Under the Secret Keeper’s direction, all of them had collected as much of the Rustle Thickgrass as they could carry, and Zaharis had spent his nights working his alchemical marvels to form tightly compacted cubes—a single pound of which could feed two horses for a day. The mounts had grazed on their journey south, and Zaharis had saved the specialized food for their journey across the icy Wastelands beyond the Sawtooth Mountains. They ought to have enough of the marvelous grass to sustain all their mounts for five full days.
Colborn’s next words answered his unformed question. “We did, but most of it was secured to Tark and Zadan’s mounts.”
Aravon grimaced. Those had been two of the horses secured to his lead train, fallen with his horse when the mine ramp collapsed.
Damn it! He stifled a frustrated growl—he should have known better, should have distributed the mounts better. That was the sort of mistake an inexperienced commander would have made.
Gritting his teeth, he asked, “How much do we have?”
“Two days’ worth. Maybe three.” Colborn’s ice-blue eyes darkened. “But nowhere near enough to get us all the way to Praellboer. And if the Wastelands are half as icy as I’ve heard, there’ll be nothing for the horses to eat once we get through the mountains.”
Aravon’s gut clenched. He had known what this trip could cost him and his Grim Reavers—they’d all resigned themselves to the prospect of death in their attempt to kill Tyr Farbjodr—but the horses deserved far better than plummeting to a rocky end, freezing, or the slow, cruel torment of starvation.
“What do you suggest?” Aravon asked.
Colborn’s brow furrowed. Long seconds passed in silence. He shook his head. “I don’t know. Never been this far south.”
Aravon’s mind raced. To his knowledge, none of his Grim Reavers had even seen the Sawtooth Mountains before. But he knew someone who had.
At his call, Captain Lingram left off packing his bags—a task made awkward with one arm still in a sling—and joined them. Aravon relayed the problem to the Legionnaire. “You know Cliffpass and you’ve seen the Wastelands south of the mountains. What can we do here?”
Captain Lingram’s expression grew pensive. “If we set a fast pace, we might be out of this mine by tonight, tomorrow at the latest. Cliffpass has scrub and shrubs, the sort found at such high elevation. Sparse, to be sure, but maybe enough for the mounts.” Uncertainty tinged his words.
“It’ll have to do,” Aravon said. There was no turning back now; the way behind had been sealed when the Deadheads brought down the bridge and the tunnel atop the Rakki.
“I’ll pass the word.” Colborn nodded. “Double-time until we reach the exit.” He turned and strode off to relay the instructions to the rest of the Grim Reavers, leaving Aravon and Captain Lingram alone.
Aravon turned to the Captain. The man appeared far less burdened than he had the previous day, but Aravon knew better than anyone that outward calm could easily conceal a raging maelstrom of inner turmoil.
“How are you?” he asked in a quiet voice.
Surprise and puzzlement flashed across Captain Lingram’s face, replaced by understanding a moment later. “No worse off than yesterday, so there’s that.” He gave a halfhearted shrug.
“Dreams you’d rather avoid?”
Captain Lingram’s expression froze, lines of tension forming around his eyes and mouth. “Was I that loud?”
Aravon shook his head. “Nothing Belthar’s snoring didn’t drown out. But I know that tossing and turning all too well.”
Lingram’s jaw muscles worked. “Coming this way again, after all these years…” He let out a low breath. “Last time, I was delirious with fever, too sick to see straight, and running from enemies both real and imagined.” His eyes went to the darkness of the tunnel just outside the radius of light streaming from the two burning flameweed bundles. “Memories like that are hard to shake.”
“They are.” Aravon gave him an encouraging smile. “But you’re still here rather than turning tail. That puts you head and shoulders above most men I’ve met, Blacksword.” He spoke the man’s name like a compliment, the accolade it was intended to be.
To Aravon’s surprise, Captain Lingram’s mouth twisted into a dark frown. “That name, Blacksword.” His hand dropped to the hilt of the blade at his side. “Every time I hear it, it’s a reminder that I failed my men.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Failed?”
“We shouldn’t have even been in Garrow’s Canyon.” Lingram’s frown deepened to a scowl. “But Commander Bannabus wanted to punish me for questioning his orders, so he sent me and Fourth Company to scout the gully, make sure it was clear. That’s when the Eirdkilrs hit us. Hard. Hard enough that we had no choice but to dig in and fight. If we’d tried to pull back, they’d have cut us all down. Had Fifth Company not arrived when they did, the Eirdkilrs would have won.” Shadows grew thick in his eyes. “My men died because of me. And I walked away—walked away and got the damned Sword of the Princelands pinned to my collar.”
Again, a glimmer of Captain Lingram’s true feelings—the guilt, anguish, and remorse that he’d tried to bury down deep—cracked the surface. One more weight to add to the immense burden that rested on his shoulders.
Aravon had wrestled with that strain his whole life. It had grown heavier since the ambush on the Eastmarch, but he bore it with the help of his fellow Grim Reavers. Lingram, too, deserved a friend to lighten the load on his soul.
“The way I heard it,” Aravon said, “had you not held the canyon, those four hundred Eirdkilrs would have hit Groennrjodr.” The tiny Jarnleikr settlement had been directly behind the Legionnaires’ position—indeed, it had been the allied Fehlans that had gone for help, summoning Fifth Company from Anvil Garrison in time to save Lingram’s last few soldiers. “A part of me can’t help wondering if the Swordsman put you there for a purpose.”
Lingram’s eyes widened a fraction.
“Duke Dyrund once told me something about my father.” Aravon’s throat tightened at the mention of the Duke and General Traighan—their deaths were still fresh enough in his mind to bring the sorrow and pain bubbling up in his chest. He swallowed and pushed on. “One night, a few weeks after the Battle of Stormcrow Pass, the battle that earned them both the Sword of the Princelands, they got to drinking.”
Dark memories flashed through Aravon’s mind. His father had always turned to the bottle to drown his misery; the deeper he went, the worse the anguish grew. And the more likely he was to lash out, to try and inflict that same anguish—physically and verbally—on those nearest him. His young son among them.
Again, Aravon resisted the images. This was about Lingram; his own turbulent past could wait until after they survived their mission.
“That night, my father climbed to the highest tower in Wolfden Castle and stood on the parapet. Looking down at the streets far below, drinking and screaming into the storm.” Aravon grimaced—he could well imagine the picture. “He wanted to throw his medal into the night and himself with it. The Duke said he repeated the same words over and over. ‘I didn’t kill enough. I didn’t save enough.’”
Lines of tension tightened around Lingram’s eyes and mouth. It seemed he, too, shared General Traighan’s sentiment. The losses—at Highcliff Motte and the flight through Cliffpass, at Garrow’s Canyon, Saerheim, Icespire, and now here—grew so heavy. He could never kill enough enemies to keep his men alive. No matter how hard he fought, the soldiers under his command died. That realization was enough to shatter even the strongest man. Aravon’s spirit had nearly broken under the strain—he couldn’t let that happen to Lingram.
He spoke in a quiet voice. “I’ve felt like that, too, you know. After the ambush that destroyed Sixth Company. Everyone else, all the men I’d sworn to protect as their Captain, all dead. And yet somehow I walked away. I got to live. Then on our first mission out, I lost Draian, one of our original members.”
Lingram’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “I…di
dn’t know.” He glanced at the Grim Reavers. “When we met on the road out of Saerheim, you all seemed so…invincible.”
A lump rose in Aravon’s throat. “Once, we might have thought we were. But Draian’s death changed all that. I blamed myself for his death.” He gave a grim shake of his head. “I thought it was my fault. He wasn’t ready for battle—wasn’t even a soldier in the first place!”
Lingram’s eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on Aravon’s face.
“But a not-very-wise man said something that put it into perspective.” Aravon glanced at Noll and repeated the scout’s words, spoken to him after the battle that saved Bjornstadt and put Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr into the ground. “Sometimes it's easier to blame a man than to accept that shite happens, even to good people.” He looked back to Lingram. “For us, it’s instinct to blame ourselves for what happens. It’s our fault for not being better, faster, stronger, or smarter. We’re the ones who lead our men into battle, and the ones who fail to get them out alive.”
By the grim look on Lingram’s face, Aravon could see his words had hit the mark. He and Lingram shared the tendency to internalize everything, to take the guilt on their own shoulders. Even now, he struggled with it—it had been his mission, his plan, that led to the deaths of the Deadheads. They’d sacrificed their lives, true, but had he gone alone with his Grim Reavers or found a different path, they wouldn’t have been in the position where that sacrifice proved necessary.
But drowning under the weight of guilt would help no one, making nothing better. He had to push forward for the mission’s sake—for the sake of the Princelands and all of Fehl. Never forgetting the price others had paid to make their success possible, but honoring them by giving his last ounce of strength to succeed.
“We can’t take it on ourselves.” Aravon placed a hand on Lingram’s shoulders. “We’d die if we did. All we can do is accept that shite happens even to good people, no matter how hard we try to prevent it. And then do our damnedest to plan better, think clearer, and act quicker the next time around.”
“You make it sound so easy.” Bitterness laced Lingram’s words.
“It’s one of the hardest things we’ll ever do.” Aravon met the man’s gaze. “But we accepted that responsibility when we accepted our command of soldiers. It’s part and parcel of the job. The worst part, but the most important one.” He lowered his voice. “Because if we crumble beneath that burden, we can’t be strong enough to help our soldiers bear theirs.”
Understanding lightened Captain Lingram’s eyes, and the tension in his face diminished, replaced by something akin to acceptance.
“The Sword of the Princelands is proof that you have the strength to bear it.” Aravon gripped Lingram’s shoulder hard. “Now it’s up to you to live up to it. An impossible standard, I know, expectations you can never hope to meet. But that’s every commander’s greatest task. So we’ve no choice but to do it, for the sake of those following us.”
Aravon’s gaze left Lingram’s face and traveled toward his six Grim Reavers. Each of them struggled with their own challenges, inner turmoil, and emotional tempests. Some more than others. During their months together, all of them had suffered, lost, bled, and known pain. It was his duty to help see those soldiers through the difficult times. The Princelands had called the Grim Reavers to battle, and it fell to Aravon to ensure that they were fit—in body, mind, and soul—to face the enemy, ready and able to take up arms in defense of the innocent.
“For their sakes.” Lingram repeated the words back to Aravon.
Aravon nodded. “Because without them, the mission would fail.” His gaze roamed over the five men and one woman that traveled at his side. Every one of them brought a specialized set of skills to their mission. They were the key to putting down Tyr Farbjodr—Aravon just had to make certain they had the resources, plan, and coordination to succeed.
Before Captain Lingram could speak, Rangvaldr strode toward them. “Captains.” He nodded to Aravon and turned to Lingram. “With your permission, Captain Lingram, I’ll have another go at that arm.”
Lingram’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I thought you’d done all you could for it.”
Lines furrowed Rangvaldr’s heavy brows, and his lips twitched downward. “A night of rest and communion with Nuius has replenished my strength.” His gaze darted to Aravon. “I have faith that I can finish the job.”
The words filled Aravon with soothing warmth. Though the shadows in the Seiomenn’s green eyes hadn’t fully lifted, they had receded, lightened. His shoulders appeared less stooped, the tension and worry drained from his face.
“Of course.” Lingram lifted his arm from the sling, careful not to jostle the still-mending bone.
Rangvaldr drew out his pendant and brought it to his lips. His muttered words of power brought the holy stone to life, bathing the three of them in a brilliant blue glow. The last of Rangvaldr’s tension, worry, and doubt seemed to vanish in that gentle light. With no trace of the hesitation that had gripped him the last few weeks, he pressed the stone to Lingram’s arm.
Lingram gasped, stiffened. Though Aravon couldn’t see the bone re-knit, he had no doubt the Seiomenn’s magic—channeled through the ancient stone, a gift of the long-gone Serenii—worked. A few seconds later, the Seiomenn lifted the stone from the Legionnaire’s arm.
“Amazing!” Captain Lingram breathed. He moved the healed limb, testing the elbow and flexing his fingers. “You and your god have my thanks, Seiomenn.”
As Rangvaldr tucked the pendant away, a serene smile played on his lips. He gave Aravon a nod, gratitude sparkling in his eyes, and returned to his horse.
Wonder sparkled in Lingram’s eyes as he raised his clenched fist. “Damn!” he breathed. “That’s…”
“Pretty damned magical?” Aravon finished for him.
Lingram chuckled. “I couldn’t decide between ‘bloody brilliant’ and ‘impossible’, but yeah, that works.”
Aravon smiled and clapped the Legionnaire on the shoulder. “Then let’s get a move on. We’ve a long day of climbing ahead and no time to waste.”
Captain Lingram nodded and strode off toward his horse, still testing his arm’s movement as if disbelieving the bone shattered yesterday could be healed.
For a moment, Aravon remained unmoving. He stood watching his small group of soldiers go about their tasks of preparing for the day’s travel. The previous morning, there had been nineteen of them. Now, only eight remained. Eight soldiers to survive crossing the Sawtooth Mountains, navigating the icy Wastelands, and killing Tyr Farbjodr somehow. Odds not even the most reckless gambler would touch.
But they had no choice. Too many people had sacrificed too much to get them here. The Grim Reavers couldn’t fail, couldn’t let those sacrifices be in vain.
The moment passed, and determination hardened within Aravon’s gut. Striding toward his mount, he finished stowing the last of his gear—Annur’s gear, it turned out, as was the horse, the heavy bear pelt, and the bedroll. With his own belongings gone, he’d had no choice but to use the fallen Legionnaire’s equipment. Thankfully, everything of import—the Prince’s silver griffin insignia, Snarl’s bone whistle, and Draian’s pendant—hung around his neck or rested in his pouch.
By the time he finished packing, the rest of the Grim Reavers stood waiting and ready. “Let’s do this,” was all he said—all that needed saying. Their small company moved out without a word.
Captain Lingram led the way through the mine tunnels, Colborn at his side. Aravon paid little attention to their route through the seemingly endless maze of twisting, turning passages—with the tunnels closed behind them, they couldn’t return that way—but trusted Lingram to guide them aright. He remained in the middle of their line, content to lead a string of their horses while letting his mind wander to what lay ahead.
Lingram had said they’d find their way out of the mine tunnels by day’s end, or the following morning. Impossible to predict exactly when that would be,
given the solid stone that surrounded them. With no light to mark the time—no light at all, save for the slow-burning bundles of flameweed Zaharis distributed among them, with strict orders to only use three at a time so as to conserve fuel—he had no way to measure the passage of the hours beyond the steady beating of his heart.
Aravon guessed the spiral ramp had ascended roughly a quarter-mile—again, impossible to tell without light for a visual estimation of the distance. From the moment they’d entered the mine, the tunnels had risen at a gradual incline. They could easily be approaching a half a mile above sea level. Given that Cliffpass only reached sixty-five hundred feet at its highest point, Aravon held out hope that they would emerge close to halfway up the pass. Though they’d had to journey through the mines on foot, once out of the tunnels, they could ride. The crossing would go far faster on horseback.
And then what? The question echoed in Aravon’s mind over and over as the hours of marching through darkness dragged on. What’s waiting for us on the other side of these mountains?
Every Princelander called the land south of the Sawtooth Mountains the “icy Wastelands”, but that was done mostly out of ignorance. No Princelander had ever ventured more than a mile into the barren tundra—or those who had hadn’t returned to tell the tale.
Aravon’s imagination conjured images of shaggy-haired creatures, half-man and half-beast. That wasn’t too far from the truth. The Eirdkilrs were fierce and savage, as bloodthirsty as any monster out of the ancient legends of Fehl. More so, in some cases. If they ruled the Wastelands with the same ruthlessness as they attempted to conquer the lands of their Fehlan cousins, the mission to find Tyr Farbjodr would be harder than he’d initially believed.
With effort, he pushed the fear-born thoughts away. “Work the problem, one step at a time,” his father had loved to say. An odd statement, coming from a General given the command of thousands of men and the responsibility of planning battle tactics and war strategies. But Aravon understood the intent behind the words. Every commander and tactician could come up with a grand plan, but when it came time to face the enemy, the only way to win was to deal with whatever problems, obstacles, and threats arose as they arose. Trying to win the war months down the line typically lost the battle fought tomorrow. To pull off the assassination of Tyr Farbjodr, first Aravon had to get his Grim Reavers across the Wastelands and into position.
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