Growling a silent curse, Aravon leaned into the pain and exhaustion and forced himself to keep climbing, keep putting one leaden foot in front of the other. The sooner we reach the top, the sooner we get the bloody hell out of these tunnels!
He couldn’t know that for certain. He knew nothing of the underground network of mine shafts and flat passages; Lingram had been too lost in his grief at losing the Deadheads and the painful memories of his past to offer anything helpful. But first thing after a night of rest, he’d find out everything the Captain knew about their trek through the darkness. They had little more than a week to find and put down Tyr Farbjodr.
“Captain!” Noll’s shout echoed down the mine shaft. His voice was faint, but there was no mistaking the delight in his tone and the final words of his call. “…at the top!”
Hope surged within Aravon. About bloody time! He still had a long way to climb, but if Noll had finally reached the top, it meant the end of this Keeper-damned ascent was in sight.
Aravon bent every shred of his willpower into not hurrying his pace. Captain Lingram’s light was barely a level-and-a-half above him; the last thing they needed was to collapse the ramp beneath the weight of too many heavily-laden horses and men moving too close together. Not so close to the top and a chance at rest!
Slowly, as he continued the trek up the spiraling ramp, the lights of the Grim Reavers above him drew closer, growing larger and brighter. He could actually make out the individual features of Noll, Skathi, and Colborn at the top of the ramp, staring down into the darkness of the mine shaft with worry-filled eyes. Rangvaldr soon reached the others, then Zaharis, and finally Belthar. Every time one of the Grim Reavers joined their comrades on solid ground, the anxiety in Aravon’s stomach lessened a fraction.
“Any day now, Captain!” Noll called down to him.
Aravon opened his mouth to growl a snappy retort—he was just four levels below the mouth of the tunnel where Noll waited—when the ramp beneath him gave a loud, creaking groan.
Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. Before he could move, a terrible ping and crack echoed down the mine shaft. Wood snapped in a shower of splinters and the ramp plummeted from beneath Aravon’s feet.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aravon had a split second to act before he fell hundreds of feet to his death on the cold, hard stone at the base of the mine shaft.
Instinct shrieked at the back of his mind and he hurled himself forward, tossing the spear up the ramp even as his right hand reached for the edge of the crumbling wood. His leather-gloved fingers caught on the wooden platform, held, then slowly began to slip.
A loud, terrible scream echoed from beneath him. The horses! Aravon forced the fingers of his left hand to uncurl from his horse’s lead rope the instant before the weight of the falling mount snapped it tight and shattered his wrist. Swinging his free hand around, trying his best to ignore the shrieking cries of the plummeting animals, he scrabbled at the edge of the wooden ramp. Caught, his leather gloves buying him a moment of traction, then slipped. His fingertips slid off the edge of the ramp and he fell.
In desperation, Aravon stretched out his arm toward the nearest support beam. Barely managed to latch the fingers of his right hand around the metal girder. The momentum of his arrested fall sent his body swinging around beneath the support, nearly ripping his grip free of its precarious handhold. Aravon’s left hand reached for the beam, snagged the metal with his three longest fingers, and clung to the beam for dear life.
Panic welled within him as he dangled hundreds of feet above the empty air of the mine shaft. Even as he struggled for a better handhold, a series of wet, crunching thumps and the clatter of falling equipment echoed up toward him. The screams and cries of the horses fell suddenly silent.
Before Aravon could move, the beam beneath his hand shifted. Pulled slightly, moved with a groan of metal on stone. Horror thrummed within Aravon—the metal support was tugging free of its anchors holding it to the wall.
Shite, shite, shite! Fear and adrenaline fueled his muscles. He couldn’t see—he’d dropped his flameweed torch with the rope—so he scrabbled desperately at the metal beam, trying to haul himself back up to safety.
“Captain?!” Noll’s voice was tinged with panic.
“I-I’m fine!” A quaver echoed in Aravon’s voice. His pulse pounded so hard in his ears it felt his head would explode, and his fingers ached from clinging to the metal beam.
“Hang on, Aravon!” Captain Lingram called. “I’m coming!”
“No!” Aravon shouted back. “Don’t get any closer!” The crumbled section barely supported his weight; adding Lingram’s would just hasten the ramp’s collapse.
“What can we do to help?” Noll called down.
“Nothing!” Aravon gritted his teeth and adjusted to get a better grip on the beam. “I’ve got this.”
He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He dared not move too quickly for fear of ripping the support beam from the wall, but if he hung here too long, he’d run out of strength—or the bolts anchoring the ramp to the stone would slip free or crack altogether.
One thing at a time! he told himself.
The light of the flameweed brands burning high above gave him a dim view of the beam from which he hung. He prayed a silent blessing on the artisans that had built it—they’d used a simple right-angle truss, long enough for him to swing his legs up and wrap around the smaller metal beam supporting the ramp. From there, it was a simple matter to drag his torso and head upward.
He sat on the beam and let out a long, relieved sigh. His shifting hadn’t pulled the beam free of the stone wall. Yet.
Snarl appeared in the darkness beside him, flapping his wings to hover in the air a few feet from Aravon’s precarious perch. Worry shone in the Enfield’s amber eyes and he gave a nervous yap.
“Skathi, call him back!” Aravon shouted. “Can’t have him making this collapse any faster.”
A moment later, the shrill of a bone whistle sounded. With one last look at Aravon, the little Enfield shot upward to land on the stone beside the archer.
Aravon let out a breath. Let’s do this. Slowly, he moved out along the length of the metal truss, one eye locked firmly on the anchor holding the support in place. It shifted once as he reached the outer end, driving an icy spike of panic through his mind. It took all his self-control not to hurry—thrashing and scrambling about would only speed up the ramp’s collapse—but kept his movements slow, unhurried.
Until he came to the end of the truss and found himself stuck. The wooden side of the ramp ended just beyond his reach—no more than two or three inches, but at this height, that tiny distance could prove fatal.
He clung to the metal support beam and considered his next move. He couldn’t climb up the truncated wooden planks that had once connected to the section of ramp that now lay crumbled far beneath him. His only way up would be to risk leaping out, catching hold of the wooden ramp’s outer edge, and hauling himself up that way.
Yeah, it’s just that easy!
An image flashed through his mind: he leapt, missed, and went plummeting to a painful death in the darkness below.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside the grim thought. Fear wouldn’t get him out of this before the ramp collapsed.
As if on cue, the metal support beam shifted again, metal grinding on stone. Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat—he’d run out of time.
Before he could think twice, he tucked his legs beneath him and hurled himself toward the edge of the ramp. His body hung in empty air for a gut-wrenching second, and he imagined he could feel the weight of his armor dragging him toward the ground. Then his fingers caught on the lip of the ramp and he gripped it with every shred of strength. He held on for dear life as his body swung outward. His fingers slipped, slid, and caught on the tips. Even as the ramp groaned and shifted beneath him, Aravon hauled himself upward—muscles powered by desperation and fear.
He dragged his upper body
up onto the ramp and scrabbled with his hands, clawing at the planks for a handhold. The moment his knees and feet touched the ramp, he took off on all fours, like a wild animal sprinting up the ramp. A heartbeat later, the section of wooden planking behind him gave a loud groan and collapsed.
But Aravon was on solid—well, mostly solid—ramp. The wood beneath him held fast, no creaking or sagging. The metal support beams held his weight as he collapsed onto his back, heart hammering, his breath coming in great, ragged gasps.
“Captain?” came Skathi’s voice.
“I-I’m good!” Terror twisted at Aravon’s stomach. He’d never had a problem with heights, but lying here, his feet dangling over an abyss, set every nerve in his body jangling. “I made it.”
Long seconds passed before Aravon could rise. He scooped up his spear from where he’d thrown it—just beyond the collapsing sections of ramp–and struggled to his feet. His knees proved traitors, shaking as he stumbled up the incline toward the glowing lights of the Grim Reavers high above.
Seven anxious faces awaited him at the top of the ramp, but relief shone in the eyes of his Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram as he stepped gratefully onto solid ground. Snarl leapt toward him with an eager yipping bark—Aravon had to admit he was damned glad to see the Enfield, too.
“Keeper’s teeth, Captain!” Noll blew a long, low whistle. “You nearly gave old Stonekeeper here a heart attack!”
Rangvaldr ignored Noll’s gibe, shrugging off the scout’s clap on his back with no comment. “You good, Captain?” he asked, his eyes thick with shadows.
“I am.” Aravon grimaced and glanced down into the dark void of the mine shaft. “But I can’t say the same for my furs and supplies. Or the horses.” The only mercy was that their deaths had been quick and, hopefully, painless.
“We’ve got enough food and supplies,” Colborn said. Of the eleven horses that had once carried Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires, eight remained. “And just try not to lose your spear or sword, and you should be fine.” His attempt at a lighthearted joke was marred by the worry etched into every line of his face.
“Oh, is that all?” Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Good thing I had you to remind me of that, else who knows what idiotic stunt I’d dream up next.”
“That’s why I’m here to help, Captain.” A wry smile cracked the anxiety on Colborn’s face.
“Maybe we call that a sign from the Swordsman that it’s time to rest for the night, Captain?” Belthar rumbled.
Aravon contemplated giving them the order to move on. Keeper knows we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and nowhere near enough time to do it.
Yet one look at his soldiers, and he knew they all needed a break as much as he did. The exertions and battles of the day had taken a toll on their bodies, but it was the weight on their minds and hearts that sapped their strength most. They had all lost comrades—perhaps even friends—today.
“So be it.” Aravon nodded. “Six hours of rest, then we move on.”
“Time to consult the stars and see what time it is.” Noll gave a mocking laugh and glanced at the ceiling of the stone tunnel a foot above his head. “Looks like two hours past all gone to shite, Captain.”
Aravon scowled. “Sounds like someone’s volunteering for first watch.”
Noll groaned. “Swordsman’s beard, Captain, that’s just cruel!”
“Maybe.” Aravon shrugged. “Or maybe it’s what happens when you let your mouth run away from you.”
Scowling, Noll set about unloading his gear from the horses and unsaddling the mounts. Aravon, Belthar, Rangvaldr, Colborn, and Captain Lingram joined him—they had more horses than riders, and the beasts needed a rest after the long day of travel. Zaharis and Skathi set about preparing their evening meal—though cold trail biscuits, dried meat, and tepid water didn’t require much in the way of culinary mastery.
Dinner was a quiet affair. The eight of them sat in silence, eating the meager rations, and a solemn pall hung over their small camp. The single flameweed brand that illuminated their underground camp failed to drive back the shadows in the eyes of the soldiers around him. Aravon absentmindedly fed Snarl while racking his brain for something to say to lift his comrades’ spirits.
To his surprise, Colborn broke the dour stillness. “I’ve something to say.” He stood, his broad-featured face dark and his voice quiet. “I didn’t know them long, or well. But after what I witnessed in the last two days, I can truly say I was honored to spend what time with them I did.” He raised his leather waterskin. “To the Deadheads.”
“The Deadheads!” echoed all in their small camp—all but Rangvaldr, who sat hunched over his meal, a brooding on his features. He drank without a word or even lifting his eyes from the stone at his feet.
Aravon sought out Captain Lingram’s gaze, and gave him a small nod of encouragement. If anyone was going to say words for the fallen Legionnaires, it would be their Captain.
Lingram stood. He appeared less burdened and troubled than before they began the ascent—perhaps their conversation had helped to ease his inner turmoil somewhat. “Those men back there were considered the ‘dreck’ of the Legion. The outcasts, the arrow-fodder, and those too raw to join a proper Legion company.” His gaze roamed across the seven faces around him. “But in all the years I’ve been a Legionnaire, I’ve known few men their equal. None as big-hearted as Endyn—”
“Or as big, period!” Noll called back.
Captain Lingram inclined his head. “None as fierce as Corporal Rold—” He held up a finger. “—or as foul-mouthed.”
That elicited laughter from the Grim Reavers.
“None as caring as Duvain,” Captain Lingram continued. “As keen-eyed as Zadan, or as devoted as Tassus and Annur.” His voice softened. “Each of those men left a mark on each other, and on me. And now they’ve left a mark on the Princelands. Even if no one outside this small company ever knows what they did, it’s enough to know they did it.”
He raised his skin of watered wine. “To the Deadheads. Though their actions may never be recognized or their bravery rewarded, we recognize them in our memories.” A smile brightened his face. “And that’s a legacy as good as any of us could ask for.”
“To the Deadheads!” The Grim Reavers echoed. Again, Rangvaldr remained silent.
Captain Lingram lifted his eyes to the tunnel’s stone ceiling. “May you find peace at the Swordsman’s side, my friends.”
All of them drank, and the camp again fell silent. None of them had any more to say—Captain Lingram’s little speech had said everything important.
Noll rose first, brushing crumbs from his clothing, and strode up the tunnel a few yards. Setting a guard was largely a symbolic gesture, a nod to ritual and their need for standard operational security, but the Grim Reavers took their watch seriously, even on friendly territory. Enemies could come from anywhere at any time.
Aravon stood and followed Noll.
The scout turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Captain.” He nodded and settled into a comfortable guard stance, facing away from the camp and into the tunnel ahead.
“Noll.” Aravon stopped beside the man, leaned against the tunnel wall, and stared down the passage as well. The light of the flameweed burning behind Noll shone on empty stone, but Aravon hadn’t come with the intention of actually seeing anything important.
A long moment passed before he spoke. “What you did back there…volunteering to stay behind—”
“Surprised you, did it?” Noll gave a wry chuckle. “No more than it surprised me. Last thing I ever expected was to be the idiot foolish enough to volunteer for something like that.” He turned toward Aravon. “You’ve damned well ruined me, Captain.”
“Me?” The words took Aravon aback.
“All I ever wanted was to be a simple scout and soldier, but no, you had to insist on proving that we could be better. Tried to turn us into bloody heroes, so you have.” He shook his head. “Why’d we have to wind up following a ‘good’
man?”
Aravon laughed, and the tension drained from his shoulders. He clapped Noll on the back. “Don’t sell yourself short, Noll. There was always good in you. Sure, buried down deep.” His smile grew. “Way deep. Like the core of Einan deep.”
“Easy now, Captain.” Noll gave him a look of mock offense. “I’ve got feelings, you know? And not just the ones in my cave troll.” The gesture toward his crotch left no doubt as to his meaning.
“Like I said, way deep.” Aravon rolled his eyes, but his smile never wavered. “Yet it’s there. Every time you listen to it, it grows a bit bigger, a bit stronger. Until one day, it’s big and strong enough that it makes you do something you never thought yourself capable of.” He rested a hand on Noll’s shoulder. “That’s what makes a man truly noble, Noll. Titles and lands are just trappings, but it’s what’s inside us that counts. And as you proved today, you’re as honorable a man as any I’ve had the good fortune to meet.”
A flush of color rose to his cheeks. “Aww, Captain, you and that silver tongue of yours.” Despite his flippant tone, the words clearly had taken root in the scout’s mind.
“It’s true,” Aravon said. “And maybe, if I and the others can see it, your wife and children might be able to as well.”
That sobered Noll up in a heartbeat. His smile faded, replaced by deep furrows in his brow. “I…” He hesitated for a long second, then let out a long breath. “I thought of them, you know. The moment before I opened my mouth to volunteer. I thought of Finnia, of the boys, and little Tialla—probably not so little after all these years. But you know what I felt? Relief. Relief that I’d finally prove myself better than the man Finnia kicked out all those years ago. Even though I was gearing up to get dead, I actually felt happy at the thought that I was finally worthy of them.” His lips twisted into a sharp frown and he shook his head. “How damned stupid is that? I chose to let the world think I was dead because I believed my family would be better off without me. Now, I wanted to die to prove them wrong.”
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