“Shame we don’t have time to skin and treat the pelt,” Colborn said, adjusting his own bear fur cloak higher on his shoulders. “It’d come in mighty handy.”
Aravon shrugged. Even if they’d had the time, they lacked any of the typical preservatives—such as salt, sawdust, or potash—used by Fehlan and Princelander furriers. Yet perhaps it wouldn’t be useless. “What about the meat? That’s got to be at least a few hundred-weight we could take with us.” They would grow tired of frozen, dried, and salted fish very quickly.
Colborn shook his head. “The meat of carnivores can do strange things to the mind and body.” He shot a sidelong glance at Aravon. “It can turn men savage. Some believe that’s what happened to the Eirdkilrs.”
Aravon’s lips twisted into a frown. Perhaps Colborn was right and the consumption of the ice bear meat had twisted the Eirdkilrs’ minds, turned them into the bloodthirsty barbarians that had waged war on Fehl for more than a century. But it had to be more than just that. The Eirdkilrs had sprung from their hatred of the Princelanders—the invaders that had driven them from their homes, forced them to flee to the cold, cruel south. That rage, resentment, and animosity was enough to turn the fierce, proud Tauld warriors into the feral Eirdkilrs.
“But we can save the horse’s meat.” Colborn’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Croup and quarters for sure, maybe even the loins. Though we’ll have to butcher it quickly before it freezes.”
Aravon looked at Zaharis’ horse…what was left of it. The beast’s head lay a half-dozen paces from its body, its blood already soaked into the white snow and frozen hard as ice. His supplies, pack, and furs were either stained crimson or shredded by the bear’s claws.
Damn! Another of the Duke’s prized horses, worth a fortune and specially bred for their hardiness and endurance, the key to the Grim Reavers’ mobility, lost to the mission. They’d nearly lost Zaharis, Belthar, Snarl, and Skathi, too.
Aravon forced the grim thought from his mind. He had no time to dwell on how close they’d come to death here. They needed to push on, cover as much distance as possible before nightfall.
“Do it,” he told Colborn. “Get what you can, and let’s move before the ice cracks.” The frozen surface of the river had supported the bear’s weight without issue, but he wouldn’t take chances. Besides, they had already lost far too much time—time was running out to reach Praellboer, and they had a lot of ground to make up.
“Might want to take a look at that.” Colborn gestured to Aravon’s leg. “It’ll get worse before it gets better, and the cold won’t do your body any favors.”
Aravon glanced down and his eyes widened at the sight of the three long, deep furrows gouged into his calf and the side of his knee. He hadn’t felt the pain or the sensation of the blood freezing to his skin. But as he strode toward his horse to retrieve bandages to bind the wound, the pain made itself known.
His skull, face, chest, and back ached where they’d struck the ice hard. His knee twinged with every step; the joint hadn’t torn and the bone escaped unbroken, but his movements grew sluggish as swelling set in. A biting chill radiated along his leg; the frozen blood surrounding his wound slowed circulation to the limb.
He wrapped thick layers of bandages around the wound, hoping the warmth of his body would melt the blood in time, keep the bite of frost at bay. He’d also have to check on it again later to make certain it wasn’t infected.
By the time he’d finished treating his injuries, Colborn returned with the meat butchered from the slain horse. The rest of the Grim Reavers had already saddled up—Skathi with only a hint of unsteadiness as she swung up onto her horse, though she waved away any attempts to help her. Zaharis sat hunched over in the saddle of their last remaining horse, pain bright in his eyes. Rangvaldr looked half-exhausted, half-dazed, his gaze unfocused. Captain Lingram held the lead rope to the Seiomenn’s horse; he’d ride beside Rangvaldr, make sure he remained in his saddle.
By the time they rode away from the frozen-over river and the grisly corpses of the slain bear and horse, the sun had dropped to just a hand’s width above the western horizon. The cloud-covered sky grew slowly dim, the light grey giving way to increasingly darker shades. Less than two hours after their battle with the ice bear, Aravon gave the order to halt and make camp on the leeward side of a snow dune.
Not a moment too soon. Rangvaldr wobbled and wavered in his saddle, held upright only by Captain Lingram’s hand on his arm. He seemed not to notice anything, simply collapsed into Lingram’s arms as the Legionnaire helped him to dismount. The Seiomenn settled into the pile of furs Colborn arranged for him and promptly fell asleep.
Belthar’s limp had grown more pronounced, though he managed to dismount with only a few grunts of pain. Skathi moved toward him and he made no attempt to dissuade her efforts to help him. Indeed, he seemed to welcome them, welcome her presence near him. And the archer, too, appeared to have grown suddenly more comfortable with the big man. Not just staying close to his side—far closer than Aravon had seen her to anyone besides Snarl—but even holding his arm and hand as she helped him sit on the pile she’d made of both their furs.
Aravon glanced at Zaharis, found the Secret Keeper struggling to dismount. The pain in his chest and ribs had worsened over the pounding miles of riding. Thankfully, Noll sprang to action, unrolling his furs and blankets across the ice. The Secret Keeper settled to the ground with a grateful nod for the scout.
The evening meal was a solemn, quiet affair. Rangvaldr never stirred from sleep. Zaharis ate sparingly, moving as little as possible. Without a word, Colborn doled out their rations—the dried fish they’d taken from the Tauld; none of them were ready to eat the meat taken from their slain mount just yet—and the Grim Reavers ate in silence. Only the whistling of the wind, the snuffling of their horses, and the crunch of their boots on the soft snow broke the stillness.
One by one, the Grim Reavers settled into their furs. Zaharis first—or he simply stopped moving and closed his eyes, though whether he slept, Aravon couldn’t be certain. Noll produced his little bottle of Nyslian brandy and took a quick sip, tucking it away before the others could steal his prized possession, then rolled himself in his furs. Captain Lingram settled onto his back, his eyes open and fixed on the cloud-covered blackness filling the heavens.
Quiet whispering passed between Skathi and Belthar as they moved away from the fire. The archer spoke into the big man’s ear, her hand toying with his. A storm of emotions warred on Belthar’s face, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. When Skathi pressed a fierce, passionate kiss to the big man’s lips and pulled him toward her furs, Aravon and Colborn, the only two still sitting upright, made a point of turning away from the pair. It was the closest semblance to privacy they could offer.
A smile tugged on Aravon’s lips. Good for them. Belthar had harbored feelings for the archer since the beginning, and it was good to know Skathi returned them. The knowledge that two of his Grim Reavers had found a moment of happiness amidst the darkness lifted his spirits.
Aravon settled back into his blankets, but sleep would not come. He’d only eaten a handful of the salty, dried fish before his stomach rebelled, and even the water he’d gulped down didn’t help it sit quite right. The throbbing in his muscles, spine, head, face, and wounded leg made it difficult to rest.
But it was Snarl’s absence that kept sleep at bay. For weeks, he had curled up every night with the Enfield at his side. Without the warmth of Snarl’s furry body, the night felt cold, the wind sinking icy fangs deeper than ever. And the emptiness between his arms, the space where Snarl had nestled, filled him with a terrible loneliness—a loneliness that drove home the truth of everything he’d given up for the sake of this mission.
Rising to his feet, Aravon stood and climbed the slope of the snow dune. The bracing wind hit him square in the face, a shock of cold that sent shivers down his bruised and aching spine. Yet he forced himself to stand straight, to take a deep breath
of the fresh air, and to let the stinging chill wash away the gloom that filled his soul.
His words to Prince Toran echoed through his mind. “Shields strong and swords sharp. The Grim Reavers march to one last battle." Despite everything they’d endured since leaving Icespire, the Grim Reavers still survived, still stood with strength enough to fight. Tyr Farbjodr would die, one way or another. He would live long enough to make certain of it.
But after…well, he had written “one last battle” for a reason. In his heart, he knew that they wouldn’t live to see home again. The odds were stacked too high against them, and the stakes too high to fail. They had all resolved to succeed even at the cost of their own lives. And given everything this mission had thrown at them, that was a price he expected to pay.
The sound of boots crunching on snow echoed behind him. Aravon glanced back, found Colborn climbing the dune. The Lieutenant took up position at his side in silence and together, the two soldiers stared southwest. There, somewhere over the horizon, they would find Tyr Farbjodr. Find him, and Keeper knew how many Eirdkilrs at his side. But no matter how strong his army or how mighty his defenses, the Grim Reavers would find a way. That was what they did, what they’d done so many times in the past.
“You did the right thing, you know.” Colborn’s quiet voice cut through the whistling wind.
The words caught Aravon by surprise. He shot a quizzical glance at the Lieutenant.
Colborn’s gaze never left the dark expanse of empty land to the southwest as he spoke. “Sending Snarl home.”
“I know.” Aravon swallowed the lump in his throat, forced a quiet chuckle. “A part of me wishes I could do the same for the rest of you.”
Colborn snorted. “And leave you to have all this fun alone?”
A smile spread on Aravon’s lips. Colborn could downplay even the gravest threats—a soldier’s way of stealing the fear from dangers that would paralyze or shatter the souls of the untrained.
“In all seriousness, though,” Colborn said, his voice growing solemn, “a part of me knows that this is what we were meant to do.”
Aravon turned a questioning look on his Lieutenant. “What do you mean?”
Colborn met his eyes now. “Look at us.” He gestured to the six Grim Reavers sleeping below them. “Nowhere else will you find a group as mismatched and disparate. But put us all together, and we’ve got exactly what is needed to pull off something of this magnitude.” He gave a little shake of his head. “No way the Duke could have known that it would come to this, but there’s a voice inside me that tells me that we were all called for a reason.”
Aravon’s eyebrows rose. He’d never expected something like that from Colborn—the Lieutenant had never shown the slightest inclination toward superstition or faith.
“Don’t look at me like that, Captain.” Colborn gave a wry chuckle. “Facing certain death tends to make a man wax philosophical.”
“Well said, Scholar Denethar!” Aravon laughed. “But I agree with you. The Duke called us together for this, but he couldn’t possibly have known what would be asked of us. It is the Swordsman’s guiding hand that has brought us this far, and by his grace, we’ll reach the end together.”
“Aye.” Colborn nodded. “And even if there’s no ‘happily ever after’ for us, it’s enough to know our people get a chance at a better life.” His words grew quiet, heavy. “Your family. My grandmother. Noll’s wife and children. Princelanders, Fehlans, and mainlanders.” He shrugged. “That’s good enough for me. Good enough to go out with you and the others. The best end a soldier like me could ever have asked for.”
Aravon inclined his head, but said nothing. No words were needed. Colborn, like Aravon, had accepted the fate that doubtless awaited them. The Lieutenant had gone into this mission knowing it would likely end in his death—all the Grim Reavers had. All that remained was to pull off the miraculous victory and execute Tyr Farbjodr. After that…
Well, he could deal with after if he ever had that chance.
Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon lifted his face to the heavens. The clouds above his head had parted to reveal a few stars twinkling high in the night sky. There was something beautiful about those tiny pinpricks of light. The gods smiled down at the Grim Reavers, offering a glimpse into the brilliance of the Sleepless Lands and the afterlife that awaited the deserving. Hopefully, he and his soldiers would earn that place by the Swordsman, to join the heroes gone to stand watch for eternity. Could join General Traighan, Duke Dyrund, Lord Morshan, General Rodalus, and every other brave man and woman that had fallen in service to—
“Captain!” Colborn’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Take a look at that.” A strange urgency edged his words.
Aravon looked down to find the Lieutenant staring off into the distance. He followed the Lieutenant’s gaze, and the sight that greeted him set his heart racing.
Far off, easily twenty or thirty miles west of them, was the unmistakable flicker of light. Not the stars shining in the sky—no, these were far closer, and they moved. A long strand of orange-glowing lights that snaked along the horizon, disappeared into the darkness, then reappeared farther south.
Aravon sucked in a breath. “Torches!”
“Yes.” Eager anticipation echoed in Colborn’s voice, and excitement surged within Aravon’s chest.
They had found their enemy.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Blessed Swordsman!
Horror twisted in Aravon’s gut as he peered down at the column of ragged, fur-clad figures slogging through ankle-deep mud and snow. From where he lay just beneath the crest of a hill overlooking the crude trail, he could see only the front end of the line of torches that stretched at least a mile north before disappearing around another gently rising snow dune.
The flickering flames shone on the men and women marching with their emaciated, terrified children clutched in their arms, clinging to their ankles, or trudging along wailing and whimpering in their wake. By Aravon’s count, more than eight hundred souls.
All Princelanders and Fehlans.
Some had the white-blond hair of the Eyrr, blockier features of the Deid, and a few the bright red hair native to the Fjall. Others wore the ragged clothing of the Myrr or bore the malnourished, uncoordinated gait that marked them as Bein flesh-eaters. But among the Fehlans, Aravon caught sight of far too many dark-haired Eastfallians, rangy Westhaveners, and even a few of the stockier men and women of Oldcrest.
All bore bruises—some faded and yellowed with age, many more fresh and a vicious purple-and-black—and blood trickled from countless wounds, broken noses, and split lips. None wore furs capable of staving off the cold; many were clad in clothing torn by enemy hands or long ago gone threadbare, and shivers wracked their bodies as they struggled to keep pace with their captors.
Keeper’s teeth! The ice beneath Aravon’s belly seeped into his veins. So many of them!
More than a hundred Eirdkilrs herded the captives south. The crack of whips echoed loud in the darkness, underscored by growled commands and barked orders in the guttural language of the Eirdkilrs. Fur-clad warriors with enormous axes, spears, and metal-studded clubs shouted down at the gaunt, shivering, exhausted prisoners, shoving any who lagged or slowed in the march through the frozen tundra.
Not one of the captives had the look of a warrior, but their backs and shoulders had been broadened by years of labor rather than swinging swords or carrying shields. Wagons heaped high with picks, shovels, sledgehammers, chisels, and hand carts rumbled through the mud, drawn by the shaggy-haired beasts Aravon had encountered at the Tauld village. More came on behind, canvas covering the mound of stone that rattled and clacked every time the carts’ iron-rimmed wheels bumped through the ruts and potholes in the bemired road.
Aravon’s gut clenched. The miners and their ghoulstone!
The Eirdkilrs had taken captives from the mine at Silver Break Mine in Eyrr Territory and Gold Burrows in the Deid lands. Their attempts to capture Shalandrans at
Steinnbraka Delve and Princelanders at Lastcliff had only failed because of Aravon and the Grim Reavers. But he had no doubt in his mind: these were miners. Perhaps not the same ones taken from the two mines, perhaps not even skilled at working stone. But the Eirdkilrs would put them to work nonetheless. Doing what, Aravon couldn’t know. Not yet. Instinct told him that he’d find the answer if he followed the ragged column of captives south.
The Eirdkilrs’ torches flickered and guttered in the icy wind rolling across the snow dunes. The cold seeped through Aravon’s furs and sliced into bones—he could only imagine the misery endured by the barely-clothed prisoners below. A shudder of disgust rippled down his aching spine as he gave the signal to fall back.
He, Noll, Colborn, and Skathi crawled backward down the shallow incline to where the other Grim Reavers and the horses stood waiting.
“Miners,” Colborn signed, his fingers flashing in the pale moonlight. “I’d guess close to eight or nine hundred.”
“Going where?” Belthar asked in the silent hand language.
“My guess,” Aravon put in, “Praellboer.” According to the map he’d gotten from Harlund, only one settlement of any size existed this far south of Saetavirki, the larger fortress built near the mouth of Snowpass. And if Tyr Farbjodr was in Praellboer, Aravon wouldn’t be surprised to find the Eirdkilr commanding whatever he’d taken so many captives to accomplish.
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