Yet he dared not slow for a rest. The sounds of the Eirdkilrs pursuing their freed captive echoed loud between the houses of Kaldrborg, and the light of torches shone close enough behind the two Grim Reavers that Aravon knew they’d be caught if they stopped.
Their only hope was to reach Harlund’s smithy and get out of sight before the Eirdkilrs flooded the town.
Come on! He gritted his teeth against the fire coursing along his spine and down his legs. Just a little farther, right? He had no idea how far away the smithy was; all that mattered was that he kept running, kept moving until they found safety.
They burst out of a muddy lane onto a larger wood-paved street, and Rangvaldr raced across the thoroughfare toward a squat building of stone and fire-hardened clay bricks. “Here!” he hissed. He didn’t bother lifting the latch or checking for a lock; he simply drove his shoulder into the door. Wood splintered and the door flew inward. Rangvaldr rushed inside and darted into the darkness within Harlund’s smithy.
At that moment, torches brightened the street not a hundred yards from where Aravon stood. A band of five Eirdkilrs raced into view, shouting at the top of their lungs.
Aravon’s heart clenched, ice slithering down his veins. He had no time to consider whether or not they’d spotted him—he could only race across the street, Harlund bouncing atop his back, and throw himself into the shadows of the forge. He’d barely crossed the threshold when Rangvaldr closed the door as quickly and quietly as he could manage.
But being here in the smithy didn’t mean they were safe. It was only a matter of time before the Eirdkilrs recovered from their surprise at the sudden attack and hunted down the traitorous Myrr. They had to know who Harlund was, which meant they knew to come to his shop. Those Eirdkilrs up the road could even now be on their way here. And if they broke into Harlund’s smithy, they’d find Aravon and Rangvaldr with the traitor.
Five Eirdkilrs, the two of them could take, with difficulty. But if the barbarians trapped him and Rangvaldr here, there would be no way out.
Chapter Twenty
The smell of burned charcoal, heated metal, and singed flesh hung thick in the smithy, but no heat rose from the forge. The bellows remained silent, the hearth gone cold.
Aravon set Harlund down on a wooden work table as gently as he could and, removing his cloak, rolled the blacksmith onto his back. The man made no protest, didn’t so much as groan. When Aravon placed his ear close to the Fehlan’s lips, he heard only the faintest breath sounds. Relief flooded him—Harlund hadn’t yet died, simply fallen unconscious during their flight through the marketplace and the back streets of Kaldrborg. A merciful, if momentary, release from his pain.
A thick reek of rotting flesh rose from Harlund’s face, neck, chest, and stomach. Aravon grimaced; infection had set in to the man’s wounds. He’d seen Legionnaires losing limbs or even dying from putrefaction far less severe. There was only one hope for the blacksmith now.
Aravon rounded on Rangvaldr. “Heal him!” His harsh whisper sounded eerily loud in the silence of the smithy, with the howls of the Eirdkilrs hunting them a nerve-wracking backdrop to underscore their dire circumstances. “Quickly, before they find us.”
To his surprise, Rangvaldr made no move to draw out his pendant. The Seiomenn seemed frozen in place, his eyes locked on the bleeding, dying Harlund.
“Rangvaldr!” Aravon hissed louder. “Hurry up!”
The Seiomenn’s gaze lifted from the blacksmith on the table to Aravon. A strange look entered his eyes. “I…can’t,” he said in a strangled voice.
“What?!” Aravon’s eyes flew wide. “What do you mean, you can’t? We need him alive! You’ve got a few seconds before the Eirdkilrs find us, more than enough time to heal him and put the stone away where they can’t see the glow.”
Again, something strange flashed in the Seiomenn’s eyes. “I—” he began, but stopped and seemed to reconsider whatever he’d been about to say. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached for the pendant and drew it out. He cradled the stone in his hands with the same reverence as always, yet his movements held a new uncertainty—or fear—Aravon didn’t understand.
But, as Rangvaldr lifted the pendant to his lips and spoke the words of power, the stone flared to life. The soft blue glow filled the smithy, glinting off the metal tools and weapons that hung from the walls or sat on the tables. The light cast Rangvaldr’s masked face in even deeper shadows. Aravon didn’t understand why the Seiomenn hesitated, but now wasn’t the time.
“Quickly!” He glanced over his shoulder; the cries of the Eirdkilrs grew louder with every passing second.
Rangvaldr stepped up to the unconscious blacksmith and pressed the stone to his chest. But he’d barely touched the man’s flesh for more than a second before he pulled the holy stone away.
“No.” He shook his head. “It won’t work.”
“What are you talking about?” Aravon’s eyes went from the glowing stone in the Seiomenn’s hands to the bleeding Harlund. “The magic is working. It—”
“Would require too much of me.” Tension and dread echoed in Rangvaldr’s voice. “The damage to his body—his lungs, his organs, his heart, his muscles, the infection—is too much. I could expend every shred of strength I had, and still it would not suffice to keep him alive.” He gave a curt shake of his head. “He is beyond my healing.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped. He’d never expected to hear that from Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn had nearly killed himself healing Fehlan warriors and Legionnaires at the Battle of Hangman’s Hill, and caring for the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve. If Harlund’s wounds truly were beyond his ability to heal, it was a marvel the man still lived.
“Healing him would kill me.” The shadows in Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened. “And still, there would be no guarantee he would survive his wounds and the infection.” A moment’s hesitation, and his gaze dropped away. “Our mission to stop Tyr Farbjodr is more important than one man’s life.”
The statement rocked Aravon to the core and his jaw dropped. Had he truly heard those words from Rangvaldr’s mouth?
His mind raced. “Then at least heal him enough that he can talk,” Aravon said. “We need the information that’ll get us to the Eirdkilr commander and anything else he can give us.” He fixed the Seiomenn with a piercing glare. “Just bring him back to consciousness so I can speak to him.”
After a second of deep contemplation, Rangvaldr nodded. “So be it.” He stepped up to the man, the stone in his hand still glowing bright blue. “But he will be in great agony. You must keep him quiet, lest we are discovered.”
Closing his eyes, Rangvaldr pressed the stone to Harlund’s forehead. The wounds on the blacksmith’s face began to close and his eyes fluttered behind their lids. But a moment later, the Seiomenn pulled the stone away and tucked it beneath his shirt, his face an unreadable mask of stone.
But Aravon had no time to wonder at Rangvaldr’s strange behavior. Harlund’s eyelids opened and he drew in a shuddering breath. Aravon clamped a hand down over the blacksmith’s mouth and pressed a finger to his lips. Panic flooded Harlund’s eyes and he tried to shrink away. Too weak to move, he simply gave up any attempt at resistance, his eyes closing once more.
Slowly, Aravon removed his hand. “Harlund.” He spoke in Fehlan, but gestured to draw the man’s attention to his Princelander features. “Your message to Prince Toran said you had information.”
Harlund’s eyelids popped open again and his gaze fixed on Aravon. “Who…?” he asked in a weak, barely audible voice. Confusion twisted his Fehlan features. “What…?”
“There’s no time for that.” From within his cloak, Aravon withdrew the Prince’s silver coin and held it up before the man’s eyes. “We need the information you promised the Prince.”
“In…formation,” Harlund croaked, his voice weak, barely audible. He shivered despite the absence of chill, fever and the pain of infection setting his body shaking.
“About Tyr Farbjodr,” Aravon pre
ssed. “And a map of the Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains.”
“Map.” Harlund gasped as a fresh wave of torment washed over him. Agony set the muscles of his face twitching. “Map!”
“Aravon,” Rangvaldr murmured in the tongue of the Princelands. “You need to hurry.” The Seiomenn stood by the closed door. “They’re getting closer.”
Aravon gritted his teeth. The Eirdkilrs had to know Harlund’s identity; they’d be here any minute. He had to hurry to get what he needed before they were discovered.
“Where is the map?” he pressed. “Where can I find it? Where can I find Tyr Farbjodr?”
“Map…in—” He muttered a Fehlan word Aravon didn’t recognize.
“Hoard,” Rangvaldr translated into the Princelander tongue. “Hidden somewhere.”
“Where?” Aravon demanded. “Where is it hidden?”
“Look…under…my anvil.” A defiant light gleamed in Harlund’s eyes, and despite his pain, a savage smile twisted his face. “Bastards…would never…think to search…there!”
Aravon grinned. “Damned right they wouldn’t.” He gripped Harlund’s hand tighter. “A bloody clever hiding place, that is.”
Harlund’s face brightened despite the wracking pain. “I didn’t think…anyone would come…once the Rakki…took me.” He gave a weak shake of his head. “I thought…I would…die alone. A traitor…to my people…they called me.”
“No.” Aravon shook his head. “You’re no traitor.” Steel edged his voice. “You’re doing this to help your people. To free them from the Eirdkilrs, and bring peace to Fehl.”
“Peace…to Fehl.” A beatific smile broadened his lips and his eyes closed. “Stop…Tyr Farbjodr.” His voice dropped to a breathy whisper, so low Aravon had to place his ear to Harlund’s lips. With one weak, rasping breath, the smith managed to form a word. “Praell…boer.”
It would be the last word to pass his lips. The air rattled quietly from his lungs, and his heart gave a final beat before it fell silent. Harlund’s hand slackened in Aravon’s grip.
Aravon found he, too, could not draw breath. He stared down at the blacksmith—the man who had given his life to help the Princelands, to help his own people. With that sacrifice, Harlund could very well end the Eirdkilr War and restore peace to Fehl.
“Aravon,” Rangvaldr growled. “We’ve got to get that map and get out of here.”
But Aravon made no move. He gripped Harlund’s hand, remained at the man’s side for a few moments more. After all Harlund had given to help them, he owed the Fehlan that much.
The Prince owes you a debt of gratitude, as do we all. He passed a hand over the blacksmith’s eyes. Your service will not be forgotten. May you find rest in the arms of your god, and the peace of eternity forever more.
The moment of silence was shattered by Rangvaldr’s insistent voice. “Aravon!” The Seiomenn’s hand closed on Aravon’s shoulder and pulled him away. “Now!”
Aravon allowed the Seiomenn to haul him deeper into the smithy. He had to escape the Eirdkilrs, else Harlund’s sacrifice would be in vain.
The blacksmith’s single-horn anvil stood atop a cast iron base built around a thick hardwood log. One glance at the massive thing and Aravon knew he and Rangvaldr would never have a chance of moving it. Which meant Harlund hadn’t moved it, either.
Wherever he hid the map, it’s got to be somewhere accessible without shifting the anvil.
The sounds of approaching Eirdkilrs sent Aravon’s heart leaping into his throat. Dropping to one knee, he felt around the wood and iron base supporting the anvil, fumbling in the darkness for anything that could be—
Yes! His fingers encountered a crack in the base of the log, and one small piece of the hardwood moved at his touch. Digging his fingernails into the crack, he tugged the chunk of wood. It slipped free to reveal a small nook set into the bottom of the log. Triumph burned bright within Aravon as he drew out the small, rolled-up strip of animal hide from within.
He had no time to examine his prize. At that moment, the smithy’s front door burst open and torchlight flooded the main chamber. Aravon and Rangvaldr, hidden in the shadows at the rear of the forge, had only a heartbeat to race toward the back door before Eirdkilrs rushed into the smithy. Their howls of rage echoed loud—doubtless at sight of Harlund’s corpse atop the table—covering the sound of Rangvaldr and Aravon leaping out the door and rushing into the muddy lane behind the smithy.
Aravon’s heart hammered a frantic beat in his chest. The Eirdkilrs were mere steps behind him. On foot, he and Rangvaldr had little hope of outrunning the giants. Their only chance of survival was to lose the Eirdkilrs among the muddy back streets of Kaldrborg.
But even as the two Grim Reavers ducked beneath thatched roofs and darted between close-set wooden houses, the cries and shouts of the Eirdkilrs rang out behind them. Heavy boots splashed through the muck, drawing nearer with every passing second. Panic dug icy fingers into the back of Aravon’s mind—the Eirdkilrs would catch up long before he and Rangvaldr escaped Kaldrborg.
He refused to give in to the fear that threatened to turn his limbs to ice. They’d come too far, fought too hard to fail now. Harlund had given his life to pass on the critical information. Aravon would be damned if he let a handful of Eirdkilrs stop him from completing his mission!
“Spear!” he hissed to Rangvaldr.
Without slowing, the Seiomenn tossed Aravon his spear and drew his sword. Together, they raced through the narrow back lanes, their boots splashing through the mud, spraying muck and stagnant water onto the walls of the houses they passed. Yet, with every step, the light of the torches grew brighter, the cries of the Eirdkilrs drawing nearer.
Fear spiked within Aravon. Any contact with the enemy would slow down their flight, giving reinforcements time to catch up. In the middle of an Eirdkilr-held city, that could prove fatal. Escape was their only hope of survival.
They burst from a narrow lane and sprinted to the left, in the direction of the city gate, only to find themselves facing a handful of torch-bearing Eirdkilrs. Before Aravon and Rangvaldr could backtrack, the barbarians spotted them. Howling with glee, the five giants raced toward the two Grim Reavers, massive axes, clubs, and spears waving in the air.
Keeper’s teeth! Aravon planted his feet and braced for the charge. Five Eirdkilrs against the two of them—terrible odds any day, but he’d fight to his last breath if it meant—
Dark shapes thundered past Aravon and Rangvaldr. Heavy hooves splashed in the muck as three enormous warhorses charged straight toward the five Eirdkilrs. A longsword flashed once, twice. Crimson misted in the air, a grisly fountain bubbling up from deep gashes in an Eirdkilr’s neck.
A second managed to let out a howling cry, but it turned to one of agony a moment later. The giant fell, clawing at his face—at the furry creature digging razor-sharp talons into his cheeks, gouging out his eyes, clawing at his nose.
Colborn and the horses riding at his back simply trampled the remaining Eirdkilrs before the giants could think to cry out or raise their shields. By the time the Lieutenant reined in, Snarl had torn the last Eirdkilr’s face to shreds, and blood seeped from five deep gashes along the side and front of his neck.
Colborn twisted in his saddle. “Get a move on, Captain!” he called in Fehlan. “We don’t have all night.”
Aravon’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the lead rope gripped in Colborn’s left hand. Two horses with empty saddles reared and snorted at the Eirdkilrs—one drove his metal-shod hoof down into the shredded face of the dying barbarian with bone-crunching force.
Racing toward the horses, Aravon and Rangvaldr leapt into their saddles. He didn’t bother asking how he’d found them—Snarl had doubtless led him—or how he’d gotten into the city. The Eirdkilrs that pursued them from Harlund’s smithy were seconds away.
“The rest?” Aravon asked, also in Fehlan.
“They’ll meet us,” was all Colborn said. Digging his heels into his horse’s
ribs, he set off at a mad gallop. Aravon and Rangvaldr spurred their mounts to follow. The flapping of wings in the darkness told Aravon that Snarl shadowed them from above.
Through the muddy back lanes and side streets of Kaldrborg they charged, following Colborn’s lead. The northeastern entrance to the town loomed ahead of them, the wooden gates thrown open and the two Fehlan guards knocked unconscious.
Yes! Aravon’s heart leapt as he and his Grim Reavers charged through the outskirts of the Myrr town and into the darkness of the plains beyond. Against all odds, they’d infiltrated the city, gotten the information, and escaped with their lives. Harlund had died, but thanks to his sacrifice, Aravon now knew where to find Tyr Farbjodr.
Praellboer. He’d have to consult the animal hide map Harlund had hidden beneath his anvil, but he clung to the hope that the dying blacksmith’s whispered words would point them aright.
Now we’ve just got to get away from Kaldrborg before—
As if on cue, the howls of the Eirdkilrs echoed through the streets of Kaldrborg. Aravon risked a glance back, and his heart sank. Dozens of the lean, fur-clad giants now raced through the open gate and pursued them through the town and out into the plains.
Chapter Twenty-One
Aravon’s gut clenched at the piercing war cries that reverberated through the streets of outer Kaldrborg. The sound pursued him, Colborn, and Rangvaldr into the darkness of the plains south of the Myrr town.
Another glance over his shoulder, and icy feet marched down his spine. Close to seventy Eirdkilrs were now visible running through the muddy, wood-paved lanes, torches flickering from the night wind and the haste of their pursuit. Though the giant barbarians were too far behind to spot the three Grim Reavers racing across the plains, not even a blind man would miss the signs of their flight. The thundering hooves of the massive Kostarasar chargers left deep divots in the mud and tore up the ground, sending chunks of sod and grass flying. With nothing but open flatland bordering the Myrr town for nearly two miles south, Aravon and his companions would have to ride hard and far to shake their pursuers.
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