Snarl suddenly perked up from his place in Aravon’s lap, then leapt down and stood at alert. His pointed ears twitched as his eyes locked onto something in the darkness, high in the trees.
Aravon reached for his spear instinctively, every sense immediately on the alert. He had no idea what Snarl saw—it could be nothing but a small bird the Enfield wanted for dinner—but he wouldn’t take any chances. He, too, scanned the night sky for any sign of threat.
A quiet flapping of wings echoed from the thicket. A moment later, a sleek, darker orange-brown shape padded into the circle of firelight and toward Aravon.
Skyclaw? Aravon’s eyebrows rose at the sight of the creature. He’d last seen Duke Dyrund’s Enfield, in the Palace at Icespire. If he was here, now, that could only mean one thing.
Snarl gave a delighted yip and leapt to meet Skyclaw, greeting him with happy barks and racing around the older Enfield. Skyclaw, however, ignored Snarl but came to sit on his haunches in front of Aravon, golden wings curling up around his dark orange-furred body. He barked, deeper and throatier than Snarl’s youthful yaps, and lifted his head to show Aravon his collar and the attached steel message tube.
Aravon reached out to remove the cap from the metallic tube hanging from Skyclaw’s collar. Drawing out the parchment within, he unrolled it and read.
The words sent a shiver down his spine. “Rumors of Eirdkilrs massing at Snowpass, full-scale offensive after Fjorlagerfa. Invasion plan unclear, but take no chances. Mission timeline must accelerate.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aravon’s mind raced. “Colborn!” He lifted his gaze from the message and beckoned the Lieutenant over.
Growling an order to the soldiers struggling to hold their shield line, Colborn hurried to Aravon. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Skyclaw sitting in front of Aravon, the shadows there growing deeper at the sight of the message in Aravon’s hand.
Aravon held out the parchment. “From the Prince.” The message bore no signature, only the stamp of a griffin bearing a sword and torch. “What do you think?” He steeled his expression to conceal the hint of uncertainty and fear that set his heart hammering.
Colborn read, and the tension in his shoulders, hands, and spine spoke volumes. “The Fjorlagerfa.” His voice echoed with a note of dread. “The Feast of Death.”
That tone and the look in Colborn’s eyes sent ice slithering through Aravon’s veins. His mind flashed back to the bloodstained tomb they’d spent the night in after the Battle of Hangman’s Hill. Piles of bones, human and animal skulls, and the heavy stench of decay had stood testament to the barbaric rituals of the ancient Fehlans.
As if reading Aravon’s thoughts, Colborn nodded. “The night the sacrifices were offered up to the gods of Fehl.”
“Not just the night.” Rangvaldr’s voice drifted toward them.
Aravon turned to find the Seiomenn sitting up, eyes open and locked on the two of them.
“In the early days of Fehl, the Feast of Death would last a day and night, from sunrise to sunrise.” Revulsion etched deep lines into Rangvaldr’s tired, age-worn face. “The earth and stones of the Hefjakumbl would be stained red with the blood of those sacrificed on the altar of death. It was said to be a day of great power—or of great evil, depending on the legend. The more blood one spilled, the more power obtained, so the ancient tales say.”
The breeze seemed to go suddenly chill at the Seiomenn’s words. That sounded like precisely the sort of thing the Eirdkilrs would believe.
Rangvaldr shook his head. “My people have long ago abandoned that practice, instead celebrating the Gnottmessa, the Time of Plenty. But after hearing of the Blood Queen’s use of the Tolfreadr to punish the Hilmir, I am not surprised the Eirdkilrs still indulge in such grim rituals.”
Colborn’s eyes darkened, his unmasked face growing tight. “Among my mother’s people, the Time of Harvest replaced the Feast of Death.” His brow furrowed. “But the Haustmessa begins in just two weeks.”
Rangvaldr nodded. “Sixteen days to the Gnottmessa.” He shook his head. “Which means there are just twenty days until the sun rises on the morning of the Fjorlagerfa.”
Twenty days! Less than three weeks until the Feast of Death, the day the Prince’s message indicated Tyr Farbjodr would begin whatever offensive he had planned.
Twenty days. Aravon glanced down at the map, did quick calculations in his mind. More than a thousand miles separated them from the northern edges of the Sawtooth Mountains—at least nine or ten days of hard travel at the pace set by the inexperienced Legionnaires. The mountain range stretched close to a hundred miles north to south, and the dizzying heights would add at least another four or five days of travel—if they were lucky. If they had to leave the horses and go on foot, they’d cross the mountains with only two or three days remaining until the Feast of Death. After that, they’d have to find and kill Tyr Farbjodr before he unleashed whatever he had planned.
Again, Lord Eidan’s words thundered through his mind. “Don’t you see?! There’s no stopping him! He is too strong, his forces too many for us to defeat. Everything we’re doing, it’s just buying time. Time for him to grow stronger, to summon his true strength. And in the end, we will die. Nothing we do will stop him now!”
Tyr Farbjodr was marshaling his “true strength”—doubtless as many Eirdkilrs as he could summon from among the clans inhabiting the icy Wastelands. When he finally unleashed them upon Fehl, the tide of war would turn against the Princelands and their Fehlan allies.
Mention of that day, the Feast of Death, brought back memories of the Hefjakumbl. Lord Eidan had raved about the earliest days of Fehl, when blood and death washed over the land. Prisoners of war had died beneath the sacrificial knife alongside warriors, women, and infants.
Prisoners of war. Icy feet danced down Aravon’s spine. Like the miners they captured at Silver Break and Gold Burrows. Like the miners they planned to take from Steinnbraka Delve and Lastcliff.
An image of all those people—men, women, and children, Princelanders and Fehlans—being offered up in ritual bloody sacrifice to Bani, the god worshiped by the Tauld, burned into his mind. The Eirdkilrs had taken hundreds of miners and their families. Was that gruesome ritual to be their final fate?
Something about that didn’t sit right with him. If the Eirdkilrs simply wanted sacrifices—Princelanders or Fehlans—they could find far easier and less specific targets than those working in the mines. Capturing the miners would halt the flow of gold and silver to the Princelands, depriving the Prince of the coin needed to bring in more Legionnaires. But everything he’d seen from Tyr Farbjodr, the Blood Queen, and Lord Eidan proved that the enemy never only acted with a single intention.
Somehow, it all ties in to the ghoulstone. The thought slammed into his mind, and his eyes darted toward the pendant hanging at Rangvaldr’s throat. That stone, believed for so long to be a gift from the gods of the Eyrr, might very well have once been an inert chunk of ghoulstone brought to life by the Serenii. The thought threatened to boggle his mind—magic, the ancient race, and divine power was far beyond a simple soldier’s realm of expertise—but he forced himself to follow the path.
That chunk of ghoulstone Zaharis had plucked from the wall of Steinnbraka Delve had healed Endyn, no doubt about it. Its color—the soft, azure blue identical to Rangvaldr’s pendant—was a perfect match to the Icespire itself. An artifact known to be built by Serenii hands, pre-dating even the earliest Fehlans.
So if the ghoulstone is inherently magical, or has the ability to become magic—he had no idea how to quantify that particular concept—what if Tyr Farbjodr is using the miners to collect it so he can harness that power?
That idea sent a shiver down his spine. Magic, in the hands of the Eirdkilrs. The very notion filled him with cold dread that settled like a lead weight in his gut. An army of giant barbarians armed with magic stones capable of healing their wounds would be unstoppable.
But no, that didn’t feel right. Ever
ything he’d seen of Tyr Farbjodr hinted at something darker. Something…evil. It can’t be a coincidence that he’s planning it on the Feast of Death!
Acid churning in his gut, he motioned for Colborn to follow him. The two of them moved to crouch between the seated Rangvaldr and Zaharis working beside the fire. In a hushed voice, he relayed his suspicions, explaining the thread of thought that had led him to his impossible yet impossible-to-ignore conclusion.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Colborn hissed.
Rangvaldr appeared thunderstruck. “Nuius have mercy.” His fingers closed around the pendant, clutching it tight.
Even Zaharis’ face had gone white. “You think the Eirdkilrs are going to sacrifice their prisoners at this Feast of Death?”
Aravon shook his head. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past them, but I can’t be certain. Worse, I can’t know for sure they haven’t figured out the same secret of the ghoulstone as Zaharis did.” His jaw clenched. “Which means it’s even more important that we get across the Sawtooth Mountains and put an end to Tyr Farbjodr before he can unleash whatever evil he has planned.”
“Indeed.” Rangvaldr nodded. “And, if Tyr Farbjodr is as superstitious as his fellow Eirdkilrs, I suspect he will not hesitate to spill as much blood as he believes necessary to bring about his victory.”
“Then, as the Prince said, we accelerate the mission’s timeline.” Aravon looked between his three Grim Reavers. “We ride hard to Kaldrborg, find Harlund, and get to Cliffpass as quickly as possible. The faster we get through the mountains, the more time we’ll have to find and eliminate Tyr Farbjodr.” His eyes darkened. “And, if the Swordsman is merciful, perhaps even free the captives before they’re sacrificed.”
The grim looks that filled their eyes mirrored the dread within him. So many prisoners—three or four hundred taken from the two mines, perhaps more captured during the attacks throughout Fehl. It would be a bloodbath.
“So be it,” Zaharis signed.
Aravon noticed the eyes of the Legionnaires on the four of them. Worry, curiosity, and a hint of fear darkened the faces of the young men—they knew whatever the Grim Reavers discussed could only be dire.
“What about them?” Colborn switched to the silent hand language. “How much do we tell them?”
Aravon’s brow furrowed beneath his mask. Truth be told, he wasn’t certain the Legionnaires were fully up for the insane pace they’d have to set to reach Tyr Farbjodr in time. That sort of urgency could do more than tax their strength; it could instill in them fear, fear that might turn into panic.
“Nothing now,” Aravon signed. “Colborn, you’ll speak to Belthar during your watch, and Zaharis, you’re with Skathi and Noll. Tell them everything they need to know without saying a word aloud for the others to hear.”
The two nodded.
“And Lingram?” Colborn asked.
Aravon turned and searched out Captain Lingram from among the Legionnaires. Lingram knew his soldiers better than anyone. More than that, he’d been the one to suggest accompanying the Grim Reavers on this mission—one that had very little chance of returning alive.
“He needs to know,” Aravon signed. “But I’ll be the one to tell him.”
* * *
“Swordsman’s beard!” Captain Lingram let out a low whistle. “That’s…”
Aravon nodded. “A lot to take in.” He and Lingram had gone a few paces away from the camp, far enough that they could speak without the Legionnaires overhearing them. “The question is, now that you know, when do you think we should tell your soldiers and how much?”
Captain Lingram’s jaw set in a determined cast. “All of it.” He held Aravon’s gaze without wavering. “They’ve got to know the full truth of what lies ahead.”
“To give them a chance to back out?” Aravon asked. They hadn’t yet left the Princelands, so the soldiers had ample time to depart and make their way to the nearest Legion-held stronghold. He’d have to swear them to secrecy—a fact that left him uneasy, as the chance that one of them would let his and the Grim Reavers’ identities slip was far too high—but he owed them the opportunity.
“No.” Captain Lingram shook his head, no trace of doubt in his voice. “None of them will falter.” His brow furrowed as he turned to regard his men. “After Saerheim and Icespire, after everything they lost, they’re in this to the end.”
Aravon cocked his head. “You’re certain?”
Lingram nodded. “Rold’s got no one and nothing else beyond the Legion. Endyn and Duvain, I don’t know their story, but where one goes, so goes the other. And Endyn was the first one after Rold to step up when I told them I was leaving. He may be quiet, but he’s a bloody force of nature.”
Aravon smiled; he had one of those in his group. Belthar might not match Endyn for sheer size, but the big man had proven his determination, strength, and grit time and time again. He was a giant in heart, soul, and body.
“Tassus and Annur, they’re in this for each other, too.” Captain Lingram’s eyes went to the two Legionnaires who sat side by side in front of the fire, sharing a private conversation in the midst of their comrades. One look at them, and no one would doubt the affection the two Praamian Legionnaires shared.
“As for the rest?” Lingram nodded. “They may be young, but the battles they’ve fought have left their marks. What they lack in experience, they more than make up for in courage.” He turned and held Aravon’s gaze once more. “They’re with us until the end.”
Aravon remained silent a long moment, studying the figures crowded around the small, crackling fire burning merrily in the heart of their makeshift camp. The young Legionnaires—most no older than midway through their second decade of life—sat in a semi-circle facing Skathi, Belthar, and Noll, listening rapt to the scout’s recounting the Battle of Hangman’s Hill.
“…the Fjall raced down the hill and hurled themselves at the Eirdkilrs.” Noll’s voice was as animated as his hand gestures. “You should have seen it, lads! Hundreds of Fehlans standing against thousands of enemies. At least three or four thousand.”
“By then, closer to two,” Belthar corrected.
Noll shot a scowl at the big man. “Right,” he growled.
Belthar held up his huge hands. “Hey, if you’re going to tell the story, at least get the facts right!”
“Which is going to be bloody hard.” Skathi snorted. “Seeing as he wasn’t there.”
“Oh yeah?” Noll’s eyes blazed. “And who was it that put an—”
“—put an arrow in the Blood Queen’s eye from three hundred yards?” Skathi finished, parroting Noll’s voice. She rolled her eyes and, with a mocking shake of her head, turned to Belthar and the Legionnaires. “He does one thing worth mentioning, and he won’t shut up about it!”
That earned smiles all around, though Noll’s scowl deepened. “She’s just jealous I won the battle, while she was stuck on guard duty.”
Once, Skathi might have risen to the bait and leapt to her feet, snarling and cursing. Instead, she just leaned back against the tree and smiled. “Sure, Noll, I’m jealous.” Her tone left no doubt as to her true feelings. “It’s not like the Agrotorae train to put an arrow into a bull’s eye from four hundred yards. Oh wait, we do!” She cocked an eyebrow. “Or have you forgotten our little archery lesson back at Camp Marshal? Not to mention who racked up a higher count during the Battle of Icespire?”
Noll’s expression froze. Long seconds passed before he spoke. “Fine!” He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at her. “Then there’s only one way to settle this.”
Skathi’s smile hardened. “Damned right there is.” She, too, leaned forward, her eyes locked on the scout. “A proper wager.”
The scowl left Noll’s face, replaced by a wicked grin. “First one to put an arrow in Tyr Farbjodr’s eye—”
“His right eye, mind you!” Skathi held up a finger.
“—in his right eye,” Noll said, nodding, “is the undisputed champion of the Grim Reavers.�
��
“And what’s to be the stakes?” Belthar rumbled. His eyes were locked on the scout and archer, a hint of worry furrowing his huge brow. “We’re not exactly flush with coin for betting.”
Noll’s grin turned nasty. “If I win, Skathi has to tell the Captain and Prince Toran himself that I’m the better shot.”
A chorus of “Ooohs!” rose from the Legionnaires, and Belthar’s eyes widened a fraction.
Skathi’s smile never wavered. “And when I win, Noll has to finally burn those damned boots.” Her gaze dropped to the scout’s boots—once fine, fashioned for Legion cavalry, yet long ago past worn and faded. “We’ve endured the Keeper-awful stench more than long enough!”
Noll sat sharply upright and pulled his feet away, as if dragging them safely away from Skathi’s clutches. The frayed and tattered boots were his prized possession.
“Well?” Skathi raised an eyebrow. “You up for a little challenge, or afraid I’ll win and you’ll have to kiss those hideous things farewell before I throw them on the fire?”
Noll hesitated only an instant, his gaze dropping to his boots, then thrust out his hand. “You’ve got yourself a wager.”
Skathi gripped his hand and the two shook, eyes locked on each other.
“Enjoy them while you’ve still got them,” Belthar rumbled as the Grim Reavers broke off their handshake. “Only a fool bets against Skathi.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at Skathi’s lips. Not mocking or sharp with sarcasm, but genuine and filled with warmth as she winked at Belthar. “Damned right.”
As the Legionnaires shouted out wagers, predictions, and jests, Aravon turned to Captain Lingram. “So we tell them in the morning, yes?”
The smile that had spread on Captain Lingram’s face darkened a fraction. “Yes.” He gave a slow nod. “They deserve to enjoy one last night.”
Courage to Sacrifice Page 12