Something cold and wet pressed against his hand. Snarl stared up at him, his brown-flecked grey eyes filled with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He gave a little bark and nipped at Aravon's fingers.
The sting snapped Aravon from his stupor. He jerked his hand back, and Snarl yipped in delight. It was his favorite game to play. Aravon worried what would happen when the Enfield's milk teeth fell out and those bites began to do real damage.
For now, he allowed the little creature to nip at his hand, keeping it just out of reach. Every once in a while, Snarl would leap into the air and flap his stubby wings, as if trying to fly. One day, he would.
Aravon gathered Snarl into his arms. The Enfield's warmth soothed him, and the fox nuzzled his neck. Closing his eyes, Aravon drew in a deep breath. He released it, letting out the torrent of emotions roiling within him.
When he opened his eyes again, Colborn and Belthar were both staring at him. Ignoring them, he stood and strode from the training yard.
* * *
Aravon looked up as a knock sounded at his door. “Enter.”
Colborn entered. “Captain.” He looked around the sparse room. “Think your leg's up for a walk?”
Aravon nodded. “I doubt it can handle a day of marching, but a short jaunt shouldn't be too much bother.” He glanced through the open door. Night had fallen, and the air had grown chill. “Let me get my coat.”
Colborn said nothing, just waited as Aravon slipped into his coat. Snarl gave a little whine as he left but remained in place at Aravon's command.
Neither men spoke as they walked down the hall and out into the darkness. The training session had left Aravon's leg stiff, making it difficult to match Colborn's pace.
Darkness greeted them as they stepped outside their barracks. A cool breeze rolled past, carrying with it a hint of winter's chill and the scent of the Black Marsh beyond. The spice-heavy smell of their evening meal—a rich lamb dish Draian had called “curri”—blended with the woody aroma of the smoke fires burning in braziers dotting the camp.
“Where are we going?” Aravon asked.
Colborn pointed to the front gate. “Out.”
“Why?”
The Lieutenant turned to him. “Training.”
Aravon stopped just within the gate. “What's going on?”
Colborn turned to him. The Lieutenant's expression and voice were tight. “To hear the Duke tell it, we're going to be doing a lot of skulking and sneaking. Night's the best time for it. It's up to me to teach all of you to get around like the Fehlans do.” He drew in a deep breath. “Like the Eirdkilrs do.”
Aravon understood. The Legion, masters of pitched battle, had to rely on the strength of their formations and shield walls. They'd learned to keep to the highways, roads, and wagon trails of Fehl—they couldn't match the skirmisher style of warfare of the Eirdkilrs. The Fehlan clanspeople spent their lives in the thick woodlands around their homesteads, towns, and settlements. They had a knack for moving in silence through even the densest forest—a trait their Eirdkilr cousins had mastered over the years.
With a nod, he fell in step beside Colborn. Silence stretched between them before he spoke. “Mind if I ask how a Fehlan came to join the Legion?”
“Half-Fehlan.” Colborn replied, his tone curt. “On my mother's side.”
Such a thing was far more common than most “civilized” Princelanders cared to admit.
“So you were raised in the Princelands?” Aravon asked.
“For the most part.” Again, a short reply. “My father's from The Violet Fens, and he kept me near him until I was old enough to fend for myself.”
“And then what?”
Colborn didn't meet his questioning gaze. “I wandered south of the Chain for a few years. Learned the Fehlan ways. Made me useful when I returned to Whitevale.” He hesitated. “Someone got me a commission in the Legion, and here I am.”
Someone powerful. Princelanders tended to regard Fehlans with suspicion, even those they called their allies. The Eirdkilrs had been known to recruit spies from friendly clans. The fact that Colborn had a Lieutenant's commission meant someone had paid a great deal to get him that position—one from which he'd never advance.
“And how did you end up here?” Aravon asked.
“The Duke said he'd heard of me, and he needed someone like me.” Colborn gestured at his braided hair and beard. “Someone who could blend in with the Fehlans.”
“Do you speak the tongue?”
Colborn nodded. “Well enough.”
The Duke had made a wise choice. Aravon could pass for a member of the northernmost Fehlan clans, but Colborn would blend in among the clans far to the south. If he was larger, like Belthar, he'd almost look like an Eirdkilr. He certainly had the heavy features and long hair and beard for it. Add to that a knowledge of the terrain and the language, and he was the perfect one to interact with the Fehlans.
Which left Aravon with another question. “Why aren't you in command? Surely, of all of us, you're best-suited to it.”
The question stopped Colborn cold. The dim light concealed his expression, but Aravon sensed an internal struggle in the Lieutenant.
“You're the better choice,” Colborn said. “I never wanted to be a leader. I only accepted the commission in the Legion because it was the lesser evil.”
The silence stretched on between the men as Colborn led Aravon out of the gate. Beyond the radius of the camp's fire, the shadows pressed thick and dense around them. The sound of rustling marsh grasses grew louder as they crossed a short dirt road and descended a gentle incline toward the wetlands.
The Lieutenant stopped just short of a stand of thatching reeds that swayed in the evening breeze. “That little man, Noll,” he asked, “what did he mean when he said 'you're your father's son'?”
The question struck Aravon like a blow to the gut. He'd replayed those words over in his mind all evening. He hadn't been able to convince himself they weren't true.
“You know who my father is, right?” he asked.
Colborn nodded. “Everyone's heard of Traighan Stoneshield.”
Aravon sighed. “My father won a lot of battles in his day, but lost a lot as well. Men died under his command. Some say too many. He didn't choose to retire, you know. The Legion made him give up his commission. After his last battle…” He couldn't meet Colborn's gaze. “He made mistakes. And he's lived with them ever since. We all have.”
He had a memory of his father sitting at their dining room table, a bottle in one hand, a dagger in the other. Those had been the times when he sought out the safety of the stables rather than risk catching the General's attention.
Colborn snorted. “Fathers, eh? Who the hell needs 'em?”
Aravon nodded, but his heart was heavy. He would have liked to have a father. Instead, he'd had the most famous General of Icespire.
Colborn broke the silence first. “Come on, Captain.” His voice had lost its brooding edge, replaced by a forced levity. “Time for us to get lost in the marshes.”
Chapter Ten
Aravon groaned as he staggered down the hall toward the door to his room. He was exhausted, covered from head to toe by the foul-smelling peat that gave Black Marsh its name, and reeking from a night of heavy perspiring. He and Colborn had beaten the dawn to Camp Marshal by less than an hour. Worst of all, the Lieutenant had promised they'd do it all again the following night.
“For this to work,” Colborn had explained, “we've got to become invisible, to pass without a trace. That means living off the land in hostile territory, marching a thousand miles in a week to put a dagger in your enemy's eye, and vanish into thin air. We need to outsmart them and, if things get bad enough, outfight them. When it comes down to it, a clever mind's better than a strong arm. It's my job to teach you the skills needed to carry out the plans you and the Duke dream up.”
Somehow, that translated into slogging through the Black Marsh all night long. Colborn had taught him the basics of hunting, t
racking, and stealthy movement after dark. When asked why they couldn't practice during the day, the Lieutenant dismissed it as “child's play”.
He and I played very different games as children.
His last conversation with Duke Dyrund repeated in his mind. They would have no support from the Legions—no one would even know they existed. They'd operate in territory where the enemy outnumbered them by the thousands. They would have only their weapons, skill, ingenuity, and each other.
We've all got a lot to learn if we're to be ready for whatever the Duke has in mind.
He pushed open the door to his room but stopped on the threshold. Zaharis, the Secret Keeper, sat in his chair, petting a happy Snarl. The Enfield yipped as Aravon entered.
“Zaharis, what are you doing here?” Aravon asked.
With gentle movements, Zaharis set Snarl down and stood. He produced a bottle from his dull brown Secret Keeper robes and held it out to Aravon.
“For my arm?” Aravon asked.
Zaharis nodded.
“Thank you.” Aravon took the bottle, uncorked it, and drained its contents in one gulp. It had a faint flavor of fruit, but a mineral-heavy aftertaste that coated his teeth and tongue.
Zaharis pointed at his left arm and raised a questioning eyebrow.
“How is it?”
The Secret Keeper nodded.
“Hurts a bit. Not fully mended, truth be told. But the fact the cast's off is thanks to you and whatever this is.” Aravon held up the bottle.
Zaharis grinned and bowed, then made to leave.
“Zaharis, you're joining our unit, aren't you?” Aravon asked.
The Secret Keeper paused at the doorway. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded.
“Good. From what I saw of you on the training course the other day, you look like you belong in armor rather than those priestly robes.”
Zaharis looked like he wanted to respond, and his hands began to move before he thought better of it.
“To make you an effective part of our team,” Aravon said, “we need to be able to communicate with you. Can you teach us your hand language?”
Zaharis' eyebrows rose. He moved his finger in a circle, as if saying, “All?”
Aravon nodded. “Not just me. Colborn, Belthar, Noll, all of us. The only way we'll be effective as a team is if we can all understand each other.”
Zaharis frowned, but gave a little nod.
An idea struck Aravon. “You know, it occurs to me your hand language will be useful for more than just understanding you.” The more he thought of it, the better the idea seemed. “If we're in hostile territory, we'll need a way to communicate without being overheard by the enemy.”
A light shone in Zaharis' eyes. Clearly his mind was two steps ahead of Aravon's.
“Starting tomorrow, I'll give the rest of the men orders to start learning your hand language. Not only will it be silent, but it will be a secret language that no one else will understand.”
Aravon thought he glimpsed a hint of gratitude in the man's face, but it could have been a trick of the candlelight. With a nod, the Secret Keeper slipped from the room.
* * *
At breakfast the next morning, Colborn seemed intrigued by the idea of learning the hand gestures. Belthar less so.
“I'm not sure my fingers are built for something so complicated.” The huge man raised his hands to illustrate his point.
Aravon tried not to think about the fact that the man could grip his entire head without difficulty. Belthar could doubtless crush a watermelon with those fingers.
“We'll all struggle with it a bit at first,” he told the big man. “Just like with the Fehlan language.”
“Actually,” Colborn interjected, “Belthar's been my best student of all of you.” He gave the Captain a sly grin. “All of you.”
Aravon scowled. His tongue still struggled with the harsh Fehlan syllables. He doubted he'd ever speak it without an accent.
“Be that as it may, we've got to learn,” he insisted. “Being able to communicate in silence and in secret like that is going to come in handy.”
Belthar seemed unconvinced, but nodded. “As you say, Captain.”
“Good.” Aravon pushed back his plate and stood. Too quickly. He groaned at the soreness of his leg muscles.
Belthar grinned. “Let me guess: the Lieutenant took you for a stroll last night?”
“I'd hardly call it a stroll.” Aravon shook his head. “Before an hour, he had me wishing for a Legionnaire's pack and armor. Anything but slogging through that mud.”
“How'd he do?” Belthar asked Colborn.
“Better than you.” The Lieutenant's expression was bland as he put a forkful of pork into his mouth. “Though I've heard mating wildebeests make less noise than you.”
Aravon hid a grin. He'd been an officer in the Legion for so long he'd forgotten how much fun it was to listen to his men compete with each other. Competition among Captains usually tended toward the political rather than the physical. Though he'd tried to avoid politics, being the son of General Traighan came with its own baggage. More than a few noblemen in the Prince's Council had tried to recruit him to their sides on some matter or another, no matter how much he told them he wanted nothing to do with it.
Now, sitting here, listening to Belthar and Colborn snipe at each other, he was flooded with memories of his time serving as a regular enlisted man in the Legion.
“Yeah? Well, I bet I can beat you on the obstacle course any day,” Belthar challenged.
“Are you kidding?” Colborn snorted. “Big man like you can't balance on that rope traverse to save your life.”
“I can still beat your overall course time!” the big man insisted. “I'll wager two hundred push-ups.”
Colborn thrust out a scarred right hand. “Make it five hundred and you've got yourself a deal.”
Belthar shook. The two men shoveled down their food and stood.
“I think I'll join you,” Aravon told them, standing.
Colborn and Belthar turned to him, surprised.
Draian, who had remained silent throughout the conversation, cleared his throat. “I question the wisdom of that decision, Captain,” he said from his seat on the far side of the bench. “The cast may have come off, but the arm—”
Aravon cut him off. “I'll be careful, Draian.”
The Mender threw up his hands. “Of course you will. Because men like you are always so good at listening to your healer's advice.” He shook his bald head, which set his long beard wagging. “I've treated enough of you pig-headed Legionnaires to know better.”
“Maybe you should join us.” Aravon gave him an innocent smile. “Keep an eye on me to make sure I follow my healer's advice.”
Draian opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out.
“Captain's orders, Mender,” Colborn said. His face twitched, as if he struggled to conceal a smile.
Belthar chortled. “You walked right into that one, Draian.”
Despite the Mender's reluctance, he followed the three of them to the training yard. Aravon studied the series of obstacles that had been laid out.
A twenty-foot wall was the first challenge. Beyond that, a series of hurdles preceded a rope traverse over a muddy puddle. Next, a network of deep trenches cut through the ground. A rope ladder hung from a platform built forty feet off the ground, with a steel pole to slide down into a pit of waist-deep mud ten yards long. The final obstacle was a network of wooden steps suspended from swinging ropes.
Draian rounded on Belthar and Colborn with wagging finger. “Be warned, you two, I refuse to allow the Captain to be a part of your absurd wager. Even if he won't listen when I tell him to take it easy, I can at least prevent him from doing anything too foolish and breaking something else in the process.”
Colborn looked at Belthar, at Aravon, and shrugged. “Next time.”
“Right now,” Belthar said to the Lieutenant, “it's just me and you, blondie.”
; Colborn grinned. “You're on, banana hands.” He turned to Aravon. “Give us a count, will you, Captain?”
The moment Aravon said “go”, the two men took off across the obstacle course like an Eirdkilr arrow.
Colborn hit the wall a step ahead of Belthar. His boots pounded on the wall as he climbed, using the rope for a faster ascent. He cleared the hurdles with ease and crossed the rope traverse without so much as a slip. His lead was cut short after he took a wrong turn in the trenches. Belthar struggled with the rope ladder and splashed into the pit with enough force to send muddy droplets spraying ten feet in every direction. The big man stumbled and fell face-first into the muck, coming up with a mouthful of mud.
Colborn danced across the swinging planks and dropped to the ground with a triumphant cry. “Hah!” His laugh turned into a gasp, and it took a moment to recover before he could continue crowing. “What did I tell you?” he waggled a finger at the panting Belthar. “You don’t stand a chance.”
Belthar growled. “Best two…out of three.” He wiped mud from his eyes and spat muck.
Colborn had just begun to nod when his expression changed and he shook his head. “Not a chance. To the winner goes the spoils.”
Aravon glanced over his shoulder. Zaharis was striding toward them. He'd left his brown robe behind and wore only a pair of trousers, revealing his corded muscles and lean, toned physique. Doubtless Colborn had seen the Secret Keeper complete the course—he was too smart to risk his victory by letting the graceful, impossibly lithe Zaharis enter the contest.
“Hey, that's not fair!” Belthar protested. “You have to at least give me a chance to—”
“I won, fair and square.” Colborn folded his arms over his chest.
“Captain?” The big man turned to Aravon. “He ought to give me another shot at it, right?”
Aravon looked from Belthar to Colborn and back again. “Sorry, Belthar, a bet's a bet.”
Belthar's jaw thrust out, his expression hardening. He looked ready to protest.
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