“And you didn't see any sign of them at all?” he asked.
Noll shook his head. “The morning mist was too thick for me to get a good view of the battlefield at first. But even once the sun rose and I could see clearly, nothing. Not even in the rear of their ranks.”
Aravon's eyes narrowed. It didn't make sense. Hrolf Hrungnir had clearly been in command of this force of Eirdkilrs. Even if he believed their victory assured—after all, they had outnumbered the Legion—he wouldn't have left unless he had something more important to attend to.
So what could be more important?
The answer left him with a sick feeling in his gut.
Duke Dyrund.
More than enough time had elapsed since Aravon left Bjornstadt for Hrolf Hrungnir to have gotten word of his raiding party's defeat. If he had somehow discovered the Duke's presence in the Eyrr town, he would leap at the chance to deal two blows with the same attack. Not only would he send a message to the Eyrr—and all of Fehl—but he would remove one of Prince Toran's most valuable commanders.
He relayed his thoughts to the others and saw the same reaction in their eyes. They had come to the same conclusion, the only one that made sense. No Eirdkilr commander had ever abandoned their men on the morning before what they believed to be a glorious victory against the enemy. Not unless there was a genuine reason to do so.
“Shite!” Colborn swore. “We've got to get back to Bjornstadt now!”
Aravon nodded. The Lieutenant was right. He'd sent Snarl away the previous night with a message to the Duke—he had no way to get in touch with Duke Dyrund until the Enfield returned. By then, it could be too late.
He had no idea how many men had gone with Hrolf Hrungnir, but he knew one thing for certain: the Eyrr wouldn't last long. Ailmaer had said it would take a week to summon the clan's warriors to Bjornstadt. Even two hundred spears would be hard-pressed to hold their poorly defended position against half that many Eirdkilrs. Only luck, fortuitous timing, the skill of his small unit, and Zaharis' marvelous alchemy had kept them from being utterly overrun the first time. Against a proper force of fighting men, the town of Bjornstadt will fall in minutes, not hours or days.
“They only left last night,” he told Colborn. “That means they've got thirty or forty miles on us.” The Eirdkilrs, accustomed to long treks across the frozen wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains, could cover six or seven miles per hour at a loping run.
Colborn swore again. “There's no way we can catch up to them on foot. And we left the Duke's Kostarasar chargers back in Bjornstadt.”
Aravon turned to Noll. “Those horses you stole from the Eirdkilrs, any chance you got six of them?”
The scout shook his head. “Just the three.” He gave a wry grin. “Though we're lucky the Eirdkilrs eat horses. They've been well-fed—there's plenty of meat on those bones.”
“Good.” Aravon nodded. Even the fastest horse could be slowed by malnourishment. “That means we just need three more. Including one that can hold up under Belthar.”
The big man blushed. “I can always run—”
“All the way to Bjornstadt?” Skathi raised an eyebrow. “The way you've been gathering wounds, I wouldn't be surprised if you stepped on every sharp rock between here and the Eyrr lands.”
Belthar's color deepened.
“Captain,” Colborn said, hesitance in his voice, “what about them?”
Aravon followed the Lieutenant's pointing finger to the picket line where Commander Oderus' and the Jade Battalion Captains' horses stood. He turned to Colborn and arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess, you expect me to talk the commander into giving us his horse?”
Colborn grinned. “That's the job for a leader, isn't it?” He shot Noll a nasty little grin. “Though, we could always give him the job of…procuring them for us. From what I hear, he’s got a way with these sorts of things.”
“No,” Aravon cut off Noll's retort. “We've already commandeered his legion. I doubt he'll take kindly to our doing that to his horse.” He sighed. “I'll convince him.”
He didn't need to read the future to know Oderus would prove less than amenable to his request.
* * *
“I think you overestimate the extent of my gratitude to you and your men,” Commander Oderus' tone was dry, but his eyes held that look of stubborn refusal that had nearly cost the Jade Battalion the battle. “My men will lose all respect for a Commander without a horse.”
Aravon stifled a frustration growl. Angry words would do nothing to convince the man otherwise. “Surely there are three horses that can be spared.”
“Perhaps if you would explain to me the reason you need the mounts?” Oderus arched an eyebrow. “Or is that as secretive as everything else about you and your men?”
Aravon sighed. “I have told you what I could, Commander.”
“You have told me that the very future of the Princelands rests on your getting those horses.” The Commander shook his head. “I'm certain you can understand my hesitance.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Commander.” Captain Phonnis spoke up from his seat beside the Commander. “But perhaps he could use the horses that belonged to Captains Danmor, Erril, and Gait.”
Oderus' eyes narrowed at the names. “And deprive your fallen comrades of their honorable procession back to their homes to be buried?”
The Legion buried enlisted men near their outpost or garrison, but officers—many of them nobles from the Princelands or even the cities on Einan—were sent home for proper funeral rites.
“You would have your fellow Captains buried in common graves?” Oderus demanded.
“Beside the men they fought and died to protect,” Phonnis responded in a quiet voice. “Gait had no family to be sent home to, and the men of the Seventh Company would be honored to have Danmor share their final resting place.” He turned to Aravon. “That is two mounts. I would offer my own as the third.”
Aravon's eyes went wide. “Captain Phonnis—”
Oderus cut him off. “Absolutely not!” he snapped, rising to his feet. “Jade Battalion needs to be able to look up to their Captains, to know they are men to be respected.”
“And what is more worthy of respect than knowing their Captain is the first to sacrifice for the greater good?” Aravon addressed the Commander, but his eyes were fixed on Phonnis. “Were the circumstances different, I would not accept your offer.”
“But time is of the essence, as you said,” Phonnis replied. “I can always purchase another horse, sir.” A little smile tugged at his lips. “My family in Praamis can spare the expense.”
Aravon glanced at Oderus. The Commander’s lips were pressed into a thin, white line. After a moment, he shook his head and shooed Aravon away with a dismissive gesture.
“Thank you, Commander!” Aravon snapped a Legion salute and hurried from the tent before Oderus reconsidered.
Captain Phonnis led him toward the picket line. “Here you are, sir.” He pointed to two Voramian chargers. Aravon looked them over; their former riders had taken good care of them.
“And this, sir,” Phonnis said, pointing to a short-necked, deep-chested, heavily-muscled charger with long, powerful legs, “is Stormfoot.”
Aravon's eyes went wide at sight of the horse. This was no ordinary beast, but one of the Kostarasar chargers bred specially by Duke Phonnis. “I cannot accept, Captain.” He shook his head. “This horse is worth a princely sum.”
“As I said, my family can afford the expense.” Captain Phonnis extended the horse's reins. “She has a spirited temperament and a large personality, but will always respond well to the right motivation.” He plucked an apple from his pouch and held it up to the horse's mouth.
“I will treat her as if she were my own.” Aravon took the reins from Captain Phonnis with a nod.
“Thank you, sir.” Phonnis patted the horse's neck. “Stormfoot and I have been through many adventures together.”
“And you will have many more. You will see
her again, you have my word.”
With a final stroke of the horse's long mane, Captain Phonnis stepped back. “Swordsman smile on you, sir.” He gave the Legion's salute: right fist pounding his breastplate above his heart.
The Captain had no idea how much it meant to him. Legionnaires reserved their salute for their superiors. Giving it to Aravon—who, in the Captain's mind, was not a member of the Legion—showed a great deal of respect. Aravon straightened and returned the salute with a solemn nod.
* * *
“Of course the Captain gets to ride the pretty horse,” Noll muttered to Belthar in a voice clearly meant for Aravon to overhear. “While we get stuck with these nags.”
“Keep complaining,” Aravon shot back in sign language, “and you'll run all the way to Bjornstadt.”
The mask covered Noll's face, but Aravon caught a twinkle of humor in the scout's eyes.
Colborn, Skathi, and Zaharis hurried through the canyon to join their small group. Skathi handed a fresh quiver of Agrotorae arrows, fletched with hawk feathers dyed blood red, to Noll and Colborn. She'd conserved as many of the Odarian steel-tipped arrows as she could, but she'd had to refill her three quivers from the Agrotorae stock. Quality shafts with solid fletching, yet arrowheads of Voramian steel.
Zaharis was busy stuffing a wrapped bundle into his pack.
“What's that?” Aravon asked.
“A few extra supplies,” Zaharis replied. “The Menders were more than gracious.”
Something told him the Menders wouldn't know of their graciousness until they discovered the items missing.
Colborn handed a cloth-wrapped bundle to each of them. “Jade Battalion was light on rations, but the men spared what they could.”
The words sent pride surging in Aravon's chest. He had no doubt the Legionnaires packed light for their march from Gallows Garrison. Until Oderus sent men back for supplies, they would have little to eat. Yet they’d given up what little they had to aid them in their mission. Just as Captain Phonnis had.
He stuffed the rations into his pack. “Let's ride,” he signed. His voice would crack with emotion if he tried to speak.
In silence, the others mounted up beside him. Aravon cast a glance back toward the front of the Legion line. The last of the Eirdkilrs had fallen less than half an hour ago, but already men were preparing to march on Anvil Garrison to support the Ninth Company.
The eyes of scores of Legionnaires followed them as they rode back through the canyon.
Aravon caught the words one muttered to another. “Bloody grim reavers, they are.”
The Legionnaires nodded and straightened, giving them the Legion salute. All along their path, the Legion rippled as soldiers saluted. A farewell to the men that had done the impossible, had saved them from certain death.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
One hundred and fifty miles. The thought echoed in Aravon's mind as he clung to Stormfoot's mane. The pounding of the horses' hooves beneath him matched the furious hammering of his heart. Just one hundred and fifty miles!
Gallows Garrison lay sixty miles behind them, and they had almost reached the wagon trail that led deep into the heart of Eyrr territory. Yet with every mile that flashed by, the tension in Aravon's stomach grew.
Stormfoot was one of the Duke's prime Kostarasar chargers, but the others rode Legion horses. They managed a steady eight miles per hour at a trot. It took every shred of willpower for Aravon to maintain the slow pace—riding ahead of his unit would do nothing but get him killed. He couldn't fight the Eirdkilrs alone.
If Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr were on their way to Bjornstadt—and he had to admit it was a big “if”—they would reach it sometime around noon the following day. The Eirdkilrs covered ground nearly as fast as the Legion horses, and they had the more direct route. Aravon and his men had trekked roughly a hundred and twenty miles through the dense forests and steep foothills on their journey from Bjornstadt to Anvil Garrison. But now, he had to rely on the horses’ speed to outpace the Eirdkilrs. He couldn’t lead his mounts through the rough terrain they’d traveled to get here. Their only hope lay in racing north on the Eastmarch then turning east to follow the wagon trail toward Bjornstadt.
Aravon shot a worried glance at the sky. The sun hovered a finger's breadth above the horizon. Within minutes, night would descend on the dense forest around them. They couldn't risk one of their mounts stumbling in the darkness. Belthar's horse had begun showing signs of tiring.
One glance at the men and woman riding beside him told him they couldn't push much longer either. Fresh blood stained the bandage on Belthar's shoulder, and fatigue left him struggling to keep up with the horse's bouncing gait. Noll's eyes drooped behind his mask. Even the stubborn Colborn sat slumped in his saddle.
Aravon fought back a wave of exhaustion, but he could only hold it at bay for so long. He'd collapsed last night and slept for two or three hours. None of them had had much sleep since leaving Camp Marshal. At this pace, they would be no good to Duke Dyrund or Bjornstadt.
He raised his fist and gave the signal to slow. When they had slowed to a walk, he turned his horse off the road. “We rest,” his fingers flashed.
No one complained. Colborn moved to the lead as they pushed deeper into the forest. The moment they reached their campsite, every one of them—the unflappable Zaharis included—drooped from the saddle and collapsed to the soft earth.
Aravon signaled. “I'll take first watch with Zaharis.” The Secret Keeper showed the least fatigue. “Colborn and Skathi in two hours. Belthar and Noll third watch. We ride in six hours.” They could survive on four hours of sleep, even though it came on the heels of weeks of insufficient rest.
Within seconds, the sounds of snoring rose from the bundled forms of Belthar and Noll. They hadn't bothered to remove their masks. Colborn chewed a handful of nuts from the Legion rations before falling asleep. Skathi set her back against a tree, placed her horse bow in her lap, and closed her eyes.
Aravon used a dagger to scrape the Eirdkilr bloodstains from his mask. “Any chance you can whip up more of that Secret Keeper magic?” he asked.
Zaharis gave him a tired grin at the use of the word. “I'll see what I can do.” He began to rummage in his pack, pulling out the bundles he'd “obtained” from the Menders.
Aravon ached to sit down, to rest his road-weary legs, but he knew he'd fall asleep if he did. He had no idea where the Eirdkilrs were or even if they were out there. Yet he wouldn't risk his men's safety.
He couldn't be certain they were doing the right thing by charging off toward Bjornstadt. Perhaps Hrolf Hrungnir, somehow anticipating the loss of the battle at Broken Canyon, had retreated to Anvil Garrison. Jade Battalion's Ninth Company could be marching toward a trap. They wouldn't know they were attacking a well-fortified garrison until the first Eirdkilr arrow flew. He could have sent them to their deaths.
Hrolf Hrungnir had proven that he fought unlike the other Eirdkilrs. He had been the one to sucker Commander Oderus into his trap. He'd taken Anvil Garrison and held it, then ambushed Aravon on the road to eliminate the reinforcements. The Blodhundr leader had done more to advance the Eirdkilrs' position on the eastern half of Fehl than any Eirdkilr in the last five years.
He had also been the one to massacre the people of Oldrsjot and burn their homes to the ground. He had sent his Blodhundr to attack Bjornstadt—a clever maneuver that would have removed the Eyrr before they became a threat.
So it made sense that Hrungnir would try to finish the job before Chief Ailmaer could send his warriors to join the fight. Even if he expected the peace-loving Eyrr to fall before his raiders, the fact that they'd repelled his first attack meant he'd have to be certain the job was done right. He'd see to the destruction of Bjornstadt personally.
It was the only explanation that made sense to Aravon. The lessons at Camp Marshal had taught him to think less like a Legionnaire and more like the Eirdkilrs. Their tactics seemed barbaric to the structured, disciplined L
egion of Heroes, yet those same tactics had driven the Legion forces from Snowpass Keep. The Eirdkilrs and their allied Fehlan clans controlled the entire southern third of Fehl. The mighty Fjall clan in the heart of Fehl had refused to take up arms against the Eirdkilrs—they knew full well what would happen if they did. The Legion had been slowly losing ground one mile at a time for the last decade.
This attack on Bjornstadt was precisely the sort of thing a savvy Eirdkilr commander would do. Take out two enemies at a time. The opportunity was too good for Hrolf Hrungnir to pass up.
If he was wrong, Jade Battalion would be in serious trouble. But if he was right and he failed to reach Bjornstadt in time, the entire northeastern corner of Fehl would suffer. Bad odds, but he had to take them.
He jerked upright as a hand rested on his shoulder. He was surprised to find his eyes had drooped closed. Blinking back sleep, he stared at Zaharis. It took his fatigue-numbed mind a moment to register the meaning of the Secret Keeper's hand gestures.
“For energy.”
His eyes went to the root in Zaharis' hand, an ugly, shriveled brown thing with a myriad of branch roots. It left a horrible bitter taste in his mouth as he chewed it. He shot a grimace at Zaharis. “What is it?”
Zaharis grinned. “Shaggy birthwort.”
Aravon's eyes went wide. Fehlans used the root as a remedy to aid livestock in birthing their young.
“Specially treated by me, of course.” Zaharis gave his silent laugh. “A bit of Secret Keeper 'magic'. Though I wouldn't be surprised if you gave birth to a healthy litter of piglets in three to six months.”
Aravon was too tired to laugh. He shook his head and concentrated on not spitting out the root. If nothing else, the foul taste would certainly keep sleep at bay.
He glanced around at his sleeping men. “Did I make the right choice?” he asked Zaharis. Hesitation and fatigue made his fingers clumsy. “Do you think the Duke really is in danger?”
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