Colborn’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe we don’t have to avoid the village altogether.” He glanced at Rangvaldr. “When darkness and the cold come, they’ll likely shut themselves inside their longhouses, yes?”
The Seiomenn nodded. “When winter came to Bjornstadt and the nights grew cold, we would retreat into the warmth inside the longhouses and spend our nights singing, drinking, eating, and telling the stories of our ancestors.”
Belthar groaned. “Don’t talk about food now, Seiomenn.” His stomach grumbled. “We’ve had nothing but trail rations for far too long.”
“Which is exactly why I suggest reconnoitering the Tauld settlement.” Sly humor sparkled in Colborn’s eyes. “Might be we’ll find some food, not to mention more furs and maybe even some boots.” He gestured to his fur-wrapped foot.
The Grim Reavers exchanged glances. The prospect of food held undeniable appeal, and more furs to keep out the cold were always welcome.
All but Rangvaldr seemed excited by the prospect. The Seiomenn’s eyes had darkened and a worried hunch settled onto his shoulders.
“What’s the matter?” Aravon asked.
“Back at Highcliff Motte, you saw how little the Tauld there had.” Rangvaldr spoke slowly, his words measured and pensive. “Life in the Wastelands is hard, and food is beyond scarce. If we take what they have…” He signed. “The idea of starving and freezing to death in this barren land of ice holds no appeal to me, but I doubt they want it, either.” His gesture made it clear who he referred to by “they”.
The words surprised Aravon, though on second thought, he realized they shouldn’t have. Rangvaldr had always been a good-hearted man. He genuinely cared for people—not just his own Eyrr, but all Fehlan clans, even those like the Jokull that had aligned with the enemy, and the Princelanders. Was it so impossible to believe his concern extended to the Tauld...perhaps even the Eirdkilrs?
“Our mission demands that we survive long enough to put down Tyr Farbjodr. I can accept that necessity, yet I cannot stop believing that we must be better than the Eirdkilrs.” Rangvaldr studied them all in turn, his gaze piercing and intense. “We will not pillage and plunder as they do. If we are to take from this settlement, let us not take so much we cause them suffering.”
Aravon considered the words. He couldn’t argue with the Seiomenn. “So be it.” He looked to the Grim Reavers. “Check your supplies, and see how much food we’ve got.”
It took less than five minutes to get the total count—less than one day’s worth of food. It would take two days of hard travel to reach Praellboer, and who knew how much longer to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr. And after? That thought was on everyone’s mind, but no one voiced it. They had brought supplies enough to get them into position to eliminate the Eirdkilr commander. What came next, only the gods knew.
“We take what we need,” Rangvaldr repeated, a grim light in his eyes.
“What we need, and no more.” Aravon turned to his Grim Reavers. “But we’re not all going in. Colborn, take Lingram, Skathi, Belthar, and Zaharis and wait for us southeast of the settlement. Far enough away to stay out of sight in the darkness, but close enough you can lend support should anything go wrong.”
The Seiomenn’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing. Keeper knows I don’t want to fight, Aravon thought, but I’m not going to take any chances.
Colborn and the others named nodded.
“Noll, Rangvaldr, you’re with me,” Aravon said. “We go in as quietly as we can, get what we need, then get the bloody hell out.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Darkness hung heavy and thick over the Tauld settlement, a blanket of gloom barely repelled by the light of the stars shining in the heavens. No fires burned outside the twelve longhouses—only a fool would waste the warmth, and fools didn’t live long in such harsh conditions. Judging by the thick plumes of smoke that rose periodically from within the wattle-and-daub buildings, fires burned bright and hot within the fire pits common to all Fehlan longhouses.
Up close, Aravon had a far better look at the longhouses. The Tauld built larger than the Eyrr and Fjall—fifty to seventy yards long, and up to twenty yards wide—perhaps housing two or three families in each building to conserve warmth. Judging by the ice-walled pen that held nearly two dozen of the shaggy-haired cow-like beasts identical to those he’d seen at Highcliff Motte, dry dung served as their chief source of fuel. The heat and light generated by dung paled in comparison to wood fires, but on the barren tundra, they had nothing else to burn.
Longhouses, by design, had no windows, nothing to let in the cold air or permit the warmth of the fires to escape. In place of wooden doors, heavy pelts were strung across the entrances at the front and rear of the longhouses. The thick furs—ice bear, chiefly, though Aravon was all but certain some of them belonged to the wooly ox-creatures standing placid and calm in the pens—kept in the heat but failed to muffle the sound of voices that drifted from inside.
Laughter, conversation, and even a song or two echoed within the longhouses. It seemed so strange to imagine the fur-clad giants as anything but the vicious, bloodthirsty killers he’d battled for fifteen years, and which had threatened the Princelands for over a century. But those were the Eirdkilrs, the ones that had taken up arms against the invaders. The people here, the ones scratching out a simple existence amidst that endless expanse of ice and snow, were Tauld. Save for their size and the fact that they lived south of the Sawtooth Mountains, they seemed as Fehlan as the people Aravon had met at Bjornstadt and Storbjarg.
These people were no warriors, no savage brutes howling at the lands of Fehl and the walls of the Legion garrisons. They doubtless fished from the river, tended to their shaggy-haired beasts, and carved their existence from the land that yielded far too little. Aravon could only begin to imagine how difficult life was here in the icy Wastelands—a life to which the Princelanders had condemned them centuries earlier—yet the laughter within the longhouses rang with genuine mirth, their songs as melodious and joyful as any Icespire tavern drinking song.
Such an odd realization, yet it served to drive home the truth of the war they fought. It wasn’t against an entire race of people, not even a clan. The Eirdkilrs, enraged by the actions of the Princelanders so many years ago, had taken up arms against their enemy. Yet to the rest of the world—the Eyrr, Deid, Fjall, Jarnleikr, Vidr, and, it seemed, the Tauld—life went on. Battles raged as battles tended to. Men and women died in combat or of old age. Seasons came and went, and still life went on.
That was what Duke Dyrund had realized. The war they fought wasn’t to achieve some high-minded aim. They didn’t battle to bring down a tyrant or liberate oppressed people. They fought an enemy that hated them for past misdeeds—an enemy they had made when they pushed the Tauld south of the Sawtooth Mountains—and who sought to escape a hell to which Aravon’s forefathers had condemned them.
Duke Dyrund had wanted to end the war with the Eirdkilrs because he had known that life needed to move on. For all on Fehl, the drums of battle needed to fall silent. With peace once more spread across the continent—perhaps even here, south of the Sawtooth Mountains—people that had known nothing but blood and death for centuries could have a chance at a fresh start. A better future. He had lived, strived, and fought for that end. He’d died doing everything in his power to make that dream a reality.
And now I carry on his dream for him. The thought settled over Aravon’s shoulders, a sobering reality. A year ago, he’d never have imagined anything beyond his job as a Captain, the burden of command, keeping his men alive long enough to get them home. He was a military man, through and through. The idea of something beyond the Legion of Heroes had never occurred to him.
Until the day Duke Dyrund stood by his bed and asked him to pledge his life and loyalty to something larger than the Legion of Heroes. Larger than Icespire and the Princelands, even. Duke Dyrund had opened his eyes to the greater picture, the full scope of the Eirdkilr War, beyond what he’d bee
n able to see as Captain Aravon.
Every fight, every death, every painful loss had driven the point home further. The battle at Icespire had been the final straw. After seeing so much bloodshed, misery, and senseless deaths—the Eyrr at Oldrsjot, Draian at Bjornstadt, the miners at Silver Break and Gold Burrows, the Westhaveners and Legionnaires at Rivergate, the Fjall in Storbjarg and Hangman’s Hill, the Deid at Saerheim, the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve, and his own Princelanders in the capital city—he had lost all illusions as to the meaning of the war. Plain and simple, it came down to the Eirdkilrs’ hatred of the Princelanders, and the attempts of rich and powerful men to grow richer and more powerful.
Aravon had looked into Prince Toran’s eyes, had seen the pain there as he spoke the words of farewell to the brave men and women fallen in the battle for Icespire. He’d heard Duke Dyrund’s opinion on the Prince. If the opportunity arose to lay down arms and broker peace, he would take it.
The problem, then, was Tyr Farbjodr. The Eirdkilr commander had negotiated with Lord Eidan, but only with the intention of expanding his power and hastening the destruction of the Princelanders. He would never sue for an end to the war. He was the driving force behind the Eirdkilrs, the source of the plague that spread across Fehl—a plague of bloodshed, death, and battle.
The only way to put an end to this war was to take Tyr Farbjodr off the board. Perhaps then the Eirdkilrs might consider diplomacy. If not, losing their commander would weaken their army, throw them on the defensive as they hunted the enemies that had slipped behind their lines and assassinated their commander. Aravon and his Grim Reavers were buying the Princelands a chance for a better future, a future where the war ended. A world where his sons could grow up without worrying about howling savages, where the Legion of Heroes was no longer needed. Where brave men like Duvain, Endyn, and Corporal Rold could return to their homes across the water.
That was the world Aravon wanted. And he’d do his damnedest to bring it about, even if it meant giving his own life in the attempt.
But to make that attempt, they’d need to reach Praellboer and find Tyr Farbjodr. Without supplies, furs, and boots for Colborn, their chances of success—of ending the war—were nonexistent.
Aravon focused his eyes on his surroundings, scanning the moon-lit settlement for any sign of a smokehouse. A lumpy white shape between two longhouses caught his gaze. No smoke rose from within—a fire would melt the ice walls—but there were only a few reasons such a building of hard-packed ice would exist. Chief among them, the storage of foods best kept frozen.
He glanced at Rangvaldr and signaled at the building. “There?” he asked in the silent hand language.
The Seiomenn’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. Darkness made it hard for Aravon to see the man’s gestures, but Rangvaldr’s nod indicated his assent. It seemed the Seiomenn had come to the same conclusion as him.
Aravon drew in a breath and shot a glance at the shadows southwest of the village. Noll would be hiding in the darkness, waiting with the horses for a quick getaway. The scout would keep a close eye for any movement—either Aravon and Rangvaldr, or any sign the Tauld had detected their presence in the settlement. He and Rangvaldr had left behind spear and shield, carrying only swords. Neither had any desire to use them, but they couldn’t go into hostile territory unarmed.
Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon gestured for Rangvaldr to follow him, then slipped out of the shadows between the longhouse. Like every other Fehlan village or town he’d visited, the twelve longhouses were built around a broad open space in the heart of the settlement. A dark hole in the middle of the snow-covered square indicated the presence of a well—a far closer source of water than the river a mile to the south.
But Aravon and Rangvaldr steered clear of the main square, slithering through the night as close to the longhouses as possible. Though the journey around the open space would take far longer than crossing it directly, nearer the wattle-and-daub structures they’d be near enough to leap for cover in the shadows should anyone emerge from the longhouses.
Hundreds of hooves and heavy Tauld feet had churned the snow around the square to a slushy mud, but the wind whistling off the tundra covered the squelching crunch of the Grim Reavers’ boots. Long, nerve-wracking minutes passed as Aravon and Rangvaldr circled the open space, eyes darting between the twelve fur-covered openings to the longhouses.
Aravon forced himself to take long, steady breaths—holding in air always led to a too-loud, gasping exhale—and kept his pace slow. Hurrying now would only increase their chances of alerting the Tauld to their presence.
Light flared suddenly to his right, spilling out from one of the longhouses on the northern side of the settlement, across the square from him. Aravon and Rangvaldr threw themselves into the shadows of the nearest longhouse and pressed against the wattle-and-daub wall. The scent of dried and frost-hardened mud filled Aravon’s nostrils, and his pulse rushed in his ears, his heart hammering a nervous beat against his ribs. Slowly, he turned his head toward the source of the light.
A Tauld man appeared in the entrance and stepped out into the plaza. The bear pelts fell quickly shut behind him, leaving him alone in the moon and starlight of the open square. Heavy boots squelched and crunched loudly as the blond-haired giant strode toward the lumpy ice hut that had been Aravon and Rangvaldr’s destination. He disappeared within but reappeared a moment later, a long, dark shape slung over his shoulder. Meat, Aravon guessed, or a bloody large fish.
Despite his frustration at being forced to wait for the Tauld to disappear, triumph thrummed within him. He’d been right about the purpose of that building. Fehlans and Princelanders salted or cured their meat to preserve them, but with so much ice around, the Tauld could simply let their meat freeze. It would last far longer and remain fully edible even after months sitting on ice. The same couldn’t be said for the brined and smoked meats popular in the north.
Relief flooded him when the Tauld finally disappeared into his longhouse and the furs fell shut behind him, plunging the square into darkness once more. After a long moment of waiting—just to be sure no more Tauld emerged—Aravon gestured for Rangvaldr to move on.
“Collect the meat,” Rangvaldr signed. “I will find the rest of the supplies.”
With a nod, Aravon turned away and resumed his trek. He reached the lumpy ice hut within a minute and ducked into the cool darkness within. Aravon ran a hand along the wall. Damn! He grimaced beneath his mask. So this is how you build a proper ice hut.
The ice structure they’d built the previous night had been flimsy, crumbling far too many times before they finally managed to pack the snow together hard enough to stay up. These walls, however, were far stronger and more solid than Aravon expected—sturdy enough to withstand even the heaviest winds and snowfall.
But he quickly turned his attention away from the structure, instead focusing on what lay stored within. Meat, butchered and frozen. Fish, some smoked, some cured, some simply left to freeze in the cold. Something that looked revoltingly like Snarl—a snow fox, perhaps—or a gulon hung on an iron hook driven deep into the snow.
There were no vegetables or grains he could see—if such things could even be cultivated in this cold, they would doubtless be kept dry below ground—but there was meat and fish enough to feed the Grim Reavers.
Aravon had just reached toward the nearest haunch of what looked like cow—most likely from one of the shaggy-haired beasts in the ice pen—when light flooded the square behind him, and the squelching crunch of boots tramping across the slushy snow echoed loud across the open space.
He whirled, found a Tauld had emerged from the nearest longhouse. The giant strode straight toward him, eyes fixed on the darkness within the ice hut. The same darkness where Aravon now stood.
Chapter Forty-Five
Lightning crackled through every muscle in Aravon’s body, galvanizing him into motion. With a single bound, he leapt toward the nearest pile of meat and ducked behind it.
Rangvaldr’s face flashed through Aravon’s mind. If the Seiomenn were here, he’d doubtless be staring at Aravon with hard, determined eyes. Rangvaldr would insist he avoid killing at all costs.
Aravon wanted that, too. He had no desire to leave Tauld corpses. Not only because the people living in this tiny settlement were civilians, but because it would draw attention to their presence.
Yet he couldn’t risk discovery. If it came to the man’s life or the success of Aravon’s mission, the scales tipped slightly—so very slightly, as if a feather rested on one side of the Watcher’s golden balance of justice—in favor of maintaining their presence a secret. Though it would grieve him to do it, Aravon would have no choice but to deal with him. A bloodless death, if possible. A snapped neck, covering his mouth with a hand to muffle his cries. The cold snow would hide his body long enough for Aravon and the Grim Reavers to flee.
But not if I don’t have to. Aravon forced his fingers to uncurl from around the sword hilt. Quietly pressed deeper into the shadows within the small ice hut, crouching behind a pile of frozen meat and fish. Please don’t make me have to!
The squelching crunch grew louder, until Aravon could hear the Tauld’s muttering. His harsh, guttural accent made it difficult to understand his words, but Aravon recognized a tone all too familiar to soldiers—the tone of a man grumbling his displeasure into the darkness, doubtless about the cold.
The muttering grew louder, echoing off the ice walls around him. Aravon’s heart hammered harder against his ribs. Blood rushed in his ears, so loud he feared the Tauld would overhear the thump, thump, thumping of his pulse. It was all he could do to remain motionless in his crouched position, every muscle still, and fight down the urge to burst out from the shadows, to fight, to flee.
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