Then came the cry he’d dreaded. “Meat!” The word, growled in the guttural tongue of the Eirdkilrs, rang out from one broad-shouldered woman. Aravon had no time to see if she goaded her fellow hunters to action—he raced past too fast—but the cry soon echoed throughout the village.
Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s gut clenched. Their time was running out.
The crumbling remains of Highcliff Motte’s stone command post loomed large in front of him. They’d reached the first checkpoint on their mad dash through the city.
Noll suddenly broke off from the column and veered to the left, racing down a muddy lane that led west. The riderless horses followed, pulled along on the guide line. Their massive dark shapes thundered into the darkness and disappeared from sight as Aravon and his companions rode past the command post traveling east, away from the direction Noll and the horses had gone. Their path led toward the postern gate that would give them a way out.
Just as rear and flank attacks could break an enemy’s spirit in battle, splitting his horses here would give them a better chance of escaping Highcliff Motte alive. The Tauld would waste precious seconds deciding which group to follow—more than enough time for the racing mounts to circle the command post, follow the broad avenue south toward the front gate, then cut back east toward the postern gate. A gate which, Swordsman willing, Captain Lingram would have open in time.
Through the streets of Highcliff Motte the six Grim Reavers galloped, hot on the heels of Captain Lingram in the lead. The Legionnaire alone knew the way through the muddy lanes toward the hidden sally port. They barreled past stunned Tauld, racing down street after street, charging between longhouses and leaping over the low-burning dung fires.
One Tauld managed to leap in the way, shouting and whooping, hunting spear raised to strike. Captain Lingram’s horse simply barreled past him, knocking him to the ground. These were no wild horses afraid of predators—the Grim Reavers rode war mounts, trained to charge the enemy.
The cries and shouts of the pursuing Tauld echoed off the cliff walls to the east and west, ringing out loud in the darkness of the village. Yet to Aravon’s relief, the sound came from behind them. Their speed had given them a lead, put them ahead of the Tauld hunters that had recovered their wits.
Come on! Aravon silently growled at Captain Lingram’s back. We need to get the bloody hell out of here!
Relief flooded him as the western cliff face appeared between the gaps in the longhouses. The sheer rock wall was just thirty yards away, so close Aravon could almost feel the cold radiating off the frozen stone.
Captain Lingram turned his mount sharply to the south, racing the last few yards along the cliff face. Now, the southern wall loomed large in front of them, barely fifty feet and closing fast. Ten yards short of the wall, Captain Lingram reined in his horse and leapt from his saddle. Aravon and Colborn pulled up short, barely stopping before they barreled into Lingram’s mount. By the time they recovered their bearings and managed to dismount, the Legionnaire had opened the hidden gate set into the cliff face.
Aravon grimaced as the rusted hinges squealed in protest, but had to hope the Tauld were too far to hear anything. He glanced into the shadows behind them—they’d left their pursuers a few hundred yards behind, but they’d be closing fast.
“Get in!” Captain Lingram hissed, gesturing frantically for the Grim Reavers to follow him through.
Aravon sent Colborn first. The Lieutenant raced through the low-ceilinged sally port on foot, his panting, sweating horse trotting behind him. Zaharis and Rangvaldr went next, then Belthar, who had to stoop to enter. Skathi hesitated before entering.
“Captain—” she began, worry darkening her eyes.
“Go!” Aravon rasped. “No time to wait!”
As if on cue, the thundering of hoofbeats grew louder, echoing off the cliffs surrounding Highcliff Motte. Dark shapes appeared in the distance—a hundred yards away, racing along the southern wall, straight toward them.
Aravon saw no sign of Noll, only the outline of a dark, furry shape clinging to the horse’s neck. Noll had slipped out of his saddle and now rode along his mount’s side, one leg hanging low, his body pressed against the horse’s side. A scout’s trick for avoiding enemy arrows, and a damned difficult one to master.
Ice slithered in Aravon’s gut as a half-dozen Tauld hunters emerged from the shadows far behind Noll. Even as they ran, they bent bows and loosed arrows at the horses. One missile struck a mount in the shoulder and the beast shrieked in pain. But the darkness of night and the speed of the massive horses confounded the hunters’ aims—the rest of their arrows flew high, wide, or splashed into the muck behind the pack.
Worry clutched at Aravon’s chest. One stray arrow was all it’d take to bring Noll down. But he had no more time to worry. Noll and the horses closed the distance at a gallop. If Aravon didn’t get through the sally port now, he’d be trampled in the stampede.
Turning, he seized his horse’s reins and charged into the door set into the side of the cliff. Zaharis’ alchemical lantern provided just enough light for Aravon to see the bend in the passage before he ran full into the wall. As he barreled around the corner, he caught sight of the Secret Keeper and Captain Lingram standing outside the open sally port.
Aravon raced toward them, but he was still five yards away when the pounding of the horses’ hooves rose to a thundering crescendo, echoing through the tunnel. He had no time to think—he threw himself into a mad dash toward the exit.
“Back!” he shouted. His voice was drowned beneath the tumult of the eight massive warhorses charging through the tunnel.
Fear fueled his muscles and hastened his mad dash. He crossed the distance to the exit and leapt into the night beyond, then threw himself flat against the wall. Just in time. Noll and the eight massive horses careened out of the sally port and charged down Cliffpass, away from the wall of Highcliff Motte.
Aravon’s heart pounded so violently he thought it would rip free of his chest. His hands and knees trembled, and he felt frozen in place against the stone wall.
But before he could swallow the acid that had surged to his throat, a deep rumbling echoed from behind him. The stones of the wall trembled, and the clank of heavy chains cut through the darkness.
Slowly, the gates of Highcliff Motte rumbled open.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Bloody hell! Aravon’s gut clenched. He ripped himself away from the wall and leapt into his saddle, digging his heels into the horse’s ribs. The charger took off at a gallop down the Cliffpass trail.
Behind him, the rumbling of the opening gate grew louder. The shouts and cries of the Tauld rose to a deafening roar.
Aravon risked a glance back, just in time to see the first of the giants spilling out of the city and racing down the trail in pursuit, hunting spears in hand, arrows nocked and ready to draw.
Horror twisted in his gut. He’d thought they had gotten through Highcliff Motte unseen!
Realization slammed into his mind. Of course! The stampede had surprised them, but they hadn’t seen it as an attack. Instead, they simply saw an unexplained and miraculous food source riding away. Perhaps they didn’t even think to question where the horses had come from or how they’d gotten through the walls without opening the gate. The Tauld weren’t hunting enemies, but meat.
That didn’t make those hunters any less a threat to the Grim Reavers.
Aravon had no doubt they could leave the hunters behind—the horses galloped down the Cliffpass trail at speeds three or four times what the Tauld could run, a pace they could sustain for the full quarter-mile to complete the descent. But they’d have to slow once they reached the Wastelands below. The horses would need to rest—or, at the very least, stick to a jog trot until they recovered from their mad dash through Highcliff Motte.
Darkness hid them at the moment, but once the sun rose, the massive dark brown and black horses would stand out on the endless expanse of Wasteland ice. Beneath broad daylight, the G
rim Reavers would be visible for miles around—easily spotted by the sharp-eyed hunters accustomed to hunting and tracking on the tundra. When, not if, the Tauld caught sight of them, they’d realize it hadn’t been a random stampede. There was a very real risk the villagers would send word to Tyr Farbjodr.
We can’t let that happen! Aravon gritted his teeth. We’ve got to get out of sight before sunrise.
But that would prove easier said than done. Aravon had always known the Wastelands was a barren landscape of ice and snow, but he hadn’t expected it to be so damned flat.
An unending expanse of ice and snow stretched to the south, west, and east, utterly featureless and barren of life. The light of the waning moon shone on an empty world of white that spread out unending to the horizon and beyond, unbroken by a single tree, shrub, even the gentle dip of a descending hill.
Damn! Aravon growled a curse. That’s going to make things bloody difficult!
Midnight was but an hour or two past, but if they were to find shelter, they’d have to ride hard to pass beyond the horizon and out of sight of the hunting Tauld. Even at the horses’ steady pace, that would take hours.
Worse, the horses would leave tracks. The crunching of heavy hooves punching through ice and snow made that clear. When the sun rose, the Tauld hunters would only have to follow the deep depressions left by the massive warhorses and they would find Aravon and his companions.
Frustration and anxiety simmered within Aravon as he rode into the frosty expanse of the icy Wastelands. He risked occasional glances over his shoulder—staring at the stark, jagged peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains, painted glowing white and deep black by threads of moon and star light—and caught the glimmer of the Tauld’s torches. Far behind, but nowhere near far enough. They’d have to push the horses hard to get out of sight before the sun rose, and pray to the Swordsman that the hunters lost their tracks.
As if the gods had heard his prayer, a light snow began to fall. Tendrils of powdery white swirled around the horses’ legs, misty fingers that slithered up toward Aravon as he raced through. Shimmering, glowing in the light of the stars high above, a breath of cold and frost that reached out to embrace Aravon.
The snow came faster, the mist growing thicker, until Aravon could barely see the rider in front of him. All sound around him grew faint, dampened by the falling powder, the crunching of snow and ice under the horses’ hooves muffled to a dull hum. Though no wind whipped at Aravon’s clothing and masked face, the chill that hung over the Wastelands seeped beneath his arm and sent a shiver down his spine.
As the hours passed and the land passed in a blurry, misty haze, the cold settled deeper into Aravon’s bones. Even buried beneath his heavy bear pelt, he struggled to get warm. It felt as if his gloved hands had frozen around his reins, his toes too chilled to move. Only the exertion of riding the fast-moving horse kept him from succumbing to the cold, yet he could feel the icy claws sinking into his bones.
He glanced up at the eastern horizon, to where the first glimmers of pre-dawn light had begun to show. Elation and worry mingled within him—with the anticipated warmth of the sun, the radiance of the morning would drive back the mists and illuminate them clearly for the hunters pursuing them.
The mists receded as the sky slowly brightened. The snowfall slacked and fell still, leaving Aravon and his companions alone in the empty expanse of freezing white once more. Empty, devoid of life and shelter. They had nowhere to hide.
Again and again, Aravon’s gaze traveled upward, at the encroaching brilliance that crept across the eastern sky, moving inevitably west. Light filled the world—faint and pale, yet enough that he could see the world around him far too clearly. He scanned the horizon, desperation twisting in his gut.
They had to get out of sight, but there was nowhere to hide. Nothing but flat lands and unbroken snow, as far as—
Wait! Hope blossomed in Aravon’s mind. Miles in the distance, a hint of color broke the featureless terrain to the southwest. Green, so dark it almost appeared black. The only spot of life in the endless expanse of white. That has to be trees!
“There!” His shout seemed to carry across the vast tundra, far louder than he’d anticipated. He grimaced and tried again. “Look there.”
Colborn, Noll, and Captain Lingram turned in the direction he indicated. Without hesitation, they turned their mounts toward the trees. The rest of the column—Rangvaldr and Zaharis, bringing up the middle with the spare horses, Skathi and Belthar in the rear—fell in behind them, spurring their mounts to greater speed.
Aravon bent low in his saddle, gripping his horse’s ribs tighter. He raced the rising sun and brightening day. No matter how fast he rode, it seemed he could not outrun the light that spilled across the world, the glimmering threads of crimson, orange, and gold that filled the eastern horizon as the sun rose.
His heart hammered a frantic beat as he cast a glance over his shoulder. He saw no sign of torches or tiny figures moving behind them, but that didn’t mean they’d left the Tauld behind. Looking forward, the trees—now clearly visible—seemed so far off. An endless expanse of white stood between them and their destination. Their safety.
Biting back a frustrated growl, Aravon forced himself to keep riding, to not give in to the anxiety that grew louder, like a whine deep within his mind. Fear and panic could kill a man as surely as the sharpest steel. Nervous men made foolish mistakes. He had to keep a clear head, had to think straight.
Slowly, one step at a time, the trees drew closer. Now Aravon could see the single feature in the featureless landscape: a depression roughly one square mile-wide in the flat expanse of white, what appeared to be marshlands in the middle of the ice and snow. Impossibly, the air actually felt warm despite the deep freeze gripping the surrounding Wastelands. Trees with thick trunks of a deep grey-green wood spread branches laden with leaves so dark green they appeared near-black over muddy brown puddles of water. Even as they approached, the stink of rotting vegetation tinged with a hint of acid and rotting eggs drifted toward him.
Yet, no matter how unpleasant the marshlands, it would conceal them from their pursuers, give them a chance to rest. They could endure the stink for the sake of safety.
The sun had just peered over the eastern horizon when they rode into the dark, damp shadows beneath the marsh trees. A strange, almost unnatural warmth rose from the ground and the bubbling waters of the pool—doubtless that explained how such a place could exist among icy tundra. The stench of rot and sulfur grew chokingly thick, but Aravon ignored it. Fire burned in his muscles, his spine ached, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs. He needed the rest as much as the horses did.
The horse that had been shot by the Tauld hunters was moving more slowly, blood frozen on his shaggy coat. Noll’s mount, too, limped, and every step left crimson-stained hoofprints in the snow behind them. A few of the other horses—Captain Lingram’s, Skathi’s, and Rangvaldr’s, as well as a few of the spare mounts—showed similar injuries, though where they’d sustained the lacerations on their lower legs, Aravon couldn’t imagine.
He reined in just inside the cover of trees, a few yards away from a large pond. Wisps of foul-smelling steam rose off the bubbling, scummy water—water a dark, murky green that appeared far too unnatural. He didn’t need Colborn’s woodcraft skills to know they were better off drinking from their own leather waterskins.
“Did we lose them?” Noll slumped from his saddle, far more exhausted than Aravon had ever seen the usually stalwart scout.
Skathi, at the rear, peered between the trees. The rest of the Grim Reavers did likewise. The expanse of unbroken white spread out in all directions, broken only by the towering, jagged peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains, now splashed with the brilliant colors of daylight.
Skathi nodded. “I think so.”
Aravon glanced at Colborn, who had come up beside him. The Lieutenant had keener eyes than his.
“I don’t see anything.” Colborn shook his head. “But they could be far e
nough behind that they’re too small to see. We should keep moving, just in case.” He glanced at the other Grim Reavers, then at Aravon. “After a short break, that is.”
Aravon glanced at his seven companions. The hours of hard riding had taken a toll on them; even Colborn himself looked glad for a chance to rest. Snarl had landed on a rotting log nearby and now lay curled up, head tucked beneath one wing. He, too, appeared in need of time to recover from his long flight across the tundra.
He opened his mouth to give the order, but Rangvaldr’s voice cut him off.
“We can’t go anywhere.” A solemn note rang in the Seiomenn’s voice. “Not yet.”
Aravon turned to find Rangvaldr standing beside Noll’s horse, his eyes fixed on the mount’s legs. Blood trickled from the horse’s legs, just above its thick hoof, puddling in an ever-widening pool.
Aravon’s eyes went wide. “What the bloody hell happened?” That looked bad.
“Nothing!” Noll protested. He crouched beside his horse, staring at the wound. “He never stumbled or faltered, so I don’t know what—”
“The ice,” Captain Lingram said.
Aravon’s gaze snapped toward the Legionnaire.
Captain Lingram stood beside his own horse. “When the horses’ hooves break through the icy top layer of snow, it forms sharp edges that cut their legs. See?” He pointed to his mount’s legs. Its two forelegs and one rear leg bled freely.
At Aravon’s command, the Grim Reavers examined the rest of the horses. All but two bore wounds—one had a gash so deep it had nearly cut to the bone, and it bled profusely.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Aravon growled a curse. “We need to deal with that before we ride on, else we risk leaving a trail of blood for the Tauld hunters to follow.” He turned to Rangvaldr. “Think your healing stone will work?”
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