The auroral display stole the breath from his lungs and filled him with wonder. The very snow around them seemed to shine, reflecting the glow that lit up the heavens. The dancing, cavorting arcs of radiance splashed the endless white landscape around them in brilliant hues. Tonight, the gods themselves painted on the canvas of the earth with light as their medium, Aravon and his companions the sole witness to the singular phenomena.
How long the lights danced across the sky, Aravon would never know. His hand lifted of its own accord, reaching for the brilliant colors. They seemed so close he could almost touch them. He wanted to touch them, wanted to be drawn into their swirling depths, to let the lights sweep him up into this dance of the gods.
But, as the light slowly faded and the heavens returned to black, a sense of profound wonder settled over him. He had seen something few Fehlans or Princelanders ever did. No matter what happened after—what trials they faced ahead—this was an experience for which he’d be eternally grateful.
His companions seemed equally at a loss for words. None of them spoke, but simply looked at each other with amazement sparkling in their eyes. When Aravon mounted his horse, the rest of them followed without a need for spoken or signed command. They set off in silence, the stillness of the night only broken by the quiet whisper of the wind and the crunching of their horses’ hooves.
Long minutes passed before Aravon emerged from his stupor. The images of the dancing lights remained burned into his memory—and would forever linger—but thoughts of the road ahead and their mission filtered back into his mind.
He glanced at the sky, now gone dark, lit only by a moon and stars that seemed terribly faint and far away after the nearness of the dazzling lights. Midnight had passed three or four hours earlier, which meant dawn was not far off.
Reining in his horse, Aravon turned toward Colborn. The Lieutenant slowed and came to a stop beside him, the rest of the Grim Reavers doing likewise.
“Are we heading in the right direction?” Aravon asked Colborn.
The Lieutenant cocked his head. “Southwest, right?”
At Aravon’s nod, Colborn turned his attention to the sky. Long seconds passed as he studied the heavens, the position of the stars and moon. “Yes,” he finally said, though he shot a questioning glance at Rangvaldr and Noll for confirmation.
Rangvaldr nodded. “We follow Nuius’ Hammer.” The Seiomenn thrust a finger toward a cluster of stars—three running horizontally across the sky, with four more spread out beneath it like the handle of a smith’s hammer.
“You mean Olfossa’s Bow?” Humor sparkled in Colborn’s eyes. “You Eyrr never get it right!”
Aravon looked again—the array of stars could resemble a drawn bow with nocked arrow.
Rangvaldr chuckled, but Noll shook his head. “You heathen Fehlans know full well the constellation is called the Swordsman’s Mallet.” He drew up to his full, less-than-impressive height, and spoke in a voice of mock hauteur. “A name worthy of the true gods, not the ones you pagans worship.”
Colborn and Rangvaldr rolled their eyes. Once, centuries earlier, the Einari invaders had attempted to spread the message of the thirteen gods of Einan among the conquered Fehlans. That had not gone over well. The Fehlans might accept the Einari presence in their lands, but nothing short of utter annihilation would deter them from the worship of their clan gods. Eventually, Denever, the first ruler of the Princelands, had mandated that the priests of the thirteen permit the Fehlans to practice their religion unimpeded—a better solution than all-out war.
“Whatever it’s called,” Colborn said, “it’ll guide us southwest.” He gave a little shrug. “Though, to be fair, without a clear map of the Wastelands, we’re not exactly certain where we’re going.”
“I’m not worried.” Aravon grinned beneath his mask. “Between the three of you, our chances of getting where we need to go are about as good as we could hope for.”
Whether or not they’d get there in time, that was a different story. That thought Aravon kept to himself. They had roughly a hundred miles to cover, and three days to do it in. They’d have to ride hard to reach Tyr Farbjodr before the Feast of Death.
Dawn found them racing across the Wastelands. Ice and snow sprayed from the horses’ flashing hooves as the massive mounts carved a direct path southeast, up and down the shallow hills and over seemingly endless miles of flat land.
But the sun had barely come up before Colborn reined in. “I’m sorry, Captain.” A grim look darkened his eyes. “My foot’s bad.”
Aravon studied the thick strips of fur Colborn had wrapped around his ruined boot. “The cold?”
“No.” Colborn untied the cords holding the furs in place. “I mean, the cold’s bad, but the pain—” His words cut off in a gasp as he removed his boot.
The flesh of Colborn’s foot had swelled and turned a hideous mixture of inflamed red and a blue so dark it nearly appeared purple. Cracks gaped between his toes, and a foul-smelling liquid oozed from the sores.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Noll recoiled.
“And here I thought Noll’s boots smelled awful!” Despite the joke, worry shadowed the glance Belthar shot at Colborn.
Noll folded his arms. “Hey, my feet were never that rotten!”
“It’s the cold and wet combined,” Zaharis signed. He had dismounted and now stood beside Colborn, gently prodding the swollen and discolored flesh. Each touch elicited a hiss. “The moisture and chill cause the flesh to deteriorate and decay, destroying blood vessels and the surrounding flesh. If not cared for, the damage could be…” He faltered a moment. “…irreversible.”
Colborn’s eyes widened, and he turned to Rangvaldr. “Tell me you can do something for it!”
Without hesitation, the Seiomenn dismounted, drew out his pendant, and spoke the words that brought it flaring to life. This time, healing Colborn’s foot took far longer—nearly half a minute—and it left Rangvaldr staggering.
Zaharis held the Seiomenn upright with one arm and signed instructions to Colborn with the other. “Keep it warm and dry, no matter what.” Concern lined the corners of his eyes. “And pray that the Seiomenn got to it in time.”
The flesh of Colborn’s foot was red and still slightly swollen, but the cracks had sealed and normal color mostly restored. With a nod, the Lieutenant bound his foot in the furs once more, careful to remove his wet stockings and apply fresh, dry wrappings.
Aravon grimaced beneath his mask. That’s going to be a problem. Colborn couldn’t live in the saddle, but without proper boots, he couldn’t risk his feet marching, either. We’ve got to find a solution, and soon.
He had no idea how the Tauld or Eirdkilrs protected their feet from the cold and snow—he hadn’t thought to examine the footwear of the hunters at Highcliff Motte, and the Eirdkilrs he’d fought north of the Sawtooth Mountains had worn boots.
For now, Colborn would have to stay in the saddle and keep his foot wrapped in furs. But they needed to find something—anything—to serve as replacement boots before they reached Praellboer. Perhaps Zaharis could come up with something alchemical, a way to repair the damaged footwear or turn the furs into something serviceable. When they stopped that night, he would make sure to ask.
His gaze went to Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn, with Zaharis’ help, had managed to climb into his saddle, his exhaustion stooped his shoulders. When he removed his mask to wipe away sweat from his heavy brow, the lines in his face had deepened, pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
Aravon moved his horse toward the man. “You good?” he asked in a quiet voice.
The Seiomenn nodded, but fatigue thickened his words. “I…will be fine, Captain. A bit of rest…should do it.”
Aravon studied the man. Rangvaldr had traveled hard since they rode out of Hafoldarholl, fought the gulons, and healed Belthar’s hand and Colborn’s feet—twice—all with only a few hours of sleep. He needed a break—fiery hell, they all did. After the last few days’ exertion, every one of
the Grim Reavers looked a few hours from collapse. But as Aravon scanned the empty, unbroken expanse of white around them, he could find nowhere to rest. Nothing but snow and ice as far as he could see.
“We’ll find someplace to hole up and take a break,” Aravon promised. “First chance we get.” Someplace they could rest without fear of freezing to death. Though where they’d find that in the Wastelands, he had no idea.
Rangvaldr nodded slowly, as if the weight of his head threatened to drag him from his saddle. “Don’t slow for me, Captain. Our mission to stop Farbjodr is far too important.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to sacrifice any of you to do it.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “We’re going to get there and stop him together, as the Swordsman is my witness.”
“If it is Nuius’ will, so it shall be. If not?” Rangvaldr gave a little smile and shrug. “Who am I to question the will of my god?”
Aravon raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder. The rest of the Grim Reavers had gathered around Colborn, helping him tie up the new fur wrappings around his foot, or were busy checking their own feet. “So your faith has returned?” Aravon asked quietly. In the mine, the Seiomenn had come within a heartbeat of throwing away the symbol of his belief and service to Nuius.
“It has.” A slow smile spread across Rangvaldr’s unmasked face. “I have heard the voice of Nuius in my heart—” He tapped his chest. “—and found peace with the duty to which I have been called. Both as Seiomenn to my people, and now as a Grim Reaver.” He rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “Nuius sent a good man to guide me back to the path he has laid for me.”
Heat rose to Aravon’s cheeks. “I simply spoke from my heart.”
“And that is what made your words ring true. You may not have the tongue of a philosopher or the mind of a Seiomenn—” Rangvaldr’s grin turned mischievous. “—but sincerity of spirit often speaks far louder than even the best-planned argument.”
Aravon inclined his head. “Then I am glad for what little I had to offer.”
“As am I.” Rangvaldr clapped him on the shoulder. “I might have made a decision we’d all regret, but now I can see my path forward far more clearly than I have in a while. So thank you, Captain.”
Aravon nodded. “Always, my friend.”
He turned away to hide the flush of embarrassment. His companions sat waiting in silence, a respectful distance from where he and Rangvaldr had been talking. Aravon was glad they hadn’t overheard the conversation—the Seiomenn’s gratitude left him already flustered enough.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a long day of riding ahead.”
The day, indeed, proved long—far longer than he’d expected. The morning clouds receded and the sun rose high into the sky, bathing the stark white landscape in a light so dazzlingly bright that it seemed to burn Aravon’s eyeballs. Shielding his brow from the sun did little to block out the glare rising off the snow. He resorted to covering his eyes with his hands; the radiance pierced his closed eyelids, leaving bright spots dancing in his vision.
Noon came and went, and the land around them grew even brighter as the sun approached its peak. The welcome warmth helped to keep the chill of the wind at bay, but the blinding daylight made it near-impossible for him to see the path ahead. Even Colborn and Noll, experienced scouts both, seemed to struggle. Finally, they simply pointed the horses in the direction they wanted to go and let the mounts have their heads.
The hours dragged by in a strange blur of blinding light, the darkness beneath his covering palms, and the incessant jolting of the horse. He could ride well enough without seeing the way ahead—nothing to see along the flat, barren landscape—matching his movements to the horse’s rolling gait. Yet the fact that he traveled with his eyes closed made him feel terribly vulnerable.
He cracked open one eyelid, held it open for a few seconds, then switched eyes. The world was still a blinding blur of dazzling brilliance, though the light above had faded to the golden orange of afternoon.
Something in the distance caught his eye. For a moment, it seemed a mirage—there one moment, then faded into the blur of his snow blindness. He opened his other eye, blinked, blinked again.
Can it be?
There was no mistaking it: from beyond the horizon, far to the southwest, rose a thick plume of dark grey smoke.
Chapter Forty-Three
Aravon froze. Smoke like that could only mean one thing: people. And this far south of the Sawtooth Mountains, chances were more than good that they’d run into Eirdkilrs.
“Smoke!” he called, little more than a hiss.
The Grim Reavers reined in, a sudden tension gripping them, tightening their muscles. The seven turned to squint at Aravon, who pointed to the smoke.
Tears formed in his eyes as he squinted against the glare of the sunlight reflecting off the snow, but the more he looked, the more certain he became. What had initially appeared as a single column of dark grey was actually many small thinner plumes of smoke joining together.
Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. “Fires burning in longhouses?” he asked.
After a moment, the Seiomenn nodded. “Possibly.”
“Almost certainly,” Colborn put in.
Aravon studied the horizon. The smoke was at least two or three miles beyond the horizon—too far for him to see where it originated. On the upside, he and the Grim Reavers were still out of sight of the people responsible for the fires. How close they could get without being spotted remained to be seen.
“Orders, Captain?” Noll asked from his place in the lead beside Colborn.
Aravon considered the smoke. It came from south-by-southwest, barely a half-mile off the path they’d been traveling. To avoid it, the Grim Reavers would have to ride at least five miles out of their way to remain out of sight below the horizon. But he needed to know precisely what it was they avoided before making that detour. The last thing he wanted was a force of Eirdkilrs behind them when they rode toward Praellboer—they had threat enough waiting for them at their destination.
“We get closer, get a better look at it,” Aravon decided. “See what there is to see.”
Colborn cocked his head. The leather mask concealed his expression, but curiosity burned in his eyes. “You’re thinking it could be enemies?”
“Everyone this far south will see us as an enemy,” Zaharis put in.
Aravon nodded. “But what kind of enemy, that’s what I want to know. Tauld or Eirdkilrs.” He glanced at Rangvaldr, and the Seiomenn inclined his head in acknowledgement. To him, at least, there was a clear distinction. Now that Aravon had seen the people scraping out a miserable existence in what had once been Highcliff Motte, he, too, began to understand the difference. “If it’s Tauld, we stay far out of their way. If it’s Eirdkilrs…” He trailed off with a shrug. “First step is to see what’s ahead.”
The Grim Reavers obeyed without hesitation or question, riding in their usual column: Colborn and Noll in the lead, Aravon and Captain Lingram next, Rangvaldr and Zaharis behind, and Belthar and Skathi bringing up the rear. They no longer needed the order to form up—they simply fell into place out of force of habit.
The knots in Aravon’s shoulders tightened with every step closer to the rising smoke. He squinted at the gleaming white horizon, trying to make out the details. One mile became two, then three, and the first shimmering hints of something solid came into view. Closer and closer, until Aravon could make out the dark brown and white-flecked forms of longhouses near the horizon.
He reined in then, still out of sight of the people in those buildings. From this distance, he could only get a vague estimation of the size of the settlement—no more than ten longhouses, which, according to Rangvaldr and Colborn, could hold up to thirty people but typically fifteen to twenty. Roughly the size of a Princelander hamlet, too small to count as a village. And, he saw as he pulled out the crude animal skin he’d taken from Harlund’s smithy in Kaldrborg, too small to warrant a marking on the map.
Definitely not a real threat to us. A settlement that size would have a few dozen hunters, perhaps a few warriors. The rest would likely be women, children, and the elderly—civilians.
Unless, of course, they decide to report our presence to the Eirdkilrs.
That thought gave him pause. If the people in those longhouses were Tauld and they alerted Tyr Farbjodr to the strangers riding across the Wastelands, the Eirdkilr commander would flood the tundra with his warriors to hunt them down. Their best hope lay in getting past the settlement unseen.
Easier said than done, unfortunately.
Aravon’s eyes traveled south of the settlement, where a ribbon of dark black was just visible on the southern horizon—almost certainly an icy river cutting through the tundra. If the Grim Reavers tried to head south, they could find their way barred by the river. They’d lose precious hours, perhaps even days, trying to find a crossing. Worse, they might have to backtrack and pass the Tauld anyway.
North of the settlement, however, the land was empty and featureless, far too flat for the Grim Reavers to simply ride past unseen. They’d have to detour far north, perhaps as much as ten miles, to evade the Tauld.
A thought struck Aravon, and he glanced at the sky. The afternoon light had just begun to take on the garish hue that preceded sunset. Threads of orange, gold, and crimson splashed across the clouds as the sun made its final descent toward the horizon.
So be it. It was the best way forward.
“Here’s the plan,” he told the Grim Reavers. “We rest here until near-dark, then we ride past the settlement to the north, as close as we can while still remaining out of sight.” He gestured to the river in the distance. “We’re not going to waste our time trying to find a way across the river, and it’s not worth riding far out of our way to take a detour.” By his calculations—confirmed by Colborn and Noll—they’d traveled close to eighty miles that day, far too few if they wanted to reach Praellboer before Tyr Farbjodr unleashed his armies on Fehl.
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