The sight of his companions laughing and enjoying their evening warmed Aravon’s heart far more than their pathetic fire ever could. Despite everything they’d endured over the past days and weeks and all that lay ahead of them, on this day—the Deid celebration of the Haustmessa, the Time of Harvest—they deserved a few moments of happiness.
Tomorrow’s problems could wait. Tonight, they celebrated Goodie Day.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Dawn came early at the top of the world.
The eastern horizon brightened well before the fourth hour of the morning, the starry, pitch-black night sky giving way to gleaming blue. By the time false-dawn had given way to sunrise and the gold-red brilliance of first light, the Grim Reavers had already been riding for the better part of an hour.
Though he’d only slept four or five hours, Aravon felt strangely refreshed. The whipping wind hadn’t lost its bracing chill, but the fresh scent of snow and frozen stone came as a welcome change from the thick dust within the mine. And as small and simple as the previous night’s celebration had been, it had done wonders to lift his spirits.
The rest of the Grim Reavers seemed equally reinvigorated. Colborn set a brisk pace, with Captain Lingram guiding him through the twists and turns of Cliffpass without hesitation. That morning, Aravon had awoken to find Captain Lingram standing over the four wrapped corpses of the Legionnaires slain in battle with the Rakki. He’d removed them from their horses and placed them gently to rest in the stone hall where they’d spent the night. Aravon had given Lingram a few silent minutes before riding out.
Laying the soldiers to rest seemed to have done Lingram good. The shadows in the Legionnaire’s eyes retreated steadily throughout the day, and he’d even managed to smile and crack a joke about the smell from Noll’s boots before riding out of camp that morning.
Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr, riding at his side. The Seiomenn’s mask hid his face, but it seemed he’d left his gloom in the mine tunnels. At the rear of the column, Belthar and Skathi rode a companionable distance apart, but Aravon had caught their eyes darting toward each other—always when the other wasn’t looking. It seemed Belthar’s heartfelt gift—a surprise for all of them, but Skathi more than most—had struck a chord within the archer.
Snarl had refused to relinquish the beef kneecaps, keeping one tucked in his talons and the other clamped squarely between his teeth. When the added weight made it impossible for him to gain any altitude with his wings, he leapt onto Aravon’s horse and settled into place behind the saddle—content to gnaw on the bones and let the mount do the work of transporting him.
The horses, after a night spent cropping the scrubby sedge that sprouted from the barren soil within Hafoldarholl, moved with a lighter step. They made no complaint as the Grim Reavers rode hard up the gentle incline—if anything, they seemed eager to stretch their legs and run.
They reached the highest point of Cliffpass—sixty-five hundred feet above sea level—before the sun had fully risen over the tops of the towering cliffs that bordered the broad pathway through the mountains. After barely a quarter-hour of rest, they switched mounts and began the descent toward the southern side of Cliffpass. They had fifteen mounts for just the eight of them, more than enough to keep the horses fresh.
Aravon paid little attention to the high, rocky walls bordering the mountain pass; they were simple cliffs, after all, as rocky and sheer as any other he’d encountered. Instead, he watched the heights as best he could, one hand on his spear. Colborn had eyes forward, Skathi and Belthar guarded the rear, so it fell to him, Zaharis, Noll, and Rangvaldr to spot any Eirdkilrs.
Not that he expected any this high in the mountains. It wasn’t like the Eirdkilrs to settle in a place as barren and devoid of life as the rocky Sawtooth range. Down below, perhaps, closer to the icy Wastelands, but with the Cliffpass blocked on the northern side, they had no reason to occupy the ruins of Hafoldarholl or set up any sort of camp—temporary or permanent—in the mountain pass.
That didn’t stop him from keeping a wary eye on the skyline. He wouldn’t take any chances, not so close to the end of the first step on their journey. They’d gotten this far—and paid a heavy price for it—so he’d be damned if he let a moment of inattention ruin their chances at slipping into the Eirdkilr lands undetected.
By the time the sun reached its peak and began to set, the Grim Reavers had descended halfway down the Cliffpass. The rocky terrain of the pass was rougher than the Eastmarch or any road within the Princelands, but the nimble Kostarasar chargers had navigated the descent with the same sure-footedness that had carried the Grim Reavers through grasslands, forest, and the Jarnleikr highlands.
Aravon estimated they covered close to eight miles per hour. Cliffpass cut through the narrowest section of the Sawtooth Mountains—barely a hundred miles separated the Myrr foothills from the icy Wastelands south of the range. At their current speed, he guessed they’d reach the northern side of Highcliff Motte before nightfall.
That realization lifted his spirits further. Though they had only five days left, if they could just get out of the mountains and into the tundra beyond, odds were good they’d reach Tyr Farbjodr in time.
He gritted his teeth. We’ve got no other choice! He had no idea what the Eirdkilr commander had planned for Fehl and the Princelands, and even less desire to find out. They had to take out Tyr Farbjodr before he unleashed his armies through Snowpass.
Captain Lingram called a halt shortly before sunset. “Highcliff Motte’s about a mile down that way.” He gestured toward the broadest of the trails descending through the mountains.
Aravon nodded. They’d seen no sign of enemies all day, but he wouldn’t go riding blindly forward. With the Legion-built fortress so close to the icy Wastelands—barely half a mile separated the southern wall of the stronghold from the tundra below—he needed to be certain the way was clear.
“Colborn, Noll,” he commanded in the silent hand language. “Ride ahead and see if we’ve got any surprises waiting below.”
The two Grim Reavers kicked their horses into motion and trotted down the trail. Aravon and the others dismounted and set about rubbing down the horses. The mounts had ridden hard and needed a rest as much as they did.
All but Captain Lingram fell to the task. The Legionnaire climbed down from his saddle but remained standing by his horse, gaze fixed on the trail down which Colborn and Noll had disappeared. The lines of tension visible through the eye-slits of his mask spoke volumes.
Aravon slipped up beside him. “You good?” he asked quietly.
Lingram turned toward him, and a hint of the dark shadows had returned to cloud his eyes. “Never thought I’d be back here again,” he said. “Brings the memories flooding back.”
Aravon gripped his friend’s shoulder. “You need anything, you let me know.” He could do nothing to help Lingram wrestle with the dark images from his past—the blood, anguish, and death of the desperate flight from the Eirdkilrs—but sometimes a man simply needed to know he didn’t face the monsters in his mind alone.
Captain Lingram nodded. “I will.” He seemed to snap out of the gloom and once again became the efficient, competent Legionnaire that made him such a valuable member of their team. Without another word, he set about helping to care for the horses.
Less than a quarter-hour later, the last of the grooming had been finished and the Grim Reavers sat waiting in silence. The biting wind had fallen still, though the chill on the southern side of the mountains necessitated the use of the heavy furs. Skathi and Belthar worked side by side, re-securing steel heads to the arrows they’d dug out of the Eirdkilr bodies. Again, they shot sidelong, furtive glances at each other, yet never spoke a word beyond the basics of their simple task.
Captain Lingram, Zaharis, and Aravon each spent time caring for their weapons—sharpening, cleaning off any traces of blood, and applying a coat of oil—and doing a thorough once-over of their armor. Zaharis’ alchemical concoction had added an extra prot
ective coating to the leather, as well as covering it with that grey, white, and black mottling. A pattern, Aravon realized, that provided effective concealment among the dark grey stones of Cliffpass. And hopefully in the ice-covered tundra beyond.
The sun set quickly as they waited. Darkness settled over them, bringing with it a bone-deep chill that had them all, even Snarl, huddling deeper into their furs. Even without the wind, the cold was hard to shake without a fire.
When Zaharis finished caring for his mace, he stowed the weapon and reached into his pack. But instead of pulling out his alchemical books or potions, he produced the little wooden figurine and sat back, toying with it, running a thumb over the Mistress’ ornately-carved face.
Rangvaldr’s voice broke the silence. “Zaharis, the stone you made, can I see it?”
The Secret Keeper’s head snapped up and surprise widened his eyes a fraction, but he nodded. Reaching into his pouch, he drew out the stone. A hint of blue gleam emanated from the light that shone deep within its depths.
Rangvaldr brought the glowing stone to his lips and spoke the quiet words of power. The inner gleam brightened, the radiance spreading outward until the entire stone glowed, bathing the Grim Reavers and the Cliffpass around them with a soothing azure brilliance.
“Amazing!” Instead of the darkness that had filled Rangvaldr’s eyes last time he held the stone, now only wonder shone there, dazzling and bright beneath his mask. “I still find it hard to believe you made magic.”
Zaharis snorted. “Nothing magic about it,” he signed. “That’s cold, hard science you’re holding.”
“Is that so?” Rangvaldr’s grin broadened. “So then can you explain how it works, Magicmaker?” He used Zaharis’ code name in jest. “How it draws on my strength and transfers it to whoever I’m trying to heal? How a few simple words can make a chunk of rock shine bright like this?”
After a moment, Zaharis shook his head.
“Here.” Rangvaldr turned to Belthar and held out the stone. “See if it works for you.”
Belthar, caught off-guard, froze, then hesitantly reached out for the glowing chunk of ghoulstone. The light died as it left Rangvaldr’s fingers, and the big man’s face fell.
“Repeat the magic words,” Rangvaldr said. He spoke the strange arcane words Aravon had heard from his lips so many times before, pronouncing them clearly for Belthar’s ears. Yet, when the big man attempted to repeat them—imitating the inflection and tone with surprising accuracy—nothing happened. The stone remained inert.
“Skathi?” Rangvaldr asked the archer.
Skathi stared at the stone in Belthar’s hand, then shook her head. “Something tells me it wouldn’t work for me, would it?”
Rangvaldr grinned and shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.” He plucked the stone from Belthar’s fingers and spoke the words once more. Again, the stone flared to light, and the soft blue gleam filled the rocky hollow. “My mentor, the Seiomenn Kunnigr, said that only the chosen of Nuius can summon the power.” He glanced at Zaharis. “You may have made the stone, but perhaps not even you could bring it to life. I do not know what it is about those words, but unless they are spoken by me—or another of Nuius’ chosen—the stone remains as lifeless as any other.” He rapped his knuckles on the rock upon which he sat.
Zaharis’ eyes narrowed, and his face twisted into a hint of a frown, as if suspicious of what point the Seiomenn intended to make.
Rangvaldr chuckled at the Secret Keeper’s expression. “It’s a funny thing, this. For years, you and I have been dancing this same dance.” He gestured to himself, then Zaharis. “Me with my holy magic, you with your science. As if one couldn’t exist alongside the other.”
The Secret Keeper’s fingers twitched the way they always did when deep in thought.
“But I’d like to think this is proof that we’re both right.” The Seiomenn held up the glowing stone between them. “This world is filled with mysteries that we can’t begin to comprehend. Things beyond our power to control. So we seek knowledge and understanding as a means of control. When we know without a shred of doubt, it gives us a sense of power.” He raised a clenched fist as if to illustrate his point. “It puts meaning to things that would otherwise appear meaningless.”
Zaharis inclined his head. “I can’t argue with that logic.”
“Logic.” Rangvaldr chuckled. “A sturdy wall to protect us from the chaotic nature of our world, from the dangers all about us.” His eyes went to the stone. “But a world of pure logic without emotion is empty, just as a world of raw emotion unchecked by rationale can prove deadly. It is only in the balance between the two that we find peace and calm.”
He tore his gaze from the stone and looked at the Secret Keeper. “So maybe the balance between your science and my magic is just as necessary.” He tossed the glowing rock back to Zaharis. “Science offers control and understanding. And magic?” His eyes sparkled. “That fills us with wonder, that the world truly holds marvels beyond our ability to comprehend. And what is a world without marvels?”
“Boring.” Zaharis inclined his head. “As cold and empty as a Shalandran mausoleum. Far better a life filled with the best of both worlds.” He threw the stone back to Rangvaldr. “The wonders of science and the marvels of magic.”
Happiness brightened Rangvaldr’s eyes as he caught the rock and held it up. “That is what makes us such a fine team, my friend. No matter what, we are united in our search for the one thing that matters most in the world: the truth.” He gestured to Zaharis, then to himself. “You, the truths hidden by your Mistress, the secrets of our world and its many wonders. Me, the truths hidden in the hearts of those around me.”
“Perhaps that is why your god chose you as Seiomenn,” Zaharis signed. “He needed someone who would look beyond the evidence of their eyes and search for what lies beneath.” His eyes, too, brightened. “You’d have made a damned good Secret Keeper.”
“Not a chance!” Rangvaldr gave a violent shake of his head. “I was never one for books and study—granted, not much of either in Bjornstadt, but just the thought of it…” He shuddered theatrically. “No, give me the feasting hall, the stories and songs of a Seiomenn, and—”
“All that ayrag?” Zaharis poked a finger into Rangvaldr’s midsection. The Seiomenn was far from paunchy, but age had begun to weigh on his gut, expanding it slowly outward beneath his armor.
Rangvaldr just laughed. “Definitely the ayrag!”
The sight of the two men sharing the lighthearted moment did Aravon’s heart good. Both of them had suffered devastating blows to the foundation upon which their lives had been built—Zaharis his service to the Mistress, and Rangvaldr his belief in Nuius’ anointing and the power of his “holy” stones. But both of them seemed to have recovered, at least enough that they could find a few brief minutes of companionship in the friendly debate that had evidently raged on for years, long before they’d joined the Grim Reavers.
In a sense, they were curious reflections of each other. Zaharis and his science, Rangvaldr and his faith—opposites, yet equally propelled by belief and trust in a higher calling. They were the perfect companions and brothers-at-arms, a comfort for each other during this turbulent time. Aravon doubted that any of the others could understand the true anguish caused by Zaharis’ expulsion from the Secret Keepers or Rangvaldr’s learning the truth of the holy stones. But because they had one another, they had someone to lean on over their journey of rediscovering who they were and what they believed in the aftermath of their discoveries.
At that moment, the sound of hoofbeats echoed off the stone cliffs. Aravon turned in time to see Colborn galloping up Cliffpass, Noll hot on his heels.
One look at Colborn’s masked face brought all the tension back to Aravon’s mind, and worry twisted his stomach in knots.
Colborn reined in just short of Aravon but made no move to dismount. “It’s bad, Captain,” he said, his tone grim. “There are enemies ahead, and there’s no way we’re getting throug
h unseen.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Midnight found the Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram crouched behind an outcropping of rocks a hundred yards above Highcliff Motte. Or what was left of it.
Highcliff Motte had been constructed to straddle the entire southern edge of Cliffpass. Two hundred-foot- tall cliffs bordered its eastern and western sides. According to Lingram, the wall spanning the fifty-yard-wide Cliffpass was easily forty feet tall, with a gate that the Eirdkilrs hadn’t managed to bring down in their assault fifteen years earlier. Highcliff Motte had held a barracks for a hundred and fifty Legionnaires and auxiliaries, houses for nearly as many civilians, a two-story fortified command post, and ample storage buildings for all the supplies needed to keep those stationed here fed and warm.
Now, only crumbling ruins remained of the once-mighty stronghold. The Legion-built stone wall guarding the stronghold’s northern perimeter had been torn down, and through the gaping holes were visible dozens of squat, square buildings. The constructions appeared a crude amalgamation of Princelander and Fehlan design—stone to form solid walls of the longhouses, with wattle-and-daub to keep out the biting wind and mountain chill. Doubtless the longhouses had been built around or on top of existing structures, using stone taken from the northern wall.
The paving stones of the courtyard had been torn up, and the twin watchtowers guarding the southern wall torn down. Even the command post that dominated the center of Highcliff Motte appeared half-decayed—judging by the thick smoke rising from its now-tattered roof, the Eirdkilrs used it as a smokehouse and meat storage rather than a fortified defensive post.
Aravon scanned the giants that moved through the stronghold. Eirdkilrs, as evidenced by their enormous size and the ice bear pelts they wore.
Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s gut clenched. So much for getting into the Wastelands unseen.
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