Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  It might have been the cold or the exhaustion, but to Aravon’s numbed mind, it felt like he was seeing Colborn for the first time. Or a different side of the man, at least. The Lieutenant was a man of countless skills and capable to an extreme, yet just as human as the rest of them. He had his limitations, flaws, and failings. He could make mistakes. As could Aravon and all the others. What mattered now was that they worked together to stay alive and succeed in their mission.

  “We should all know better.” Aravon turned to the others. “We’ve all known cold, but nothing like this. None of us have any experience with this much ice, snow, and chill, so we all need to be hyper-aware and extra vigilant. Anything feels wrong, you share it aloud rather than keeping it to yourself. Understood?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the six Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram echoed.

  Aravon glanced at Colborn’s boot, then at the sky. Night would descend soon, and though the wind had fallen mostly silent, the chill of full dark would be far worse than anything they could imagine. They needed to find a place to get out of the cold. In the flat Wastelands, the short hill upon which they stood would be their best hope of shelter—from the wind, if not from the cold and ice.

  “We stop here for the night.”

  “Here?” Noll looked around.

  Aravon nodded. “We can’t take chances with Colborn’s foot.” He glanced at the Lieutenant. “See about using the leftover furs and any spare leather we’ve got to wrap it up good and tight.” At Colborn’s nod, he turned to the others. “Right here, we’re in the lee of the wind. There’s nothing else for miles around—” His eyes traced the horizon, empty save to the north, where the jagged peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains still rose high into the sky. “—which means this is as good a place as any.”

  “And with all the snow, we’ve got a decent chance of escaping the cold,” Captain Lingram said.

  All eyes turned to the Legionnaire.

  “A story I heard when I was younger and living in Highcliff Motte.” Lingram spoke without hesitation. “Of scouts caught in a storm building a burrow of snow and ice to keep out the cold.”

  “And keep the heat of their bodies trapped inside with them.” Zaharis’ eyes flew wide. “Like a bear’s den or a fox’s warren.” His gaze darted to Snarl, who had poked his head out from beneath Aravon’s heavy bear pelt and watched his eight human companions with sparkling amber eyes.

  Aravon translated the Secret Keeper’s hand signals, and Captain Lingram nodded. “Precisely.” The Legionnaire dismounted and stamped a booted heel down onto the ice-and-snow-covered ground. The layer of ice crunched and his boot disappeared to the ankle in what appeared to be soft snow. “Beneath the upper icy crust, there’s enough soft snow to build a proper shelter. Think of it as a hut made of snow rather than wood or stone.”

  The Grim Reavers exchanged glances of mingled curiosity, interest, and suspicion.

  “Let’s get to it!” Aravon ordered. “Night’s coming fast, and when it does, it’s going to be bloody cold.”

  * * *

  “Bloody cold” proved to be a colossal understatement. Even with the ice hut and its bear pelt “door” to shield them from the worst of the wind, they couldn’t escape the cold. The eight humans and one Enfield huddled close for warmth. Aravon almost wished they’d built their shelter large enough for the horses. Almost. Adding the heavy, sweaty smell of their horses would make an already unpleasant night even worse.

  The mounts had been hobbled in their own shelter—really more a lean-to than a proper hut, with a roof and two pathetically fragile walls of hard-packed snow to keep out the chill of the wind. The ice hut built for the Grim Reavers had a low ceiling, barely three feet tall, and space enough for the eight of them—plus Snarl—to sleep back to back. Not the most comfortable accommodation, to be sure, but at least they could escape the worst of the snow.

  The brilliant sunset—a breathtaking array of gold and bright orange splashed by broad swaths of crimson that deepened to purple in the gaps between the dark clouds—had long ago faded, and darkness settled like a shroud over the land. Now, only darkness remained.

  Darkness, and that damned biting wind.

  The Grim Reavers could light no fire—even if they’d had the kindling and wood, they didn’t dare risk the light drawing the Tauld’s attention. A meal of near-frozen dried meat and too-cold water had made for a quiet evening. Noll, finding his waterskin empty, had gathered a handful of snow to eat, but Captain Lingram stopped him. “It’ll make you sicker than not drinking at all,” the Legionnaire had said. “My father called it the ice fever.”

  Aravon had heard stories of something similar happening to sailors that tried to eat ice cut from the icebergs drifting around on the Frozen Sea. Instead, he’d stuffed the snow into his waterskin and placed it under his armor to let the heat of his body melt it for water. The lumpy skin made lying on his back uncomfortable, forcing him to spend the night on his side.

  Snarl curled against Aravon’s chest, shivering and whining with every gust of wind that seeped into their meager shelter. The bear pelt across the opening proved infuriatingly ineffective at stopping the biting chill from finding cracks. The horses that had fled the gulon attack had carried away Zaharis’ fur cloak and three that had belonged to the Deadheads. Now, with only one fur cloak apiece, the Grim Reavers felt the cold keenly.

  Aravon shuddered as another icy breath of wind crept across his neck. Frozen hell, this is going to be a long night! Burrowing lower into his cloak, he pulled Snarl tighter against his chest, closed his eyes, and tried to will sleep to come.

  With effort, he forced all thoughts of cold from his mind and filled his thoughts with pleasant memories. The warmth of the Icespire sunlight glittering off the Frozen Sea. A hot fire and a succulent wild boar spit-roast that dripped sizzling fat into the flames. The comforting salty breeze that rolled off Icespire Bay and cooled Azure Island during the heat of the summer. Bright, sunny days spent in the gardens of his father’s mansion.

  That brought back the memory of the last time he’d seen his family. Mylena’s chestnut hair lustrous and dark in the bright sunlight, her smile cheerful and gleaming as she laughed and talked with Princess Ranisia. Rolyn and Adilon chasing Prince Toran’s children through the lush, flower-bedecked gardens of the Palace.

  A lump rose to his throat, and sorrow panged deep within his chest. He’d bid Icespire farewell knowing he would likely never see his family again, but that failed to make the truth easier to bear. Just seeing Mylena at Lord Virinus’ party had torn a hole in his heart; walking away from that window without going to her to say goodbye, to kiss her and his sons one last time, had nearly shattered him.

  He knew he’d made the right choice. He had sworn his life in service to Prince Toran and the Princelands the day he joined the Legion of Heroes. If that meant laying down his life to defeat the Eirdkilrs—and, by the Swordsman’s grace, hasten the end of the war—he would do it without hesitation.

  Yet that didn’t make the burden any easier to bear. Didn’t make it easier to ride forward with the full knowledge that he would remain dead to his family. They might never know the truth. A part of him hoped Prince Toran kept his presence in Icespire a secret from Mylena, even if he divulged Aravon’s true fate and mission with the Grim Reavers. He hoped she never knew how close he’d been to her, how close he’d come to giving up everything else just to see her one last time.

  During the day, with the thoughts of survival, battle, and the mission, he could forget about his family. Could forget the pain of knowing he’d never see them again. But at night, when the world was quiet and dark, shadows hanging thick around him, the pain of loss weighed heavy on him.

  He had no illusions about his chances of escaping the clash with Tyr Farbjodr alive. He’d do his damnedest to fight smart and find a way to survive, to be certain. But when it came down to it, Tyr Farbjodr’s death mattered far more than his life. Killing the Eirdkilr commander came first; everything else�
��survival, escape, home—all came second.

  The lump in his throat thickened, the tension in his chest tightening. He wrapped his arms around Snarl’s warm, furry body and pulled the Enfield close. He couldn’t let the tears come, couldn’t give in to the anguish he’d tried so hard to bury. He needed to be strong for his soldiers, for the mission. If the Grim Reavers saw his resolve cracking, they, too, might begin to doubt. Doubt could lead to uncertainty and hesitation, and that would get them killed. He needed the strength to face certain death so his comrades would have that same strength when the time came.

  The emotions slowly receded, and with it went the chill. A soothing warmth settled over him, his limbs relaxed, and the chaos of his thoughts fell silent. The cold disappeared. The pain of his loss drained away. His fatigue lessened. The world faded around him and it seemed he floated in a lifeless void absent of all sensation.

  Darkness pressed on his mind—not the darkness of the ice hut, but a heavier, all-permeating void utterly empty of anything. No pain, no sorrow, no cold, no fatigue. Simply…nothing.

  Aravon drifted deeper into the haze. Let his thoughts dissipate, as if carried away on the swirling wind. Numbness stole over him, pulling him down, down, down toward rest. He could lie here buried beneath the snow, warm forever.

  Yet something about that soothing warmth felt…unnatural. It wanted to drag him into a sleep from which he need never awake. From which he could never awake.

  Horror roiled within him—a sensation as faint and imperceptible as the beat of his heart. Lethargy sank sharp claws into his mind, and his thoughts grew fuzzy, unclear. He struggled to rise from the depths of slumber, but it felt like wading through mud. Hot, warm mud, as heavy as a mountain atop his chest, head, and limbs.

  In that moment, a terrifying thought pierced his hazy mind: the cold was killing him!

  Chapter Forty-Two

  For agonizingly long seconds, Aravon could not move, trapped within that cocoon of gentle, soothing warmth. He wanted to stay still, to let the languor of cold wash over him and bathe away his worries and cares.

  But if he did that, he’d never waken. It wasn’t sleep that awaited him—the Long Keeper’s arms opened to greet him as life and strength seeped from his limbs.

  Every shred of effort went into moving. The tiniest movement, barely a twitch of his index finger. Yet with that single motion, sensation returned. The warmth enveloping him shattered. Gave way to the numbing chill of a body mere sluggish heartbeats from an icy grave.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced his whole hand to move. His fingers jerked, spasmed, and flexed. Blood rushed through his palm, infused his wrist, and warmth slithered up his arms. He lifted his hand, gripped the furs around him, squeezed his fist as tight as he could. With the return of movement, blood rushed sluggishly through his veins, bringing heat and life.

  Aravon struggled out from beneath the smothering leaden blanket of cold and fatigue. Pushed himself upright onto his hands and knees, crawling toward the entrance of their icy hut. The moment he twitched aside the hanging bear pelt, icy wind slammed into him with the force of a charging horse. But the pain and cold told him he still lived. Snarl, somehow still clutched in Aravon’s left arm, stirred and gave a whining bark. Quiet, so quiet Aravon felt more than heard it. Aravon brought the Enfield close to his chest and rubbed Snarl’s furry body.

  “Get…up!” The words formed on his tongue, thick and slurred by the numbness of cold. With a leaden right foot, he kicked out at the nearest boot. Colborn’s, wrapped in furs. The Lieutenant made no move, but remained still, his chest rising and falling far too slowly.

  Awkwardly, Aravon swiveled around on his knees and hands, set Snarl down gently, and shook Colborn’s legs. “Get up!” Stronger this time, with more force and determination. He shook the Lieutenant and clawed his way up the man’s side. “Colborn!”

  Colborn’s face emerged from the furs. His eyelids opened sluggishly, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Aravon shook the Lieutenant harder. “Get up, Colborn. Now!”

  Colborn’s heavy face barely moved, too numbed by the cold. “Wha…”

  “Move!” Aravon dragged at the man’s arm, hauling him to a sitting position. “Move, or the cold will kill you!”

  At those words, life and light flooded into Colborn’s eyes. He, too, rose to his hands and knees. As the movement sent blood flowing through his body, he gasped at the shock of the chill and the warmth flooding his muscles.

  Aravon glanced back at the sleeping forms of Skathi, Belthar, and Noll behind him. They’d never experienced such cold before—none of them had. They had no idea how far the temperature could drop, or the dangers that posed to them. He needed to wake them up and get them moving before the cold killed them.

  “Help me with the others.” Aravon gestured to Zaharis, Captain Lingram, and Rangvaldr on Colborn’s side of the ice hut.

  With a sluggish nod, the Lieutenant set about waking his comrades.

  Aravon turned to the nearest Grim Reaver—Belthar, his huge body far too cold, his chest rising slowly.

  “Wake up!” Aravon shook the man.

  Belthar rumbled a quiet protest at being awoken, but Skathi seemed to understand the threat the moment Aravon awoke her. By the time Aravon scuttled around her to wake Noll, the archer was chivvying the big man.

  “Wake up, you big fool!” She slapped Belthar’s cheeks, gently but with force enough to rouse him.

  “Let me sleep.” The big man tried to push her away. “So warm—”

  “Get your arse up right bloody now, Belthar!” Skathi shoved at the big man until his eyelids opened.

  Aravon shook Noll’s shoulder with jarring force.

  “Cap…tain?” The scout looked up at him through bleary eyes. “What’s…going…on?” His lips barely moved, stiff with cold and slurring his words.

  “We’re taking a little walk,” Aravon said, dragging the scout to a sitting position. “Because if we don’t, if we stay here and sleep, the cold will kill us.”

  Noll protested with a wordless growl, his limbs too numb and leaden to move. But Aravon’s incessant shaking and the repeated warning finally dragged him out of his stupor. Slowly, as sensation returned to his body, understanding dawned. He’d doubtless spent enough cold nights in the Fehlan wilds to recognize the dangers of the cold.

  Icy wind hissed down Aravon’s back. Turning, he found Colborn dragging a half-kneeling, half-crawling Rangvaldr out of their ice hut. Captain Lingram followed on their heels, Zaharis behind them. The four of them shivered as they climbed to their feet outside the hut. The rest of the Grim Reavers joined them in the exodus, until all eight of them stood shivering in the icy wind, bear pelts clutched tight. Yet the fact that they stood meant they still lived.

  “Keeper’s…teeth!” Belthar gasped. “It’s…bloody cold!”

  “It is.” Aravon clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. “Which means we’re going to move out now, before the cold gets to us.”

  “Nothing…like a nice march…to get the blood up,” Noll found it hard to form the words through his cold-numbed lips.

  “Right!” Aravon picked up a shivering Snarl and cradled him to his chest. The Enfield’s fur kept him mostly warm, but even he couldn’t escape the chill that gripped the tundra. “So get the horses and let’s move.”

  The five-yard walk to the horses’ ice shelter proved the most arduous trek on what had already been an exhausting journey. Aravon’s boots sank calf-deep in the fresh-driven snow, and more snow clung to his feet and legs with every step. Yet the exertion helped to restore some of the life and vigor to his limbs—by the time he reached the horses, he could feel his chest beginning to warm.

  The mounts stood huddled together for warmth, facing into the wind. A light dusting of snow covered their shaggy coats and long manes, but they had inherited the resistance to cold that had made their wild mountain-dwelling ancestors so hardy. A wide swath of cleared ground surrounded them—unlike humans, they could eat t
he snow with no ill-effects, a viable method of hydrating when water wasn’t available.

  Water! Aravon drew out his waterskin and took a long drink. His body heat had melted the snow enough to wet his mouth without risking ice fever. The taste of the cold, crisp water restored even more life to his limbs.

  “Come on!” He beckoned to the Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram struggling through the snow toward him. “We march until we’re warm, then we ride.” They needed to cover ground quickly—they had only three days until the Fjorlagerfa—but they needed the exercise to restore blood flow and heat to their bodies first.

  Night still hung heavy as they set off at a brisk march through the calf-high snow. Stars twinkled high overhead and the moon flooded the land with a pale glow that seemed to deepen the cold. Yet as sensation and warmth returned to Aravon’s limbs, the chilly pallor of the landscape gave way to a stark, pristine beauty. Something about that tundra, unstained by the mark of humans, held an elegance—as marvelous as the sapphire vastness of the Frozen Sea and the breathtaking heights of the Sawtooth Mountains. A wonder of nature, something no artisan, painter, or sculptor could ever truly capture or replicate.

  Then the sky seemed to change. The star-studded blackness brightened, and color sprang to life in the heavens. Curtains of light mingled, with long arcs of emerald swooping through the darkness, intermingling with threads of crimson and gold. Blue and violet danced among the waves of color until it seemed the sky above had come alive with the power of the gods.

  Aravon didn’t know when he’d stopped—one moment he was moving, the next he found himself standing, his eyes locked on the heavens. The Grim Reavers stood beside him, transfixed by the spectacle playing out high above. Shimmering waves of vivid luminescence hurtled across the sky. Like some ancient goddess or spirit, the light cavorted, spun, and swirled with a grace that no dancer could ever hope to match.