Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  The Tauld’s muttering continued for a long minute, accompanied by the loud, sharp thwack of sharp metal cutting into frozen flesh. Again and again, the sound growing meatier every time. Until finally the last thwack rang out and the muttering Tauld turned to crunch his way out of the ice hut. The sound of his complaints and squelching footprints grew quieter and quieter, fading into the distance, until Aravon could hear it no more.

  Relief washed over him and he let out a long breath. He rose and found his knees shaking, his hands clenched so tightly into fists his forearms ached.

  That was too damned close! Aravon swallowed, his mouth terribly dry in the cold. Better get what I came for and get the bloody hell out of here!

  He scanned the dark shapes within the shadows of the ice hut, found the hunk of meat the Tauld had hacked at. The sizeable haunch would make the Grim Reavers a few good meals. Unfortunately, the meat would need to be cooked. On the tundra, they had no fuel to start a fire, and they couldn’t risk a light.

  Instead, he filled his arms with fish—both frozen raw and salted. Salted fish, while very salty and less-than-appetizing, necessitated no cooking. As for the raw fish, Aravon had heard stories of Westhaven fishermen eating their catch fresh out of the ocean. Not the fanciest feast, but given their circumstances, the best solution they had.

  Arms loaded down with meat, Aravon ducked out of the ice hut and slipped off into the shadows between the longhouses. He moved quickly and quietly toward the southeastern corner of the settlement. Less than a minute later, Rangvaldr appeared from the shadows, arms loaded with heavy furs. Without a word, the two set off toward the southwest, following the constellation Rangvaldr had called Nuius’ Hammer.

  The wind picked up as they trudged through the snow. Without the longhouses for shelter, it howled and whirled around them, the cold slicing through the light Grim Reaver armor. Aravon clamped his jaw tightly shut to keep his teeth from chattering and forced himself to march faster. His warm furs waited with Noll and his horse. He just had to get there before the biting chill turned his inside to ice.

  To his relief, Noll stood waiting at their prearranged locations, two hundred yards southeast of the settlement—far enough that the noise of the horses was lost beneath the wind, but close enough that the cold march through the ankle-deep snow didn’t seem utterly interminable. At Aravon’s hissed greeting, the scout lowered his bow and returned the nocked arrow to his quiver.

  Aravon dropped his armload of salted and frozen fish into the cloak Noll spread out—they had no other way to carry it, and Annur wouldn’t need his spare cloak any longer—and bundled himself deep within his heavy bear pelt. Warmth slowly returned to his limbs as the furs blocked out the worst of the wind and chill.

  “Fish?” Noll’s voice rang with a note of disgust. “You had to get fish!”

  Aravon chuckled. “Better than meat we couldn’t cook or eat.”

  Noll gave a loud groan. “Tell me you got something good,” he muttered.

  From deep within his bundles of stolen furs, Rangvaldr produced two objects: a pair of boots and a leather waterskin that sloshed as he held it out to Noll. The scout pulled out the stopper and gave a sniff. “Faugh!” He recoiled, then sniffed again. “What is it?”

  “Ayrag,” Rangvaldr answered, “or the Tauld’s version of it. Doubtless made from the milk of whatever those creatures penned up in the settlement were.”

  The image of the shaggy-haired, horned cow-looking beast flashed through Aravon’s mind. Some distant relation to cows or oxen, perhaps. A source of meat, fuel—in the form of dung—and milk, it seemed.

  Noll took a sip, hissed in displeasure then took another sip. “Not bad,” he finally declared. “After all these days of nothing but water, it’ll be nice to have something real to drink.” He turned to Rangvaldr, eyes sparkling. “I could kiss you, Seiomenn!”

  “Don’t,” Rangvaldr warned him off with a glare. “You’ll make Belthar jealous.”

  Laughing, Noll set about wrapping up the bounty of fish in the cloak and strapping the procured furs into place behind their saddles.

  Aravon stepped toward his horse to help, but Rangvaldr’s hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Thank you, Captain.” Rangvaldr said in a quiet voice. “For being better.”

  Aravon nodded. “We’re here because we want a better future for all of Fehl.” He rested a hand on the Seiomenn’s shoulder. “But that means we have to start being that better future ourselves before we can expect it of anyone else.”

  Rangvaldr’s green eyes glowed in the starlight, shining as bright as his holy pendant. “Indeed.” He clapped Aravon on the back and turned away. No more words passed between them—none were needed. Rangvaldr knew Aravon had heard and understood him.

  Less than a minute later, their newly acquired supplies strapped in place behind their horses, the three Grim Reavers mounted up and set off southwest to rejoin the others.

  * * *

  Despite the urgency crackling in his nerves, Aravon found it difficult to keep moving forward. Dawn had come and gone four hours past, and he guessed they’d covered the better part of fifty miles since riding away from the Tauld village. But between the fatigue of too many hours spent in the saddle and the blinding glare of daylight reflected off the snow, it proved a struggle to keep his eyes open. Only the exertion of lifting his body to match his horse’s rolling gait kept him from falling asleep.

  The all-permeating cold had lessened slightly with the rising of the sun, but only a fraction. Even Aravon’s thick bear pelt couldn’t quite keep out the chill or the bite of the wind slicing through his armor and clothes to find flesh beneath.

  He wasn’t alone in his misery. Snarl hadn’t attempted to fly since sunrise, but lay curled in Aravon’s lap, shivers racking his little body. He whined and tried to burrow deeper into Aravon’s furs to hide from the wind. It seemed his glossy, bright orange coat hadn’t grown thick enough to withstand the rigors of the Wastelands.

  Though the Grim Reavers voiced no word of complaint, Aravon could see the exhaustion and cold was getting to them. They sat stiffer in their saddles, shoulders drooping with fatigue, spines stiff to stop themselves from sagging. Even the tireless Colborn seemed to be flagging.

  For the fifth time in the last hour, Aravon glanced at the sky. Though clear blue shone high overhead, the clouds to the north worried him. The forbidding wall of dark, angry grey loomed larger with every passing minute, like the crest of an enormous tidal wave racing toward them. If they couldn’t outrun that storm, they’d have to find shelter before it struck.

  But where? Save for the icy river snaking through the landscape south and east of them, the tundra was a featureless expanse of white. No hills to offer even the most pathetic wind-break, no gullies or valleys in which to seek cover from the storm.

  The tension in Aravon’s shoulders tightened as they rode on. One mile, then two, and still no hope of shelter. Shadows spread across the tundra as the clouds swarmed across the face of the sun. First wisps of white that turned to light grey, then darkened to a deep, furious gloom.

  Come on! Desperation set his stomach churning. And still nothing, nowhere to hide from the oncoming storm.

  It seemed the world grew dark from one moment to the next. The cold cut deeper, the fangs of the biting wind sharpened, rose to a keening whine, then a shrieking howl.

  Keeper’s teeth! Horror thrummed within Aravon’s bones. Snow swirled around them, intermingled with daggers of ice that slashed at his helmet, masked face, and gloved hands. The gale grew stronger and louder with every heartbeat, pulling at his cloak as if trying to drag him from his saddle.

  Beside him, Captain Lingram reined in so suddenly Aravon had no time to slow.

  “We’ve got to stop!” The shrieking wind nearly drowned out Lingram’s shouted words. “We need to dig down, make our own shelter before the storm hits us!”

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Dig down? His mind flashed back to the Tauld ice hut. If they
could pile the snow high enough, it might act as a shield against the wind. With their recently acquired ice bear pelts, they had a chance of weathering the storm.

  “He’s right!” Aravon threw himself from his horse, dropped to his knees, and set about digging at the snow with the blade of his sword. The sharp steel cracked through the upper crust of frost with ease, exposing soft, powdery snow beneath. All around him, the rest of the Grim Reavers fell to the task, their movements frantic, driven by fear of the raging storm.

  The storm grew fiercer, the wind howling louder, and the cold biting deeper with every heartbeat. Aravon tore his gaze from his task long enough to glance around, to search for his comrades. Driving snow and icicles enveloped him and blocked the others from view. Fear for them twisted in his gut but he had no time for worry—he had to focus on his own survival.

  He dug with every shred of strength, carving out a hole large enough for him, Snarl, and his mount. Even the mighty warhorse couldn’t hope to weather the terrible gale. And Aravon and Snarl needed the beast’s warmth to stay alive.

  Then came the driving piles of snow, falling so fast they seemed to fill the hole faster than Aravon could dig it. The cold cut through Aravon’s gloved hand, sank fingers of ice into his spine, and clawed at his skin. The wind howled and shrieked its fury, scrabbling at his mask, clawing at his cloak as if trying to strip him bare so it could tear his flesh to ribbons and strip it away until nothing but frozen bone remained.

  Aravon abandoned the effort to dig. Stumbling to his feet, he scrambled toward his horse—barely visible two feet away—and fumbled at the straps holding his gear in place. Eventually he gave up, drew a dagger, and slashed the cords that bound the stolen Tauld furs to his saddle. Though it went against every instinct, he tore off his own brown bear pelt and spread it over the snow. A shivering, miserable Snarl dropped into the fur as Aravon then hauled on the horse’s reins. The horse knelt and lay down without protest, and Aravon scrambled to pull the treated ice bear pelt over their heads, curling up with Snarl against the horse’s belly.

  Not a moment too soon. The wind blew with such force Aravon had to cling to the shaggy fur just to keep it from being dragged away in the gale. Shards of ice flew fast and furious, and the fur grew terribly heavy beneath the weight of the piled snow.

  Please, Aravon prayed silently to the Swordsman, keep the others safe! Trapped in the darkness beneath what felt like a mountain of fresh-driven snow, that prayer was all he could do for his comrades.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Time stood frozen as Aravon lay trapped within the cocoon of ice. Darkness consumed his world—he only knew his eyes were open when he felt the dryness bring stinging tears. The thump, thump of his pulse echoed loud in his ears, accompanied by Snarl’s quiet breathing and the occasional snort of his horse. The sweat-heavy scent of horse hung thick around him, and the warmth rising off Snarl’s furry body felt stifling when paired with the heat emanating from his horse. Surrounded by heavy furs, crushed beneath the weight of the snow mounded atop him, he could do nothing but wait.

  Wait as the storm raged above his head. He could barely hear it—a thick layer of freshly-driven snow muffled the shrieking wind—but he could feel its intensity humming through his bones. If it couldn’t tear his flesh from his bones, it would bury him alive forever.

  Worry twisted in Aravon’s gut. He hadn’t seen his fellow Grim Reavers get to shelter; the storm had been too thick, the swirling ice too dense, for him to see. He had no idea if the others had managed to dig deep enough. Even now, they could be battling the biting wind while he lay here, warm and comfortable between his furs. Worse, they could be dead, frozen in the chill, their blood turned to ice in their veins. What would he find when he emerged from his shelter? The air pressed in around Aravon, a suffocating, choking pressure that weighed on his chest and made it hard to fill his lungs. He pushed aside grisly images of death in the freezing cold—he had to trust the others were, too. He couldn’t allow himself to think the worst.

  The battle ahead was already challenge enough. The eight of them prepared to take on an unknown force of Eirdkilrs in the closest thing the enemy had to a stronghold or capital. None of them knew how large Praellboer was, or how many Eirdkilr warriors would be waiting there. All they knew was that Tyr Farbjodr would be there. It fell to them to find their enemy and take him down at any cost. It was what Duke Dyrund had gathered them to do.

  Thoughts of the Duke brought back the familiar pang of sorrow. Though Aravon had said his final farewell to the man’s gravestone, the pain of that loss hadn’t truly faded. He could ignore it most of the time—strict focus on the mission kept all other thoughts at bay. But in times like these, the quiet moments, the grief and anguish returned.

  Aravon had known few truly good men in his life. General Traighan might have counted—the Princelands certainly seemed to believe him worth their reverence—but Aravon had never truly known the man he called Father. He’d known officers in the Legion that were loyal, trustworthy, brave, perhaps even honorable.

  But good? Men like that were few and far between. Rangvaldr counted among that small number. Perhaps that was why his god had chosen him to serve as Seiomenn of the Eyrr. From what Aravon had seen of Prince Toran, he seemed a good man, too.

  Duke Dyrund, though, Aravon had known well. The Duke had been a good man to the core of his being—for all his faults and failings, he had a heart as noble, courageous, and upright as the heroes spoken of in the legends of Einan.

  For all the Duke’s cunning, his sharp intellect, his understanding of politics and military tactics, it had been his heart that Aravon truly admired and grown to love. With Duke Dyrund’s death, the Princelands hadn’t just lost a man of power and influence—they’d lost a bit of the good that kept the world from descending into evil.

  Evil like Hrolf Hrungnir, the Blood Queen, and Tyr Farbjodr.

  Aravon had faced many Eirdkilrs across the battlefield, and he could recognize the distinction between a warrior fighting for honor, glory, blood, or vengeance and a cruel, bloodthirsty brute taking out their lust for violence and death on their enemies. Men like Asger Einnauga and the countless Eirdkilrs that had tried to kill Aravon were often simply fighting the war they’d been born into—just as Aravon, Colborn, Captain Lingram, and countless other Princelanders and Einari.

  But there would always be those who used war as an excuse to unleash their innate cruelty. Hrolf Hrungnir hadn’t just defeated Sixth Company in the ambush on the Eastmarch—he’d massacred them, slaughtered them to a man. When he attacked Bjornstadt, he’d fully intended to punish the Eyrr. Men, women, and children, all would have died to send a message to the other Fehlan clans.

  The Blodsvarri had achieved victory over Eirik Throrsson, forcing him to surrender or die in battle. But instead of capturing the Fjall or even executing them, she’d reveled in the torture and gore of the Tolfreadr. That sort of inhuman cruelty could never be anything short of evil—not some supernatural concept, like the demons of old, but the evil that pervaded the hearts, minds, and souls of humans and caused them to inflict such horrors on their fellows.

  And Tyr Farbjodr was the worst of the lot. It had been his strategy that led to the attacks on civilians at Silver Break, Gold Burrows, Steinnbraka Delve, Saerheim, Oldrsjot, and the countless other Fehlan villages, towns, and settlements ravaged by the Eirdkilrs. It had been his authority that gave the Blood Queen command of the Eirdkilrs, by his allowance that she unleashed her brutality on the Fjall. And his had been the mind to plan and execute the attack on Icespire. Tens of thousands of Princelanders—civilian and soldier alike—had died. All so he could cripple the Princelanders’ power and instill holy terror in the invaders.

  Had Duke Dyrund been alive, he would never have suggested any tactics that could lead to such mayhem, turmoil, and misery. He’d planned battles that led to the deaths of thousands of soldiers on both sides of the field, but only a truly cruel mind would plan to kill civilians. From what
the Black Xiphos mercenaries had said, Duke Dyrund had risked his own life to help protect civilians.

  The equation was simple: if Tyr Farbjodr lived, many more innocents would die. Killing him might not end the war, but it could go a long way toward ending the cruelties his armies inflicted, doubtless on his orders.

  Perhaps the next Eirdkilr commander would be less ruthless, less willing to spill innocent blood. At the very least, he might be less capable, and the Legion and Fehlan warbands would be more effective at combatting their attacks. All that mattered was that the Grim Reavers’ actions now would put an end to the evil pouring into the world through the mind and actions of Tyr Farbjodr.

  Even if it costs us our lives. He’d prepared himself for death the moment he determined to ride out of Icespire. A selfish part of him had hoped his Grim Reavers would stay—he had no desire to lead any of them to their deaths—but only a fool would try to attempt this mission alone. He knew it, they knew it, and they had joined him without hesitation.

  The journey to get here had come at a cost. Eleven Legionnaires lay dead, leaving Lingram a Captain with no soldiers. They were all exhausted, wounded, and suffering the cold, hunger, and thirst. Yet they were here. Alive, still far from their target, yet filled with determination and the hope that they’d reach Tyr Farbjodr with strength enough to put him down once and for all.

  And after? None of them would speak or think of after—they’d all resigned themselves to the hands of their gods, the fate that awaited them once they fulfilled their mission.

  Snarl shifted against his chest, gave a little whining bark, and his body tensed. A moment later, the Enfield’s head lifted, furry ears brushing against Aravon’s neck. Something wet and rough rubbed Aravon’s skin—Snarl’s tongue—and again the Enfield whined. Paws digging into Aravon’s armor, Snarl clambered onto his chest and pushed against the furs atop them.