Aravon nodded. The short walk had left him more exhausted than he expected.
“Good.” Draian pulled the covers up to Aravon's chin and tucked the edges of the blanket beneath his shoulders—the way Mylena did with Rolyn and Adilon. “I'll return in a few hours with some more stew and tea.”
“A bit of wine, perhaps?” Aravon asked. “And leave the door open.”
“The latter I can do. As for the former…” Draian tugged at his long beard. “We'll see.” With one final disapproving frown, the Mender strode from the room.
Aravon lay in silence. Once again, the Duke had given him a great deal to think about.
He wasn't kidding when he spoke of a new way to fight the war. Over fifteen years in the Legion, Aravon had learned to depend on the chain of supply, on the companies and battalions of men serving beside him. The orders from his superiors had instructed him which way to go and what to do. Now, to think of independence from a command structure made him hesitate. All the decisions—and the accompanying blame when they went wrong—would rest on his shoulders.
A shadow darkened his door. Frowning, he looked up.
The Duke's aide, Lord Eidan, stood there. “Captain, may I enter?” he rumbled.
“Of course, my lord.”
Lord Eidan moved with the rapid gait of a man on a mission, each step precise and perfectly controlled. He held himself erect, with the confidence that came from his rank as a nobleman. Yet his eyes moved around with the wariness Aravon had come to expect from scouts or men who ventured alone into enemy territory. It seemed he searched every corner, every shadow for a threat.
The nobleman stood nearly as tall as Aravon, but the long stripes of his elegant robes made him seem taller. The richness of his clothes contrasted sharply with the small bundle of ragged cloths nestled in his arms.
He stopped beside Aravon's bed. “It is time you are introduced to one of the most critical members of your team.” With gentle movements, he set the bundle on Aravon's legs.
Aravon nearly jumped as something within the cloths moved.
A little face peered from the bundle. The creature had small, floppy ears, slate-blue eyes, and fuzzy orange fur framing its triangular face. With a little high-pitched yip, it pushed free of its wrappings. From its black nose to its long tail, it was only slightly longer than his hand and weighed little more.
“A fox?” Aravon asked.
“No.” Lord Eidan pointed to the two stubby, down-covered wings that protruded from the creature's ribs. “An Enfield.”
The ancient folktales of Fehl mentioned Enfields: creatures with the bodies and faces of foxes and the wings and talons of eagles. They shared many of the same temperaments with their mundane counterparts—cunning ingenuity, keen eyes, and fierce loyalty to their young. According to the legends, they had disappeared from Fehl more than five hundred years earlier.
Aravon's eyes widened. “I thought they were just a myth!”
Lord Eidan smiled. “They are.” He nudged the little ball of orange fur closer to Aravon. “But you'll find most myths are based on truths forgotten by time.” Nodding to Aravon, he strode from the room.
Aravon, too boggled by the Enfield's presence, forgot to ask Lord Eidan the reason why. By the time he recovered, the door had closed behind the nobleman.
“Hello, there,” Aravon said.
The Enfield's ears twitched at the words, and the little head turned toward him. Slate-blue eyes regarded him with curiosity.
“What's your name?”
The little creature gave a whining bark and padded toward him. Halfway up Aravon's leg, one of its paws got caught in a fold of the blanket. It promptly lost its balance and toppled onto the bed, where it lay struggling to disentangle itself.
Aravon sat up, reaching for the Enfield with his good arm. “You're all tangled up there. Let's get you free.”
The Enfield nipped at him, a mewling growl rumbling from its throat.
“Hey, now!” Aravon jerked his hand back, out of range of its milk teeth. “No need to snarl like that.”
The growls turned to a whine as the little foxlike creature failed to free its legs.
Aravon laughed. “Seems like you've chosen a name for yourself.” Careful of the Enfield's snapping jaws, he gently extricated the creature from the blanket and brought him closer to his face. The Enfield stared at him with the same curious expression. Intelligence shone in its eyes.
“What do you think of Snarl?” he asked.
The Enfield gave a little yip and opened its mouth wide in a yawn—or a smile.
Aravon felt a grin spread across his own lips. “Nice to meet you, Snarl. Seems like we're going to be spending some time together.”
The creature gave no answer. It had curled up in his hand and fallen asleep.
Chapter Seven
Aravon pushed the stack of parchments away with a growl. “By the Swordsman, Lectern, how long are we going to have to do this?”
Lectern Kayless regarded him with a stoic expression. “Until you've learned it properly, Captain.” His thick spectacles gave him an owlish look, complemented by his pudgy cheeks, thick eyebrows, and hooked nose. “The moment you have learned these facts and figures, my work will be done.”
Sighing, Aravon rubbed his eyes. He'd spent the last three weeks of convalescence poring over the map of Fehl, learning everything the Duke had been able to gather about the land beyond the Chain. The Duke had sent a handful of Lecterns, priests in service to Kiro the Master, god of nobility and virtue, to teach them. The collection of wisdom stored in the libraries of the Lecterns exceeded that available anywhere in the world—except, perhaps in the Temple of Whispers.
“The continent of Fehl stretches nine hundred and fifty miles across,” he recited from memory, “with twelve hundred and fifty miles between Icespire and the Sawtooth Mountains.”
“Good.” The Lectern gave a little nod. “And the Fehlan clans?”
Aravon pawed through the parchments for the map of Fehl. “Our neighbors immediately south of the Chain are the Smida and Vidr clans, with the Jokull to the far west. The Deid, Jarnleikr, and Eyrr clans claim much of central Fehl, but the Fjall hold the largest tract of land. Near the Sawtooth Mountains are the Myrr and Bein clans, along with the smaller clans occupying the western coast.”
“And the Eirdkilrs?” Kayless asked.
Aravon's finger tapped the mountain range at the bottom of the map. “We know they come from beyond the Sawtooth Mountains, but not much more.” He narrowed his eyes. “Surely the Duke's intelligence gatherers have been able to find some information on what lies beyond the mountains?”
Lectern Kayless’ brow furrowed. “Our attempts to cross into Eirdkilr territory have proven unsuccessful. Or, no one has returned with any useful information. With Snowpass Keep being the only way through the mountains, our choices have been limited.”
Aravon studied the two gaps in the mountain range. Snowpass Keep to the west was the former Legion stronghold now occupied by the Eirdkilrs. The eastern pass had been closed for fifteen years—the brave Legionnaires of Onyx Battalion’s Thirteenth Company had destroyed Highcliffe Motte and brought down the cliff walls rather than giving the Eirdkilrs another entrance to the rest of Fehl. That way was closed, though some whispered that the ancient tunnels beneath the Sawtooth Mountains would provide access. If anyone was foolish enough to brave their depths.
“Tell me of the Eirdkilrs, Captain,” the Lectern said, his tone lecturing.
Aravon snarled. “Aside from the fact that they're ruthless savages bent on killing every one of us?”
Kayless shook his head. “You are thinking like a soldier speaking of the enemy across the battlefield. You must separate yourself from emotion, approach it from the standpoint of logic and strategy.”
With effort, Aravon forced the anger from his voice. “The Eirdkilrs first appeared a little over a hundred years ago, after the Legion had conquered the rest of the Fehlan clans. Once known as the Tauld cl
an, they called themselves the Eirdkilrs—the destroyers of half-men, as they call us 'Eird'. After driving the Legion from Snowpass Keep, they began a systematic campaign to eliminate us from Fehl. They swayed Fehlan clans—among them the Myrr and Bein—to join the war against us. Those they could not convince to join their alliance were raided mercilessly, until the Jarnleikr, Fjall, Deid, and Eyrr clans took up arms against us. Only the Smida and Vidr clans remained allies, shielding our Legionnaires as they retreated to the safety of the Chain.”
“Excellent.” The Lectern rubbed his hands. “Perhaps your mind isn't quite as rigid as I feared.”
Aravon gave him a wry grin. “After a week of listening to your lectures, I'd certainly hope some of the information stuck.”
In addition to in-depth study of the continent of Fehl, he'd spent hours with Lectern Trillan learning the Fehlan tongue—a primitive, barbaric-sounding language at first, yet surprisingly elegant as he mastered its complexities. He'd had a basic understanding of it from his years in the Legion, so progress had been quick.
His education on other matters—the basics of herbology and medicine from Draian and the quick hit-and-run battle tactics of the Hrandari raiders to the far north of Einan from the Duke's private library—had proven less successful. He was better at killing men than healing them, and his knowledge of plant life had never extended beyond the basics of which were edible. After years spent learning the discipline of the shield wall and marching line, his mind struggled to adapt to the concepts of what the Duke called “skirmisher warfare”.
Lectern Kayless continued quizzing him on every detail imaginable: the locations of the various gold, silver, and gemstone mines around Fehl—the true source of Icespire's power, and the reason Prince Toran could afford to hire the Legion; the rough boundaries of the various clans' territories and the locations of their largest villages, towns, and settlements; the population of each clan; the victories and losses of every major battle that had occurred in the last hundred years on Fehl; and more, until Aravon's head ached.
Finally, Kayless folded his hands in his lap and nodded. “The Duke was right about you.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
The Lectern gave a little smile, which only accentuated his owlish appearance. “You have a sharp mind, sharper than most I've tutored in my life. You truly are the man for the task.” He stood and bowed. “May the Mistress' luck smile on your endeavor, Captain Aravon. Keeper knows it won't be easy.” With that, he left the room.
Aravon leaned back in his chair with a sigh and reached for his goblet. He drained it in a long gulp and set it on the table.
His eyes strayed to the little orange and brown figure curled up under his bed. Snarl lay fast asleep in his blankets, his snores a dull hum. Doubtless Lectern Kayless had bored him to slumber. Unfortunately, Aravon hadn't had the luxury of dozing through the lectures.
Snarl had grown over the last three weeks. His muzzle and tail had begun to lengthen. Patches of red and white fur had appeared on his face, and his irises had changed from slate-blue to grey with flecks of brown. His ears had lost their adorable floppiness and now stood erect. In addition to the increased wooliness of his coat, his wings had begun to grow as well. Though still stubby, their downy feathers had thickened.
The last three weeks had passed much more quickly than Aravon expected. In an attempt to keep gloomy thoughts of his family from his mind—to drive back the knowledge he might never see them again—he’d thrown himself into his new mission with almost frantic abandon. When not studying under Lectern Kayless or learning the Fehlan tongue, he'd spent most of his time caring for the Enfield. The little creature was restless, always wanting to scamper out of the room. Snarl's energy forced Captain Aravon out of bed. Movement had done his leg good.
Unfortunately, his shield arm remained trapped in plaster. He hoped Draian would remove it soon—he needed to get back into fighting shape if he wanted to be ready when the Duke came for him.
He'd spoken to Duke Dyrund twice more since that day on the balcony. As ruler of the Duchy of Eastfall and one of the most powerful men in Icespire, Dyrund's duties kept him away from Camp Marshal much of the time. He'd sent messages through Lord Eidan a couple of times, but for the most part he left Aravon to rest, recover, and learn. Aravon had no doubt the Duke was receiving regular reports on his progress.
Slow progress, sadly. He'd done well with the book learning, but to truly be prepared for the Duke's assignment, he had to get out of the room. He needed to regain his strength, his skill with the sword and shield, and learn the other skills—tracking, hunting, foraging, and many more—he'd need.
With a sigh, Aravon refilled his goblet. Draian lectured him daily that the wine would slow his healing, but a man needed a drink after hours of exhausting lectures.
As if on cue, the door opened and the Mender entered. “Good afternoon, Captain.” At the sight of Aravon's goblet, Draian's smile turned to a disapproving frown—the sort Mylena gave Rolyn when he played too roughly with his younger brother. “Sir, have you heard nothing I said about the wine?”
Aravon rolled his eyes. “Considering you've repeated it on a near-daily basis, Draian, even a stone statue would get the point. And yet…” He took a pull of the wine. “Sometimes a man has to make decisions for himself.”
The Mender snorted. “Then don't blame me if you never get that cast off.”
Aravon glanced down at the plaster on his left arm. The pain had faded over the last week or so. Perhaps it had something to do with the draughts Zaharis had given him twice weekly. He doubted the Secret Keeper had asked the Mender's permission, but he couldn't argue with the results.
Aravon lifted the arm and flexed his fingers. “It feels like it's time for it to come off.”
The Mender's eyebrows rose. “Is that so?” He moved the Lectern's chair in front of Aravon and sat. “Grip my hand. Squeeze.”
Aravon complied. The movement sent a twinge down his arm, but he managed to hide a wince.
“Interesting.” Draian muttered to himself. “Should have taken longer. Perhaps something in the poultices.”
“So, what do you think?” Aravon asked.
After a moment of silence, Draian sighed. “While I can find no explanation as to how, it seems your arm has healed much more quickly than I expected. Perhaps it is time for the plaster to come off.” He dug around in his healer's bag and produced a small, fine-toothed saw. “Hold steady, Captain.”
Captain Aravon had watched Menders remove the casts from his Legionnaires, and it always left him nervous. The saw was wire-thin and delicate, but the presence of the steel teeth so close to his skin left him nervous. One wrong move and that razor-sharp blade could open his arm.
He clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain perfectly still as Draian sawed at the cast. The sound of the saw on plaster grated on his nerves.
“How's the sword arm?” Draian asked, never taking his eyes off his work.
Aravon flexed his right fist. “Stiff, but the wound doesn't hurt any longer.”
“And the leg?”
“Same. A bit of training will limber it up nicely.” Aravon had sustained similar wounds in battle—they hurt but tended to heal without difficulty. Broken ribs, on the other hand, were a different story. He hadn't been able to sleep on his left side for weeks and, at the beginning, even the simple act of breathing had hurt. Thankfully, the pain had dulled to little more than the sort of throbbing ache he got when pushing himself too hard on the training field.
“Done!” Draian pronounced.
Aravon let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The Mender stowed the saw in his bag and lifted one severed half of the cast. The arm beneath looked surprisingly frail, the skin pale.
Not waiting for Draian's instructions, he raised his arm and flexed his fingers. Aside from a twinge when he turned his wrist, he felt no pain.
“I'm impressed, Captain,” Draian told him after a thorough examination of
the arm. “Either there's magic in your blood, or I'm a better healer than I expected.” He tugged on his lips. “On the other hand, it could have something to do with that Secret Keeper.”
Aravon's eyes shot up. “You knew?”
Draian pursed his lips. “I've been a Mender long enough to know that this bone should still be knitting. Besides, I caught Zaharis sneaking out of your room on a number of occasions.”
Aravon grinned. “And you didn't say a word?”
Draian shrugged. “From all that I've learned of him, he seems a decent fellow, not the sort to poison our commanding officer.”
“Our?” The word seemed odd coming from the Mender. “Does that mean you're a part of the Duke's special force?”
“I suppose that does.” Draian nodded, though there was hesitance in his eyes. “I thought the Duke wanted me on hand to help with you and the other one, but it turns out he needs a proper Mender on the team.”
“Other one?” Aravon asked.
Draian gave a dismissive wave. “You’ll meet him and the others soon enough. I’ve met ‘em—decent fellows, not the worst company for a Mender to keep. Seems like you're going to be operating far from Legion aid, so he wants me along to patch you lot up, keep you alive.” His grin turned wry. “Not the worst job in the world, I suppose.”
Aravon chuckled. A thought struck him, and all traces of his mirth fled. “If you're going to be coming with us, you'll need to know how to fight.”
Draian's brow furrowed. “That's what I was afraid of.” He sighed and his shoulders slumped. “Truth be told, when I was younger, I dreamed of becoming an Adept. It's why I joined the Swordsman's priesthood in the first place. Sadly, I could never quite keep up with the others. Turned out I was better at stitching men up than putting holes in them.”
“I understand,” Aravon replied, “but the Duke wants us out in enemy territory. Something tells me we'll end up in our fair share of fights. If you can't hold your own, you're going to be a liability.”
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