Rangvaldr nodded. “Selflessness, a noble virtue indeed.” He gave Aravon a smile. “When I have finished, I will seek you out. There is much for us to discuss.” With those enigmatic words, he turned and strode toward the main longhouse.
Chapter Forty-Three
For the life of him, Aravon couldn't figure out what Rangvaldr had to discuss with him. The thought nagged in the back of his mind as he crossed Bjornstadt's stone-paved main square to where Belthar, Noll, Colborn, and Skathi stood in the shadow of a tall longhouse.
The four of them turned toward him. Colborn's brow furrowed at sight of Aravon's face. “That looks bad.”
Aravon tried to wave him away. “It's—”
“Say 'nothing', and I'll have Belthar hold you down.” Colborn pointed at the raised platform upon which the longhouse sat. “Sit here. I may not be a Mender, but I know my way around a needle and thread.”
Aravon complied. Colborn set about stitching his cut, muttering to himself much as Draian had. “Wound'll heal…leave a scar…idiot forgot to duck.”
“You know I can hear you, right?” Aravon asked.
Colborn glared at him. “That's the point.”
Aravon winced as the needle pierced his flesh.
“That trick of yours,” Colborn said, “sneaking around behind the enemy, that was clever. What made you think of Stormcrow Pass?”
Aravon hesitated. “I guess the General told the story enough times that it stuck.”
Colborn raised an eyebrow. “Your father was there? But that was forty years ago!”
Aravon forced himself not to nod—he wouldn't risk ripping one of the stitches. “He was a Corporal standing the shield wall. Beside Duke Dyrund. Before he was Duke, of course.”
Belthar, Skathi, and Noll exchanged surprised glances.
The Battle of Stormcrow Pass numbered among the greatest victories against the Eirdkilrs in the last century. A small force of Legionnaires had found themselves besieged by Eirdkilrs, with no way to retreat from their position high in the mountains. A handful of Legionnaires—including some of the attached Agrotorae—had found a way to crawl around behind the enemy and attack from the rear. The momentary distraction gave the besieged Legionnaires a chance to counterattack. Fewer than one in ten men had survived, but every one of the Eirdkilrs had fallen.
General Traighan and Duke Dyrund had numbered among the brave fools that volunteered to risk the dangerous mountains. Their actions earned them a commendation from Prince Toran's father and promotions to positions of command.
“Let's hope you've got more of his stories locked away up here, eh?” Colborn tapped Aravon's head with a grin.
Aravon scowled at the Lieutenant. “Almost done?”
“Just about.” Colborn chewed on his lip as he pulled the needle through Aravon's cheek. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. “There, good as new.”
The look on the Lieutenant's face belied his words, but Aravon let it go. “Thank you.” He prodded at the stitched flesh. He'd have to see if Zaharis could come up with something to speed up the healing process. If not, riding would be torment for days to come.
“What now, Captain?” Belthar asked. “What's our next mission?”
The question caught Aravon by surprise. “What do you mean?”
The big man's brow furrowed. “Where are we going now? Hunting down Eirdkilrs south of Anvil Garrison, or off to the western front to piss in their porridge over there?”
Aravon found himself at a loss for words. He'd been so focused on saving Jade Battalion then returning to prevent the Eirdkilr attack that he hadn't considered what came next.
After a long moment, he let out his breath. “I don't know. I'll talk to the Duke, see what he has for us.” He met Colborn's eyes. “For now, we need to be ready in case he wants us to move out. Get some supplies and make sure our packs are ready to go.”
The Lieutenant nodded. “Got it.”
Aravon turned to Skathi and Belthar. “You two, make sure we've got weapons. Arrows for the three of you, a few more of those bloody great crossbow bolts.” He looked at Belthar. “Be thankful Polus wasn't here. If he saw the way you dropped that crossbow…”
Belthar winced. The blacksmith at Camp Marshal had sermonized at great length about the importance of well-maintained gear.
“You might be needing this, then.” Belthar held out the two snapped halves of Aravon's spear.
Aravon accepted the short lengths of wood with a nod of thanks. He'd have to get Polus to make him a new spear, but it would be worth it. The Odarian steel spearhead was worth a fortune, and the metal-shod butt with its iron spike had proven an invaluable weapon.
Skathi and Belthar strode off.
“Noll, see to the horses,” Aravon instructed. “Get them from the woods, and bring them to stable with the mounts we rode in on.” He'd have to find some way to send Stormfoot back to Captain Phonnis at Anvil Garrison. Certainly the Duke would be willing to make it happen.
Noll hesitated, as if intending to say something, but evidently thought better of it. “Aye, Captain,” he said and hurried away.
Aravon remained seated for a long moment, letting the battle fatigue and weariness wash over him. He had no idea how to answer his men's question of what came next. But for now, he would simply focus on the fact that he had survived. They all had.
A little yipping bark from high overhead snapped him from his thoughts. He looked up to see a small figure circling in the clear blue sky. The flash of red fur brought a smile to his lips—which he immediately regretted, from the pain of his wounded face.
He stood and strode from the main square, ducking between two buildings. Pulling out the little bone whistle, he blew it. Moments later, a bundle of fur and wings swooped toward him, crashing into him and bearing him to the ground. Snarl hopped onto his chest and barked happily at him, nipping at his chin.
Aravon laughed. “Hey, take it easy on me!” He couldn't help smiling at the creature's enthusiasm and joy at seeing him. “Good to see you, little guy.”
Snarl gave a little yip as Aravon scratched behind his ears. The Enfield reminded Aravon of a wolfhound puppy he'd had as a child, but with thrice as much energy. Snarl's claws dug into his shoulder as he hopped about, barking and pawing at Aravon with delight.
For a long moment, Aravon forgot about the battle, the worries of the future, everything. His world was filled with a bright bundle of red fur, brown feathered wings, and shining amber eyes.
* * *
The Duke's words two hours later brought reality crashing back down around him. “It's as bad as I feared. Chief Ailmaer is refusing to send aid to the Legion.” Exhaustion showed on his face, and he still hunched over his left side. Yet he’d refused to slow, had thrown himself into helping deal with the Eirdkilr bodies, restoring order to Bjornstadt, even speaking to Chief Ailmaer. Thankfully, Zaharis had made him sit still long enough to bandage the ragged wound in his shoulder. “He insists his warriors will protect their own borders until they are certain they are safe. Nothing I or the Seiomenn said would sway him.”
Aravon ground his teeth. Without the Eyrr's support, the Legion at Anvil Garrison was the only thing holding back the Eirdkilr reinforcements. It would be months until the Legion received reinforcements from the mainland.
“I have no choice but to pull men from Eastfall and march them south to support Jade Battalion.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Won't that leave the Chain undermanned?”
Duke Dyrund's expression grew grim. “It will. But I don't see any other choice.”
“Could the Prince be convinced to send men?”
“Perhaps.” The Duke inclined his head. “I will broach the subject as soon as possible. In fact, I leave for Icespire tomorrow at first light.” He held up a small rolled parchment. “I have received word from Lord Eidan that the Prince expects my return. It seems our negotiation with the western clans may bear more fruit than with the Eyrr.”
“With the Fehlan
s to support the army in the west, we may be able to bring more Legion support to reinforce the eastern front.”
“That is my hope.” Duke Dyrund sighed. “For now, we can only pray to the Swordsman that Jade Battalion can hold Anvil Garrison.”
Aravon nodded. Commander Oderus was a stubborn man—once inside Anvil Garrison, it would take a horde of Eirdkilrs to drive him out. With men like Captain Phonnis serving beneath him, Jade Battalion had a fighting chance. But it would be a hard few months until reinforcements arrived.
“What about us?” Aravon asked. “Where would you have us go now?”
Duke Dyrund pursed his lips. “South, back to Anvil Garrison,” he said after a moment of contemplation.
Aravon raised an eyebrow.
“Keep an eye on those thousand Eirdkilrs and do everything in your power to keep Jade Battalion alive.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” Aravon bowed. “My men and I will be ready to leave at first light.” He turned to go.
“One last thing.” The Duke's words stopped him in his tracks. “The loss of the Mender, Draian, was truly unfortunate. I blame myself for pulling him into the field before he was ready.”
“All due respect, Your Grace, but the blame lies with the Eirdkilrs. Had they not besieged Bjornstadt, he would still be alive.” Aravon had told himself the same thing a hundred times—he doubted the Duke would believe it any more than he, but sometimes hearing the words aloud helped to ease one's guilt.
The Duke nodded. “I know you feel his passing personally, as do I. I knew Draian for many years.” He gave Aravon a little half-smile. “He stitched up more than a few wounds of mine as well. Each came with their own lecture on how to avoid getting injured.”
Aravon chuckled. “He did love to lecture, our Mender.”
“Indeed,” the Duke replied. “But that leaves your team down a man. More importantly, a healer. But I've found you a replacement.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Me.” The voice came from behind him.
Aravon turned. Rangvaldr stood behind him, but he no longer wore the robes of a Seiomenn. Instead, he wore the chain mail shirt and skullcap of a Fehlan warrior. In place of the gemstone-topped staff, he carried the sword and shield he'd taken from above Ailmaer's throne.
Rangvaldr's eyes hardened. “My chieftain refuses to send aid to our allies to the north. I believe he is making a mistake.” He hefted his weapons. “It may have been more than a decade since I last stood beside my fellow warriors in the shield wall, but I am not yet too old to take up arms to defend my land.”
Aravon studied the Fehlan. He'd fought beside the man; Rangvaldr could hold his own.
“We'll have to see about getting one of Polus' marvelous suits of armor,” the Duke said, “but I believe he'll make a valuable addition to your team.”
“Why?” Aravon asked at last. “Why defy your chieftain?”
Rangvaldr met his eyes without hesitation. “I, too, have lost brothers in arms. I have seen what war does. It is why I chose the life of a Seiomenn, so I could repair hearts and souls instead of shatter bodies.” He thumbed the blue gemstone pendant hanging around his neck. “Yet now, I cannot sit by and watch the Tauld wreak havoc on Fehl. I hear the voice of Nuius in my heart, calling me to take action even if my kin will not. I believe that means standing with you. My sword and shield are yours, if you will have me.”
Aravon met the shaman's gaze and saw determination written in the eyes. A kindred spirit.
He extended a hand. “Welcome,” he said in Fehlan. “We are honored to have you.”
Rangvaldr gripped his forearm. “The honor is mine, Captain. I will be ready to depart with you at first light.” His smile faded. “Alas, tonight the duties of Seiomenn demand my attention one final time.”
* * *
The lights of the funeral pyres burned bright behind Rangvaldr as he raised his voice in the funeral dirge.
“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.”
Aravon joined the rest of Bjornstadt in repeating the words in a quiet voice. Beside him, Duke Dyrund was silent, his head bowed in silent farewell to Rendar, Farrell, Ashtyn, and Syvup, the brave warriors who had fallen protecting him from the Eirdkilrs. Aravon placed a comforting hand on the Duke's shoulder. He knew what the man was feeling all too well.
Duke Dyrund gave him a solemn nod and strode away without a word. The hunch in his shoulders and his slow, steady gait made him seem much older than his fifty-eight years.
Aravon felt someone sidle up beside him. From the corner of his eyes, he caught a glimpse of Noll.
“We're ready, Captain.” Noll spoke without taking his eyes from the burning bodies. “Horses packed and supplies replenished.”
“Good.” Aravon nodded. “We ride at first light with the Duke until we hit the Eastmarch, then head south.”
“I'll let the others know.”
Noll made no move to leave. Aravon said nothing, simply waited. He'd learned not to push Noll—the man would speak his mind when he was ready.
“For what it's worth, Captain,” Noll said in a slow voice, “I regret what I said.”
Aravon struggled to mask his surprise. This was the last thing he'd expected.
“You made the right call back there, stepping up to save the Jade Battalion. I...” Noll hesitated. “Sometimes it's easier to blame a man than to accept that shite happens, even to good people.”
“Noll, I don't know what—”
Noll turned now and met his eyes. “You were the best Captain Sixth Company could ask for. It was…unfair of me to lay what happened on your shoulders.” He drew in a deep breath. “I'm sorry.”
Aravon extended his hand. “Thank you, Noll.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You honor the Sixth with your courage and skill.”
Noll shook his hand, ducking his head. “If you'll excuse me, Captain,” he said, his voice rough, “I've horses to see to.”
“Of course.”
Aravon watched the little scout hurry away. Somehow, it seemed a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The rational part of his mind knew he'd done everything he could to keep his men alive, but another part had clung to guilt over his failure. Noll's words made that guilt a little easier to let go of.
He couldn't bring back the men he'd lost. He could never find a reason why they had fallen and he still lived. But he could honor their memory by doing everything in his power to protect others.
Chapter Forty-Four
They rode out with the rising sun, a silent, somber group much smaller than the one that had ridden into Bjornstadt days earlier. The Duke's eyes were red-rimmed, though he insisted simply from lack of sleep. No one pressed. Every one of them had their own losses to cope with in their own way.
Colborn and Noll rode in the lead, with Belthar and Skathi bringing up the rear. All rode with wary glances at the forest surrounding the wagon road. Though they had defeated Hrolf Hrungnir and the Blodhundr, they wouldn't risk an ambush by any other Eirdkilrs.
The sun climbed high in the sky, driving back the chill—and with it, the solemnity that had settled over their little company. By the time they took a midday break just beyond eyeshot of Oldrsjot, the Duke came out of his gloomy shell.
“With everything that happened,” he told Aravon and the others, “I didn't get a chance to visit Silver Break Mine.”
Belthar, Colborn, and the others exchanged curious glances. With a sigh, the Duke repeated everything he'd told Aravon about the secret mine in the Eyrr clan land—including the reason for keeping it a secret.
“If the Eirdkilrs had known of the mine's existence, they would certainly have gone out of their way to destroy i
t before raiding Oldrsjot.” Duke Dyrund gave a knowing smile. “One more reason to conceal its existence from the outside world.”
Rangvaldr nodded. “Aside from the chieftain and myself, no one in Bjornstadt knew of it. All Ailmaer cared about was reaping the wealth the mine offered.”
“But there's a problem,” the Duke said. “A shipment was due yesterday morning but never arrived. It could be nothing but a simple delay—not completely uncommon even with the best of operations. However, seeing as it's on our way, it's worth making a short detour to find out what, if anything, happened.”
Aravon nodded. “Understood,” he signed. Even with Zaharis' special healing draught, the wound on his face made speaking painful. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth against the agony brought on by the bouncing, jostling gait of their horses.
“We need that silver and gold.” Duke Dyrund's voice grew somber. “It's the only way we can afford the next wave of Legionnaires. Without those reinforcements…” He didn't need to finish his sentence. Every one of them knew what would happen if the Legion positions on both eastern and western fronts didn't get additional manpower soon.
They turned off onto an even smaller wagon trail—little more than a mud track wide enough for a single two-horse cart—a mile or two after passing Oldrsjot. According to the Duke, Silver Break Mine was an hour's ride to the northwest of the ravaged town. The detour would cost them half an hour.
Yet the farther they rode, the more worried the Duke's expression grew. Tension lined his face and tightened his shoulders. He rode with his head cocked to one side, listening for…what? Aravon heard nothing but the sounds of the forest around them.
It hit him. He heard nothing. Not the chink of pickaxes striking stone, the creak of wheels or the groaning of wagons heavily-laden with ore. None of the shouts or cries, not even the dull hum of conversation, to be expected from a busy mine.
He touched the Duke's arm to attract his attention. “Problem?” he signed.
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