“So be it.” Aravon’s expression grew solemn. “Whatever you need to do, do it now. We ride out after dark.”
* * *
A knife twisted in Aravon’s heart as he watched his sons through the glass windows of the Palace’s northwestern corner. Rolyn chased Adilon through the lush gardens that spread across Palace Isle, joined in play by Prince Toran’s two young daughters and his son. Mylena and Princess Ranisia sat nearby, keeping a watchful eye on the children while enjoying a drink and a quiet, pleasant-seeming conversation beneath the gold, red, and pink sunset sky.
Despite his words to the Grim Reavers and the Prince, the thought of leaving his family nearly tore him in two. He’d come so close to losing them to Lord Eidan’s treachery, and now he’d chosen to travel more than a thousand miles away, trusting that they would be safe. The fact that it was the right thing to do didn’t make the doing any easier.
“Good-looking lads.”
Aravon nearly jumped at the voice from beside his elbow; he hadn’t heard Colborn come up the corridor or stand beside him.
“They take after their mother.” Colborn’s ice-blue eyes twinkled beneath his steel Ebonguard mask. “Lucky them, eh?”
Aravon gave a chuckle—the humor did little to push back the wrenching in his chest. These few moments spent watching his family was all he’d get. Perhaps the last chance he’d ever have. He couldn’t speak to Mylena or his sons one last time. Couldn’t take Rolyn and Adilon in his arms, kiss his wife farewell. He could only stand watching, separated by a pane of glass and a world of secrecy and intrigue.
For long moments, Colborn said nothing, simply stood at his side in companionable silence. That was his way, the stoic support that Aravon had come to rely on so completely. He couldn’t imagine this mission without Colborn—without any of his Grim Reavers, truth be told, but Colborn most of all. He was glad he didn’t have to.
Finally, as the sun dropped behind the western horizon, Aravon forced himself to turn away from the window. To turn away from his family—Rolyn, with his hair hanging down around his neck, just beginning to curl like Aravon’s hair did as a child; Adilon, his eyes shining bright with mirth and his chubby face dark with the telltale smears of jam-filled tarts; Mylena, her chestnut hair reflecting the light of the setting sun, that marvelous smile on her beautiful face. The simple act of tearing his eyes from those three figures nearly shattered his heart, his resolve. But the sight of Colborn standing at his side was enough to keep him from crumbling beneath the burden that weighed on his shoulders.
“It’s time,” was all the Lieutenant said.
With a nod, Aravon strode down the corridor, the Lieutenant at his side.
Through the Palace they marched, side by side, the silence between them at once companionable and thick with tension. The comfortable familiarity with each other clashed against the emotions roiling within their minds and hearts.
Aravon barely saw the lavish tapestries, the ornate carpets, the gold-and-silver statuettes and marble busts. His mind was consumed by the final image of his family—the image he’d carry with him every day as he traveled south on this impossible mission.
But he wasn’t alone in the turmoil, he knew. Though a mask hid Colborn’s face, Aravon recognized the shadow in the Lieutenant’s eyes. Only one thing could cause him such pain: family.
“Did you see her?” Aravon asked quietly.
“No.” Colborn shook his head. “There’s no point in it now. She’d never know it was me anyway.”
Aravon wanted to say more—Eira, the Saerheim healer, was all the family Colborn had left among the Deid—but held his tongue. If Colborn didn’t offer more, Aravon owed him the respect of letting the matter rest.
Long seconds passed before the Lieutenant spoke again. “The Prince is sending her to Ornntadr with the Hilmirsdottir and the Duke’s promised Wraithfever cure. Maybe on the way back…”
Aravon nodded. “That would be good.” Neither of them spoke the truth that weighed on their minds—it wasn’t a question of when they’d return, but if. They’d made their choices, accepted their possible fates. No more needed to be said.
Through the Palace they marched, neither of them speaking—what remained to say? Even the brilliance of the gleaming Icespire failed to lift the weight from their shoulders.
By the time they reached the Royal Stables, the rest of the Grim Reavers had already arrived and stood waiting. The seven Kostarasar chargers had been saddled, the equipment packed and ready for travel. All wore Ebonguard lamellar armor—they were too well-known in Icespire now to be truly incognito in their mottle-patterned leather armor and snarling greatwolf masks—but they’d change into their own gear once they left Icespire on their journey south. First to Camp Marshal, to resupply their armaments and provisions, then south of the Chain toward the Sawtooth Mountains.
None of the five soldiers spoke, simply nodded a greeting and climbed into their saddles. They all knew what needed to be done and, like the soldiers they were, had prepared to do it.
Aravon had just reached his horse—his pack secured in place, along with his spear and Fehlan-style longsword—when the sound of creaking hinges echoed behind him. Turning, he found the massive wooden door pulling open. Prince Toran marched into the stable, his gait confident and unhurried, surrounded by twelve of his Ebonguards.
“Your Majesty.” Aravon bowed, glad for the mask to conceal his confusion. Their departure was meant to be as secret as possible, so the Prince had no need to bring so many guards. A handful to protect him, certainly, but a full dozen?
“Captain Snarl.” Prince Toran’s voice was quiet, his face a somber mask. “Grim Reavers.”
“Your Majesty,” echoed the six Grim Reavers.
Prince Toran and his Ebonguards came to a halt a few paces away from Aravon. “I take it you’ve all accepted the mission laid out for you. And the potential outcome?”
“We have, My Prince.” Colborn’s voice held no trace of hesitation.
“You honor us, brave soldiers.” Prince Toran inclined his head. “Go with the gratitude of your Prince—” He turned to Rangvaldr. “—and all the Princelands.”
Rangvaldr bowed in his saddle, though he swayed slightly, not yet recovered from his exhaustion.
Prince Toran turned to Aravon. “I will not try to dissuade you from this mission, but I will do my damnedest to ensure you return alive.” From within his cloak, he withdrew a large silver coin and held it out to Aravon. “Take this to the Myrr town of Kaldrborg, and give it to a blacksmith by the name of Harlund. In return, he will tell you what he has uncovered about Tyr Farbjodr’s location, and with it a map of the Eirdkilr-held Wastelands.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “A map?” To his knowledge—as confirmed by Duke Dyrund back at Camp Marshal—no one had managed to map out the icy tundra south of the Sawtooth Mountains.
“A crude one,” Prince Toran replied, “with what little directions and details my agents have managed to gather in the last few years. But perhaps, by the Swordsman’s grace, it will be enough to get you to Tyr Farbjodr.”
Aravon took the coin. “Thank you, My Prince.” With a map and a hint of Tyr Farbjodr’s whereabouts, they were one giant step closer to completing their mission.
“But that is not all.” Something strange gleamed in Prince Toran’s eyes. “Harlund will also serve as your guide to the base of the Sawtooth Mountains, to Cliffpass.”
Aravon’s eyebrows furrowed. “Cliffpass?” Confusion thrummed within him. The eastern pass had been closed for fifteen years, since the Eirdkilrs tried and failed to capture Highcliff Motte. “But Snowpass—”
“Is impassable.” To Aravon’s surprise, it was the Ebonguard at the Prince’s right hand who spoke. “There are too many Eirdkilrs guarding the western pass.” The man stepped forward and removed his war mask.
Aravon sucked in a breath. He’d recognize that face anywhere. Lingram? The man was too damned handsome even despite the cuts on his right cheek and f
orehead and the hints of black-and-purple bruising around his eyes.
“But that’s why I’m going with you,” Captain Lingram said. “I’m going to show you a secret way through the mountains.”
Chapter Five
Aravon’s mind raced. “Wait, you’re coming with us?” His eyes darted from Captain Lingram to the Prince and back again. “But…”
Captain Lingram held up a hand. “If you think you’re going to dissuade me by protesting that it’s paramount to suicide, you’d better think again.” A grin tugged at his lips as he stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice was pitched low for only Aravon’s ears. “I thought you’d know me better than that by now, Aravon.”
Every muscle in Aravon’s body went rigid, and ice slithered through his veins. When Captain Lingram stepped back to his place at the Prince’s side, he wore a knowing smile, his eyes locked on Aravon’s.
How? Chaos whirled in Aravon’s thoughts. How did he know? He’d been so careful on the road from Saerheim, so it had to have been during the Battle of Icespire.
That thought sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. Lingram knows. His eyes darted to the men behind the Legion Captain. One look at the ill-fitting armor hanging off the giant that hovered protectively at Lingram’s back and the slim, narrow-shouldered Ebonguard in the huge one’s shadow, and Aravon knew they were the Legionnaires who had survived the attack at Saerheim.
He struggled to find words to speak, but none came out. The flood of information—Lingram’s presence and willingness to join their mission along with his Legionnaires, the fact that he recognized Aravon, and his mention of Cliffpass and a secret way through the Sawtooth Mountains—set his mind reeling.
Colborn came to the rescue. “All due respect, Captain, but where we’re going’s not really Legionnaire-friendly.” He gestured to the Grim Reavers. “This is the sort of thing we’ve trained for, while you and yours are better off in a shield wall.”
“True.” Captain Lingram inclined his head. “All the same, if you want any chance of getting through the Sawtooth Mountains undetected, you’re going to need me.”
“And where the Captain goes, we go.” The snarling voice of Corporal Rold issued from beneath one of the steel masks as he stepped forward, raising mailed and clenched fists. “You got a problem with it, I’d be bloody happy to hash that out here and now.”
Colborn didn’t rise to the challenge, but simply ignored the loud-mouthed Corporal. “That’s the second time you’ve spoken of Cliffpass, but as everyone knows, the pass was closed fifteen years ago by the Legionnaires of Ninth Battalion.”
“I know.” Captain Lingram’s eyes darkened. “I was there.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up behind his mask. What? In all the years he’d known Lingram, he’d never heard the man speak of it.
“I was there the day the Eirdkilrs attacked Highcliff Motte.” Captain Lingram’s tone was quiet, heavy with the burden of the painful memories that shadowed his face. “I marched beside the Legionnaires of Onyx Battalion’s Ninth Company as they retreated from the enemy. I watched the Screaming Howlers pick off Eirdkilrs by the hundreds, heard the shriek of their crossbow bolts. But we faced an army of thousands, and as they brought down the Cliffpass to crush the enemy, I was dragged through the darkness beneath the mountains.”
Aravon could find no words. How did I never know this? Judging by the darkness filling Lingram’s eyes and twisting his face with sorrow, it was a memory far too painful to share freely.
“I alone walked out of the Sawtooth Mountains alive.” Lingram’s jaw clenched. “My companions died beneath the mountains. I alone know the way through Cliffpass.”
Aravon’s eyes darted to Prince Toran, seeking confirmation. The Prince nodded but offered no words. This was not his story to tell, not his battle to fight.
“I’m your best hope of getting through this alive, Captain Snarl.” Lingram’s words drew Aravon’s attention back to the Legionnaire. “And I’ve got nothing to lose. Lord Aleron Virinus already had me court-martialed and expelled from the Legion of Heroes for what happened to his son and Saerheim. Until General Tinian or General Vessach returns to Icespire, I’ve got no way to appeal the matter. So instead of sitting around and waiting, hoping I can reclaim my place in the Legion, I’m better off spending my time joining you lot on this jaunt across the Sawtooth Mountains.”
“And your Legionnaires?” Aravon cocked his head.
Captain Lingram shrugged. “I’ve tried talking them out of it. Even gave them a direct order.”
“And we told you where you can shove that order, Captain.” Rold’s voice dripped honey and sweetness. “You’re not officially our commanding officer anymore, so we bloody well don’t have to obey you. Puts you in a bit of a Keeper-damned pickle, so it does.”
“Aye,” Endyn rumbled. “Helpless to stop us from coming along and watching your back.”
The slim Duvain shot a nervous glance at the Prince. “With His Majesty’s permission, of course.”
Aravon turned to Prince Toran. “You’re willing to risk them, too?”
“Legionnaires are a notoriously hard-headed lot.” Prince Toran’s mouth twitched—though into a smile or frown, Aravon couldn’t tell. “Simply won’t listen to reason unless it’s shouted in a direct command. Likely a problem you’ve encountered a time or two, yes?”
Aravon suspected the Prince was taking a shot at him—he’d been hard-headed and determined to go on this mission, despite the risks.
Prince Toran’s face grew serious. “But I meant it when I said I’d do everything in my power to give you the best chance of success. And at the moment, Captain Lingram’s way through Cliffpass is that chance.”
Aravon wanted to argue—anything to dissuade Lingram and his Legionnaires from joining their potentially suicidal mission—but the Prince was right. Getting through Snowpass to the west would prove nearly impossible, given the Eirdkilrs’ tight control over the only accessible trails across the Sawtooth Mountains. But if Captain Lingram could get them through on the unguarded eastern Cliffpass, they could remain undetected right up until the moment they sprang their ambush on Tyr Farbjodr. It wasn’t just a chance—it could bloody well spell the difference between success and painful, bloody failure.
Glancing over his shoulder, Aravon signed a question to his Grim Reavers. This was a decision they’d have to make together. All of them risked their lives in this attempt.
Though the steel masks concealed the Grim Reavers’ faces, their eyes spoke volumes. Hesitance, chiefly, a reaction Aravon understood. These Legionnaires had trained to march in straight lines and hold heavy shields, not sneak through the Fehlan wilds. Bringing the soldiers along would nearly triple the size of their company, making it far more difficult to conceal their movements through southern Fehl.
And yet, one by one, the Grim Reavers signaled their acknowledgement and agreement.
“More eyes to watch our backs,” Belthar signed.
“And to stand watch at night,” Skathi added.
“If nothing else, at least one of them ought to be able to slap together a half-decent meal.” Noll’s eyes twinkled. “Anything’s better than what Belthar puts up for dinner.”
Zaharis and Rangvaldr signed assent with wordless gestures.
That left Colborn. Aravon held the Lieutenant’s gaze, questioning silently. Did they dare bring these soldiers along knowing the fate that awaited them? Could they bear the deaths of these Legionnaires on their consciences? After a long moment, despite the reluctance etched into the lines around Colborn’s ice-blue eyes, he nodded.
Aravon turned back to the Prince and Captain Lingram. “So be it.” He held out a hand to the Legion officer. “If it gives us a better chance of success, we’ll take it.”
Lingram clasped his arm. “Good.” A smile tugged at his lips. “And here I thought we’d have to argue for another hour. You’re getting soft, Captain Snarl.”
Aravon couldn’t help smiling beneath his mask. “Like
Foxclaw says, we can always use a few more hands to cook dinners on the road.”
“Whatever you do,” Corporal Rold growled from behind Captain Lingram, “keep the big one away from the food. Burns bloody water, so he does.”
Endyn ducked his head, a movement that set his heavy Ebonguard mail rattling.
That’s going to be a problem, Aravon thought. We can ride out of the city dressed like this, but they’ll need better armor if they’re going to keep up south of the Chain.
Prince Toran seemed to have already thought of a solution. “I sent a messenger off to Camp Marshal the moment I left you earlier. Polus will have supplies and equipment ready for all of you—” His gesture included the Grim Reavers and the Legionnaires. “—by the time you arrive.” He looked past Aravon and grinned at the sight of the Kostarasar chargers. “And a few of those from the Duke’s private stables.”
Aravon nodded. “Good.” They had twelve hundred and fifty miles to cross to reach the Sawtooth Mountains—the journey would go far more quickly if they went at the pace set by the specially-bred horses. “Thank you, Your Majesty. For everything.”
The Prince nodded. “It is I who owe you my thanks.” His gaze roamed over the Grim Reavers, Captain Lingram, and the Legionnaires. “All of you. Your courage does you all credit, and does the Princelands honor. May the Swordsman guide your steps and strengthen your arms.”
Aravon swept a deep bow and, without another word, for no more needed be said, climbed into his saddle.
Less than five minutes later, nineteen black-armored soldiers rode out of the Palace stables and across the courtyard toward the Northbridge. Colborn and Noll took the lead, with Aravon, Captain Lingram, and Zaharis on their heels. The rest of the Legionnaires filled up the column behind the officers, with Rangvaldr among the soldiers and Belthar and Skathi bringing up the rear. Mounted on the enormous Kostarasar chargers and the warhorses provided by Prince Toran, they were a fearsome sight, indeed.
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