Colborn pressed a tankard of ayrag into his hand. He drank it down without tasting it.
Zaharis' hands flashed. “Good wine makes a poor warrior.” Reaching into his pouch, he produced a small leather bag. He dropped a pinch of the odd, brown powder within into their drinks. “A hint of Drunkard’s Salvation, and there’ll be no hangovers tomorrow.”
Aravon nursed his mug in silence. Someone had refilled it, and he found himself staring at a lump of grain bread. He nibbled; his stomach told him he needed it, but he couldn't bring himself to eat.
He and his men sat a short distance from the Eyrr clansmen. The people of Bjornstadt shot curious glances their way and whispered among themselves, but Aravon didn't bother trying to overhear. The fire hadn't burned away the memory of Draian's face and his last words. “I did my duty.”
A duty he had no business doing. The man had been a Mender, a healer. How in the bloody hell had he allowed himself to be drafted into war? Once, Draian had mentioned his service to the Swordsman. As a priest, that service had been all that mattered. He served to the end.
Aravon tried to stand and found his legs refused to hold him up. He'd pushed back his exhaustion after the battle, occupying himself overseeing the aftermath and doing what he could to help fortify Bjornstadt in case the Eirdkilrs returned. He had shoved his sorrow at Draian's death into a tight ball and pushed it down deep. Now, with the ayrag burning in his veins, the emotions overwhelmed him.
He ached to lose himself in the liquor's warm embrace, to let it wash away his guilt. But he couldn't allow that—not for his men, and certainly not for himself. He had to stay alert. The Eirdkilr raiding party had been eliminated, but an army of more than a thousand waited at Anvil Garrison, with more on the way. He couldn't wallow; the Duke and the Legion were counting on him.
That thought only added to his burden. Another man had died under his command. More would die—thus was the way of war—but he was powerless to stop it. He couldn't face the Eirdkilr army alone. Duke Dyrund had to convince Ailmaer to send reinforcements.
A wave of helplessness swept over him, and he struggled to control the roiling feelings. He couldn't break down in front of his men.
Noll, Colborn, and Zaharis sat around him. They, too, drank in silence, each carrying their own burdens. He wanted to offer words of comfort, but everything sounded hollow. He let them be. It was the soldier's way.
“He was a good one, Draian.” Belthar’s voice rumbled like a thunderstorm. “Too good for an end like this.”
“Aye.” Skathi looked up from her mug. She had remained silent since the moment they brought Draian’s pale, lifeless body out of the longhouse, and her voice was hoarse, strained. “He shouldn’t have been here. But he was, and that’s to his credit.” The big man tipped up his tankard, drinking deep of the ayrag. “Mender or not, he never backed down. Bloody damned hero in my books.”
“In any book.” Skathi’s expression darkened. “At least he knows he’s in a better place. Priest’s reward and all. Not all of us are lucky enough to die with that knowledge. Most of us just…wonder.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, as if reliving a distant memory—and by the shadow twisting her face, not a pleasant one.
Belthar’s huge fingers toyed with his mug. He, too, appeared lost in some bleak past. One filled with loss, the pain of missing a loved one. But, like the rest of them, he’d been a soldier. He’d seen comrades and friends die, had lost people before. Yet the death of Draian seemed to hit him hard…harder than Aravon would expect. As if the Mender reminded him of a particularly painful loss.
“Damn this!” Noll flung himself to his feet and hurled the clay tankard to the ground, shattering it. The eyes of the Fehlan turned toward him. “I'm sick of sitting around and doing nothing,” he said in the language of the Princelands. “We ought to be going after the bastards that did this.”
“Sit down, Noll,” Colborn snapped. “You're drunk.”
“So what if I am?” The little scout whirled on the Lieutenant. “We lost one of our own today. Doesn't that bother you at all? Or are you made of stone like our Captain?”
The words caught Aravon off-guard. He'd done his best to hide his true feelings from his men—did they interpret that as utterly devoid of feelings?
“Let me guess,” Noll snarled, “just like your father, you're so accustomed to losing men that you don't give a damn anymore? We're all just pieces on a battle board. What's the loss of one more?”
The words drove a dagger into Aravon's gut. He opened his mouth to speak, but Colborn beat him to it.
“Enough!” The Lieutenant gripped Noll's collar. “You're hurting over the loss of Draian.”
“We all are.”
Colborn pulled the little scout close until their faces were mere inches apart. “But that doesn't give you an excuse to disrespect our Captain. Ever.” He growled. “Understood?”
Noll held his gaze for a long moment before nodding. “Got it.”
“Good.” Colborn released the scout's collar. “Now, I want you on perimeter watch with Belthar. Somewhere your mouth won't get you in trouble.”
“Aye, sir,” Noll sneered the last words and gave an exaggerated salute.
Colborn started toward the man again, but Aravon stopped him with a hand.
Noll stalked off without a backward glance. “I'm not getting paid anywhere near enough for this.”
Aravon watched the little scout go. He didn't begrudge Noll's anger. He'd felt the same when watching his father stand dry-eyed at his mother's graveside. He had hated his father, thinking him as emotionless as the marble headstone. Only after becoming Captain had he come to understand that command carried its own burdens.
“Mouthy little bastard,” Skathi growled.
Colborn snorted. “Deserves a bloody whipping.”
Aravon shook his head. “Let him be, Colborn. He's angry, just like the rest of us.” Soldiers often needed someone to lash out at; it was easier to be angry than hurt. “He'll get over it.”
Colborn looked unconvinced but nodded. “Your call.” He sat and took a long pull at his mug. “What's the plan? We sticking around here?”
Aravon cast a glance at the Duke, seated in the place of honor beside Chief Ailmaer. The scowl on the Duke's face told him negotiations had stalled.
“It's likely. Until the Duke can convince Ailmaer to give us the reinforcements, we're here to keep him safe.”
“Let's hope that doesn't take too long, eh?” Colborn asked.
Aravon nodded. From what he'd seen of Ailmaer, the man had more in common with a worm than a warrior. Convincing him to join the war would prove more challenging than swimming across the Frozen Sea dipped in chum.
Colborn stood and turned to leave, then stopped. He produced something from his pocket and held it out to Aravon. “It's Draian's. Seems the sort of thing his Captain ought to have.”
Aravon took the silver oval pendant. The Prince's sigil gleamed in the light of the funeral pyres. “Thank you,” he said.
Colborn drew in a deep breath. “Maybe, if we ever get back to Icespire, you can take it to the Temple of Heroes there. Let them know he died a hero.”
A lump rose in Aravon's throat. “I…” He swallowed. “I think he'd approve.”
Without another word, Colborn strode away.
Aravon thumbed the pendant. The metal felt cool to the touch—as cool as Draian's skin as he'd laid the man to rest atop the pyre. He rushed from the main square, ignoring the questions of the Fehlans pressing around him, and didn't stop until he found a dark alley between two houses. He leaned against a wall and allowed the threatening tears to flow.
“A leader never weeps in front of his men,” General Traighan had once told him. Just one more way Aravon wasn't like his father. He couldn't help feeling the pain of loss.
A strange rustling filtered through the pounding of his pulse. He scanned the darkness, searching for the source of the sound.
It came again, followed by a quiet thump
and the soft sound of padding paws. Two white-gold eyes gleamed in the darkness. Aravon tensed. A wolf? In the middle of Bjornstadt?
The creature gave a little yipping bark, and the fear drained from Aravon. He crouched and spread his arms. Snarl leapt on him, nipping at his chin and licking his face.
Aravon hugged the little Enfield close. Not so little anymore, he realized. Snarl had grown in the last few days. His wings held strength, and there was a new energy to his playful bites.
“It's good to see you,” he whispered into the Enfield's ear. Snarl couldn't have returned at a better time.
He hugged Snarl again, and something hard pressed against his chest. Setting the Enfield on the ground, he stared at the object. A small metal cylinder hung from a collar around Snarl's neck. Curious, Aravon reached for the tube. His fingers found a cap at one end. Pulling it off, he found the cylinder was hollow. Inside rested a small scroll.
Drawing out the scroll, he strode back toward the main square and studied it by the light of a burning brazier. As he read the words, his eyes went wide.
The Duke has to see this immediately!
* * *
“Look, Chief!” Duke Dyrund waved a scroll—identical to the one attached to Snarl's neck—before the chieftain's thick nose. “You cannot possibly ignore this now!”
Ailmaer leaned back in his throne and steepled his sausage fingers under his third chin. “You know it is versthapp to discuss such things after the sun has set. Besides, the celebration of Nuius has begun. I will not allow the festivities to be disrupted—”
A vein popped out on the Duke's forehead. “With all due respect,” he said in a voice that held the smallest amount of respect he could muster, “after today's events, I fear the ill-fortune is upon us, whether we wish it or not. I mean no disrespect to the Eyrr or their god. But there is no doubt that we must move now if we are to keep the Eirdkilrs from overrunning the entire eastern half of Fehl.”
Aravon exchanged glances with Colborn. Worry stained the Lieutenant's face. He had read the scroll from the tube around Snarl's neck.
“If this report is accurate,” Chief Ailmaer began.
“They are, Chief.” Duke Dyrund's voice was just on the civilized side of a growl.
“If they are,” Ailmaer repeated, “then you know it's too late for us to do anything. That second force of Eirdkilrs will join up with Anvil Garrison by this time next week. It would take me twice as long to summon the warriors from around the Eyrr lands. Worse, crops would go unharvested, and my people would starve come winter. All in the desperate hope that you can turn back an impossibly large force of the Tauld?” He refused to call them Eirdkilrs, but instead referred to them by their clan name.
“What would you prefer, Chief?” The Duke’s expression hardened. “To risk hunger, or to see every one of your villages and homesteads wiped off the face of Fehl?”
“And what makes you think the Tauld even want that?” Ailmaer stuck out one pudgy lip in contemplation. “They have always contented themselves with simple raids in the past. Without us, they have no food, no supplies. We are the only thing keeping them from starving.”
“Chief,” Rangvaldr stepped forward, “did you not hear their cries? They call us traitors. They hate us for aligning with the Eird.”
“But we have not done so!” The chief shook his head, setting his chins wobbling.
“They don't care.” Rangvaldr held his ground. “We have not joined them in declaring war against the Eird. To them, that is the same thing. They made their intentions plain when they destroyed Oldrsjot and attacked Bjornstadt.'
“So you say,” the chief snapped. Anger turned his face a shade of red similar to the tomato shade. “And that is why I cannot send the warriors of Eyrr off to battle with the Legion. We must keep them here, where they can protect our people.” He turned a smug smile on the Duke. “And the metals flowing from the depths of Silver Break.”
Duke Dyrund's jaw worked. “So you are saying you will not send aid to the Legion?” He narrowed his eyes. “You are refusing the Prince's request?”
“I'm not saying that.” Ailmaer's tone became unctuous as he side-stepped the question. “I will summon the warriors of Eyrr to Bjornstadt and we will make ready our defenses. When that is done, we will discuss the best way to deal with the threat of the Tauld.” From the look in the chief's eye, Aravon had no doubt Ailmaer would try to sue for peace before marching on the barbarians.
“So be it.” Duke Dyrund spoke with barely restrained fury. “With your leave, Chieftain, I will retire for the evening.”
“Of course, Duke.” Ailmaer gave a magnanimous wave. “You are welcome to the hospitality of Bjornstadt.”
“Thank you, Chieftain.” The Duke bowed, turned on his heel, and strode from the room.
Aravon and Colborn fell into step behind him. The Duke was seething, but remained silent until they had emerged from the longhouse. When they stood under the stars, he whirled on Aravon and Colborn.
“That self-serving coward!” He unleashed a stream of invectives that would have made even the lowest-born Legionnaire proud. After a few moments, the Duke's diplomatic nature reasserted and he regained control of himself. “He must be made to see sense. Alas, I fear it will be too late.”
It would take a week to summon the warriors to Bjornstadt, then at least a few days of deliberation as they decided what to do. Add to that Ailmaer's cowardly nature, and they'd be lucky if the Eyrr marched in under two weeks. The Legion at Gallows Garrison didn't have that time.
There was only one thing for Aravon to do. “Then we're going to deal with the Eirdkilrs ourselves.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Are you insane?” Colborn asked, his expression incredulous.
Aravon shook his head. “What choice do we have?”
Duke Dyrund had reacted much the same as the Lieutenant. Aravon had responded with the same logic.
“The moment the Eirdkilrs hear about what happened here, they're going to do one of two things. Either they're going to rain bloody hell down on the Eyrr, or they're going to decide it's time to wipe out the last thing standing between them and conquest of the entire eastern half of Fehl. Which do you think they'll do?”
Colborn inclined his head. “Fair point. But that doesn't explain how we're going to make much of a difference. If they do decide to march on Gallows Garrison, there's no protection for the Legion. Once that second force joins up, that's more than two thousand Eirdkilrs against fourteen hundred Legionnaires.”
“Which is why we're going to do exactly what we did here,” Aravon told him with a broad grin. “The impossible.”
Colborn snorted. “You're mad, Captain.”
“Damned right I am!” Aravon clenched his fist, and his voice rose to a shout. “I’m Keeper-damned pissed that the Eirdkilrs keep killing people I call my friends. I've lost too many people that matter—people like Draian—to sit by and let them do that to anyone else. If that means I have to march across all of Fehl and swim the Frozen Sea to rain holy hell down on the bastards, so be it.”
He drew in a deep breath. “Look, this is what we've spent the last weeks training for. All those lessons in strategy and tactics with Lectern Harald, all the hours learning the geography of Fehl. This is what the Duke intended when he brought us together. Now is the time when we make a difference.”
“Just the seven of us?” Colborn demanded, raising an eyebrow. “No, make that six of us.”
“I'll go alone if I have to,” Aravon snapped. “But there's no bloody way I'm going to sit here while the Eirdkilrs are poised to strike at the only Legionnaires keeping them from storming the Chain and wreaking havoc on the lands I've fought my entire life to protect.” He was breathing hard, and a fire of anger raged in his gut.
Colborn fixed him with a hard gaze. After long seconds, he nodded. “So be it. If you're insane enough to try, it only stands to reason the rest of us ought to be insane enough to follow you.”
* * *
/>
“Read this.” Aravon thrust the scroll into Zaharis' hands.
The Secret Keeper's eyes darted across the terse note scribbled on the parchment. “Damn!” he signed.
“All of you, read the words written there.” He motioned for Zaharis to pass it around.
One by one, the other three took their turns reading the message. Wide eyes turned toward him.
“Is this accurate?” Belthar asked.
Aravon nodded. “The Duke verified it as genuine. It comes from Lord Eidan himself, delivered less than an hour ago.” He patted Snarl's head. The Enfield sat curled in a ball at his feet, mewling contentedly, no doubt tired from a long flight. “Lord Eidan says that those thousand Eirdkilrs are going to join up with Anvil Garrison in ten days. That means we have less than ten days to figure out how to stop them.”
“Just us?” Noll asked. He glanced around their little circle. “To me, that looks like six against a whole bloody lot of the bastards.”
“Turns out you do know how to count,” Colborn said. “But the Captain says he has a plan that ought to buy the Legion a bit of time.”
“Well, bugger me with a thornbush!” Noll rolled his eyes. “This, I've got to hear.”
“Simple,” Aravon replied in a matter-of-fact voice. “We poke the bear.”
Noll's eyebrows shot up. “Is he saying what I think he's saying?”
Aravon nodded. “We piss the Eirdkilrs in Anvil Garrison off so much that they have no choice but to pick a fight with the Legion.”
Belthar's brow furrowed. “A thousand Eirdkilrs is still a lot. And without the walls of Gallows Garrison for protection.”
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