Aravon and his Grim Reavers backtracked the way they came, slipping between the trees with barely a sound. Ten yards from the edge of the forest, Aravon nearly stumbled over Colborn, who’d taken up a position beneath a drooping willow tree. He barely saw the man in time to avoid him and slipped into place at the Lieutenant’s side.
At that moment, a band of massive, fur-clad figures appeared from the south, marching up the cleared stretch of ground that had once been the Eastmarch. Even from half a mile away, the sounds of their passage echoed loud: the clanking of their armor, the thumping of their heavy boots on the ground, the loud, snarling growls as they conversed in their guttural dialect of the Fehlan tongue. Sunlight shone on their filthy ice bear pelts, iron-studded leather armor, and steel skullcaps. Bright blue war paint stained their faces—a stark contrast to the white-blond of their braided beards and shaggy hair.
The sight set Aravon’s stomach twisting. Anger mingled with a hint of apprehension; no matter how many times he’d seen them, being so close to the seven-foot barbarians never failed to make him nervous. Especially when he had so many untrained, inexperienced soldiers far too close to the enemy.
“How many?” he signed. He kept his gestures small, moving only his fingers and wrists. Even the slightest sound of a clanking harness or creaking leather could give them away.
“Thirty so far,” Colborn signed. “More coming.”
Aravon turned and sought out Skathi, crouched at his side. “Can you get up high?”
The archer scanned the trees nearby, then nodded and disappeared into the branches of a thick cypress tree.
By the time the Eirdkilrs drew close enough for Aravon to make out their heavy, brutish figures beneath the war paint, he counted a full three score.
Sixty Eirdkilrs, here! The sight of those towering figures sent worry crackling through his nerves. After their defeat at Hangman’s Hill, the Eirdkilrs shouldn’t have enough men north of the Sawtooth Mountains to field a proper force. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t send out raiding parties to spread havoc among the Fehlans.
The fact that they were here, so close to Spear Garrison, meant they’d either come to spy on Anvil Garrison to the north or give the Fjall or Jarnleikr grief. Given the Hilmir’s alliance with the Princelands, Aravon would place his money on the Eirdkilrs raiding the Fjall lands.
At the moment, Eirik Throrsson had no hope of driving the Eirdkilrs out of his lands. He’d put an end to the Blood Queen and her army, but in doing so had nearly lost his entire warband. Those that had survived Wraithfever, the attack on Storbjarg, the desperate retreat, and the Battle of Hangman’s Hill would doubtless be with the Hilmir in Ornntadr. Though the Eirdkilrs could never hope to take the Fjall’s mountain stronghold, the Fjall had too few warriors to protect the vast clan lands. It fell to each settlement, village, and town to protect itself as best they could.
Sixty Eirdkilrs posed little real threat to the Legionnaires holding the stone walls and fortress of Anvil Garrison, but they could inflict serious damage on the Fjall. Doubtless as a punishment for Eirik Throrsson’s betrayal of his southern cousins.
Aravon’s heart sank. Which means we can’t go through Fjall territory. He hadn’t been certain which route to take to reach south—through Eirik Throrsson’s clan lands, or through the Jarnleikr highlands. The presence of the Eirdkilrs left him only one choice.
Skathi dropped from the lowest tree branch and landed lightly at his side without so much as a rustle of leaves. “Bad news, Captain,” she signed. Worry darkened her eyes. “They’ve set up camp in Spear Garrison.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed beneath his mask. So close! If the Eirdkilrs had settled in the ruins of the fortress less than a quarter-mile away, they’d be sending out men to forage and hunt for food and find a source of water.
He turned back to the others. “Go!” he signed. “We need to get out of here now!”
Anxiety lent wings to his feet as he hustled through the forest toward the spot where he’d left the Legionnaires. Twelve hands tightened on weapons at their approach, and twelve soldiers tensed as they emerged from the underbrush.
“Mount up,” Aravon spoke in a low voice, his words ringing with urgency. “The Eirdkilrs have set up camp at Spear Garrison, and we need to put as much distance between us as possible!”
Surprise flashed in the Legionnaires’ eyes—a hint of panic glimmering in more than a few—but the soldiers obeyed with impressive speed. Within less than a minute, all had scrambled into their saddles.
Aravon turned to Colborn. “Lead the way south,” he signed. “Take Heap with you.”
The Lieutenant nodded and, motioning for the Legionnaire to follow him, kicked his horse into motion.
Aravon sought out Noll. “Rear guard with Skathi, one mile back. We’ll leave signals for you to follow our trail.”
“Aye, Captain,” Noll and Skathi both signed.
“Be safe,” Belthar told the two of them. “We’ve got too much riding on our bet to lose either of you here.”
“Just make sure to get a good, hot fire ready to burn Noll’s boots!” Humor twinkled in Skathi’s eyes.
Aravon turned away before Noll signed his silent retort, but judging by Belthar’s rumbling chuckle, it must have been a good one. He addressed the last three Grim Reavers. “Rangvaldr, ride out front with Zaharis and keep watch out for Colborn’s trail. Belthar, bring up the rear of the column and stay sharp for any sign from Noll and Skathi.”
The soldiers nodded and fell into place, navigating their horses around the Legionnaires skillfully and silently.
Now Aravon spoke to the Legionnaires in a low voice. “Lingram, Rold, with me. The rest of you, fall in. Keep quiet and match our pace. We’ll move slow until we put some distance between us and the enemy, then pick things up to cover ground as fast as we can.” The farther away they drew from the Eirdkilrs, the better. Swordsman knows how many more raiding parties are out in the Fjall lands.
Two miles farther east, the forest thinned and gave way to flat, grassy plains. Those, however, quickly grew hilly, then rose to steeper inclines interspersed with jagged cliffs and sharp drop-offs. The grass turned from lush lowland grass to scrubby sedge dotted with colorful thistle-flowers. Without the trees to provide shelter, the Legionnaires were forced to ride into the teeth of the wind—a wind that turned colder and more bitter the farther southeast they rode.
No wonder the Jarnleikr avoid settling in the highlands! Aravon grimaced and pulled his heavy cloak tighter about himself. The scent of rain hung thick in the air, the promise—or threat—of a downpour only amplifying the biting chill that sliced through the craggy hills. Even the valleys, canyons, and gorges between the higher altitudes did little to keep away the cold; if anything, the wind seemed to blow hardest in the gaps amidst the mountains.
The path Colborn set for them cut directly between two jagged peaks, then up a sharp incline and around a rocky canyon carved by a now dried-up river between sheer cliff faces. It seemed the Lieutenant tracked the river back up the mountain, following its meandering path through the highlands, using the cleared riverbed as the most direct path south. Yet, after only a few miles, Colborn’s markings led their company out of the gully and straight up a sharply rising hill.
Finally, they caught up with the Lieutenant near the summit of a craggy mountain, where he’d chosen their campsite in a hollow, winding ridge that offered the best shelter from the wind they could find this high. Unfortunately, they couldn’t risk a fire—the light could be visible for a hundred or more miles in every direction, and the last thing they needed was Eirdkilrs tracking their movements.
That left them at the mercy of the biting chill that hung in the air, made worse by the occasional gust of wind that blew through the ridge.
“Break out the furs,” Aravon commanded as they set up their cold, dark camp. “Sit together for warmth.”
They shared a cold meal in darkness, with only the light of the moon and stars above for ill
umination. Noll and Skathi caught up before they finished their meager repast—cold dried beef and trail biscuits, washed down with tepid grain-ale. The two appeared as cold as the rest of them, all too glad to dive into the warmth of the heavy furs they’d brought against the chilly Sawtooth Mountains.
“Keeper take this cold!” Corporal Rold’s muttered voice drifted to where Aravon sat shrouded in his fur cloak. “I’d give my left bollock for a bottle of quality Drashi rotgut.”
“I’d give both for Nyslian brandy.” The voice belonged to Tark. “But the fine Ellestini stuff, none of that Sundran swill.”
“Wool-headed fool!” snorted Zadan. “Your bollocks aren’t worth a thimble-full of horse piss.”
“Yer mother’d disagree,” Tark shot back. “Way she went at ‘em, ye’d best get ready to call me ‘Da’.”
And so it went, back and forth, as was ever the way with soldiers. They moaned, complained, and insulted each other to take their minds off their dire circumstances and the danger they faced.
Aravon stopped listening—Captain Lingram or Corporal Rold would step in if things got out of hand, and he had more important matters to worry about.
Without a fire for light, he couldn’t study the map of southeastern Fehl. But he’d pored over it so many times in the last four days that he had the crude depiction all but memorized. Not that there was much to commit to memory. A few rough lines indicating the mountainous highlands, scratched marks that might have been wagon trails, and “Xs” to mark the presence of villages or towns.
As far as the map made clear, the five hundred miles south to Kaldrborg were virtually free of human settlements. Perhaps a tiny village, homestead, or farm along the way, but nothing worth noting on the map. Though that meant less risk of running into Fehlans—clansmen who could side with the Eirdkilrs against the strange masked men riding through their lands—the problem of the highlands themselves worried him.
He’d never been to the Jarnleikr highlands before, but it appeared they proved as forbidding and difficult to navigate as the stories told. Between the jagged cliffs, steep peaks, and rocky slopes, they were in for a rough trek south.
Rising, careful to keep the furs wrapped tight around himself, Aravon climbed the short incline toward the solitary figure standing a short distance away from the camp. Colborn perched atop the lip of a nearby ridge, studying the landscape spread out all around him. Beneath the light of the moon, the highlands appeared like a roiling, storm-tossed sea frozen in an eternal tableau. Peaks and valleys, stone and grass, cold and darkness, locked forever in this silent, undisturbed spectacle.
“Think we made the right choice?” Aravon pitched his voice low for the Lieutenant’s ears only. “Heading farther east before cutting south?”
Colborn remained silent a long moment, then shrugged. “I’d say the odds are about even. Terrain like this is going to make for slow going. We’ll be lucky to cover eighty or ninety miles a day, even if we push the horses hard.”
With the steep hills and deep valleys, they’d have to travel farther and slow their pace to cut through the highlands.
“But if there are Eirdkilrs in the Fjall lands, we could waste just as much time running or hiding.” Colborn turned to him now. Moonlight shone on an expression as solemn and stony as the rocks beneath his feet. “Worse, we could wind up having to fight. And they’re not ready for that yet.”
Aravon glanced over his shoulder. Between the thick furs and the dim moonlight, he could barely make out the figures of the soldiers following him. “Think they ever will be?” Again, he spoke so quietly the question dissipated on the wind the moment it left his mouth.
The furrows in Colborn’s brow deepened. “Probably not.” His lips twitched downward. “But we weren’t truly ready the day we rode out of Camp Marshal. Draian…” He let out a long breath. “Sometimes, we’ve no choice but to throw ourselves off the cliff and hope there’s a river at the bottom.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Words of ancient Deid wisdom?”
Colborn snorted. “Captain Leish of Whitevale.” He gave Aravon a wry grin. “He had all sorts of sayings like that. His favorite was ‘A stiff drink might not solve problems, but neither does water, and alcohol’s far less likely to kill you’.”
Aravon actually managed a laugh. “A wise man.”
“And a good one.” Sorrow tinged Colborn’s smile. “Right up until his last day.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “How did he go?”
“His heart.” Colborn tapped his chest. “Another of his sayings, actually.” The sadness deepened a fraction. “Said the Bright Lady had given his family a blessing and a curse: a heart big enough to love snot-nosed little runts, but it’d give out on him sooner rather than later. It did, a week after my eighteenth nameday.” He swallowed. “That was the day I signed up for the Legion.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Aravon said, his voice quiet.
Colborn gave a dismissive wave. “It was a long time ago, and at least he knew his death was coming.” A hint of a smile, half-bitter, half-wry, tugged at his lips. “He was my Duke Dyrund.”
Now it was Aravon’s turn to swallow. Mention of the Duke still brought the lump to his throat, though the pain of loss had grown easier to bear. Yet losing a man like Duke Dyrund, far better a man than Aravon’s father had ever been, would always bring back the sorrow.
“Though I’d wager the General was probably far less of a cunt than Lord Derran.” A sneer twisted Colborn’s lip.
“To be fair, there aren’t a lot of people who can out-cunt the Lord of Whitevale.” Aravon chuckled. He’d met the man in Icespire—the last time he’d seen Lord Derran, the nobleman had been cowering among his cronies, refusing to join the fight against the Eirdkilrs sacking the city. “You’re lucky your proverbial apple fell good and far from the sackless tree.”
That brought a little laugh rumbling from Colborn’s throat. For long moments, they stood in companionable silence, content in each other’s presence.
Colborn spoke first. “I’ve never navigated highlands before.” He didn’t turn his head to look at Aravon, but kept his eyes fixed on the craggy highlands spread out around them. “Give me a forest any day, but canyons and mountains and such, that’s a different beast. It’ll be slow going.”
Aravon rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’ll get us where we need to go.” His voice held no demand or insistence, only calm confidence. The Lieutenant already carried burden enough.
“Aye, Captain,” was all Colborn said.
Long moments passed before Aravon turned to go, leaving the Lieutenant alone with his thoughts. He had no need to pressure the man—Colborn knew the urgency of the situation, the importance of their mission.
He knew as well as Aravon that if they didn’t reach Tyr Farbjodr in time—in sixteen days, before the Fjorlagerfa—all of Fehl could very well be doomed.
Chapter Seventeen
Bloody hell! Worry knotted the muscles of Aravon’s shoulders as the final canyon gave way to forested lowlands and the Myrr town of Kaldrborg appeared in the valley below. Ten days to get here. Ten days since leaving Camp Marshal—half of their twenty-day allotment gone—and they were still so far from Tyr Farbjodr.
The last six days of travel through the highlands had been difficult, fraught with peril and hardships. The high ridges and mountain peaks had made for slower going than even Colborn had anticipated. The horses had been pushed to their limits on the narrow, rock-strewn trails, which had only sparse patches of highland sedge to keep the horses fed. Navigating the canyons and gorges had proven no easier, thanks to the heavy rain that had proven far too persistent. Through it all, they’d had the icy highland wind for a shrieking, biting companion. The thick bear fur pelts they’d packed for their journey south couldn’t keep out both wind and damp.
Thankfully, the rain had stopped the previous morning, the wind and chill decreasing as they descended from the heights to the lower, forested valleys and flatlands nor
th of Kaldrborg. Yet Aravon couldn’t shake the feeling of urgency humming through his bones.
The Myrr town was a six-hour detour from the route Colborn had charted toward the section of the Sawtooth Mountains where Captain Lingram said they’d find the secret way through the sealed-off Cliffpass. That meant they had to sacrifice the better part of a day just to find the Prince’s agent in Kaldrborg. Harlund would not only serve as their guide south, but he had a map of the icy Wastelands and information on Tyr Farbjodr. It was worth the delay, but the fact that they would lose another day on the effort left Aravon uneasy. In just ten days, Tyr Farbjodr would unleash his forces on Fehl. They’d have to push hard to cross the mountains, find him, and put him down before that day came.
Colborn stopped their column a quarter-mile from the forest’s edge, deep enough within the dense beech forest that they were well out of sight of the nearby trade road that cut across the mile-wide plain surrounding Kaldrborg. The noonday sun had long ago dried up the dew, but the chilly mist that hung low to the forest floor filled the air with a sweet smell of damp. Brilliant daylight splashed across the bright orange and red beech leaves, and the rustling of the tree branches swaying in the wind muffled any sounds of their passage.
Aravon turned to Captain Lingram as the Legionnaires dismounted.
“Stay quiet and out of sight,” he instructed the Captain. “Anything happens, Skathi will know how to contact me.”
Though he hadn’t caught a glimpse of Snarl since they rode into the forest half an hour ago, he had little doubt the Enfield was close at hand. Doubtless off chasing mice, voles, or small birds. Snarl had subsisted on scraps of dried meat for the last six days, and he’d be thrilled to find live prey all around him. At least one of their company would eat well today.
“Aye, Captain.” Lingram nodded—he’d supported Aravon’s insistence that the Legionnaires stopped saluting, leading by example—and turned to his men.
“Keep a sharp eye,” Aravon signed to Skathi. “And be ready to ride at a moment’s notice. Should anything go wrong, you need to keep the others out of trouble.”
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