Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  Gritting his teeth, Aravon bent lower in his saddle and clung to his horse’s mane. The exertions of the last few days of travel through the Jarnleikr and Myrr highlands had taken a toll on his body, and every muscle ached in protest at the pounding pace of his horse. Twinges of pain ran down his spine; hauling the heavy blacksmith had strained something, and the mad dash through the muddy back alleys of Kaldrborg hadn’t helped.

  But he bit down hard on the sensations, forced himself to ignore them. He could rest later, after they escaped the Eirdkilrs hunting them.

  His heart hammered a staccato beat, thumping in time with the horses’ fast-flying hooves. Mind racing, he scanned the night ahead, searching the darkened landscape for anything that could serve to conceal them from their pursuers.

  There! Two or three miles south—hard to tell in the darkness of the moon-lit night—the grasslands rose to hill country, rolling grassy ridges dotted with towering evergreens and thick shrubs. They could lose the Eirdkilrs amidst the trees, then cut sharply westward back toward their original path south to Cliffpass.

  Aravon glanced over his shoulder again. The torches hadn’t drawn closer, but the Eirdkilrs hadn’t fallen far behind, either. Indeed, they appeared to be cutting directly toward the fleeing Grim Reavers. The enemy had found their horses’ tracks, as he feared.

  Straight toward the hills the three Grim Reavers rode, crouched low in their saddles, clinging to their mounts with strength born of grim desperation. The wind seemed to carry the Eirdkilrs’ howling to Aravon’s ears, setting his already-taut nerves on razor’s edge.

  Yet the next time he looked back, a faint hint of hope blossomed within him. The torches had fallen behind—the Kostarasar chargers gaining some distance on the Eirdkilrs running on foot—and spread out to the east and west. Perhaps the Eirdkilrs hadn’t found their tracks. Or, perhaps they’d simply failed to realize the significance of those hoofprints in the soft, grassy plains.

  A fierce smile tugged at Aravon’s lips and he bent low over his horse’s neck once more. Triumph burned bright in his chest, pushing back the fatigue. They’d gotten out of Kaldrborg in one piece and, by the Swordsman’s grace, they would leave their pursuers far behind. He had to trust Zaharis, Belthar, Endyn, and whoever else had played a role in the diversionary attack on the Eirdkilrs’ palisade camp would also evade pursuit.

  By the time the three Grim Reavers rode up the incline and crested the wooded hill, the howls of the Eirdkilrs had diminished to faint cries, barely audible from the distance. The sound faded altogether as Aravon charged down the far side of the hill and pushed through the sparse forest beyond.

  On the three rode, deeper into the forested hills, their path cutting sharply to the southeast. For an hour or more they traveled, until finally Colborn called a halt for sake of the horses. The mad dash from Kaldrborg left the already-exhausted mounts winded, blowing, and lathered in sweat. A small stream provided the horses with fresh, cool water—water that Aravon gulped down as greedily as his mount. Sweat soaked his undertunic and streamed down his face, and the evening breeze caressed chilly fingers across his flushed cheeks.

  Thirst slaked, he rose to his feet and tried to listen for any signs of pursuit—his pulse pounded so loud in his ears, and the sound of his gasping seemed deafening in the cool, silent darkness. Yet, after long seconds of listening, he heard nothing but the sounds of the trickling stream, the snuffling of the horses, and the song of evening forest birds.

  “We lost them.”

  “For now.” A grim note echoed in Colborn’s voice.

  Rangvaldr nodded. “The Rakki won’t stop coming until they find us.” A sliver of pale moonlight cast the lines of his face in a glow as grim as his voice.

  “The Rakki?” Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Harlund spoke of them before he died. Are those the Eirdkilrs hunting us?”

  “Aye.” Rangvaldr gave a slow nod. “The word Rakki is Tauld. It means dog, but more an insult. Similar to your Princelander ‘cur’. A mixed-breed mutt, a pariah even among its own kind.”

  Aravon didn’t miss the slight stiffening of Colborn’s posture, the tightening of his shoulders. His father, the cowardly Lord Derran of Whitevale, had treated him in similar fashion.

  “The Rakki are those bastards born of Eirdkilrs having their way with the women of Fehl.” A frown darkened the Seiomenn’s face. “When they are born, they are cast out of their clan. But the Eirdkilrs will not take them, either. They are seen as weak, inferior.”

  “They didn’t look either,” Aravon said. The Eirdkilrs back in Kaldrborg had been only fractionally shorter and leaner than those he’d spent the last fifteen years fighting.

  “To the Tauld, they are outcast, inferior.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “Only those Rakki who prove themselves worthy of their forefathers are ever welcomed into the Tauld.”

  “Prove themselves.” Aravon’s gut twisted; knowing the Eirdkilrs, it would doubtless be a test of bloodthirst and cruelty.

  Rangvaldr nodded. “They serve as the Eirdkilrs’ enforcers among the southern clans. It falls to them to ensure the tributes are delivered, and they hunt men like Harlund, agents of the Princelands and the Fehlan clans disloyal to the Tauld.”

  Aravon grimaced. He had no need to imagine what sort of torments they’d inflict on any uncovered—Harlund had died in front of him, succumbing to infection, fatigue, and hundreds of wounds.

  “The northern clans have been fortunate to remain free of the Rakki presence,” Rangvaldr continued. “But we are in their land now, and they will be hunting us.” His tone grew even grimmer. “If we are to have any hope of success, we cannot afford to rest until we are someplace they cannot follow.”

  “Indeed.” Aravon turned to Colborn. “I take it you’ve set a meeting point with the others?”

  Colborn shook his head. “Snarl will lead us to them once they’re clear.” He gestured to the Enfield, who had landed and was now alternating between lapping at the cold stream water and darting around the clearing in pursuit of night birds. “But we should wait until we’re certain Lingram and the others are well away from Kaldrborg.”

  “We should keep moving south,” Rangvaldr said, his tone insistent. “The Rakki can move with the speed of their Eirdkilr fathers, but they are lighter and leaner, and can run much farther before tiring. If we wait here, we risk discovery.”

  Aravon frowned, his mind working at the calculations. They’d ridden for nearly two hours, which meant they’d put at least twelve miles between them and Kaldrborg. At the Eirdkilrs’ speed—eight to nine miles per hour at a full run, though likely slower given that the enemy had to track them through the darkness—they had at least an hour, maybe more, before the Rakki caught up. Long enough to give the horses a chance to rest before sending Snarl to find Skathi, he decided.

  “We wait.” Aravon’s tone brooked no argument. “The mounts are in no condition to run just yet, and we want them fresh if we have to push them hard.”

  Though the darkness hid Rangvaldr’s expression, there was no concealing his dour mood. Without a word, the Seiomenn drew out a pouch of his trail rations and his waterskin, sat on a fallen tree, and set about eating.

  Colborn turned to Aravon, and the pale moonlight shone on the questioning look in his eyes as his gaze darted pointedly at Rangvaldr. Aravon shrugged and shook his head; he had no more idea what was wrong with the Seiomenn than Colborn.

  Drawing out his own meager rations, he took a seat near Rangvaldr and drank deep of his waterskin. He grimaced at the tepid taste of dusty leather—he’d empty and refill it before riding away from the stream. After a few bites of the hard, dry trail biscuits and cured meat, he decided to try and broach the matter with Rangvaldr.

  Whatever’s bothering him has to be resolved sooner rather than later. His jaw muscles clenched. Keeper knows we’ve got problems enough without adding more.

  “What you said back there, about not being able to heal Harlund.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, his tone at once
gentle and firm. “Was that true?”

  Rangvaldr stiffened, but he didn’t look up from his food. “His wounds—”

  “Were bad, I know.” Aravon nodded. “I smelled the infection and rot in his wounds, and I know that healing him would have taken a great deal of your strength. Perhaps all of it.”

  Rangvaldr shook his head. “Not perhaps.” Now he looked up and met Aravon’s gaze. “If I’d healed him, I would have been too weak to flee. The Rakki would have captured me. Us.” His heavy Fehlan brow furrowed. “I wanted to help, but…” He drew in a deep breath. “I made the choice, and I stand by it.”

  There was more to it than Rangvaldr let on—he was purposely not saying something.

  Aravon leaned forward. “And that’s it?” He fixed Rangvaldr with a piercing gaze. “There was no other reason?”

  Rangvaldr’s jaw clenched and he said nothing for long seconds, simply sat staring at Aravon. No, not at Aravon. Through him. His eyes rested on Aravon’s face, but he seemed to be seeing something within the depths of his own mind.

  Finally, the muscles of his jaw relaxed, and the tension drained from his shoulders. “I—”

  A loud, snarling bark cut off the Seiomenn’s words. Snarl barked again, a sound of mingled urgency and fear, then leapt into the air and disappeared in the darkness of the night sky.

  Aravon tensed at the snap and crackle of something coming through the woods. Something heavy…too heavy to be an Eirdkilr. The noise came from the south, on the far side of the stream, and there was only one of whatever it was.

  The tension in Aravon’s shoulders faded as a black bear, dark as the shadows of the forest, lumbered into view. Dark eyes locked onto the three Grim Reavers and their mounts, and the bear lifted its massive shaggy head to sniff at the air.

  Keeper’s teeth! He’d never seen a bear up close—the thing appeared to weigh twice as much as the Kostarasar chargers, with paws larger than Aravon’s head and a jaw powerful enough to crush a man’s skull in a single snapping bite.

  “Don’t make any sudden moves,” Colborn spoke in a low voice. “It won’t attack if it doesn’t feel threatened.”

  Aravon had no intention of moving. He remained seated, his spear just out of reach, but if the bear attacked he could reach for his sword at a moment’s notice. Not that he was certain the blade would do much good against the bear’s thick hide.

  But the huge creature simply grunted warning sounds, huffing and blowing air out of his massive mouth. Stooping, he lowered his head drank from the stream, his pink tongue flashing in and out to lap at the water. Long seconds passed before the bear slaked its thirst and lumbered off into the forest. The crashing and snapping of twigs slowly faded into the night, leaving the three Grim Reavers alone in silence.

  Aravon let out a low breath and forced his shoulders to unclench, his spine to relax.

  “We should move,” Colborn said, his voice still quiet. “Where there’s one black bear, there are likely to be more.”

  Aravon nodded. “Good thinking.” He stifled a frustrated growl as he glanced at Rangvaldr; if only the bear hadn’t chosen that moment to arrive, just as the Seiomenn had been about to reveal the truth of whatever troubled him.

  The three of them knelt to refill their waterskins, then quickly mounted up. With the Rakki behind and bears somewhere in the darkness around them, they had no desire to remain.

  Aravon drew out the bone whistle and called Snarl. The little Enfield appeared from the sky, descending toward Aravon far too fast. He barely managed to slow in time before crashing into Aravon’s chest. Thankfully, Aravon had been prepared and steadied himself in the saddle, catching Snarl. The Enfield yipped in his ear and licked at his face and beard.

  “Good Snarl.” Aravon scratched the Enfield’s scruff. Snarl had been the one to lead Colborn to him and Rangvaldr, and had given warning of the bear’s approach. Now, with Snarl’s help, they’d be reunited with the rest of their team. That certainly deserved his praise—and, the first chance he got, a reward in the form of a fine bone or a chunk of fresh meat.

  Drawing out the strip of oilcloth-wrapped fabric that held Skathi’s scent, Aravon held it up to the Enfield’s nose. “Take us to Skathi, boy.” He spoke the command word, and Snarl leapt into the air, flapping his wings to gain altitude. The Enfield hovered within their eyesight, skimming along between the trees, moonlight dappling his bright orange fur.

  Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and took off after Snarl. Colborn and Rangvaldr—still in his subdued gloom—fell in behind Aravon as they followed the Enfield into the forest and off to find the others.

  * * *

  There was no warning, no indication of anyone waiting among the dense thicket of mulberry trees. Simply a quiet question, “That you, Captain?” accompanied by a figure materializing from the shadows.

  Aravon stiffened and bit back a surprised grunt. He hadn’t spotted Noll until he nearly trampled the man.

  “No, it’s a bloody bunch of Eirdkilrs,” Aravon snapped. He hadn’t been startled like that in a long time, and he strongly disliked it. “You can tell by the way we’re moving all quiet-like and riding horses.”

  The light of the stars shone on Noll’s masked face, setting his eyes sparkling with mischief and a hint of relief. “Good to see you too, sir.” He waved a hand. “This way.”

  The little scout flitted through the trees with nary a sound, darting from shadow to shadow with an agility even Snarl would envy. A few seconds later, he gave a low whistle, answered from beneath a tall, leafy conifer.

  “It’s the Captain,” Noll’s voice echoed from ahead.

  Fifteen figures appeared in the darkness—Grim Reavers and Deadheads, all safely away from Kaldrborg.

  “Good to see you, Captain Snarl.” Captain Lingram spoke first, reaching up to clasp Aravon’s hands. “And here we thought you’d stopped to take a nap.”

  “Nah.” Aravon chuckled. “Just figured I’d lead the Eirdkilrs away, give you lot a proper chance to escape. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

  “Last I checked, it was us being the distraction and buying you time to escape.” Skathi’s voice drifted from above Aravon’s head. The archer perched on a high tree bough, longbow in hand and an arrow nocked to the string. “Not to mention sending Colborn to haul your ass out of that particular fire.”

  “Remember who gives the orders here, Archer.” Colborn’s mock anger lacked any real bite. “Else I might have you handle latrine duty next time we make camp.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir!” Skathi’s sardonic tone belied her words. “Maybe I’ll polish your boots while I’m at it. Or take a crack at removing that stick from—”

  “If we’re all done with the niceties,” Belthar rumbled, “maybe we’d best be on our way.” His eyes darted toward the northeast, in the direction of Kaldrborg. “We’re not exactly safe on home territory right now.”

  “Belthar’s right.” Aravon looked to the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires gathered around him. “Mount up and let’s move out.”

  None of the soldiers spoke a word of protest; they all knew the danger they faced from the Eirdkilr pursuit.

  Aravon sought out Zaharis. “Nice work,” he signed. “Quite the display of alchemy back there.”

  “You’ve got the scrawny one to thank for that.” Zaharis thrust his chin toward Duvain, who sat his saddle in the shadow of his massive brother. “Turns out there’s a brain beneath that helmet. Spent time working in an apothecary before joining the Legion, he said. Knew a trick or two that came in handy.”

  Aravon’s eyebrow rose. “A soldier, schooling you?”

  Zaharis snorted. “Please, Captain, knowing a trick isn’t the same as being a bloody genius. Call it a valuable contribution to the effort.”

  Aravon chuckled. “Of course.” The Secret Keeper could be prickly about such things. Before he could press the matter any further, one of the Legionnaires broke from the others and strode toward him.

  “Ca
ptain.” Corporal Rold gave a respectful nod and held out something. “You’ll be needing this again, aye?”

  Aravon stared down at the mask in the Legionnaire’s hand. His mask. He’d entrusted it to the soldier before departing for Kaldrborg.

  “Thank you, Corporal.” Aravon inclined his head and took the mask. Strapping it in place felt somehow right, putting his mind at ease. It served as a shield between him and the enemies that hunted him, perhaps even as a barrier to keep the concerns of his command at bay. Behind that mask, he could conceal his anxiety, dread, and worries of the dangers that lay ahead. And the dangers that now pursued them.

  He gave the order to mount up once again, and his soldiers obeyed without hesitation. None of them would sleep tonight—they had too far to go to accomplish their mission, and too little time to do it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Aravon had heard stories about the Sawtooth Mountains his entire life. Taller than a hundred Icespires stacked atop each other, the legends said. High enough to scrape the heavens, with tips that ascended to the halls of the gods. A barrier so vast and impassable they had kept even the hardened Wasteland-dwelling Eirdkilrs from crossing for centuries.

  The stories failed to convey the true majesty and breathtaking awe of the mountain range.

  Sharp, jagged peaks rose to soaring heights far above the mountainous land, standing silent, stern guardian over southern Fehl. Nine hundred and fifty miles across, from the sandy eastern shore to the rocky coastline to the west, the Sawtooth Mountains seemed an impossibility to behold. The sheer scope and size of those snow-capped summits—up to twenty thousand feet above the level of sea at the highest point—thrusting like stony daggers into the clear blue sky boggled Aravon’s mind.