Skathi rolled her eyes. “So don’t let anything go wrong, yeah?”
Aravon gave a chuckle, but it felt forced. He’d be marching into a hostile Fehlan town with his face unmasked—a bit more dangerous than walking down the streets of Icespire.
Then again, given how friendly the Secret Keepers and Brokers are with us, I suppose it’s about the same. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. The Mistress’ priests had known his name, and though they’d left him alive at their last meeting, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come for him in the future. Especially if they found out Zaharis hadn’t, in fact, died beneath a mountain of stone and brick. If he hadn’t resigned himself to near-certain death on this impossible mission to hunt down Tyr Farbjodr, he’d be far more worried about what awaited him when he returned home.
But that’s not a problem I’ll have to think about. He grimaced beneath his mask. Not yet, and perhaps never. None of the Prince’s agents that crossed the Sawtooth Mountains had returned alive.
“We’ve got this covered, Captain.” Skathi gave a dismissive wave. “Noll will keep watch on the roads, I’ll set up a perch someplace high, and if anyone gets too close, we’ve got the big lads to handle anything.” She gestured toward Endyn, who had joined the other Legionnaires sitting on the ground.
Aravon’s brow furrowed as he caught sight of Belthar and Colborn standing among the trees a short distance away. Belthar’s huge body blocked his fingers as he formed the hand gestures of the Secret Keeper language. Long seconds passed in the silent conversation, then Colborn nodded once and strode toward Aravon.
“Let’s do this.” The Lieutenant glanced at Rangvaldr, then back at Aravon. “You sure you want to come, Captain? You’ve almost got the look of a Fehlan about you, but your accent’s rubbish.”
Aravon nodded. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, if that makes you feel better. But there’s no way I’m letting the two of you walk in there alone. Things go sideways, one more of us means one more chance we get out and go for help.” He knew the two Fehlans would do everything in their power to make sure nothing went wrong, but he’d learned always to prepare for the worst.
After a moment, Colborn shrugged. “Off we go, then.” Removing his mask, he passed it to Belthar. Aravon and Rangvaldr did likewise. In Kaldrborg, the face coverings would draw far more suspicion.
Aravon fell into step behind Colborn and Rangvaldr as they set off toward the edge of the forest. The two would take the lead, their heavy, thick features visibly Fehlan. Rangvaldr’s long white hair, braided beard, shield, sword, and Aravon’s spear marked him as a warrior, and he’d tucked his Eyrr holy stone beneath his leather armor. Nothing remained to mark him as a Seiomenn.
Colborn’s hair and beard had been cut short on their mission to Icespire, but according to him, that wasn’t uncommon among Fehlan merchants and traders. He wore heavy furs and roughspun wool over his armor—making him look blocky and clearly uncomfortable—and he’d left his shield in camp. His sword had been wrapped in furs and strapped on his back, out of sight beneath his heavy cloak.
At the Lieutenant’s insistence, Aravon had allowed Rangvaldr to pull his shoulder-length hair up into a tight, high braid. The beard he’d grown over the last weeks—since the day he stopped shaving at Camp Marshal—might not rival the flowing, braided locks of a Fehlan or Eirdkilr warrior, but it was a respectable length, long enough for Rangvaldr to thread with a few beads and colored bangles that he pulled from his own beard. With the heavy furs to conceal his leather armor, he could almost pass for one of the darker-haired Smida or Vidr that occupied northern Fehl. And, striding along behind the taller, heavy-framed Colborn and Rangvaldr, he was certain to draw little attention.
Colborn carried a bag slung over one shoulder. The carved antlers within—Endyn’s work, surprisingly artistic and delicate for someone with such massive hands, under the careful direction of Rangvaldr to add in the Fehlan runes—of the highland deer would serve them well trading in the markets of Kaldrborg.
Aravon drew in a breath as they reached the edge of the forest and stepped out onto the grasslands. Here we go.
He’d spent plenty of time in hostile territory, but never marching right into an enemy-held town. If anything went wrong, if any of the Myrr suspected that the three of them were anything other than what they appeared to be, the situation could go sideways in a hurry. And they’d be in no position to fight their way free of a town the size of Kaldrborg.
The Myrr town was far larger than Aravon had expected. It rivaled the Fjall capital of Storbjarg in terms of sheer land mass, though the buildings weren’t packed so tightly together, nor quite as large or well-maintained. A wall of earth and timber stretched around the town—or what had once been the town, before it expanded beyond its boundaries. At first glance, Aravon estimated that close to five or six thousand Fehlans occupied Kaldrborg.
But an equal number came and went through the busy trading town. Carts, crude wooden wagons, and horses and oxen laden with valuables trundled in and out of the gate set into the northwestern edge of the town’s wall. Fehlan men and women burdened beneath the weight of their trade goods plodded into the city, or appeared from within carrying the foodstuffs, pelts, or metal products for which they’d bartered.
The sun had already begun its descent by the time the three Grim Reavers reached the entrance to Kaldrborg. A handful of Fehlan warriors lounged around the open gate, barely paying attention to the people who came and went from the town. Aravon suspected their role was largely for show—to prove to the Myrr coming to Kaldrborg to trade that they had come to a place of law and order. But, according to Captain Lingram, the town was treated as neutral ground by all Fehlans. Fjall, Deid, Jarnleikr, Myrr, and even the Bein set aside enmities when they marched through the gates. The markets of Kaldrborg were intended as a place to exchange goods—any grievances or conflicts had to be left outside those earth and wood walls.
That didn’t stop many of the Fehlans from wearing weapons. Swords were rare, but more than a few men with the heavy braided beards and hair of warriors carried sheathed blades openly on their belts. Hunting bows and woodcutters’ axes proved far more abundant, and every man and woman in Kaldrborg carried at least one belt knife.
Heavy traffic of burdened men and animals flowed down a broad, wood-paved main avenue, yet the streets of the town were laid out in a perpendicular grid—far more orderly than Aravon had expected. Houses of wood, sod, and wattle-and-daub bordered the thoroughfare, set close enough together that their thatched rooves overlapped and interlocked. The Fehlans didn’t whitewash their walls like the Princelanders, but a thick layer of mud and dust covered every visible surface, painting the town of Kaldrborg a grimy brown.
A few of the narrow lanes between the houses had wood paving, but many were simply muck and puddled stagnant water. Or worse, as indicated by the reek that twisted Aravon’s stomach. The stench of so many people living and working in such close proximity—even with the outhouses built at the rear of the fenced plots—threatened to overwhelm him. The dung and droppings of animals, the stink of the tanneries, forges, slaughterhouses, and the plumes of dark grey smoke rising from every house along the muddy road made for a heady mixture that made Aravon glad he hadn’t eaten since their meager breakfast.
The noise of the trading town far exceeded his expectations. The wooden planks paving the road thumped and squelched beneath the tread of heavy boots, the hooves of draft animals, and iron-banded cart wheels. The clangor of smith’s hammers joined the whirring buzz of saws, the quiet lowing of draft animals harnessed to mill stones, and the bleating of sheep herded to market. In the distance, the shouts and cries of Fehlan merchants echoed loud from what Aravon guessed was the marketplace.
But as Aravon’s gaze traveled toward the markets, his gaze fell on a sight that froze the blood in his veins. A pack of eight men who stood a full head above the Fehlans thronging through the avenue, with bared weapons slung on their backs or carried over their shoulde
rs. Ice-blue eyes that glared down at the Myrr around them, and broad faces that bared into snarls of disdain fierce enough to send men and women scurrying out of their paths.
Eirdkilrs!
These wore heavy pelts of dark brown fur, yet there was no mistaking their height and the brutish features—blockier and thicker than the Fehlans around them.
Careful to keep behind Colborn, Aravon kept his head down as they passed the Eirdkilrs. The three of them went far out of their way to avoid the giants, crossing to the far side of the wood-paved avenue as the barbarians swaggered past.
Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder at the retreating Eirdkilrs, only to find more of the giants ahead of them as he turned back to the road ahead. Keeper’s teeth! By the time they reached the marketplace, he had counted close to twenty Eirdkilrs moving through the streets of Kaldrborg. Even more roamed among the wooden market stalls, snarling in their guttural tongue and barking at the merchants. The Myrr unlucky enough to draw their ire and attention cringed in fear, offering up whatever item had caught the barbarians’ interests.
Aravon’s mind raced. He’d had no idea they would find Eirdkilrs here in Kaldrborg. The Myrr had chosen to side with their southern cousins against the Princelands, but he hadn’t expected the Eirdkilrs to be so prevalent in the trading town. Their presence had a marked effect on the Fehlans. One look at the way the Myrr responded to the Eirdkilrs—hurrying out of their path, hiding their faces to avoid attention, cowering beneath the giants’ bluster—made it clear who was in charge here.
“Damn,” Colborn signed, though his expression revealed nothing. “That’s a lot of Eirdkilrs.”
“They definitely outnumber the fighting-aged men of the town.” Rangvaldr’s eyes scanned the crowds moving through the marketplace. “It may be a Myrr town, but the Eirdkilrs definitely run the place.”
Aravon nodded. “Split up and find Harlund. We’ve got to get him and get the bloody hell out of here.”
The two men signaled acknowledgement and broke away from Aravon, pushing their way through the crowds thronging around the wood-paved marketplace. Aravon moved west, while Colborn and Rangvaldr went north and south.
Unlike the marketplaces Aravon had visited in the Princelands, the merchants of Kaldrborg seemed disinclined to adhere to any sort of order. Metalsmiths with fine jewelry of gold, silver, bronze, and scrimshaw held court next to stalls heaped high with homespun woolen cloth or tables laden with the butchered carcasses of game large and small. Tools of wrought iron and steel mingled with bowls of clay, wood, and stone, and one merchant offered animal pelts beside fresh-ground oats and barley. Barrels of mjod sat beside casks of ayrag and clay urns of what smelled like sour ale.
That disorder made it difficult to find Harlund the blacksmith. The man selling the metal tools had the look of a merchant, not the broad shoulders and strong arms of a smith. Aravon didn’t dare ask him where to find Harlund, for fear his Princelander accent would give his identity away. Aside from that one stall, he saw no sign of a smith’s work—no daggers, butcher’s knives, horseshoes, or the myriad of other items crafted and repaired by Fehlan blacksmiths.
The more Aravon explored the marketplace, the more concerned he grew. Goldsmiths, silversmiths, bronzeworkers he found in abundance, but the only steel items he’d seen were back at the one stall. Perhaps Colborn and Rangvaldr were having better luck in their sections of the marketplace.
But Aravon’s gut told him something was amiss. An undercurrent of tension ran through the stalls and wood-paved streets, darkening the eyes and lining the faces of the Fehlans around him. More than once, he caught sight of men and women whispering, then suddenly falling silent as Eirdkilrs swaggered toward them. The looks cast at the backs of the giants held mingled terror, worry, and enmity.
Aravon slithered closer to a group of merchants standing close together in the shelter of one canvas-covered stall. He pretended to examine the fine scrimshaw and bits of carved antler, all the while listening to overhear their conversation.
The Myrr’s accent was harsher than the northern Fehlan clans—closer to the Eirdkilr’s guttural language than Aravon had expected—making it difficult to understand their words. Yet he caught a few familiar words.
“…not right…” muttered one. “…dragged off…”
“…called him a traitor,” answered another. “But—” The man, a heavy-set Myrr with scarred hands and thick-bearded jowls, cut off quickly as he noticed Aravon studying his wares. The worry on his face gave way to a merchant’s eager smile, and he broke off from his fellows to attend to a potential client. After a few minutes of listening in polite silence to the man extoll the artistry and value of the scrimshaw he’d been holding, Aravon gave a noncommittal grunt and moved on.
The merchant’s cries rang out behind him, cajoling him to reconsider, but Aravon disappeared into the crowd as quickly as he could. He couldn’t be certain, but something about that word “traitor” had set worry humming within him. Colborn and Rangvaldr could find out more without fearing discovery. Yet, with every step deeper into the crowded marketplace, the tension knotted his shoulders.
He finally caught sight of Colborn moving toward him. The Lieutenant kept his pace slow but steady, sliding through the crowds with no visible hurry yet a grim determination to his steps. One look at the man’s ice-blue eyes, and Aravon’s gut clenched.
Something is wrong.
“We’ve got a problem,” Colborn signed. “The man we’ve come to see, the blacksmith Harlund. The Eirdkilrs discovered he’s a spy two days ago and hauled him off for execution.”
Chapter Eighteen
The sight of Harlund twisted Aravon’s stomach. The blacksmith had been a strong man, his heavily-muscled body and broad shoulders hardened by years spent working the forge.
No longer.
The Fehlan lay on ground strewn with gravel and sharp rocks, bound to four stakes—one for each limb. The ropes encircling his wrists had been pulled tight enough to cut off circulation. His hands and fingers had swelled and turned a hideous purple. Aravon had seen enough injuries to know the man would never swing a hammer or hold a smith’s tongs again. When those bonds came off, blood rendered poisonous by the lack of oxygen would kill him in a matter of minutes.
If blood loss and pain didn’t kill him first, that was. Crimson stained the rocks and turned the dirt around his body to a grisly mud. Blood seeped from scores, perhaps hundreds, of tiny wounds that covered every inch of flesh along his arms, legs, chest, and abdomen.
But these were no ordinary wounds inflicted at random. Each of the cuts in Harlund’s body depicted the same grisly runes: the Fehlan symbol for Tauld, the Eirdkilrs’ clan name; and the mark that proclaimed “traitor” over and over in dark, bloody letters.
The Tolfreadr. A shiver ran down Aravon’s spine. He’d witnessed it only once before—the Blodsvarri had executed scores of Fjall captives after the ambush outside the Waeggbjod. She hadn’t made it quick, either. She’d taken her time, carving into the flesh of her Fehlan prisoners with strokes of her knife that seemed almost tender. The strongest of the Hilmir’s warband had taken agonizingly long minutes to die. They’d had to endure torment beyond imagining as the Blood Queen dragged their internal organs from their bodies with hands stained red with their blood.
That image still remained burned in Aravon’s mind. He still heard the screams—shrieks of terrible agony, grown men, warriors all, weeping and wailing for death that came far too slow.
Harlund was far beyond screaming. Perhaps he’d cried out once, had raised his voice in anguished howls or appeals for mercy. Now, after two days—long, terrible days, with every moment an endless torment—nothing but a hoarse croak issued from his throat. His cracked, parched lips spoke of thirst and hunger. Surviving only on the droplets of blood that spattered his face.
The Eirdkilrs torturing him had no desire to let him die easy. Fifty of the barbarians stood in a loose semi-circle around the blacksmith’s head, laughing
and shouting jeered insults down at their captive. One hawked a gob of phlegm and spat on Harlund’s chest. The spittle landed on a still-oozing wound, eliciting a weak cry—little more than a wheezing whisper—from the blacksmith.
Another barked a guttural laugh to his friends and, stepping forward, began fumbling at his trousers. Aravon struggled to hide his revulsion as the Eirdkilr began pissing on Harlund. The blacksmith was too weak to do more than cough and twist his head as the stream of filthy, steaming yellow urine soaked his face, splashed his neck, and seeped into his mouth and nose.
Disgust twisted an acidic dagger in Aravon’s gut. They’re going to take their time killing him. The fact the blacksmith hadn’t yet succumbed to fatigue, blood loss, thirst, and hunger was a miracle—or by cruel design. Even as the one Eirdkilr stepped back and pulled up his breeches, another came forward with a cup of water, which he poured into Harlund’s gaping mouth. The blacksmith managed to choke down a few mouthfuls. Just enough to keep him alive and miserable the entire time.
Every instinct within Aravon shrieked at him to do something. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sheathed sword until his knuckles whitened. He couldn’t simply stand by and watch while the Eirdkilrs tortured a civilian. Every warrior prepared to die in battle, and the execution of prisoners of war was a common practice. But this…this was an atrocity, proof of the Eirdkilrs’ barbaric nature.
Worse, the captive was the Prince’s agent. He’d been the source of the information about Tyr Farbjodr’s plan to unleash his next offensive after the Feast of Death. The man who lay bound, bleeding, and slowly dying was supposed to furnish them with a map of the Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains, perhaps even give them an idea where to find the Eirdkilr commander.
If he died here, their mission would fail. At the very least, they’d be walking empty-handed into the unknown, with no idea where they needed to go and far too little time to complete their task.
Courage to Sacrifice Page 15