Colborn must have smelled it, too, for he went suddenly rigid in the saddle. His hand dropped toward his Fehlan long sword and he cast a glance at Aravon.
“Go,” Aravon signaled. “Eyes sharp.”
Nodding, Colborn spurred his mount forward. Within minutes, he had disappeared around a bend in the wagon path.
Aravon's heart thudded against his ribs. His right hand dropped to the haft of his spear, strapped across his right leg. He forced his face to calm, even though the mask hid his expression and clamped down on the instinctive fear surging inside him. He had to keep himself together for the sake of his men.
Turning toward Noll, his left hand flashed in the silent signals. “Smoke.”
The little scout nodded and slowed his horse. He'd pass the message on to Belthar and Skathi, and, together, they'd close the distance to join the rest of the column. They would meet whatever lay ahead together.
Duke Dyrund sniffed the air as well, and his face went pale. “Oldrsjot,” he breathed.
The Duke kicked his horse to a gallop. Stifling a curse, Aravon did likewise, racing after the Duke. The sound of pounding hooves echoed the pounding of his pulse in his ears. The forest flashed past. Every muscle in his body tensed in expectation of an Eirdkilr arrow slicing through the trees to cut him down. Yet he saw no threat, no sign of enemy. Only the ever-thickening smell of smoke.
Colborn awaited them around the next bend. He held up a hand, and Duke Dyrund reined to a halt.
“Well?” the Duke demanded. “We have to help Oldrsjot!”
Colborn shook his head. “It's too late.”
* * *
Horror twisted Aravon's gut in knots as he stared at the blackened ruins of what had once been Oldrsjot.
Smoke still rose from the charred debris of the Fehlan longhouses. The fire had melted the wattle and daub walls, leaving only the smoldering beams, like the ribs of a grotesque obsidian monster. In the center of Oldrsjot, shards of marble had been crushed into fine gravel, as if someone had pried up the very stones of the village's main square. The bodies of Eyrr men, women, and even children lay strewn like refuse littering the ground. Their blood turned the boot-churned earth to a crimson mud.
Colborn crouched over the corpse of a woman. Fire had burned away most of her hair but left the skin of her face untouched. Her eyes were open, her expression a mixture of terror and agony. Bowing his head, he gently closed her eyes.
“How long ago did this happen?” the Duke demanded.
Colborn exchanged glances with Aravon. “Last night,” Colborn signed. He glanced at the still-smoking remains of a hut. “Just before dawn.”
While we slept not twenty miles away. Aravon shuddered. The Eirdkilrs had come within striking distance of them. It had been their good fortune—and the rotten luck of these poor Fehlans—that they hadn't covered more ground the previous day.
Noll joined them. Even with the mask covering his face, Aravon could see the grisly scene left the little scout shaken.
“Where did they come from and which way did they go?” Aravon demanded.
“Best guess? They come from Anvil Garrison. I followed tracks that headed back southeast.” Noll jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Their trail runs cold at stream a mile south.”
Aravon narrowed his eyes. Why would the Eirdkilrs attack here? It made no tactical sense. They held the fort at Anvil Garrison, and their main enemies, the Legionnaires of Jade Battalion, camped just fifty miles to their north. Why prey on the Fehlans when they could destroy Gallows Garrison? And why, of all places, a tiny village of fewer than two hundred sheepherders, farmers, and woodcutters?
“Any food stores?” he asked Skathi.
“Taken,” she signed back. “Or burned with the rest of the village.”
That might explain the Eirdkilrs' attack here. If they needed supplies, raiding the Fehlans would be easier than trying to get around behind the Legion. Which meant…
He whirled. “Duke, we have to get to Bjornstadt.”
The Duke seemed not to see him. He stood over the burned remains of a hut, staring down at two charred corpses. Small bodies. They couldn't have been older than seven or eight. Close to the same age as Rolyn.
Aravon swallowed the surge of sorrow. He didn't have time for that. Right now, the mission demanded his full attention.
He strode toward the Duke and squeezed his shoulder. “Your Grace—” he began.
Duke Dyrund turned tear-rimmed eyes on him. “They killed them all…” His voice broke. “Men, women, even the children. Only monsters would do this.”
Aravon nodded. “You think it was Hrolf Hrungnir and the Blodhundr?”
“Damned right!” Duke Dyrund bared his teeth in a savage snarl. “The Eirdkilrs have raided before, but they left the Fehlans alive so they could raid them again later. But this…” he shook his head. “This is wanton carnage. There is no purpose to this other than to send a message.”
“To us?” Aravon asked.
“No.” Duke Dyrund met his gaze. “To the Eyrr.” He gestured around him. “This is what happens when you join the Eird, they're saying.”
Aravon’s stomach clenched, acid surging to his throat. Even years of battle couldn’t fully harden a man against such sights. The Eirdkilrs were savages, but the Duke was right, this went beyond their usual barbarism. If Hrolf Hrungnir truly was behind this, he and his Blodhundr needed to be stopped.
“We need to move, now,” he told the Duke. “Noll says they returned to Anvil Garrison, but they could go to Bjornstadt.”
The words seemed to penetrate the Duke's mind slowly. After a long moment, he nodded. “You're right. We have to get to Ailmaer, if nothing else to speak of peace before he changes his mind.” He shook his head. “I can't let this barbarism be the undoing of all we've worked so hard for.”
“Then let's go.” Aravon glanced up at the sky. “We still have time to make it.”
As they mounted up, one grim thought echoed in his mind: what will we do if we find Bjornstadt in a similar condition? The Legion was counting on them for reinforcements. If the Eirdkilrs had destroyed the Eyrr clan's main city, the men at Gallows Garrison would find themselves alone and vulnerable.
He cast a final glance at the remains of Oldrsjot. One thing he knew for certain: he couldn't let the same thing happen to anyone else—Fehlan or Princelander.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hope surged in Aravon's chest as they emerged from the dense forest and saw the town of Bjornstadt. It appeared untouched.
Which begs the question: why attack Oldrsjot but not here? The Eirdkilrs could have reached Bjornstadt before them and laid waste to the town. So why hadn't they? The thought nagged him as they rode up the wagon trail toward the town.
Bjornstadt was a large town—home to almost seven hundred Fehlans, according to Colborn—a thriving hub of commerce for the Eyrr, Jarnleikr, and Vidr clans along the eastern coast. It sat atop a circular hill, abutted against a bend in the Kalarinna River. The altitude gave them a good vantage of the surrounding countryside, but they lacked a wall. The Eyrr had never taken up arms against the Princelanders or the Eirdkilrs in the past. Until now, they had tried to maintain friendly relations on both sides of the war. But the Duke intended to make them see that the Eirdkilr raid on Oldrsjot had changed that. The men of Bjornstadt and the rest of the Eyrr had to face this threat.
At the top of the hill, a cluster of smaller houses stood assembled behind six of the large wooden longhouses that dominated every Fehlan town. Built from wood and covered with the same mud daub that they used to thatch their roofs, the longhouses provided shelter in the winter and storage in the summer.
The longhouses faced the main square, a broad courtyard paved with gleaming white marble. A ring of black stone surrounded a raised stone platform. A greeting party of ten men awaited them atop the platform. Eight wore the mail shirts and carried the round shields and long swords of Fehlan warriors.
The man at the front of the group had
to be the fattest Fehlan Aravon had ever seen. His chins wobbled in tandem with his gut as he spread his arms wide. “Welcome, Duke Dyrund!” he said in thick-accented Princelander. His smile made him look like one of the sea cows that drifted lazily in the Frozen Sea. “You have arrived just in time.” He wore the rich robes of a chieftain, his wealth displayed plainly in the form of gold and silver torques around his fat neck and plump wrists.
Dismounting, Duke Dyrund strode forward to clasp hands with the man. “Chief Ailmaer,” he said in near-flawless Fehlan, “I made all efforts to hurry to our meeting. To meet the tradition of avoiding ill fortune. Alas, I fear I bring the ill fortune with me.”
The Duke used the Fehlan word versthapp. The word had a different connotation than the Princelander word “luck”—it denoted destruction and dread, like an ancient evil curse. Given what they'd witnessed, it was the right word.
“You speak of Oldrsjot?” Ailmaer asked, reverting to his native tongue. All trace of joviality faded from his face. “Truly a monstrous thing, my friend.”
“Indeed.” Duke Dyrund nodded. “I have no doubt many of the honored men and women of Bjornstadt are even now mourning their loss. Though it pains me, I believe now is the right time for this conversation.”
“Many Princelanders have come before you,” Ailmaer said, stuffing a hand between the rolls of his belly and his heavy belt. “They, too, sought to incite and entice us to take up arms or desired to prosper from the wealth of our land.”
“Which, I see, has added to the prosperity of the Eyrr.” The Duke gestured to the bustling town around him. “Our relationship has been one of mutual benefit.
“Perhaps.” Chief Ailmaer inclined his head. “And it is that reason alone that has led me to accept this meeting. You will have a chance to make your offer.”
Duke Dyrund glanced at the nine men behind the chief. “Surely these are matters best spoken of in private.”
“Of course.” Ailmaer nodded. “But first, let us break bread and share a cup of ayrag, as is our way.” He turned and gestured to one of the men behind him. “Rangvaldr, see to it that these men receive the treatment due our honored guests, then join us in the chieftain's hall.”
“It shall be done, Chief.” The man who stepped forward was tall and broad-shouldered, but unlike the men around him, carried no weapons. Clearly he had been a warrior at some time, but now he wore clothing that appeared more ceremonial than martial. A long fur-lined cloak draped his sloped shoulders, and a wolf's head mask sat atop his head. Around his neck hung a leather thong, from which dangled a brilliant blue stone.
Aravon found his eyes drawn to the stone. He'd only seen such a color in one other place: the tower of Icespire. The color was lighter than a sapphire but darker than turquoise—the blue of a wind-tossed ocean on a sunny day. A similar stone was set into the tip of the man's staff. It sparkled in the sunlight, but seemed to glow with an inner light all its own.
By the time Aravon pulled his gaze away, he found Duke Dyrund had already left the square behind the Eyrr chieftain. The Duke's four men followed at his heel, with the Eyrr warriors surrounding the small procession.
“Welcome to Bjornstadt,” Rangvaldr said. He spoke the Princelander tongue with only a hint of accent. “You are the honored guests of our chieftain, Ailmaer of the Eyrr.”
“We speak your tongue,” Aravon replied in Fehlan. “Though perhaps not as well as you speak ours.” He found the mask muffled his voice, but the man seemed to understand him.
“So you do.” Rangvaldr stroked his heavy, braided salt-and-pepper beard. “Few of your kind have ever deigned to learn our language.” Humor sparkled in his deep green eyes. “Most speak it as if they have rocks in their mouths.”
Aravon couldn't help chuckling at that. He dismounted and signaled for his men to do likewise. He noted the way Rangvaldr's gaze followed his flashing fingers, and curiosity etched the man's face.
Zaharis stepped forward. “The years have been kind, Rangvaldr,” he signed. “If that added breadth around your belt and the grey in your beard is any indication, I’d say the life of a Seiomenn has treated you well.”
The Fehlan’s eyes went wide. “Zaharis, my friend, is that you?”
Aravon was glad for the mask, for it hid his open-mouthed surprise as Zaharis spread his arms wide to embrace Rangvaldr.
“You know him?” Aravon asked once Zaharis had broken free.
“This isn't my first time in Bjornstadt,” Zaharis replied.
“Zaharis has seen fit to visit us on many occasions.” Rangvaldr clapped a hand on the Secret Keeper's back. “The land of the Eyrr is home to many of the mysteries that he finds so intriguing. How goes your cataloguing?”
Zaharis nodded. “Slow progress, but at least I have the good fortune to see much of your land.”
Rangvaldr grinned. “Tongue of silver, this one.” The grin turned into a full belly laugh, a rich, hearty sound that brought a smile to Aravon's face. The mask hid Zaharis' expression, but a sparkle shone in his eyes.
“Come, come,” Rangvaldr said, gesturing for the rest of them to dismount. “The chieftain has insisted that you share food and drink.”
Aravon hesitated. Despite what had happened in Oldrsjot, the people of Bjornstadt seemed unconcerned for their safety. They went about business as usual. Ox-drawn wagons and handcarts piled high with produce from Bjornstadt's farms rumbled past, and the Eyrr men, women, and children moved about their activities of daily life with a contented placidity. Indeed, festive garlands and bright, colorful ribbons dyed orange and green—the colors of Nuius, god of the Eyrr—streamed from every house.
Aravon couldn't shake the images of burned houses and charred corpses. The carnage in Oldrsjot had imprinted on his mind in a way no battlefield ever could. He wouldn't be caught off-guard.
Colborn caught his attention. “Honor the custom, then we scout.” Clearly he'd been thinking along the same lines.
With a nod, Aravon signaled to the others to dismount. They slung their horses' reins over a nearby hitching post and followed Rangvaldr from the main square into one of the longhouses a short distance away.
Entering the longhouse felt like stepping into a cool, dark world filled with smoke, the scents of people, and drying herbs. Rangvaldr motioned for them to be seated before disappearing into the shadows at the rear of the longhouse. When he returned a few moments later, he carried a large pitcher and a stack of clay mugs.
“Ayrag,” he said, holding up the pitcher. “The best you'll find in Fehl.”
“Don't let the Deid hear you say that,” Zaharis replied. “Wars have been started over less.”
Rangvaldr laughed again. The rich sound echoed indoors. “I dare them to bring their best, and we will see which clan is the true master of ayrag.” He poured the milky white liquor into the cups and handed them around. “Skaal,” he said, raising his cup in the traditional Fehlan toast.
Aravon did likewise. The cup was halfway to his lips before he remembered his mask. He shot a glance at Rangvaldr.
The Fehlan stared at him, a smile tickling at his lips. Clearly he was thinking the same thing as Aravon: how the hell was he supposed to drink through the mask?
Aravon shot a glance at Colborn. The Lieutenant shrugged.
“I do not know why you wear the masks,” Rangvaldr said, “but you have my word as Seiomenn of Bjornstadt that you are safe here. No one will know who you are, if that is your concern.”
Aravon hesitated. Seiomenn, or “shamans” to most Princelanders, were the Fehlan equivalent of priests, loremasters, wisemen, and—according to rumors whispered in the taverns of Icespire—practitioners of dark, barbaric sorcery. Aravon had only met one Seiomenn before, from the Vidr clan. The ancient man had struck him as an intelligent, if superstitious, sort. Rangvaldr, in contrast, had the open, direct manner of a warrior.
Zaharis' hands flashed. “He already knows my face.” With a little shrug, he removed his mask, raised his cup to Rangvaldr, and drank.
>
After a moment, Aravon did likewise and the others followed suit. The ayrag, made from fermented goat or cow's milk, left a taste of almonds on his tongue. Not unpleasant, simply…different than the Nyslian wine he’d grown accustomed to drinking in his father’s household and in the Legion officers’ mess.
Rangvaldr excused himself to fetch some food and returned with a platter heaped high with grain bread, cottage cheese, wild plums, crab apples, and a few freshwater fish pulled from the river. Aravon ate quickly, barely tasting the salty, whey-heavy cheese and oat-thickened bread he wolfed down. Colborn seemed equally anxious, his eyes never leaving the door as he nibbled on a few bites of smoked fish. Only Belthar seemed at ease—he took a second and third helping, finally devouring an entire loaf of fresh bread on his own.
The Seiomenn chuckled. “Eat your fill, my large friend. The harvest has been plentiful this year.”
Belthar mumbled something around a mouthful of food.
Rangvaldr wiped his hands on his breeches and stood. “If you will excuse me, I must attend the chieftain and your Duke.”
“Thank you,” Aravon said.
“We Eyrr pride ourselves on our hospitality.” Rangvaldr's smile wavered. “I am truly sorry that your first encounter was so sorrowful and dismal. I hope the rest of your visit here in the Eyrr lands are more pleasant.” Retrieving his staff from where it leaned against the wall, he strode from the longhouse.
Aravon finished the last bite of his plum and turned to the others. “Noll, Colborn, I need you to scout out the surrounding area. Focus on the south and southeast.”
The two men nodded, replaced their masks, and hurried outside.
“Belthar, Skathi, you're with me. I want to get a better feel for the layout of Bjornstadt just in case.” He had no need to explain what he meant by just in case.
“Draian, Zaharis, stay with the Duke. His men will be beside him, but I need you close at hand should anything happen.”
“Got it,” Zaharis replied.
“Masks on,” Aravon told them, “head on a swivel, and be alert for any sign of trouble. Anything happens, you let out a shout and we'll come running.”
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