“What I’m going to ask of you is more than I have any right to.” Aravon studied the six Grim Reavers in turn. “And I expect you to hear me out fully before you answer.” His gaze darted to Noll, who had already opened his mouth. “That means you, Noll!”
The scout’s face reddened a shade, but he snapped his mouth shut and gave a tight nod.
“Speak, Captain,” Zaharis signed with his left hand. “And we will listen.”
A tense silence descended over the room as Aravon drew in another long, quiet breath. Once the words were out of his mouth, he couldn’t take them back. The time had come to roll the dice.
“This attack on Icespire is something the Eirdkilrs would never have dreamed of during the days when my father was General in the Legion of Heroes. Hells, until a few months ago, I don’t think any of us could have imagined them capable of this kind of thinking.”
“The bastards didn’t exactly do it on their own,” Belthar rumbled. “They had help.” His lips twisted into a snarl—the expression mirrored the fury and outrage blazing deep in Aravon’s chest.
Lord Eidan’s treachery had shocked them all. Worse, the nobleman’s plans had come within a heartbeat of succeeding. Only the Grim Reavers’ intervention had kept Lord Eidan from bringing down the Deepshackle to allow the Eirdkilr boats into Icespire Bay, and he’d nearly gotten away with his hostages—Branda, daughter of Eirik Throrsson, and Eira, healer of the Deid village of Saerheim, and Colborn’s grandmother. In the process, he’d tried to kill Aravon’s wife and sons. His death—a fatal leap from the Palace rooftop—had been far too kind a fate for the traitorous spymaster.
“Indeed.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “But Lord Eidan’s treachery would never have worked in the past. The clan leaders of the Eirdkilrs have always rebuffed any attempt at diplomacy or negotiation with Princelanders. Until Tyr Farbjodr.”
At mention of the Eirdkilr commander’s name, all the faces in the room darkened. Though they hadn’t met the man in person, they’d all seen his handiwork. Villages burned to the ground. Fehlans and Princelanders slaughtered or hauled away as captives—to what grisly end, Aravon had no idea. Soldiers massacred, strongholds besieged, and countless lives in the Princelands and among the Fehlan clans destroyed.
“For the last fifteen years,” Aravon continued, “he has led the Eirdkilrs, commanded the clans and warbands. But in recent months, his attacks have increased, his actions growing more reckless and ruthless. From Bjornstadt to Rivergate to Storbjarg and now here, he has done things no Eirdkilr commander before him has ever been able to conceive of, much less pull off.”
He raised a clenched fist. “He is the greatest threat to the Princelands, and to the Fehlan clans.” His gaze moved to Colborn and Rangvaldr; both of them had suffered direct losses as a result of the Eirdkilr attacks. Colborn in Saerheim, the village of his Deid mother. Rangvaldr in Bjornstadt, his home and seat of the Eyrr’s power. “Until he is eliminated, we will never truly have peace. Our only hope for a future where the battles are won and the war is over is to kill Tyr Farbjodr.”
Aravon allowed those words to settle onto his Grim Reavers. As the realization of what he told them sank in, a tense silence descended over the room.
“The Eirdkilr have no center of gravity north of the Sawtooth Mountains, no stronghold we can attack to destroy their base of operations like they intended to do here.” Aravon’s gesture encompassed the Palace, Icespire Bay, and the city itself. “To our knowledge, Tyr Farbjodr has never left the icy safety of the southern Wastelands. So, if he will not come to us, we must go to him.”
Noll’s eyes narrowed. “You really saying what I think you are, Captain?”
“I am.” Aravon nodded. “I’m heading south, crossing the Sawtooth Mountains, and finding Tyr Farbjodr. With him eliminated, there’s a good chance the Eirdkilrs will once again become the leaderless group of clans that invaded the Fehlan lands when the war first began. Fighting among themselves for authority, no longer united beneath a single commander. Dividing them up is the best way to give our Legions a chance to drive them back and reclaim the lands of Fehl. By the Swordsman’s grace, to put an end to the war once and for all.”
Noll cocked his head. “The fact that it’s certain death doesn’t give you any pause?” He glanced around to his comrades for confirmation. “We don’t exactly look the part, so we’re going to stick out like a turd in a banquet hall.”
“I understand the risk of what I propose.” Aravon studied each of his Grim Reavers in turn. “Which is why I’m asking if you will come with me, not commanding you to.”
“We get a choice?” Noll’s eyebrows shot up.
“Of course.” Aravon inclined his head. “I won’t send any soldier to their death if they’re not willing. And, if you choose to stay, I know Prince Toran will reward you handsomely for your service thus far.” He gave the scout a small smile. “You could go home, Noll. Home to your family in Lochton, burdened with enough gold to give your sons and daughter the life they deserve.”
The words seemed to strike Noll with near-physical force, and he sucked in a breath.
Aravon turned to Rangvaldr. “You could return to Bjornstadt and the Eyrr, go back to your life of caring for your people.”
Rangvaldr said nothing, but his expression grew pensive.
“And you, Skathi.” Aravon looked at the red-haired archer. “You could return to your sisters in the Agrotorae, march beside the Legion once more. Hells, I’ve no doubt the Prince could put in a word with Commander Rosaia. The Agrotorae would be lucky having you command your own company of archers.”
A hint of crimson tinged Skathi’s cheeks, and her strong fingers tightened around the stem of her steel goblet.
Aravon glanced at Belthar. “You’ve more than earned a place in the Legion, Belthar. Or in the Eastfall guard, or here in the Ebonguard if you want to stay in Icespire. You say the word, and the Prince will make sure you find a place where you’d get everything you want.”
Belthar’s eyes darkened, and for a moment he appeared ready to respond.
Aravon drove on. “And the same for you, Zaharis.” He gestured to the Palace. “The Prince could find a place for you here. The Temple of Whispers believes you’re dead. You’ve got a chance to start anew. To do with your life whatever you want.”
When Aravon’s eyes went to Colborn, the Lieutenant shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath on me, Captain. I’ve had time enough to make up my mind.” He stood and looked Aravon full in the face. “You’d never get across the Sawtooth Mountains without me.”
“But what about you, Captain?” To Aravon’s surprise, the question came from Skathi. “You lost your father and Duke Dyrund, nearly lost your family in the process.” The archer remained seated, but leaned forward, sharp eyes narrowed at him. “Why are you so willing to risk yourself on something like this? Surely there are others that could do this far better than you.”
“Maybe.” Aravon frowned. “But something Lord Eidan said has kept me thinking for the last day. He said, ‘Everything we’re doing is just buying time for Tyr Farbjodr to grow stronger, to summon his true strength’. I don’t know what he was talking about, but if he didn’t see the attack on Icespire as the Eirdkilrs’ endgame, imagine how much worse things could get!”
Belthar’s eyes narrowed in thought—he hadn’t been present to hear Lord Eidan’s ranting.
Aravon shook his head. “After everything we’ve seen and dealt with over the last months, I can’t let this go. I can’t sit back and let it happen, not if there’s something I can do about it.”
“So why do you think it’s possible any of us could?” Now Skathi rose. Though she stood a few inches shorter than him, her broad back and heavy-muscled shoulders made her appear larger. Fire blazed in her emerald green eyes. “For months, we’ve been fighting side by side, but when things go to shite, you think we’d sit out and let someone else do our battling for us?”
“No.” Aravon shook his head. “I would
never expect you to choose the easy way.” He looked from face to face. “Any of you. You’ve more than proven that you’re capable of doing the impossible. But you’ve also earned yourselves the right to choose whether or not to face certain death.”
“Death!” Skathi snorted and gave an indignant shake of her head. “I’m dead already!”
Chapter Four
“What?” Aravon’s eyes widened.
The muscles around Skathi’s strong jaw tightened, a hint of fire blazing in her emerald eyes. “He never told you, did he? The Duke.”
Confusion thrummed within Aravon. “Told me what?”
“Why I joined you lot.” A shadow passed across Skathi’s eyes and she spoke in a quiet voice. “How I ended up serving with dead men.” Something inscrutable warred in her face.
“No.” Aravon studied the archer; the muscles in her shoulders and neck had knotted, her posture gone stiff.
Skathi tore her gaze from Aravon’s face and, to his surprise, turned to glance at Belthar. “It’s because of my sister.”
Aravon struggled to mask his surprise; he’d heard Skathi mention her sister when Belthar had spoken of his history with the Brokers, but she hadn’t elaborated. “What happened?” he asked gently.
“There was a man.” Skathi’s face hardened. “A Legion Captain, the sort of man used to getting whatever he wanted.” Her jaw muscles clenched. “He set his eye on Nya, and nothing she did would make him leave her alone.”
Aravon’s stomach clenched; he’d met more than his fair share of bastards and cruel men abusing their power as Legion officers.
“Until the day he decided he’d get what he wanted, no matter what.” Skathi’s face twisted into a snarl, yet sorrow and revulsion mingled in her eyes. “Took three of his Lieutenants to hold her down to make sure of it. Only I was there to stop him. To take her place so she didn’t have to…” Her voice cracked, but the fire of fury and bitter hatred blazed in every line of her face.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Belthar leapt to his feet, a low grumble in his throat. “Tell me who he is and—”
“There’s no need.” An icy sharpness, like a sword left out in the bitterest Princelander winter, edged her voice, her words coming out in a harsh whisper. “That was fifteen years ago. Fifteen long years, every day living with the knowledge of what that bastard did, what he wanted to do to Nya. What he’d done to so many others, and continued to do until I tracked him down and put a dagger in his pathetic little prick.” Her fists clenched so tightly her hands shook. “Cut that bastard Captain open and watched him bleed out in the mud. And every damned one of his cronies with him.”
Icy feet slithered down Aravon’s spine. He’d known Skathi had endured a hard life, but her words set disgust churning in his stomach. No one should ever have to endure that!
“I’d have died if not for the Duke,” Skathi continued, her voice quiet. “He pulled me out the night before I was to hang. Brought me to Wolfden Castle, hid me away for a few weeks.” Now she turned back to Aravon. “Until the day we met at Camp Marshal.”
At that moment, hearing that story, so much about Skathi seemed to make sense. She had lived with the burden of what had happened to her for fifteen years, and it had hardened her as much as it made her strong. She’d built up defensive walls around her heart and mind, to protect herself from feeling that pain ever again. The fact that she’d finally spoken about her past after months spent together gave him hope that their small company had begun to break down those walls.
Before he could say a word, Belthar stepped forward. The big man placed one huge hand on Skathi’s shoulder, soft as a feather’s touch, yet backed by the solid strength of his massive frame. The archer’s muscles tightened at the contact, but she looked up to meet his eyes.
“Someone once told me something very wise.” Belthar’s expression was grave, earnest. “You did what you had to for her sake. But now you’re free.”
Skathi swallowed—she had spoken those words to Belthar to comfort him over the death of his sister.
“I’ll never escape my past with the Brokers. With Inaia.” Belthar’s eyes darkened. “But the past is a burden that’ll bury me alive if I carry it around. If we carry it around. So we’ve got to let it go.”
“Easy for you to say!” Skathi’s retort lacked real teeth, the anger reflexive and forced. “You’ve got someplace to go back to, a life awaiting you once this is all done. Me, I’ll just wind up dancing that hangman’s jig the day I take off my mask.”
“Just like I will face death at the hands of my brothers and sisters of the Temple of Whispers.” Zaharis rose to his feet and came to stand before Skathi. “They believe I am dead, but I can never go back to being the priest I was.” His eyes darted toward Aravon. “But that won’t stop me from being the man I swore to be when I took the Mistress’ oaths.”
He straightened, and in that moment, clad in borrowed Ebonguard armor, looked for all the world like the dignified, revered Secret Keeper they’d met back in Camp Marshal. Not the Zaharis plagued by the burden of knowing he had turned against his priestly order or defied his goddess by sharing her secrets with the unconsecrated, but the man who had given his blood, sweat, and tears to the cause of defending the Princelands at any cost to himself.
“The Eirdkilrs want the ghoulstone, and I think we all can suspect why.” From within his pouch, the Secret Keeper drew out the chunk of ghoulstone he’d been studying for the last weeks. Or, more accurately, what had once been the inert, lifeless black stone. Now, the knuckle-sized rock emanated with a soft blue glow—a match for Rangvaldr’s holy stones and the towering Icespire. The discovery that the Serenii-built tower was made of Icespire had been a shock, yet no less surprising than another truth they’d uncovered.
“Ghoulstone has magical properties somehow.”
Even exhausted, Rangvaldr managed a wry chuckle. “You all saw that! He said ‘magic’.”
Zaharis scowled at the Seiomenn, but that didn’t slow his fingers. “We know the Eirdkilrs have gone after miners, and now with this discovery, I suspect Tyr Farbjodr’s plan has something to do with those magical properties. Which means he’s got something far worse in mind than just unleashing his Eirdkilr armies on us.” His face grew solemn and he looked at each in turn. “We’ve all heard the legends of what the Serenii were capable of, and if he’s somehow found a way to harness their magic through the stones, we need to stop him. Or, at least, I need to stop him.”
Aravon studied the Secret Keeper; he appeared deadly serious, his face a solemn mask.
“I swore an oath to the Mistress to protect this world from secrets that could destroy it,” Zaharis signed. “And if the Eirdkilrs have somehow unlocked those secrets, it’s my divine duty to stop them.” He hesitated. “It doesn’t matter if the Temple of Whispers believes I have betrayed my oaths—I will serve my Mistress until my last breath in the best way I know how.” Now he turned to Aravon. “So yes, Captain, I will join you on your mission to stop Tyr Farbjodr.”
Aravon clasped the man’s good hand. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Which means you’re going to need someone to keep you young hotheads alive.” Rangvaldr climbed to his feet with a groan. “You lot collect wounds like a miser hoards coin.”
“Or like Noll collects crotch lice,” Belthar rumbled.
“Careful, you lummox!” Noll rounded on the big man, eyes flashing. “Else I might just find a nice tall Sawtooth Mountain peak to accidentally push you off.”
“So you’re coming, too?” Aravon asked.
“Please, Captain!” Noll gave a little snort and rolled his eyes. “If you’re planning on putting Tyr Farbjodr down, there’s no one better for the task. After all—”
“If you crow about the Blodsvarri one more time,” Skathi snapped, “I’m going to shove one of Belthar’s crossbow bolts so far up your arse you’ll be spitting wood for the rest of your life.”
“I’m sorry,” Noll mocked, “but is that jealousy I hear in your
voice?” He drew himself up, a lordly expression on his face. “So tell me, how many Eirdkilr commanders have you killed?”
Skathi muttered something under her breath that Aravon chose to ignore.
“Seems like you’re not getting rid of us that easily, Captain.” Belthar’s rumbling voice echoed loud in the room. “We joined the Grim Reavers because we knew it was the right thing to do. Just because our chances of survival are shite doesn’t make it any less right.” He shrugged his huge shoulders. “Besides, it’s not like we’ve got anything better to do. Keeper knows I’ve spent far too much time lounging around this place for the last day. All this rest and relaxation has got me itching for some fun.”
Aravon grinned. “Kind of a twisted notion of ‘fun’, Belthar.”
The big man chuckled. “I blame that on you, Captain. Everything we’ve done in the last few weeks just makes it too damned hard to go back to living a normal life. So really, this is the only way we can have any sort of challenge. Pitched battles against impossible odds just seem too…boring. You’ve ruined us, sir.”
Despite the knowledge of what awaited them once they left the room, Aravon couldn’t help feeling a few moments of happiness. Pride in his team, in their commitment to their mission, filled his chest with a glow so brilliant and warm it threatened to outshine the sun.
“Thank you.” His voice came out quiet, hoarse around the lump that had risen to his throat.
Colborn gave a dismissive wave. “It’s our job, right?” He glanced to the rest of his comrades, a smile broadening his heavy, blunt features. “After all, we’re the Grim bloody Reavers!”
“Damned right we are!” Noll’s grin brightened his lean, narrow face. “And no one rips the Eirdkilrs new arseholes like we do!”
Aravon looked to the rest of his companions. Grim determination shone in the six pairs of eyes that met his. In that moment, his love and respect for his soldiers rose to new heights. He’d believed they would join him, but hearing it from their lips and seeing that resolve, hard as steel, in their faces filled him with admiration and gratitude. There was no one with whom he’d rather march off to certain death.
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