No! The icy fingers dug deeper, fear trying to claw its way free of his chest. He had survived the cave-in, so his Grim Reavers had to as well.
“Call…” He groaned as the world swam before his eyes—he’d fallen face-first, taken a hard hit to his forehead. Once the dizziness stopped, he tried again. “Call…out!” he managed to gasp.
“Here!” Belthar’s voice rumbled from the darkness.
“Captain?” Skathi called out from up the tunnel. “You good?”
“Just fine,” Aravon tried to move, found the weight of the stone atop his back shifted as he twisted to one side. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, he managed to wriggle out from beneath.
“Rangvaldr? Noll? Zaharis? Lingram?” The words came easier, though he had to spit another mouthful of gritty stone dust.
“We’re here!” Noll called out.
“Just got knocked off-balance by the earthquake,” Rangvaldr added.
A moment later, a glimmer of light shone up the tunnel. Zaharis’ alchemical lamp flared bright, shining n the Secret Keeper’s face—dusty and stained with the blood of battle, but uninjured otherwise.
“Aravon.” Captain Lingram’s hiss of pain echoed in the darkness. “My arm…” His voice sounded weak, strangled by pain.
“Get that light over here!” Aravon called.
Zaharis rose and, picking his way through the collapsed stone, hurried toward Aravon with his alchemical lamp held high. He paused only long enough to produce a firestriker and pass it to Colborn before continuing down the tunnel. A loud skkkritch echoed and a tongue of flame gleamed bright from the bundle of sparkweed Colborn lit.
As Zaharis approached, Aravon struggled to his feet, ignoring the pain in his face, and turned back to the passage. A wall of stone blocked their path—the tunnel had collapsed entirely behind them, cutting them off from the way back and sealing them in.
Two paces behind him, Captain Lingram lay beneath a mound of fallen stone. A few smaller stones had collapsed atop his legs and blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. But it was the boulder resting atop his left arm that concerned Aravon. Twice the size of the man himself and doubtless thrice the weight, it had fallen squarely onto Lingram’s shield arm.
“Shite!” Growling a curse, Aravon stumbled over to Lingram. He seized the stone and tried in vain to pry it off the Captain’s arm. He could barely shift it, but the slightest movement elicited a cry of pain from the trapped Lingram.
Damn it! Aravon spun toward his comrades. “Belthar! Give me a hand here.”
The big Grim Reaver was already heading in his direction, a few steps behind Zaharis.
“Easy,” Aravon said, kneeling by Captain Lingram’s head and gripping his uninjured shoulder. “We’ll have you out of there in no time.”
Turning, he found the rest of the Grim Reavers had joined him. “Get the rest of the rubble off him,” he ordered. “Colborn, Rangvaldr, give Belthar a hand.”
Noll and Skathi set about clearing the stones from atop Lingram’s legs while Belthar studied the huge stone by the light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern. After a few seconds, he nodded and stooped to grip the rock. His massive fingers dug into two cracks and he braced his legs against the ground.
“Get ready,” he rumbled to Aravon. Then to Colborn and Rangvaldr, “Once I lift it, help me keep it up long enough for the Captain to drag him clear.”
The two burly Fehlans nodded and bent to place their shoulders to the stone. Drawing in a deep breath, Belthar threw his back and body into the effort. The muscles of his huge shoulders and arms knotted, pulled tight like lengths of braided rope, and blood rushed through his limbs as he strained. His massive jaw clenched with the effort and a low growl rolled from deep within his chest.
Slowly, the stone shifted. Moved slightly, lifted upward. Belthar’s growl rose in volume and intensity, his enormous muscles straining with the effort. One inch, two inches, three.
“A little more!” Aravon called.
Colborn and Rangvaldr threw themselves into the effort, and together, the three of them raised the stone higher, higher, higher until—
Yes! Aravon dragged Captain Lingram out from beneath the huge stone, pulling him until he was certain the soldier’s arm was clear. He’d barely gotten the man away before the boulder crashed back down. Stone shards and chips of dark grey rock sprayed from beneath the falling stone. Belthar, Colborn, and Rangvaldr gasped and staggered backward, sagging with momentary exhaustion.
In the light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern, Aravon finally got a good look at Captain Lingram’s arm. Keeper’s teeth! The stone had shattered the bone and torn through flesh and muscle. It was only by the Swordsman’s grace it hadn’t also sliced the huge artery.
Lingram’s face was pale and drenched with sweat, his jaw clenched tight. “Set…the damned thing!” he gasped.
Aravon glanced up at Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn was still gasping for air, recovering from the exertion. He wouldn’t have the strength to set the bone—or heal Lingram—for a few minutes. Aravon had no choice; he had to do it himself. His gut clenched. He’d done it enough times in the field to know how agonizing it would be, but they needed to set and splint the arm until Rangvaldr had recovered enough to call on his magic. They couldn’t risk the sharp edges of bone cutting the artery in the meantime.
He met the Captain’s gaze. “This is going to hurt.”
Lingram clenched his jaw, braced his back against the stone floor, and nodded. “Do it,” he growled through gritted teeth.
Gripping the limb, Aravon pulled. The Captain’s agonized screams curdled Aravon’s blood and twisted the dagger in his gut, but he refused to stop. It seemed an endless eternity before the two ends of snapped bone finally settled into place and Aravon could finally release Captain Lingram’s arm. The Legionnaire lay weeping from the anguish, broken arm curled against his chest.
He lifted his gaze to Rangvaldr. In the two minutes it had taken Aravon to set the limb, the Seiomenn had recovered from his effort, yet curiously had made no move to come over and help. His hands remained at his sides, the holy stone still tucked beneath his armor, and he’d made no offer of healing.
“Stonekeeper.” Aravon’s tone held an edge of steel, commanding and insistent. “Can you do something for him?”
To Aravon’s surprise, Rangvaldr hesitated a long second before he moved toward the Legionnaire. Drawing out the pendant, he spoke the arcane words of power that brought it to life. The sound seemed to send a shiver through the tunnels, and the tunnel around them reflected the light of the blue-glowing holy stone with an unnatural brilliance.
Rangvaldr pressed the gleaming gemstone to Captain Lingram’s arm and held it there for two seconds. When he rose, his shoulders seemed stooped, weighted beneath a burden far greater than simple exhaustion. He moved away up the tunnel without a word.
Confusion hummed within Aravon. What is going on with him? He couldn’t understand the Seiomenn’s strange behavior, the odd reluctance and doubt that hung like a storm cloud over his head.
He had no time to voice his worries. The rock above them gave an ominous rumble and a loud crack. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and a chunk of stone broke off from the wall. Aravon was on his feet in an instant—no way he’d wait here and risk being buried in another cave-in.
“Can you move?” he asked Lingram.
The Legionnaire glanced at the shards of rock falling from the room and gave a hasty nod. Colborn and Belthar helped him to stand, and after a few shaky steps, he managed to find his legs. A hiss of pain escaped his lips as he tested the arm, but he gritted his teeth and said, “I’m fine.”
Aravon’s eyes narrowed. Captain Lingram held the injured limb cradled to his chest—had Rangvaldr not healed it? Perhaps the Seiomenn was simply trying to conserve his strength in case someone else was injured. But that didn’t seem like Rangvaldr. The realization only served to cement the wrongness of whatever inner turmoil gripped the Seiomenn.
&n
bsp; Another growling rumble from the stone tunnel drove the thought from Aravon’s mind. First we get safe, then I’ll figure out what the hell is going on with him.
The other Grim Reavers seemed to reach the same conclusion. They collected their weapons in a hurry—Noll retrieved Captain Lingram’s sword, though his shield lay shattered and buried beneath the rubble—and raced off up the tunnel as fast as they could.
Aravon kept a close eye on Lingram as they moved. The Captain did his best to keep pace, but the lines of pain etched into his face grew deeper with every step. Finally, when Zaharis deemed it safe enough to slow down, visible relief shone in Lingram’s eyes.
A loud, eager yipping greeted them from up the passage. Snarl appeared in the meager circle of illumination streaming from Zaharis’ alchemical lantern, darting through the Grim Reavers to leap with a joyous bark into Skathi’s arms. The archer barely had time to defend herself from that wet, rough tongue before Snarl was leaping down and racing toward Aravon.
“Easy, b—” Aravon’s words cut off in a groan as the Enfield leapt up, wings flapping, and crashed into his chest. The same spot where the rock had struck him minutes earlier. He’d managed to plant his legs and thus survived the impact, catching up Snarl’s body in his arms. The Enfield licked at his dust-and-blood-coated face, his nose wet and cold.
“All right, all right! It’s good to see you, too.” Aravon couldn’t help chuckling as he pulled the too-exuberant Enfield off his armor and set him down. He was glad to be reunited with Snarl—glad he’d survived for the reunion—but if they were to have any hope of reaching Tyr Farbjodr in time, they had to keep moving.
The Deadheads had sacrificed their lives to buy the Grim Reavers a chance at success. He’d make damned sure it wasn’t in vain.
That same thought seemed to linger in the minds and hearts of his companions. The eight of them collected the horses—eighteen fine Kostarasar chargers, still loaded with the packs, furs, and gear of the fallen Legionnaires, four bearing cloak-wrapped corpses—and set off down the tunnel in silence.
Aravon took the lead with Lingram at his side. Zaharis produced a bundle of slow-burning flameweed and handed it to the Legionnaire to carry in his uninjured hand. Lingram’s horse was strung into place behind Aravon’s, and the rest of the mounts distributed among the Grim Reavers. With so many additional mounts, they had furs, food, and gear enough for twice their number—a fact that visibly weighed on every one of them. None spoke as they followed Lingram through the darkened passage.
The single tunnel ran straight—Aravon guessed due northeast—for the better part of a mile before they reached the first intersection. Three tunnels branched out ahead, though where they went, Aravon had no idea.
Captain Lingram strode toward the first tunnel and held the burning flameweed up to the wall. After a moment, he moved on to the next. “Here.” With the orange-glowing fire, he indicated a small symbol etched into the stone. “Any intersection we find, we look for this mark. That’ll lead us where we need to go.”
Aravon’s eyes went wide at the sight of the mark: two four-sided stars overlapping each other, creating an eight-pointed symbol. It bore a strong resemblance to the carbuncle that had once been the insignia of House Eidan—the house to which the treacherous Lord Ardenas Eidan had belonged before his untimely death.
Zaharis moved closer to study the symbol, then recoiled as if from a striking serpent. “You know what this means?” he demanded of the Captain.
The reaction caught Lingram by surprise. “No,” he answered after Aravon translated Zaharis’ words. “I just know it’s the symbols that led us through the mountains.”
By now, the rest of the Grim Reavers had left their horses to join them at the intersection. Even Snarl appeared interested by the gathering of his two-legged companions.
The Secret Keeper’s dust-and-blood-stained face grew grave. “That symbol is Secret Keeper script.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
Zaharis nodded. “It is the symbol used for the mineral salamandrite, a stone given its name for the ancient fire-breathing salamanders of myth.” His gaze darted up the tunnel and back. “The same stone ground into powder and used to fill Earthshakers.”
Aravon’s mind raced. Those iron orbs packed an enormous explosive punch—how could that much devastation come from something as simple as stone?
“The Screaming Howlers had a Secret Keeper with them at Highcliff Motte,” Captain Lingram offered. “It was he who knew the route through these tunnels.”
Screaming Howlers? Aravon had never heard the name before; no stories of the assault on the Legion-held stronghold or the ballads of The Last March of the Ninth Company had mentioned any unit, mercenary or Legionnaire, with that designation.
Zaharis’ face went bone-white. “Tell me,” he asked Lingram through Aravon, “was this Secret Keeper named Dayn?”
Captain Lingram’s jaw dropped. “You knew him?”
“Yes.” A shadow darkened Zaharis’ eyes. “He was the Arch-Guardian who mentored me during my youth in Voramis. He crossed the sea nearly thirty years ago and studied among the Mistress’ priests in Icespire, Wolfden Castle, and Hightower. Until the day he disappeared.” His expression drooped to a somber frown. “He was never seen again, but somehow his writings appeared at the Temple of Whispers, though who bore them, no one ever told me.”
As Aravon translated Zaharis’ words, the surprise in Lingram’s face deepened—as did the pain etched clearly into his features. After the Secret Keeper’s hands fell still, long seconds passed before Lingram spoke. “I was the one who carried them,” he finally said, his voice quiet.
Zaharis appeared stunned. “You?” Surprise, curiosity, and interest flickered across his face in the space of a heartbeat. “Of course!” He stepped forward and gripped Lingram’s uninjured arm. “Then I and all my fellow Secret Keepers owe you our thanks. Arch-Guardian Dayn’s research has led to many marvelous discoveries, including that of the Earthshakers.”
“No.” Lingram shook his head. His eyes went dark, as if at a fresh and painful memory. “I owe Dayn a debt I can never repay. All of Fehl and the Princelands owe him our lives.”
A cryptic and loaded statement, to be sure, but Aravon chalked it up to one more instance of the grief Captain Lingram bore after losing everyone he’d known in Highcliff Motte and on the march across Cliffpass. More interesting at the moment was the fact that Lingram’s actions—delivering Arch-Guardian Dayn’s notes to the Temple of Whispers—had just saved his life. Saved all their lives. Just one more of life’s many coincidences that never truly turned out to be coincidental. Proof of the Swordsman’s guiding hand in everything they did and experienced.
That thought gave Aravon a measure of hope, easing the burden on his shoulders as he continued the trek through the tunnels. If the Swordsman truly did have control over their lives, it would mean his god had a plan for him. The Deadheads hadn’t died for nothing—the Swordsman would see to it that their bravery and sacrifice paid off.
In that moment, that was all he could cling to. It had to be enough, for all their sakes.
Chapter Thirty
A dour solemnity hung heavy over the Grim Reavers as they moved through the near-darkness of the mine tunnels. None of them had spoken in hours, leaving only the sound of the horses’ hoofbeats and Snarl’s talons clacking on stone to break the tense silence. Even Captain Lingram hadn’t spoken again at the various intersections they’d passed through, simply marched down the passage marked with the strange eight-sided star.
Aravon allowed them the silence—like him, they had just lost the Deadheads, the Legionnaires beside whom they’d marched, slept, ate, trained, and fought for the better part of three weeks. It didn’t matter that the young men had volunteered to remain behind—it made their sacrifices no easier to bear.
Even Snarl seemed subdued. He padded alongside Aravon without so much as a yip or bark. His amber eyes gleamed in the flickering light of t
he flameweed torches held by Captain Lingram, Skathi, and Noll in the rear, yet remained as shadowed and downcast as the rest of them.
Aravon knew Captain Lingram well enough to recognize the man’s anguish. Not just the pain of his injured shield arm, though the not-yet-healed bone doubtless compounded his misery. In the silent hours since they passed that first intersection, the Captain’s shoulders had drooped steadily lower, his back rounding and hunching forward as if beneath a great weight. He seemed to shuffle along in a daze, and though he responded to Aravon’s infrequent questions, he appeared ready to retreat into a dark place within himself—the same place he’d gone in Icespire at The Shattered Shield.
Much as Aravon wanted to give the Captain his chance to grieve, they couldn’t afford it. They needed Lingram paying attention to their route—a route he alone had trod before, one that led through the dark underground far beneath the Sawtooth Mountains.
I’ll have to talk to him when we call a halt, he decided. They had been traveling steadily for at least four or five hours—after a day of travel and battle, even the stalwart Colborn would soon grow weary enough to welcome a rest. Another hour, maybe two, then we rest.
Even as the thought formed in his mind, they reached the end of the low-ceilinged passage. The tunnel opened onto a circular mine shaft fifty feet wide and disappearing into the darkness high above their heads, far beyond the meager radius of illumination of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern or the flameweed torches.
Snarl gave a delighted yap and leapt into the air, ascending fast and disappearing from sight. The flapping of his wings soon grew quiet as he rose higher and higher—far too high for Aravon to follow him.
Thankfully, the earth-bound Grim Reavers had a way up as well. A spiral ramp of wood and metal clung to the walls, offering them a way to not only ascend the vertical shaft, but to bring their mounts and gear as well. Relief flooded Aravon. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that they’d have to leave the horses behind; he simply hadn’t enough knowledge of Princelander and Fehlan mining techniques to anticipate such an eventuality. Thanks to the ramp, he wouldn’t be forced to abandon the mounts—abandon them to cold, slow starvation within the barren tunnels. With all the gear and supplies strapped to the Deadheads’ saddles, their chances of surviving the icy Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountain just increased.
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