Endyn beamed as he hopped from foot to foot, laughter bubbling from his lips. Duvain clapped and laughed alongside his brother, while Corporal Rold and the other Legionnaires—all dressed in simple leather, lacking the mottled pattern that had once adorned the Grim Reavers’ armor—stared at the two as if at madmen.
The giant Legionnaire caught sight of Aravon, and his shuffling feet stilled. The smile never left his face, though, as he straightened and gave a sharp Legion salute.
“Sorry about that, Captain,” Endyn rumbled, ducking his head. “First time I could move like that without pain, that’s all.”
Aravon gave a dismissive wave. “Make no apologies, Soldier.” He couldn’t help smiling at the young man’s delight. “Even a tiny sliver of joy can get us through the dark times ahead, so cling to it.”
Endyn’s smile faltered a fraction and the mirth left Duvain’s eyes. Aravon almost regretted his words—intended to be encouraging, but they had dampened the soldiers’ elation.
“How’s the armor?” he asked, changing the subject quickly.
“Marvelous!” Endyn raised his arms above his head, flexed his huge biceps, and twisted at the waist. “Far more flexible than Legion mail.”
“Not a bloody lot to it, though.” Corporal Rold scowled, tugging at the leather pauldron protecting his right shoulder. “Against the Eirdkilrs, leather’s about as useful as a flaccid prick in a brothel.”
“Normal leather armor, yes.” Aravon nodded, ignoring the man’s crudity. “But this is treated with something special. A bit of alchemy to harden the surface without affecting the leather’s suppleness.”
Skepticism burned brightly in Corporal Rold’s eyes.
“Trust me, Soldier,” Aravon said, “when in battle, you’ll be glad for it. You get more maneuverability and better speed. All that comes in damned handy when facing off against Eirdkilrs.”
“I suppose, sir.” Corporal Rold shrugged.
“I can always have Endyn here have a go at it.” Aravon gestured to the big man. “I’m sure there’s a Legion sword or Eirdkilr axe lying around somewhere that he can use to—”
“I’ll just be takin’ your word for it, if it’s all the same to you, Captain.”
“As you say.” Aravon chuckled. “Don’t forget the masks.” He gestured to the pile of leather face-coverings that lay on the table next to the helmets that accompanied the armor. “They’re an important part of the disguise and protection.”
All the Legionnaires stared suspiciously at the masks. Grimacing, Corporal Rold pulled one over his blocky face and secured the straps in place.
“They stifle at first,” Aravon said, “but once you get used to them, they’re not too bad.” He’d let them find out how irritating the masks were when trying to eat or drink. Truth be told, he’d grown so accustomed to his that it rarely bothered him anymore. It actually felt strange not wearing it—the mask had been a part of his life for months now, only coming off when in the safety of their camp and away from prying eyes.
“It’s the shields you lot will have to get used to.” Colborn’s voice echoed from behind Aravon.
Aravon turned and his eyes flew wide at the sight of the Lieutenant. Colborn had washed the dye from his hair and beard, returning them to their usual white-blond color. Even without his long, braided locks, there was no mistaking his square, heavy Fehlan facial structure and ice-blue eyes. He could pass among the people south of the Chain with little difficulty, more so now that he wore the proper garb.
Atop his leather armor, he had donned a heavy fur cloak—the pelt of a Sawtooth grizzly, found north of the mountains, their size nearly a rival for the Wasteland ice bears. Few would recognize the hints of Princelander in his features. With his Fehlan-style longsword and round wooden shield, he appeared as Fehlan as any man of Saerheim, Bjornstadt, or Storbjarg.
Colborn glanced at Aravon and nodded in recognition of the look—he’d donned the disguise of a Fehlan warrior, and wore it as well as he wore the armor of a Princelander Legionnaire—before turning back to the soldiers.
“We’ll make time to practice on the road south.” He spoke to Corporal Rold most of all—the only noncommissioned officer remaining under Captain Lingram—but addressed all the Legionnaires. “You’ll need to learn how to form a proper Fehlan shield wall and use your new weapons against the enemy.” He grimaced. “It’s a whole different style of fighting, and we’ll only have a few days to learn it. But if you want to get through this alive, you’ll bloody well learn.”
“Aye.” Corporal Rold nodded. “They’ll learn, all right, even if I have to beat it into every one of the wool-headed idiots!”
“Start now,” Colborn ordered. “All of you. Choose a weapon—axe, sword, or spear—and take up your shields. Get accustomed to carrying them, and maybe you’ll have half a chance of keeping them between you and the enemy when the time comes.”
Colborn’s brusque gruffness surprised Aravon for a moment. He’d grown so accustomed to the Lieutenant’s interactions with the Grim Reavers—a company of competent, experienced soldiers—that he’d forgotten a Lieutenant’s role in keeping a force of Legion infantry in line. The Captain shouted the Commander’s orders, but it was the Lieutenant that saw to it the noncommissioned officers received and understood those orders. Sergeants were the real bastards, but it was the Lieutenants who handled the complaints, discipline, and reprimands, all so the soldiers retained their respect for their Company Captain.
Now, with these inexperienced Legionnaires joining them, Colborn had once again been thrust into that role. He had to be the mouthpiece between Aravon and the soldiers, make sure that everyone stayed in line and played their parts to perfection—otherwise, he knew as well as the rest of them, they could all wind up dead.
Aravon caught Colborn’s attention. “Don’t be too hard on them right out of the gate,” he signed. “We’ve got plenty of time on the road ahead.”
“You saw them fight.” Colborn grimaced. “They’re not exactly the Legion’s finest.”
Aravon inclined his head. “We’ll do the best we can do to train them and keep them alive. But remember that men are like iron—place them under too much strain, and they’ll crack.”
Colborn scowled, but gave Aravon a curt nod before turning back to the Legionnaires. His instructions to the soldiers on how to hold the shields and swing their swords and axes lost a fraction of their gruffness, but he didn’t take it easy on them.
Aravon looked away from the soldiers, turning to his own armor, which lay spread out across a wooden table along the back wall of the stone barracks. Seeing it felt like looking at himself in a mirror—a strange sensation, indeed. Like the snarling greatwolf mask that lay next to his helmet, the armor had been a vital part of his life for months. The dents, scuffs, notches, and scratches spoke of the battles he’d fought, the enemies that had come within a heartbeat of killing him. Every time, he’d walked away—certainly not unscathed, as evidenced by the scars on his face and the myriad aches and pains in his body, but victorious.
Once he donned that leather armor, he would cease being Aravon and would once again become Captain Snarl, commander of the Grim Reavers. Now, with Captain Lingram and the Deadheads joining them, the burden of leadership would grow even heavier. He would be leading the soldiers around him to near-certain death. He and the Grim Reavers knew the full extent of what they’d face south of the Chain, but the inexperienced Legionnaires could never truly know until they faced it as he had. Though they’d fought at Saerheim and in Icespire, they hadn’t witnessed the Blodsvarri’s tortures of the Fjall, the utter destruction of Oldrsjot, the hordes of Eirdkilrs surging up Hangman’s Hill.
Yet they had chosen to join him on his impossible mission, so he owed it to them to keep them alive as best he could. With that light, supple leather armor came a weight of command far heavier than the thickest plate mail.
Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon reached for the armor and set about putting it on. He had chosen
to accept leadership of the Grim Reavers all those months ago. He’d accepted the cost of that duty—that he had to remain dead to those who loved him most—and every additional price he’d paid in the execution of his mission. The deaths of Draian, Duke Dyrund, and every other friend and comrade he’d lost hadn’t shattered him. He would bear this added burden, his sacrifice to the Princelands he’d sworn to protect.
Chapter Twelve
By the time Aravon finished donning the leather armor, the rest of the Grim Reavers had joined him. Belthar’s axe had received the same decorative treatment as Aravon’s spear, and the feathers, beads, and bones jangled with his every step. He carried his massive crossbow in his arms, wrapped in thick canvas to keep it concealed until he needed it. A weapon like that would be immediately recognizable as Princelander—Eirdkilrs carried their six-foot-tall longbows, and the Fehlans relied primarily on shorter hunting bows—but only a fool would leave behind something with that much destructive power.
Skathi emerged from the forge carrying five leather-bound sheaths of arrows for her longbow. None bore the red fletching that marked them as Agrotorae, but all had glimmering tips of quality Princelander steel.
Zaharis went through his chest of alchemical supplies one last time, while Noll pretended to be busy checking his sword and assorted daggers, all the while peering into the chest with curiosity burning in his eyes. Probably looking for the Earthshakers, Aravon suspected.
From within his chest, Zaharis produced a large glass jar filled with a mud-colored liquid. “Here.” He handed the jar to Noll. “Make sure every Legionnaire has a mouthful of this. You all as well.”
Suspicion flashed across Noll’s face as he stared at the strange mixture—still dotted with bits of powdered herbs and spices. “What’s that now?” He glared at the Secret Keeper. “Unless you want us all to spend the journey south clenching our bowels—”
“It’s for wounds, idiot!” Zaharis rolled his eyes. “Speeds up healing, like it did with your leg back when.”
Noll’s eyebrows rose. “Oh!” He, like Aravon, had been seriously injured in the Eirdkilr ambush that slaughtered Sixth Company. With the help of the Mender, Draian, and Zaharis’ marvelous alchemical potions, his shattered leg had healed fully. Aravon, too, had felt the healing effects of that draught—though he hadn’t realized how utterly foul it looked at the time.
The Legionnaires seemed disinclined to heed Noll’s instructions to drink until Colborn overrode their objections. The disgust on their faces after tasting the draught reminded Aravon of how unpleasant it had been. But at the moment, its effectiveness was all that mattered.
“Aravon.” Captain Lingram’s quiet voice sounded at his elbow. “A word?”
Aravon turned toward the Legionnaire. Dark circles had formed beneath his eyes and it appeared he hadn’t slept more than an hour or two. His handsome face had a haunted look Aravon recognized all too well—how many nights had he, too, wrestled with dark dreams and painful memories?
He nodded. “Lingram.”
“About last night.” A shadow flashed across Captain Lingram’s face and his shoulders stiffened beneath his armor. “And the route through Cliffpass.” His jaw muscles worked. “I shouldn’t have kept the truth from you. Or, I should have told you the full truth from the beginning.”
“Yes.” Aravon nodded. “You should have.” He opened his mouth to speak, but Lingram drove on before he could.
“I needed to do this, Aravon.” Fire blazed in his eyes, and his expression grew intense. “Try as I might, I can’t stop feeling like this is the only way I can make up for Saerheim. Brash…” He swallowed. “Sergeant Brash, he’d been there since my first day in the Legion. The one who helped me put myself back together after Highcliff Motte.” The shadows on his face deepened. “And at Garrow’s Canyon. I’m only alive because he was there.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. He’d heard the same story of Garrow’s Canyon the rest of the Princelands had—how Captain Lingram led his Legion company to victory against nearly four hundred Eirdkilrs. But as with any story, the retelling never truly got all the facts right. No bard or troubadour could capture the anguish of seeing so much death, the misery at losing friends and comrades, the pain of hours of battle. No epic saga ever portrayed the sheer gut-wrenching horror of wading through blood and mud, scrambling over corpses, hearing men scream and shriek as their lives bled between their fingers. The panic, fear, and sorrow—or, worse, the cold numbness that settled over a man at the knowledge that he could not escape fate. The guilt at surviving when so many others died. That truth only lived in the minds of those who survived it.
“I was going to hold the southern gate, you know.” Captain Lingram’s words came out in a hoarse murmur. “At Saerheim, I was ready to fight to the end to cover for the rest of Ninth Company. But Brash and Awr, Corporal Awr, wouldn’t let me.” He gave a bitter shake of his head. “They chose to stay and die so I could get out. Get them out.”
His eyes darted toward the eleven Legionnaires struggling to master the rudiments of the Fehlan-style weapons and shield wall.
“I know it’s my place as Captain to lead, even if that means from the rear.” Lingram grimaced. “But that doesn’t make it easier to let men go to their deaths.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Aravon had given the order—or followed one—that sent good men to die. Far, far too many times.
“That’s why I had to come with you.” Captain Lingram’s eyes locked on Aravon’s face. “The instant the Prince told me what you were doing, I knew it without a doubt. That was the purpose the Swordsman had for me—the reason I survived Icespire, Saerheim, and every battle I’ve been in, all the way back to Highcliff Motte. I’m the only one who can get you where you need to go to put an end to this war. And there was no way I’d let anything stop me from doing that.” He stiffened. “I understand if that puts a dent in your trust, but I hope—”
“No.” Aravon gripped the man’s shoulder. “It was the right choice. Maybe not the right way to go about it—you know how bad things can turn out when a commander operates on incomplete information—but I understand the why.” He fixed the man with a piercing gaze. “I trust you, Lingram. If I didn’t, I’d never have agreed to let you on the mission. Much less your Legionnaires. But if we’re going to get through this, I need you to trust me enough to tell me everything. Even if you think I won’t want to hear it or go with it. You’ve never had a problem standing up or speaking up to our officers before, so don’t you dare start now with me!”
Despite the shadows in his eyes, Lingram managed a confident nod. “Yes, Captain Aravon.” Respect and relief mingled in his voice.
“Good.” Aravon clapped the man on his shoulder. “Now get your weapons and saddle up. I want us on the road and riding hard by the time the sun’s up.” A glance at the sky revealed the brightening eastern horizon; false dawn was upon them.
As Captain Lingram strode toward his men, Aravon turned back to his own gear and weapons. Polus had refilled their packs with supplies for their journey south—food, bandages, waterskins, wool and furs for the colder southern edges of Fehl and the icy Wastelands beyond the mountains, and all the assorted tools and essentials the Grim Reavers carried. Aravon didn’t know if the food would last all the way to the Sawtooth Mountains—more than eleven hundred miles as the crow flew—and beyond. They’d have to resupply as best they could along their journey to hunt Tyr Farbjodr.
A hand touched his shoulder, and Aravon looked up to find Zaharis standing beside him. “I thought it best not to bother with the mottle pattern this time,” the Secret Keeper signed. “It’ll draw the wrong kind of attention if we run into any Fehlans, but without the camouflage, it could almost pass for crude Fjall or Deid armor. Hopefully enough that Colborn and Rangvaldr have a chance of talking our way out of any problems.”
Aravon nodded. “Good thinking.”
“And when we get far enough south,” Zaharis continued, “I’ve got a mixture that’ll turn
the leather white and grey. Better for blending in among the ice and rocks of the Sawtooth Mountains and the Wastelands.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow—he’d been so focused on other aspects of their trek he hadn’t considered what happened once they got through the mountains. The green, brown, and black armor that concealed them in the Fehlan forests would be far too visible among the tundra south of the mountains.
“Excellent.” He inclined his head. “Now all we need is something that’ll keep the cold and damp out of our boots and harden our skin against Eirdkilr weapons, and we’ve got this in the bag.”
A wry smile quirked Zaharis’ lips. “I’ll just get to work on that, shall I?”
Aravon chuckled. “I’d expect nothing less than a miracle from you.”
“Speaking of miracles.” Zaharis’ gaze slid past Aravon. “After last night, I was worried he might not have it in him to get up.” Concern furrowed his brow. “If I had any idea that it would do that to him—”
“You’d probably have done it just the same.” Fatigue echoed in Rangvaldr’s voice. “You and I both know you’re far too inquisitive to let something like that rest.”
Aravon turned to find the Seiomenn striding toward them. The lines on Rangvaldr’s face had deepened, the circles around his eyes dark, and his cheeks had grown somehow gaunter, hollow with fatigue.
“Still—” Zaharis began, but Rangvaldr cut him off.
“Let it rest, Magicmaker.” The word held more bite than Aravon expected from the Seiomenn. “It worked well enough.” Rangvaldr’s eyes darted to where Endyn stood with the rest of the Legionnaires, listening to Colborn’s instructions on how to ride the Kostarasar chargers without flopping around like sacks of flour.
“You’re certain you got it all?” Zaharis signed when Rangvaldr turned back. “Dragonskin’s vicious, and you’ve got to eliminate all of it or it’ll be back.”
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