He had only one choice. We have to free him.
They needed the intelligence only Harlund could provide and his help to navigate the southern Myrr lands safely. And, if they could put an end to the man’s suffering, he owed it to the Prince’s loyal agent to do so. Perhaps Rangvaldr and his healing stones might even offer the man a chance at life. Well away from Kaldrborg, certainly. In the Princelands, with the Prince’s gratitude for his service to the Crown.
The knots returned to Aravon’s shoulders as his eyes rose from the captive Harlund to the Eirdkilrs. As usual, that’s going to be easier said than done.
Fifty Eirdkilrs had clustered around the prisoner, but Aravon had encountered another sixty or seventy in the streets and marketplace of Kaldrborg. West of the broad square, beyond the jeering, mocking Eirdkilrs standing over Harlund, Aravon caught sight of what looked like an Eirdkilr camp—scores of crude hide tents standing in disorganized ranks. Only this camp had a far more permanent appearance—heavy logs had been bound together and driven into the earth to form a Legion-style palisade wall ten feet tall. The enclosure was a crude, circular thing close to a hundred yards in diameter. Aravon guessed it held space enough for two to three hundred Eirdkilrs.
The fact that the barbarians had any sort of established camp was an oddity in itself. Eirdkilrs tended to roam, raiding and pillaging, striking at their enemy—Princelanders and their Fehlan allies—before disappearing into the heavily-forested and mountainous terrain of southern Fehl. That tactic had made it impossible for the Legion to march against them. They occupied no strongholds—aside from Snowpass Keep on the western pass through the Sawtooth Mountains—and held no land. Instead, they’d contented themselves harassing all of southern Fehl, as unpredictable and unstoppable as the harsh sea winds.
But the presence of a camp here wasn’t the only unusual aspect of these Eirdkilrs. As Aravon got a closer look at them, he realized they had as much in common with the Myrr as they did with their own Tauld clan. Their hair was darker, their features narrower, and they lacked the towering build of the Eirdkilrs Aravon had seen thus far. Indeed, they appeared lean, more like wolfhounds than the brutish, ursine physique of most Eirdkilrs. The war paint staining their faces was a deep black rather than Eirdkilr blue. In place of ice bear pelts, they wore the shaggy brown furs taken from the Sawtooth grizzly bears that roamed the northern fringes of the mountain range.
A soft nudge of Aravon’s shoulder tore him away from his examination of the Eirdkilrs. Colborn stood beside him, his face an expressionless mask, but icy chill in his blue eyes.
“We’re not leaving him to die like this.” The Lieutenant spoke in the silent hand language, his hands close to his broad chest, but the intensity of his gaze was louder than any shout.
Aravon gave a slight shake of his head. “No, we’re not.”
“So what’s the plan, then?” Colborn quirked an eyebrow, just a fraction. “Nineteen of us are nowhere near enough to pull off a proper raid. Stealth and surprise are our best chance.”
Aravon nodded and glanced up. The sky seemed to mirror Harlund’s suffering, with threads of deep purple and crimson splashed through the gold that painted the darkening sky.
“We’ve got an hour until dark.” The wheels in his mind began to turn, the parts of a plan clicking into place. “Time enough to get back to the others if you hurry. Tell Zaharis I said, ‘the night after the Waeggbjod’. He’ll know what it means.”
The corner of Colborn’s mouth twitched up into a half-smile and, with a nod, he slipped through the crowds, heading northeast. The few Fehlans near the open square seemed not to notice his departure, too busy frowning at the torments inflicted on their fellow townsman.
Aravon scanned the massed Myrr until he found Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn stood twenty feet to the south, but as he caught sight of Aravon, he slipped through the throng and rejoined him.
“Find Harlund’s smithy,” Aravon signed before the Seiomenn raised any question. “And see about finding us the fastest way to get there unseen.”
A querying look formed in Rangvaldr’s eyes, but he simply nodded and turned to depart as well.
“People of Kaldrborg!” A snarling shout from among the Eirdkilrs snapped Aravon’s attention back to Harlund and his captors.
The barbarian who stepped forward from his comrades was tall and lean, with a heavy, thick face that could have belonged to the bear from which he’d taken his fur cloak.
“Look well at this traitor!” he growled in the Eirdkilrs’ guttural bastardization of the Fehlan language. He thrust a strong, scarred finger toward the bound Harlund. “This man—this festering maggot of a coward—has betrayed you and betrayed us.” Hatred blazed in his eyes and edged his voice with iron. “He turned his back on our ways, our people, our blood!”
The Eirdkilrs snarled curses at the man, and even a few of the Myrr joined in, spitting on his bloody body or hurling rotted produce.
“And so,” the Eirdkilr continued, “he will face the ultimate punishment: dismemberment, disemboweling, and death!” His shout rang across the open ground between the people and the palisade enclosure. “He will die without his eyes, his tongue, his arms, his legs, and his guts. And in death, Megin will turn him away. Will cast him out into Helgrindr and eternal darkness as he deserves for his treachery!”
That sent ripples of muttering among the crowd. Fehlans had a strong belief in the afterlife—the feasting table of Seggrholl, where they sat beside their clan god. Aravon had seen proud, strong warriors weep at the prospect of damnation. The Fjall that betrayed their Hilmir had thrown themselves onto their enemy’s swords in a desperate attempt to regain their honor and die a warrior’s death.
“But with his death, we will honor Megin as we honor Bani!” A triumphant light shone in the Eirdkilr’s eyes and he raised a clenched fist. “When the Fjorlagerfa is upon us, his essence will be given to our gods.”
Steel glinted in the light of the setting sun as he drew a dagger. Kneeling beside Harlund, he carved the two runes—Tauld and traitor—into his forehead. Harsh laughter bubbled from his throat, rising higher and growing louder at the weak struggles of the blacksmith.
When he stood once more, he lifted the dagger, stained red with Harlund’s blood, high over his head. “The earth will feast on his flesh, blood, and bones. The stain of his existence will be erased, and in its place, a glorious gift to our gods.” The fire burning on his face grew manic, bordering on insane. “Hail Megin! Hail Bani, Mighty Destroyer!”
The Eirdkilrs took up the cries of “Hail Bani!” and “Mighty Destroyer!”, and a few of the Myrr added their own halfhearted calls of “Hail Megin!”—doubtless as much out of fear of the Eirdkilrs as reverence of their god.
Nausea twisted in Aravon’s stomach. They plan to sacrifice him at the Feast of Death. The thought of such a grim sacrifice made him sick, but the sight of the blacksmith’s flesh, cut to ribbons and seeping blood from countless wounds, sent a chill of dread through him. Which means they plan to keep him alive until then.
The Feast of Death was ten days away. The Eirdkilrs planned to keep Harlund alive for ten more days. That was why they hadn’t carved deep into his flesh and pulled out his organs as the Blood Queen had done to the Hilmir’s Fjall. They intended to prolong his death until they could sacrifice him to their bloodthirsty god.
Aravon’s fists clenched so tightly that his hands shook. I’ll be damned if I let that happen. With effort, he tore his eyes away from the Eirdkilrs and their tormented captive. His gaze once again roamed the palisade enclosure, sizing up the target.
When night fell and Zaharis made his move, Aravon would be ready.
Chapter Nineteen
Where are you, Zaharis?
Worry furrowed Aravon’s brow. The last threads of sunset had faded into darkness nearly an hour earlier, and still no sign of the Grim Reavers. He had no doubt Zaharis understood his message, but had something happened to delay him? Had their small company of soldiers been d
iscovered in the forest, or in the darkness as they slipped toward Kaldrborg?
Nervous, Aravon shuffled in place, cast an anxious glance at Rangvaldr.
“They’ll come,” the Seiomenn signed. The darkness of night played tricks with his snarling greatwolf mask, casting shadows on his green eyes. Despite the gloom that seemed to hang over him—had hung over him since they first rode south of the Chain—he appeared calm. “Magicmaker won’t let us down.”
Aravon knew the man was right—Zaharis had come through for them time and again. Fiery hells, all the Grim Reavers had. Every time he asked more of them, they rose to the challenge. From the first battle at Bjornstadt to the siege of Icespire, the Grim Reavers had more than earned his trust.
But that didn’t stop him from worrying, as every good officer should. Any number of things could have gone wrong in the last three hours. Colborn might have been recognized as a Deid among the Myrr. The Eirdkilrs could have spotted him slipping into the forest and discovered the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires hiding there. The earth-and-wood wall surrounding the town shouldn’t have given his soldiers much trouble—the guards at the gate certainly wouldn’t be difficult for Zaharis, Colborn, and Noll to dispatch unseen—but any number of things could have gone wrong as they executed their plan.
That was ever the way of things. Every minute leading up to the battle spent in constant contemplation, going over and over the plan in his mind. The unceasing anxiety only stilled when the battle commenced. Fighting for his life had a tendency to make everything go dangerously quiet in his mind, until only the enemy remained.
As ever, the waiting grated on his nerves. The Eirdkilrs stood guard over Harlund less than twenty yards from where he and Rangvaldr lingered in the shadows of a Myrr longhouse, near the southeastern corner of the Kaldrborg marketplace. At any moment, the barbarians could look over, spot them hiding there. The last thing he wanted was to raise suspicions before—
Fire burst to life within the Eirdkilr enclosure, a brilliant wall of red and orange that reached flaming fingers toward the crude hide tents. A thunderous whooshing of air echoed above the noise of the Eirdkilrs, and the brightness grew blinding as the pillars of fire consumed the tents along the western edge of the wooden palisade wall.
Screams of panic, alarm, and agony rang out in the camp. Eirdkilrs stumbled from within their burning tents, hair, beards, and furs ablaze, shrieking and thrashing as the flames devoured their flesh. Cries of confusion and dismay echoed inside the enclosure as the Eirdkilrs found themselves under assault from an enemy they could not see, one that wielded fire with an invisible hand.
The ten Eirdkilrs standing guard over Harlund spun toward the sudden sound and the burning flames that consumed their camp. Surprise and shock rooted them in place for long seconds. The screaming grew louder as more tents burned, more fur-clad giants succumbed to the ravenous, fast-moving flames. Fires seemed to spring from the bowels of the earth itself, blazing to life at random spots around the camp.
Shouting in alarm, the Eirdkilrs charged into the camp, joining the throng milling about in confusion or scrambling around to put out the flames ravaging their homes and killing their comrades. Within seconds, only three remained to stand guard over the bound Harlund.
Yes! Aravon’s heart leapt. He and Rangvaldr could take on three Eirdkilrs any day. Especially Eirdkilrs with their eyes locked on the brilliant fire.
“Take the one on the left,” Aravon signed.
With a nod, Rangvaldr drew his sword. “Let’s do this.”
Aravon led the way out of the muddy lane between two wattle-and-daub buildings and raced through the marketplace, clinging to the shadows of the now-empty wood-and-canvas stalls. Spear held low, eyes locked on the Eirdkilrs, he moved at a stealthy run, careful to keep his footfalls light. Silent and deadly—they’d hit the barbarians before they knew it.
Five paces away from the giants, a loud splash echoed from behind and beside Aravon—Rangvaldr’s boot hitting a puddle of stagnant water. One of the three Eirdkilrs half-turned, glancing over his shoulder, and his eyes flew wide at the sight of Aravon. Aravon had only a split second to act. Without hesitation, he whipped his arm up and forward. The spear flew from his hand and slammed into the Eirdkilr. Steel sliced through fur, leather, and flesh, the twelve-inch spearhead buried to the crossbar in the Eirdkilr’s chest. The barbarian could only summon a gurgling, rasping gasp and coughed blood as he fell to one knee. The iron-studded club fell from numb fingers and clattered on the stone three inches from Harlund’s head.
For a heartbeat, Aravon dared to hope the shouts of alarm had masked the sound of the falling weapon and the Eirdkilr’s death rattles. That faint hope shattered as the second Eirdkilr turned. Turned and found Aravon charging toward him, empty-handed, sword still sheathed and spear embedded in the body of his comrade. Rage twisted the Eirdkilr’s face and he brought his huge axe whirling across in a blow aimed at Aravon’s neck.
Time slowed to a crawl as the massive weapon hurtled toward Aravon’s head. He had only an instant to react—he threw himself into a desperate backpedal, just outside the axe’s deadly range. Barely. The steel head carved a long, shallow furrow across his pauldron, missing the flesh of his neck by the width of a hair.
Rangvaldr barreled past Aravon and slammed into the Eirdkilr shield-first. The steel boss slammed into the Eirdkilr’s arm and chest with bone-crunching force, and the huge axe went flying from his hands. Before the barbarian could recover, a swing of Rangvaldr’s sword sliced through his braided beard and opened his throat. Blood gushed to the muddy streets, staining the muck and the bright yellow hair a filthy crimson.
The third Eirdkilr, caught off-guard by the attacks, raised his spear to strike, but Aravon was quicker. His sword whispered free of its sheath, the razor-sharp tip flicking toward the Eirdkilr’s right arm. Steel hacked through flesh and bone. Blood gushed from the stump of the Eirdkilr’s forearm as the severed hand spun away. Before the barbarian could open his mouth to howl in agony or unleash a war cry, Rangvaldr’s sword removed his massive head.
Three seconds, and the battle was over. Adrenaline set Aravon’s hands shaking as he gripped the haft of his spear and wrenched it free of the Eirdkilr’s chest, spattering the muddy, blood-soaked ground around the captive Harlund with fresh drops of crimson.
“Cut him loose!” Aravon hissed to Rangvaldr. The sounds of the chaos within the enclosure muffled his voice. The Eirdkilrs frantically trying to put out the flames and find the attacking enemy hadn’t noticed the two of them—yet.
As Rangvaldr hacked through the ropes binding Harlund’s wrists and ankles to the stakes, Aravon shrugged out of his heavy cloak. The Fehlan spy was shivering—from cold, hunger, thirst, and blood loss—and Aravon had no desire to worsen his discomfort. But to get to safety, he had to haul the man away.
Handing his spear to Rangvaldr, he threw his cloak over the delirious Harlund. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he wrapped his arms around the shredded ribbons of flesh and muscle that had once been the smith’s torso. Harlund made no protest; he barely had the strength for a weak moan of pain. With a grunt of effort, Aravon lifted the blacksmith onto one shoulder.
Aravon glanced back at the Eirdkilrs, just in time to see two massive figures bursting from the shadows of a nearby street. Belthar and Endyn thundered straight toward the wall and lowered their shoulders, ramming into the wooden logs with the force of charging warhorses. Logs splintered, ropes snapped, and a massive section of the palisade wall toppled inward, crashing atop the Eirdkilrs and tents along the enclosure’s northern side. The screams of fury, panic, and confusion redoubled at the sudden collapse.
A grin touched Aravon’s lips. That’ll buy us a few minutes to get the bloody hell out of here!
He spun toward Rangvaldr and found the Seiomenn had already turned and raced off through the marketplace. Aravon followed, his eyes tracking the fur-clad figure’s path between the wooden stalls and around the muddy puddles and wood-paved lanes
of the market. His back and shoulders protested beneath the weight of the blacksmith, but for a man his size, he weighed far less than Aravon expected. Days of torment, hunger, and thirst had drained the strength from his limbs and the life from his body.
Through the marketplace they ran, Aravon doggedly following in Rangvaldr’s footsteps. Despite the evening chill, sweat soon streamed down his face and soaked his tunic. His heart hammered a pounding beat in his chest, his legs burning with the effort of the sustained sprint.
Hope surged within him as Rangvaldr ducked into the shadows of a darkened alleyway between two close-set wooden homes. No moonlight pierced the thick thatching of the overlapping roofs; the moment he disappeared into the darkness, the Eirdkilrs would never—
Howls of rage shattered the night behind him. Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder, and his heart sank. Keeper’s teeth! Five Eirdkilrs stood over the corpses of their comrades, eyes locked on the shadows of Kaldrborg.
Though the barbarians could have no idea which way their escaped captive had gone—or how in the fiery hell the half-dead blacksmith had managed to kill his guards and break his bonds—they’d be hunting him through every corner of the town now. Those not busy trying to control the spread of the flames consuming the enclosure and hunting their mysterious attackers would soon flood the streets in pursuit.
We’ve got to get indoors and out of sight!
Thankfully, he’d prepared for just such an eventuality. Rangvaldr hurried through the back streets of Kaldrborg, cutting a path directly toward the blacksmith’s shop as Aravon had instructed.
Aravon grimaced as their route led beneath low-hanging roof eaves, between buildings set far too close together, and through puddles of ankle-deep mud. The muck and mire of the narrow lanes clung to his boots and dragged on his legs, adding to the exhaustion of hauling the blacksmith. His back groaned in protest as he stood beneath a low thatched roof, twinging as he twisted to slide his body and the man on his shoulder between two mud-daubed walls. His breath came in gasps that sounded far too loud beneath the thundering of his pulse in his ears.
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