“You idiot!” Skathi snapped again, but her voice lacked any real barb. “You can’t do things like that!”
“Of course…I can.” Belthar gave a weak laugh. “It’s what you do…for people…you love.”
Skathi sucked in a sharp breath. “But…” Again, words failed her.
“Easy.” Rangvaldr knelt by the big man’s side. “Save your strength, Belthar.”
Belthar’s eyes darted toward the Seiomenn. “Had to…say it…just in case—”
“No!” Skathi’s voice cut into the big man’s words, cold and sharp. “Stop it with that shite!” Her eyes flashed and she gripped Belthar’s hand. “You’ve already died on me twice, you lummox. You don’t get to do that a third time, not after dropping something idiotic like that on me. Here, now.”
“It’s…true.” Belthar’s huge fingers closed around hers. “From the day…I saw you…at Camp Marshal…”
“I know.” Skathi’s voice was surprisingly gentle, and she reached her free hand down—blood and all—to run a hand along the side of his masked face. “And that’s why you’re going to shut your Keeper-damned mouth and let the Seiomenn work his magic on you. Keep you alive long enough to give me a chance to call you out for being a wool-headed fool.” She whirled on Rangvaldr. “Heal him!”
The Seiomenn had drawn out his pendant, but his eyes were grim as he stared down at Belthar. “Skathi, it’s—”
“Do it!” The archer’s shout echoed across the ice. “Please, Rangvaldr!” A pleading tone entered her voice. “Bring him back to me.”
Rangvaldr hesitated again. “But the Captain and Zaharis will—”
“No, Rangvaldr.” Aravon cut off the Seiomenn. “Use your strength to heal Belthar.” His head, wounded leg, and bruised spine would doubtless ache for a few days, but he could bear that pain.
Rangvaldr glanced at Zaharis. The bear’s attack had knocked the Secret Keeper down hard, and he stood hunched over his right side. Yet Zaharis, too, waved the Seiomenn on. “Do it.” He shook his head. “I’ve got nothing that won’t fix on its own.”
With a nod, Rangvaldr turned his attention to Belthar. The big man had gone silent, his eyes closed, though his chest still rose and fell. Barely. Aravon pressed two fingers to his huge, bloodstained neck. Belthar’s pulse was faint, thready.
“Do it quickly,” Aravon said. “He’s running out of time.”
Rangvaldr spoke the words of power that brought his holy stone to life, but paused with the pendant still held near his lips. “Captain, Colborn, grab his legs. When I tell you, set the bones back in place.” His eyes darkened. “It’ll hurt like the twisted hell, but it’s the only way he walks away from this.”
Aravon and Colborn took their places by Belthar’s legs. The bone in his right leg had been snapped in half, but the left leg was crushed, the flesh and muscle flattened. He would never have walked again—even now with Rangvaldr’s healing magic, he couldn’t be certain.
The gemstone flared to life, bathing the white ice with a soft blue glow—a glow that turned the bright red blood seeping from the shredded flesh of Belthar’s arm a hideous violet. Drawing in a deep breath, Rangvaldr lowered the gleaming stone to Belthar’s arm and closed his eyes.
Every muscle in the Seiomenn’s spine went rigid, and air hissed between his teeth. Belthar’s shoulders began to jerk and twitch and a tremor shuddered down his body to where Aravon gripped his legs. To his surprise, Aravon could actually feel something humming through the muscle and flesh beneath his gloved fingers. A slight tremor, like the way the ground quaked beneath the thundering hooves of distant cavalry. Yet there was no mistaking the crackling, simmering power transmitted through the holy pendant to heal Belthar.
The flesh of Belthar’s arm began to re-knit before Aravon’s eyes. The blood slowed to a seeping trickle, a few drops, then stopped altogether as skin re-knit and formed pink scars. The sight held him rapt, and in his astonishment, he nearly missed Rangvaldr’s barked command. “Now!”
Colborn’s movement snapped him back to reality, and Aravon gave a quick twist of Belthar’s foot. Bone snapped back into place with a gut-wrenching pop. Belthar’s eyes flew open and a shriek of pain burst from his lips. His screaming rose to a terrible crescendo until the merciful embrace of unconsciousness claimed him once more.
With every hammering beat of his heart, Aravon could actually feel the bone hardening and re-forming beneath his hands. The pulverized muscle and crushed flesh stiffened, grew strong once more, until Belthar’s thick legs were as solid as they’d been before the battle.
Rangvaldr slumped with a gasp, half-falling, but managed to catch hold on Belthar’s armor. His hands trembled as he steadied himself, fought to stay in his upright kneeling position. Exhaustion hunched his shoulders and back, but as he turned to Aravon, relief flooded his eyes. “He’ll dance again.”
Aravon let out a long breath. “And his arm?”
Rangvaldr nodded. “The muscle will pain him for a day or two, but it will heal.”
“Thank you!” Skathi gripped the Seiomenn’s shoulders hard. “Thank you!” She turned back to Belthar and leaned over him, pressing her masked face to his. Quiet words drifted from beneath her mask, her voice too low for any of the others to hear, intended for Belthar’s ears only.
Aravon and Colborn helped Rangvaldr to his feet, then moved away to give the two their space. Aravon glanced at the far shore, where Noll still stood with his bow in hand, Captain Lingram holding the reins of their horses. He gave them the hand signal for “all’s well”, and the tension drained from Noll’s shoulders.
That left just one member of their company. Zaharis remained hunched over, a hand pressed to his side.
Before Aravon could ask the Secret Keeper about his injuries, a quiet whimpering whine echoed from behind him. Snarl! He whirled, his eyes locking on the little orange figure behind him.
The Enfield was struggling to rise, but his right front leg hung at a terrible angle, his left wing drooping and the bone bent. Blood stained his orange fur along his side and seeped from the soft white of his underbelly.
No! Aravon raced toward the little Enfield and reached him just before Snarl collapsed. He scooped up the fox creature and cradled him as he’d cradled the infant Rolyn and Adilon.
“Easy, boy.” Tears blurred Aravon’s eyes and a lump thickened his throat. “Rest easy now. I’ve got you.”
Snarl ceased his struggling. With a little whine and a shiver, he nuzzled closer. Pain filled his amber eyes, but he stared up at Aravon with a look of utter trust.
“I’ve got you, Snarl.” Aravon turned against the wind, shielding Snarl’s body from the wind with his own. “You did good, boy. You did so good.”
He clutched the Enfield close to his chest, felt the beat of the little creature’s heart growing weak. Snarl lost a lot of blood—too much—and the cold only made things worse. Aravon stumbled toward Zaharis’ downed horse and tore at the furs strapped there until one came loose. He wrapped the heavy pelt around Snarl as another shiver racked the Enfield’s lean body.
In that moment, Aravon knew the Enfield was dying. Dying because of his loyalty and bravery. Snarl had attacked the bear—a creature far, far larger, stronger, and faster—to protect Aravon. Aravon would have died had Snarl not intervened when he did. Skathi, Belthar, Zaharis, too, most likely, as the bear would have gone after them once it finished tearing Aravon to shreds.
Snarl had seen the danger to Aravon and Skathi and flown into action without hesitation. He’d risked his life to protect his fellow pack mates.
A hand rested on Aravon’s shoulder. “I will do what I can with what strength I have left.”
Through the blur of tears, Aravon met the Seiomenn’s gaze. “But Zaharis—”
“Insists that I help Snarl.” Kindness shone in Rangvaldr’s eyes.
Aravon’s looked to the Secret Keeper.
Though Zaharis still struggled to stand upright, he signed without hesitation. “We all owe Sna
rl our lives a hundred times over. The least we can do is save his.”
Aravon wept, gratitude and relief surging within him. The thought of losing Snarl struck him a blow as visceral and real as if he’d been about to lose his sons, his wife, or any of the Grim Reavers. Snarl was family.
He stroked Snarl’s head, scratched the Enfield’s scruff, speaking soothing words in the fox’s ears as Rangvaldr once more spoke the words that brought the gemstone to life. Snarl gave only a little whine before closing his eyes and lying still in Aravon’s arms.
Long seconds passed before the light of Rangvaldr’s gemstone darkened, and the Seiomenn stumbled backward. He’d have collapsed if not for Colborn’s strong arms.
“I-I’m sorry.” Rangvaldr’s voice was weak, a hoarse rasp. “That is all…the strength left to me!”
But it was enough. Even as Colborn helped the Seiomenn to hobble back toward the horses, Snarl’s head perked up and his eyes popped open. The Enfield’s bright amber eyes fixed on Aravon’s face, as if surprised to find himself still alive. After a moment, he began to squirm and struggle in Aravon’s arms.
“Take it easy!” Aravon lowered him gently to the ice.
The Enfield tested out his injured leg, found it held him. His wing flapped, the bone re-knit. Though blood still darkened his fur, the wounds no longer bled. He would need time to heal, but he would live.
A triumphant laugh burst from Aravon’s throat. Snarl would live!
Snarl bounded a few paces away, turned, and darted back toward Aravon. He leapt high, flapping his wings, and managed to get a few feet off the ground. Just high enough to crash into Aravon’s chest as he usually did when coming in for a landing. Off-balance, Aravon barely managed to catch the Enfield without falling. Though the impact sent pain flaring down his spine, he couldn’t help laughing aloud, delighted at the return of Snarl’s enthusiasm.
With a happy yip, Snarl set about licking Aravon’s neck and masked face.
“All right, all right!” Aravon pulled the little Enfield out to arm’s length. Snarl’s wings flapped eagerly and his amber eyes gleamed with their usual buoyant exuberance. It seemed he was little worse for the wear—thanks to Rangvaldr.
Yet one look at the blood staining Snarl’s fur, and the happiness within Aravon gave way to sorrow. His smile faded beneath his mask. He stared deep into Snarl’s eyes, and a strange feeling of grief settled over him.
Snarl had followed him across a continent, under the mountains, and into the unforgiving expanse of the icy Wastelands without hesitation. But unlike the other Grim Reavers, Snarl hadn’t known what lay ahead. He had simply followed Aravon, the leader of his pack, with the same brave devotion that had led him to attack an ice bear ten times his size.
Enfields were loyal creatures; loyalty had nearly gotten Snarl killed. Would get him killed if he continued farther south with them. He couldn’t endure the vicious cold, and every moment spent outside Aravon’s furs would be misery. They had little to no food to spare, and there were no small creatures for the Enfield to hunt. Then there was the unknown number of Eirdkilrs that waited for them at Praellboer. On the flat lands of white, Snarl had nowhere to hide, and his bright orange fur would make him far too visible a target for Eirdkilr bows.
No, the best way to keep Snarl from certain danger was to send him home.
Sorrow weighed heavy on Aravon’s shoulders as he brought Snarl close and hugged the little Enfield tightly to his chest. “Go home, Snarl,” he whispered. “Go home, and be safe.”
Snarl seemed to understand him—if not the words, the intention. A low whine issued from his throat and he dug his claws into Aravon’s armor. For the first time, the Enfield refused to obey a direct order.
The lump in Aravon’s throat thickened. Snarl didn’t want to leave him. Didn’t want to say farewell to his pack. He was too loyal, too determined to remain with his family—the two-legged humans he’d adopted since his days at Camp Marshal. The Enfield wouldn’t go. Not unless Aravon gave him no other choice.
Kneeling, he set Snarl down on the ground, then reached into his pouch and drew out a strip of parchment. With one of the charcoal writing sticks Zaharis had given him, he scratched out a short message to Prince Toran. A few simple words, yet it would suffice.
He rolled up the note, removed the cap from Snarl’s steel message tube, and inserted the parchment. Snarl perked up at that, his wings flapping eagerly, amber eyes gleaming. He bounded a few paces away then raced back toward Aravon.
Aravon swallowed hard. This would be the hardest thing he’d done since walking away from his wife and sons in Icespire. “Go home, Snarl.” His voice came out hoarse, thick. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Go home.” He added the command word that would send the Enfield flying away.
Snarl’s ears perked up and his muscles quivered with anticipation. With a happy, yipping bark, he leapt into the air, flapping his wings to gain altitude. His furry body grew smaller and smaller as he rose into the air. Higher, higher, higher, until he was little more than a blur of orange. Circling once, he gave a yapping bark, then sped away to the north.
Aravon watched until the little shape disappeared in the grey clouds. Then his face fell and tears flowed down his cheeks. He stood silent and solemn, sparing a moment of grief for the little Enfield he would likely never see again.
Prince Toran would make certain of it. The Prince would understand the message Aravon had sent him, would understand what to do with Snarl.
“Shields strong and swords sharp,” Aravon had written. “The Grim Reavers march to one last battle."
Chapter Forty-Eight
A loud groan snapped Aravon from his thoughts. Whirling, he found Zaharis falling to one knee, struggling to breathe.
Aravon raced toward the Secret Keeper, catching him before he toppled. A hiss escaped Zaharis’ lips as Aravon slung an arm around his chest. The way he hunched over his left side, Aravon could see he’d likely broken a rib or three.
Then he caught sight of the damage to Zaharis’ leather breastplate: scratch marks, left by a massive bear paw. Grunts of pain escaped the Secret Keeper’s lips with every breath.
“Damn it, Zaharis!” Aravon growled and lowered the man to his back, careful not to shift any fractured bones within the Secret Keeper’s body. “You’re in bad shape, aren’t you?” He set about unbuckling the straps that held Zaharis’ breastplate in place, but the Secret Keeper pushed his hands away.
“Not too bad.” Zaharis’ fingers shook as he signed the words. He gave a strained chuckle, which quickly cut off into a sharp, pained hiss. “I’ve felt worse…after a night of too many drinks.” He barely finished the sentence before his hand went back to pressing against his left side.
“I’m sure you have,” Aravon said, though he knew the Secret Keeper well enough to recognize Zaharis’ attempt at playing tough. “But you’re in no condition to ride. We should have used the Seiomenn’s strength to heal y—”
“No!” Fire pierced the pain in Zaharis’ eyes. “It was my choice that Rangvaldr heal Snarl. The right choice.” He coughed, a weak, rasping blessedly free of fluid—at least there was that small mercy that he hadn’t punctured a lung. “I’ll survive until he recovers his strength.”
Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. It would be at least a day, perhaps more, before the Seiomenn recovered enough to heal Zaharis. He’d expended most of his strength on Belthar’s mortal wounds, and healing Snarl had drained the rest. Now he was too exhausted to do more than sit huddled in the pile of furs Colborn had arranged on the ice-covered southern bank of the frozen river. The Lieutenant, Lingram, and Noll stood beside the Seiomenn and the horses, but at Aravon’s silent hand signal, Noll hurried over to help Zaharis limp toward his mount.
Aravon knew he ought to scold the Secret Keeper—each one of the Grim Reavers would prove vital for the success of the mission, and Zaharis’ alchemical knowledge made him invaluable—but the man was in pain enough already. Besides, they had only a few hours of r
iding before night fell and they could rest. If Zaharis believed he could endure that long, he deserved Aravon’s respect and trust enough to let the matter lie.
“Lingram, get Rangvaldr to his horse and help him mount up,” Aravon called to the Legion officer. “And keep an eye on him until he has a chance to rest.”
With a nod, Captain Lingram stooped to help the exhausted Seiomenn rise.
The scuffling of heavy boots sounded behind Aravon. Glancing back, he found Belthar limping toward the southern shore, one huge arm draped across Skathi’s powerful shoulders. Something had transpired between them in those quiet moments. Something between them had changed…for the better, it seemed. Belthar had risked everything to speak his truth. A truth, it appeared, that Skathi shared. At the very least, she hadn’t rejected him outright.
Aravon studied the big man’s faltering gait. The simple fact that he could stand paid testament to the miraculous power of Rangvaldr’s healing stones. His legs, pulverized mere minutes earlier, held him upright, though Belthar grunted with every step. The bones had healed but the pain would remain a while yet.
His armor, however, was far worse off. The bear’s raking claws had torn away the leather pauldron and armor protecting his arm from shoulder to elbow. The biting wind and cold of the tundra would pose a serious risk, but when it came time for battle, that vulnerable spot in his armor left him far too exposed to enemy weapons for Aravon’s comfort. Without access to leather or metal-working tools, they had no way to repair the armor. Belthar would have to keep the arm covered in the heavy ice bear and wolf furs they’d taken from the Tauld village—it was the best they could do.
Aravon’s eyes strayed to the massive figure of the ice bear slumped atop the ice. A grisly halo of red radiated outward from the beast’s head, blood staining the pristine snow—a single spot of color amidst a world of white.
“Damn!” Colborn’s voice echoed at Aravon’s elbow, quiet and grim. “No wonder the Eirdkilrs prize their pelts so much.”
“Aye.” Aravon nodded. The bear’s fur and thick layer of fat had shrugged off Noll’s arrows as if they were mere stones thrown by a child. Legends of the Eirdkilrs claimed the giant barbarians had to kill one of these bears to earn their warrior’s pelts. Aravon could imagine such stories held a grain of truth—the Eirdkilrs he’d faced in battle had proven themselves fierce, fearsome fighters, indeed, hardened by the bitter cold and harsh living south of the Sawtooth Mountains. That explained why the Eirdkilrs continued to wear their massive, filthy ice bear pelts even in the warmer north—those furs were their badge of honor, the warrior’s mark.
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