Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  That meant getting out of these mines first. Then crossing Cliffpass, all the while keeping an eye out for any Eirdkilrs. After passing through the crumbled remains that had once been Highcliff Motte, they’d face the arduous trek of navigating the tundra. Colborn, Noll, and Rangvaldr were all skilled at woodcraft, tracking, and hunting in the Deid forests—would those skills translate to wayfinding on a terrain utterly devoid of trees, plants, and flowering life?

  The problem of the horses’ feed supply was another one they’d have to deal with. He couldn’t let the magnificent beasts starve, but he had no idea if grass grew beneath the thick layers of snow and ice of the Wastelands. Where the food for the mounts would come from, that was a question they’d all need to figure out soon.

  As the hours passed, the worries in Aravon’s mind mounted, the burden on his shoulders growing heavier. Far too many problems could arise, and he couldn’t hope to anticipate them all. But as his training officers had drilled into him a thousand times, “The problem you don’t expect is likely the one that kills you.” The chaos in his thoughts and the turmoil of his anxieties swirled so fast his head began to reel beneath the pressure.

  “Keeper take it!” The sudden outburst from Noll snapped Aravon from his thoughts. His eyes widened as the little scout, moving between Colborn and Aravon, threw himself to the ground and furiously tore at the laces of his right boot. When he’d finally loosened them, he all but ripped the boot off his foot and tipped it upside down. A pebble the size of his pinky fingernail clattered on the stone floor. Noll snatched it up and stared at the rock—a color so brilliant red and shot through with veins of pink and white that it couldn’t possibly have come from within the mine tunnels of dark grey stone.

  Eyes narrowed, he glared up at his comrades, who had gathered around him as he wrestled with his shoe. “All day long this bloody thing’s been grating at me!” A snarl twisted his lips and his free hand balled into a fist. “Which one of you is getting a well-deserved thrashing?”

  To Aravon’s surprise, Zaharis reached out and plucked the pebble from the scout’s fingers. “I’d say you’re welcome, but it seems my gift is lost on you.”

  “Gift?!” Noll’s shout echoed through the tunnel. “What sort of gift is a Keeper-damned stone in my boot?”

  “The sort that allows us to sleep next to you without the stink of your feet suffocating us.” Zaharis grinned. “I guess that’s more a gift to us than to you. Then again, it means we can tolerate your presence, so I’d say we’re all winners.”

  Belthar’s roaring laughter echoed through the tunnel, and the rest of them joined in—all but Noll. The scout made no attempt to deliver the promised thrashing; he knew as well as the rest of them that he stood no chance against Zaharis. Instead, he glowered at the Secret Keeper and turned back to his boot. A steady stream of curses bubbled from his lips as he tugged on his boot and did up his laces. When he stood, he shot a glare at Zaharis filled with enough venom to kill every person in Icespire.

  Despite the scout’s momentary fury, Aravon had little doubt Noll would let the matter pass. Noll had a temper like a firestriker—it flared bright and died quickly.

  As they moved on, Aravon was surprised to find the mood among their small company lightened. The laughter had done them all good, and even Captain Lingram and Rangvaldr seemed able to smile, make an occasional joke, and share a few words with the others. Over the following hours, quiet laughter and murmurs echoed from Belthar and Skathi’s position at the rear of their line. Every time Aravon looked back, their faces grew suddenly solemn and they fell silent—like schoolchildren caught by their teacher. Doubtless making jokes at Noll’s expense.

  But seeing that camaraderie between them and feeling the diminished tension in the passages did wonders to lift Aravon’s spirits. A faint hope dawned within him—maybe, just maybe, we can get through this. If not alive, at least victorious. It was the best he could hope for given the odds they faced.

  “Captain!” Colborn called back down the tunnel. “You seeing this?”

  Aravon moved to the side, glancing past the massive horses following along behind Noll, and his eyes widened. “Swordsman be praised!”

  There, in the distance, so tiny it appeared but a pinprick, was bright daylight. The most beautiful thing he’d seen in what felt like an eternity trapped in this dark labyrinth of stone.

  He had no need to give the order to move double-time; the glorious sight of sunlight ahead galvanized the Grim Reavers into action, and they broke into a run. Closer and closer the brilliance grew, until it became recognizable as an opening—the exit from the mines.

  They had reached the way out!

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Aravon emerged from the darkness of the mine tunnels and into a scene of breathtaking beauty. The light of the rising sun reflected off the layered clouds high overhead, painting the sky with vivid hues of crimson, purple, and deep amber. The growing brilliance bathed the jagged peaks, cliffs, and snow-covered mountaintops in a shimmering curtain of orange and gold. Gusts of biting mountain air wafted through the narrow gap between two close-set cliff faces, bringing with the icy chill the tang of fresh-driven snow.

  After nearly two days of the lightless underground, with only the burning flameweed bundles for companions, the glaring morning light dazzled Aravon’s eyes. Despite the pain, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. The color and life of the world around him, the world outside the stale air and thick dust of the mines, filled him with wonder.

  “Aravon.” Lingram’s voice pierced his thoughts. He turned to find the Captain at his side. “We’ve got to get moving if we’re to find shelter before dark.”

  That snapped Aravon back to reality. The rest of the Grim Reavers had already mounted up and now stared at him in expectation. The color that rushed to his cheeks had only a little to do with the mountain chill.

  Aravon hurried to mount, wrapping himself in Annur’s heavy fur cloak, and nodded at Colborn to take the lead. The Lieutenant and Captain Lingram led the way along the narrow path between close-set cliff walls. The trail twisted and turned, cutting through the rocky walls until it reached the broader Cliffpass a few hundred yards to the northeast.

  As they rode out of the side trail and onto the main pass, Aravon couldn’t help glancing north, down the incline toward the base of the mountains. The lands of Fehl spread out below him, a stunning sea of dark grey foothills, rolling grasslands, dense forests in every conceivable hue of brown and green, and, far in the distance, the rising peaks of the Myrr and Jarnleikr highlands.

  From their altitude, Aravon could see hundreds of miles in every direction—the lands of the Bein and Myrr, the Jarnleikr, and the Fjall. The mountain peaks surrounding the Fjall stronghold of Ornntadr rose just beyond the northwestern horizon. To the east, a shimmering blue ribbon marked the eastern boundaries of Fehl, the shores of the Frozen Sea and the vast expanse of ocean beyond.

  Aravon found it difficult to tear his eyes from such beauty. He’d never ascended to such heights, and likely never would again. He ached to take a moment to enjoy the breathtaking view—this was what Snarl saw when he flew high above the lands of Fehl.

  Then the icy wind hit him, and all thoughts of the stunning panorama faded from his mind. In the main pass, without the high cliff walls to shelter them, the air currents rolled down the mountain and slammed into them unhindered. Gusts heavy with ice and soft-powdered snow blasted across his face. The chill wind hit him like a physical blow to the face, so biting it nearly doubled him over in his saddle. Fingers of frozen steel seeped through his leather gloves and armor, slithered down his collar, and cut across his cheeks and nose with such force it felt his skin would peel away.

  “Frozen hell!” Noll clapped his hands together and shivered like a wet dog.

  “That’s what it feels like, right enough,” Belthar rumbled.

  Aravon turned back to his horse, reaching for his fur-lined gloves, only to stop. His mount had fallen in the mine shaft.
He dug through Annur’s pack, pawing aside the Legionnaire’s private belongings and supplies, near-frantic in his desperation to find the extra-thick gloves they’d all brought with their fur cloaks. Relief flooded him as his freezing fingers found the fur-lined coverings and he slipped them on, donning the heavy bear pelt over his cloak and armor.

  After a moment, he pulled on his leather greatwolf mask as well. Though the wind cut through the holes for his eyes with eye-watering force, the mask protected the rest of his face from the icy chill…somewhat. Even without the wind buffeting his cheeks, nose, and mouth, the air of the mountain was still damned cold.

  “Mask up,” he ordered his men. “We’re wasting daylight.”

  Within two minutes, the Grim Reavers had disappeared beneath their leather masks and heavy furs. They appeared like two-legged monsters with the bodies of bears and the faces of snarling wolves—a fearsome sight, though the effect was marred by the shivering. Even Rangvaldr seemed to find it difficult to warm up.

  The exertion of their ride up Cliffpass did little to ward off the cold. It kept the biting mountain air from freezing their limbs, but barely. Aravon could feel the chill seeping down his breeches and into his boots, and any time he moved too much, his cloak flared aside just enough that a gust of icy wind sliced through his armor and undertunic. The only thing that kept him from abject misery was Snarl curled against his back. The Enfield had decided to escape the cold by hiding under Aravon’s cloak; the warmth of his body acted like Aravon’s own private furnace to radiate heat up and down his spine.

  Aravon pushed the pace as fast as he dared. Hours spent trudging through the mines had taken a toll on the Grim Reavers, though the chargers were fresh enough to maintain a brisk speed up the gently rising Cliffpass. But it was all Aravon could do to cling to his saddle and keep his head bowed. Any time he looked up to get his bearings, the stinging wind brought tears to his eyes, and the chill froze them to a crusty rime that made even the simple act of blinking painful.

  The anemic warmth of the rising sun did little to help ease the chill. Though the golden brilliance brightened, the cold seemed to deepen and grow worse with every laboring beat of Aravon’s heart. Even as midday came and went, the damned cold seemed to grip the world in icy talons.

  Aravon gritted his teeth and clung to his saddle, forcing himself to remain upright. He kept his eyes fixed on the back of Colborn’s horse as the two guided them through the twists and turns of the sharply rising Cliffpass. He was too damned cold to think—the journey through the gorge, the challenges of crossing the Wastelands, or the enemies that awaited them in the south. He simply clung to his mount and kept his jaw clenched to stop his teeth from chattering.

  To his relief, Cliffpass cut sharply to the west, and a high-rising cliff wall blocked off the wind for a few marvelous minutes. In that time, Aravon managed to thaw out enough to bend his mind to the next step in their journey.

  By his calculations, they ought to reach the highest point of Cliffpass before midnight, and the descent toward Highcliff Motte would take all the following day on horseback. With a day and a half spent navigating the underground tunnels, only six days remained to cross the icy Wastelands and reach Praellboer.

  Every pounding hoofbeat tightened the knots in Aravon’s shoulders. We’re running out of time!

  On familiar terrain, the roughly three hundred-mile journey to reach Praellboer would take fewer than three days. But he and his Grim Reavers had no idea what lay beyond, what obstacles they’d face. With less than a week left, he couldn’t help feeling the urgency mounting within him.

  Something high in the mountains above him caught his eye: a towering monolith of black stone, far too sharp and angular to be a rocky peak. Instantly, he was on full alert, his hand dropping to his spear.

  He’d been so cold that he’d failed to even consider enemies in Cliffpass. With the northern opening sealed forever, the Eirdkilrs had no reason to occupy the high mountain pass. Yet he cursed himself for a fool—he had to be more aware of their surroundings. Threats could lurk in every shadow or behind the next bend in the path.

  But as they drew closer, Aravon realized what it was: a pillar of ghoulstone. No other stone could shine with such deep, dark radiance beneath the light of the now-setting sun.

  Up the incline they rode, approaching the obsidian-black monolith. By the time they drew close enough for Aravon to have a clear understanding of its size—easily twenty feet across and fifty feet tall, appearing even larger given its position atop a rising peak high above the mountain pass—the sun had already dipped low toward the western horizon.

  Then they rounded a bend in the Cliffpass, and the ruins of an ancient stronghold came into view. Built in the shadow of the towering ghoulstone pillar, the fortress was made of crudely worked stone, with a fifteen-foot-high wall surrounding it. Or had surrounded it long ago. The stronghold and encircling wall had been torn down in hundreds of places, leaving a myriad of ragged gaps in its defenses. No doubt about it, a bloody battle had taken place here.

  “What is this place?” Skathi breathed, wonder in her voice.

  “This,” Rangvaldr said in a solemn voice, “is Hafoldarholl.”

  Captain Lingram glanced at him. “You know of this place?”

  Rangvaldr nodded. “All Fehlans have heard of ‘The Hall of the Heavens’.” His eyes darkened behind his mask. “Once the seat of the Tauld’s power, in days long past, before the mainlanders came to our shores.”

  Aravon drew in a sharp breath. This appeared to be a properly built, well-defended stronghold, the sort Legionnaires would build. Judging by the length of the wall—nearly four hundred yards across—the fortress within had also been home to civilians. It seemed impossible, but he couldn’t ignore the evidence of his eyes. The Eirdkilrs had had a city!

  “When your people first conquered Fehl centuries ago,” Rangvaldr continued, “they gave each defeated clan a choice: submit or die.” His tone was grim. “Most of the clans chose submission, but not the Tauld. They refused to surrender, even when the invaders slaughtered their warbands to the last man and tore down their strongholds. Over the years, they were pushed back, closer and closer to the mountain range, their lands taken from them and given to the Fjall, the Myrr, the Bein, and the smaller clans of southwestern Fehl. Until they had only this place. Hafoldarholl, their last stronghold.”

  Aravon studied the stronghold. The now-crumbling wall and the fortress built beneath the ghoulstone obelisk had once been a mighty defense, but even it couldn’t withstand the ravages of war—or the decay of age.

  “For five years, the Tauld repelled the invaders,” Rangvaldr continued, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Five years of battle and death. Of watching their brothers, sons, and fathers die fighting the invaders that came to steal their homes. Some whispered that after their food stores ran out, they resorted to the old ways. The barbaric ways the rest of Fehl tried to leave behind. Blood sacrifices to appease Bani. Feasting on human flesh for strength and ferocity.”

  Aravon grimaced, his stomach twisting. He’d seen the cruelties the Eirdkilrs could inflict on their captives and enemies—it came as no great surprise to hear they could do the same to each other.

  “Until the day the invaders overran the walls.” The Seiomenn bowed his head. “And massacred every man, woman, and child in Hafoldarholl.”

  That sent Aravon’s eyebrows shooting upward. What? It seemed impossible—the Legion of Heroes didn’t engage in wanton slaughter like the Eirdkilrs. They didn’t torture their prisoners and laugh as proud warriors bled and died at their hands.

  And yet, he’d seen the look in the eyes of the Legionnaires and regulars at Rivergate. They’d wanted vengeance for the deaths of their friends and comrades. Had he not dissuaded them, they would have vented their wrath and fury on the Jokull prisoners taken in the battle.

  No, in all truthfulness, he couldn’t deny the possibility that the Legion truly had slaughtered everyone in Hafoldarholl all th
ose centuries ago. War could twist men’s minds and make them do cruel things—the very same things for which they condemned their enemies.

  “But over the years of battle,” Rangvaldr continued, “the Tauld had prepared for the worst. The clan had sent people to find places in the icy Wastelands where they could make a new home, away from the reach of the invaders. Into the deep cold that the warm-blooded northerners could not endure.” The Seiomenn gave a grim shake of his head. “Hafoldarholl fell, and with it, the mightiest warriors of the Tauld. But the people lived on. They lived, and they remembered. For more than three hundred years, they carried the memory of what was done to them by the invaders. They rebuilt their strength until they were ready to take back their lands, and to visit Bani’s vengeful wrath upon the half-men.”

  The Seiomenn’s story pierced to the core of Aravon’s being. He’d known the Eirdkilrs hated the “half-men” that had invaded their lands and conquered their northern cousins. But he’d had no idea that their enmity against the Princelanders was so personal.

  Anyone who saw their kin slaughtered the way Rangvaldr had described the destruction of Hafoldarholl would doubtless feel justified taking up arms against those who perpetrated such atrocities. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t just suffered in the war—they’d been driven from their homes, forced to flee into the desolate Wastelands, and lost countless lives. All at the hands of those that now called themselves Princelanders.