However, one look at the ramp filled Aravon with doubt. Though the tunnel had no wind, sun, or water to erode the spiral ramp, the construction itself appeared fairly rickety and unsteady. Indeed, the planking groaned and seemed to sag beneath Noll’s weight as the scout walked a few feet up the incline.
“Suggestions?” he asked his companions. “Those ramps are barely wide enough for the horses, and I can’t be sure they’ll hold up under so much weight.” He welcomed the potential challenge; anything to distract Lingram and the Grim Reavers from the fresh pain of their losses.
“We go one at a time,” Zaharis signed. He pointed to the iron and cast steel beams that anchored the ramp to the stone wall of the shaft. “As long as we put two or three of those supports between each of us and our horses, we should survive the climb.”
It took the Grim Reavers less than five minutes to tie the horses together with four-yard lengths of rope—long enough to maintain ample space between the massive chargers, but short enough to keep the horses moving in a train.
By unspoken agreement, Noll led the way. The lightest among them, he would be the one to test the ramp’s structural integrity. Aravon shot up a silent prayer to the Swordsman; it would take all the scout’s agility to survive if the ramps collapsed.
The flameweed bundle in Noll’s hand cast a pitiful circle of illumination around the scout, dwindling as he ascended the ramp. By the time Noll circled the ramp twice, his light hovered to close to forty feet above the stone floor.
“How is it?” Aravon called up.
“Like strolling down the Eastmarch, Captain.” Noll’s breezy tone sounded forced. “View’s much better from up here, too. Just be careful for falling dangers, Belthar!”
A moment later a loud splat echoed an inch from the big Grim Reaver’s boot, causing him to jump. When he recognized the danger—a gob of Noll’s phlegm—he growled curses up at the scout. Noll’s ringing, mocking laughter echoed through the mine shaft, lifting the heavy gloom that hung over the Grim Reavers.
Skathi went next, leading her horse with two more chargers strung along behind. This was the true test—putting the full weight of the enormous mounts on the wooden ramps. The incline was steep and the platform just barely wide enough for the broad-chested horses to gain solid footing. More than once, the clatter of steel-shod hooves scrabbling on the rickety wooden surface echoed down the mine shaft. Snarl appeared on occasion, swooping through the circles of Skathi’s light—though, to Aravon’s relief, he never landed near the archer.
But, as the circle of Skathi’s flameweed torch grew more distant, Aravon breathed a silent sigh. This just might work.
He glanced at Captain Lingram. The Legionnaire’s gloom hadn’t diminished—if anything, the man appeared to have sunk into his own mind even further. Aravon wanted to ask about Lingram’s journey through the mines years earlier, but doubted the man would have much to offer at the moment. He could wait until later, until Captain Lingram emerged from beneath the cloud of misery, to dig deeper into what awaited them above and ahead.
One question needed answering, however. “How far up do we go? Anything in particular we need to watch out for?”
Captain Lingram’s grunted. “To the top,” was all he could muster.
Aravon gritted his teeth. This won’t do. He called the instruction to keep climbing up to Noll and Skathi, then signaled to the others to precede him and Lingram. He needed a few words alone with the Captain.
A quarter-hour later, the last man in line—Belthar—had gone ahead, leading a string of horses. Aravon waited until the big man had climbed out of earshot then rounded on his friend. “That’s enough, Lingram!” His voice, though quiet, cracked like a whip. “Time to snap out of this.”
The Legionnaire eyes widened a fraction, surprise pushing back the daze of pain that seemed to hang like a numbing fog over him. “I-I…” He swallowed, let out a long breath, and tried again. “I’m sorry, Aravon. I didn’t think it would affect me so much.”
“You’ve lost men before, Lingram.” Aravon fixed the man with a stern gaze. “We both have, so trust me I know what you’re feeling. But you can’t let that affect the mission like—”
“No.” A strange light shone in Lingram’s eyes. “It’s not that.”
Aravon’s eyes narrowed.
“Or, it’s not just that.” Captain Lingram let out a heavy sigh. “Duvain, Endyn, Rold, the others…” He shook his head. “On top of Saerheim and Icespire, the burden’s growing heavier and heavier.”
Aravon nodded. That much he understood. “Feels like it’s too heavy to bear.”
“Yes, but this—” Captain Lingram gestured to the mine shaft. “—being here again, it brings back all those memories.” His face darkened and he seemed to shudder from an icy breeze only he felt. “The memory of so much blood and death.”
His eyes glazed over and for a few moments, he drowned in the tempest of his own thoughts. When he finally emerged from the depths of his mind and spoke, his voice came out barely above a grim whisper. “It was terrifying, Aravon. Every Keeper-damned second of it.” He swallowed and clenched his jaw muscles. “From the moment they attacked Highcliff Motte until I emerged from this mine shaft, I spent every second a heartbeat from pissing myself in terror. That leaves a mark. Deep ones. Scars that never truly heal.”
Again, a little shiver ran down Lingram’s spine. “I still wake up screaming at night.” Shame darkened his eyes. “Screaming for my friends, my father, my brothers. The Legionnaires I’d lived with for months. My life was ripped to shreds in one heartbeat, but it didn’t end there. Instead, I spent days living in constant fear of my life. Then the last fifteen years trying to swallow that terror.”
He struggled to meet Aravon’s gaze. “You want to know the truth, Aravon?” Lines of tension pulled at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “That terror never goes away. It may fade, may leave you alone for a while, but it always comes back.” His expression grew distant once more. “Every time I stand in the shield wall and face an Eirdkilr charge. Every clash of steel on steel, every howling war cry and scream of pain. It all comes flooding back, and I’m right there again, that scared young man fighting for his life.”
That, too, Aravon understood. He’d suffered from those same haunting memories—memories of trauma, pain, misery, and the death of his comrades and friends—in the wake of his first skirmish over a decade earlier. Again after the ambush that slaughtered Sixth Company, and after the many more battles he’d fought since then. Some of those things—the shrieks of the enemy, the stench of blood and spilled guts, the bone-deep panic of being in a shield wall—never truly went away.
Lingram gave a bitter shake of his head. “But those scared young men didn’t run and hide like I did.” His gaze traveled down the tunnel, back the way they’d come. Back to the place where the Deadheads had fallen. “They didn’t flee battle and leave everyone to die. Instead, they faced death like true soldiers.”
Tears slid down his face. “I’ve spent years running and hiding from those memories. And now I’m right back here. Right back where I was, watching my friends and comrades die.” He stared at his hands, a forlorn look twisting his handsome features. “I feel as helpless now as I was then. Helpless to stop them from dying—from choosing to die while I have no choice but to live.”
And there it was, the truth echoing in the bitterness that edged Captain Lingram’s words. He felt guilty. Guilty that he’d lived—impossibly, against all odds—while his men had died.
But not just the eleven Legionnaires who’d joined him on this mission. He bore the burden of guilt for all those who had fallen at Icespire, at Saerheim, and in every other battle he’d fought. Every good officer held themselves responsible for the lives of their men, and they felt the loss of each soldier under their command keenly.
Lingram’s wounds cut far deeper than Aravon had ever imagined. The man bore scars that ran back fifteen years, to the day when the Eirdkilrs attacked Highcliff Motte.
The battle and ensuing fighting retreat had killed his father and brothers, the Legionnaires with whom he’d lived and trained, and the people he considered friends. His sense of home, safety, and comfort shattered in a single assault. Everything that had happened to him—every loss, every failure, every death—only added to his burden.
Yet if he continued down this path, he would find nothing but misery. The scars of his past would only stop him from moving forward. The burden would weigh on him until it dragged him to the depths of despair and oblivion.
Aravon couldn’t let that happen. He needed Lingram’s help to navigate the way through Cliffpass—without him, they’d never complete their mission and put down Tyr Farbjodr. But it was more than that. Lingram was his friend, his brother-at-arms. He owed the man his life and loyalty. It fell to him to do whatever he could to lighten the Captain’s burden—one he knew all too well. The Grim Reavers had helped him shoulder his load; it was his turn to give Captain Lingram the support Colborn, Rangvaldr, Skathi, and the others had given him.
But what could he say? Words fell short in the face of such pain. Lingram had lost far more than Aravon—he could only begin to understand the Legionnaire’s anguish, the scars that cut deep to the core of his being. Yet, given the challenge they faced, he had to try.
An image flashed through Aravon’s mind: Lingram stood before the canyon wall, gaze locked on something etched into the stone, just above chest-height. His fingers traced the crude letters that formed a name.
Aravon drew in a sharp breath. Koltun Blackhammer. The way Lingram had reacted, Koltun clearly had meant something to him.
“Koltun Blackhammer.” Aravon spoke the name aloud. “Tell me about him.”
Captain Lingram visibly recoiled, as if Aravon had struck him. He seemed to struggle with his words. Long seconds passed before he managed to speak.
“He was a Screaming Howler.” Lingram’s voice sounded tight, strangled. “One of their best. He loved to say he could put a crossbow bolt in an ant’s bunghole from three hundred yards out.”
Aravon chuckled at the colorful expression, and a hint of a smile tugged at Lingram’s lips. The shadows in his eyes retreated a fraction.
“It was him and his fellow Screaming Howlers that kept the Eirdkilrs from storming Highcliff Motte.” Captain Lingram’s brow furrowed at the distant memory. “He was the one who finally called for the retreat when the Legionnaires were about to crumble.” Now he lifted his eyes to Aravon. “He saved my life on the desperate flight through the Cliffpass. Twice.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like one hell of a soldier.”
“He was.” Captain Lingram nodded, and his smile grew even more. “Twice the Legionnaire, he loved to say, at half the size. It didn’t matter that he was barely four feet tall—he could shout louder than Belthar. Fight harder, too.”
“Damn!” Aravon mirrored the Legionnaire’s smile. “Sounds like the Grim Reavers could have used him.”
“And been better off for it,” Lingram replied quietly. “He was a good soldier, but we all thought he was a great man. Me more than most. He kept a snot-nosed teenager out of harm’s way even while trying to fight an impossible battle.” The shadows encroached on his expression once more. “I wouldn’t be here without him. He dragged me into these tunnels before Dayn, the Secret Keeper, brought the canyon walls down on top of the Eirdkilrs. Even bleeding to death, his arm hacked off by an Eirdkilr axe, he managed to haul me to safety while I was half-dead from fever and cold.”
Aravon didn’t need to ask what had happened to the man—Lingram had said he alone survived the battle. The name carved into stone had doubtless been the closest thing to an epitaph Lingram had managed while stumbling out of the mountains.
But the memories of this Koltun Blackhammer held sway in Lingram’s mind. Aravon could use that to help the Captain.
“If Koltun stood here now,” he said in a quiet voice, “what would he say?”
Lingram’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Everything you’re wrestling with,” Aravon continued, “that’s enough to drown a man in sorrow and misery. But I’d bet my left boot that Koltun would have had something to say on the matter.” He cocked his head. “So what would he tell you?”
Lingram’s brow furrowed and his expression grew pensive. For long seconds, he remained silent, deep in thought. “Probably something along the lines of—” His voice deepened to a harsh, rasping tone reminiscent of a Drill Sergeant. “—‘Either you drink a cup of suck it the fuck up, or I’ll shove my foot so far up your arse you’ll be spitting leather the rest of your life.’”
Aravon chuckled. “Wise words, indeed.” Not exactly the kind, gentle wisdom that Rangvaldr might have shared on his better days, but no less effective for their inelegance.
“Why do you think I kept Rold around?” A slow smile spread across Lingram’s face, driving the shadows from his eyes. “Every vulgarity out of his mouth reminded me of Kolt.”
Aravon rested a hand on Lingram’s shoulder. “I might not use such salty phrasing, but the sentiment stands.” He stared into the Legionnaire’s eyes. “Trust me when I say I know what you’re feeling. I’ve been where you are—fiery hell, far more than I’d like. After the ambush on the Eastmarch, the death of one of my Grim Reavers—”
Captain Lingram’s eyes rose in surprise at that. No one outside of Duke Dyrund and Lord Eidan—perhaps Prince Toran, too—had known of Draian’s death.
“—then the Duke’s death and that of my father,” Aravon continued, “I’ve felt that burden growing heavier and heavier. And I won’t bullshit you and say it gets any easier to bear. Especially when you bear it alone.” He glanced up the mine shaft, toward the tiny spots of light marking the Grim Reavers ascending the spiral ramp. “But sharing the load with good men and women is the best we can do to stop it from burying us alive.”
Captain Lingram’s brow furrowed. “You’re fortunate in that,” he said quietly. “I always had Awr—Corporal Awr—to lean on. But after Saerheim…” He drew in a long, deep breath. “I had to be strong for those few that survived the battle. I couldn’t let them see me hurting, because they were bad off enough as it was.”
“You don’t need to do that with us.” Aravon squeezed the man’s shoulder once. “Never with me. And the others get it. They’ve seen me at my worst, and each of them has had their moments. But together, we stand strong.” He clapped the man on the arm. “And you’re one of us now. For better or worse.”
“What an honor.” Lingram snorted. “I get to be a Grim Reaver just long enough to march off to my death.”
“And you’d better be damned thankful for it!” Aravon gave him a mock scowl. “We’ve got far better-suited candidates lining up for miles to join us.”
“I’ll just head home and let some of them go with you, then, shall I?” A wry smile brightened Lingram’s face, and Aravon found himself laughing with the Legionnaire. Though the shadows and anguish didn’t fully leave the man’s eyes, he stood straighter, his shoulders no longer so heavily-weighted beneath the burden he carried.
“Thank you.” Lingram inclined his head. “For understanding.”
Aravon gave a dismissive wave. “All part of the Captain’s job. Now, if there’s nothing else, what say we get on with our task of getting the bloody hell out of these tunnels?” He glanced up at the mine shaft. Noll’s light had grown so small it appeared like a pinprick amidst the pitch blackness of the underground tunnel. “We’ve got a long climb ahead, and Keeper knows we could all use a rest.”
At Aravon’s insistence, Lingram went first, leading his horse and the three that carried the four Legionnaire corpses. As Aravon waited for his turn to climb, he considered what to do with the cloak-wrapped bodies. They had no time for a proper burial but had to keep moving south, keep pushing their pace as much as they dared. Even if the ground had been soft enough to dig a grave, they couldn’t spare the effort.
We’ll have to find a suitable place for them,
he decided. At the very least, somewhere to leave the cloak-wrapped bodies out of the way for later retrieval.
He glanced back one last time before leading his train of horses up the ramp. No chance we’re getting home the same way we got here. The passage behind them was sealed forever—they’d have to find another route home.
But that was a concern for the future. Once they had finished their mission and killed Tyr Farbjodr. If they survived, they could worry about mundane things like getting across the Sawtooth Mountains.
Aravon climbed at a slow and steady pace, careful to place his feet deliberately. The metal support beams holding up the spiral ramp seemed sturdy enough, but the wood creaked, sagged, and groaned beneath his weight and that of the three horses in his wake. His heart leapt to his throat again and again, his nerves growing ragged and strained with the stress. The exhaustion of the ascent only made things worse.
The wooden ramp rose at a steep incline, and it seemed to climb into the darkness forever. Worse, because he traveled around the circumference of the fifty-foot-wide shaft rather than climbing straight up, the distance of their trek multiplied. Even after the better part of what he guessed was an hour—he had no way to mark the passage of time in the lightless tunnels, save for counting the hammering beats of his heart—Noll still hadn’t yet reached the top.
Keeper take this damned climb! Aravon gritted his teeth and bit back a growl of mingled frustration and exhaustion. Sweat streamed down his face, mingled with the coating of dust and dried blood, stinging his eyes. His undertunic was sodden and clung to his back and chest. Every step sent new lines of fire racing down his legs and lower back, and his hand ached from gripping his horse’s guide rope. Even at a slow pace, he couldn’t stave off the fatigue that set his lungs burning.
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