Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  “I get that, Captain, but…” Noll trailed off. He glanced at his comrades for back-up. “Really, no one has a better idea than getting ourselves locked up with the rest of those poor bastards?”

  “We could always set you loose in the tundra and have the Eirdkilrs hunt you down,” Colborn offered. “But that’ll only draw a few away. It won’t take all of them to capture one mouthy scout.”

  Noll’s scowl deepened.

  “If there was any other way, trust me, I’d take it.” Aravon looked at his companions. “But unless you’ve got another idea, it’s the only option we’ve got.”

  A long, tense silence descended over their company. Clearly not a popular plan, but in lieu of another option, none of them had a particularly strong argument against it.

  Aravon made a show of removing his mask. The chill wind buffeted his face, stung his cheeks and nose, but he forced his expression to calm. “So who’s coming with me?”

  “With you?” Steel edged Skathi’s voice. “What makes you think you’re the best-suited for the job?”

  “Because there’s no way I’m sending anyone else in there and not going myself.” Aravon’s voice brooked no argument. “It’s a bloody risky proposition, and I’m damned well going to be there to make sure it goes off without a hitch.”

  The rest of the Grim Reavers exchanged glances. Silence one moment, then an explosion of voices. All seven volunteered—even Zaharis and Rangvaldr, the worst-off of their company, spoke up without hesitation.

  Pride glowed bright and hot within Aravon. Impossible odds and suicidal plan or not, the soldiers under his command never wavered, never shirked from their tasks. He couldn’t have asked for a better company to captain.

  But he couldn’t take them all. In the end, he settled on three: himself, Colborn, and Captain Lingram, the three least likely to draw the Eirdkilrs’ attention.

  Skathi’s red hair could blend in amongst the Fjall, but her ability with a bow made her best-suited to covering their retreat. Belthar’s enormous build would stand out immediately among the captives—the Eirdkilrs would instantly know something was amiss if a giant appeared in their ranks. With Colborn going in, they needed Noll’s scouting abilities to watch for their escape. And, despite their insistence, Aravon had no intention of letting Rangvaldr or Zaharis anywhere near danger. The Seiomenn needed rest almost as badly as the Secret Keeper needed to recover from his injuries.

  “Whatever happens, we’re likely going to have to flee in a hurry,” Aravon told them. “Without Snarl, I’ve no way to contact you.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out, Captain,” Noll said. “You just focus on staying alive long enough to put Tyr Farbjodr in the ground, and we’ll have a warm cloak and hot meal waiting for you.”

  Aravon gave him a grim smile. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  The eight of them undertook the journey to Praellboer in tense silence. Aravon spent the time going over their plan—what little he could conceive with the scarce information Colborn and Noll could provide him. The sooner they got what they needed, the sooner they could escape. Before the cold, the work, or the Eirdkilrs killed them.

  Dread settled in his belly when Colborn finally reined in. “We go on foot from here,” the Lieutenant said in a quiet voice.

  Aravon dismounted and, before he could change his mind, he shrugged out of the heavy fur cloak. The icy wind blasted him full in the chest, the cold constricting his lungs with such force he struggled for each breath. His fingers grew numb within a minute of pulling off the fur-lined gloves and made it near-impossible to loosen the straps and buckles holding his armor and helmet in place. By the time he removed his boots, he could hardly feel his hands and his ears and nose throbbed with the chill. He struggled to wrap the strips of ice bear pelt around his feet for makeshift boots as crude and ragged as those used by the captives—but hopefully warmer.

  Relinquishing his sword and spear left him feeling vulnerable. He hadn’t been without a weapon in more than fifteen years—now, he had nothing, not even a belt knife. Last he took off Snarl’s bone whistle, the Prince’s silver pendant, and the crude iron Swordsman pendant Belthar had given him. He felt naked without them—in this biting chill, wearing nothing but his thin undertunic and rough leather trousers, he practically was.

  By the time he finished, Colborn and Captain Lingram stood equally unclothed and empty-handed. And as bloody damned cold as he.

  He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering and forced a smile. “Swordsman be with you all,” he told the five Grim Reavers. “And for the Keeper’s sake, find a way to get us the fiery hell out of here once we’ve completed our mission!”

  * * *

  Approaching Praellboer proved far easier than Aravon had expected. The rising sun shone bright at their backs, the slanting rays of morning light casting a harsh, blinding glare into the eyes of any Eirdkilrs watchers looking east. But given their location—in the middle of the Wastelands, far south of any potential enemies—it seemed the barbarians beyond the Sawtooth Mountains didn’t bother with such trivialities as guards or defenses.

  Praellboer was a vast settlement, stretching nearly two miles east to west and a little over one mile north to south. To Aravon’s surprise, the town appeared as organized as Kaldrborg, Storbjarg, or Bjornstadt. More than a hundred stone-and-mud longhouses stood in neat rows intersected by muddy lanes and interspersed with smaller, round structures built from blocks of ice. A low wall—also built of stone, mud, and hard-packed ice—stood up to chest height, tall enough to give ice bears and other tundra predators pause but of little defensive value. But the ferocious Eirdkilrs ruled the Wastelands supreme. They needed fear no assaults or enemies.

  Until now, that is. A grim smile touched Aravon’s lips as he slipped into cover behind the stone-and-ice wall. To his knowledge, this was the first time the Princelanders had managed to slip any sizeable fighting force this deep into enemy territory. He could see why it hadn’t been attempted before. The chill was an effective defense all on its own. Legionnaires with heavy shields and weapons and armor of metal would doubtless freeze to death long before they reached Praellboer. Even the exertion of the half-mile trek toward the Eirdkilr town did little to push back the chill.

  The damp only made things worse. Already the first hints of moisture had begun seeping through his foot wrappings, which could lead to the same sores and frozen feet that had given Colborn such grief.

  Aravon rose slowly and, peering over the wall to make sure no Eirdkilrs were around, vaulted over and darted behind a nearby longhouse. Colborn and Captain Lingram were a step behind him, and they kept close on his heels as he slipped around an ice hut toward the nearest of the large muddy lanes cutting through Praellboer.

  In the distance, they caught sight of the first captives being marched into Praellboer. The time had come to play their roles as captives.

  Crouching, Aravon scooped up a handful of freezing cold mud and rubbed it across his face, hands, and clothing. Added to the blood, sweat, and dirt staining his simple undertunic, the additional layer of muck completed his ragged appearance. Next he removed the bandages covering the ice bear claw wound on his leg. Unless the Eirdkilrs looked too closely, he would have no trouble passing for any one of the captives.

  An equally muddy Colborn and Captain Lingram followed him along the longhouse toward the muddy road. There they crouched behind a mud-built house, watching the progression of the captives. More specifically, of the Eirdkilrs driving their prisoners along the muddy lanes. With only a hundred or so barbarians to herd more than eight hundred Fehlans and Princelanders, there were ample gaps in the lines.

  Aravon chose his moment carefully, moving only when he was certain the nearest Eirdkilrs looked away. Five quick steps brought him close enough to slip into the crowd of exhausted, filthy, battered captives shuffling slowly up the muddy lane. The nearest paid him no heed—too tired and miserable to look up—as he took his place among their ranks. Head hanging low, sh
oulders hunched, he leaned into his limp and matched his pace to their limping slog.

  He studied the city from beneath the curtain of his long, dark hair. A part of him had half-expected Praellboer to be as chaotic and tumultuous as the Eirdkilr encampment he had attacked outside Anvil Garrison, all those long weeks ago. A place of roaring, shouting, drinking, swearing, and battling warriors. A home filled with blood, torture, and death.

  Praellboer had little in common with the image most Princelanders had of the Eirdkilrs. If anything, the Eirdkilr town bore a strong resemblance to Kaldrborg, though with structures made of ice, mud, and stone rather than wood. The blood that ran in the streets trickled from the slit throats of animals hung up to dry over dung fires. Noise echoed loud all around him—the crack of the Eirdkilrs’ whips, the shouts and barked orders as they herded their captives, but also the sounds of barter, the conversations of men and women, the laughter of children splashing through the streets.

  The utter humanity of Praellboer seemed so at odds with the Eirdkilrs he’d spent the last decade-and-a-half battling. Yet those had been the warriors; these were the civilians, the people who lived simple lives and rarely strayed far from home. Men and women who had no choice but to survive the harsh climate of the barren tundra any way they could.

  So are these Eirdkilrs, then, or Tauld? Or both? A strange thought struck him. Do the civilians here see the Eirdkilrs the same way Princelanders see the Legion of Heroes?

  To the citizens of Icespire, the Legion of Heroes was the strong shield and sharp sword that kept the savage Eirdkilrs at bay. Was that the same here for the Eirdkilrs? Did the people here see the ruthless warriors as heroes battling in a valiant war to reclaim land stolen by the invading “half-men”?

  The women and children of Praellboer called greetings to the slavers, who answered with friendly words in their guttural tongue. That sight unsettled him, set chaos whirling in his thoughts.

  The things he’d seen since coming south of the Sawtooth Mountains—from the settlement at Highcliff Motte to the nameless village he’d raided to this Eirdkilr town—contrasted sharply with everything he thought he knew about the Eirdkilrs. What he’d been taught by his father and his Legion commanders, and what men like Lord Derran believed. Even Duke Dyrund had seen the Eirdkilrs as nothing more than savages. Yet had the Duke seen this, seen the simple mundanity of the Eirdkilr life, things might have been different. He might have pressed the Prince to try harder to negotiate with the Eirdkilrs.

  The man before him, a Princelander, suddenly stumbled and fell, splashing into the muck. Before Aravon could move to help him, the nearest Eirdkilrs were on the emaciated, ragged man. Whips cracked and long red lines of blood burst open on the man’s back. Crying out, the man struggled to rise, but cold, hunger, and exhaustion left him too weak to stand. He fell back to the mud and lay still as the Eirdkilrs beat him again and again, first with whips, then with savage blows of their heavy boots. All the while, they snarled curses in their guttural tongue, heaping verbal abuse on the “pathetic half-man”. When they finally stopped, the Princelander did not rise. Did not move.

  The man beside Aravon, a Fehlan with the thick features of a Deid, tripped, but Aravon caught him before he fell. Steadying him, he helped the Deid to struggle onward, carrying most of the man’s weight. The Deid could do little more than stumble along at his side, one foot plodding wearily in front of the other, too lost to his misery and fatigue.

  Aravon kept his pace steady, supporting the Fehlan while keeping his head down, eyes locked on the muddy street. Melting snow and ice trickled in long rivulets through the foot-churned muck. Yet slowly, Aravon realized the nondescript brown of the mud turned to a deep, dark rust color.

  The streets ran red with blood.

  Aravon lifted his eyes, and horror twisted in his gut. In the distance, in the broad open space that marked the heart of every Fehlan town, massive pens had been erected. Stone served as the solid foundation and metal provided the framework and crude ceiling, with blocks of muddy ice thrown up haphazardly for walls. Hundreds of eyes peered through the barred iron gate of the nearest pen, faces gaunt and dark-eyed, covered in blood, mud, and snot. A steady stream of crimson trickled under the gate, joining the mud and water thickening the streets.

  The crack of the Eirdkilr whips grew louder as they herded their captives toward the square and the prison that awaited them. Shouts and barked orders echoed off the longhouses, accompanied by the frantic, terrified wailing of men, women, and children.

  Ten Eirdkilrs stood at the front of the line, towering over the haggard figures of their Fehlan and Princelander captives. These carried no whips, but instead held drawn spears, clubs, and axes. They studied each of their prisoners in turn, then divided them into two streams. Screaming, shouting children were torn from the arms of their weeping and begging parents, husbands and wives separated despite their pleas to remain together. The sights and sound of such misery tore at Aravon’s heart.

  An Eirdkilr shoved him roughly toward one of the awaiting warriors, and only his fast reflexes kept him from sprawling in the muck or losing his grip on the exhausted Fehlan at his side. He kept his head down and his shoulders hunched as he came to stand in front of the club-wielding warrior.

  He felt the giant’s stare on him, but resisted the urge to lift his gaze. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself—he needed to stay unnoticed, just one more prisoner, until the time came to act.

  “Move,” came the guttural order. A huge hand clamped around his arm and shoved him to the right. The Eirdkilr snarled something in his native tongue, which Aravon barely understood to mean, “He’ll be a good one to work the mines.”

  Another Eirdkilr grunted. “Maybe he’ll live longer than the rest of these pathetic half-men.”

  Aravon had just taken his first step when the Fehlan was torn from his grip and dragged away, to the line on the left.

  “Put this one with the others!” called another Eirdkilr. “He’s no use to us.”

  The chill that ran down Aravon’s spine had little to do with the cold. That sounded more like the Eirdkilrs he knew. They took no prisoners, but slaughtered any enemies left alive on the battlefield. Not as a mercy, nor to take trophies. They did it to ensure those enemies never came back to fight again. A cold practicality that, added to the other atrocities they had committed, lent weight to the belief that they were savages.

  Anger flared bright and hot in Aravon’s gut. He wanted to lift his head, to snarl in the Eirdkilrs’ face as he fought and killed them. But doing that would get him nowhere. He had to bite his tongue and bide his time.

  Someone shoved him, hard enough to send him staggering forward, fur-wrapped feet squelching and slipping in the muck. He managed to stay upright, to keep back the fury simmering in his chest.

  Then he caught sight of the pen. Of the scores of ragged, filthy, gaunt people already imprisoned there. A few women and children, but mostly men. The ones strong enough to work the mines—until the cold, hunger, and fatigue killed them.

  Through the bloody, muddy snow he splashed, moving to the tune of cracking whips and shouted orders. Toward that cage of stone, snow, and ice, and the pathetic figures within.

  A sharp, shrieking cry echoed from beyond the pen. Aravon’s gaze snapped toward the far side of the square. There, a smoky fire blazed on the western side of the square, and the scent of burning dung hung heavy in the air. Captive men and women moved around the periphery of the fire, throwing on more dried dung chips to keep the blaze going.

  The sound of the scream had come from one of the workers, who had collapsed in his exhaustion and fallen into the blaze. He was too weak to rise, but his cries of agony rang out across the open square. The captives nearest him made no move to help, and the Eirdkilrs watching them just laughed.

  In that moment, realization struck him like a blow to the gut. The Eirdkilrs were as human as any Princelander or Fehlan—both in the good and the bad. They had homes, familie
s, husbands, wives, and children. Doubtless hopes and dreams, too. They also had the same potential for evil, the same cruelty and bloodlust that existed down deep and dark within every man, woman, and child that lived north of the Sawtooth Mountains and across the Frozen Sea.

  But while men like Duke Dyrund, Prince Toran, and Rangvaldr—men of power and influence among Fehlan and Princelander society—tried to curb the vicious and brutal nature of their people, Eirdkilr culture encouraged it. At the very least, people like Tyr Farbjodr, the Blood Queen, and Hrolf Hrungnir did.

  That was what separated the Eirdkilrs from their Fehlan cousins and the Princelanders. The people that had risen to power were the cruel, ruthless, and barbarous, the ones that gave way to their most inhumane tendencies. Tyr Farbjodr—and all those like him—was a poison flooding the veins of the Eirdkilrs. If they wanted any hope of putting an end to the war, Tyr Farbjodr had to be eliminated, the cancerous evil excised. Only then would the bloodthirsty, war-like Eirdkilrs have a chance of returning to their Tauld roots.

  A hard push sent Aravon stumbling into the cage, and this time his crude footwear slipped on the mud-and-blood-slicked stone. He fell, hard, his hands and knees slamming into the stone floor. Before he could rise, another captive was sent hurtling into him, tripped, and fell atop him. Another, another, and still more were herded into the pen, piling up in a clump of flailing limbs with Aravon at the bottom.

  He grimaced as a heel kicked his ribs, an elbow dug into his back. With effort, he dragged himself forward, out from beneath the pile, and managed to pull himself free. A hand gripped his arm—Colborn’s…no, wait, another Fehlan he didn’t recognize, with blocky features and dark brown hair—and hauled him upright. Just in time to avoid being trampled by the other captives struggling to their feet. More and more prisoners flooded into the pen until Aravon could barely move, and still the Eirdkilrs crammed in men and women.