Finally, when the crush of bodies grew too thick to fit any more, the Eirdkilrs slammed the gate shut. The resounding metallic boom sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine.
He’d become the one thing he feared most, the one thing he’d dreaded his entire military career: a prisoner of the Eirdkilrs.
Chapter Fifty-One
Aravon was a prisoner, yes, but neither a willing nor docile one. Unlike the poor souls around him, he hadn’t yet given up hope. The cold, bruises, and hunger served to fan the fire of his anger, momentarily pushing back the chill. He’d make use of that and find out what he could.
He turned to the nearest captive, a Fehlan with a severed stump of a once-proud beard braid. “What are we doing here?” he spoke in hushed Fehlan. “Why bring us south instead of just killing us outright?”
The man looked at him through shadowed eyes. “Don’t know,” he muttered, his accent marking him as Eyrr. “But does it really matter? The end will be the same.” Despondency stained his features and stooped his shoulders.
Aravon didn’t waste time with the man—the Fehlan had the glassy-eyed look of a man beyond exhaustion, drowning in fear, grief, and misery. The bleakness of the situation had shattered his spirit, leaving only a husk of flesh.
Instead, he turned to find the Fehlan that had helped him up. The man—he recognized the dark brown hair and square features—had shoved his way toward the western edge of the cage, pressed himself up against the bars. To get the warmth from the fire, Aravon realized. Those nearest that side of their pen were the strongest, the ones who could defend their position against the other captives trying for what little bits of heat rose off the burning dung fires.
Aravon stood not five steps from the Fehlan and the pen’s wall, but more than a dozen captives stood in the way. Gritting his teeth, he began shoving his way through the tightly-packed mass of men—and, he realized, a few women and children. The sight of those wide, terrified eyes and gaunt, hungry faces drove a dagger into his heart. He couldn’t imagine Rolyn or Adilon enduring such ghastly conditions.
A few Fehlans and Princelanders growled or barked threats, but their insults and protests lacked real teeth. Most were simply too tired to fight as Aravon shouldered between them and struggled to reach the edge of the cage.
To his surprise, the far side of the cage proved warmer than he’d expected. Heat seeped through the wall, widening the cracks and holes in the ice. Though thick, choking smoke drifted into the apertures with the heat, he could actually feel the warmth of the nearby fire.
And, through the holes in the ice, he could see some of the town around him. Could see the women and children gawking at the captives locked within the pens, the warriors herding prisoners from within a nearby enclosure down a road that led south. Wagons heaped high with mining tools or covered with canvas trundled south as well, metal-shod wheels splashing mud on the Fehlans and Princelanders stumbling along in their wake.
Aravon studied as much of Praellboer as he could through those holes in the ice wall. Save for the massive pens holding potentially thousands of prisoners captive, it resembled any other Fehlan village or town he’d visited. He saw no sign of marshaled Eirdkilrs or Tyr Farbjodr’s army preparing to march. No sign of the commander himself, either. He’d never seen Farbjodr, never even heard a physical description, but he had little doubt he would find it easy to spot the man who led the Eirdkilrs. Warriors like that—like the Blood Queen, Asger Einnauga, and Hrolf Hrungnir—tended to stand out.
Finally, he’d seen all of Praellboer he’d be able to from within the cage—little more than the main square, the muddy roads leading south and west, and the nearby longhouses. Frustration twisted in Aravon’s gut as he turned away from the wall. Though the day had just begun, he had to find Tyr Farbjodr before the Feast of Death the following morning.
He turned his attention now to the captives locked up with him. Chiefly men, but a handful of women joining them and children huddled in the arms of their parents. Terror, panic, hunger, and exhaustion stained the faces of all around him. A few, the fathers and mothers most of all, tried to wear brave, stoic faces, but a fear of death hung like a storm cloud over the scores of captives.
Aravon caught sight of the prisoner that had helped him up. The dark-haired Fehlan stood over two small children and a woman sporting bruises on her face and arms. The man’s shoulders were bloody from the lash but squared in a protective stance as he wrestled and jostled with the other captives to keep his place in the warmest part of the cage—not for himself, but for his wife and children.
Good. A grim smile touched Aravon’s lips. That is a man with fire burning in his belly. He hadn’t yet lost his determination to fight, not with his wife and children to protect. Hope and resolve could carry a man a long way. He wouldn’t give up until his last breath.
Aravon elbowed his way through the tightly packed mass of captives, shoving toward the Fehlan. He ignored the growls of protest but kept pushing until he reached the man. The dark-haired Fehlan saw him coming, turned to square off against Aravon, as if expecting him to try and steal his place near the warmth.
But Aravon held up a hand in the Fehlan greeting. “What do you know about our situation?” he asked, again in the man’s tongue.
Surprise cracked the defiance burning in the man’s eyes. It was uncommon for Princelanders to speak Fehlan, especially with as little accent as Aravon had. Yet his defensive stance never changed, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I’d thought it fairly obvious, Northman.” His accent reminded Aravon a great deal of Colborn’s—a Deid, perhaps one of those captured at Gold Burrows Mine. “We’re prisoners of war.”
Aravon grinned. Yes, the grim circumstances hadn’t yet snuffed out the man’s fire. “They don’t take prisoners.” He had no need to clarify who “they” were. “They burn, destroy, and plunder, and they execute those they deem traitors to their blood.” He gestured to the Fehlan man and his family—the Eirdkilrs believed the clans that chose to align with the Princelanders had betrayed their ancestors and sold their souls to the half-men. “The fact that we still live means there is more going on here. And I need to know what.”
“What does it matter?” For a heartbeat, despondency flickered in the man’s eyes and his shoulders drooped a fraction. “There is no escape. Outside these walls, there is only death. At their hands or in the cold.” His gaze darted toward his wife and two daughters. “Or worse, if we do not comply.”
Aravon’s gut tightened. The Eirdkilrs had only to threaten the women and children to force the men to submit to their fate willingly.
The Fehlan gave a grim shake of his head. “Our only hope is to do what they ask of us and live as long as we can.”
“And what is it that they ask of you, min brodir?” Colborn’s voice echoed from Aravon’s side. The Lieutenant appeared a moment later, shoving his way through the crowd.
The man’s dark brown eyebrows rose at recognition of his own clansman. His surprise grew as he took in Colborn’s heavy muscles, sloped shoulders, and strong hands—a warrior’s physique, hidden beneath mud and filth. “I do not know,” he finally said. “But my Asta said she might have heard something.”
The older of the two little girls huddling behind the Fehlan man perked up at the sound of her name. “Fadir?” Her voice was high, piping, her face stained with mud and tears.
Turning, the Fehlan scooped the girl up into his arms and held her close. “What is it you heard, svassmeyla?” he asked quietly.
“I heard one speak of someone called Dróttinn waiting in the south.” The girl’s tear-and-mud-streaked face twisted into a pensive frown. “But their words sounded funny. Like Arna when she is coughing.” Her eyes darted to her little sister—no more than two or three years old—who clutched her mother’s skirts. A deep, racking cough escaped the toddler’s lips, and the Fehlan woman lifted the child into her arms until the fit passed.
Aravon glanced at Colborn. “Dróttinn?”
“Leader of
the host,” Colborn signed back. “Like General or Commander.”
“Farbjodr.” It was no question.
Colborn nodded. There could be no other.
The confirmation set the fire burning within Aravon’s belly. He turned back to the Fehlan man. “Is there nothing else you can tell us?” he pressed. “Anything else you have heard?”
The man stared at Aravon with suspicion, then at Colborn with a flicker of distrust.
“He can be trusted.” Colborn gestured to Aravon. “The chieftain has sent us to help. The Princelander serves our cause.”
The Fehlan’s eyes widened. “The chieftain?” Hope blossomed in his eyes. “But how?” he gasped. “They came upon us so quickly, killed all the guards and hauled us away in the dead of night.” He shook his head. “When the warband never came to free us, we feared no one knew what had happened.”
“It is known.” Colborn’s square jaw clenched, the muscles working. “And your prayers to Olfossa have not fallen on deaf ears.” He clasped the man’s hand. “But if we are to find a way out of this, we must know everything possible.”
“Of course.” The man nodded eagerly and returned Colborn’s grip. “Perhaps some of the others have heard more.”
He glanced at his wife, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he turned away and shouldered into the dense mass of captives.
Aravon watched the man go, then turned to Colborn. “A kind lie you told,” Aravon signed.
“Sometimes it is necessary to give men hope,” Colborn answered in the Secret Keeper hand language. “Even if it is false.”
Aravon nodded. In such misery and cruelty, even the faintest glimmer of hope could keep men alive—long enough for Aravon, Colborn, and the Grim Reavers to find some way to help them. He had no idea what or how—his mission was Tyr Farbjodr first and foremost—but he’d do whatever he could. He owed them all, Princelanders and Fehlan alike, that much.
A few minutes later, the Fehlan man returned with two more men in tow. Both were blond, though they had the same heavy features common to the Deid, and they seemed to know the dark-haired man. “Skuli, Hrani, tell him what you told me.”
The larger of the two shot suspicious glances at Aravon and Colborn. “You’re certain, Hallad?” His shoulders and neck muscles bunched. “They are no miners, and their backs bear far too few whip marks.”
Hallad gave an eager nod and dropped his voice to a whisper. “They are sent by Chief Hafgrimsson to free us.”
Mention of the Deid chief immediately changed the two men’s attitudes. Again, a faint glimmer of hope brightened their ice-blue eyes.
“I am called Alsvartar,” Colborn put in. “To others, an unfortunate name. But for our purposes, the blackness of night will serve as our ally. Our shield against the enemy and our path to salvation.”
Aravon struggled to mask his surprise. Colborn had only voiced the name aloud once. It was a cruel name, given to him by his father, a reminder that Lord Derran considered him a stain of “pure black”. To hear it here, in the presence of these men—men of the Deid, like him—spoke of a change within Colborn. No longer wrestling with his two halves, Fehlan and Princelander, or struggling to ignore the voice of hatred that had been a constant in his life since his earliest days. Instead, acceptance. Acceptance of who he was. A man of Whitevale in The Violet Fens, and a son of the Deid at Saerheim. He had found a measure of peace from the inner turmoil that had nearly torn him apart at Rivergate.
“But first,” Colborn continued, “I must know what awaits us beyond the walls of this cage.”
Hallad glanced at his fellow Deid, giving them an encouraging gesture to speak.
“I heard two of our captors talking while we marched, speaking of Illtgrund,” put in the smaller of the two.
The word meant something akin to “unhallowed ground” or “place of evil”—never a good name.
“I, also, overheard men speaking as Skuli did.” The larger Fehlan, evidently Hrani, frowned. “That, and laughter as they spoke of the piles of corpses waiting to feed something.” He shrugged. “Though what, it seemed they did not know.”
Aravon’s gut tightened. Something to do with whatever power Farbjodr plans to unleash on the Feast of Death. Few creatures feasted on carrion; none were the sort Aravon wanted to encounter while trying to fight a horde of Eirdkilrs.
“I have heard that none who go south ever return,” Hrani was saying. “And the wagons filled with the black stone always travel north empty.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. That confirmed what Noll and Colborn had seen, the wagons and columns of prisoners crossing the bridge. And mention of the black stone—doubtless ghoulstone—only lent strength to his belief that Tyr Farbjodr needed it for whatever he had planned.
“What of their Dróttinn?” Aravon pressed. “Tyr Farbjodr. Have you heard any news of his whereabouts?”
Hrani nodded his shaggy-haired head. “Even his own people fear him. They speak of him with hushed whispers and darting eyes, as if he is the Farbjodr of nightmare reborn.”
Rangvaldr had told them the story of Gunnarsdottir, the heroic shieldmaiden of the Tauld that slew the monstrous Farbjodr, said to be a creature with a serpent’s tail, wolf’s fangs, and skin of stone. Perhaps Tyr Farbjodr had taken on the name to instill fear into his enemies—it seemed to have worked on his armies as well.
“This thing he is building, even they do not know what it does,” Hrani continued. “Only that if it is not complete before the Fjorlagerfa, Farbjodr will offer their blood on Bani’s altar.”
Thing he is building? That took Aravon by surprise. This was the first he’d heard any real evidence of how Tyr Farbjodr intended to use the ghoulstone—but to build something? That struck him as odd. The Eirdkilr way was to destroy rather than create.
So what the fiery hell is it, then?
Hallad’s deep voice pulled him from his thoughts. “So what is our Chief’s plan?” An eager light gleamed in the Fehlan’s eyes and he looked between Colborn and Aravon. “How has he determined to free us and bring us home?”
“He is working on it.” Colborn cast a sidelong glance at Aravon. “Our task is to find out everything we can about our destination and our purpose.” His expression grew grim. “And to stay alive as long as possible. To keep each other alive.”
“Aye.” The three Fehlans nodded, the light of battle and defiance springing to life in their eyes.
Colborn’s eyes fixed on them, his gaze piercing and intense. “We are the Deid, children of Olfossa.” He raised a clenched fist. “We do what we have always done—survive!”
The words poured from Colborn’s lips with the confidence Aravon had heard ringing in Prince Toran’s voice as he rallied his troops to battle. The voice of a commander, a leader of men, a champion that even the strongest warriors would follow. Gone was the doubt, the uncertainty, the stoic silence of a man wrestling with inner turmoil. The man who spoke now exuded a calm control, an assurance of purpose and certainty of spirit that could win battles and conquer kingdoms. This was the Colborn Aravon had always known the man could be.
Colborn gripped Hrani and Hallad’s shoulders and leaned closer. “Whatever happens, we stand together, united in mind and body.” His strong jaw muscles clenched. “And, by Olfossa, when the time is right to make our move, we will be ready!”
Hesitation flickered in the eyes of the three Deid. Colborn spoke of battle, but they were miners, not warriors.
“Long have the Deid roamed the lands of Fehl, the mightiest hunters of all the clans.” Colborn’s eyes shone bright. “Warriors in heart and soul. Nothing, nothing, will shatter our spirit!”
The doubt in the Fehlan’s expression faded, replaced by confidence. “Damned right!” Hrani rumbled.
“Then we fight,” Colborn hissed, anger blazing in his eyes. “Not for glory or riches or to earn our place at Olfossa’s table.” A fierce snarl twisted his face. “We fight to live. We fight for our familie
s. We fight for our people!”
Hallad glanced down at his daughters, and steel hardened in his expression. “By Olfossa, so we will!” Hrani and Skuli exchanged eager glances, their callused hands flexing as if around the hilt of a weapon.
“Pass the word to the others.” Colborn’s voice held an insistent urgency. “Not just the Deid, but all the clans. The Princelanders, too. The time will come, and when it does, we will strike!”
Defiance and determination blazed bright on the faces of the three Fehlan men. Yet not only theirs—all those around Colborn had heard him speak, had heard the ferocity and authority ringing in his voice. Whispers rippled through the pen long before Hallad, Hrani, and Skuli disappeared to spread the word.
Colborn turned to face Aravon, his face as hard as iron. “I can’t do nothing,” he signed before Aravon spoke. “If we have a chance, we’ll have to take it. For their sakes.”
Aravon glanced around. The ragged, filthy, exhausted, and battered men and women around him were far from an army. If they fought the Eirdkilrs, they would die.
But he couldn’t argue Colborn’s words, nor had any desire to. He had joined the Grim Reavers to protect the Princelands—and that extended to the Fehl that had aligned themselves with the Princelands. The Deid, Eyrr, Fjall, and other Fehlans captive were as much his responsibility as the Westhaveners and Eastfallians. They needed him and the Grim Reavers. He would not turn a blind eye, not if it lay within his power to do something.
Without hesitation, he nodded. “Bloody right we will!” His fingers formed the words with sharp, strong movements. When the time came—if the chance arose—they would do something to help these people. “They are the mission, too.”
A hand on Aravon’s elbow brought him spinning around, and he found Captain Lingram standing behind him, a hint of a grin on his lips. “Whispers of battle have stirred every man and woman in here,” he said in the language of the Princelands. “Your doing?”
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