Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon and his soldiers would enter the foothills north of the mountain range before nightfall, yet even from a hundred miles away, the mountains appeared monstrous, an endless wall of sheer cliffs, snow-capped peaks, and dizzying heights. As if some ancient, gargantuan creature of nightmare had thrust its scaled and humped back up through the surface of the earth.

  With effort, Aravon tore his eyes away from the breathtaking mountain range and glanced over his shoulder for the hundredth time since sunrise. No matter how hard he squinted, he could see no sign of the Rakki hunting them. No howled war cries reached his ears. Yet that meant nothing. It simply meant the enemy hadn’t caught up.

  Yet. Anxiety plagued him throughout the day, worry tightening his shoulders until his muscles were a solid mass of knots. Their steady pace and infrequent rests—the Legionnaires had grown more accustomed to riding—meant they covered ample ground, ascending into the foothills bordering the mountain range before the sun dipped beneath the western horizon.

  A part of him wanted to give the order to ride through the night—they needed to disappear into Captain Lingram’s hidden passage through Cliffpass as soon as possible. And, with another day gone, that left only nine days before the Feast of Death. Nine days until Tyr Farbjodr unleashed his Eirdkilr hordes, his “true strength” on Fehl.

  Despite the urgency humming within his chest and setting his taut nerves twanging, he signaled Colborn to call the halt shortly after sundown. Not a moment too soon, it seemed, for both men and horses. The Legionnaires groaned in relief as they dismounted, and the horses’ movements were stiff and slow as they cropped the scrubby sedge grass sprouting from the rocky hill land.

  Aravon stifled his frustration. Riding his soldiers and their mounts to death wouldn’t help anyone. Besides, he told himself, there’s no way the Rakki can catch up with us. Eirdkilrs could only run at eight or nine miles per hour, while the Kostarasar chargers could sustain ten miles per hour all day long. Aravon had pushed the pace as much as he dared, putting an even wider lead between him and their pursuers. Unless the Rakki could outrun their Eirdkilr fathers—and sustain the speed all day and night—they had little hope of catching up.

  Colborn took charge of directing the Legionnaires and Grim Reavers in setting up camp, while Aravon sat and drew out the map he’d gotten from Harlund.

  His gut tightened as he scanned the crude animal hide. Damn! He cursed inwardly. As he’d feared, the map offered little in the way of concrete information—it had been crudely sketched, doubtless by the blacksmith himself, with smudged dots and words marking the location of the few Eirdkilr towns and villages the man had learned about. Nothing that offered clear facts on distances, terrain, or the obstacles they’d face getting there.

  Yet the map did provide the one thing he needed: the location of Praellboer, the place where Harlund had said they’d find Tyr Farbjodr. According to the blacksmith’s sketches, Praellboer was roughly a hundred miles south and east of Snowpass. The map marked another city, Saetavirki, as both larger and nearer the mouth of the pass through the mountains, but Harlund had said the Eirdkilr commander would be found in Praellboer.

  He sought out the one person who might know something about the place. “Stonekeeper, a word?”

  Rangvaldr looked up from his task—helping Noll, Duvain, and Draturr haltering the horses for the night—and his eyes darkened at the sight of Aravon. His dour mood had persisted through the day, but Aravon hadn’t had a chance to talk with the man since the previous night. Doubtless the Seiomenn worried about more prying questions, and it appeared he had little desire to speak about whatever weighed on his mind. Yet he hesitated only a moment before nodding and striding toward Aravon.

  “Captain?” His voice was quiet, heavy with whatever burdened his heart.

  Aravon pushed aside his worries for the man—for the moment, at least. Information first, then he could delve into the matter of Rangvaldr’s concerns after. “Before Harlund died, he told me where we’d find Tyr Farbjodr.” He held up the animal hide map and tapped his finger on the crude runes and the dark square depicting the location. “At a place called Praellboer.”

  Rangvaldr stared at the map for long seconds, then looked at Aravon. “I see.” Bewilderment echoed in his tone.

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Do you know anything about it?” he asked. “Any reason why the commander of the Eirdkilrs would be a hundred miles away from Snowpass on the day he prepares to unleash an offensive against the Princelands?”

  Logistically, that made no sense. Princelander Generals commanded from far behind the battle lines, but Eirdkilrs led from the front rank. All the better to bathe in the blood of their enemies, to hear the screams of pain and fear, to watch strong men crumble before them. If Tyr Farbjodr was half as savage and barbaric as the rumors made him out to be, he’d march through Snowpass at the head of whatever forces he’d marshaled.

  Rangvaldr shook his head. “Sorry, Captain. The name means nothing to me.” He shrugged. “The Wastelands are as much a mystery to my people as to yours.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. He’d hoped the Seiomenn would have something, anything, he could use to get a better idea what they’d face south of the Sawtooth Mountains. Even the slightest bit of intelligence could facilitate their attempt to kill Tyr Farbjodr.

  Before he could press, however, Rangvaldr spoke. “If that’s all, Captain, I’ll get back to work.” He made a show of glancing at the sky. “Darkness will be upon us soon.”

  Aravon opened his mouth to speak—he wanted to use the opportunity to draw Rangvaldr out and uncover the reason for his dark mood—but held himself back. The Seiomenn wasn’t ready to talk yet. He’d try again later.

  “Go.” Aravon waved him away.

  With a curt nod, the Seiomenn strode away.

  Aravon watched him go, and worry hummed deep within him. Something about Rangvaldr was off. It had been ever since they’d left Camp Marshal. Perhaps even earlier, though he couldn’t place what had been the cause of the Seiomenn’s ill-humor.

  His eyes narrowed in thought. His age, maybe?

  Back on the road from Saerheim, after healing the Legionnaires injured in the fighting, the Seiomenn had spoken of feeling the weariness of his advanced years creeping up on him. He could simply be exhausted from an endless cycle of fighting, healing, traveling, and fighting again. The fatigue could certainly be the cause of his mood.

  But that’s not all there is, is it?

  He’d seen Rangvaldr exhausted before—the man had nearly killed himself healing the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve—but this was something different. Something beyond bone-deep weariness. A profound weariness of his soul.

  Aravon rubbed the tension knots at the back of his neck. The question is, what’s causing it?

  All through their quiet evening, he cast glances at Rangvaldr, and every time found the man lost in his own thoughts, buried in his heavy furs. The presence of Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires meant he couldn’t speak to the Seiomenn directly—they didn’t yet have that bond of trust the Grim Reavers had developed. He’d have to wait until Rangvaldr stood watch, then seize the chance to speak to the man alone.

  Without a fire to drive back the night’s chill or provide light, he, too, could do little more than huddle in his furs for warmth. An icy wind rolled down off the Sawtooth Mountains, dry and biting, seeping through any gap in their cloaks, tunics, armor, and pelts, driving a thousand needles of frost into his skin. He’d been prepared for cold—Keeper knew the winds rolling off the Frozen Sea could turn vicious and biting—but this unshakeable, unavoidable chill was far worse than he’d expected.

  The temperature plummeted with every hour. More than once, Aravon considered giving the order to start a fire. They’d ridden hard all day, pushing the horses to their limits to outrun the Rakki. There was no way their enemies would catch up. At their current altitude, high in the foothills overlooking the forests and plains of southern Fehl, the light of their fire would be visible
for miles in every direction. Even sheltered behind a cliff, the glow reflecting off the rocks could draw the Rakki’s attention. They couldn’t risk it, not so close to their destination.

  And so he burrowed deeper into his furs, trusting the heavy brown bear pelts and the warmth of Snarl’s body to keep him warm. All around him, his soldiers did likewise. Duvain and Endyn shared their two furs, as did Tassus and Annur. The Legionnaires not on duty huddled together for warmth. Skathi had set her bedroll and furs down close enough to Belthar’s massive back that he shielded her from the wind. Noll huddled next to his horse, relying on the beast’s warmth to keep out the chill. Even Colborn and Rangvaldr seemed unable to avoid an occasional bout of shivers as they huddled for warmth within their heavy furs.

  Inexorably, the heat within his furs seemed to wrap around Aravon like a soothing cocoon. The steady rhythm of Snarl’s breathing against his chest relaxed him, wiped all worries and concerns from his mind, and dragged him into the depths of his exhaustion. Sleep came over him, but it proved far from restful. His night was consumed with dreams of running, racing for his life, fleeing black-faced hounds that snapped at his heels and bayed for his blood with howling cries that sounded terribly akin to the war calls of the Eirdkilrs.

  * * *

  Aravon awoke to darkness and chill. The tips of his ears and nose felt numb, and even the helmet protecting his head had gone cold to the touch. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a world lit by stars and the last fading beams of the setting moon. He almost groaned—it seemed he’d just fallen asleep seconds ago, yet he knew dawn would touch the eastern horizon within the hour. Too many nights of insufficient sleep on the road were taking their toll on his mind and body.

  The rest of his company seemed to feel the same. They rose from their furs, shivering and grumbling at the chill or simply too tired to moan. Bleary-eyed and silent, they went through the motions of packing up their little camp and preparing to ride out.

  Dawn filled the morning with light—a spectacular array of vivid reds, fiery oranges, and a soothing golden glow—but little warmth. Even as the sun climbed high into the sky, the day’s heat failed to fully push back the chill that hung over the foothills or calm the icy bite of the winds whistling down the steep slopes. Only the exertion of riding kept the shivering at bay, but Aravon felt the cold to the marrow of his bones. Dread filled him at the sight of the mists that clung to the top of the Sawtooth Mountains—how frigid would it get up high with no sun to warm the rocky peaks?

  Captain Lingram rode in the lead with Colborn and Noll, leading the way up the broad dirt road that had once been the Eastmarch. Gone were the deep ruts left by wagons and heavy soldiers’ boots, replaced by deep divots in the earth left by rainwater slithering down the mountainside. Stones had crumbled from the overhanging cliff walls and now littered their path, forcing the Grim Reavers to slow their pace. Without Legionnaires to maintain it, the remnants of the highway had gone as wild as the mountainous terrain through which it ascended.

  Aravon’s eyes followed the winding road up, up, up the steep slope. Though the surrounding peaks rose up to ten or fifteen thousand feet above the foothills, Cliffpass cut through the mountains at an elevation barely sixty-five hundred feet above sea level. Together with Snowpass to the west, it had served as the only avenues to safely cross the mountain range without scaling the jagged peaks.

  Until Ninth Company had brought down the pass walls and sealed it off. A mile or two farther up the mountain, the dirt road ended abruptly at a mound of rocks so high it rivaled the hundred-foot cliffs bordering the highway. According to the bardic tales and songs of that battle—"The Last March of the Ninth Company”—the collapse had brought down an entire mountain peak, burying ten miles of the road beneath enough rubble to close the pass forever.

  Now, seeing it in person, Aravon could believe those tales. A full Legion Battalion could spend a lifetime working at the stone sealing the Cliffpass and still never clear it. No one would ever ride through the mountain pass again—even attempting to scale it on foot would prove nearly impossible.

  But they had no intention of trying for Cliffpass itself. According to Captain Lingram, there was another way.

  Sure enough, a mile up the trail, long before they reached the blocked-off pass, Captain Lingram turned them off the broad dirt road and down a narrow footpath that cut through a gap in two grey stone cliff faces. Aravon couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could read the hunch in Lingram’s shoulders, the tension in his spine. Being here once more, back where he’d nearly died fifteen years earlier, was clearly dredging up memories he’d rather remain buried.

  The path was winding and steep, cutting a perpendicular path heading slightly east and sharply north. It grew so narrow at one point they were forced to dismount and lead their horses across in single file. With steep canyon walls on one side and a sheer drop-off on the other, it proved treacherous and slow going.

  They made the crossing with little incident—save for a gut-wrenching moment when Endyn wobbled unsteadily on one particularly precarious section of the trail—but the ordeal left them nervous, tense, and, in a few cases, shaken. When they reached a small circular hollow nestled in a bowl between three rising cliffs, Aravon called a halt for rest.

  Captain Lingram and Rangvaldr remained cloaked in their gloom and worry, and the rest of the soldiers seemed equally disinclined to talk. The sight of the Cliffpass had reminded them all of the price the Legion had paid to stop the Eirdkilrs from capturing the eastern pass through the Sawtooth Mountains. Every man of Ninth Company had died in that battle—only Lingram, little more than a boy at the time, had survived.

  The only sound in their small camp came from Duvain and Zaharis. The Secret Keeper had removed a collection of pouches, bundled grasses, and vials from his wooden chest, and now he and Duvain worked to mix up something Zaharis called “flameweed”. The slim Legionnaire followed the instructions Zaharis relayed through Noll, though the little scout was clearly displeased at the situation.

  “Bloody Secret Keeper!” The scout’s fingers flashed. “You wouldn’t let me even touch those Earthshakers, but you’re lifting your skirts and sharing all your alchemical secrets with him?” His gaze darted to Duvain, who sat hunched over a pile of assorted roots, dried flowers, and herbs wrapped in cloth.

  “I’d rather lift my skirts for the entire Eirdkilr horde than let you touch an Earthshaker!” Steel shone in Zaharis’ eyes. “But if you must know, you sulky fool, I’d rather risk his fingers than yours. You’re not good at much, but when it comes to shooting, I’d take you over him.” He gave a wry shake of his head. “But it’s a close thing.”

  “Aww.” Noll had to be grinning beneath his mask. “You do love me, Zaharis.”

  “Despite your best efforts, you’ve grown on me,” Zaharis signed. “Not unlike a flaming crotchwart.”

  “Hah!” The guffaw burst from Noll’s throat. Then, as if realizing he’d just laughed aloud, the little scout ducked his head and returned to the silent hand language. “No take-backs!” He looked to Belthar and Skathi. “You both saw that he said he likes me!”

  Belthar and Skathi, who had looked up at Noll’s outburst, exchanged glances, shook their heads, and returned to their tasks. Belthar busied himself sharpening the metal heads of his axe, while Skathi checked and re-checked every one of the arrows in her quiver and the three bundles she carried strapped to her saddle. If they were to do battle, she’d be ready.

  “The way you move your hands, you’re talking to each other, yeah?” Endyn’s rumbling voice drew Aravon’s attention from his meager meal of dried beef and trail biscuits.

  “’Course they are, shite-for-brains!” Corporal Rold snorted. “Even a blind idiot woulda pieced that together by now.”

  Endyn ducked his huge head, and his mask failed to hide the chagrin in his eyes. Long seconds passed before he spoke. “Can…” He hesitated. “Will you teach us?”

  The question surprised Aravon. He’d gro
wn so accustomed to the silent Secret Keeper hand language—both for secrecy around others and communicating in silence with enemies nearby—that he hadn’t bothered to think how the others traveling with him might feel. But every time he and his Grim Reavers spoke to each other, it alienated the Legionnaires that had joined their company.

  “Of course.” Aravon glanced to his six Grim Reavers. “It’ll be useful if we can all speak to each other without a sound. Makes passing orders easier in enemy territory.”

  After only a moment’s hesitation, the Grim Reavers nodded—all but Rangvaldr, who remained too lost in his own mind to pay attention to the conversation.

  “As soon as we make camp tonight,” Colborn said from where he sat sharpening his longsword, “we’ll start teaching you the basics. Simple commands and orders to start. More once you get the hang of it.”

  Excitement sparkled in Endyn’s eyes, and a few of the other Legionnaires seemed equally interested in the prospect of learning the silent hand language.

  “You sure, Captain?” Colborn signed. His expression concealed the doubt evidenced by his words. “This sort of secret’s better off kept to as few as possible.”

  Aravon gave a little nod. “For what we’re going to face ahead, we’ll need every trick and advantage we can get.” When the time came for them to sneak up on their enemies or relay orders while remaining silent and out of sight, they’d find it very useful to be able to communicate with the Legionnaires.

  For an answer, Colborn inclined his head. Sheathing his sword and stowing his whetstone, he stood and called to the others, “Let’s move.”

  To their credit, only a few of the Legionnaires groaned at the prospect of resuming the ride, and those so quietly Aravon barely heard them. The soldiers might not have had the same training as the Grim Reavers, but they’d adapted to the rigors of their mission with admirable tenacity. Within minutes, they had stowed their gear, mounted up, and prepared to ride out.