Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  Again, Aravon couldn’t help his confusion. If it was me planning a mass invasion of Fehl, I’d be closer to Snowpass. It made no sense for Tyr Farbjodr to marshal his forces so far south—nearly eighty miles, by Colborn and Noll’s rough calculations. Which makes me wonder what in the fiery hell he’s really got planned.

  He and his Grim Reavers had come here to find out. And, by the Swordsman’s grace, to stop it from happening and put an end to Tyr Farbjodr. They’d left everything behind; home, family, friends. They’d given their strength to reach this point. Had lost comrades, brave souls who sacrificed themselves to help the Grim Reavers arrive here. They had passed the point of no return—now, only success and the death of the Eirdkilr commander mattered.

  “Colborn, Noll,” Aravon signed, “ride ahead, and see where the road leads.” It was far from a proper road—little more than a muddy track carved into the snow by heavy boots and wooden wheels—but it was the closest to civilized they’d encountered south of the Sawtooth Mountains. “We’ll follow more slowly, keep an eye on the column. Make sure they’re actually going where we think they are.”

  He couldn’t be fully certain what the Eirdkilrs intended with the miners, or where they marched their captives. But that was just an excuse—he needed to set a slower pace for the sake of Rangvaldr, Zaharis, and Belthar. The big man tried to hide the pain of his still-healing legs, but the tension in his shoulders and the little hiss that escaped his lips every time he walked belied his efforts. Rangvaldr, thankfully, had recovered enough energy to remain in his saddle, but little more. Even the simple act of concentrating on their conversation seemed to exhaust him.

  Zaharis was by far the worst off. Whatever injuries he’d incurred grew worse with every passing hour. He sat nearly doubled over in his saddle, keeping his seat only by sheer stubbornness and force of will. Once, Aravon could have sworn the Secret Keeper wiped a thread of blood on his furs after a bout of weak coughing, but the shadows of night concealed any trace of crimson. A part of him wanted to give the man a dressing-down for making such a foolish choice, but he couldn’t. Zaharis had chosen to save Snarl. For that, Aravon owed the stubborn man his pretense of concealing his injuries until Rangvaldr recovered enough to heal him.

  Truth be told, the arduous trek south had begun to take a visible toll on all of them. Aravon’s collection of wounds, aches, bruises, and cuts sent painful reminders with every movement. Try as she might, Skathi couldn’t hide the discomfort from her head wound, though she no longer reeled or swayed when moving too quickly. Though Colborn, Captain Lingram, and Noll had avoided injury since the fight with the Rakki, exhaustion weighed as heavily on them as the rest. All were hungry, thirsty, and in dire need of sleep.

  But at the sight of the Eirdkilrs and their captives, the Grim Reavers knew they had no choice but to push on. Grim determination hardened in the seven pairs of eyes staring back at Aravon. They’d keep going, he knew, until their last breath, for the sake of the mission.

  Colborn and Noll rode out a minute later, their saddles loaded with enough supplies and furs to keep them going for four days—as much as Aravon and the others could spare. The snow muffled the thumping of their horses’ hooves, and the shadows of night swallowed them long before they reached the next hill.

  Aravon and the remaining Grim Reavers moved out five minutes after the two scouts. They hurried only as needed—just long enough to draw abreast of the front of the Eirdkilr column—then slowed to match their pace to the plodding captives. The land around them rose to shallow hills and snow dunes that offered just enough concealment to keep out of range of the Eirdkilrs’ flickering torches. For now. When the sun rose, they would be hard-pressed to remain hidden.

  But as one mile traveling southwest turned to two, the hills sloped downward and turned into flatlands once more, depriving the Grim Reavers of concealment. Pale moonlight bathed the endless expanse of white; the glow would illuminate them, make them clearly visible to the Eirdkilrs marching south. They had no choice but to head east for nearly two miles, until they reached a hollow cleft in the ground—likely the remnants of a river long ago frozen over. The depression offered ample concealment, though it made for slow going as they followed its curving, twisting path along the muddy road southwest.

  Aravon glanced at the sky and cursed. Keeper’s teeth! Only a few hours of darkness remained. When the sun inevitably rose and daylight brightened the tundra, the Eirdkilrs would spot them. Unless they wanted the fur-clad giants pursuing them, a battle none of those around him could afford, they needed to get out of sight before the sun rose.

  He scanned the land as far as he could see in the pale moonlight, and hope surged within him as he caught sight of gently rising hills five miles southwest of their position. Though they had to cross a vast expanse of flatlands to reach them, it was a risk worth taking.

  The five-mile ride took less than an hour, though every minute proved nerve-wracking. Aravon’s neck ached from glancing west at the Eirdkilr column again and again. He half-expected to hear a shout of fury piercing the eerie silence of the tundra, to see the torches racing toward him and the howling war cries of the enemy drawing nearer. But, to his relief, the wind blew east, carrying the sounds of their passage away from the enemy to be lost forever in the empty tundra. The heavy snow muffled the horses’ pounding hooves, and they reached the nearest hill without incident.

  Safely in the darkness of the hollow valley between the hills, Aravon slowed their pace, giving the horses and their exhausted riders a chance to rest. Climbing to the crest of a nearby rise, he stared west and north, searching for the light of the Eirdkilr torches. He estimated the column of prisoners was a mile or so behind them—they could afford a few minutes to wait, to rest.

  We can afford it, but can those captives? Aravon’s shoulders tightened. The sight of those wagons filled with mining tools made it clear that Tyr Farbjodr wanted these captives to work stone—though how the Eirdkilr commander intended to use it, Aravon had no idea.

  Yet it couldn’t be a coincidence that his plans revolved around the Fjorlagerfa. The Feast of Death, a day of great power—and of great evil. The Eirdkilrs worshipped Bani, the Mighty Slayer, god of death and suffering. As the Blodsvarri had proven the day she subjected the Fjall to the bloody cruelties of the Tolfreadr, the Eirdkilr commander believed in the savage practices of the ancient Fehlans. Was it so hard to believe Tyr Farbjodr would spill blood—the blood of his Fehlan and Princelander captives—to obtain power?

  A shudder ran down Aravon’s spine. Is that what Lord Eidan meant when he said Farbjodr was ‘summoning his true strength’? The more he considered, the more certain he became. A commander planning an invasion would position his forces at the most tactically advantageous place. If Farbjodr kept this many of his Eirdkilrs so far from Snowpass, it meant he believed this was the best spot to begin his invasion.

  Images of the Fjall warriors dying at the Blood Queen’s hands flashed through Aravon’s mind. So much blood—spilling from hundreds of cuts, shallow and deep, and runes carved into the flesh of screaming, shrieking, dying men. What horrors would these captives endure when Tyr Farbjodr sacrificed them at the Feast of Death in the name of power?

  It didn’t matter that Aravon had no idea what power—if any—the Eirdkilr would gain by so much death. What mattered was that Tyr Farbjodr died. And, if the Swordsman was merciful, the captive Fehlans and Princelanders escaped the slaughter the Eirdkilr intended.

  Aravon glanced at the eastern sky, where the first hints of daylight warned of the approaching dawn. He reached for his bone whistle and placed it to his lips—he needed to send word of their position to Colborn and Noll, make sure the two knew where to find them.

  He drew in a breath to blow, but caught himself. Exhaling, he let the whistle fall from his lips. Snarl was gone, sent back to Icespire. He had no way to find his two Grim Reavers in the darkness now. He’d have to trust that the two men, experienced scouts and trackers, would find them.


  Returning to his companions, he mounted up and resumed the journey southwest. Though the ever-brightening sky filled him with an increasing sense of urgency—the day after next, the sun would rise on the Feast of Death—he forced himself to keep his pace slow and steady. They had to stay within sight of the Eirdkilr column—little over a mile to the west and slightly north of their position. As long as they did, Colborn and Noll had a chance of finding them.

  Slowly, the day brightened, and the threads of blue-grey crept steadily westward. The sun peered over the horizon, flooding the icy landscape with brilliant hues of gold, orange, and crimson.

  To Aravon’s relief, he caught sight of two dark figures riding north among the hills. Even from a mile away, he knew it had to be Colborn and Noll.

  Yet the sight of them set his mind racing. They’d only come back so quickly if they found something important. They couldn’t have traveled more than twenty or thirty miles in the time it had taken Aravon and his companions to catch up. Worry gnawed at his gut, his nerves growing ragged. It seemed an eternity before Colborn and Noll finally reached them.

  “It’s Praellboer, no doubt about it,” Colborn signed. He jerked a thumb over his shoulders. “Six miles southwest, right about where Harlund’s map said it would be.”

  Something in the Lieutenant’s eyes set Aravon’s teeth on edge. “And?”

  Colborn and Noll exchanged glances, a moment of puzzled hesitation passing between them. “But the Eirdkilrs aren’t stopping there,” the Lieutenant continued.

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re taking the captives through the city and heading farther south,” Noll’s fingers flashed.

  Confusion thrummed within Aravon. He’d assumed Tyr Farbjodr would want the captives close at hand—as sacrifices for the Feast of Death, or for whatever other reason he’d brought them this far south. But if the prisoners were being herded beyond the city, it meant that Tyr Farbjodr wasn’t in Praellboer as Harlund had said. Either that, or he wanted them for some other task somewhere else.

  It doesn’t make sense! Aravon’s brow furrowed. Then again, so much of what Tyr Farbjodr has done over the last few months didn’t appear to make sense until it did.

  He racked his brain, trying to figure out Farbjodr’s plan. The Eirdkilr commander had proven utterly unpredictable, his attacks seeming random until Aravon and his Grim Reavers deciphered the pattern and purpose behind each action. Farbjodr wanted to not only strike at his Fehlan and Princelander enemies, but he intended something with the ghoulstone.

  The answer lay in the ghoulstone, of that Aravon was certain. His eyes darted to Zaharis, dropped to the man’s pouch. Within lay a chunk of inert stone that had, through the marvels of alchemy, come to life with the same magic that filled Rangvaldr’s healing stone.

  It’s all about that magic. Chaos whirled in Aravon’s thoughts. Why else would he take pains to capture and bring so many miners south? He followed that thread of thought. Which means there’s a ghoulstone mine somewhere south of Praellboer.

  The thought sent icy feet dancing down Aravon’s spine. There was no other reason to keep the miners alive and drag them down here. But eight hundred of them? If the Eirdkilrs had a mine large enough for so many miners, they truly had a vast fortune in ghoulstone.

  A fortune in whatever magic the stone possesses when brought to life.

  Horror twisted in Aravon’s gut. Though he’d only seen the stones healing, every Princelander grew up hearing legends of the Serenii and the earth-shattering power that served their bidding. The Icespire and its magical luminescence stood testament to the ancient race’s might. Who knew what else they had summoned, or what other creations had sprung from their minds?

  Again, the thought chilled Aravon to the bone. Images flashed through his mind: Tyr Farbjodr marching at the head of an army of Eirdkilrs, wielding artifacts of terrible power. Glowing gemstones that brought death instead of life, that destroyed instead of healed. If the Eirdkilr commander knew the secret of transforming the ghoulstone the way Zaharis had, who knew what sort of power or weapons of magic he could wield?

  He wanted to write it off as impossible—Zaharis had claimed that even the Secret Keepers knew only a fraction of the Serenii’s true abilities—but could find no other explanation for Tyr Farbjodr’s actions. Nothing else made sense. Until he was certain what threat the Eirdkilr commander planned to unleash on his enemies, he had to trust his instincts.

  That gave him two problems to deal with: the ghoulstone and Tyr Farbjodr. Eliminating the latter might not solve the former. He and his Grim Reavers had to find a way to handle both at the same time. The eight of them against however many Eirdkilrs surrounded their commander and the enslaved miners.

  He explained his reasoning to his soldiers. “We need to get into Praellboer and find out if Tyr Farbjodr’s there. If so…” He drew his finger across his throat.

  “That’ll be a piece of piss, sure enough.” Noll snorted. “Not that there’s a bloody village filled with Eirdkilrs or anything.”

  Aravon inclined his head. “We’ll figure out a way to deal with them.” Until he saw Praellboer up close, he couldn’t be certain how to deal with the enemy there. And they would have to deal with the Eirdkilrs. Nothing could stop the Grim Reavers from taking down Tyr Farbjodr. “But first, we’ve got to find out what Farbjodr wants with the miners and what he’s going to do with the ghoulstone. That means heading south and following the captives.”

  Noll and Colborn’s eyes darkened, and again they exchanged glances.

  “That’s going to be no easy task.” Colborn’s voice was grim. “Not with the river in the way.”

  “River?” Aravon cocked his head.

  “Three times as broad as the one we crossed yesterday.” The Lieutenant gestured back in the direction they’d come. “Flowing fast, no doubt bloody cold, and cutting through the land just south of Praellboer.” He shook his head. “There may be someplace frozen-over to cross, but from where we were sitting, we didn’t see one.”

  He looked to Noll, and the scout nodded confirmation. “The only way over the river is across the bridge,” Noll said. “The same bridge the Eirdkilrs are herding all their captives across.” His eyes darkened. “Bloody bastards have hundreds more already locked up in Praellboer just waiting their turn to be dragged south.”

  Hundreds more? Aravon’s mind raced. More than a thousand miners in one place meant work on a massive scale. Even with the high attrition rate that came from underfed and under-clothed men toiling in the freezing conditions, the mine they worked would be enormous—easily as large as the operation Lord Aleron Virinus had run at Lastcliff, the largest mine in the Princelands.

  All those miners, harvesting ghoulstone for Farbjodr. The thought sickened him, both at the terrible conditions the workers doubtless endured and at the knowledge of so much power in the Eirdkilr commander’s hands. How much ghoulstone has he collected, ready to be transformed? If the legends of Fehl were to be believed, the power he’d harvest from the blood of his sacrifices at the Feast of Death was far greater than Aravon could begin to imagine.

  Noll seemed not to notice Aravon’s distraction. “Then there’s the fact that it’s going to be damned near impossible to sneak into Praellboer dressed like this.” He gestured to his leather armor. “All the Fehlans and Princelanders I saw down there wore chains and rags, not armor and furs. No way we’re getting in unnoticed.”

  Silence descended over their small company. The Grim Reavers exchanged glances, eyes shadowed by worry, fear, and uncertainty.

  A thought sprang to Aravon’s mind—terrible, utter stupidity, a plan so foolish no sane man would ever consider it. Under any other circumstances, he’d have brushed it aside and tried to find some other way.

  But here, alone with only seven companions, in the midst of the Wastelands, there would be no other way. No other option that enabled them to both scout out Praellboer and find out what Tyr Farbjodr was doing far
ther south.

  He hesitated, unwilling to speak the thought aloud. Once he said it, he would have to go through with it, and that would make life utterly miserable for those that joined him in his folly. He had no desire to put his companions through such suffering—frozen hell, if he was being honest, he had no desire to endure it himself.

  But what other choice is there? He glanced around, at the empty expanse of white that surrounded them. They were too far out of their element. Away from reinforcements, with the Sawtooth Mountains between them and safety. They couldn’t rely on the tactics that had worked for them thus far. Now, they could only take risks—big risks, risks that could get them killed, but that could lead them to victory.

  This insane plan was the only plan Aravon could dream up that had a chance of success.

  “Then we go in the only way we can,” he said in a quiet voice, his gut tightening. “As captives of the Eirdkilrs.”

  Chapter Fifty

  A thunderous silence met Aravon’s statement. Colborn’s eyes narrowed and Captain Lingram cocked his head, but Belthar and Skathi exchanged shocked glances.

  “Say what now?” Noll’s tone echoed doubt and incredulity. “I must have an ear-full of ice, because I could swear I heard you say something about getting captured.”

  Aravon nodded. “You heard right.” He met the gazes of his comrades. “Belthar’s the only one of us that can pass as Eirdkilr, and you’ve all heard him try to speak Fehlan.”

  Both Colborn and Rangvaldr cringed visibly. Belthar ducked his head, embarrassment sparkling in his eyes.

  Aravon didn’t say it to shame Belthar, simply to state a fact. Fiery hell, even his Fehlan couldn’t pass scrutiny. And given the guttural inflection of the Eirdkilrs’ tongue, it was doubtful Colborn or Rangvaldr would avoid suspicion—height notwithstanding.

  And therein lay the real problem. “The rest of us are just too small.” Aravon looked to each of the Grim Reavers. “And, as Noll said, everyone not an Eirdkilr down there is a captive. Which means if we’re going to get into Praellboer and find Tyr Farbjodr, we’re going to have to blend in.”