go wrong, but he couldn’t worry about that. The plan had been set, his Grim Reavers each with their part to play. All that remained now was to execute.

As if on cue, a brilliant pillar of fire suddenly burst to life on the far side of the open square. BOOM! Flames of startling green billowed forty feet into the sky, roaring and crackling with such violence the nearest Eirdkilrs fell back with a cry of alarm and panic. They spun, away from the dung fire and the pens, to face the sudden attack from behind.

Something dark hurtled through the air and landed at the edge of the dung fire, not five steps from the largest cluster of giants. Glass shattered with a loud crash and bright red-orange flames burst upward in a ball of fire. Aravon imagined he could hear Noll’s sob at the sight—his Nyslian brandy, gone in a heartbeat.

Yet his sacrifice was not in vain. Tongues of fire licked along the droplets of potent alcohol, racing toward the nearest Eirdkilrs. The flames seemed to leap into the air, latched onto the brandy that had splashed their leggings, and set their furs ablaze.

The ferocity of the attack confused the Eirdkilrs. The burning green fires—the last of Zaharis’ alchemical fireweed and Dragon Thorngrass—on the western edge of the square blazed with a brilliant intensity. Noll’s brandy-fueled blaze from behind brought them spinning around again, off-balance. Reeling from the shock, the Eirdkilrs roared their fury into the empty square and raced through the streets of Praellboer, a flood of furs and howling fury hunting an enemy they could not see.

Hope surged within Aravon. Half of the Eirdkilrs in the square took up the cry and the search for their invisible foes, leaving fewer than three dozen guarding the pens. Not the best of odds, but the best they could hope for.

He set his jaw, grim resolve hardening in his gut. For the Princelands, and for Fehl!

Leaping from the shadows, Aravon and his company of two charged the enemy.

Chapter Sixty

The thwump of Belthar’s massive crossbow echoed behind Aravon, and a huge, dark shape whistled past his head. The three-foot bolt sped across the distance to the nearest Eirdkilr and punched into his chest. Tore through armor, flesh, bone, and furs, driving out the giant’s back and slamming into the Eirdkilr behind him. The force of the impact sent the two staggering backward and they fell, screaming and gagging on blood, into the dung fire. Long, braided hair and beards caught quickly alight, and their shrieks of pain brought their nearest comrades whirling toward them.

Away from the charging Aravon. The screams of the burning men and the shouts of those shocked by the blaze drowned out the pounding of his boots. With their backs turned, the giants clustered in front of the centermost pens never saw him coming.

Aravon brought his spear whipping around, a slashing strike that severed an Eirdkilr’s spine and buried sharp steel into the side of another’s neck. Blood misted in the night air as he tore the spear free, spun, and lashed out at another. Crimson droplets sprayed the side of the Eirdkilr’s head the moment before Aravon’s spear sliced through his vocal cords, throat, and jugular vein.

The nearest Eirdkilr turned, more out of shock than instinct, just in time to take Aravon’s thrust to the chest. Odarian steel punched through studded leather, snapped ribs, and tore a gaping hole in his heart and lungs. The giant stared dumbly down at the weapon buried to the crossbar in his chest, his mouth working soundlessly. Blood gushed from his gaping lips. Slowly, like a mighty oak felled by a woodsman, he toppled backward into the fire.

In the heartbeat before Aravon tore his spear free, the momentum of the giant’s fall dragged Aravon forward. Just a half-step, but enough to knock him slightly off-balance. He had no time to recover, turn, and meet the wild slashing attack of the Eirdkilr to his left.

Desperate, he threw himself to one side. Right into another Eirdkilr. His shoulder struck the giant’s stomach, and it felt as if he crashed into a wall. He staggered backward, his feet slipping on the muck, and fell hard. Splashed into the mud, spraying droplets of filthy water.

An Eirdkilr loomed over him, boot upraised to stamp down on his leg. Aravon thrust out with his spear and caught the giant in his planted leg. Sheared muscle and tendon snapped and rolled up. Screaming, the Eirdkilr fell backward.

Another giant filled Aravon’s vision. Thrust a spear down at him, aiming for his chest. Aravon rolled to one side, then frantically to the other. The Eirdkilr’s driving spear punched deep into the mud, clinked off stones buried deep in the earth, then caught between two rocks. Lashing out with a vicious kick, Aravon shattered the Eirdkilr’s knee. As the giant fell, Aravon threw himself into a backward roll and rose to his feet, lashing out with his spear. The wild strike caught a charging Eirdkilr in the face. Blood gushed from a gaping tear across his nose and he screamed, dropped his weapon, and clapped a hand to his face. Leaving his torso exposed for a lightning thrust to the chest.

Something slammed into Aravon’s back with jarring force, hurling him forward. He landed hard, mere inches from the edge of the burning dung fire, so close the heat stung his face and threatened to set his cloak alight. Aravon scrabbled backward, pain flaring through his spine. He had only a heartbeat to glance backward, to see the Eirdkilr swinging a club at his head. Throwing himself to the side, Aravon rolled to his feet, scooped up the spear that had fallen from his fingers, and drove it into the Eirdkilr’s back. Not hard enough to punch through armor, but the strike propelled the giant into the fire. The stink of burned hair and charred meat pierced the pungent, cloying odor of burning dried dung, and the Eirdkilr’s shrieks echoed loud and long.

Aravon spun to face the next Eirdkilr. Raised his spear to defend himself or lash out. He staggered, off-balance, his boots sliding and slipping in the muck. His eyes flew wide. There were no more. To his right, Belthar crushed the last Eirdkilr’s head against the iron bars of the pen. Half a dozen bodies lay scattered at his feet.

The clash of steel on steel echoed to Aravon’s left. He spun, eyes darting toward the pen. There, Captain Lingram battled two enormous Eirdkilrs wielding axes larger than his wooden shield. Aravon almost went to help, but stopped as Lingram ducked a vicious axe swing, darted inside the Eirdkilr’s guard, and drove his longsword into the giant’s groin. His attack carried him out of reach of the other barbarian. Even as the Eirdkilr gave chase, Captain Lingram spun, tore his blade free of the slumping giant, and hurled himself at his last enemy with such speed and ferocity the Eirdkilr never had time to raise his axe. Lingram’s sword slipped in and out of the giant’s throat smoothly. The Eirdkilr died before his huge knees splashed into the muck.

Satisfied, Aravon spun toward the pen. Colborn’s distraction would buy them a few seconds, no more. He brought his spear whipping around once and slashed the ropes that held the pen shut. With one hand, he hauled at the huge locking bolt, struggling to pull it free. He threw every shred of strength against the crude metal bar until the bolt slid out of its bracket with a grinding, rusty squeal. Seizing the door, Aravon hauled it open.

“Go!” he shouted in Fehlan. “You are free!”

The Tauld hunters within the pen hesitated, their huge frames filling the opening. They stared down at him with naked suspicion. Could they not understand him?

Aravon tried again. “Run! Before they return.”

It seemed an eternity before the Tauld moved. They lumbered out of the pen, raced toward the nearest Eirdkilr corpses, and stripped off the heavy ice bear pelts. One paused only long enough to give Aravon a nod of thanks before racing off into the darkness, heading east—back the way they’d come, toward Highcliff Motte.

To Aravon’s horror, the rest of the prisoners had made no move to escape. The men and women stood huddled together for warmth and protection, fear etched into every line of their faces. Cold, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and, most of all, terror of the Eirdkilrs rooted them in place.

Aravon had just opened his mouth to exhort them to run, but a howling war cry from behind him brought him spinning around. Four Eirdkilrs raced up the muddy street toward him, their huge boots splashing through muck and the blood of their comrades. The steel heads of axes and spears shone in the light of the dung fire as they charged. Straight toward Aravon.

He met their charge with a sudden dash forward, so quick the foremost had no time to raise his shield. Aravon’s spear tore a gash in his throat, sending crimson spraying over the giant beside him. The Eirdkilr cried out as blood washed over his face and stung his eyes. He faltered, a heartbeat, no more. Just long enough to give Aravon a chance to cut him down with a slash across the front of both knees.

Even as the giant fell, shrieking, on ruined legs, Aravon whirled to face the next two Eirdkilrs. Giants with huge shields held in firm grips, and weapons half his own weight. An axe whistled toward his head, and he barely managed to avoid the strike by backpedaling furiously. Boots skidding and slipping, he nearly lost his balance. Caught himself, deflected another axe strike, but had no time to avoid the third. The huge axe slashed through his pauldron, cracking the alchemical treatment hardening the armor and slicing the flesh beneath.

Fire lanced through Aravon’s left shoulder, but he had no time for pain or weakness. It was all he could do to keep his footing as he slipped and slid through the bloody mud. The two Eirdkilrs gave chase, their axes whirling with terrifying speed. One lowered his shoulder into a shield charge and slammed into Aravon’s chest.

Though his breastplate held, the impact hurled Aravon from his feet and knocked the wind from his lungs. He landed hard, his helmeted head squelching in ankle-deep muck. His lungs refused to draw air no matter how much he tried. Even as he struggled to haul himself upright, the Eirdkilrs raced toward him. Desperate and out of breath, he lashed out with a wild thrust of his spear. The nearest Eirdkilr batted it aside with a snarl of contempt and raised his axe high to strike. The thick mud clung to Aravon’s arms, shoulders, head, and legs. He couldn’t move, not fast enough to avoid that crushing blow.

Suddenly, the Eirdkilr stumbled backward. Something dark sprouted from his throat. The fletching of an arrow, Aravon realized. Another punched into the giant’s chest a moment later, sending him staggering. The second Eirdkilr’s head snapped back and he fell, blood trickling from his ruined eye, seeping around the dark fletching of yet another arrow.

Bowstrings twanged from the western edge of the square. Aravon tore himself free of the mud in time to see Skathi and Noll racing into the plaza. Colborn ran at their heels, sword and shield stained red with blood. Skathi’s next missile took down the Eirdkilr Aravon had crippled. The giant’s screams died as the arrow sliced through his open mouth and punched out the back of his head.

Even as Aravon struggled to his feet and found he could draw breath again, his three companions reached the dung fire. Skathi and Noll circled the fire at a sprint, but Colborn paused long enough to drop something into the blaze before following the others. A loud hissing, crackling, popping echoed from whatever he’d dropped, and great billowing clouds of green smoke rose from the blaze. Even from thirty yards away, the stink of the burning Rankblossom twisted Aravon’s gut.

Zaharis’ instructions flashed through his mind. “The oil in the Rankblossom makes a bloody thick and awful smoke when burned, but it can be noxious if you get too much of it.”

The smoke would slow down any Eirdkilrs charging into the square, perhaps even conceal their movements. They just had to get the prisoners free before—

More war cries echoed from another side street, this one beyond Belthar. The huge Grim Reaver spun to meet the charge just as ten Eirdkilrs boiled from the shadows.

Keeper take it! Aravon raced toward Belthar as fast as his mud-heavy limbs could carry him. Too slowly, he feared. The Eirdkilrs moved with the speed of a charging horse, their long legs propelling them through the muck at a terrifying pace. Far faster than he could slog through the muck on legs exhausted from seemingly endless hours of marching and riding.

Skathi reached Belthar first. Or, her arrows did. Three missiles, little more than dark blurs in the night, slammed into the two fastest Eirdkilrs. The impact sent them staggering, crashing into their comrades. The stampeding giants behind them slowed, for only a second or two, as they picked their way around their fallen companions.

But those seconds gave Aravon time to reach Belthar.

He braced his feet against the charge and met the Eirdkilrs head-on. Not shield to shield—he had no shield of his own, and without ranks of Legionnaires to back him up, he couldn’t hope to withstand a full-speed rush—but with speed they couldn’t hope to match. At the last second, he leapt forward, dropped into a crouch, and thrust up with his spear. The sharp steel head punched into an Eirdkilr’s belly, and the giant’s forward momentum drove the iron-shod butt down into the mud. Aravon crouched lower, evading the wild, desperate swing of the Eirdkilr’s club, and let the giant’s weight do the work. The spear drove so deep the crossbars clinked against the iron studs hardening the Eirdkilr’s armor. His movements slowed, faltered, and he collapsed forward, pinioned on the spear.

Aravon had no time to wrestle his spear free. Instead, he ripped his sword from its sheath and launched himself at the next Eirdkilr. He twisted out of the way of the thrusting spear, deflected the follow-up strike, and slashed his sword’s edge along the giant’s forearms. Blood gushed from the wounds and the Eirdkilr’s grip on his weapon weakened. The tip of Aravon’s sword opened his throat.

Another twang of a bowstring, a hum of a flying arrow, and the Eirdkilr directly in front of Aravon fell with Skathi’s shaft driven deep into his eye. The last Eirdkilr died, his head chopped free of his shoulders by a savage stroke of Belthar’s axe.

Fire coursed through Aravon’s wounded shoulder and his lungs begged for air, but he had no time to stop, to rest, to dress his wounds. The howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs echoed loud through the streets of Praellboer.

Keeper’s teeth! Ice slithered down his spine. They’re coming back!

He crossed the three steps to his spear, kicked its butt end free of the mud, and yanked hard to pull it out of the Eirdkilr’s chest. It slid free of flesh and bone with a wet, sucking shlick, and the Eirdkilr toppled face-first into the muck.

Whirling, Aravon raced back toward the pen. The gate remained open, the way free for the prisoners to escape. Horror thrummed within him as he approached. Save for the Tauld hunters, none of the captives within had moved. They stood huddled together, terror and panic wide in their eyes.

“Come on!” Aravon shouted in Fehlan, and again in the tongue of the Princelanders imprisoned within. “You’ve got to get out of here!” The stink of the Rankblossom smoke would only give them cover for so long, and the smoke could sicken the already-weak captives.

Yet the prisoners made no move to flee.

“What are you waiting for?” He stalked into the pen, and the prisoners flinched back with cries of terror “You need to go before they come back.”

“And go where?” The voice, a Princelander’s, echoed from within the darkness. “You know where we are, right?”

“We’ve nowhere to run!” Another voice, this one speaking the Fehlan tongue, joined in. “There is nothing but endless ice south of the mountains. If we run, we die!”

“Then don’t run.” Aravon thrust his spear into the air. “Fight!”

Gasps echoed from the crowd of prisoners, and all eyes went wide with surprise and fear.

“Fight for your lives, for your families!” Aravon roared. “There are hundreds of you against dozens of them. Don’t let them—”

A howling war cry echoed within the pen, and an Eirdkilr loomed large in the opening. His eyes locked on Aravon and he raised his club to strike. Aravon attacked first, lunging into a thrust that drove the tip of his spear into the giant’s throat. The Eirdkilr’s eyes crossed, staring down at the weapon that killed him, and he fell to one knee.

Aravon tore the spear free, then ripped the club from the dying Eirdkilr’s hand. It weighed far too much for him to wield easily, yet he held it in one hand and spun back toward the prisoners.

“Don’t let your fear of them cow you into submission, but fight!” He threw the club at their feet. “You have no armor, clothing, or weapons. Take it from them, and turn their own armaments against them! If you stay here, you die, your bodies tortured and sacrificed on the Eirdkilrs’ altar. If you fight, you might die, but there is a chance you live. And if not you, then your families, your friends, your fellows.” He spoke in the Fehlan tongue, for most of the prisoners within the pen had the look of Eyrr, Deid, and Fjall. Yet it seemed the Princelanders had no trouble understanding the intent and spirit of his words. “Better to die fighting for something that matters than live a while longer in fear!”

War cries echoed beyond the pen; more Eirdkilrs had come, and their fury at finding the pens open and attackers within their midst resounded through Praellboer. Aravon cast one last meaningful glance at the captives and at the Eirdkilr club he’d dropped at their feet, then turned and raced out of the pen.

Right into an Eirdkilr’s back. The giant, locked in battle with Captain Lingram, slammed into him, sending him sprawling. A massive heel crashed into Aravon’s side with bone-jarring force. The Eirdkilr toppled, crashed atop Aravon, legs and knees thrashing. Another painful crack to Aravon’s ribs sent lightning coursing through his side. Agony rippled through his muscles and bones, but Aravon forced himself to move. Clawed at the mud, dragging himself free of the thrashing Eirdkilr.

A shadow loomed over him. Two huge feet planted in the mud at his side. Looking up, he found an Eirdkilr towering high above, spear poised for a thrust that would drive through his spine. A wild light of glee shone in the giant’s eyes as his muscles bunched, coiled, and prepared to strike.

The side of the giant’s head exploded in a spray of blood, bone, and brains. Stumbling, staggering, the Eirdkilr dropped to one knee. Another savage blow crushed his right arm. With a shriek of pain, the Eirdkilr toppled into the mud. A rush of bare feet trampled the giant’s corpse until his thrashing weakened, slowed, and fell still.

A hand thrust down toward Aravon. He took it, accepted the help to haul himself upright. The man who stood before him appeared gaunt, his protruding ribs visible beneath his torn shirt, yet a fire of defiance blazed in his eyes. The Fehlan hefted the huge war club with a nod. “We fight for our people,” he said in his tongue.

Aravon grinned beneath his mask. We have our army!

All around him, Princelanders and Fehlans boiled from the pen he’d opened. Behind them, more emerged from the remaining cages. Men, women, and children that had been beaten, dragged hundreds of miles across harsh terrain, starved, and abused. Now freed, they scrabbled in the mud to retrieve the weapons of the fallen Eirdkilrs. Tore free ice bear pelts, helmets, leather vests, even boots. Found crude daggers or hefted spears, axes, and clubs far too large to wield. Defiance blazed in every eye and roars of rage burst from every throat. Cries to the gods of Fehl—to Olfossa, to Striith, to Nuius, Megin, and others Aravon didn’t recognize—accompanied shouts of “For the Princelands!”

The Eirdkilrs racing into the square found themselves confronted by a wall of fury and hatred. Ragged men, women clutching children in one hand and knives in the other, and youths with hungry eyes and lips cracked from thirst leapt onto the barbarians. Weapons flashed in the light of the dung fire, and empty-handed captives bared teeth and clawed fingers as they threw themselves into the fray. Now they had a chance to repay all the mistreatment, abuse, and deprivation they’d endured since the day the Eirdkilrs dragged them from their homes.

Aravon stood alone, an island of calm amidst a sea of chaos. All around the open square, the captives and Eirdkilrs locked in a desperate struggle. Captives surged up the muddy lanes and down side alleys, hammered at the doors of the longhouses. A part of Aravon couldn’t help a pang of sorrow—how many people of Praellboer would die before the night was over, torn apart by the furious prisoners?

He had no more time to worry. The thunder of pounding hooves echoed loud in the open square, drawing closer at a furious speed. Aravon whirled, found Noll galloping toward him. A wild light shone in the scout’s eyes as he charged through the square, barreling through Eirdkilrs and trying desperately to dodge the furious captives.

His shout reached Aravon from thirty yards away.

“More on the way, closing fast!”

Chapter Sixty-One

Aravon’s gut tightened as Noll reined his horse to a skidding, sliding halt not three feet away.

“They took the bait!” Noll shouted. “We’ve got maybe ten, fifteen minutes before they reach us.”

Keeper’s teeth! This was the part of the plan Aravon had been dreading.

“Any sign of—”

Noll shook his head. “Too dark to know for sure, or to tell how many.” He glanced at the night sky. “But at least we know half of Zaharis’ tricks worked.”

Aravon followed the scout’s gaze. The plume of smoke rising from the dung fire glowed an eerie green in the darkness. The Rankblossom wasn’t just noxious, but it seemed to shine with a light all its own. Zaharis had given a complex explanation, but it amounted to something about the Rankblossom oil particles gleaming bright and refracting the light of the fire. Whatever the case, it brightened up the darkness above Praellboer with a billowing, acidic green.

A signal Tyr Farbjodr couldn’t possibly ignore.

If, as Aravon suspected, he intended to sacrifice all these captives on the Feast of Death—to use the magic of the ghoulstone to drain their strength—he’d see the attack on Praellboer as a direct threat to his plans. He’d have to deal with it. Hopefully in person, though it was a faint hope. At the very least, however, he would be forced to divide his forces and send some of his Eirdkilrs back to the village to get the situation in hand.

And that was exactly what Aravon was counting on. Their entire plan hinged on that force of Eirdkilrs racing from the mine.

“Go!” Aravon shouted to the scout. “Get the horses, but keep an eye on the road until you can get a full count of the enemy. We need to know what we’re up against!”

With a nod, Noll whirled his horse and rode off—first to collect Colborn and Skathi’s mounts to the west, then to circle around and scoop up Aravon, Captain Lingram, and Belthar’s horses. Another part of the plan they’d agreed on before the battle.

“Captain!” Skathi’s voice pierced the howling of the Eirdkilrs, the shouts and cries of the embattled prisoners, and the grim sounds of wood and steel tearing through flesh, cloth, furs, and bone. Aravon whirled to find the archer sprinting toward him. “That the signal?”

Aravon nodded. “Get the others ready!”

Skathi placed two fingers into her mouth and loosed a long, piercing whistle. Within seconds, the Grim Reavers appeared from the thick smoke and the chaos of battle. Blood stained their armor, weapons, and cloaks, yet none appeared too badly wounded. Belthar’s unarmored right arm bore two deep gashes, but someone—likely Skathi—had bandaged it.

Captain Lingram, Colborn, Skathi, and Belthar formed up around Aravon. “Noll’s brought word the enemy’s on the way.”

“Hah!” Triumph echoed in Belthar’s voice. “Farbjodr’s taken the bait.”

“Aye, but that doesn’t mean we’re out of the shite yet.” Aravon studied the muddy square, the hundreds of figures locked in desperate battle. The Eirdkilrs were badly outnumbered by the captives, but they were armed and armored, facing men and women starved, beaten, and left to suffer in the cold. The scales of the battle could tilt in their favor the moment their reinforcements arrived. “We need to figure out some kind of defense, something to slow down the Eirdkilrs coming up from the south.”

“Got it!” Belthar took off at a run, heading toward the road that led out of Praellboer. Skathi followed the big man, tearing a new sheaf of arrows from her pack and refilling her near-empty quiver.

“And we need to find a way to get the captives fighting together,” Aravon continued. “Colborn, see if you can get the Fehlans under control. Lingram, it’s up to you get—”

“Aravon.” Lingram’s voice cut him off mid-sentence. The Legionnaire’s eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on something behind Aravon. His grip on his sword tightened but he made no move to attack.

Aravon whirled to face the threat. Stopped, froze in place, his eyes widening a fraction as he caught sight of the giants slipping through the crowd. These carried no weapons, and their faces were bare of war paint. Though they wore the heavy ice bear pelts of Eirdkilrs, there was mud and blood staining them.

The Tauld hunters had returned.

Aravon’s heart stopped, his muscles going rigid. The Tauld slid through the swirling chaos of battle with purpose, their long legs eating up the ground in great strides as they moved toward him in a half-march, half-loping run.

Confusion twisted in Aravon’s gut. What are they doing here? He’d expected them to flee Praellboer, to return to their homes and simple, peaceful lives in Highcliff Motte. So what could have brought them back?

The sounds of battle seemed to fade into the background, an almost eerie calm descending over the heart of the square as the foremost Tauld opened his mouth.

“We owe you our lives.” His language bore a strong resemblance to Fehlan, similar enough Aravon could understand it, and the accent proved less harsh and guttural then the Eirdkilr tongue. “We have returned to pay the skuld, the debt of blood and honor.”

Aravon cocked his head. “You’ve come to fight with us?” he asked in Fehlan.

“No.” The speaker gave a slow shake of his long-haired head. “But we bring warning. Enemies approach from the north, east, and west. Ten and ten from each direction. The light and clash of battle summon them home.”

Aravon’s heart sank. Sixty more Eirdkilrs were on their way here. Doubtless the ones Tyr Farbjodr had sent earlier to hunt down the Grim Reavers, a response to the message the Tauld had delivered of northerners in the Wastelands. Add that to however many Tyr Farbjodr had sent from the mine, and that was a small army—one that could very well be too strong to defeat before the sun rose.

“The skuld is paid.” The Tauld bowed to Aravon. “You will die, but you will pass into Seggrholl knowing that Sigvald Vandilsson has paid the blood price and satisfied honor.”

Aravon passed his spear to his left hand and held out his right. “Then go, Sigvald, son of Vandil, with the gratitude of Aravon, son of Icespire, and his Prince.”

Sigvald stared down at Aravon’s outstretched hand for a long moment, his eyes narrowed—in thought, suspicion, or some other emotion, Aravon couldn’t be certain. The giant’s expression was inscrutable, as hard as ice. Finally, he reached out and clasped Aravon’s forearm in the traditional Fehlan manner. A silent exchange, a brief locking of their eyes—Princelander and Tauld—then Sigvald broke off the grip, turned, and marched out of the square.

Aravon’s eyes followed the giant’s hulking frame until he disappeared into the shadows between longhouses. The moment he stepped out of sight, the moment seemed to snap. The din of battle rose in volume once more, the shouts, screams, and cries of men and women locked in a frenzied combat, a struggle to the death. The crunch of wooden clubs striking flesh, the crack of shattering bones, and the thump of steel carving flesh.

Blinking, Aravon stared at the carnage around him. The last of the Eirdkilrs were even now falling beneath the savage fury of their former prisoners. Fehlans and Princelanders wielded massive weapons, hacking, stabbing, slashing, and bludgeoning their merciless captives to death. Scores of blond-haired giants lay scattered around the open square, mud and blood soaking into their filthy ice bear pelts, crimson seeping from grisly wounds, limbs and skulls crushed, flesh rent by their own weapons.

Yet they hadn’t died without a fight. The bodies of dead Fehlans lay scattered around the giants that had slain them before succumbing to the frenzy. Princelanders screamed, bled, and died, their bellies torn open, throats savaged by Eirdkilr axes, or limbs and heads sheared clean through. Fully half of the captives that escaped the pens lay dead or dying.

Keeper’s teeth! Horror flooded Aravon, driving back the momentary trance that had settled over him. He’d seen blood and death before, far, far too many times to count, and far worse than this. Yet the sight of so many corpses—the bodies of men, women, and children that had lived peaceful lives until the Eirdkilrs tore them from their homes—brought acid rising in his throat.

“We can’t hold Praellboer.” Colborn’s voice echoed beside Aravon, a grim tone edging his words. “Not against sixty Eirdkilrs and however many more Farbjodr’s sending from the south.”

Aravon didn’t argue; the Lieutenant had the right of it. Even armed with the Eirdkilrs’ weapons, furs, and armor, the four or five hundred captives couldn’t hope to repel so many. The moment the approaching Eirdkilrs realized there was battle to join, they’d form a shield wall and assault the defenders in a concerted blitz attack. No defenses Belthar could cobble together in the next few minutes would withstand such a rush. An Eirdkilr charge rivaled the strength and speed of a Princelander cavalry charge. The giants would roll over the defenders in a matter of seconds. Every one of the men, women, and children they’d just freed from the pens would die in the streets of Praellboer. Empty-handed or armed with stolen weapons, it would make no difference.

Worse, if Tyr Farbjodr had remained at the mine, the Grim Reavers wouldn’t have a shot at putting him down. If Aravon had surmised his intentions correctly—somehow using the magic within the ghoulstone to drain his captives of strength to enhance his warriors—the Eirdkilr wouldn’t leave the site of his final triumph. To eliminate him, Aravon would have to go to the mine.

But doing so would leave the captives leaderless, scattered, disorganized. They’d die within seconds. Aravon’s plan had considered the Eirdkilr reinforcements, but not so many. A part of his mind—the cold, calculating part of a strategist—screamed at him that the sacrifice of the captives would be worth it in the end. Leaving the Fehlans and Princelanders to fight the Eirdkilrs would buy him and his men enough time to reach Tyr Farbjodr and, hopefully, cut through his reduced force of warriors. The deaths of these men and women would give him that shot at taking down the Eirdkilr commander once and for all.

Yet Aravon had never been cold or calculating. He had always valued the lives of his soldiers, often above his own, and every plan he’d conceived had been with the full intent of keeping as many of his men alive as possible. The idea of abandoning the captives here at the mercy of the Eirdkilrs was abhorrent. He couldn’t do it.

There was only one thing to do.

“Go.” Aravon rounded on Colborn. “Get the others, and get to the bridge as fast as you can. The moment you’re sure the enemy’s engaged, cut them off, then go for Tyr Farbjodr.”

Colborn’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even think about—”

“I’m staying.” Aravon’s tone rang with a sharp note of command. He gestured around him. “You know what’s coming for them. I won’t let them fight alone.”

“Captain—” Colborn began.

“No.” Aravon set his jaw, determination hardening within him. “It’s going to take every one of you to kill Tyr Farbjodr and get out of this alive. My staying here, fighting with them, gives you that chance.”

Lingram opened his mouth to protest. “Aravon—”

“Go, Lingram.” Aravon gestured to Colborn. “They’re going to need a Captain—”

“Damned right they will.” Captain Lingram’s voice cracked like a whip. “Their captain!”

The ferocity in the man’s words and the light blazing in his eyes surprised Aravon.

“You remember what I said back in Camp Marshal, about the reason I survived Icespire, Saerheim, and every other battle?” Captain Lingram fixed him with a piercing glare. “The Grim Reavers needed me to get through Cliffpass, to get you here. But now that we’re here, the world needs you. Needs you to make sure Tyr Farbjodr gets put down once and for all.” He tapped his chest. “He walked away from a crossbow bolt to the chest, so you’re going to make sure that he doesn’t get back up again.”

Aravon’s eyes widened a fraction. “But after what he did to Highcliff Motte, to your friends and family, surely you deserve the chance to put things right.”

“Things are put right.” Captain Lingram rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “Or they will be once you stop the Eirdkilr bastard responsible for so much death and suffering.”

Aravon tried to protest, but Colborn cut in first. “Captain.” He stepped up beside Lingram and held out a hand. “It’s been an honor.”

Aravon sucked in a breath. No! Colborn was simply accepting this?

Of course he was, a dim part of Aravon’s mind realized. He was an officer of the Legion of Heroes, a man trained to make the difficult decisions—just as Aravon and Captain Lingram were. He’d done the mental calculations, evaluated the outcome of the choice, and determined that it was the best hope of success. Though it pained him—pain that shone bright in his ice-blue eyes—he would bear that pain for the sake of the mission.

Just as Aravon should. He wanted to argue, wanted to insist that Lingram was the better choice to go with the Grim Reavers. Lingram owed Tyr Farbjodr a painful death, vengeance for his fallen friends. For Koltun Blackhammer, for his family, for the Deadheads slaughtered at Saerheim and in the mines beneath the Sawtooth Mountains.

Lingram had lost so much, suffered so much, all because of Tyr Farbjodr’s cruelty and bloodlust. His family and friends had died in the name of power and conquest.

Yet Aravon knew Lingram well enough to know that vengeance mattered far less to the Legionnaire than doing what was right. That had always been Lingram’s greatest strength—and, in some cases, his weakness. Now, he’d made the decision to stay, to buy the Grim Reavers time to complete their mission. One look at the determination in Lingram’s eyes, and Aravon knew he’d never dissuade the man. He’d have to knock Lingram unconscious and have him bodily dragged off. He entertained that fleeting thought for a moment, then shoved it aside.

Lingram was right. Though it drove a dagger of sorrow into the core of Aravon’s being, the Legionnaire was making the best choice. Not for himself or his chances of survival. But for the mission. Aravon was a Grim Reaver, and he had spent months training and fighting beside the others. Lingram was a Legionnaire, a man trained to war and battle and the shield wall, but he hadn’t developed the mentality that Duke Dyrund had fostered in Aravon. Like a true soldier and officer, he recognized his value to the Grim Reavers, where he could be best used.

Here, holding the town against an enemy that would inevitably crush them. Sacrificing his life to buy Aravon and the others time to complete their mission. Just as his Deadheads had.

A sob formed in Aravon’s throat, but he swallowed it, forced it down. “Forgive me.” Sorrow turned his voice hoarse, harsh.

“There is nothing to forgive.” Peace shone in Lingram’s eyes. Passing his sword to his shield hand, he reached out to grip Aravon’s arm. “If the Swordsman wills it, we will see each other again. If not, I will save a place for you at his side.”

Aravon pulled Lingram into a fierce hug, squeezing his eyelids tightly shut to ward off the flow of tears.

“Captain.” Colborn’s voice was low and insistent. “We need to go, now.”

Aravon broke off the embrace, clasping Lingram’s arm with his free hand. “Swordsman strengthen your arm, Brother!”

“And guide your aim.” Lingram’s eyes held no hint of hesitation or fear. Acceptance, peace, and resolve shone there. “Take the bastard down!”

“Aye.” The word was all Aravon could muster; if he tried to speak more, he feared his voice would crack.

The sound of hoofbeats echoed loud in the open square, and Aravon turned away from Lingram in time to see Noll riding into the square. The scout galloped toward the two of them, five horses racing in his wake.

“Captain,” Noll shouted as he reined in a few paces away, “the Eirdkilrs will be here any minute. A hundred of them. Time to make like the wind and get the bloody hell out of here!”

Aravon said nothing—could find no words through the lump thickening his throat—but raced toward his horse and leapt into his saddle. He glanced back, found Captain Lingram staring at him. The Legionnaire had removed his mask, and a smile broadened his handsome face. Straightening, he gave a Legionnaire’s salute: right fist to left shoulder, his knuckles thumping against his breastplate.

Aravon returned the salute. Then, though it took every shred of willpower he possessed, he forced himself to turn his horse and ride away.

“People of the north!” Captain Lingram’s voice rang out, loud and clear, across the square. “Men and women of Fehl, of the Princelands. I am Captain Lingram, called Blacksword, Hero of Garrow’s Canyon.”

All eyes in the square—all but Aravon’s—turned to regard the man. Though he spoke in Fehlan, all the Princelanders seemed to recognize his name.

“The enemy comes from all directions, prepared for battle and blood. So let us give them one!” Confidence echoed in his words. “Let us show them what happens when they threaten our homes, our clans, our families.”

A roar rose from the Fehlans, and those around Aravon raised bloodstained weapons. Battered, bruised, exhausted, and bedraggled men and women surged past, moving toward the square, toward the lone, heroic figure standing beside the fire and the now-empty pens.

“The smoke is our ally!” Lingram shouted. “We fight from the shadows, striking at them where they do not expect. We have numbers on our side. Let us show what a terrible mistake they made when they thought we were weak!”

Another roar rose from the Fehlans, accompanied by Princelander voices. The cheers and shouts reverberated through Praellboer, following Aravon and the Grim Reavers as they raced along the road leading south.

They paused only long enough for Skathi and Belthar to mount up. The big man abandoned his construction of the barricade—little more than rubble torn down from nearby longhouses—without question, though he shot a curious glance at Lingram’s empty saddle. Yet he held his tongue, falling in beside the rest as they raced south, out of Praellboer.

The instant they were out onto the plains and free of the chest-high ice wall surrounding Praellboer, Noll and Colborn led the way hard to the east. Away from the warriors that even now surged up the muddy track from the pit mine.

Aravon’s gut clenched as he rode. Deeper into the night, into the shadows of the empty tundra, farther from the bright-shining pillar of green smoke rising up from the center of Praellboer. Farther from Captain Lingram, his friend, his brother.

They rode far east, circling wide around the Eirdkilrs sent to join the battle at Praellboer. The lump in his throat thickened when they turned back southwest, riding around behind the fast-moving enemy. When the war cries and howls echoed from the hundred barbarians racing into the village, Aravon wished he could close his ears. Could shut off the images that flashed through his mind—images of death, carnage, of blood spilled and flesh ravaged by massive Eirdkilr weapons. Fehlans and Princelanders, cut down, their bodies torn to pieces. And among them, Captain Lingram, never wavering, never faltering. Courageous to his last breath.

Tears streamed down his face, yet Aravon never looked back. He couldn’t, lest his resolve shatter. He owed it to Captain Lingram to keep riding. To make his sacrifice count.

To fight until Tyr Farbjodr lay dead at his feet.

Chapter Sixty-Two

All too soon, the sounds of battle faded into the night. The distance between the Grim Reavers and Praellboer widened, until nearly a mile separated them from the Eirdkilr village. From where Captain Lingram and the freed captives fought for their lives among the muddy streets, in the shadows between the longhouses. Long before they reached the bridge, the din and clash of combat diminished, until only the thunder of the horses’ hooves and the shrieking wind echoed in Aravon’s ears.

None of the Grim Reavers spoke. The five soldiers rode with eyes locked firmly on the darkness ahead, each lost within their own private sorrow. Aravon, too, wrestled with the pain of loss. A pain that clutched tight in his chest, gripped his heart, and drove a dagger of ice into his gut. It seemed impossible to draw a full breath past the fist of iron constricting his lungs. With only featureless night and the empty tundra ahead, Aravon could find nothing to draw his eye, to give him something to look at. Anything that would push the image of Captain Lingram’s face from his mind.

There had been no hesitation in Lingram’s words, only confidence, steely resolve, and peace. For years, he’d carried a heavy burden. Fear of being a coward, of fleeing and hiding as he had as a youth escaping the carnage at Highcliff Motte. The anguish over those he’d lost: his father and brothers, the Legionnaires stationed at the fortress, Koltun Blackhammer, the soldiers fallen over his years of battle, the Deadheads.

Now, the burden would be lifted from his shoulders. He would find peace in one final act of courage and sacrifice. The Long Keeper’s arms would embrace him, wipe away the anguish, and he would spend an eternity of joy and triumph standing guard at the Swordsman’s side. A fitting end for a true hero.

Yet that knowledge left no less pain in his wake. Aravon felt it keenest of all, he who had trained, studied, and marched with Captain Lingram during his younger days. But all the Grim Reavers, all the soldiers that had traveled with him since Icespire, would doubtless feel the sting of his death.

Once, he might have questioned the Swordsman’s wisdom—after all, how could the god of heroism allow such a thing to happen to a man as good as Captain Lingram? He would have struggled with his faith, just as both Zaharis and Rangvaldr had.

Yet years of battle and war had shown Aravon that it was rarely the gods to blame for the actions of men. The Swordsman hadn’t allowed Captain Lingram to die; it was no act of some unknowable deity, but the cruelty of humans—men like Tyr Farbjodr—that had led to the death of a brave man.

Aravon’s fists clenched on his reins so tight his hands shook. By the Swordsman, Tyr Farbjodr will pay! For the countless deaths, the endless suffering he’d unleashed upon Fehl, certainly. For all the friends, comrades, and loved ones taken too soon: the men of Sixth Company, Duke Dyrund, Lord Morshan, the Deadheads. And, most of all, Captain Lingram. Aravon would see the bastard Eirdkilr dead, one way or another.

To pull that off, the Grim Reavers had had to risk everything. The attack on Praellboer had been just the first step, the opening gambit in the complex game of Nizaa that was war and battle. Tyr Farbjodr had acted precisely as he’d hoped. Had committed the bulk of his forces to defending Praellboer from the invisible threat of which the Tauld had warned him. He’d heard men of the Princelands had managed to cross into the Wastelands, and he couldn’t write it off as misinformation or deceit. Not so close to the culmination of his plans. Tyr Farbjodr had invested too much into his collection and mining of the ghoulstone. Now, on the eve of his triumph, he wouldn’t take any risks.

That meant making certain his enemies didn’t abscond with his prisoners, the fodder he would sacrifice on his altar of ancient blood magic. He’d had no choice but to divide his forces to protect Praellboer.

Now, Aravon would capitalize on that defensive action. The Eirdkilrs had only one way to travel from the village to the pit mine. One way across the river, unless they wanted to travel twenty or more miles out of their way. Once Zaharis brought down the bridge, the bulk of the Eirdkilrs would be trapped on the wrong side of the river, leaving only a handful to guard Tyr Farbjodr. Few enough for Aravon and the Grim Reavers to take down.

A flicker of light in the distance caught Aravon’s eye. So faint, it was barely a flicker in the darkness, yet Aravon recognized the blue-and-red light of Zaharis’ alchemical lanterns. The soft glow shone from beneath the arching bridge, between the thick stone support pillars rising from the black ribbon that was the fast-flowing river.

Yes! Despite the pain of his grief, a faint hope surged within Aravon. Zaharis and Rangvaldr had managed to stay unseen by the Eirdkilrs rushing past. He could only hope the Secret Keeper had had time enough to put whatever alchemical marvels he intended to use in place to bring the bridge down now.

Across the sharply-inclining archway they rode, the horses’ steel-shod hooves ringing sparks on the stone surface. Even in the darkness, Aravon was struck by the solid, timeless endurance of the construction—one that had withstood the ravages of the Wastelands’ storms and ice for centuries.

A figure moved out of the shadows of the bridge and greeted them as they reined in on the southern shore.

“Good to see you,” Rangvaldr said in a low voice. “For a minute, we feared you hadn’t…” His words trailed off as he caught sight of the eighth horse with its empty saddle. The faint starlight cast a shadow over his eyes. “Lingram?”

“Buying us time.” The words proved difficult to speak. The lump returned to Aravon’s throat, and he could say no more.

Rangvaldr bowed his head. “Nuius grant him strength,” he said quietly.

Aravon had no answer—dared not speak for the sorrow swirling within him. Without a word, he dismounted and slid down the riverbank toward the underside of the bridge. He needed the distraction of the mission, the battle ahead, to take his mind off the pain of what lay behind.

“How long?” he called to the Secret Keeper.

Zaharis answered with a wordless grunt. He stood wedged beneath the nearest pillar, his toes dug into crevices between stone, working one-handed at shoving bundles of plants into cracks in the column while hanging on with his free hand. The two glass globes of his alchemical lamps hung suspended from his belt—he needed both hands to work.

Long seconds passed before he finished stuffing the bundled fireweed into the crack and could free up a hand to sign. “At least ten minutes, if you want it done right.”

“Good.” Aravon nodded. “The sooner we get this done, the better.” He glanced at the sky. Though it hadn’t yet begun to brighten, he could all but feel the sun climbing toward the eastern horizon. At any moment, the first threads of blue would light up the sky, and the Feast of Death would be upon them. They would be too late to stop Tyr Farbjodr.

Aravon clambered up the incline, rejoining the others on the southern side of the bridge. All of the Grim Reavers stared solemnly at Praellboer in the distance. At the column of bright green smoke that had already begun to thin out, the dung fire burning low and the Rankblossom exhausted. Somewhere in that haze, Captain Lingram and his small army of Fehlan and Princelander captives might still be alive. Might. Perhaps they’d remain alive long enough for—

What’s that? Fear clutched at Aravon’s chest. Is that…movement?

For a moment, he feared it would be nothing but his imagination. His grief-stricken mind playing tricks on him, distorting his vision. Yet as his companions gasped or sucked in sharp breaths, he knew he hadn’t been the only one seeing it.

It was movement. Within the streets of southern Praellboer, dark shadows lumbered into view. One, two, five, ten, more. The hulking figures blended into a formless mass, yet they towered so tall Aravon knew they could only be one thing. Eirdkilrs, racing south.

Sorrow twisted the dagger in his heart. They’d only be returning to their master at Illtgrund if they had dealt with the prisoners. Either killed them all, even the children, or locked them up in their pens. Knowing Captain Lingram, it would be the former.

Aravon bowed his head and closed his eyes. May you know peace forever more at the Swordsman’s side. A final farewell to the brave Legionnaire.

Yet a moment was all he could spare. His heart hammered as he opened his eyes and found the hulking figures racing toward them. Eirdkilrs could cover eight miles in an hour; to reach the bridge, less than a mile south of Praellboer, would take them less than ten minutes.

Less than ten minutes! The thought sent icy feet dancing down his spine.

He whirled toward the Grim Reavers. “Get ready for a fight!”

Not waiting to see their response, he spun back toward the river bank and scrambled down toward the edge. Zaharis had moved only a few inches from the last place Aravon had seen him and was working on stuffing another bundle of fireweed into a crevice.

“Zaharis, you’ve got to hurry!” Aravon shouted. “They’ll be here in five minutes!”

The Secret Keeper stiffened, his muscles going rigid. Shooting a furious glare over his shoulder, he signed, “I’m going as fast as I can!”

“Then go faster!” Aravon didn’t wait to see Zaharis’ signed retort—he’d already turned and raced back up the hill.

Reaching the bridge, he found the Grim Reavers preparing for battle. Skathi had shifted her re-filled quiver to her hip, within easy reach for fast movements. Noll, too, had dismounted and taken up position on the opposite side of the bridge. He and Skathi could loose arrows in a cross-fire to hit the Eirdkilrs from both right and left.

Belthar stood with his huge crossbow reloaded and ready to loose. He had only two of the three-foot bolts left; one sat nocked in the crossbow’s cradle, the other strapped to his back. He’d have time for just one shot before the Eirdkilrs hit them.

Colborn and Rangvaldr anchored the center of their meager battle line. Aravon took up position behind the two men, in the shelter of their shields. His long spear gave him added reach that their swords did not.

He had no intention of fighting—Zaharis had to bring down that damned bridge! But if the Eirdkilrs reached them before the Secret Keeper set off his alchemical explosion, they would be ready.

His eyes locked on the dark figures racing through the darkness toward the bridge. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t spotted them, cloaked in night as they were, but that would change soon. The moment the giants drew within sight of the bridge, of the little glow emanating from Zaharis’ alchemical lamps, they would know something was amiss.

Closer and closer the giants lumbered, their hulking figures growing larger in the light emanating from Praellboer. Aravon’s heart hammered a nervous beat as he watched the nearing barbarians. He tightened his grip on his spear, braced his legs, stiffened his spine. Every second brought the giants nearer—and sunrise with it.

He glanced at the sky, and acid writhed like worms in his gut. The first threads of light had begun to brighten the heavens. But this was no gentle blue, no soft light of the typical sunrise. The glimmer had an angry red hue, like rivers of blood threading through the starlit darkness.

A shiver ran down Aravon’s spine. The Feast of Death is upon us. When the sun rose—and rise it would, no matter how much he wished it otherwise—Tyr Farbjodr’s plan would be unleashed. Thousands of captives would die, slaughtered in his foul blood ritual.

Aravon broke away from the battle line, raced along the river’s edge until he caught sight of the Secret Keeper. “Zaharis?”

Zaharis spared only a second to flash a frantic sign. “Working!”

Heart in his throat, Aravon sprinted back to Colborn and Rangvaldr. The Secret Keeper had to hurry up before—

The howl of the Eirdkilr war cries pierced the darkness, ringing with deafening volume across the windswept tundra. With the brightening of the sky, the Eirdkilrs had spotted them.

Come on, Zaharis! Sweat trickled down Aravon’s spine. The giants—more than eighty by Aravon’s quick count—were just two hundred yards from the northern edge of the bridge. The foremost of the Eirdkilrs would reach them in under a minute. Come on, damn it! Their plan hinged entirely on blowing the bridge with the Eirdkilrs on the wrong side. As he’d intended at the Fornbryggja, hopefully killing a handful of the giants in the process.

Seconds passed in a blur, the Eirdkilrs drew closer—a hundred yards, seventy-five, fifty—and still no explosion.

“Hurry, Zaharis!” Aravon roared, his eyes never leaving the fast-moving giants.

Thirty yards to the bridge. Twenty. Ten.

Keeper’s teeth, he’s cutting it close!

Desperation flared bright and hot within Aravon’s chest. “We’re running out of time!”

The moment the words left his mouth, the first Eirdkilr boot touched the bridge. With a howl of rage, the giants raced up the archway and threw themselves at the Grim Reavers.

Chapter Sixty-Three

The first Eirdkilr never made it to Colborn and Rangvaldr. An arrow hissed from the left side of the bridge, sliding over the rim of the giant’s heavy shield and punching into the giant’s throat. Blood misted in the brightening darkness and the Eirdkilr stumbled, slammed into the stone side of the bridge, and toppled over.

Another arrow, this time from the right. An Eirdkilr stumbled, tripped, and fell. Right into the path of the closely-packed giants behind him. Five went down in a tangle of limbs, flying furs, and clattering weapons. More arrows zipped into their midst. Screams burst from the pile of Eirdkilrs, high and ringing with pain. One rose to his feet, shoving off the corpses of his companions. Just in time to trip up the giants lumbering up behind him. Three more fell, huge feet stumbling over the limp arms and legs of their comrades or tripping over torsos.

A loud whomph echoed from Aravon’s right. Belthar’s crossbow bolt sliced through the air and slammed into an Eirdkilr that had managed to evade the pile-up. Shards of wood exploded outward as the bolt punched through his shield, drove through flesh and furs. The impact knocked the Eirdkilr off his feet and he fell, hard. Never to rise again.

But the bridge was wide, the Eirdkilrs dangerously nimble for their hulking size. They dodged their piled-up comrades, charged past the first corpses, splashed through the blood of their fallen companions. Racing toward Aravon, Colborn, and Rangvaldr.

“Brace!” Aravon shouted. Colborn and Rangvaldr threw their shoulders into their shields, dug their heels into the ground. The impact of the charging Eirdkilrs hurled them backward. Colborn flew past Aravon, a grunt of pain bursting from beneath his mask. Rangvaldr, the heavier of the two, managed to keep his feet, but his shield wasn’t so fortunate. The upper third splintered beneath the force of the Eirdkilrs’ charge, and the steel boss of the giant’s shield slammed into his face. His head snapped back so hard Aravon feared his neck would break.

But he had no time for fear. With a roar, he threw himself at the Eirdkilr standing over the sagging Rangvaldr. His spear thrust took the giant in the side of the neck, just beneath the rim of his conical helm. In and out, so quickly the Eirdkilr never saw the blow that opened his jugular vein.

Aravon spun, turning his face away from the spray of blood, and brought his heavy spear whipping around. The slashing stroke cut low, slicing through an Eirdkilr’s thigh muscle and burying to the bone. The racing giant stumbled, tripped, and fell with a shriek as his femur cracked beneath his weight.

Then another Eirdkilr attacked, two more giants at his side. Aravon had no time to think, only to move. He ducked an axe strike, deflected a spear thrust, twisted out of the path of a crushing club. Lashed out with a desperate slash that opened an Eirdkilr’s arm to the elbow. Spinning, he brought the heavy iron-shod butt of the spear whipping across. Metal crunched into an Eirdkilr’s nose with shattering force, but Aravon kept swinging, putting all the force of his sorrow and fury into the blow. The flying metal-capped end shattered an Eirdkilr’s wooden shield and slammed into the side of his neck. Bone snapped audibly and the Eirdkilr’s head twisted at a terrible angle.

But still the Eirdkilrs came on. Racing over the bridge, splashing through the mud and their comrades’ blood, heavy boots thundering on the stone.

Aravon stumbled backward, slipped on a patch of ice-slick mud. Fell hard, his back and shoulders slamming into the road. Rolling to one side, he lashed out with a desperate kick at an Eirdkilr’s leg. His boot connected with a shin bone, but the Eirdkilr only howled louder—pain mingled with his rage—and brought his axe down in a crushing blow aimed at Aravon’s head.

Only to slam into the steel boss of Rangvaldr’s shield. The Seiomenn had managed to throw himself into the path of the attack, just in time to deflect the blow. The axe splashed into the mud a finger’s breadth from Aravon’s leg. Before the Eirdkilr could pull it free, Rangvaldr’s sword thrust into his throat.

A hand grabbed Aravon’s arm, hauled him upright. Colborn, shield strong, pain bright in his ice-blue eyes. “Get behind me!” he roared and leapt in front of Aravon.

An Eirdkilr charged, only to find his legs hacked out by a vicious sweep of Colborn’s sword. Another giant ran full onto Aravon’s outthrust spear. Too slow to stop, the giant impaled himself on the razor-sharp steel head, pushing it so deep the crossbar slammed into the front of his neck.

With a savage wrench, Aravon twisted the spear free and the Eirdkilr slumped. Blood dripping from the tip of his spear, Aravon crouched behind Colborn’s shield, bracing for the next attack.

For two hammering heartbeats, there were no more. Skathi and Noll’s arrows flew as fast as the archers could loose them. Their arms were a blur as they drew, nocked, and loosed. The Eirdkilrs slowed by the pile-up of their comrades’ bodies found themselves wading through a storm of shafts that cut them down.

Yet all too soon, Skathi reached for an arrow and found her quiver all but empty. Only two shafts remained—her last red-fletched Agrotorae arrow, and the bright-feathered iron arrow they’d found in the Deid Hefjakumbl. Her lucky arrows.

Aravon glanced at Noll. He, too, was nearly out. They’d have no time to reload their quivers—already, the first of the Eirdkilr arrows had begun to fall around them as the rearmost giants unlimbered their heavy longbows.

Belthar stood just beside Skathi, a wooden shield in one hand and his axe—blood dripping from its two massive heads—in the other. His shield, ripped from a dead Eirdkilr’s hand, was feathered with arrows. Two more had punched through the meat of his massive biceps, slowing his movements.

Keeper take this! Aravon’s gut clenched as Noll loosed his last arrow, bringing down one more Eirdkilr, and still more came on. Fewer than half, but still more than enough to kill them all if Zaharis didn’t—

BOOM!

The explosion nearly deafened Aravon. Brilliant light burst up from the stone bridge, searing into his brain. A blaze of heat washed over him and a concussive blast knocked him from his feet. Hurled him backward to land hard in the mud.

Ears ringing, sparks whirling in his vision, Aravon groaned—a sound so faint he couldn’t be certain he actually gave voice to his pain—and lifted his head. The sudden burst of light had blinded his night vision. He could see nothing but the smoke rising from the bridge.

From where the bridge had once stood. The southern half of the bridge had simply ceased to be, nothing but empty air spanning the gap between the riverbank and the column that supported the middle of the arch. The Eirdkilrs that had stood on that section of bridge had disappeared as well, dragged to a freezing, watery grave in the fast-flowing river below.

Aravon staggered to his feet. Something slammed into his left shoulder, spinning him around. Pain flared through the wounded joint, another line of fire joining the first. An Eirdkilr arrow pierced the weakened leather of his pauldron. The armor had stopped it from punching to bone, but the pain was as bad.

Another arrow splashed into the mud beside his leg, and another thumped into something hard and wooden on his left. Rolling over, he found Colborn’s shield, knocked from his hand by the explosion. Scooping it up, he struggled to his feet, blinking to clear the bright spots from his eyes.

Instinct shrieked at him to flee south, to run until he was out of arrow’s range. But he couldn’t, not without his comrades.

Yet, as arrows whistled around him, logic reasserted itself. The Eirdkilrs had to be as night-blind as him. They were loosing blindly into the darkness, hoping to hit their enemies.

Aravon nearly stumbled over a prone figure. Catching himself, he knelt, found Colborn lying on his side in the mud. Raising the shield to protect the Lieutenant, Aravon reached down and gripped the man’s shoulder. “You good?” he shouted through the ringing in his ears.

“Urrgghh.” The weak groan was all Colborn could manage, along with a weak nod. He clasped Aravon’s hand and rose, ducking behind the shield as the arrows continued to fall around them.

“Get the others and get to the horses!” Aravon shouted. “I’m going for Zaharis!” He hadn’t seen the Secret Keeper—hadn’t seen much of anything beyond stars and dark spots since the explosion. He had to make certain Zaharis escaped the arrow storm.

He paused only long enough to scoop up an Eirdkilr shield, grunting at its weight, and leaned his shoulder into it as he raced toward the bridge. Down the riverbank he slipped and scrambled, his light-seared eyes searching the darkness for any sign of Zaharis, or the faint gleam of his alchemical lanterns.

A dark shape lay face-down, motionless, on the steep incline. Horror thrummed within Aravon. Wisps of steam rose from Zaharis’ back, and where his cloak and the backplate of his leather armor had been, only raw, singed flesh showed. Blisters had already formed on his back.

Aravon bit back a cry—he couldn’t risk drawing the Eirdkilrs’ attention—as he fell to one knee beside Zaharis. Passing his spear to his shield hand, he slid an arm under the Secret Keeper and hauled him up. Zaharis made no sound, but lay limp in Aravon’s grasp.

No! Fear twisted in Aravon’s gut. Zaharis had been too near the explosion—if it had knocked Aravon and the others backward, how much damage had it done to the Secret Keeper from up close? He had no time to find out, not until he got out of arrow range.

Grunting, he struggled to hoist the Secret Keeper onto his shoulder. Though not a tall man, Zaharis’ solid musculature made him a far heavier burden than Aravon expected. Added to the weight of the Eirdkilr shield and his spear, and the Secret Keeper proved almost more than he could carry.

Almost. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, legs, face, and shoulder, Aravon leaned into the climb and stumbled back up the incline. Arrows whistled around him, thumping into his shield, one slicing along the side of his trousers. He bit back a grunt of pain and forced himself to move. One exhausted, overburdened step after another. Forward, always forward, through the storm of arrows whistling toward him, out of range of the powerful Eirdkilr crossbows.

A huge figure loomed suddenly over him. Belthar, his arrow-studded Eirdkilr shield upraised. He said something Aravon couldn’t hear through the ringing of his ears, then lifted Zaharis’ limp form from his shoulder. Relieved of his burden, Aravon found he could move faster. Together, he and Belthar raced into the darkness, away from the Eirdkilrs.

Then Noll was there with the horses, crouched low in his saddle, his compact frame a near-impossible target for the blind-firing Eirdkilr archers. The scout held the reins to Aravon’s charge, galloping the beast close enough for Aravon to scrabble into the saddle. No sooner had he mounted than the horse sprang into motion. Raced away from the arrows falling around it.

Aravon clung to his mount, blinking to clear his vision. The sparks had begun to fade and his eyes adjusted to the darkness once more. He craned his neck, searching the night behind him for his comrades. Belthar had draped the unconscious Zaharis over his saddle, mounted, and took off. Of the others, he saw no sign.

He ducked as an arrow hissed past his head. His mount screamed as the steel head sliced its neck, but it never slowed. Aravon’s heart thundered against his ribs as he let the horse have its head. Together, with Belthar and Zaharis behind, he and Noll raced into the darkness south of the bridge.

But where the bloody hell are the others?

Chapter Sixty-Four

Relief flooded Aravon as the brightening sky shone on three familiar figures ahead. Colborn, Rangvaldr, and Skathi all sat in their saddles, staring back down the trail in his direction. At the sight of him, Noll, Zaharis, and Belthar, the tension drained from their shoulders.

“Damn!” Skathi shook her head. “What in the fiery hell was that, Zaharis? Zaharis?!”

The Secret Keeper had no answer. He slipped off his saddle and collapsed limply to the ground.

Aravon leapt from his saddle and raced toward Zaharis. He reached the man a heartbeat ahead of Noll and Belthar, and the rest of the Grim Reavers joined them an instant later.

“Zaharis!” Aravon scooped up the man’s head and gave him a gentle shake. “Talk to us, Zaharis!”

A little groan escaped the Secret Keeper’s mouth and his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked, stared up at Aravon. “Captain?” Even the simple act of signing the word elicited a hiss of pain.

“Easy, Zaharis.” Rangvaldr came to kneel beside them. Exhaustion lined the corners of his eyes and tugged on his shoulders, but he reached for his pendant without hesitation. “I will give you what healing I—”

“No!” A defiant light burned in Zaharis’ eyes and he struggled to sit upright. The movement brought little grunts and groans, his pain evident in every sound, yet he didn’t stop until he had pulled himself—with Aravon and Rangvaldr’s help—up to a sitting position.

“No,” he signed again, this time with less vehemence. “Save your strength,” he told the Seiomenn. “We may yet have need of it. And you.”

Shadows darkened Rangvaldr’s eyes. “But you—”

“Are hurt, but not dead.” Zaharis turned to Aravon. “Help me, Captain, and I can stand.”

Aravon hesitated, but the insistence in Zaharis’ eyes moved him to action. Standing, he gripped the Secret Keeper’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Zaharis grunted with the pain, hunching over, yet forced himself to stand.

“See? Good as new!” He fixed his companions with a stern glare, as if daring them to argue with him.

Aravon exchanged glances with Colborn, read the question written in the Lieutenant’s eyes. He gave a little shrug and a twitch of his head toward the road south. Few men he’d met could out-stubborn Zaharis once he made up his mind. Yet Aravon had to try. Try to talk sense into the man, convince him to accept what little aid the exhausted Rangvaldr could provide.

“Let’s go,” Colborn gestured to Noll, Skathi, and Belthar. “One last gear check before we ride to battle.”

The three Grim Reavers seemed to understand the intention and moved off. Noll and Skathi drew out sheaves of arrows—their last—and set about re-filling their quivers. Belthar made a show of examining his massive crossbow with far too much attention.

With a nod, Colborn turned away and set about checking his own weapons. Leaving Aravon and Rangvaldr alone with Zaharis.

“Why, Zaharis?” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, pitched too low for the others to overhear. “Why refuse Rangvaldr’s aid?”

“I told you.” A stubborn light burned in the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “You will have need of his strength in the battle to come. Both his strength at arms and his healing.” He turned to Rangvaldr. “Look at you, my friend. You can barely stand. Had I not insisted you sleep as we waited for the Eirdkilrs to pass, you’d be collapsing even now.”

Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. The stiffness in the Seiomenn’s spine, the rigidity of his posture, and the deliberateness of each movement proved Zaharis’ words true. Had he been at full strength, he’d have withstood the Eirdkilrs’ charging attack. He was exhausted, nearing the limits of his endurance. Sparing his energy to heal Zaharis would use up his last reserves.

“Perhaps.” Rangvaldr inclined his head. “But in the battle ahead, it is you who will be needed to bring down the archway.”

“Not me. This.” Zaharis drew out a round metal orb, and its studded surface gleamed dully in the brightening pre-dawn light. His last Earthshaker. “We set this in the stone of Tyr Farbjodr’s strange pillars, and it will bring them crumbling down.”

“And to make that happen, you need to survive long enough to get into position to set it,” Aravon said. “Which you won’t do if you’re dying from internal injuries.” The Secret Keeper had concealed the extent of his wounds after the ice bear attack—was it so hard to imagine he was doing the same now?

“I know.” Zaharis gave a short, sharp nod. “But that darkness that came over me…” He hesitated. “…it has passed. Your words, your trust and faith in me, your brotherhood, it has given me a new perspective. A new outlook on everything that has happened to me, everything I have done in the name of the Mistress.”

A beatific light shone in his eyes. “No matter what my brothers and sisters of the Temple of Whispers say, I know I have done enough to be worthy of my goddess. I have given my life in her service, in pursuit of her secrets. They have brought me here, now, to fight by your sides against the greatest threat to this world—a world She charged me to protect. So here I stand, ready to fight, to die if She deems it necessary. Or to live. To live with the knowledge that I may never find the ice saffron and unlock the secrets of the Elixir of Creation. Everything else I have done, discovered, and created will be enough to earn Her gratitude. No man, creature, or god could ask more than I have already given. This, I know.” He tapped his heart. “I feel it here.”

Conviction showed in the Secret Keeper’s every movement, the glow filling his eyes. For weeks, since battling Darrak at Rivergate, he had wrestled with the knowledge of how his choices had led him away from his fellow priests. From the people he’d loved, the life he’d wanted to lead. Yet now, he had peace. Peace that, no matter what, he had made the right choice.

Zaharis turned to Rangvaldr. “I know you mean well, my friend. You give of yourself to the last shred of strength. And for that, I love you. We all do. But for what lies ahead, you must be strong enough to swing a sword, to hold a shield. To be the shield against the enemy, to free the captives that Tyr Farbjodr prepares to sacrifice even now. If that means I must endure pain a while longer, so be it.” Wry humor sparkled in his eyes and he lifted a finger to tap his mask just over his mouth. “After all, this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done so.”

Aravon’s eyebrows rose. The Secret Keeper was making a joke about having his tongue cut out? Who was this new Zaharis?

“It’s not just pain,” Rangvaldr protested. “I couldn’t fully heal your ribs, or reverse the damage done to your internal organs. One blow to the chest or sides could kill you.”

Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Which is why he’s not going to fight.” Zaharis stiffened, but Aravon held up a hand to cut him off. “You’re going to hang back, near the rear of the battle, until you can find a chance to get to the pillars and set the Earthshaker.”

“But, Captain—” Zaharis began.

“No buts!” Aravon shook his head. “You’ll stay by Noll and Skathi, deal with any Eirdkilrs that get past us, and look for an opening to bring down that damned archway.” He fixed the Secret Keeper with a stern glare. “Is that understood?”

A stubborn light shone in Zaharis’ eyes. For a moment, Aravon feared the Secret Keeper might force the issue. He prepared for an argument—he wouldn’t budge, either. Not with Zaharis’ life on the line.

But it seemed pain could defeat even the Secret Keeper’s monumental obstinacy. He hunched over, grunting as a wave of agony wracked his body. “Understood!” he managed to sign, though his hands shook.

Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. “How bad is it?” he asked in the hand language.

“You made the right choice, keeping him in the rear.” Worry darkened the Seiomenn’s eyes. “But even so, I fear he will not live through the day without healing.”

Aravon grimaced. Damn! He hadn’t expected to survive this mission, yet now, coming face to face with the death of one of his men, he knew he had to find a way to get them through this alive. “The moment the battle’s over, do what you can. Keep him alive!”

With a nod, Rangvaldr turned to help Zaharis climb into his saddle.

Aravon moved back to his own horse, mounted, and found Noll, Skathi, Belthar, and Colborn already seated and staring at him, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr. Even with the masks concealing their features, Aravon could read the worry—worry for Zaharis, their friend.

“He has made his choice,” Aravon signed to the four Grim Reavers, keeping his hands hidden from the Secret Keeper’s view. “And it is the right choice for what awaits us.” He kept any hint of emotion from his eyes. “Skathi, Noll, keep an eye on him, and keep him out of trouble.”

“Aye, Captain!” Noll signed back.

Skathi just nodded, tightened her grip on her bow.

Rangvaldr and Zaharis rode up beside him at that moment, and Aravon let his fingers fall silent. He fixed his six companions with a solemn gaze. Emotion welled within him at the sight of these brave soldiers. His friends. His family.

“Our road has been long.” He spoke in a quiet voice. “Our path has led us through pain, loss, heartbreak, and sorrow. And yet, here we stand. Against impossible odds, despite everything the enemy has thrown at us, here we stand. Still alive, still strong. Still prepared to fight!”

He gripped his spear tight, his leather gloves creaking around its hilt. “We cannot run from the battle ahead. If we falter, if we break, Tyr Farbjodr wins, and countless innocents die. And so we fight. To the bitter end. Until Tyr Farbjodr lies dead at our feet and his plans to slaughter our people die with him. No matter the cost.”

His eyes roved the masked faces before him. He knew every contour of those snarling greatwolf masks as well as he knew the features beneath. Knew the emotions that swirled within each of the soldiers beneath the façade. They mirrored his own, just as his feelings mirrored theirs. Over their time spent together, they had become more and more like each other. United in spirit and purpose, in their determination to fight for peace, justice, and the protection of the innocent.

“No matter the cost,” he repeated. “Shields strong and swords sharp. The Grim Reavers ride to one final battle."

“Aye!” Colborn growled. “One final battle.”

“One final battle,” echoed Skathi, Belthar, and Noll in unison.

Zaharis grunted, and though Rangvaldr remained silent, Aravon could see the fire burning in his eyes.

“You know the plan,” Aravon said. “Captain Lingram fought and died to give us this chance to strike at Tyr Farbjodr.” He studied each of his companions in turn. The people that had become as dear to him as Duke Dyrund, Mylena, and his sons. “Swordsman be with us.”

With that, he clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and set off down the road leading south. Toward the pit mine, Tyr Farbjodr, and their battle to the death.

Chapter Sixty-Five

The ever-brightening sky sent waves of anxiety radiating through Aravon. Though the sun hadn’t yet appeared over the horizon, the threads of angry red flooded the heavens, moving steadily westward as if a tide of blood washed over the halls of the gods.

The Feast of Death would be upon them at any moment, and the Grim Reavers were still too damned far from Tyr Farbjodr and the pit mine.

Aravon leaned lower in his saddle, urged his horse to run faster. The charger could give no more speed. As hungry, cold, and wounded as he, the specially-bred warhorse was reaching the limits of its endurance. They all were.

Yet they could not slow. Even the slightest delay could mean failure.

Aravon had no idea how Tyr Farbjodr’s blood ritual worked, how many deaths would be needed to activate his foul magic, or how he planned to bring the power within the ghoulstone to life. He didn’t even know how Zaharis had done it.

None of it mattered. He only knew he had to reach Illtgrund and stop the Eirdkilr commander before he sacrificed the captive Princelanders, Fehlans, and Tauld on his altar. Saving the prisoners and stopping the bloodshed would put an end to Tyr Farbjodr’s diabolical plan. They’d put an end to the bastard once and for all.

Gritting his teeth, Aravon gripped his reins and spear tighter, his eyes locked on the muddy road ahead. On the ever-brightening tundra, the empty expanse of white painted a grim ruby red by the light of the discolored sky.

Hope surged within him as a single blot of color appeared in the white, flat lands ahead. A finger of black, the line barely visible, that stretched a mile from east to west.

We’re almost there! Again, his eyes went to the sky. Swordsman grant we’re not too late!

Every thundering beat of his heart brought them one step closer. The biting wind slashed at Aravon’s face, seeped through the cracks in his armor, threatened to pull him from his saddle. He leaned into the flurry of snow and ice. Bent lower, steeling his body and heart for the battle ahead.

Whatever awaited him at the pit mine, he would face it. He had to, for the sake of Fehl.

The mine drew closer, closer, looming larger in his vision. The single line of black grew into the gaping chasm gouged into the unbroken landscape. A stain on the earth, the mark of mankind’s cruelty and bloodlust ripped from the Wastelands’ grim silence.

Something about the road ahead felt…off. No Eirdkilrs stood at the top of the mine. No giants watched the road north, guarding against attack from the direction of Praellboer.

Aravon’s gut twisted. That can’t be right! If Tyr Farbjodr expected enemies, he wouldn’t leave his position undefended. Not unless…

A new sound reached Aravon, carried on the whipping wind. Faint, distant, drifting up from within the mine. Screams. Cries of pain and terror. Men and women weeping, shouting, or shrieking. The voice of terror.

Then his horse reached the top of the path descending into the mine, and Aravon’s eyes fell on a scene of torment, carnage, and chaos.

Bodies lay scattered around the base of the mine. Eirdkilrs, their heads crushed, throats torn out, picks and shovels buried in their backs, chests, or caving in their skulls. Fehlans, men and women both, their limbs hacked off, ribs shattered, severed hands still clutching their crude tools or weapons torn from their Eirdkilr captors. Princelanders among them, arms and legs twisted at terrible angles, gaping wounds in their necks, arrows driven into their eye sockets. Blood—so much blood—ran thick in the base of the mine. Turned the mud a foul, dark red.

In that instant, Aravon knew a battle had taken place here. A terribly one-sided clash. Only a handful of Eirdkilrs had fallen, while nearly a hundred captives lay in the crimson muck, dead, dying, or screaming their agony.

Far more had survived. Survived just long enough to be sacrificed on Tyr Farbjodr’s altar.

Thirty captives knelt on the circle of black stone between the four monoliths. Hands bound behind their backs, beaten just short of death, limbs shattered, heads hanging low, they had no strength left to fight their Eirdkilr captors. Their executioners. Even as Aravon came into view of the mine’s bottom, the Eirdkilrs guarding the prisoners raised their axes, clubs, and spears. Thirty prisoners died in the space of two heartbeats.

Horror surged within Aravon. Heads rolled, bodies thumped onto the black stone, and a tidal wave of blood washed through the grooves etched into the circle. The four monoliths at the base of the mine flared with a strange light. A soft blue glow, faint yet clearly visible in the early light of dawn.

Tyr Farbjodr had begun the Feast of Death.

The Eirdkilr giant stood between the stone pillars his captives had built—now completed, the two arms of black joined at the top, forming a crude archway fifty feet tall. Glee twisted his heavy, bearded face into a maniacal grin. His roaring laughter echoed off the walls of the mine. Impossibly loud, harsh, ringing with an inhuman note of cruelty, Tyr Farbjodr roared with mirth as his Eirdkilrs slaughtered the prisoners.

Bloody, twisted hell! Aravon’s eyes darted toward the figures bound and kneeling next in line for their execution. Hrani, his left arm broken, and Skuli, who sat listless, crimson trickling from a wound in his head. Hallad, the left side of his face mangled, covered in blood. A dark-haired woman and two small girls knelt beside the Deid captive—his family.

At Farbjodr’s order, the Eirdkilrs lifted the lifeless corpses of their captives and hurled them onto the pile of bodies. The pile had grown visibly since the previous day. Another group of Eirdkilrs seized the captive Deid—men, women, and children—and dragged them into the stone circle. Savage kicks sent them to their knees, splashing in the blood of those slain before them.

Aravon took in the scene in an instant, and horror raced through him. They had come too late to save some of the captives, but he’d be damned if he let Tyr Farbjodr execute them all.

“FARBJODR!” His roar echoed off the walls of the pit mine, drowning out the shrieks and screams of the struggling captives. “Your day of reckoning has come!”

The Eirdkilr commander’s head whipped around and up. His eyes snapped to where Aravon sat at the top of the pit mine, narrowed. Something about that gaze sent a shudder down Aravon’s spine, even from this distance. So terribly…evil. Cold, cunning, vicious, like the monster of nightmare that had shared his name.

Long seconds passed in utter silence. All in the pit mine went still, all cries fading. Even the shrieks and wails of the injured and dying seemed to dissipate, until nothing remained but Aravon and Tyr Farbjodr. Gazes locked, like two predators circling each other, searching for weakness. A wicked light shone in Tyr Farbjodr’s eyes…eyes far too dark set into a face stained bright blue with Eirdkilr war paint.

Tyr Farbjodr moved first. Turned, barked an order to the nearest Eirdkilrs. Too quiet for Aravon to hear, yet the sudden flurry of motion among the giant barbarians left no doubt as to its meaning.

The Eirdkilrs were coming to kill them.

Eighty giants stood with Tyr Farbjodr—dragging the captives to their deaths, guarding their commander, the archway, and the stone circle. At Farbjodr’s command, thirty broke off from their comrades and raced toward the nearest ramp. A handful drew bows, nocked arrows, and loosed. Their shafts fell far short, and they abandoned their longbows in favor of massive axes, clubs, spears, and shields. Like a tidal wave of fury and rage, they raced up the ramp toward Aravon.

Come and get it, you bastards! With a grim smile, Aravon clapped his heels to his horse’s ribs and charged down the incline. His spear led the way, razor-sharp steel head couched like a lance against his side. Down, down, down he rode, zigzagging back and forth along the down ramp, racing toward the enemy that even now raced up to meet him.

Tyr Farbjodr’s laughter once more echoed through the pit mine. Harsher, crueler than before, filled with a vicious glee. “Too late!” he roared between peals of bestial guffaws. “You cannot stop me now!”

Aravon tore his eyes away from the down ramp, risked a glance into the bottom of the pit mine. Tyr Farbjodr now stood within the stone circle, his fingers locked around the throat of a Deid captive, his eyes locked on Aravon. With a vicious wrench, he ripped out the side of the Fehlan’s neck, cartilage, flesh, veins, and all. Blood sprayed over his face, staining his hair, beard, furs, and armor. He basked in it, opened his mouth wide to drink in the gush of red.

A wordless cry of rage burst from Aravon’s throat, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing to stop Tyr Farbjodr from striding toward the next captive—a Deid woman—and gripping her skull between his massive hands.

Suddenly, the horse beneath him skidded on a patch of mud. Panic froze Aravon’s heart as the massive beast careened toward the edge of the ramp. He had only an instant to hurl himself from the saddle, spear in hand, before the huge charger plummeted off the side of the cliff and fell a hundred feet to the base of the mine far below.

Aravon landed hard on his back and side. Pain flared all along his ribs, up his spine, through his bruised chest. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs in a vicious gasp. He struggled upright, his legs aching, just in time to throw himself out of the way of Colborn’s charging horse. The Lieutenant raced past, shield held out before him, sword gripped low to strike.

But behind the Lieutenant came another horse, this one with an empty saddle. Captain Lingram’s mount!

Aravon had only an instant to act. He broke into a mad dash, racing downhill alongside the charging horse. Ignoring the agony flaring in his ribs, he reached up, seized the saddle horn, and hauled himself upward. At the same time, he leapt as high as he could, with all the strength in his legs. He cleared the horse’s back, right leg swinging up and over the saddle. Dragged himself upright, spear miraculously still in his hand.

Triumph surged within him, fueling his muscles. He’d barely hoped that would work, yet here he sat, once more racing down the ramp. Straight toward the charging Eirdkilrs.

No, charging no longer. The Eirdkilrs had stopped a third of the way up the ramp, locked shields. A solid wall of flesh, wood, and steel that barred their way down the hill.

Gritting his teeth, Aravon lowered his spear like a cavalry lance and leaned forward into the charge. Just ahead of him, Colborn pulled his legs from the stirrups and set his boots on his saddle.

What the fiery hell is he—

Before the thought fully formed, Colborn rose to his feet and leapt forward. His leap, backed by the power of his muscles and the speed of his charging horse, carried him ten yards downhill. Like an arrow loosed from Skathi’s longbow, he flew toward the formed-up Eirdkilrs and crashed into them. The sudden weight bore the Eirdkilrs to the ground. Shattered their shield wall, just enough that the charging warhorse plowed right through the momentarily disorganized mass.

Metal-shod hooves crunched into flesh, muscle, and bone with terrifying force. The warhorse lashed out as it thundered past, its rear hooves driving into an Eirdkilr’s face. The giant flew through the air and crashed with a grim splat against the rock wall, slid down the cliff, leaving a trail of blood. Straight through the now-disrupted formation of Eirdkilrs the riderless warhorse charged. Like a runaway wagon, barreling through the giant barbarians.

In the heartbeat before Aravon reached the fractured shield wall, Colborn dragged himself free of the giants and flattened himself against the wall of the cliff. Just in time to avoid Aravon’s slashing spear. The weapon would never survive a direct charge—it was no hardened lance, forged to withstand straight impact—so he wielded it as he would a longsword. Hacking, slashing, chopping with the heavy blade at any Eirdkilr within his reach.

Blood misted in the air around him. Eirdkilrs screamed, roared, and died beneath his horse’s hooves, his flashing spear, and the force of his charge. Giants flew off the cliff to plummet to their deaths on the muddy ground far below, shrieking as they fell, their cries drowned in the embrace of the crimson-stained mud.

Then Aravon was through, past the line of twenty Eirdkilrs, his horse never slowing in the mad dash down the ramp.

He had no time to look back at Colborn and his fellow Grim Reavers racing behind. His eyes locked on the giant tearing his way through the captives in the stone circle.

The base of the mine was so far below; he’d never make it in time. Horror writhed in his gut as Tyr Farbjodr locked bloodstained, clawed fingers around Skuli’s throat and lifted the dazed, bleeding Deid miner bodily from the ground. The giant didn’t tear the man apart—instead, he held Skuli in the air, iron grip encircling the man’s neck, cutting off his air. Skuli struggled weakly, his legs kicking, yet he could do nothing. Nothing but die in the Eirdkilr’s grasp.

Fire blazed to life within the core of Aravon’s being. He couldn’t reach the captives in time to save Hallad, Hrani, Skuli, and all of the others. They had to save themselves.

“Fight!” he roared in Fehlan. “Fight for your lives! Fight for your families. Fight for this world, your world, the world he seeks to destroy!” He repeated the shout in the language of the Princelands. His voice rang off the high stone walls around him, rising in volume with every heartbeat, echoed by the thundering beat of his horse’s hooves and the din of battle raging above him.

He never saw which captive made the first move. His eyes were locked on the muddy ramp ahead, save for the occasional glance he could spare for Tyr Farbjodr and the struggling Skuli in his bloody grasp. Yet, one moment he shouted alone—his voice growing raw and ragged—the next, a hundred voices took up the cry.

“Fight!” Fehlans and Princelanders shouted, each in their own tongue. “Fight!”

“For Striith!” roared the Fjall.

“For Nuius!” answered the Eyrr.

“For Olfossa!” The Deid lent their voice.

The Myrr took up the call. “For Megin!”

“For the Princelands!”

The tumult echoed through the base of the pit mine, and suddenly the air was alive with the screams of battle, the clash of steel, the thump of weapons carving through flesh and bone. Hundreds of feet splashed through the muck. Shouts of rage, panic, fear, pain, and horror echoed through the pit mine.

Aravon skidded around a bend in the descending ramp, charged down the last stretch of muddy track toward the base of the mine. Straight into a company of Eirdkilrs sent to kill him.

Five of the giants, spears held at the ready, like pikemen braced for the charge. Fear drove an icy dagger into Aravon’s gut. Yet he never wavered, never slowed. Racing, his horse’s hooves churning up the mud and blood beneath his feet, right into the teeth of the Eirdkilr spears.

Until the last second, when he sawed at his horse’s reins, pulling sharply to the right. The charger leapt off the edge of the down ramp, soaring through the air, dropped the five feet to the muddy bottom of the mine. Skidding on slippery muck, thrashing to find purchase. The horse found its feet, dug its metal-shod hooves into the mud, and took off once more at a gallop. Past the Eirdkilrs staring at him, too stunned to raise their spears in time to ward off Belthar’s charge. The huge man drove into them with bone-shattering force, axe whirling like a tornado of steel and fury.

But Aravon could not think of the battle behind, only the one ahead. All through the bottom of the pit mine, the Princelanders and Fehlans hurled themselves onto their Eirdkilr captors. Teeth bared, empty hands clawing at eyes and throats, fingers grasping for the weapons held in the giants’ hands. Burying the giants in the mud, bashing in skulls and shattering limbs with buckets, wooden yokes, picks, hammers, even chunks of ghoulstone plucked up from the ground. Men and women starved, exhausted, and whipped bloody now took up arms against the barbarians that had inflicted such cruelties on them.

The Eirdkilrs died. In twos and threes, dragged down by their prisoners. Yet they died hard.

Axes, spears, and clubs lashed out, crushing heads, shattering limbs, and punching through torn cloth and emaciated flesh. The stench of split-open bowels, vomit, urine, and the metallic reek of blood hung thick in the air, all atop the layer of rot and decay rising from the pile of bodies. A pile that grew ever larger with every heartbeat.

Aravon charged through the chaos, trampling or cutting down any Eirdkilrs who stood in his way, never slowing in his mad dash toward the heart of the mine. Toward Tyr Farbjodr in the circle of blood-soaked black stone.

His eyes locked on the giant, who still held a weakly struggling Skuli aloft. Tyr Farbjodr’s face shone with a wild light of glee as he watched the Deid miner’s face purpling, tongue lolling from his mouth, his struggles growing weaker. The Eirdkilr licked the blood from his lips, salivating, as if preparing to feast on the dying Fehlan. He seemed to draw in a deep breath, his eyes closing, savoring the stench of Skuli’s terror.

“Farbjodr!” Aravon roared. “Farbjodr!”

The Eirdkilr’s eyes opened slowly and he turned his head toward the shout. The smile never left his face as he caught sight of Aravon charging toward him. He didn’t even release Skuli—he simply shifted his grip on the Deid and, with impossible strength, hurled him at Aravon.

Aravon sucked in a breath. Impossible! He had only an instant to duck as the Deid’s body flew over his head. Such a feat of strength, even for a giant of his stature.

Tyr Farbjodr’s grin widened as he reached for the axe on his back. “Come,” he roared, unslinging the massive weapon. “Come to me, and die as—”

The giant’s head suddenly snapped back, as if struck by an invisible hand. The shaft of an arrow blossomed from his right eye and he stumbled, falling hard against the nearest of the black stone pillars.

Hope surged within Aravon. Raising his spear high, he charged straight toward the giant. Arrows flew past his head, cutting down the three Eirdkilrs that stood between him and the wounded, dying Tyr Farbjodr. With a roar of rage, Aravon charged beneath the crude archway, onto the circle of black stone, and drove his spear straight into Farbjodr’s chest.

The force of the blow drove the weapon clean though the giant’s armor, ribs, back, and into the stone pillar. The haft of the spear was torn from Aravon’s grip and slammed into his side. Tore him from his saddle, sent him flying backward as his horse galloped onward. He fell hard, crashing into the black stone circle, splashing into the blood of the slain captives.

Air exploded from his lungs and his helmeted head cracked against the stone. Agony flared through every inch of his torso. Darkness filled his vision, the world a blur of torment around him. Blinking hard, fighting the pain flooding him, he struggled upright. Onto one elbow, then his hands, his knees. Lifted his head, shaking it to clear the flashes and dark spots. The world swam into focus, blurred, cleared.

He knelt amidst a pile of corpses—the slain Fehlan and Princelander captives, and four Eirdkilrs feathered with arrows—alone in the circle of bloodstained stone with the dying Tyr Farbjodr. Somehow, the Eirdkilr hadn’t yet died. His giant legs twitched and quivered, his gasps of agony loud amidst the screams of battle surrounding them. Blood trickled from his mouth, seeped around his ruined eye and down his cheek. Yet still he lived.

Good. A grim heat blazed within Aravon’s veins. I want to watch him die.

Twinges of pain sizzled like lightning along Aravon’s sides, down his spine, through his chest, yet he forced himself to stand. Teeth clenched, jaw muscles clamped tight against the agony. First one foot, then the other, straightening with effort. His eyes locked onto the dying Eirdkilr, and a snarl twisted his lips.

“For all the innocent lives you’ve taken,” he growled, “and all the misery you’ve caused, I sentence you to die.” He took a staggering half-step closer, drew his sword. The long blade dragged at his arm, and the simple act of lifting it sent agony flaring through his torso. Yet he raised it nonetheless. Raised it high above his head.

“This is for Captain Lingram!” With a roar, he swung the sword with every shred of his strength. Backed by the force of his rage, his grief, the pain of everyone he’d lost in this war against the bloodthirsty barbarian, a blow powerful enough to shatter stone. Odarian steel honed to a razor-sharp edge blurred in the brightening daylight as the sword flew straight toward the Eirdkilr’s head.

And stopped a hand’s breadth from Tyr Farbjodr’s neck.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Aravon’s eyes flew wide. He stood stunned, frozen in place in disbelief, staring at Tyr Farbjodr’s massive hand locked around his right wrist.

The Eirdkilr had caught his attack.

Confusion and shock set his mind reeling. How? The giant should be dead, and yet…

The fingers closed tighter around his wrist, so tight Aravon’s bones protested, grated together. Agony coursed through his forearm and the longsword fell from numb fingers. Instinct honed over years of training and battle kicked in and Aravon snatched up the blade as it fell. His grip closed around the solid, leather-wrapped hilt and he brought the blade whipping upward. Steel clanged off the Eirdkilr’s studded leather bracer, but the grip on his wrist loosened. Just enough he could tear his hand free.

He stumbled backward, off-balance, aghast and astounded. His gaze locked on Tyr Farbjodr. On the spear driven to the crossbar in the giant’s chest, pinning him to the stone monolith. The fletching of the arrow that sprouted from his right eye.

Yet somehow, impossibly, the giant still lived. Had strength and skill enough to stop the killing strike mid-swing.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from the Eirdkilr’s lips, his words unintelligible, garbled. The giant’s massive limbs moved, muscles flexing, his legs stiffening.

Aravon sucked in a sharp breath. It’s not possible!

Horror rooted him to the spot. He could do nothing but stare as Tyr Farbjodr reached up and grasped the shaft of the arrow embedded in his eye. Gritting his teeth, the giant gave a sharp tug. The arrow pulled free with a sickening schlock. Blood soaked the steel head, and the eyeball dangled from the sharp tip. Yet Tyr Farbjodr only stared at it with a look of annoyance on his bloodstained face. Annoyance, and a flicker of pain.

“Interesting.” His voice, still guttural, formed the mangled words. Words that grew clearer with every heartbeat. “It’s been a long time since anyone got close enough to almost kill me.”

Aravon’s jaw dropped as the giant cast the arrow away—eyeball and all—and turned his one good eye down toward him. An eye, he saw, that had no white in the iris, no color at all. Simply pure black, darker than night, an empty void so deep and cold it sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine.

Keeper’s teeth! Aravon tried to move, tried to will his body to action, but the astonishment, confusion, and the pain of his wounds held him trapped. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the mangled socket that had once held Tyr Farbjodr’s right eyeball.

Then the bloodied flesh shifted. Shifted, squirmed, and slowly began to re-knit itself. The eyeball, blacker than the ghoulstone monolith behind him, formed, rolled around loosely in its socket, then came to rest on Aravon’s face. A savage grin broadened the Eirdkilr’s blue-and-blood-stained face.

“Nice try,” he growled. “But you’ll find, unlike the rest of these pathetic humans, that I’m not so easy to kill.” His huge fingers closed around the haft of Aravon’s spear and, with barely a grunt of effort or pain, he tore it free. Pulled the foot-long blade from the stone and through his body, tearing flesh and muscle with every movement. Yet he seemed not at all bothered. He held the bloodstained spearhead up before his face, his eyes locked on the rivulets of crimson trickling off its sharp tip, dripping onto the black stone beneath his feet.

The stone monolith behind him flared brighter, and for the first time, Aravon noticed the low humming beneath his feet. Power crackled in the air around him, far more tangible than the first time he’d drawn near the stones. So thick he could almost taste its sharp tang. His skin prickled, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and somewhere deep within his mind, beneath the shock, exhaustion, and pain, he knew that everything about this place was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

With a snort of derision, Tyr Farbjodr tossed the spear aside as casually as he’d discard a twig. His gaze locked on Aravon. “You must be the Grimabrandr I’ve heard so much about.”

Grimabrandr? The sound of the word seemed to snap Aravon from his stupor. He recognized it, a Fehlan word meaning…

“Shadow Blade?” He tested it out on his tongue. “I like it!” A broad grin tugged at his lips. His muscles seemed to come alive in that moment. Pain raced through his body, but he found he could move. Slowly, carefully, he backed away from the giant Eirdkilr.

No, not an Eirdkilr. Something else. Something…he had no idea what, but no human he’d met could survive wounds like that.

“The way these fools talk about you, I expected someone bigger and stronger.” Tyr Farbjodr gestured around him, though at the Eirdkilrs or the Fehlan and Princelander captives, Aravon couldn’t tell. “Someone more like him.”

Aravon’s instincts shrieked in his mind—he dared not look away from the giant for even a heartbeat. A foolish mistake like that would get him killed.

Instead, he forced himself to shrug. “You’re not what I expected, either.” His grin widened. “You’re a lot uglier.”

The taunt—intended to goad Farbjodr into a hasty attack—had no effect. The giant simply chuckled. “You have no idea.” He adjusted his grip on his axe, more like a child fiddling with a toy than a warrior preparing to attack. “But then again, your pathetic kind never do. You pitiful humans are only capable of accepting what you can understand, rather than looking deeper for what lies beneath the surface.”

The words puzzled Aravon. “Your kind” could be a reference to the Princelanders, who the Eirdkilrs considered less-than-human. But he spoke of “you pitiful humans” with a tone of such disdain. Almost like he was trying to confuse Aravon.

That won’t work on me!

Aravon attacked, so suddenly and with such ferocity Tyr Farbjodr had no chance to raise his axe before Aravon’s sword whistled in a blur of steel toward his face. The blade carved a deep gouge across the Eirdkilr’s forehead, cutting to the bone. Aravon darted backward, out of Tyr Farbjodr’s reach, and prepared for the counterattack.

It never came. The Eirdkilr seemed unfazed by the assault, by the crimson trickling from the gaping wound in his forehead. He barely blinked as the blood ran into his eyes. Indeed, he only smiled and stuck out his tongue to lap up the droplets that fell through his beard.

Aravon’s jaw dropped beneath his mask, his eyes locked on the Eirdkilr’s forehead. In the space of two heartbeats, the severed flesh grew back together, re-knitting, leaving no trace of the wound. Just as his eye had. And, Aravon realized, the wound in his chest. Through the tear in his armor, Aravon could see the barbarian’s hairy chest, the blood staining his skin. Yet the skin was as whole and unbroken as before Aravon’s attack.

A memory flashed through Aravon’s mind: An assassin faced him across Lord Aleron Virinus’ office, his head fallen back in the battle, his scarred face twisted into a sneer. Blood gushed from a wound in his neck, yet the flow slowed, then stopped as the wound closed, the flesh healing in seconds.

Keeper’s teeth! The assassin in Icespire had eyes as cold and black as the giant in front of him. The man—or whatever he truly was—had faced the seven of them and lived. Indeed, Aravon had little doubt the outcome would have been quite different had he faced the assassin alone.

And now he stood in front of another such man—monster, creature, or whatever Tyr Farbjodr truly was. He stood alone, with only a sword, his armor weakened, his body drained from hunger, thirst, and pain. If he fought the Eirdkilr giant, he would die.

Yet he’d accepted that fate. A fate he’d chosen for himself the moment he proposed this mission to kill Tyr Farbjodr. He would embrace death, but by the Swordsman, he’d drag this...thing to the grave with him.

Baring his teeth in a snarl, he prepared to launch himself at the Eirdkilr. He might not be able to overcome the giant’s defenses through sheer ferocity, but his speed gave him an edge. Let’s see if he can re-grow a head!

To his surprise, the Eirdkilr made no move to attack. On the contrary, he seemed almost relaxed, perfectly content to stand and wait for Aravon to come to him.

That set Aravon on full alert. Every Eirdkilr he’d battled had fought in a near battle-frenzy, howling war cries and loosing wild swings of their massive weapons. But one look at Tyr Farbjodr’s pitch black eyes, and Aravon knew this giant was unlike any other.

Instead of leaping into the attack, Aravon moved slowly, like a Voramian fencer, sliding toward his target one cautious step at a time. He scanned Tyr Farbjodr’s stance, posture, even the way the giant gripped his axe, searching for any openings in his guard. The Eirdkilr appeared unconcerned with something as mundane as defending himself or warding off blows of his enemy’s weapons. Then again, the way he’d healed from the arrow to the eye and the spear to the heart, he truly had no reason to fear.

But Aravon did. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine, and his feet faltered. Only for a heartbeat, yet in that moment, a question slammed into his mind.

How in the fiery hell am I going to kill something that just won’t die?

Chapter Sixty-Seven

A massive shape suddenly hurtled into his field of view, moving so fast neither he nor Tyr Farbjodr had time to register Belthar’s presence before the big man crashed into the giant. Belthar drove his shoulder into Tyr Farbjodr’s chest with bone-crushing force. The impact hurled Tyr Farbjodr from his feet, sending him flying through the air to splash into the mud beneath his constructed archway.

“You good, Captain?” Belthar rumbled at Aravon’s side. Blood stained the big man’s masked face, arms, leather armor, and both heads of his axe. More than a little of it was his own, trickling from a vicious collection of wounds both shallow and deep. Eirdkilr weapons had finished what the ice bear began, and his armor hung in shredded strips of leather from his massive shoulders. Yet he gripped his axe in strong fingers and planted his feet firmly on the stone.

“Aye.” Aravon tore his gaze from Tyr Farbjodr long enough to search for his spear. It lay in the mud ten yards away—too far to retrieve before the giant Eirdkilr stood and lunged at Belthar. Better he fight with his sword than let Belthar battle the hulking brute alone. “Turns out the bloody bastard doesn’t stay wounded. He heals, like that damned assassin in Icespire.”

Belthar swore. “Gonna make things awful tricky.”

“Not really.” Aravon grinned beneath his mask. “Just keep hitting until he doesn’t get back up.”

Belthar chuckled. “Simple enough.”

At that moment, Tyr Farbjodr picked himself up from the mud, shaking his head as if to clear away cobwebs. “Not bad.” His black eyes locked on Belthar. “Maybe you’ll give me a few minutes of entertainment before I tear you apart, like I did the last of your kind to challenge me.” He scooped up his axe and made a show of brushing mud from the wooden handle. “But—”

Whatever words formed on his lips never came to life. Something slammed into him from behind. Colborn, shield-first, the steel boss slamming into the giant’s spine. Bone cracked audibly and Tyr Farbjodr flew forward.

Right into Belthar. The big man wound up and brought his double-headed axe swinging around. The sharp steel blade tore a chunk of flesh from Farbjodr’s shoulder, crunched into his skull, and tore through helmet and head alike. He flew to the side, splashed into the blood-soaked mud, and lay still.

A gasping, exhausted Colborn slid to a stop beneath the archway. Blood soaked him from head to toe, bathed the blade of his sword and his wooden shield. “Bastard talked a lot, didn’t he?”

“Aye,” Belthar rumbled. “Good thing we shut him up.”

But Aravon wasn’t so certain. He raced toward the downed Tyr Farbjodr, sword held at the ready for a downward thrust into the giant’s brain, visible through the sheared-off back half of his skull. He’d barely crossed half the distance before Farbjodr’s arms twitched, once, twice, then suddenly moved. So fast Aravon had no time to stop, slow, or backpedal.

Farbjodr’s sudden explosion of movement caught him off-guard. The head of the giant’s axe crashed into his chest. Air exploded from his lungs and the impact hurled him backward. He flew, smashed into the nearest monolith, his head and back cracking against hard stone.

“Captain!” Colborn’s shout, faint and distant, barely audible through the dizziness, the rush of blood in Aravon’s ears.

But Tyr Farbjodr’s harsh, grating laughter pierced his dizziness.

“Come on!” the giant roared. “Is that the best you pathetic humans can do?”

Aravon blinked, desperate to clear the blurring edges of his vision. His chest felt as if a stampede of wildebeests had just barreled into him, and pain raced up and down his spine, his ribs, and the muscles of his back, neck, and shoulders. Try as he might, he couldn’t move—agony held him paralyzed on hands and knees, gasping for even the faintest shred of air.

“By the Destroyer!” The giant Eirdkilr’s tone echoed petulance, frustration. “Can no one in this age give me a real fight?”

The words barely registered through the pain flooding every fiber of Aravon’s being. They sounded wrong, but why, his mind was too numbed and dazed to comprehend.

“Do better!” Tyr Farbjodr shouted, shaking his axe at him. “I expected more from the one called Grimabrandr.” He shook his head. “Continue to bore me, and you’ll find I quickly grow tired of playing with my food.”

The cold, callous detachment of the Eirdkilr’s voice sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. The way Tyr Farbjodr healed, his utter contempt for the weapons he and his Grim Reavers wielded, he truly didn’t fear them. Like a cat toying with a trapped mouse, he was enjoying this.

But why? Aravon struggled to rise, twinges running up and down his spine. Our attack is preventing him from executing the captives and draining their strength for his warriors. Of whom, he realized, only a handful remain.

The Fehlan, Tauld, and Princelander captives had overwhelmed most of Tyr Farbjodr’s warriors, though more than a score remained standing, locked in a shield wall and cutting down any who came within reach.

A thought slammed into Aravon’s mind. But what if that’s not his plan? He pulled on the thread, following what little information he had.

Tyr Farbjodr stood alone, the bulk of his forces here either slain or on the defensive. Yet he showed no sign of fear or hesitation; indeed, he actually appeared to relish the confrontation. Like an undefeated champion of the mainlanders’ Labethian Tournament goading challengers to take him on. A peerless warrior seeking a worthy rival. A man surrounded by so many enemies would never act thus unless he had nothing to fear from those enemies.

But his healing alone won’t save him, not against so many. It would take a great deal to cut the Eirdkilr giant to shreds, yet with hundreds of captives and the Grim Reavers out for his blood, he couldn’t hope to survive them all. Not without an army of his own.

Was he expecting reinforcements from Praellboer? Or from farther south, deeper into the icy Wastelands? A horde of bestial creatures waiting for his command to attack?

That seemed unlikely—beyond the gulons, Aravon had seen no hint of any nightmare monstrosities. The only monsters he’d encountered in the Wastelands were the Eirdkilrs.

Something about the glowing black pillars drew his attention. His eyes narrowed. They’ve changed, he realized. Brightened.

When first he’d ridden up to the top of the pit mine, there had been little more than a faint blue-white glow coming from the depths of the pillars. Barely threads of light visible among the eerie black. But now, the monoliths seemed to shine with an inner light of their own. Angry red light that pulsed and throbbed, as if the beat of some enormous heart. Light that grew brighter with every passing second.

Aravon’s gaze moved downward, toward the black stone circle with its strange grooves. Blood filled the indentations in the stone, flowing like a whirlpool around the lines, drawn toward what appeared to be a narrow slot at the heart of the circle.

The blood! Rivers of crimson ran through the mud, dark rivulets that flowed downward from every corner of the pit mine. From beneath the pile of corpses, from the bodies of the Eirdkilrs, Fehlans, and Princelanders that lay wounded, dead, and dying in the muck.

Keeper’s teeth! Horror drove a dagger of ice into his spine. He’s not after the captives’ strength. He needs the blood!

Every Princelander had heard the tales of blood magic, ages-old curses, spells, and foul rituals used by the demonic hordes of Kharna, used in secret over the last centuries by power-hungry madmen. The ancient Fehlans had once practiced blood sacrifices and the ritual of the Tolfreadr.

It seemed impossible, but everything about Tyr Farbjodr was one impossibility after another. Aravon had seen the Eirdkilr pluck an arrow from his eye and pull a spear from his chest. Was it such a stretch to imagine he’d found some ancient secret of blood magic that he intended to put to use here?

This changes everything!

Aravon’s plan had been crafted first and foremost with the intention of freeing the captives. Yet the fact that they now fought and bled played into Tyr Farbjodr’s plan. Every death here, every drop of blood spilled, it all was precisely what the Eirdkilr wanted.

By the Swordsman! Gritting his teeth, Aravon shoved himself upright, forced himself to stand. Somehow, he’d managed to hang on to his sword, though the simple act of gripping its hilt sent waves of fire up and down his arm. Yet he had to stand. Had to take Tyr Farbjodr down before the bastard unleashed whatever foul magic he needed so much blood to summon.

Something about that narrow aperture in the heart of the stone circle set a thought racing through Aravon’s mind. Tyr Farbjodr had been standing there when Aravon attacked. It meant something. A slot maybe two or three inches wide and half an inch thick. Perhaps the lock to insert a key—a key that would let loose the blood magic gathered by the stones.

“Belthar, Colborn!” Aravon called in the Princelander tongue. “We need to keep him out of the stone circle!” If they could stop Tyr Farbjodr from activating the magic, perhaps they’d have time enough to figure out how to take him down.

Whether the Eirdkilr understood the words or not, he clearly comprehended the intention. A savage smile tugged at his lips as Belthar and Colborn formed up in the space between the two monoliths—a wall of steel, wood, and muscle to keep him from his goal.

“Yessss!” He spoke the word in a sibilant, joyous tone, a gleam shining in his eyes. “Give me a real battle. It’ll make it all the more delightful when I tear you apart and feed your flesh to my kin.”

Aravon staggered forward, joined Colborn and Belthar in their hastily-formed shield wall. A pathetic defense against the giant, yet their only hope of getting through this alive. Together, they stood the best chance of taking him down and preventing him from activating the blood magic.

With a fierce grin, Tyr Farbjodr charged.

The giant moved so fast Aravon barely had time to raise his sword. The huge axe came crashing down toward Colborn’s shield and helmeted head. Belthar met the charge axe-first, wooden haft cracking against the Eirdkilr’s. He spun with the impact, sending the head of Tyr Farbjodr’s axe sliding off the butt end of his own and bringing one of his moon-shaped axe blades across. The sharp steel carved a deep gouge into the Eirdkilr’s face and tore away a chunk of his beard.

“Yes!” Tyr Farbjodr’s scream rang with a horrifying ecstasy. “A battle worthy of—”

Colborn’s steel-rimmed shield slammed into the side of the Eirdkilr’s jaw. The overhand swinging blow cracked bone, tore flesh, and ripped away another long strip of bloodstained blond hair. The Eirdkilr staggered, slipped on mud, caught himself. Just in time to block a vicious swing of Belthar’s axe.

Aravon lunged in that moment, a low thrust that slipped between Belthar and Colborn. His sword bit deep into Tyr Farbjodr’s knee. Slashed tendons, severed cartilage, and hacked off a chunk of bone. Tyr Farbjodr shrieked, yet delight mingled with his pain. As if the wounds somehow brought him pleasure rather than agony.

Aravon tore his sword free, darting backward to give Belthar room to swing again. The big man’s axe slammed into Tyr Farbjodr’s. Steel struck sparks on steel as the two massive axe heads clashed. The kneeling, bleeding Eirdkilr grunted with the impact. Grunted again as Colborn’s front kick drove into his throat. Cartilage crunched and the Eirdkilr’s windpipe gave way. The Eirdkilr toppled backward into the mud, gasping for air.

Yet his ragged breaths gave way to wheezing laughter. He surged upward before either Colborn or Belthar could attack, lashing out with a vicious swing of his huge axe. Colborn managed to drop his shield before the blow shattered his arm, but the top of the shield exploded in a spray of splinters.

Belthar wasn’t so fortunate, or so quick. The sharp edge of Tyr Farbjodr’s swinging axe tore a long, ragged tear across his chest. A cry of pain burst from his lips. Silenced a moment later as the giant Eirdkilr drove his mailed fist into Belthar’s gut. The big man doubled over, dropped to one knee.

Just as Tyr Farbjodr raised his axe for an overhand decapitating strike at Belthar, Aravon hurled himself at the giant. His sword flashed out twice, scoring deep cuts across Tyr Farbjodr’s gut. Blood gushed from the wounds but they didn’t so much as slow the massive Eirdkilr. He brought the axe swinging down in a vicious arc straight toward Belthar’s neck.

A blur of motion from Tyr Farbjodr’s right, and a meaty crunch. The giant screamed in agony. The axe fell from his numb fingers, his right arm hanging at a terrible angle. A blurring figure attacked with such ferocity the Eirdkilr stumbled back. Tried in vain to ward off the lightning strikes that seemed to come from every angle.

Zaharis moved faster than Aravon had believed possible. Injuries or no, the Secret Keeper fought with a savage speed that seemed too fast for Tyr Farbjodr to even comprehend. The giant stumbled backward, away from the stone circle, giving ground as blow after blow of Zaharis’ mace cracked into his studded leather armor. Knees, elbows, ribs, neck, wrists, shoulders—Zaharis went for the joints, clearly trying to incapacitate the giant long enough for the others to take him down.

Aravon didn’t dare join the fight; he’d only slow the fast-moving Secret Keeper, get in the way. Instead, he raced toward Belthar, gripped the big man’s arm, and helped him to stand.

In the instant he took his eyes off the fight, it was over.

A terrible wet crunch echoed loud in the pit mine. When Aravon’s gaze snapped back to the two combatants, the sight that met his eyes sent ice flooding his veins.

Tyr Farbjodr and Zaharis stood frozen in place, locked in a strange, almost peaceful tableau. Peaceful, save for the rigidity of Zaharis’ muscles, the fear that filled his dark eyes. And the vicious smile on Tyr Farbjodr’s face as he tore his fist free of Zaharis’ stomach, ripping a gaping hole in his guts.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

“Zaharis!” The cry burst from Aravon’s lips. Horror rooted him in place, locked up his muscles so he couldn’t move. Could only stand there, a hand on Belthar’s arm, and watch as coils of intestines slid from the hole in Zaharis’ stomach.

The Secret Keeper’s mace fell from weakened fingers and plopped into the mud. He joined it a moment later.

Time seemed to slow as Aravon’s eyes followed the collapsing Secret Keeper. The splash of Zaharis’ body hitting the bloodstained muck sounded terribly loud in his ears. His friend, his fellow Grim Reaver, fell onto his side, curled around the organs seeping out of his body, and lay still.

“Noo!” A cry of rage and pain shattered Aravon’s momentary stupor. His own. The word tore from his lips, a raw, ragged cry that strained the cords of his throat.

Suddenly, he was moving, his sword flashing out with blinding speed, hacking, slashing, cutting at Tyr Farbjodr from every angle. Blood misted in the air, pouring and spurting from gashes on the Eirdkilr’s neck, arms, shoulders, face, and hands. Aravon didn’t feel the sword striking flesh; he felt nothing but white-hot rage. Zaharis’ expression—the panic and terror in his dark eyes—and the looping ropes of guts filled his mind’s eye.

Red rage flooded Aravon’s vision. The world faded around him, went numb, until he saw only death. Heard only the roar of rage tearing from his throat. Felt only the heat of fury coursing through his veins.

His sword never slowed, never stopped. He wove a blurring wall of steel, his attacks backed by every shred of strength he possessed. No skill, no precision. Only a single-minded purpose: kill Tyr Farbjodr, no matter what.

Something slammed into his face with the force of a runaway carriage. In an instant, the red haze disappeared, replaced by shimmering, quivering blackness and sparks of blinding light. Everything went dark around him. So dark, so cold. All trace of emotion gone. Nothing but stillness. Silence, and peace.

It seemed to last an eternity, yet only a moment. One second he was on his feet, fighting, roaring his rage at the death of his friend. The next, agony coursed through every fiber of his being. Warm wetness flowed from his nose, filled his mouth, choking him. He swallowed, coughed, struggled to breathe, to rise.

Mud thick and heavy clung to his arms, his head, his legs. He lay in the mire and blood. The blood of the slain captives, the dead Eirdkilrs. Zaharis’ blood, too. So much it stained the ankle-deep muck a foul crimson. He couldn’t see it—couldn’t see anything through the dizziness filling his vision—but he could feel it. Could smell the metallic stink of blood, fresh and old. Could taste it sliding down his throat, filling his lungs.

He coughed, weakly, fought to open his eyes. They were already open, yet they stared unseeing at a river of blood. No, a dim part of his mind realized, not a river. The sky. Heavens that had turned an angry red for the Feast of Death.

Struggling to rise, Aravon groaned at a flare of pain racing through his neck. Tyr Farbjodr’s blow had nearly shattered his spinal column. Every movement sent twinges lancing up and down his spine, set his skull aching. Added to the throbbing in his face, the pain of his broken nose.

He blinked, tried to clear his vision, blinked again. Found the world spinning so violently it brought acid to his throat. He swallowed to keep himself from vomiting into his mask. The foul taste in his mouth pushed back the coppery tang of blood. Brought reality crashing back around him.

A shadow loomed large over him. Towering, reeking of blood and sweat, with eyes a terrifying black and a smile cold as ice. Tyr Farbjodr’s voice, guttural and growling, too faint for him to hear through the pounding of his pulse.

The Eirdkilr reached down a huge hand, wrapped his fingers around Aravon’s throat, and lifted him bodily off the ground. The iron grip crushed Aravon’s windpipe. He hung in Tyr Farbjodr’s grip as Skuli the Deid miner had. Kicking, gasping for air, struggling to draw breath. Even just the faintest gasp. Enough to keep him alive, to give him a chance to fight beside the others.

“…so I thank you, Grimabrandr, for the first real fight I’ve had in years. Centuries, really.” A snarling sneer twisted the Eirdkilr’s bloodstained lips. “Then again, thanks to that bitch Gunnarsdottir dropping the bloody mountain on me, I haven’t exactly had much time to search this pathetic world of yours for a proper challenge. From what I hear, the cowardly Serenii fled after our Great War, so I’m not exactly holding out hope.”

The words filtered into Aravon’s ears but failed to register in his mind. He was too busy choking, struggling to breathe, pounding on Tyr Farbjodr’s hand in a vain attempt to break the giant’s iron grip on his throat.

The Eirdkilr’s brutish face filled Aravon’s vision, his breath fetid, reeking of rotting gums and spoiled meat. “But, out of appreciation for what little fun you’ve managed to give me, I’ll keep you alive long enough to watch my kin devour your comrades.”

Comrades! Aravon’s pulse thundered in his ears, his eyes darting around. Colborn lay face-down in the mud, his right arm twisted at a terrible angle, his sword and shield ten feet away. Blood stained Belthar’s face and his eyes were closed. Whether his chest rose and fell with breath, Aravon couldn’t tell through the hazy darkness filling his vision.

Blurry figures moved in the distance. The whirr of a bowstring and the hiss of arrows told him either Noll or Skathi still lived. Which of them, where, or for how long, he couldn’t know. Somewhere in the distance, the shout of “For Nuius!” echoed loud—Rangvaldr or an Eyrr captive? He couldn’t clear his blurring vision, couldn’t push back the shadows closing in around him as Tyr Farbjodr slowly choked the life from him.

“Count yourself fortunate, half-man!” The Eirdkilr rumbled in Aravon’s face. “Today, you will witness something that has not been seen on this world in millennia.”

The edges of his vision began to waver, the world going hazy and dark around him. Then the grip on his throat suddenly loosened, just long enough for him to suck in a single lungful of air. Blessed, life-giving air, thick with the stink of death and the reek rising from Tyr Farbjodr. It pushed back the haze a fraction.

Then the iron fingers locked around his throat and lifted him from the ground again.

“Can’t have you dying on me yet, Grimabrandr.” Cruel glee shone in Tyr Farbjodr’s black eyes. “Not until you’ve seen my kin feasting on your comrades’ flesh, watched them crack your friends’ bones and suck out the marrow.” His tongue darted out to lick his bloodstained lips. “There’s something utterly delicious about human flesh steeped in fear.”

Aravon struggled in the giant’s grip, his muscles weakened by pain, exhaustion, and lack of oxygen. Yet that single breath, the desperate gasp of air, had pushed back the haze filling his world, clouding his vision. Instinct and training re-asserted itself as he seized the hand locked around his throat. Desperate to break the giant’s grip, grasped Tyr Farbjodr’s smallest finger and, with a savage yank, snapped it.

For any normal man, that attack would have shattered their hold on his throat. Tyr Farbjodr, however, simply grunted and stared at the finger, bent backward at a terrible angle, an almost amused smile on his lips.

“Yessss!” The sibilant, almost ecstatic word hissed between his lips. “Fight until your last breath, half-man!” His black eyes locked on Aravon’s. “The terror that will flood you once you realize you are going to die, despite everything, will make you all the tastier.” He bared his teeth in a savage snarl, and through the blur of oxygen-starvation, Aravon found himself staring into the maw of a beast. Fangs as long as his fingers, razor-sharp, like those of a serpent, dripping foul acid and reeking of death. The odor twisted his stomach and brought acid rising to his lips.

He blinked, and again Tyr Farbjodr’s face hovered in his vision. Grinning, leering, lips curled back from exposed teeth, yet a very human face. The face of the man who was going to kill him.

As the darkness filled Aravon’s vision, panic sank its fingers into his brain, ice slithering like worms through his veins. He beat at Tyr Farbjodr’s hand, at his ruined finger—a finger that had somehow grown back into place, locked around his neck once more—at his wrist, his massive forearm. Anything to break free!

“Ahhh!” Tyr Farbjodr’s gloating voice echoed harsh in his ear. “There it is! There’s the fear. The delicious, wonderful fear.”

Aravon tried to bite back the fear, to swallow the dread that set his mind racing. Panic clouded the mind and shattered any attempt at rational thought, yet in that moment, with death looming ever closer, he couldn’t help feeling terror. Terror at knowing he was going to die.

“No you don’t, little human!” Tyr Farbjodr’s growling voice sounded so weak, so faint. “You’re not dying yet!”

The grip on Aravon’s throat loosened, but as air flooded his body and sense returned to his mind, he found himself hurtling through the air. Straight toward the nearest of the black monoliths.

He had no time to shield himself before he crashed into solid stone. Air rushed from his lungs in an explosive grunt, and pain flared through his chest, gut, and sides. He collapsed to the blood-soaked stone circle. His head struck stone, hard, setting the world whirling around him.

“After what you did to my Blood Queen, I owe you far more than just a quick, clean death.” Tyr Farbjodr’s words pierced the pulsing, pounding ache in Aravon’s head. Aravon’s helmet was torn off, a hand gripped his hair, pulled him upright. Neck twinging, agony racing through every inch of his body, Aravon stared up into the leering, blood-soaked face of Tyr Farbjodr. “I want you to watch what happens next, and to die knowing the truth of what I will do to your world.”

The hand gripping Aravon’s hair tightened, dragging him across the stone circle. Aravon, too weak to cry out or fight, gasped for air, struggling to draw in even a single breath through the throbbing waves of pain radiating through his torso, constricting his lungs. His neck protested at the strain, threatening to snap at any moment.

Tyr Farbjodr released his head, so suddenly Aravon’s masked face slammed into the stone before he caught himself. A fresh pounding, stabbing ache sprang to life in his broken nose. Tears of pain brimmed in his eyes.

Yet with the pain came a sudden clarity of mind. His eyes, blurred by tears, fluttered open. Fixed on the thick rivulets of blood running through the grooves in the black stone beneath him. He made no move to lift his head, but as oxygen slithered into his lungs—half a breath, just enough to restore sensation and clarity of thought—he pushed back against the pain. Forced himself to think.

He’d lost his sword at some point, and Tyr Farbjodr had cast his spear into the mud. All that remained at hand was his little belt dagger, and what good would that do against something—something definitely not human—that healed from an arrow to the eye? Trying to attack now would serve no purpose beyond irritating the giant and getting himself killed faster.

A smart commander never attacked an enemy without a plan to win. Never threw away lives—those of his men or his own—without purpose.

He shifted his head a fraction, just enough to see Colborn and Belthar out of the corners of his eyes. Belthar remained unmoving, but Colborn had rolled onto his back and pulled his injured right arm to his chest. The Lieutenant’s gaze was locked on Aravon and the giant in the stone circle. His good left hand fumbled toward the hilt of his fallen longsword.

Aravon gave a theatrical groan, tried to push himself up to his hands, then collapsed face-first into the bloody stone, arms outstretched. Tyr Farbjodr laughed, a cold, cruel peal of savage triumph. Aravon forced his body to lie still—better he pretend weakness, not much of an act at this point, and bide his time. Tyr Farbjodr wanted him to witness his triumph. To make him suffer and bathe in the sting of defeat. So be it. Aravon needed time to recover, to gather his strength enough to push past the pain. To find a way to attack the bastard and put him down.

“Wait and watch.” His fingers formed the silent hand signals to Colborn. Understanding dawned in the Lieutenant’s eyes. He gave no sign of acknowledgement, yet his movements slowed, grew more cautious. Colborn’s tactical mind had registered the danger of fighting Tyr Farbjodr—the Eirdkilr bloody healed from fatal wounds—and reached the same conclusion as Aravon: fighting the giant directly would only get them killed. They had to find another way.

What that was, Aravon had no idea. His belt dagger would be useless against the giant. But at any moment, Rangvaldr, Skathi, and Noll would finish with their part of the mission—freeing the captives’ families—and join battle here. Then Aravon could make his move.

Tyr Farbjodr came to stand in front of him, kneeling in the blood staining the black stone. With a savage glee, the giant ran a finger through the slowly seeping gore and brought it to his mouth, savoring its taste. “Ahh, you humans always did have the tastiest blood. Always plentiful, too.”

The giant drew something from his belt—a dagger, its blade curving and double-edged, a crystal-clear gemstone set into its pommel. The sight brought something screaming up from the depths of Aravon’s pain-numbed mind. He’d seen its like before, but where?

The assassin! The hooded killer they’d fought in Icespire had had one like it. And that stone set into its pommel—it looked identical to the one set in Lord Morshan’s blade. The Blade of Hallar, a weapon said to be as ancient as the city of Shalandra itself.

A weapon of terrible power, as Aravon had seen in the battle at Steinnbraka Delve.

And this man, this…creature that proved so impossible to kill, he had one, too?

Pieces suddenly clicked into place in Aravon’s mind in that instant. Snatches of memory, words spoken by the giant, all tied together by the sight of that dagger.

Gunnarsdottir. Tyr Farbjodr had snarled the name, venom and disgust dripping from his words. Gunnarsdottir, the Tauld shieldmaiden and chieftain’s daughter, the one who defeated the monster of legend by bringing down a mountain atop its head.

The Eirdkilr had spoken of “this age”, of “pitiful humans”. Had reveled in the blood and death, promised to feast on the flesh of his victims. The giant’s cunning in planning his battle, thinking far ahead, more intelligent than any Eirdkilr they’d faced over a century of war. His impossible healing abilities, and his knowledge of the blood magic—magic no living being should know.

He didn’t just take the name of the ancient monster, the Farbjodr, to instill fear in his enemies. Ice froze Aravon’s blood in his veins. Tyr Farbjodr is that ancient monster!

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The realization would have floored Aravon, had he not already been lying face-down on the blood-soaked stone. He wanted to shrug it off, to deny the very possibility, yet how could he? No other explanation made sense!

In the legend Rangvaldr had told them, the Farbjodr was a creature that dwelled in the vast wilds south of the Sawtooth Mountains—what was now the icy Wastelands. Though the stories had spoken of a monster—with the tail of a serpent, the fangs of a greatwolf, and a hide hard as stone—stories had a way of morphing, twisting with time and retelling.

Yet now, looking into those black eyes and crimson-stained face hovering in front of him, Aravon could see the beast. A hellish creature of nightmares, lusting for the blood and death of his enemies, basking in the carnage he had caused. Even if the legends had mistaken his appearance, they had captured his true essence.

A monster to his rotten soul.

With that thought came a flicker of hesitation. By the creature’s own admission, he’d been buried beneath a mountain of ice since the days of Gunnarsdottir—hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years, until his arrival among the Eirdkilr fifteen years earlier.

But if that didn’t kill the bastard, how the hell am I supposed to?

Uncertainly held him rooted in place. He’d die in a heartbeat if it meant taking down the Eirdkilr—the monster who wore the face of a barbarian—but he wouldn’t throw his life away just to fail.

Think, damn it! Aravon’s mind raced. What did Rangvaldr’s story say about killing it?

The words, spoken around the darkness of a campfire so many weeks ago, flashed through his mind. “The mightiest warriors of the Tauld sought to defeat the Farbjodr, yet though every farmstead, village, and town sent their bravest sons against the beast, they could not slay it. A thousand warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, a wall of bronze and wood, yet the Farbjodr roared in derision and threw itself against the shield wall. Hundreds died beneath those rending claws and snarling teeth. For a day and a night they fought, the proud sons of Fehl against the solitary creature of nightmare. But when night fell, the Farbjodr stood alone on the battlefield. The Tauld broke, their courage sapped in the face of a creature that could not be slain.”

Horror twisted in his gut. If a thousand warriors hadn’t been able to kill the thing, what could he possibly do?

No! He clenched his jaw, balled his hands into fists. Tiny movements, too small for the towering giant to notice, and even they sent waves of pain through his aching face and up his forearms. Yet they hardened his determination, turned his resolve to steel. I won’t accept that! There has to be a way to kill him!

The legend said Gunnarsdottir had dropped a mountain atop him. The nearest mountain was hundreds of miles away, but they stood at the base of a massive pit mine. We’ve got to bring the cliffs down on top of him, crush him in the rubble!

Hope flickered to life in his chest, faint, barely a thread in the enveloping darkness. Yet hope, nonetheless.

Aravon lifted his head, forced his eyes to focus on the cliff in the distance. Sheer vertical walls of stone, rising hundreds of feet to the level of the tundra, enough to bury the monstrous Farbjodr—at least long enough for Aravon and his comrades to find another way to deal with him.

His hope died a moment later. They had nothing to bring down the cliffs. Zaharis had used up the last of his alchemical marvels in the attack on Praellboer and collapsing the stone bridge behind them. All he had left was his last Earthshaker, intended to shatter the pillars and prevent Tyr Farbjodr from using his blood magic.

Aravon’s gaze went to the Secret Keeper. Zaharis lay on his side, blood soaking the mud around him. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as groaned.

Tears rose to Aravon’s eyes, turning his friend’s body into a hazy blur of sorrow. Yet he fought back the anguish and grief that washed over him. He couldn’t let Zaharis’ sacrifice be in vain. The Secret Keeper would complete his mission, even from the arms of the Long Keeper. Aravon would make certain of that. Somehow, he’d find a way to lure Tyr Farbjodr close enough to the cliffs and, like Gunnarsdottir of old, would bring the stone crashing down atop the bastard’s head. Even if it claimed his life in the process, he’d make damned sure the monstrous Eirdkilr didn’t get back up!

All this flashed through his mind in the space of three heartbeats. Yet he’d barely begun moving his fingers to sign instructions to Colborn when Tyr Farbjodr moved. The giant dropped to one knee in front of the slot in the heart of the stone circle and, with triumph shining on his bloodstained face, inserted his strange dagger into the aperture.

A loud thunk echoed through the stone beneath Aravon. The power that had hummed quietly within rose to a murmur, throbbing louder and louder, reverberating to the marrow of Aravon’s bones. His eyes widened as the blood running through the grooves etched into the stone circle seemed to disappear. Soaked into the stone, consumed by a thirst as inhuman as the giant Eirdkilr kneeling at his side.

The thrum of the stone rose to an ear-splitting droning and the world trembled under Aravon. He tried to rise, to leap to his feet, but the stone bucked and writhed with such force it sent him sprawling on his face again.

Brilliant light bathed the air within the circle of monoliths. The pillars, once a black darker than night, now shone with a sickening crimson glow so bright Aravon had to shield his eyes. And still that strange humming reverberated around him, setting the ground quaking.

Fiery hell! The Eirdkilr had activated his foul magic. With that ancient dagger—its gemstone now shining a crimson as bloody and dark as the red-tinted heavens high above—and the blood of Eirdkilrs, Fehlans, and Princelanders alike, Tyr Farbjodr would have his power.

Aravon moved then. He could afford delay no longer. He threw himself to his feet, tore the dagger from his belt, and leapt toward the kneeling Tyr Farbjodr. Blade outthrust, a left-handed strike aimed straight for the giant’s throat. A vicious slash to open his jugular vein, two quick slashes to sever the tendons in his arms, render them useless. Anything to put the Eirdkilr down before the magic made him too strong to—

The giant’s hand snapped out, impossibly fast for his massive size, snatched Aravon’s wrist. Stopped the strike cold three inches from his throat.

Vicious glee shone in Tyr Farbjodr’s midnight black eyes. “Well done, half-man!” His voice took on a low, guttural growl, growing more inhuman and bestial as the words rumbled from his chest with a resonance impossible for any human. “You will make a fine feast when this is—GRAAGHH!”

The giant stumbled forward, falling to one knee, as two arrows sprouted from his back. Behind the giant, thirty yards away, Skathi raced toward them, her arms pumping as she drew, nocked, and loosed her missiles with blurring speed.

Three more arrows slammed into Tyr Farbjodr’s back. One struck his spine and he sagged to one knee, wobbling. Yet his grip on Aravon’s wrist never slackened.

He opened his mouth and shouted a single word. A word in no language Aravon had heard, yet one that rang with power, terrible to hear. The humming of the black stones rose to a deafening crescendo and a wave of invisible power blasted outward from the monoliths. Smashed into the charging Skathi and hurled her backward with the force of a giant’s fist. Caught the dazed, rising Belthar full in the face and slammed him into one of the twin pillars forming the archway. The big Grim Reaver struck stone with bone-jarring force and collapsed, stunned.

But the archway itself held Aravon’s attention rapt. No longer were the pillars black, but shining with the same threads of red light as the monoliths, a sickly color so at odds the brilliant azure of Rangvaldr’s holy stones. The air between the stone circle and the archway seemed to suck in the red light shining down from the angry crimson-stained heavens. Reality twisted, buckled, shimmered like smoke rising from an arid landscape.

Pain exploded in Aravon’s left wrist and he screamed. Tyr Farbjodr’s crushing grip pulverized the bone, and Aravon’s dagger fell from nerveless fingers, clattering onto the now-blue-glowing stone circle between the monoliths. The Eirdkilr struck so fast Aravon never saw the blows coming. Blinding pain exploded in his face, his chest, his side, his legs. When the agony receded and his vision cleared, he lay on his back, discarded like a broken doll.

Tyr Farbjodr stood alone in the circle of brilliantly gleaming stone. Four pillars of blinding crimson shone around him, the ground under his massive feet shining the same dark red. Words poured from his mouth, words of power spoken in a horrible language far more bestial and guttural than anything Aravon could imagine. His mind recoiled from those sounds, like a whipped hound fleeing from a ravenous bloodbear.

The air between the pillars coalesced, the red light of the heavens solidifying, growing thick, viscous. Reality itself appeared to bend and twist, pulling light from the stones to form a blinding line of white within the archway. The line writhed, contorted, then tore apart, forming a gaping hole.

Aravon’s jaw dropped. Beyond the opening, a land of unbroken white stretched to the horizon. A world of snow and blizzards that sent glassy shards of ice whipping through the opening with the force of a hurricane. A chill washed over him, impossibly cold, so biting and piercing it threatened to freeze his very marrow, slice the flesh from his bones.

A blinding flash of light, and a creature of nightmare appeared through the opening in reality. Twice his height, with arms impossibly heavy with muscle hanging to its knees. Skin that seemed made of living stone stretched across its enormous, powerful body, and its spike-studded back thrust out into a serpentine tail that gave a terrible rattle as it whipped about the creature’s head. Razor-sharp claws studded its too-many-jointed fingers. In place of feet, it stood on pawed hind legs thicker than Aravon’s chest.

The monstrosity’s eyes, darker than night, locked on Tyr Farbjodr, and its lips curled into a rictus grin, revealing hundreds of razor-sharp teeth. A forked tongue flicked between its fangs, and words in that horrible, guttural language rumbled on the wind.

“Come, my brothers!” Tyr Farbjodr roared into the icy wind. “Come, Abiarazi, to the world we will make our own!”

The creature stepped forward, reaching a hand, then an arm, through the opening in reality. Fear, raw and primal, held Aravon frozen as he watched the enormous beast clawing its way into their world. Into their world!

This had been the Eirdkilr’s plan all along.

Yet, despite the panic digging icy claws into his mind, Aravon forced himself to stand. Though pain flared through every muscle, bone, and joint, though exhaustion threatened to bring him down, he stood. Rose to his feet, one agonizing movement at a time. First to one knee, then to one foot, his legs trembling and his knees buckling. Gritting his teeth, he leaned on the humming, glowing monolith behind him, ignored the torment crackling through his skin as he touched the strange crimson power. Up, with every shred of strength, until he stood.

He couldn’t let Tyr Farbjodr win. Not after he had come so far, given up so much. Lost so many friends, companions, and loved ones. Sacrificed his family, his wife and sons, all for the sake of completing the mission. He’d crossed the entire continent of Fehl, the Sawtooth Mountains, the icy Wastelands to reach this point.

I can’t fail now!

His sword and spear lay too far out of reach, so he scooped up his dagger. Though it nearly toppled him, he bent low, closed the fingers of his right hand around the hilt of his belt knife, and lifted it. The weight was immense, the simple act of gripping it sending shivers of pain along his arms. But he refused to release it. Refused to consider the impossibility of his actions as he lurched toward Tyr Farbjodr and raised his dagger to strike.

Tyr Farbjodr roared as Aravon drove the knife into his upper back, between his vertebrae. The dagger severed the spinal nerves and the Eirdkilr commander flopped on limp legs. Aravon collapsed atop the giant , tore his knife free, and struck. Again and again and again, driving the tip of the blade as deep as he could, punching it through the Eirdkilr’s armor, furs, and flesh. Seeking organs, blood vessels, the spinal column, anything he could hit to slow the bastard down.

An answering roar echoed from the creature pushing its way into their world. Aravon drove his dagger into the base of Tyr Farbjodr’s spine, up into the Eirdkilr’s brain. Risked a glance upward and found the massive monster recoiling. Skathi stood, bloodied and bruised, yet her arms moved in a steady rhythm. Nocking, drawing, and loosing her arrows in a blinding blur. One missile burrowed into the creature’s eye, eliciting another howl. Skathi buried another arrow into its open mouth, and a third followed it before the monster’s jaws snapped shut.

“No!” The scream burst from Tyr Farbjodr’s mouth, garbled and guttural, wet with blood. The Eirdkilr exploded into motion beneath Aravon. Lurched upright, throwing Aravon off his back. The movement tore the dagger from Aravon’s hand and sent him staggering backward. He tensed in expectation of an assault—the final blow that would kill him—but no attack came.

Tyr Farbjodr hurled himself toward the archways, a blur of motion far too fast for any human. Yet even his speed failed him.

Time slowed to a crawl as Aravon’s eyes fell on the figure curled up next to one of the two pillars supporting the archway and the opening into the world of ice. Blood stained the front of Zaharis’ robes and trickled from beneath his mask, yet a grim light of defiant triumph shone in his eyes as he held up the cord he’d ripped free of the Earthshaker.

“…three,” the Secret Keeper managed to sign.

BOOM!

Chapter Seventy

The world exploded in a flash of light and deafening sound, and a cloud of fire, dust, and stone billowed outward from where Zaharis lay beside the pillar.

The Earthshaker’s concussive blast caught Tyr Farbjodr full in the face, hurled him backward like a leaf caught up in a hurricane. Even Aravon staggered as an invisible shock wave collided with him. Ears ringing, world spinning violently around him, he stumbled and barely managed to catch himself on the gleaming monolith.

A horrible, shrieking wail rent the morning. Tyr Farbjodr staggered upright, clutching at his face, a keening cry bursting from his throat. A cry of sorrow, rage, pain, and frustration.

“Nooooo!” The guttural scream echoed off the walls of the pit mine, rising in crescendo as the Eirdkilr howled his fury into the red sky.

Through the cloud of dust, Aravon caught sight of the archway. One of the two pillars had been blown to shards by Zaharis’ Earthshaker, the other reduced to a crumbling mass of collapsing stone. Where there had once been a gaping hole into the world of ice, only buckling, twisting, writhing light remained. Half of the monster—the half that had clawed through the opening—lay in pieces. Black blood stained its severed arm, shoulder, and the bits of skull that survived the explosion. The rest had been blown to pieces or shattered like stone.

The humming, too, faded. The deafening rumble of the glowing monoliths quietened so suddenly Aravon feared the explosion had shattered his ears. Colborn lay in the heart of the circle, and in his upraised left hand, he held the strange glowing dagger pulled free of the black stone. The light gleaming within the depths of the monoliths had begun to fade, their usual midnight hue returning.

Guttural, growling snarls echoed from where Tyr Farbjodr had fallen. The giant leapt to his feet with a wordless scream of rage and hatred. When the Eirdkilr whirled toward them, acid rose to Aravon’s throat.

Keeper’s teeth!

The Eirdkilr’s nose, mouth, cheeks, and right eye had been ripped to shreds, his beard burned away by the explosive blast. Chunks of metal studded his mangled skull and the chunks of muscle that had once been his face, pierced his throat, arms, and hands. His leather armor hung in tattered shreds, more bits of darkly gleaming metal visible embedded deep in his shoulders, and chest.

Yet in that instant, horror gave way to hope. Tyr Farbjodr had healed from terrible wounds to his chest, his throat, even the dagger strike to the brain. His flesh re-knit almost as fast as Aravon’s Odarian steel weapons could cut it.

But now, his flesh refused to heal. Indeed, it seemed to be rotting away. Threads of black slithering through his veins, turning his blood viscous, and pain shone bright in his one good eye. His movements were slow, uncoordinated, and he actually wavered on his feet, his legs trembling.

Aravon sucked in a breath. Fiery hell, it’s the metal!

Zaharis’ Earthshaker was made of iron. Iron, the Swordsman’s metal, revered by the Adepts as a metal of purity.

Can it be?

An eternity passed in the space between heartbeats. Aravon’s eyes locked on the Eirdkilr’s mangled face. Watched for even the slightest hint of healing, of the flesh re-knitting as it had so many times before.

Nothing.

Blessed Swordsman!

“Iron!” Aravon screamed. “Iron will slow him down!” Perhaps, though he dared not give voice to the hope for fear it would prove false, perhaps even kill the Eirdkilr.

Growling through mangled lips and shattered teeth, Tyr Farbjodr dove for his huge axe, scooped it up, and charged. So fast Aravon had only time to throw himself to the side before the massive weapon crashed down onto the stone where he’d been standing. Molten fire blazed along his back and he screamed as his shattered left hand struck the ground.

He came up in a roll, whirled to face the giant. Just in time to leap out of the path of the whirling axe. Too slow. His breastplate, weakened by the gulon saliva, cracked and the heavy axe head carved a deep gouge from his chest. The impact hurled him back and to the side. He flew from the stone circle, landing in the clinging, bloodstained mud. Again, his left hand struck the ground, sending blinding agony up his forearm.

Aravon’s breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. He didn’t need to look down to know Tyr Farbjodr’s axe had torn a gaping hole in his chest. Shattered ribs, punctured a lung, perhaps even driven a shard of bone into his heart. He could feel the blood pumping through the wound. Warm and wet, it slithered down his stomach, his chest, mingling in the muck.

But he wasn’t dead yet. He could still stand, could still fight. Until his heart’s last beat, he would fight. All that mattered now was putting Tyr Farbjodr into the ground first.

He dug his right hand into the mud to push himself upward. Felt something solid and thick against his fingers. Turning his head, he found his spear where Tyr Farbjodr had thrown it.

Hope surged within him. Summoning the last of his strength, he rolled onto his side, struggled up to his feet. He clamped the fingers of his left hand closed around the metal band near the butt-end of his spear. Blinding agony raced through the shattered bone, and a scream burst from his lips. Yet he refused to relinquish his grip.

His eyes locked on the figures battling in the stone circle. Belthar, his hands grasping Tyr Farbjodr’s upraised arms, his huge muscles corded. Colborn, clutching his shattered right arm to his chest, the strange magical dagger held in his left as he threw his shoulder into the giant. The impact sent the three of them toppling backward into the muck.

Wounds or no, Tyr Farbjodr proved the fastest of the three. He rolled with the fall, hurled Belthar off him, and tore the dagger from Colborn’s hand. A vicious light shone in his one good eye as he raised the blade high above the prone Grim Reaver.

Aravon moved. His feet dug into the mud, his legs propelling him toward Tyr Farbjodr with all the speed he could muster.

Too slow, he knew. Time slowed to a crawl as the dagger descended toward Colborn’s chest. Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat and a cry burst from his lips. Yet it would do no good. He couldn’t hope to reach Colborn in time to—

A colorful shape whizzed through the air, a blur of motion too fast for his eyes to follow. Tyr Farbjodr’s right hand flew to one side as if yanked by an invisible string. Brightly-colored fletching secured to a wooden shaft protruded from his forearm. The muscles, severed by the broad-head arrow, quivered and released the grip on his dagger.

Before the Eirdkilr giant could move, another arrow hissed toward him. Slammed into his huge neck. Tyr Farbjodr’s head snapped back as the missile punched deep into his throat. No ordinary arrow, this, but a hunting arrow, given to Skathi by Colborn the night they spent in the Deid Hefjakumbl.

An arrow made by early Deid hunters and tipped with the only metal available to them: iron.

Tyr Farbjodr fell back, clutching at the shaft driven into his neck. Gasping, wheezing, struggling to breathe, yet snarling his defiance and rage.

Colborn snatched up the Eirdkilr’s fallen dagger and drove it into Tyr Farbjodr’s side. Crimson light flared to life from the crystal-clear gemstone and the giant’s screams of pain set the cliff walls around them quaking. The flayed, shredded muscle and shattered bones of his face twisted, contorted, like maggots crawling across a carcass.

With all the strength of his dying body, his rage and pain and anguish, hardened by his determination, Aravon threw himself at the giant Eirdkilr. Eyes locked on Tyr Farbjodr’s writhing features, on the mangled flesh studded with chunks of iron. Zaharis’ last gift to the Grim Reavers. His final “fuck you” to the enemy he’d given his life to defeat.

This is for you, my friend!

He gave a savage twist of his spear, and the six-inch iron spike shot out of the metal-shod butt. Screaming a wordless cry, Aravon thrust. Backed by the force of his muscles, and the blazing inferno of his fury, the sharpened spike punched through the underside of Tyr Farbjodr’s neck. Up through the roof of his mouth, straight into his brain. Aravon’s momentum drove the entire length of iron so deep it cracked on his skull, punched out the top of his head.

The spear was ripped from Aravon’s grip but he no longer had the strength to hold it. His feet stumbled over Tyr Farbjodr’s heavy body, his knees gave out, and he fell, hard. Splashing onto his back in the ankle-deep muck.

A terrible, howling scream of rage echoed somewhere in the distance. It barely registered through the labored beating of Aravon’s heart. His pulse sounded so faint, each thump, thump farther apart.

Ruby light flared blinding and bright, the glow mingling with the violent, angry crimson of the heavens and the bloodstained mud cushioning his body. But Aravon saw only a blur. Shadows that reached clawed fingers toward him, pressing in on the edges of his vision.

He knew he should feel something—the icy chill of the mud beneath him, the agony of his shattered wrist, the pain of far too many wounds—yet no sensations registered in his mind. Nothing beyond a slow, seeping numbness that stole over his limbs and dragged him deeper into darkness.

Faces hovered above him. Skathi, worry dark in her emerald eyes. Belthar’s bloodstained mask shredded and torn. Colborn, his mask removed, face etched deep with anguish. “Aravon!” His lips formed words but no sound reached Aravon’s ears. “Hold on, Aravon!”

“Col…born!” From somewhere deep within, Aravon summoned a final reserve of strength. Lifted his right hand to clap the Lieutenant’s. “Mission…complete.”

His lungs, too filled with blood, refused to draw breath. He couldn’t feel himself suffocating; he was beyond pain, beyond sensation.

“Go…home,” he gasped. “Find…home…wherever…it…”

He wanted to say more—wanted to say farewell to Skathi and Belthar, too, and Noll and Rangvaldr, wherever they were—but he could find no more energy. No words came to his lips, only blood. Blood, and a smile.

He’d done it. He’d crossed a continent and slain Tyr Farbjodr, the greatest threat to Fehl. He could go into the Long Keeper’s arms knowing he hadn’t failed.

His father’s face hovered before his eyes, and for the first time, pride shone in General Traighan’s eyes. I wasn’t your biggest failure, Father.

The General’s face disappeared, and Duke Dyrund’s took its place. Smiling, his eyes shining with mirth, laughter formed on his lips. That was the Duke that awaited him at the Swordsman’s side.

More came to him then. Lieutenant Naif, Sergeant Bytin, Corporal Older, and the rest of Sixth Company. Draian, the Mender, his bald head gleaming in the light streaming from of the Sleepless Lands. Lord Morshan, Archateros Killian, General Rodalus, Duvain, Endyn, Corporal Rold, and the other soldiers who had died fighting with him.

Captain Lingram, still too damned handsome for his own good, even in death.

Two young boys, their eyes wide with delight, laughing as they played in the brilliant golden daylight of the Prince’s Palace. Rolyn and Adilon, his sons.

His wife, her heart-shaped face framed perfectly by braided locks of chestnut hair. Mylena, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

The faces of countless Princelanders, Fehlans, even Tauld. Men, women, children of Bjornstadt, of Rivergate, of Storbjarg, of Saerheim, Steinnbraka Delve, Icespire, and Highcliff Motte. Innocents who now had a chance to live because Tyr Farbjodr had died. Chance of a future, one free of war.

His eyelids closed but he made no effort to fight it. He welcomed the encroaching shadows. He had lived as best he knew how, battled with all the courage he could muster, and died a soldier.

Perhaps not the end he’d dreamed of, but a good one, nonetheless.

Until we meet again in the next life, my friends and family.

Darkness stole over him, claimed him for its own.

Chapter Seventy-One

Thump…thump.

A sound, faint and distant, reached Aravon through the empty, lifeless void.

Thump…thump.

He knew that sound. The beat of a heart. Slow and steady. His own?

No, that couldn’t be possible. He was dead.

The Swordsman comes to claim me. The thought flashed through his mind. It is His heart I hear beating.

It came again.

Thump, thump.

Louder this time. Stronger, echoing in the darkness. Piercing to the core of Aravon’s being.

Not his heartbeat. Another’s. But whose?

Thump, thump, thump.

The sound came stronger. Deep, calm, resonating with steadfast determination. Suddenly, it was joined by another. A weak heart, barely capable of summoning the strength to form a single faint pulse.

Warmth and energy seemed to flow between the two heartbeats. Invigorated the weaker heart until it, too, beat with the same steady rhythm. Threads of light glowed within the darkened void, pushing back the shadows.

Thump, thump, thump.

One heart grew stronger, beat faster. The other slowed, its pulse growing fainter, its life flowing into Aravon’s body. Slowed, then stopped.

Thump, thump, thump. Aravon’s heart beat alone.

His eyelids flew open and he jerked upright with a scream. “Noooo!” Pain flared bright and hot through every inch of his body, yet the anguish that echoed within that cry pierced to the core of his being.

Even before he turned, he knew whose heartbeat it was that had pulled him back from death. Had given its last strength to him.

Rangvaldr lay in the mud at his side. His green eyes had fallen closed. An expression of utter peace shone through the layer of blood and muck staining his unmasked face. Serenity etched into every deep line around his mouth, eyes, and forehead. In his palms rested two glowing gemstones—his Eyrr holy stone, and the stone Zaharis’ alchemy had brought to life.

“No!” The word tore from Aravon’s mouth, sorrow wrenching at his gut. He ripped his gaze from the Seiomenn, lifted them to Colborn, Skathi, Belthar, and Noll. The four Grim Reavers knelt beside the two of them, heads bowed in silent farewell.

“Why?” Aravon screamed, a raw, ragged sound filled with all the pain and grief writhing within his chest. His eyes went to Rangvaldr’s silent, still form, back to his companions. “Why didn’t you stop him?!”

Colborn lifted his eyes, wet with tears. “He said it was Nuius’ will.” The Lieutenant’s voice was hoarse, quiet, thick with the same anguish that crushed Aravon’s heart with a fist of iron. “His god’s final request of him.”

The words sucked the air from Aravon’s lungs. Rangvaldr’s faith in Nuius, his belief in his holy calling as Seiomenn, had been the reason he joined the Grim Reavers. The truth of his holy stone had rocked him to the core, so much that he nearly abandoned the artifact, cast it away. Aravon had spoken to him in the mine, tried to help him find his way back to his faith. But not so the Seiomenn would do something so foolish as to die for it!

Hot, angry tears welled in Aravon’s eyes, burned their way down his cheeks as he struggled to his knees beside the Seiomenn. Why, Rangvaldr? The question set his stomach churning. Why would you do that? Why give your life to save mine?

A hand rested on his shoulder. Strong, confident, calming. Colborn’s hand.

“He knew you might not understand.” The Lieutenant said in a quiet voice. “And he wanted me to tell you, ‘It is faith and action that makes a thing holy.’ He said you’d know what that means.”

Aravon’s jaw dropped. For a moment, he felt the same bewilderment etched into Colborn’s tear-streaked face.

Then his conversation with Rangvaldr sprang to his grief-numbed mind. “Every time you speak those words and feel the power spring to life, you can know that you are doing precisely what he wants you to do. And in doing so, you consecrate it by using it in his service. You make the stone holy.”

A sob burst from his throat and tears flowed anew. Rangvaldr had dedicated his life in service to his god, to the task he believed Nuius had given him: bringing peace to Fehl. He’d given his strength, blood, sweat, and tears to see that mission fulfilled. Had sacrificed everything—home, family, friends, comfort, safety—in the pursuit of his holy calling.

Now, he had made one final sacrifice—himself. With that gift and his final words to Aravon, he made his belief clear. To him, their mission was as “holy” as the magical stones. Not because of any power they possessed or some inherent sanctity or goodness. Indeed, as Zaharis had proven, the stone that had once been the source of his faith and belief in Nuius was no more divine than a tree, river, or mountain. The Grim Reavers were as fallible as any man or woman on Fehl.

The Seiomenn had come to believe the stones were holy because of their use, in bringing life in a world filled with death. Holy in their service to Nuius and his calling in Rangvaldr’s heart. And so, too, he believed, was the mission they had undertaken together. Their fight to bring peace to Fehl—a fight Aravon had given his last breath to complete—was holy.

Now, Rangvaldr had sacrificed himself for that mission. Had brought Aravon back from the brink of death because he believed—truly, deeply believed, to the core of his being—that Aravon would see it fulfilled.

Oh, my friend! Aravon clasped the Seiomenn’s lifeless hand. Oh for a faith as strong as yours!

Few men in all the history of the world had been capable of making such a great sacrifice. Rangvaldr had made it without hesitation. In the name of his god, in the name of peace, and in the name of love for his fellow Grim Reavers.

And in doing so, he’d made himself holy.

Tears flowed freely, but Aravon made no attempt to stifle his sorrow. He knelt at Rangvaldr’s side, gripped the Seiomenn’s hand—a hand strong from years of battle yet as gentle as the man himself—and paid his final, silent tribute to the man who had given everything to save his life.

A quiet gurgling cough sounded behind him, so faint it barely pierced the maelstrom of sorrow whirling in Aravon’s mind.

“Zaharis!” Skathi shouted.

That brought Aravon’s eyes snapping open. Turning, he found Skathi and Belthar racing toward the Secret Keeper. What remained of him.

The explosion of the Earthshaker had ripped through Zaharis’ midsection with such force it had sheared away his spine. His legs lay ten yards away in the muck, bent and twisted, the bones pulverized. Gone, too, were most of his internal organs, either torn to pieces or shredded by iron shrapnel. He was little more than a head and chest, his ribs caved inward around his lungs and heart.

Yet somehow, impossibly, he still lived. The Secret Keeper struggled to draw in a gurgling breath, weak and wet with blood. He was simply too damned stubborn to die.

Aravon leapt to his feet, biting back a cry as pain flared through his body, and raced toward Zaharis.

“We’re here, Zaharis!” Skathi’s hands hung frozen over the Secret Keeper’s body, as if uncertain where to place them. Nothing could stop the blood trickling from Zaharis’ severed torso with every faint beat of his heart. However, he’d hung on this long, Zaharis would not live much longer.

“About…damned time!” Zaharis’ face twisted into a grimace of mingled agony and humor. His fingers moved slowly, barely forming the words in his silent hand language. “Here…I thought…the last thing…I’d see…was that demon’s…hideous face!” His eyes darted to Belthar. “Though…your ugly…grin’s not much…better.”

Aravon’s jaw dropped. Zaharis had clung stubbornly to life just to insult them one last time? He almost managed to laugh, though it cut off in a strangled sob.

“And…a demon…huh?” A harsh clicking sound burst from the Secret Keeper’s throat—his way of chuckling without a tongue, thought it was wet with blood. “Darrak…will be…so jealous.”

“Foolish priest!” Tears edged Skathi’s words. “Captain told you to stay away from the fight! Not to charge the bloody bastard on your own.”

Zaharis’ face broke into a smile. “Had to…save…Belthar…one last time.” He glanced from Skathi to Belthar and back. “I couldn’t have…future with…Darrak. Wanted…to give...you two one.” His hands seemed to weaken, his eyes falling closed.

“Zaharis!” Skathi shook him. “Stay with us!”

Aravon cast around, but even he knew it was too late. Rangvaldr had been the only one that might have saved Zaharis. Now, all that remained was to say their farewells.

“Be at peace, my friend.” Aravon rested a hand on the Secret Keeper’s shoulder.

To his surprise, Zaharis managed to open his eyes once more. “Captain.” He coughed, bringing up a trickle of blood that seeped down his already crimson-stained face. “Promise me…”

Aravon gripped Zaharis’ shoulder tight. “Anything.”

“Pouch…” The Secret Keeper’s fingers trembled as he signed the words. “Book…of notes.”

Aravon glanced down at the remnants of Zaharis’ torso, then over to where the Secret Keeper’s legs lay. Zaharis’ pouch lay torn open by the shrapnel and explosion, its contents scattered in the muck.

“Hold on!” Aravon told the Secret Keeper as he leapt to his feet and raced toward the destroyed pouch. Hope surged within him as he spotted Zaharis’ book. Shards of iron studded its alchemically-hardened leather cover, but the pages within remained mostly intact. Stooping, he snatched up the book.

He’d just turned to run back to the Secret Keeper when he caught sight of Hallad approaching. The Fehlan man cradled the younger of his two daughters in his arms as he came to stand behind Colborn, who had bent to the task of wiping the blood and mud off Rangvaldr’s lifeless face.

“By your leave, Alsvartar,” Hallad said in a quiet, solemn voice, “we would like to offer our thanks to your companion.” He glanced down at his daughter, his expression grim. “Arna would not be here had he not healed her.”

Colborn lifted his head, looked up at the toddling infant in Hallad’s arms. “Of course.” His voice was hoarse, his ice-blue eyes rimmed red with tears.

Kneeling, Hallad lowered his daughter to the muddy ground. Arna took a hesitant, unsteady step closer to Rangvaldr’s body and, stooping, placed a handful of pale blue flowers on Rangvaldr’s chest.

Aravon’s eyebrows shot up and he sucked in a breath. Can it be?

Before he realized it, he had skidded to a halt, changed directions, and raced toward Colborn, Hallad, and Arna. His eyes locked on the little blossoms, stark blue and contrasting sharply with Rangvaldr’s dark leather breastplate. He scarcely dared to hope. It seemed impossible, and yet—

Keeper’s teeth, it is them!

“Where did you find those?” Aravon demanded.

Arna recoiled and fairly leapt into her father’s arm, burying her face in his chest. Hallad, no less surprised than his daughter, gaped at Aravon for a long second, no words forming on his lips.

“The flowers!” Aravon pressed. “Where did they come from?” The petals had been crushed only slightly by Arna’s chubby hands, yet they were visibly fresh, recently plucked.

“I-In there!” Hallad thrust a finger toward the tunnel where the Eirdkilrs had held the women and children captive while the men worked to collect the ghoulstone and build Tyr Farbjodr’s pillars.

“Are there more?”

“Y-Yes!” Confusion and surprise twisted the Fehlan’s face. “But what do the flowers have—”

Aravon heard no more. Scooping up the blossoms from Rangvaldr’s chest, he turned and raced back toward Zaharis. Arna’s cry and Hallad’s shout echoed behind him, but Colborn’s voice cut in with the explanation.

Reaching Zaharis, Aravon threw himself to one knee beside Skathi, Belthar, and Noll, who had come over to say his farewell to the Secret Keeper.

“Look!” He held the flower up above Zaharis’ face. “You were right all along!”

Zaharis’ eyes widened a fraction. “Are…they…”

“Ice saffron!” The words burst from Aravon’s mouth. “They are real, and they are here!”

Zaharis stared at the flowers. A soft, pale blue, like the sky on the clearest summer’s day, petals shot through with threads of bright crimson. His fingers stretched, reaching for the flowers, though he was too weak to lift his hands. Aravon pressed the blossoms into the Secret Keeper’s palms, rested the man’s hand atop his bloodstained chest.

“You did it, Zaharis.” Emotion thickened his voice. “You found the ice saffron.” Despite what everyone in his priesthood had said, against all odds, the Secret Keeper had been proven right. “Now you have what you need to make the Elixir of Creation!”

“So…I do.” Zaharis gave a weak nod, and for a moment, the light of triumph shone in his eyes. “My book…”

“Is here.” Aravon placed the book on the Secret Keeper’s chest, beside the ice saffron blossoms.

“Take…it.” Zaharis’ gaze lifted to Aravon’s face, fixed him with a piercing stare. “Use it…to live…your life.” The Secret Keeper’s hands faltered, his fingers growing weak. His eyelids seemed to grow heavy, fluttered slowly closed. “Tell…Darrak…”

“Tell him what?” Skathi pressed. Tears streamed from her emerald eyes. “What do we tell him?”

With the last of his strength, the Secret Keeper formed the silent words. “I…loved…him…to…the end.”

One final flutter, a faint twitch of his fingers, then Zaharis’ hand fell onto his chest—onto the flower he’d dedicated his life to finding, and the book that contained his life’s work—and moved no more.

Silence hung thick in the air above Zaharis’ body. Skathi, Noll, Belthar, and Aravon stared down at the Secret Keeper—their fellow Grim Reaver, their comrade, their friend. For long seconds, no one spoke; none could find words.

A keening cry broke the stillness. Belthar, sorrow rumbling from his throat, broke down. Sobs shook his massive shoulders and his huge fingers closed over Zaharis’ lifeless fingers.

Skathi, too, wept, tears streaming from her emerald eyes. One hand joined Belthar’s on the Secret Keeper’s chest, and her other wrapped around the big man’s shoulders, pulled him close. Together, they mourned the death of the man who had been such an important, integral part of their lives since the day they first met.

Damn, Zaharis. Despite his sorrow, Aravon couldn’t help a small smile. Of course you’d go and make your final words something that noble.

Zaharis had sacrificed himself for love—the love he’d seen blossoming between Belthar and Skathi. He’d thrown himself at Tyr Farbjodr to save Belthar’s life, knowing full well that he’d never survive the clash.

Everything he’d done, it had all been for love. Love for his Mistress, and for his divine calling to delve into Her secrets, the hidden mysteries of life. Love of knowledge, of his science and alchemy. Love for his fellow man, for the world he’d wanted to leave behind—a world better off than the one into which he’d been born. Love for his companions, the Grim Reavers he’d fought with every shred of strength to protect.

And, most of all, love for Darrak. Even after the Secret Keeper had tried to kill him, his love hadn’t waned. Zaharis had so desperately wanted to find the ice saffron—to complete his life’s work, his quest for the Elixir of Creation, true. Yet he’d done it with the hope that proving its existence would earn his Mistress’ gratitude, and a place once more in Her service. At the side of Darrak, the man he’d loved to his last breath.

Aravon’s smile grew. May we all be so fortunate to find someone who loves us half as much, my friend.

Cloth rustled and mud squelched across from him, and Aravon lifted his eyes from Zaharis’ face to find Noll rising. The scout’s face was hard, his jaw clenched tight, as if he fought back the desire to join the weeping Skathi and Belthar.

“I think…” Noll swallowed, hard, cleared his throat. “I think I’ll go pick some flowers, Captain.” Moisture brimmed in his eyes and he brushed it away, almost angry. “He’d have wanted us to bring some back.” He shook his head. “Stubborn bastard always had to prove he was right!”

“He did, didn’t he?” Aravon gave a hoarse chuckle.

Noll looked at Aravon. “Turns out, this time, he really was.” The words seemed to shatter his defenses, and a flood of tears streamed down his cheeks. Whirling on his heel, the scout stalked toward the tunnel where the captives had been held—where the ice saffron had grown, deep within the heart of the icy Wastelands, as the Fehlan legends of the Reginkunnr had said.

Aravon watched him go in silence. Noll deserved a moment to grieve his fallen friends in peace. They all did.

Slowly, the world swam into focus around the departing scout. The high, dark stone cliffs stood a few hundred yards away, encircling the muddy base of the pit mine, their sheer faces stern and forbidding in the light of the angry red sky high above.

A sky as red as the muck covering the bottom of the mine. Blood still flowed through rivulets, formed into puddles, stained the flesh of the corpses littering the mud. Eirdkilrs, their braided blond hair and filthy white ice bear pelts dark with crimson. Captive Fehlans, Princelanders, and Tauld, with ragged clothes torn to shreds by axes, spears, and clubs. Flesh pulped, bones shattered, skulls crushed, chests caved in, limbs and necks twisted at terrible angles. Dead beyond Aravon’s desire to count, and far too few still standing. Standing, sitting, kneeling in the mud, or collapsed against the stone cliffs. Eyes gaunt, faces hollow, a look of utter horror, misery, or blank nothingness in their eyes.

The screams, shrieks, and groans of the wounded and dying reverberated off the stone walls, growing louder with every slow, sorrowful beat of Aravon’s heart. The coppery tang of blood mingled with the stink of the thick mud, bowels and bladders voided in death, guts emptied into the muck, and the acid seeping from torn stomachs and intestines. The stink of battle, as inevitable as the pain, exhaustion, and the weeping of men, women, and children mourning their lost loved ones.

They could not ride away from this battle, as they had at Hangman’s Hill. Could not hide out in the Prince’s Palace in the aftermath of the carnage of Icespire. The five Grim Reavers still standing were these captives’ only hope of survival. It fell to him and his companions to care for the living, comfort the dying, and bury the dead. Only then could they move on. Only then could they begin the long, arduous trek north.

Across hostile territory, through lands utterly devoid of food and shelter, Aravon and his companions had to find a way to bring these captives home. The burden of that monumental task weighed heavy on his shoulders, dragged at his pain- and grief-numbed mind.

He looked to Colborn; the Lieutenant still knelt beside Rangvaldr with his head bowed and eyes closed, shattered arm cradled to his chest. Then to Skathi and Belthar, who had risen, hands clasped together for comfort, and lifted their eyes from Zaharis’ lifeless body to regard the captives.

A shrieking, piercing cry echoed through the pit mine. Sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. No sound of sorrow or grief this, but one that rang with fury, rage, and bloodlust. A war cry, loosed from the throats of battle-hardened warriors.

Ice flooded his veins as his gaze snapped upward, to the top of the mine. There, scores of Eirdkilrs had appeared, giants clad in their heavy furs, wielding weapons of wood and steel. The barbarians’ eyes locked on the carnage in the pit. On the captives still standing, weeping, and mourning their fallen comrades. On the bodies of Tyr Farbjodr and the demon he’d summoned through his magical portal into the frozen hell. On Aravon and the three Grim Reavers.

Raising their weapons high, the Eirdkilrs gave a wild, howling cry, and charged down the ramp to attack.

Chapter Seventy-Two

Aravon couldn’t summon the strength to move.

The battle with Tyr Farbjodr had sapped the last of his vigor. Rangvaldr and Zaharis’ deaths had drained his emotions, left him hollow, numb with sorrow. Even as his eyes followed the Eirdkilrs on their descent down the ramp into the pit mine, he felt only a sense of helpless hopelessness.

We’re doomed. Despair wormed into his mind. We can’t win.

He and five Grim Reavers—four, though Colborn would insist on battling, broken arm or no—couldn’t hope to repel so many Eirdkilrs. At least eighty, though there could be more on the way. Even if the five or six hundred captives still living threw in their lot, the battle would be gruesomely one-sided. No one within Illtgrund would walk away from this.

Had Aravon faced the prospect of death alone, he’d have thrown himself into combat without hesitation. Dragged as many Eirdkilrs to death with him before he fell to their massive axes, clubs, and spears.

But he wasn’t alone. His friends—the last of the comrades who had been his family for so many months—stood by his side. They would fight, and they would die. As would the prisoners he’d fought so hard to free. The Deid, Eyrr, Fjall, Myrr, Tauld, and Princelanders around him would never see their homes. He had succeeded in killing Tyr Farbjodr, yet the victory would ring hollow in the face of so many civilian deaths.

Yet it was the presence of those civilians that flooded him with one last burst of desperate strength. Grim resolve hardened in his mind, tightened his jaw muscles.

We can’t win, but by the Swordsman, we will fight!

He was moving before he realized it. Racing the five steps to where his spear protruded from Tyr Farbjodr’s corpse, the iron spike driven deep into his skull. Ignoring the pain in his chest, his arms and legs, his wrist, and his back, he gripped the spear’s wooden haft and, with a mighty yank, tore it free. Blood and gore sprayed as he whirled the spear around once and brought it spinning around to a guard stance.

His muscles tensed in expectation of the inevitable flight of arrows. The Eirdkilrs could loose hundreds of shafts in the time it took to descend into the mine. Aravon expected to feel the sting of steel, the thump of an arrowhead biting into his flesh. His armor could only hold out so long.

Yet none came. It seemed the Eirdkilrs wanted the vengeance for their commander’s death to be up close and personal.

Suits me just fine! He bared his teeth in a fierce snarl. They’ll find we don’t lie down and die so easily.

He spun toward his Grim Reavers. Noll was somewhere off in the tunnel, but he’d doubtless be preparing for battle even now. Belthar and Skathi moved only a heartbeat behind him, already arming themselves. Belthar scooped up his massive axe, still stained with Tyr Farbjodr’s blood, and stepped forward to place his bulk between Skathi and the oncoming Eirdkilrs. The red-haired Agrotora scooped up her longbow and reached for an arrow.

Her hand found only air. The quiver was empty. “Keeper take it!” Her curse echoed off the cliff walls. “See what happens when you shoot your last arrow?”

She shouldered her bow, dropped the useless quiver, and scooped up Rangvaldr’s fallen shield and sword. Though none of the Grim Reavers could match her skill with a longbow—or a short horsebow, a crossbow, even a sling—at Camp Marshal Aravon had insisted she train with a shield and the short sword every Agrotorae wore. Now that it came time to battle, he was glad he had. She’d need those skills to stay alive long enough to deal with the Eirdkilrs.

Aravon glanced toward Colborn, found the Lieutenant struggling to his feet. Pain shone bright in his eyes and he cradled his right arm against his chest, but he held his shield firmly in his left. Determination was etched into every line of his Fehlan features as he took his place next to Aravon.

“Battle plan’s the same as usual, Captain?” A hint of wry humor echoed in his quiet words. “Hit the fuckers until they stop coming, yeah?”

Despite the howling war cries, the knowledge that death came howling for them, and the exhaustion filling his muscles, Aravon couldn’t help smiling. “Hasn’t failed us yet.”

“Let’s see what they think of this!” Skathi snarled. She brought her blade down once, hard, on the demon’s neck, severing the head. Passing her sword to her shield hand, she stooped, snatched up the grinning, horrible skull and raised it high. “Hey, you ugly cunts!” she shouted at the approaching Eirdkilrs. “This is what happened to the last tiny-peckered bastards that tangled with the Grimabrandr!” She waved the demon’s horned, serpentine head around, grunting at the weight, and hurled it toward the giants, sending it splashing into the bloodstained muck. “Come and get some for yourselves!”

Her words had a strange effect on the approaching Eirdkilrs. Instead of goading them to rage, they seemed to hesitate. Their charge into the mine actually slowed, their steps faltering, and a look of mingled uncertainty and wonder.

Confusion hummed within Aravon. What in the bloody hell?

The Eirdkilrs’ charge slowed, then stopped altogether. The giants lowered their weapons and exchanged glances. A hint of awe and reverence shone in their blue-stained face.

Then, to Aravon’s utter surprise, the eighty giants fell to one knee and bowed their heads.

Silence hung like a leaden blanket over the pit mine. It was broken by muddy squelching from the captives. The Tauld, their massive frames a rival for the fur-clad Eirdkilrs, knelt and bowed their heads as well.

Aravon’s jaw dropped. He stood rooted in place, frozen by shock and bewilderment. What could have come over the Eirdkilrs that they would react thus?

“Uhhh, Captain?” Belthar rumbled at Aravon’s side. “Any idea what in the Keeper’s name is going on?”

“They just…stopped!” Skathi hissed. “Either something’s gone terribly wrong, or terribly right. Either way—”

Then Aravon heard it: the name, muttered by the kneeling Eirdkilrs on the path into the pit mine and taken up by the Tauld. Like a battle chant, it rose to a roaring crescendo, until it rang off the cliff walls.

“Gunnarsdottir!” they cried. “Gunnarsdottir!”

Aravon sucked in a breath. It can’t be!

Yet it was.

As the name reverberated through the mine, the eyes of every Eirdkilr and Tauld were locked on Skathi. Skathi, who stood near the demon’s body, shield and sword gripped firmly in hand. Emerald eyes blazing bright with defiance, fiery crimson locks tied back in a warrior’s braids, her unmasked face bared in a snarl as fierce as any Fehlan shieldmaiden.

No, not any shieldmaiden. Gunnarsdottir, daughter of an ancient Tauld chieftain, fierce warrior, heroine and slayer of the Farbjodr.

Aravon’s eyes darted to the demon’s head, and to its truncated body lying in the mud beside the now-collapsed archway. Then back to Skathi.

The cry of “Gunnarsdottir!” echoed louder, now taken up by the Fehlans within the pit mine. They, too, knew the story of the shieldmaiden. No one looking at Skathi now—and the blood staining her face, armor, and shield, and at the monstrous corpse at her feet—would doubt that she could very well be Gunnarsdottir reborn.

“Captain?” Skathi hissed. “Are they saying what I think they are?”

“Yes.” Colborn spoke in a quiet voice, never taking his eyes off the kneeling giants. “Somehow, they think you’re the shieldmaiden of legend reborn.” A low sound—half-grunt, half-snort of amusement—echoed from his lips. “Rangvaldr would have loved to see this.”

“What the fiery hell do I do, Captain?” Skathi asked.

Aravon’s mind raced. A plan, desperate and foolhardy, flashed through his thoughts. Any Legion commander would have brushed it off as lunacy. Perhaps even had him whipped in an attempt to beat sense into him.

And the more he thought about it, the wider his grin grew. Lunacy, certainly. Desperate, absolutely. Destined to fail? On that count, he couldn’t be certain. Half of the things they’d pulled in the last months had been equally irrational.

“Uh oh,” Belthar rumbled. “Captain’s got that look on his face again.”

“Ugh.” Skathi snorted. “The one that nearly gets us all killed, then happens to work out at exactly the last second, you mean?”

“That’s the one!” Belthar shifted, his boots squelching in the mud.

Long seconds passed as the four Grim Reavers stared at the kneeling Eirdkilrs and Tauld.

“So, about that plan, Captain?” Skathi asked.

Aravon’s smile stretched so wide his face hurt. “You’re right,” he told Colborn. “Rangvaldr would have loved this idea.” He turned to regard his three companions. “Here’s what we’re going to do…”

Epilogue

“Wait!” Prince Cedenas Toran sat up straighter in his wooden armchair, a look of dumbfounded amazement on his face. “They just let you go?”

“Not only that!” Triumph shone in Noll’s eyes. He paused in his recounting of events only long enough to drain his goblet of Nyslian icewine—his fourth since he began speaking, and his thirtieth since their return to Camp Marshal the previous night—and stuffed a piece of cold roast chicken into his mouth. “When she demanded they give us and the captives food, clothing, and supplies, they bloody well obeyed!”

The Prince was too stunned to notice Noll’s loud, open-mouthed chewing. He stared at the four Grim Reavers in surprise. “Keeper’s teeth!”

“That’s what we all said!” Noll nodded, smacking loudly as he polished off another goblet of wine. “Every step of the freezing cold journey back north and through Snowpass, that was pretty much all we could say!”

Even now, nearly two weeks after leaving the Sawtooth Mountains behind, Aravon could scarcely believe he and his Grim Reavers had survived. Not only survived, but brought all five hundred and fifty-six surviving Fehlan and Princelander captives through Eirdkilr-held lands without being slaughtered.

“One of the Tauld explained it to us,” Belthar said around a mouthful of venison. “Gunnarsdottir isn’t just a hero of legend; she’s revered, almost worshipped in the same way we Princelanders honor the Swordsman, Derelana, or the Watcher.” His heavy brow furrowed. “And there was more to her legend than Rangvaldr told us.”

Prince Toran cocked his head. “More?” His expression grew pensive. “More than just her sacrifice to bring the mountain down atop the Farbjodr?”

“Aye.” Belthar rumbled. “According to the Tauld version, she had hair the color of fire, which she wore pulled back into warrior’s braids like every shieldmaiden.” He glanced at Skathi’s red hair, which now hung loose and flowing around her shoulders. “But the real kicker was what happened as Gunnarsdottir fought the demon alone. As she lay dying, her body torn to shreds by the Farbjodr, its teeth feasting on her flesh, in her anguish she called on Bani and the ancient magic of Fehl. With her last breath, she vowed that she would return, on the day when the Tauld needed her most. To save her people from annihilation again.”

Aravon’s eyes strayed toward Skathi. The archer had stayed utterly silent throughout the retelling of events, her face buried in her mug. Doubtless to hide the flush of scarlet that stained her cheeks any time the matter was mentioned.

“So,” Noll took up the story, “when the big, ugly bastards saw her holding the head of that damned demon, her face all stained with blood and holding that shield and sword, they couldn’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, Gunnarsdottir had come back as promised. Especially when the Tauld captives lent a hand convincing them of the threat we’d just defeated.”

No one who had seen that portal into the frozen hell or the creature that had almost gotten through would doubt the apocalyptic nature of the threat.

“The Tauld were the ones who really played it up, in fact.” A slow smile broadened Belthar’s huge face. “Made a big deal of wanting to throw a feast in her honor, of asking her for her blessings, and petitioning her to show favor on their families.” He shook his head. “Better actors I’ve yet to see, even on the stages of Icespire.”

“Your life’s in danger like that, you’d probably turn into a hell of a thespian, too.” Noll chuckled. “Fear of death has a way of changing a man.”

“Aye, so it does.” Belthar nodded, then turned back to the Prince. “Either way, the Eirdkilrs swallowed the story—how could they not, with that damned demon’s head and that weird dagger of his right in front of them? When the mighty Gunnarsdottir—” He nudged Skathi with an elbow, eliciting a scowl from the archer. “—insisted the captives be set free and allowed to return home, they weren’t going to put up much of a fight.” He glanced at Skathi. “What was it you said that sealed the deal?”

Skathi’s face flushed an even deeper crimson and she buried herself in her plate.

Noll, however, seemed delighted by the archer’s discomfort. “That Bani had sent her to warn them the enslavement of their fellow Fehlans had displeased him, so much that he had allowed the Farbjodr to return to life as well. And, that if they wanted any chance to join him in Seggrholl, they had to return the captives to their homes. Only by fighting an honorable battle against their enemies’ soldiers would they be welcome into the warrior’s afterlife.”

Aravon couldn’t help smiling. Where she came up with that, I’ll never know. Though the idea had been his—to use the Tauld and Eirdkilrs’ reverence for the woman they believed was Gunnarsdottir reborn—it was Skathi’s quick thinking that had gotten them through the ordeal. She had been the one to order the demon’s head mounted on a spear and paraded through the Wastelands, using it and Tyr Farbjodr’s dagger as trophies to herald the return of the ancient heroine.

Beneath that grisly standard, she had led the way back to Praellboer, to free the last of the captives that survived the battle there. The demon’s horrible grinning skull had stood watch as the Eirdkilrs, Tauld, Fehlans, and Princelanders sent their dead to the afterlife. Including Captain Lingram.

The sight of another burning body still haunted Aravon. He had laid Captain Lingram to rest on the same funeral biers as the Princelander captives that died fighting at his side. The crude metal pendant Belthar had given him—the Swordsman’s iron blades—had joined the Legionnaire in the flames. A final tribute to a brave Legionnaire, a friend, and a brother-at-arms.

Food, clothing, and equipment had been furnished by the Eirdkilrs at Praellboer, under the watchful eye of the decaying demon’s head. Skathi had led the way north, the Grim Reavers riding behind her, an honor guard of Eirdkilrs and Tauld to escort her. Word of Gunnarsdottir reborn had spread through the icy Wastelands and into Snowpass like a hurricane. Hundreds of Tauld had made the trek from their remote villages to watch her pass.

There had been a tense moment when their column reached Saetavirki. The four thousand Eirdkilrs stationed there seemed disinclined to believe the news of Tyr Farbjodr’s death, the slaying of the demon, and the return of their heroine. One look at Skathi—still wearing Rangvaldr’s shield and sword—and the demon-head standard she carried, and they had fallen to their knees. As had the three thousand Eirdkilrs guarding Snowpass Keep. Tosti Arnthorsson, a slim, wolfish man and the warrior given command of the forces at the mountain fortress, had insisted she remain with them, her people, to be revered as Gunnarsdottir reborn deserved.

But again, Skathi had found an answer that both gave them a way out and turned the situation in their favor.

“For centuries you have awaited my return,” Skathi had told them. She’d stared up into the faces of the giants without a shred of hesitation, her voice ringing with command. “Now I have come, but before I can guide you to a better future—one worthy of your place at Bani’s feasting hall—I must know the enemy you face.”

Tosti Arnthorsson and his under-chieftains had tried to argue with her, but she’d held firm. “Do you really believe that I, who stared the mighty Farbjodr in the eyes and now stand here triumphant, have any fear of the half-men? I will challenge the Prince himself to see what manner of man he is. I will look in the faces of your Fehlan cousins, those who have turned their backs on our ways, and decide their fates.” The look she’d given them—one filled with utter confidence, that brooked no argument—had silenced the giants. “I will return once the moon has cycled twice. Then, and only then, will I pass Bani’s judgement on our lands.”

Thinking back on it, Aravon found it hard to repress a smile. But in the mighty hall of Snowpass Keep, surrounded by thousands of kneeling Eirdkilrs, there had been no doubt in Aravon’s mind. Skathi could very well have been Gunnarsdottir reborn, with her fiery strength, her unyielding will, the power inherent in every fiber of her being.

“…I will return to them, as I promised, Your Majesty,” Skathi was saying. “I believe it is our best chance to find a path to peace, or at least an end to this war.” Though her face was crimson, her eyes shone with a steely edge of certainty. “But for it to work, I will need your help to know what to say to them.”

“Indeed.” Prince Toran’s expression sobered, his brows furrowing in thought. “I will send word to Eirik Throrsson in his mountain fortress at Ornntadr, and Chief Svein Hafgrimsson at Jarltun. We will speak of how best to approach this matter. Between us, I am certain we can find the best outcome.”

Aravon glanced toward an empty bench and swallowed hard. If only Rangvaldr was here. He’d know what to say. He always did.

The Seiomenn would have found a way to speak with the Eirdkilrs, to reason with them. With Tyr Farbjodr dead, the Eirdkilrs had lost any momentum they’d gained in the war. Now, they had only a few thousand troops north of the Sawtooth Mountains, plus those in Snowpass Keep and Saetavirki. Against the Legionnaires holding the garrisons and the combined might of the Fjall, Deid, Jarnleikr, Vida, Smida, and Eyrr—who, despite Chief Ailmaer’s hesitation, had finally been convinced to throw in their lot with the Princelanders—the Eirdkilrs had no hope of victory.

Tyr Farbjodr’s plans had failed. If they could take advantage of the situation, the war could soon be over.

Rangvaldr would have championed the cause of peace. Had done so, to his very last breath. He would have been the perfect man for the task of negotiating with the Eirdkilrs at the side of “Gunnarsdottir”.

Aravon closed his eyes. At least you can rest in peace, my friend, knowing you truly did help to bring about the end of the war. A smile—sad, yet accepting—tugged at Aravon’s lips. You completed your duty to Nuius. May you enjoy the feasts of Seggrholl forever more. I can only hope the food and ayrag are as good as you believed they’d be.

“If that’s all, Your Majesty, we’ve got something important to be about.” Skathi’s voice cut into Aravon’s thoughts. The sound of scraping wooden benches echoed in the room, and Aravon opened his eyes in time to see the archer rising to her feet.

“Oh?” Prince Toran cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” A ghost of a grin played on Skathi’s face. “We’ve got a funeral to plan.” She turned and nudged Belthar playfully.

After a moment of puzzlement, the big man seemed to realize her meaning, and he leapt to his feet. “Right!”

“Funeral?” Noll’s brow twisted in confusion. “For who?”

“For you!” Skathi rounded on the scout with a nasty grin and thrust a finger at his feet. “Or, should I say, for those!”

Belthar wrapped his huge arms around the scout’s legs, locking them in place long enough for Skathi to wrest off Noll’s boots.

“Wait!” Noll shrieked. He struggled against Belthar’s grip—he might have been fighting a mountain for all the good it did.

“Gah!” Skathi’s face twisted in disgust as she held up Noll’s prized boots. “Damn, Noll, but you should be thanking us for burning these.”

“But—”

“A wager’s a wager!” Belthar rumbled, and his grin had the same nasty edge as Skathi’s.

“I didn’t just put an arrow into Tyr Farbjodr’s right eye.” Skathi jabbed a pair of fingers into Noll’s chest. “I bloody well put two! Including the iron one that rocked the bastard on his heels.”

“B-but…” Noll spluttered, his voice a droning whine. His head whirled, eyes darting toward Aravon. “But the Captain sent me with Rangvaldr to help free the captives. I never got close enough to—”

“Excuses are merely nails used to build a house of failure!” Skathi recited the adage with wicked glee shining in her eyes. “You lost, fair and square. Which means it’s time these damned things finally get the fiery end they deserve.”

Waving the once-fine, now terribly tattered Legion cavalry boots, she raced through the door and out of the mess hall. Her laughter rang through the stone barracks, high and merry.

The moment Belthar released his grip on Noll’s legs, the little scout was on his feet and racing off after the archer. “Waaiiiit!” he shrieked.

Belthar stood, his movements almost serene. “Your Majesty.” He bowed to the Prince, then nodded to Aravon. “Captain.” With a smile, he marched from the mess hall in pursuit of Skathi and Noll.

Long seconds of silence passed between Aravon and Prince Toran. The Prince seemed to be chewing on something, lost in thought, his brow furrowed. Aravon had no intention of interrupting. After so many weeks on the road, he welcomed the moment of quiet. His fingers toyed with the dagger he’d taken to wearing on his belt; Tyr Farbjodr’s strange, magical blade, so similar to the one wielded by the unkillable assassin, the Hunter of Voramis. He had no idea what it could do, but he planned to find out.

When Prince Toran spoke, his voice held an edge of incredulity. “A demon. Truly?” He lifted his gaze to Aravon’s. “Like, a bloody demon from the dark, fiery hell?”

“Frozen hell, sir.” A smile quirked Aravon’s lips. “Colder than the Long Keeper’s tits, that world was.”

A stray thought had occurred to him on one of the long days spent riding northward. If Tyr Farbjodr was a demon like the one we fought, maybe that’s why he never came north of the Sawtooth Mountains. The warmth of Fehl might be too much for a creature so accustomed to ice and snow. An errant thought, one he’d only given passing contemplation, yet it might explain the Eirdkilr commander’s behavior. Rather than leading his troops in person, he’d remained in the Wastelands. To complete his magical portal to the frozen hell, certainly, but that could also be an explanation.

He’d never know, and it didn’t much matter anymore. Tyr Farbjodr was dead. Unless there was another demon masquerading as human among the Eirdkilrs, they wouldn’t have to worry about such things again.

“So that was what Lord Eidan meant when he said Tyr Farbjodr’s ‘summoning his true strength’?” the Prince asked.

“Maybe.” Aravon gave a little half-shrug. “I find it hard to believe any human would willingly go along with a plan to see our world overrun by the demons that once fought at Kharna’s side. Or, for a Fehlan, a monster like the Farbjodr.” He tugged at his long, unkempt beard—grown far longer and more unkempt in the weeks since he first rode south. “My best guess? Tyr Farbjodr probably told him a variation of what I originally believed. That he intended to use blood magic to strengthen his army. With just the few hundred he had at Praellboer and Illtgrund, he probably would have had enough to invade southern Fehl. With so much ghoulstone, he might have found a way to use the magic on his entire army.”

“If he ever intended to do so.” The Prince quirked an eyebrow.

“Aye, if.” Aravon inclined his head. “Truth be told, I don’t even know if that sort of thing is possible, or how the magic would work. If the words Rangvaldr used to bring his holy stone to life were the only words that worked, or if there were more that could reverse the effect, drain strength from someone.” He lifted his hands. “I guess we can be thankful Tyr Farbjodr either didn’t know the magic, or he chose not to use it.”

“Indeed.” Prince Toran’s expression grew musing. Then his eyebrows shot up. “A Keeper-damned demon!” He leapt to his feet. “Bloody hell, Aravon!”

Aravon chuckled. “Bloody hell’s right.” It would be a long, long time before he got Tyr Farbjodr’s face—mangled by shards of iron, flesh torn to shreds, bone pulverized, the muscles wriggling and writhing like maggots—or those eyes of foul, hideous black from his mind.

“How are you so calm about this?” Prince Toran demanded. “You just faced a demon. Two demons! And killed them!”

“I didn’t do it alone, Your Majesty.” Aravon smiled. “And I guess being there, seeing the damned things, it’s a bit easier to swallow what actually happened.” His face fell, and he stared down at his hands. “And what it cost us.”

Again, silence descended between them. This time, the Prince held his peace out of respect for Aravon. Respect for what he and the Grim Reavers had lost.

“I would offer to give him a grand funeral in Sanctuary Court,” the Prince finally said, his voice quiet, “as big as the one for Duke Dyrund and your father. But he wouldn’t have wanted that, would he?”

“No, Your Majesty.” Aravon lifted his head, and though tears pricked at his eyes, he couldn’t help smiling. “Zaharis would have hated so much pomp and spectacle. He’d have awoken just to scold us for wasting so much effort on his part.” He swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “I think, if he’d have seen his final resting place, he’d have loved it.”

Zaharis and Rangvaldr had been buried side by side beneath twin cairns of piled ghoulstone, in the tunnel where the Seiomenn had freed the captives. And where the ice saffron, the plant that had eluded Zaharis for so many years, spread its soft blue petals.

Reaching into his pouch, Aravon drew out Zaharis’ alchemical notebook. “Before he died—” Even just saying the words still proved difficult. “—he told me to use it to live my life.”

Prince Toran’s brow wrinkled, a question in his eyes.

“I didn’t understand it then, but I think…” Aravon drew in a deep breath. “…I think he meant for me to use it to bargain with the Secret Keepers. My life—and those of the Grim Reavers—for the book. And for what Zaharis found.”

Aravon thumbed through the pages until he found the one he sought. Opening it, he showed the Prince the wax parchment-covered flower—a flower with petals the color of a clear blue sky, shot through with crimson threads—Noll had pressed there.

“This is what he spent his life searching for,” Aravon said. “Even at the cost of his priesthood, his love, and his home. Now, he’s proven he was right.”

Ice saffron. Or, as the Fehlans called it, the Reginkunnr, the Flower Divine. A plant that bloomed just once a year, on the day the ancient Tauld had called the Blómágaeti. The Revelry of Blossoming, the name meant in the language of the Tauld. The day that had been the celebration before the Eirdkilrs lost their way and began to celebrate the Fjorlagerfa, the Feast of Death.

Drawing in a breath, Aravon closed the notebook and tapped its alchemically-hardened leather cover, scored and slashed by shards of iron from the exploding Earthshaker. “In here is everything he learned, everything he discovered over his decades of studying the most wild and wonderful plants of Fehl and Einan. Including his recipe for the Elixir of Creation.”

Prince Toran’s eyes rose. “Truly?”

Aravon nodded. “He wanted me to make certain the Secret Keepers got it. That they knew he had continued to serve the Mistress even after they banished him and ordered his death. He wanted to know that his work wouldn’t die just because he did.” He held out the book to the Prince. “The Secret Keepers might kill me on sight—just for the principal of the thing—so I believe it’s best you deliver it.”

“So I will.” Prince Toran took the book and turned it over in his hands. “I will make certain they understand my position on the matter in no uncertain terms.” His eyes flashed. “You and your companions need not fear them any longer, on this, you have my word as Prince.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Aravon bowed. If anyone could make the Secret Keepers see reason, it would be Prince Toran. And, hopefully, Darrak would receive the note Aravon had inserted between the pages—promising the location of Zaharis’ body and the ice saffron, in exchange for a chance to speak in private, somewhere far from Icespire. He’d considered offering up the demon’s dagger for the Secret Keepers to study. It would certainly intrigue the Mistress’ priests, perhaps enough that they’d be willing to exchange it for the Grim Reavers’ lives. But, at the very least, the meeting would give him the chance to deliver Zaharis’ last words to the Secret Keeper, the man he’d loved until his dying breath, in person. Aravon owed his fallen friend that much.

Prince Toran tucked the book into his robes and stood. “Come, Aravon. We have satisfied our hunger and thirst, so let us walk outside together. The day is beautiful and I find my legs in need of stretching.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Aravon bowed. He’d managed to eat enough to satisfy his stomach, yet in the weeks since the battle at Illtgrund, his appetite had suffered. It proved difficult to eat around the lump that seemed to remain fixed in his throat, the tightness in his chest. Every time he looked around, he saw only his missing companions. The empty spaces where Rangvaldr, Zaharis, and Colborn had once sat.

He followed Prince Toran out of the common room and into the stone hall of the barracks he and his Grim Reavers had called home what felt so long ago. The place where he had recovered from the ambush on the Eastmarch. Where he had first met his Grim Reavers and begun the work of forming a tight-knit unit. Where he’d found a way to connect with each of his companions, until they became a company as close as family.

Out of the barracks he and the Prince strode, into the glorious midday sunlight that filled Camp Marshal. Aravon’s eyes roved the training yard with the now-crumbling wooden obstacles, the archery field with its straw targets, the sparring ground where he and his Grim Reavers had trained, fought, sweat, and laughed for weeks. The smoke rising from Polus’ smithy filled the air with a tang of metal, accompanied by the sickly-sweet scent of rotting vegetation that hung thick around the Black Marsh outside the wooden palisade walls.

His smile came again, sad, heavy with nostalgia, yet tinged with something akin to acceptance. They had come so far since the day he first limped out of the stone barracks on Duke Dyrund’s arm. He and the Grim Reavers had changed, and changed the world around them. He could only hope it was for the better.

Judging by Noll’s shouts of protest, Belthar’s rumbling laughter, and Skathi’s vicious chortles as she watched Noll’s boots consumed by the roaring fire they’d lit in the center of the training yard, Aravon couldn’t be certain. Yet, the fact that Skathi could laugh with Noll and not threaten to stick a dagger into him—a threat he’d more than earned time and time again with his provocative comments—felt like progress. And the way Belthar and Skathi spent more and more time together definitely came as a welcome change. Even as he watched, Skathi took Belthar’s hand and rested her head against his huge arm. The big man leaned into her and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

Keeper knows the two of them have endured enough misery in their lives. He smiled at the sight of the two, once companions, now something more. They deserve to find that bit of happiness together.

Yet, he found himself scanning the grounds, searching for more faces. The faces of his friends, those he’d never see again.

“How long until Colborn returns?” Prince Toran’s voice drew Aravon from his thoughts.

“I’m not certain.” Aravon frowned. “He insisted on guiding the freed Fehlan captives back to the safety of Eirik Throrsson’s lands. Knowing the Hilmir, I’m certain he’ll get every shred of information he can from Colborn. Likely, he’ll be ready the moment you send word of your plan to negotiate with the Eirdkilrs, using Gunnarsdottir over there as your mouthpiece.”

“Of course he will.” Prince Toran smiled. “And, having Colborn by the Hilmir’s side could actually work out in our favor. It’s going to take some serious diplomatic smooth-talking to figure out what to do next. What to offer the Eirdkilrs—and the Tauld—that could entice them into accepting an end to the war. Eirik Throrsson is going to have the loudest voice of the Fehlans, so it’ll be good to have someone close to his side that both we and the Fjall chief trust.”

Aravon nodded. Colborn had told him as much the day they parted ways, nearly ten days earlier. The plan hadn’t even occurred to Aravon—proof that the Lieutenant was as insightful and tactically-inclined as Aravon had believed. When he returned from Ornntadr, Aravon would make certain Colborn had whatever future he wanted in the Prince’s service. Hopefully as a Grim Reaver, if the Grim Reavers continued to exist. With only four remaining, it would be a while yet before they were mission-ready.

A part of Aravon hoped Colborn didn’t return. He’d meant what he told Colborn as he lay dying. Colborn had been a man without a home for too long. Too much a Princelander for his Fehlan kind, and far too Fehlan for the Princelanders who could never see past his blond hair and heavy features. Yet over the last few weeks, since their journey to Storbjarg, Colborn had come to terms with his heritage. Fehlan and Princelander both, a man of neither world.

Or, perhaps, one of both worlds.

His family in Saerheim had died; all but Eira, his grandmother, the only one who had been kind to him when the rest of his mother’s kin reviled him—just as his father, the cowardly Lord Derran of Whitevale, had. Eira had accompanied Branda, the Hilmir’s daughter, back to Ornntadr. There, Colborn could be reunited with her. Could reveal his true identity to her and find a semblance of family once more.

When last they spoke, Aravon had sensed a new purpose within Colborn. A Lieutenant in the Legion of Heroes, a man trained to master the Fehlan arts of woodcraft, tracking, and survival. He had something few others in the Princelands or Fehl would ever have: an understanding of both cultures, and a willingness to embrace both.

He could very well be the bridge between the Princelanders and their southern neighbors. If he remained at Eirik Throrsson’s side through the next few months, he could bring a Princelander perspective to the table, all while embracing his Fehlan heritage more fully.

Aravon had no idea where Colborn’s path could lead, but he couldn’t help feeling excited to find out. Though he would miss the man—who had become as much a brother to him as Captain Lingram, perhaps more so, over the past few months—he knew this was Colborn’s chance for a better future. A future in which he found true peace with who he was. Not only as a soldier and Grim Reaver, but as a man born to two cultures and peoples.

The quiet flap, flap of heavy wings brought Aravon whirling around. His heart leapt as he scanned the sky to the north, searching for the familiar figure. He barely dared to hope but—

Joy burst from his throat in an explosive laugh as Snarl careened into his chest feet-first. The Enfield’s weight nearly dragged him to the ground, but Aravon managed to brace his feet at the last moment. His arms encircled Snarl’s furry body and clutched the little Enfield tightly to his chest. Tears of happiness pricked at his eyes as Snarl licked at his face, his chin, his neck with a rough, wet tongue. The Enfield’s loud, happy yipping echoed loud in his ears, flooding him with a delight that glowed to the core of his being.

“Hey, boy!” A beaming smile cracked Aravon’s lips, so wide he felt his head would explode. He scratched under the scruff of Snarl’s neck, staring into the Enfield’s bright amber eyes, gleaming in the daylight. Snarl’s wounds had healed, leaving only a hint of a scar along the side of his vulpine face. And, judging by his weight and the span of his flapping wings, he’d grown in the weeks since Aravon saw him last.

Aravon couldn’t speak for the joy filling his heart. He’d missed the Enfield dearly. Snarl had become as much a part of the Grim Reavers as any of his comrades. Sending him away had torn a hole in his heart. Seeing the little fox-eagle creature here, at Camp Marshal, where they had first been introduced and their bond first formed, did wonders to ameliorate his grief over Zaharis and Rangvaldr. He pulled the little Enfield close again and whispered into his furry ears, ““I missed you, boy!”

Snarl gave a happy yap and nuzzled close, pressing his wet nose against Aravon’s neck. For long seconds they stood there, locked in an embrace, Snarl’s fur warm in Aravon’s arms and against his face.

Then the Enfield’s head whipped around, toward Skathi. He barked in eager delight and, claws scrabbling at Aravon’s armor, he struggled to break free of Aravon’s grip. Aravon released the Enfield and Snarl leapt off his chest, flapped his wings to glide twenty feet away, and landed in a full run. Like an arrow loosed from the Agrotora’s bow, Snarl ran straight toward Skathi and hurtled into her arms with the eager delight of a pup. The two of them went down in a tangle of furry limbs, delighted laughter, and an assault from Snarl’s happy yapping.

Aravon couldn’t help himself. Seeing Snarl’s exuberant antics always lifted his spirits. Even now, after everything that had happened, just being near the Enfield made him feel better.

A quiet chuckle sounded at his side, and he turned to find Prince Toran grinning at him. “I’ve never seen an Enfield so energetic.”

“Aye.” Aravon laughed. “Thank you for sending him, Your Majesty.”

Prince Toran actually tried to pretend a look of innocence, but Aravon wasn’t buying it. The Enfields were housed atop the Prince’s Palace, and in the wake of Lord Eidan’s betrayal, the Prince was personally overseeing the care and use of the secret Enfield messenger service. Snarl wouldn’t be here without the Prince’s explicit command.

After a moment, the Prince’s grin returned. “Truth be told, I was tempted to send him the moment I received word that the Grim Reavers had reached the Bulwark.” Aravon had marched his column of liberated captives straight to the southernmost fortress on the Westmarch, where the garrison of Legionnaires could sort out the matter of feeding, clothing, and transporting them home. “But I couldn’t, not until I was certain…”

The Prince’s words faded as another figure appeared in the blue sky above. Darker, heavier, and with a wider wingspan than Snarl, the second Enfield moved with an almost somber majesty as he came to land in front of Prince Toran. Skyclaw, Duke Dyrund’s personal Enfield, regarded Aravon with dark amber eyes, then trotted over to sit at Prince Toran’s feet.

“Ahh, just in time.” The Prince’s face broadened into a cryptic smile. Kneeling, he tugged at the cap holding Skyclaw’s message tube sealed and pulled out a strip of tightly rolled parchment. Unrolling the note, he read its contents, and his grin grew. Without a word, he held the note out to Aravon.

Curious, Aravon took the message and read. “Authenticity verified.” Two words, meaningless to Aravon. Confusion twisted his face into a frown as he looked up at the Prince. “Your Majesty?”

Prince Toran gestured toward the scrap of parchment in Aravon’s hand. “You could say that’s the real reason I’m here, Captain. The reason we’re here in Camp Marshal.”

Aravon cocked his head, uncertain as to what the Prince meant.

Prince Toran’s smile never wavered. “The moment I heard you had returned, I knew I owed you my gratitude in person. After all you and your Grim Reavers have done for the Princelands, it would be a poor Prince who failed to look his most loyal and courageous subjects in the eyes and express his thanks in person.”

“No, sir.” Aravon shook his head. “It is our honor to serve.”

“I know.” Prince Toran inclined his head. “And that is largely why I and the Princelands owe you so much.” He looked around Camp Marshal, at the three Grim Reavers and Snarl standing beside the smoldering ruins of Noll’s prized boots. “You and your soldiers acted without hesitation, steadfast through even the most impossible battles, never expecting a word of praise or reward of any kind. True sons and daughters of Fehl. Some might even say heroes.”

Heat suffused Aravon’s cheeks and he ducked his head, embarrassed. “Your Majesty—”

Prince Toran held up a hand, and Aravon fell silent. “Had I wanted to simply convey the Princelands’ appreciation and bestow upon you and your soldiers a reward, I would have summoned you to attend me in Icespire. Yet it seems fate has conspired to send you down a vastly different path than either you or I could have expected. And thus, it seemed only fitting to do it here.”

Aravon’s brow furrowed. The Prince’s words confused—and, he had to admit, even worried—him.

The Prince’s smile faded and, face sobering, he reached into his robes and drew out a rolled-up scroll. Without a word or a hint of expression on his face, Prince Toran held it out to Aravon.

Curiosity blazed bright within Aravon as he reached for the scroll. His hands shook—with excitement, fear, or trepidation, he couldn’t be certain—as he opened the already cracked wax seal. A seal that bore the familiar wolf’s head seal of Eastfall. Duke Sammael Dyrund’s personal emblem.

Aravon’s eyes darted up from the scroll to the Prince’s face, but Prince Toran’s stony expression revealed nothing. Slowly, almost hesitant, Aravon unrolled the scroll. He read the words written in in the Duke’s neat, precise hand. A second time, then a third. His eyes narrowed, confusion seething like a maelstrom in his mind.

He looked to the Prince again. “B-But—”

“Its authenticity was verified.” Prince Toran gestured to the scrap of parchment Skyclaw had delivered. “There is no mistake.”

The words, spoken with quiet authority, rocked Aravon to the core. The world seemed to spin around him, dizzying and suddenly terribly hot. He could do nothing more than stare down at the words penned by Duke Dyrund.

“I, Duke Sammael Dyrund, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare and appoint Aravon, son of Traighan, Captain of the Legion of Heroes’ Sixth Company, Garnet Battalion, as my sole and undisputed heir. To him, I bequeath my title as ruler of the Duchy of Eastfall, and all the responsibilities and privileges accompanying the position.”

Most of the document was filled with the sort of flowery language only understood by scribes and devotees of law, but at the bottom, the Duke had written a short note.

“Aravon, I understand that this is a heavy burden to bear. I do not ask this of you lightly, nor without due consideration. And yet, try as I might, I can think of no one better suited to taking up my mantle. No one else who I would trust as much to not only act with forethought and sound judgement, but who will seek to do what is right no matter the personal cost. I can only beg your forgiveness for placing this duty on your shoulders, and pray that the Swordsman grants you the strength to bear it with the courage, grace, and dignity that I have seen in you since you were young.”

Moisture pricked at Aravon’s eyes. Blinking, he swallowed and continued reading. “I am proud to have known you, to fight by your side, to be your friend. And, I hope, with these words, you know how much you truly mean to me. Though not of my own blood, you are unquestionably my son, and I can pass on to the Long Keeper’s arms knowing everything I have done is in your hands. Farewell, Aravon, and may the Swordsman guide you on this new path.”

Tears flowed as the Duke’s words ended, but Aravon made no attempt to stop them.

“We discovered it among his personal effects stored safely in his room in the Palace.” Prince Toran’s voice sounded distant, faint beneath the torrent of emotions roiling in Aravon’s chest. “It has taken us weeks to verify its authenticity, but as you can see…” He trailed off.

Aravon stared down at the scroll once more. At the Duke’s words, written for him by the man he’d loved as a father. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to the Duke, yet with this message, he felt a sense of closure.

“Captain?” Skathi’s words drifted to him from across a vast chasm. “You good?”

“Looks like you just kissed the Long Keeper himself,” Noll said.

Aravon could find no words. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to speak around the lump in his throat. He held out the parchment to the three Grim Reavers. Belthar took it and read aloud.

“Bloody hell!” Skathi sucked in a sharp breath. “Captain, you…” She trailed off, as speechless as Aravon.

Belthar’s gaze went from the parchment, to Aravon, to the Prince. “Your Majesty, is this—?”

“Genuine.” A hint of a smile cracked Prince Toran’s face. “While we have yet to locate the Duke’s signet ring, it is only a matter of time.”

Ice slithered through Aravon’s veins. Blinded by tears, he fumbled in his pouch until his fingers felt smooth, cold steel. Grasping it, he drew out the object he’d kept safe since the day he found it hidden among the belongings of the traitorous mercenary, Otton.

“You meant that signet ring?” Belthar rumbled.

Prince Toran stared at the silver ring, bearing the wolf’s head crest of Eastfall, then at Aravon. A question shone in his eyes, but he remained silent for long seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice echoed with a hint of wry humor. “Well, isn’t that all neat and tidy?”

Aravon studied the ring, sparkling bright in the sunlight. He had all but forgotten it since finding it in Otton’s pouch, and realizing Lord Eidan’s treachery could include an attempt to gain control of Eastfall. Yet here it was, the final piece of this strange, confusing puzzle. The Duke’s signet ring…now his ring.

“Damn!” Noll whistled through his teeth. “Does that mean we’re going to have to start calling you ‘Your Grace’ now? Your Dukeship? Your Worship?” His smile took on a nasty edge. “It’s going to get awful cumbersome in the field, you know. ‘Which way do we go, Your Graceful Ducal Worshipfulness?’” With a sigh, he threw up his hands. “And learning to say that in the Secret Keeper hand language is going to be a b—”

“Wait.” Noll’s mention of “in the field” brought reality flooding back to Aravon’s mind. He turned to the Prince. “But I can’t be the Duke of Eastfall.”

“No?” Prince Toran’s eyebrows knitted together, a hint of shadow darkening his eyes. “And why, pray tell, not?”

“Because I’m dead.” Aravon wore no mask—he didn’t need to in Camp Marshal—and Polus hadn’t yet finished repairing his armor, yet their very presence in the secret training camp was all the reminder he needed. “The Duke said it the day he recruited me. Doing what we do, fighting the way we fight, the only way to keep our families safe is to keep our identities a secret. Captain Aravon of the Legion of Heroes is dead. There was a funeral and everything!”

“True.” The Prince inclined his head. “And yet, perhaps not.”

Confusion hummed within Aravon. But beneath, deep within the core of his being, a flicker of hope sprang to life.

“Captain Aravon is dead, and yet, who’s to say that dead men can’t come back to life?” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of the Prince’s mouth. “It wouldn’t be the first time such a mistake was made, and it certainly won’t be the last.”

“B-But…” Aravon found himself struggling to speak.

“Captain Snarl is a man behind a mask, one that only a handful of people have ever seen.” Prince Toran’s smile grew, confidence echoing in his voice. “Who’s to say that there can’t be a new Captain Snarl, someone else to wear the mask while Aravon of Icespire comes back to life?”

Aravon’s eyebrows flew wide. He scarcely dared believe his ears.

“The Grim Reavers serve a purpose,” Prince Toran said. His eyes locked on Aravon’s, his gaze piercing. “Yet they can continue even without you.” He stepped closer and rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “There can be more Grim Reavers, men and women who take up the call to arms and don the mask to conceal their true identities from those who would threaten them. But Duke Dyrund never expected that you would remain dead to the world around you.”

Aravon felt the embers of hope flaring to life within him. Is he really saying…?

“It was his fervent hope—and mine as well—that we would find a way to end this war.” Prince Toran met Aravon’s eyes. “We anticipated it might take years to push the Eirdkilrs back, but with the Fjall, Deid, and Eyrr joining our cause, we truly believed the battle would be won and peace restored to Fehl. Duke Dyrund fully intended to bring you back to life. That was why he told Mylena the truth that you still lived.”

The words rocked Aravon to his core. He felt as if the ground had suddenly been ripped out from beneath his feet.

“M-Mylena…knows?” He struggled just to form those simple words.

“She does.” Prince Toran’s face sobered. “She has known since the day the Duke suggested I recruit her into my service, helping me look into the Lord Virinus matter.” His expression grew almost apologetic. “The Duke insisted she know, if only to give her the strength to hold on until the day you came back to life.”

Aravon’s jaw dropped. The Prince’s statement set his head spinning, so violently Aravon thought he might collapse. Yet joy and hope blossomed bright within him. She knows! Tears sprang to Aravon’s eyes. She knows I’m alive!

All this time, Aravon had borne the anguish of knowing his wife and sons believed him dead. First him, then General Traighan. Mylena had loved the old man as much as any daughter-in-law could, and both deaths would have been painful losses. Worse, she had suffered alone. Suffered, even as she wore a brave face for Rolyn and Adilon, worked in the Prince’s service to spy on Lord Aleron Virinus and unmask the traitor.

But she hadn’t suffered alone. Not truly. Though the loss of her father-in-law would have left deep pain, she had known that Aravon still lived. Her husband still lived, and would spend every moment fighting to return to her side. The knowledge that she was safe and cared-for had kept him going through even the darkest days. Now, the burden of what he’d chosen to do grew a fraction lighter because his wife had known they would be rejoined one day soon.

“What do you say, Aravon?” The Prince spoke his name with extra emphasis. “You were willing to die for the sake of the Princelands, but now it calls you to return to life. Do you accept this, Duke Dyrund’s last mission?”

Aravon stared at the Prince, speechless. The whirling in his mind refused to coalesce into cohesive thoughts, much less words. Everything the Prince had just said left him at an utter loss.

“Of course he does!” Skathi spoke for him. “The Captain here—er, I mean, the Duke here—accepts gladly.”

“Y-Yes,” Aravon managed to stutter. “I-I...” He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I accept.” His voice grew stronger, emotions blazing bright and hot within him. “Of course, Your Majesty. It would be my honor to serve the Princelands.”

“Good.” Prince Toran’s handsome face broke into a beaming smile. “Then kneel, Captain Aravon of Icespire.”

Somehow, despite the violent trembling of his legs, Aravon managed to drop to one knee without falling on his face. He bowed his head as the Prince drew the sword from his belt. A reverent hush descended over Camp Marshal in that moment. Even the marshland birds fell silent, the wind slowing its gentle whispering, as if the world held its breath to watch what came next.

“I, Prince Cedenas Toran, ruler of Icespire and the five duchies of the Princelands, hereby declare you the true and rightful heir to Duke Sammael Dyrund and the Duchy of Eastfall.”

The Prince’s sword tapped the top of Aravon’s head, then his right shoulder, then his left.

“Do you, Aravon, swear to serve your duchy as its duly appointed ruler? To honor the Dukes who have gone before you, to continue their efforts to maintain peace, law, and order in Eastfall, and to bring prosperity to all the Princelands? To serve your Prince with loyalty and honor, to seek justice for all who come to you, and to champion the cause of righteousness?”

“I do,” Aravon managed to say.

“Then, in the eyes of the thirteen gods of the Princelands, and before sworn witnesses, I hereby anoint you as Duke of Eastfall, with all the rights and responsibilities accompanying the title. Rise, Duke Aravon.”

With effort, Aravon pushed to his feet, locking his knees to keep his legs from shaking. Prince Toran’s voice was as solemn as his face, but his eyes smiled as bright as the midday sun.

“Serve well, Duke Aravon of Eastfall.” The Prince lowered his sword. “Your Princelands have need of a man as courageous and steadfast as you.”

Aravon could only bow. “I will do my utmost, Your Majesty.”

Before Aravon straightened, a huge hand clapped him on the back, so hard he nearly stumbled. “Congratulations, Captain!” Belthar’s rumbling voice shattered the reverent silence.

“That’s congratulations, Duke!” Noll jabbed an elbow in Belthar’s ribs. “Keeper’s teeth, Belthar, you’re going to have to learn some proper courtly etiquette. You never know what Duke Eastfall here will do if you piss him off. Send you to the stocks or have your ears fed to the pigs or something worse!”

“Like lock us in a tiny room with whatever pair of boots you stink up next?” Belthar shot back.

Pain twisted Noll’s face and his eyes darted to the ashes that had once been his prized possession.

“Damn, sir!” Skathi fixed Aravon with a smile, a hint of sorrow mingled with her joy. “I think they’d have been proud of you.”

Aravon understood who she meant by they. “Rangvaldr would have wanted to break out a barrel of ayrag to celebrate.” A grin tugged at his lips. “And Zaharis would have made something that either stopped the Seiomenn from getting drunk, or got him drunk twice as fast!”

Skathi laughed, and the pain in her eyes lessened a fraction. The Grim Reavers all felt the loss of their companions keenly, even weeks later, yet there was a healing comfort in laughter, in the memories of the two men who had fought and died at their side.

“Still,” Skathi said, “it’s a shame.” She gave a wry shake of her head. “We were just getting used to having you order us around. Now, only the Keeper knows who we’re going to end up with.”

“About that.” Prince Toran’s voice drew Aravon’s attention. The Prince’s expression had grown pensive. “The return of Gunnarsdottir gives us a chance to try and negotiate with the Eirdkilrs. Which means you—” He stabbed a finger at Skathi. “—are going to be awfully busy in the next few weeks. And, with the Eirdkilrs halting their attacks, at least for the moment, perhaps the Grim Reavers have earned a bit of time off.”

Belthar and Noll exchanged eager glances. “Dibs on Polus’ ale!” they shouted in unison and turned to race into the barracks.

“Not to get drunk.” Aravon’s voice stopped them before they’d taken a step. Their faces fell. “Well, not only to get drunk.”

Hope shone in the two soldiers’ eyes.

Aravon looked to the Prince. “You’ll want us to train the next crop of Grim Reavers, yes? Make sure they’re ready if the Gunnarsdottir plan fails?”

Prince Toran inclined his head. “I was hoping you’d be willing.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Aravon said. “It would be an honor.”

“Good.” Prince Toran smiled. “Since the first success at Bjornstadt, Duke Dyrund set one of his people the task of compiling a list of candidates for the next company of Grim Reavers. Legionnaires, Agrotorae, mercenaries, ducal regulars, even a few Fehlans from both sides of the Chain.” He fixed Aravon with a stern gaze. “If you’re up for the task, I would have them brought here by the week’s end.”

“I am.” Aravon bowed. “But I won’t be able to do it alone.” He turned to his three companions. “I’m going to need help to whip them into shape, get them ready to fight the way we did.”

Belthar and Noll’s eyes widened.

Skathi only smiled. “Of course, sir. If nothing else, to make sure we don’t end up with any more archers as piss-poor as Noll here.”

Noll spluttered, outrage flaring in his face. Aravon ignored the scout’s protest and turned to Belthar.

“What of you, Belthar?” He stared up at the big man. “There are few men I’d trust more to train the next crop of Grim Reavers. Whip them into fighting shape, teach them what they need to know to stay alive in a fight with the Eirdkilrs.”

Belthar’s face flushed, and something akin to disbelief shone bright in his eyes. Yet a moment later, a massive grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I-It’d be an honor, Captain!”

Aravon clapped the big man on the shoulder. “Good.” He grinned. “You’ll need something to keep you busy while Skathi’s off playing heroine with the Eirdkilrs.”

A hint of a scowl cracked Skathi’s smile.

“About that, sir.” Belthar hesitated a moment, his eyes darting toward Skathi. “I…I’d like to join her when she heads south again. She’ll need someone to watch her back—”

“Backside, more like,” Noll muttered.

“—and make sure the Eirdkilrs stay in line.” Belthar ignored the little scout’s jibe. “I’d be happy to help you here. Just as soon as we get back, that is.”

Aravon inclined his head. “I accept, Belthar.” He clapped the big man on the shoulder. “No one I’d trust with keeping our Gunnarsdottir Reborn alive.”

“Keeper’s teeth, not you, too!” Skathi threw up her hands. “That’s going to grow old Capta…er, Your Grace.”

Aravon grinned. “Get used to it.” He turned to Noll. “And what about you?” The little scout, who had recovered from Skathi’s insult enough that his face was no longer bright purple with anger, only a simmering red. “Will you stay and help?”

All trace of anger faded from Noll’s expression, and his features grew unreadable. Long moments of silence passed in contemplation. Then Noll turned to the Prince. “Your Majesty, when you said ‘dead men can come back to life’, were you only talking about the Captain here, or…” His words trailed off, as if he struggled to voice his thoughts.

Prince Toran’s lips pursed into a musing smile. “What did you have in mind?”

Noll turned, and for the first time, Aravon saw a glimmer of hope there. A hope he hadn’t dared put into words for fear that it would never come true.

“I…” Noll’s voice cracked. He swallowed, hard. “I think I’d like to go home to my family, sir.”

Aravon stepped close to the scout, gripped his shoulder. “Go.” A single word, backed by all the emotion Aravon felt at the knowledge that he, too, would soon be reunited with his own wife and sons. “Go to them, and show them the man you’ve become.”

Prince Toran stepped forward. “Perhaps when they see this, they will know the truth of who you are.” He held up a pair of jeweled pins: two white gold long swords, with deep blue sapphires set into the pommels.

Noll’s eyes flew wide as he stared at the jewelry. He, like every other Legionnaire, recognized the Sword of the Princelands—the highest military honor on Fehl—immediately.

The little scout seemed frozen in place, paralyzed by surprise and disbelief. He didn’t move a muscle as Prince Toran pinned the ornate swords to his collar.

“There will be no official ceremony,” Aravon said quietly. “The world may never know what you have done. But your name will be written down in the records, there to see for all time.” He gripped the scout’s shoulder. “Wear it with pride, and be the man I know you are.”

Tears sprang to Noll’s eyes. “Thank you, Captain!” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, yet it rang with relief and gratitude. “Thank you!”

At that moment, the creaking of huge hinges echoed through Camp Marshal. Aravon spun toward the sound in time to see Clem hauling the wooden gates into the camp open. He tensed, his heart leaping into his throat, yet when he glanced at the Prince, he found only a hint of a smile on the man’s lips.

“Speaking of family,” Prince Toran said under his breath.

A plain wooden carriage—little more than four walls with curtained windows and a flat roof atop two pairs of iron-rimmed wheels—splashed along the muddy track into Camp Marshal. The two clay-red draft horses pulling the carriage appeared as unimpressive as the two shabbily-dressed men driving it. Save for its presence in what should have been a secret camp, there was nothing at all remarkable about the vehicle. Nothing to indicate who it conveyed.

Aravon’s hand dropped to his belt, to the hilt of his sword. Yet, the fact that Clem hadn’t called out—either in warning or greeting—gave him pause. The watchman had opened the gate without hesitation.

His curiosity blazed even brighter as the two drivers leapt down from their bench. The movement twitched aside their cloaks, revealing a pair of scabbarded swords and black lamellar armor beneath the ragged garments. The Prince’s Ebonguards.

Aravon’s eyes darted to the Prince. Prince Toran had ridden into Camp Marshal alone an hour earlier, clad in equally simple, dust-covered robes, riding a nondescript horse that could have been found in any town or village in Eastfall. He’d dismissed his bodyguards’ absence as nothing more than a precaution to protect Camp Marshal’s secrecy.

But if that’s the case, why are his guards here with that carriage? And who in the fiery hell is—

A woman stepped out of the carriage. A woman with chestnut hair, pulled into two neat braids that framed her heart-shaped face. Olive-green eyes rimmed with kohl turned from the Ebonguard, and a smile tugged on perfect lips as her gaze rested on Aravon.

Mylena.

For a long moment, Aravon couldn’t move. A swirling, seething miasma of emotions held him rooted in place—too many emotions for his mind or heart to even begin to comprehend. He could do nothing but stand, jaw slack, his eyes locked on the most beautiful woman in the world.

Mylena’s lips parted in that dazzling smile of hers, revealing perfect teeth, and her eyes shone so bright Aravon felt himself going blind.

Then he was running. Sprinting faster than he’d ever run in his life, fast enough to outrace his Kostarasar charger. His feet fairly flew, barely touching the ground, his heart in his throat. He ran, with every shred of strength, toward his wife.

“Aravon!” The cry, thick with joy, relief, and delight, burst from her lips the moment before he swept her up into his arms. He buried his face in her neck, weeping openly now, great sobs shaking his shoulders. Yet there was no sorrow in that cry, no grief or anguish. Gone was the pain he’d felt—not forgotten, yet driven back in his elation at being reunited with his wife.

“I knew you’d keep your promise!” Mylena was whispering in his ear. “I knew you’d come home to me!” Her arms encircled his neck, a fierce strength in her clasp, holding him close.

Aravon held her with every shred of strength, like a drowning man clinging to floating debris. He wanted to remain like this forever, to never let her go. Never be apart from her after so many months spent separated by duty and necessity.

“I’m sorry!” The words poured from Aravon’s lips. “So sorry! Everything you had to deal with, on your own—”

“No!” Mylena’s voice rang with conviction, the edge of steely determination that had drawn him to her all those years ago. “No, you did what you had to. For us. For our family, and for the Princelands.”

Her breath was hot on his neck, sending shivers running down his spine. He pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her, her body melding into his. He dared not open his eyes, release his grip on her for fear she would melt away—and he would find it had all been a cruel, tormenting dream.

Yet as he crushed her to his chest, felt her strength match his, the muscles along her back rippling as she embraced him, he knew it was no dream. It was real. She truly did stand here. Here, with him. As real as the mud beneath his feet and the hammering of his heartbeat in his ears.

Swallowing the lump that rose to his throat, he pulled back from the embrace. Looked into her beautiful face, her perfect olive-green eyes. Scarcely daring to believe that he stood before her once more, his mind ablaze with a thousand emotions. All joyous, elated, too happy to find words.

“The Duke and Duchess of Eastfall will be integral to the future of the Grim Reavers.” Prince Toran’s voice echoed seemingly a world away. “And not just the funding of Camp Marshal. Lady Mylena proved herself an admirably adept spymistress.”

But it was another voice that drew his attention. A child’s voice.

“Mama?”

Aravon’s eyes darted past Mylena to the young boy who stood before the open door of the carriage. Even at just nine years old, Rolyn had already begun to show his mother’s strength of spirit, her stubbornness etched into his features. He stood protectively in front of Adilon, the way he had on the roof of the Palace in Icespire. Yet Aravon saw himself—and his father—reflected in the hard set of Rolyn’s jaw, the squaring of his shoulders.

Adilon, the “baby” at age seven, peered out from his brother’s shadow. His wide eyes were locked on Aravon’s face. A question shone in his gaze, yet there was something else there. A flicker of recognition?

A fist of iron squeezed at Aravon’s chest. It had been nearly three years since he last saw the boys. Since they had clung to his legs and begged him not to leave. They hadn’t understood his duty—how could they at such a young age?—or why he hadn’t returned. Perhaps they never would.

Again, Aravon’s reflection stared back at him in the eyes of his sons. He had spent so much of his childhood angry at his father for leaving. Worse, for being a sullen, drunken, angry husk of a man when he returned. Now, at least, he had come to understand General Traighan’s reasons for leaving. Not out of desire—for what man could want to be hundreds of miles away as his wife lay dying—but out of duty. He’d made the same sacrifices his father had, sacrifices that would doubtless leave scars as deep as those that twisted General Traighan’s soul.

Still he hesitated. What could he possibly say? What words could make them forget everything that had happened in his absence? Uncertainty rooted his legs in place. He could face Eirdkilrs by the thousands, but faced with his sons, he felt a strange, chilling fear. Would they hate him as he had his father?

“They will understand,” Mylena’s whispered words filtered into his ears. “They know the truth.”

In that moment, staring into those faces—faces so like his own, blended with all the best of Mylena—he knew he would be different from his father. In the aspects that mattered, at least. He could never have back all the years he’d lost. Years spent away from his sons, from his wife, his home. Yet he would do everything in his power to be the father he’d wished his father had been. He could only hope they didn’t hate him. Or, if nothing else, they could forgive him.

Releasing Mylena’s hand, he moved around his wife and strode toward his sons. Rolyn flinched back a fraction, shielding Adilon instinctively—a sight that both tore at Aravon’s heart and filled him with pride. Gently, careful to keep his movements slow, Aravon knelt in front of the two boys.

He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. What could he say to them? What words could possibly make up for everything they’d endured? They had believed he was dead—nothing he could say would take back the pain and sorrow they’d felt, or give back the nights they’d doubtless cried themselves to sleep. Now that he had come face to face with them, his sons, the boys he’d given everything to protect, he had nothing to offer.

Rolyn stared at him, his gaze piercing, searching Aravon’s face for…what? What did he look for in those battle-hardened, bearded features? Was he staring at the scar running down the side of Aravon’s face, inflicted by Hrolf Hrungnir? Or was he seeking something else, something—anything—familiar about the man he could hardly remember?

Adilon slid beneath his brother’s protective arm and came to stand before Aravon. Slowly, he reached out a hand. Tentative, his movements hesitant, uncertainty darkening his olive-green eyes. Chubby fingers brushed Aravon’s long, thick beard and pulled back.

“Prickly!” Adilon’s face crinkled into a frown and, with the innocent candor of youth, met Aravon’s gaze. “I think you looked better without it.”

The words stunned Aravon to silence. He gaped, too surprised to say anything, and could only stare dumbfounded at his brazen son.

Snorting, chuckling laughter shattered the moment. A half-snort, half-rumble burst from Belthar’s lips, and Skathi joined in. Noll’s cackling filled the air a moment later, accompanied by a more polite, restrained laugh from Prince Toran.

Aravon couldn’t help joining in. He’d dreamed of this moment for months—since the day he died on the Eastmarch. Had dreamed of being reunited with his family. Never in the countless times he’d pictured it had he imagined those words being his greeting.

Yet, in that moment, they felt perfect.

He swept Adilon into an embrace, pulling the little boy close. After only a heartbeat of surprised stiffness, Adilon melted into the hug and wrapped his arms around Aravon’s neck. A second later, Rolyn joined them. More reserved than his younger brother, but his embrace held a greater strength.

Aravon held his sons, and again tears streamed down his cheeks. Tears of utter delight and perfect bliss. He had come home to his family. Something he hadn’t believed possible, yet here it was, utterly real, as perfect a reunion as he could hope for.

The pain of loss would remain, would weigh on his heart for years to come. Sixth Company, Draian, Duke Dyrund, his father, Captain Lingram and the Deadheads, and, most of all, Zaharis and Rangvaldr. The burden of grief would persist, kept alive in the memory of his fallen friends and comrades.

But for now, the mere presence of his loved ones—his wife and sons, as well as three of the Grim Reavers that had become a vital part of his family—was enough.

He was home. For a soldier, a man sworn to serve Prince and country, it was the best future he could have hoped or wished for.

The Adventures Aren’t Over Yet!

I’m not yet ready to say goodbye to the war-torn continent of Fehl. Are you?

The story of Aravon and the Grim Reavers might be over, but there are more stories to tell. Stories of courage under pressure, sacrifice, and heroism in the face of certain death.

There are two more stories that need to be told before you are finished with this slice of my epic fantasy world. First off, the tale of Duvain, Endyn, Corporal Rold, Captain Lingram, and every other Deadhead that sacrificed their lives to help Aravon and the Grim Reavers stop Tyr Farbjodr’s evil.

Ragged Heroes is the story of the battle for Saerheim, the Deid village from Steel and Valor—home to Colborn’s grandmother, and the place where Lord Virinus takes young Branda to flee the Eirdkilrs after the death of Duke Dyrund. Chronologically, this takes place around the end of Battle for Peace, in the weeks leading up to the Battle at Hangman’s Hill. You will definitely want to read this story to find out what happened to the Deadheads and how the ragtag group of the Legion’s outcasts ultimately became the heroes they are when you met them in Battle for Peace.

Ragged Heroes

When death came calling, the outcasts became the champions.

The Deadheads. A ragtag band of disgraced soldiers, killers saved from the gallows, and recruits too inept to hold the shield wall. They are the dregs of the Legion of Heroes.

Duvain and Endyn are no exception. A giant with a terrible secret and his weak, incapable brother, they are barely competent enough to march in a straight line and hold formation.

But when a humdrum posting far from the battle line sets them directly in the path of an unstoppable barbarian horde, the Deadheads are all that stands between the enemy and total annihilation.

Can the good-for-nothing soldiers prove themselves capable enough to turn the tide of battle and save innocent civilians?

Ragged Heroes is the fifth book in the riveting Silent Champions military fantasy series, a companion novel that fleshes out the war-torn world of Fehl.

For those who love heroic underdogs and snarky soldiers, dive into this gripping, action-packed story today!

Want a Free Short Story?

The prequel to my Hero of Darkness series!

The Hunter of Voramis does not forgive or forget. But his thirst for vengeance against a deceitful client could lead to consequences far graver than he realizes.

Fans of Joe Abercrombie, Brandon Sanderson, and Brent Weeks will love the Hunter...

(Yes, THAT Hunter of Voramis, the unkillable assassin from Steel and Valor!)

Sign up for my VIP Reader List

and get the prequel short story for free!

Pronunciation Guide

Kaldrborg – KAAHLD-uhr-BOORG

Fjorlagerfa – Fyour-LAW-guhr-FAH

Gnottmessa – HNAWT-mehz-sah

Haustmessa – HOWST-mehz-sah

Megin – MAYG-een

Illtgrund – EELD-gruhnd

Saetavirki – Sat-ah-VEER-kih

Hafoldarholl – Hahf-OLD-ah-rahll

Kunnigr – KYOO-nig

Praellboer – Prahll-BOAR

For-faras – Fohr-FAHR-ahs

Groennrjodr – GROAN-yodd-uhr

Svassmeyla – Svahs-SMAY-lah

Min Brodir – Meen-BROHD-uhr

Fadir – FAH-deer

Dróttinn – DROWT-ihn

Fornlid – FOHRN-leed

Grimabrandr – GREEM-ah-BRAHND-uhr

Enjoy More Series by Andy Peloquin

Plus, get backstory and insight into the epic world of Einan!

Queen of Thieves

They killed her family. They ripped apart her home. But to repay her debts, she'll have to sacrifice her innocence.

Robbed of everything she loves, Viola mourns the sudden loss of her mother. Now burdened with an impossible debt to the Night Guild, she’s forced to train as a cunning thief. Subjected to cruelty at every turn, the scrawny criminal apprentice vows to survive long enough to become the kingdom’s best.

Thrown together with unlikely allies, her burgeoning skills draw the attention of sadistic bullies and jealous rivals with dark intentions. But fueled by grief-filled rage, Viola won’t let anything distract her from preparing for The Guild’s most treacherous test.

In a cutthroat den of thieves, can Viola rise to power and outrun a brutal death?

Child of the Night Guild is the first book in the gripping Queen of Thieves epic fantasy series that’s not for the faint of heart. If you like grimdark battles, improbable heroines, and graphic scenes, then you’ll love Andy Peloquin’s unflinching coming-of-age tale.

Buy Child of the Night Guild for a pitch-black tale of thievery today!

Book 1: Child of the Night Guild

Book 2: Thief of the Night Guild

Book 3: Queen of the Night Guild

Hero of Darkness

The best assassin in the world doesn’t come cheap. Betraying him will cost your soul.

The Hunter is a name feared by all in Voramis. He is an outcast, driven by a cursed dagger with an unquenchable thirst for blood and death.

Yet he follows one simple code: kill those who truly deserve to die. His creed is put to the test when, deceived by a shadowy employer, he unknowingly slaughters an innocent man.

With the most powerful criminal organization in the city after his head, the Hunter must fight for his life and find a way to atone for his mistake. When his enemies harm the people under his protection, it will take much more than an army of criminals to stand in the way of his revenge.

If you love anti-heroes like the Punisher or Dexter in a breathtaking fantasy realm, then immerse yourself in Hero of Darkness today! Dive into an epic tale of one man’s struggle to survive in a world of magic, blood, and death.

Book 1: Darkblade Assassin

Book 2: Darkblade Outcast

Book 3: Darkblade Protector

Book 4: Darkblade Seeker

Book 5: Darkblade Slayer

Book 6: Darkblade Savior

Book 7: Darkblade Justice

Different, Not Damaged: A Short Story Collection

Heirs of Destiny

A kingdom of death. A war for power and profit. Young heroes caught in the crossfire.

Kodyn expected hardships along his journey to return a kidnapped girl to her father.  Yet harsh deserts and cutthroat bandits prove far less lethal than the foes that await him in Shalandra, the City of the Dead.

In the shadows of golden spires carved from mountain stone, currents of corruption and vice run deep. Priests of the god of death rule with an iron fist, imposing a rigid caste system that elevates some to a life of privilege and condemns others to miserable squalor.

Together with Aisha, a fierce warrior from the north with the mystical ability to speak to the dead, Kodyn must survive the cesspool of high society deceit and betrayal.

Polite smiles hide sharp knives. Killers, criminals, and bloodthirsty cultists lurk around every corner. Can these youths overcome impossible odds to save the realm?

Click now if you love action, intrigue, and heroic deeds that will set your heart racing! For fans of A.C. Cobble, Jeff Wheeler, and Robin Hobb, Heirs of Destiny is a thrill ride on epic fantasy’s darker side.

Trial of Stone (Book 1)

Crucible of Fortune (Book 2)

Secrets of Blood (Book 3)

Storm of Chaos (Book 4)

Ascension of Death (Book 5)

The Renegade Apprentice (Book 6)

About the Author

I am, first and foremost, a storyteller and an artist--words are my palette. Fantasy is my genre of choice, and I love to explore the darker side of human nature through the filter of fantasy heroes, villains, and everything in between. I'm also a freelance writer, a book lover, and a guy who just loves to meet new people and spend hours talking about my fascination for the worlds I encounter in the pages of fantasy novels.

Fantasy provides us with an escape, a way to forget about our mundane problems and step into worlds where anything is possible. It transcends age, gender, religion, race, or lifestyle--it is our way of believing what cannot be, delving into the unknowable, and discovering hidden truths about ourselves and our world in a brand new way. Fiction at its very best!

Join my Facebook Reader Group

for updates, LIVE readings, exclusive content, and all-around fantasy fun.

Let's Get Social!

Be My Friend: https://www.facebook.com/andrew.peloquin.1

Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/andyqpeloquin

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AndyPeloquin

Table of Contents

Courage to Sacrifice The Silent Champions (Book 4)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Epilogue