His vision cleared in time to see the Eirdkilr standing over him. With a snarl and a curse, the savage raised his spear for a killing thrust.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Aravon threw himself out of the way, but the descending spear caught him in the side. Pain flared up and down his ribs. He scuttled backward just as the follow-up strike punched into the dirt between his legs.
Salvation came in the form of a short, pale-skinned Secret Keeper. Zaharis' mace crunched into the man's head. The Eirdkilr fell, his left cheek caved in, his neck twisted at a horrible angle.
“Good timing,” Aravon signed.
Zaharis reached out to help him up. “I live to serve,” he replied with his free hand.
Aravon pulled himself upright, scooped up his spear, and turned toward the next threat. A threat that came at them from all sides, yet couldn’t quite break through. Their ragged battle lines held. Barely.
Belthar faced down a mass of Eirdkilrs, using two overturned wagons to force them to come at him in pairs. Skathi stood a few yards behind him. Her arrows picked off the stragglers that sought to flank the big man's position.
Syvup was down, surrounded by three Eirdkilr corpses. Many of the Fehlan volunteers had also fallen. Those still standing fought bravely against the ten remaining Eirdkilrs.
Ten? Aravon's brow furrowed. There had been fifty at the onset of the battle. He counted fewer than thirty corpses. So where are the others?
Shouts and cries sounded behind him. Ice ran down his spine. They’re coming from within Bjornstadt!
“Colborn!” he shouted. The sound of clashing steel and shouting men drowned out his voice, muffled by the mask. The Lieutenant, locked in combat with an axe-wielding Eirdkilr, couldn't spare the attention.
He quickly gauged the battle line. His warriors and the Fehlan defenders faced a near-even number of Eirdkilrs. He had to trust that they would manage to hold them off. They'd spent weeks training for this precise purpose. He was needed elsewhere.
Spinning on his heel, he raced toward the wagon road that led into Bjornstadt. Dread sat like a stone in his gut. The Eirdkilrs hadn't attacked on a whim. If they intended to send a message to their Fehlan cousins—traitors, they had called them, for aligning with the Princelanders—the death of Ailmaer would convey their intentions clearly. Duke Dyrund's head would prove an added trophy.
A woman lay in the middle of the street. Blood stained her back, where an axe blow had sheared through her spine. Just beyond her, a man was sprawled face-down in the dirt. A wailing child crouched over the unmoving body, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Gritting his teeth, Aravon leaned into the run. Faster, damn it! His boots pounded up the track, splattering mud, his legs burning and his lungs ablaze. Yet he ignored the pain of his wounds, the fatigue of battle. He had to reach the Duke before the Eirdkilrs!
Too late. As he sprinted into the square, he caught sight of ten massive figures clustered around the entrance to the chief's longhouse. All wore the bloodstained furs of the Blodhundr.
An enraged growl burst from Aravon's throat. “Here I am, you bastards!” he shouted.
The two Eirdkilrs in the rear turned toward him, and savage grins split their heavy faces. They hefted their heavy axes and prepared to attack.
Aravon slid to a halt just beyond the range of their long weapons. Expecting to hack him down, they had committed to their powerful hewing strikes. The axe blades sung through the air a hand's breadth from his face. With all the strength he could muster, he brought the blade of his spear up and across in a slashing blow. One of the Eirdkilrs fell back, clutching the blood spurting from his face. The other sagged, the edge of Aravon's spear embedded in the side of his head, just beneath the rim of his skullcap.
The sagging corpse ripped the spear free of Aravon's grasp. He drew his short sword as another Eirdkilr charged and thrust a long-bladed hewing spear at his chest. Aravon tried to deflect the blow, but his short sword lacked the heft. He backpedaled even as the spear blade drove straight at his heart.
Pain flared through his left shoulder. But not the icy, cold pain of steel piercing his flesh. He had a moment to register disbelief. Even with his attempt to retreat, the blow should have at least punched through his leather armor. But it hadn't. A scratch marred the surface, but whatever Zaharis had done had stopped the blow.
The Eirdkilr seemed equally shocked. He hesitated for a heartbeat. Aravon brought his short sword down on the man's right wrist. The blade bit into bone, and the man cried out, spear clattering to the ground. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and ribs, Aravon whirled and hacked through the man's neck. Odarian steel parted gristle, flesh, and blood vessels.
A crash sounded at the front of the pack of Eirdkilrs. The longhouse echoed with their savage war cries.
Aravon acted on instinct. Retrieving his spear would waste valuable seconds. Instead, he charged through the destroyed door with nothing but his short sword.
The stink of blood hung thick in the smoky interior. Two Eirdkilrs faced a cluster of three Fehlans on one side of the hall, while a group of five barbarians hacked at the seven men retreating toward the chief's throne. Ailmaer seemed paralyzed in his seat, his eyes wide in horror, his face drained of blood.
Aravon raced toward the men fighting before the dais. Duke Dyrund, Rangvaldr, Draian, Ashtyn, and Rendar stood shoulder to shoulder with two clansmen wielding rust-pitted swords. One of the Fehlans fell to an Eirdkilr's axe. Duke Dyrund's long sword brought down the Blodhundr a heartbeat later. Rangvaldr's heavy shield turned aside a blow aimed at the Duke's back. His sword bit into his enemy's knee. Rendar's daggers made quick work of the slumping Eirdkilr.
Aravon's heart stopped at the sight of Draian. The Mender faced an Eirdkilr wielding a spear. He blocked and returned the huge barbarian's blows, but gave ground beneath the savagery of the attacks.
No! Aravon opened his mouth to cry out, but it was too late. Draian's heel struck the lowest step of Chief Ailmaer's dais. He fell back, landing hard. Before the Mender could recover, before Aravon could move, the Eirdkilr drove his spear through Draian's armor and into his chest.
The sight of the Mender's blood sent a flare of rage spiking through Aravon. With a furious cry, he leapt toward the Eirdkilr and drove his short sword into the base of the huge man's spine. Chain mail links snapped beneath the force of the blow and the edge of his Odarian steel blade. The Eirdkilr flopped atop Draian; his collapsing bulk drove the spear deeper. Growling a curse, Aravon thrust his sword into the back of the barbarian's skull.
A cry of pain echoed behind him, followed by the sound of steel cleaving flesh. Aravon whirled in time to see the last Eirdkilr fall to his knees. Rangvaldr ripped his sword free of the barbarian's neck, and blood spattered the still-seated chief.
Aravon's eyes sought out the Duke. Dyrund stood hunched over, panting for breath. He groaned and pressed a hand to his side. “I'm fine,” the Duke gasped, waving him back. “Look to your man.”
With a nod, Aravon dragged the Eirdkilr's corpse from atop Draian. The Mender looked up at him with wide eyes. Blood stained his lips, and his weak cough brought up more crimson.
Aravon ripped free his mask and threw himself to the ground beside Draian. “Easy, Draian, easy.” He fumbled at the straps holding the Mender's armor in place, knowing full well he did so in vain. Two feet of steel remained embedded in Draian's chest. He'd spent enough time studying the healing arts from the Mender himself to know the spear had severed one of the large blood vessels running from Draian's heart.
“Captain…” Draian mumbled, coughing. “I-Is…Duke…?”
Aravon nodded. “The Duke is alive.” He gripped the Mender's shoulder, his throat thickening. “Hold still, Draian. We're going to get you taken care of. You'll be back on your feet in no time.”
Draian gave him a little smile. “You're…terrible liar.” He gasped, pain twisting his face. “Protected…the Duke…did…my duty.”
Tears stung Aravon's eyes. �
��You did your duty, Draian. You did your duty.”
Draian tried to speak, but no words came out. Aravon caught the little fluttering of his fingers. “Good,” the Mender signed. “Good enough.” A spasm shook Draian's shoulders, and he lay still.
* * *
Aravon forced himself to pay attention to the Duke's words.
“…thirty Fehlans slain, another twenty wounded,” the Duke was saying. “We repelled them, but we have to be prepared if they decide to return.”
“I don't think so, Your Grace.” Colborn tugged at one of the braids in his beard. “This was larger than their typical raiding party. I believe they intended to treat Bjornstadt like they did Oldrsjot. Given the number of fighting men here, their ninety-five should have been more than enough. They weren't counting on us being here.”
“A mistake none lived to regret,” Rangvaldr said, clapping a hand on Colborn's shoulder. The Seiomenn was still covered in the blood of the Eirdkilrs he'd slain—three of them, according to Duke Dyrund—but he had exchanged sword and shield for his shaman's staff.
“None escaped?” Duke Dyrund asked.
Colborn hesitated. “I sent Noll out to see if he could find any tracks of fleeing Eirdkilrs. We'll know once he returns. But none of the bastards who attacked walked away alive.”
“Good.” The Duke nodded and turned to Rangvaldr. “How is Ailmaer?”
Rangvaldr's face hardened. “He will recover from his fright.” He scowled. “Our chieftain is a man of commerce, not a warrior.”
“Hopefully this will make it clear to him the importance of taking up arms and joining the fight against the Eirdkilrs.” Duke Dyrund gestured around him. “He has seen what they will do first-hand.”
Rangvaldr's expression didn't reflect hope. “I fear this will only make your task harder. He will see this as a threat to Bjornstadt and all the Eyrr, but instead of striking back, he will attempt to hold his lands.”
The Duke growled. “Surely he will not be so foolish as to think that is the smarter strategy.”
Rangvaldr shrugged. “Perhaps you will manage to convince him. But the Ailmaer I have known for the last forty years is too cautious to think otherwise. For what it's worth, I will add my voice to yours.”
“Thank you,” the Duke said, inclining his head.
“For all our sakes, let us hope he has grown suddenly wiser.” The Seiomenn turned to Aravon. “Captain, you have my sincerest condolences on the loss of your man. Though I only knew him a few short hours, he struck me as a man of integrity.”
Aravon swallowed the lump in his throat. “He…was a healer.” His tongue stumbled over the words. “A Mender.”
“Ah, of course.” Rangvaldr gave a sage nod. “I sensed that about him. He emanated an aura of goodness, generosity.” He looked to Duke Dyrund. “With your permission, Duke, I would include him in our Erfa, the ceremonial burial of true Fehlans. After what he sacrificed for our sakes, I would be proud to commend him to Nuius—and his own gods, of course—with the honor due any fallen warrior of the Eyrr.”
“He was a priest, in service to the Swordsman.” The Duke hesitated a moment, passing a hand over his face. “I-I cannot remember what rituals must be completed…” He glanced at Aravon, who shrugged. The Duke sighed. “I thank you, Seiomenn. I believe he would be honored.”
“I will see to it,” Rangvaldr said. “He and the other fallen will be sent off to Seggrholl come nightfall.” He strode away.
Aravon watched him go, but the image of Draian's pale face filled his mind. Though he had wiped his hands a hundred times, he still felt the hot warmth of the Mender's blood.
Duke Dyrund fixed him with a stern glare. “The time to mourn will come later. For now, we must focus on doing what needs to be done.” He sighed. “I fear Rangvaldr is right about Ailmaer. It will take all my efforts to convince him to join the fight.” Shaking his head, he strode toward the main longhouse.
Aravon wanted nothing more than to sit, to rest. His face, shoulder, back, and ribs ached. The fight had drained every shred of the strength from his muscles. But the Duke was right. There were things to do.
He strode down the muddy wagon trail. Someone had cleared the bodies from the road and taken the wailing child away. Many more children would find themselves orphaned this day. The Eirdkilrs had taken a heavy toll on the Eyrr.
Outside the town, Aravon found his men moving among the bodies littering the battlefield. They gathered weapons and put the wounded out of their misery. Bloodstained Eirdkilr weapons, armor, and fur pelts had been stacked beside one wagon. The stripped bodies of the enemies lay in a heap a short distance away. The Fehlans would burn the corpses—easier than burying them, and less risk of disease.
The slain Eyrr warriors lay in a neat row. Thirty-five pale, silent men and women—five of the wounded must have succumbed as well. Aravon gave thanks that no more of his men numbered among these.
Syvup lay on the ground, but his eyes opened as Aravon approached. “Captain,” he mumbled. Blood stained the bandage around his head and an improvised splint held his arm immobile. “I keep trying to help, but they won't let me up.”
“And they're right to,” Aravon told him. The blow to Syvup's head had cracked his skull—only the Swordsman's luck had spared him from serious damage to his brain. “Rest. The Duke will have need of your sword soon enough.”
“Aye, sir.” The grizzled man lay back and closed his eyes. “I'll do that.”
Aravon strode toward Colborn. The Lieutenant stood at the crest of the hill, his eyes scanning the forest.
“Do you think they'll be back?” Colborn asked.
Aravon came to stand beside him. “I know they will. But not for a while yet. You were right about this being a raiding party. Our presence caught them by surprise.”
Colborn nodded. The silence stretched on for a long moment before he spoke. “It was a good plan, you know. You saved as many as you could.”
Aravon turned to the man. That was the last thing he'd expected to hear from the Lieutenant.
Colborn met his gaze. “What happened to Draian…” He shook his head. “You did what you could, kept him away from the battle. Hell, I saw the way you ran toward the bastards. That was just damned rotten luck.” His eyes dropped. “It could have been any of us. Must have been his time, that's all.”
Aravon had no words. He had done what he could, but it hadn't been enough. Draian had died. There was no changing that.
“Idiot!” The angry shout snapped his head around. Skathi stood before Belthar, her face flushed with rage. She stabbed her finger at his chest. “You could have gotten yourself killed, you big oaf. You should have been, the way you broke rank like that.”
Confusion twisted Belthar's face. “But you were in trouble. I—”
She stood on her tiptoes to snarl in his face. “I don't need you to save me!” She spun on her heel and stalked off, pausing only to scoop up her bow and quiver.
Aravon shot a questioning glance at Colborn. The Lieutenant gave him a half-grin. “Belthar saved her life back there. Clearly the wrong choice in her mind.”
The big man stood open-mouthed, his eyes tracking the departing Agrotora.
Aravon chuckled. He'd known women like Skathi before: fiery-tempered, passionate, strong. Just like his Mylena. Years of marriage had kept him on his toes, and still she managed to surprise him.
He shook his head. Poor Belthar. He has no idea what he's getting himself into.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The entire town of Bjornstadt had gathered for the funeral. The Eyrr warriors fallen in battle with the Eirdkilrs lay atop piles of wooden biers. Rangvaldr had explained the Fehlan tradition of burning the dead—the fires would summon the Roskvaettr, the revered ancestors that escorted the slain to Seggrholl, the afterlife of heroes.
Draian would join them on their journey. Aravon had been the one to lay the Mender's corpse atop the pyre. He'd left Draian with his arms crossed over his chest, sword clutched in his hands
, shield at his side.
But that was not all. As Rangvaldr had explained, “We send them with grave gifts, something to serve them in the afterlife.”
Though Aravon found the tradition strange, he had left Draian the most valuable gift he could offer: his Swordsman pendant. He couldn't give the Mender a proper burial as befitted the priest, but he would ensure the Swordsman knew Draian as his own.
Each of his unit had done likewise: Belthar had left one of his daggers, Skathi an Odarian steel arrowhead, and Noll a gemstone taken from a slain Eirdkilr—an object he'd no doubt intended to pocket and sell later. Colborn had whispered something into the fallen man's ear. A secret shared with no one else, he'd explained simply. Zaharis had sprinkled Draian's body with a handful of grey powder.
As Rangvaldr walked among the biers, setting the torch to the wood, Aravon felt the familiar burden of loss and guilt settle on his shoulders.
Rangvaldr came to stand before the crackling pyres. He closed his eyes, gripped the ocean-blue gemstone hanging around his neck, and lifted his voice in a mournful tune.
“In the hall of heroes
Evermore to dwell
At the feast table of warriors and kings
Who in battle bravely fell
Enemies forever vanquished
Peace for time beyond breath
We mourn the sacrifice and laud the courage
Of those who died the glorious death.”
The song brought a lump to Aravon's throat. His eyes never left Draian’s pale face as the fire crawled up the wooden pyre to engulf the Mender’s body. Flames licked around the silent, still corpse, devouring the gifts left by Aravon and his comrades.
The crowd of Fehlans gasped as the fire around Draian suddenly flashed bright. Yellow flame turned to blue-white, and people fell back from the intense heat and brilliance. Aravon stared until his eyes burned and tears streamed down his cheeks. Only once the fire hid the Mender's form from view did he allow Belthar and Colborn to drag him away. He had no desire to watch the Fehlans pile smooth river stones over the ashen remains of his man.
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