“Not mine.” Aravon gestured to Colborn. “The Fehlans have found a champion of their own to rally behind.”
Colborn blushed, but the light in his eyes never faded. “I simply spoke the words they needed to hear.”
“As any good commander and leader does.” Captain Lingram clapped the Lieutenant on the shoulder. “Every Princelander I have spoken to also stands ready when the time comes.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “You work quickly.”
“Not much else to do in here.” Lingram shrugged, but a hint of a smile broadened his handsome face. “I’ve been digging around for information, but no one seems to know much. Nothing beyond the fact that Tyr Farbjodr’s somewhere in the south—in a place called Illtgrund—and that they’re all being dragged off to build something. Though what, they don’t know.”
Aravon nodded. “That’s what we’ve heard, too.” He frowned, his mind working. “I can’t imagine what he could be building, but whatever it is—”
“Not something we’d want to let him complete, yeah?” Captain Lingram’s smile was wry. “Our best bet is to get wherever this Illtgrund is, scout out whatever’s going on, then find a way to make like the wind and blow out of there.”
“As good a plan as we’ll have.” Aravon glanced around. Already, a low hum rippled through the cage, an undercurrent of excitement that settled over the captives around them. Eyes once dull now flared with life, a hint of anticipation pushing back the shadows of hunger, thirst, fatigue, and pain. Men squared shoulders, clenched fists, bared snarling teeth.
Grim satisfaction blazed within Aravon. They were ready to fight. Exhausted, beaten, afraid, and trapped within a hellscape of ice and cold, yet no less determined. With no armor or weapons, nothing beyond the ragged clothes on their backs, but burning with the knowledge that they would have to battle for any hope of survival.
They might not look like much, but by the Swordsman, when the time comes, this ragtag army will fight with the ferocity of men born to blood and battle!
Chapter Fifty-Two
Hours passed at an interminable crawl as the prisoners within the pen waited. For what, they knew not. Aravon was all but certain he and those around him—the strongest of the captives—would soon be sent to work the mines for whatever Tyr Farbjodr had planned.
But when? Aravon chafed at the delay. Every moment he spent locked away in this pen brought the Feast of Death ever closer. If he and his companions didn’t get out of here soon, they might not have enough time to scout Tyr Farbjodr’s position, rejoin the others, and make a suitable plan of attack before time ran out.
He ground his teeth and, with a supreme effort of will, forced himself to calm. Hrani’s words flashed through his mind. “This thing he is building, even they do not know what it does. Only that if it is not complete before the Fjorlagerfa, Farbjodr will offer their blood on Bani’s altar.”
Hopefully, that need to finish the construction, whatever the fiery hell it was, would work in their favor. Tyr Farbjodr would likely throw all his captives at the task.
As if on cue, the massive iron bolt of the cage was drawn back and the hinges gave a ponderous squealing groan as the gate opened.
“Out!” came the shout in guttural Eirdkilr. “Now!”
The captives stumbled out of the pen, shoved or dragged by huge hands, lashed if they moved too slowly. A flood of filthy, exhausted men and women surged out through the open gate and stumbled onto the mud-covered stones of the main square.
Icy wind slammed into Aravon’s chest with jarring force the moment he stepped out of the cage. The heat of the fire and the warmth of the hundreds of captives had kept him warn inside the pen, but now he had nothing but his thin cloth tunic and trousers to ward off the biting cold. He gritted his teeth against the chill but could not stop them from chattering.
“This group’s ready to go!” called an Eirdkilr. His harsh accent made his words difficult to understand. “But hurry them up.” Aravon didn’t comprehend his next words, but there was no mistaking the end of his shout to his companions. “…or he’ll start slitting throats and chopping heads.”
He had no doubt they spoke of Tyr Farbjodr. Eirdkilrs never showed fear or hesitation in battle, but there was a visible unease running through the giant barbarians that herded them past the burning dung fire, through the muddy square, and toward the muck-and-snow-covered road leading south. The Eirdkilrs cracked whips, shoved their captives, and barked rough insults to chivvy their prisoners to move faster.
More than a hundred Fehlan and Princelander captives—mostly men but with a few women and children among them—slogged south through freezing, ankle-deep slush. Puddles of muck and stagnant water formed in deep ruts left by the heavy metal-rimmed wheels of the wagons at the front of the column. All around them, Eirdkilrs watched from the warmth of their longhouses, jeering and shouting insults at the prisoners marching past.
It took the better part of half an hour to reach the southern edge of Praellboer. By the time the last longhouse came into view, Aravon’s hands and feet had gone numb. Even tucking his hands under his armpits failed to keep the cold at bay. The animal hides he wore in place of his fine Legionnaire boots were mostly waterproof, but far too much of the muddy water had trickled in, chilling his feet and making each step utter misery.
Things only grew worse when they left Praellboer. Far, far worse, thanks to the vicious wind rolling off the tundra. The river south of the Eirdkilr town filled the breeze with a stinging bite that sliced through Aravon’s thin clothing and numbed him to the core. Shivers racked his spine and set his teeth clacking. Try as he might, he could not get warm.
All around him, the captives huddled closer in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. Hallad and his wife each carried a child cradled to their chests, arms wrapped around their daughters’ slim bodies in a desperate effort to keep them warm. The Eirdkilrs seemed not to notice the chill, wrapped in their heavy ice bear pelts and thick boots, but simply drove the captives as fast as they could.
Aravon clamped his jaw shut so tight the muscles ached, and he focused his efforts on studying the land around him. The terrain west of Praellboer was mostly flat, though a few hills rose to the south. More low hills rose to the east, offering ample hiding places for the Grim Reavers. His eyes roamed the expanse of white but he could find no sign of Noll, Skathi, Rangvaldr, or the others. A part of him was glad for that—he couldn’t risk the Eirdkilrs seeing his comrades—but he couldn’t shake the tension in his chest and shoulders. He knew they were out there, watching over him, yet catching a glimpse of them would have reaffirmed their presence.
With effort, he tore his eyes from the eastern hills and focused south. There, the broad expanse of the river—easily seventy or eighty yards across at its widest—cut a dark swatch across the landscape, a ribbon of fast-flowing black thick with white ice floe dragged downstream by the racing current. The river ran from the east, meandered through the flat lands south of Praellboer, and disappeared between the western hills.
As far as Aravon could see in both directions, the river had no frozen-over places to cross. No one could ford that river; between the fast-flowing current, the massive chunks of floating ice, and the wicked chill of the icy water, any attempt would lead to certain death. The only way to get to the southern bank of the river was to cross the bridge toward which they now marched.
The bridge, an ancient thing made of dark grey river stone, rose at a sharp incline to form an archway supported by thick columns that disappeared beneath the surface of the water. It spanned the narrowest section of the river, just thirty yards across, and was wide enough to allow five men to cross abreast.
There’s no way the Eirdkilrs built this, Aravon realized as he approached. The crude stone, ice, and mud longhouses he’d seen in Praellboer could never compare to the artistry of the high-arching bridge. It had taken skilled stonemasons, masters of their craft, to erect such a structure. Which begs the question, who did build it, and how long
ago?
The earliest legends of Fehl spoke of the Fornlid, the “Ancient Ones” who ruled the continent before the first Fehlan clans arrived. Doubtless the Serenii, though the Fehlan myths offered scant details on who or what the Fornlid had truly been. Aravon had seen the masterpieces of Serenii handiwork—the Icespire itself was a breathtaking creation that no Einari or Princelander could ever hope to rival.
But so, too, the legends of Fehl spoke of creatures far less awe-inspiring: Farbjodr, the ancient demon that plagued the Tauld that lived south of the mountains; the Hveorungr, a creature that haunted men’s nightmares; the gulon that had attacked the Grim Reavers, vicious ice bears, and mythical beasts like griffins and hippogriffs, even mighty dragons larger than any warship.
Those legends could not have sprung from pure imagination. They had to have come from somewhere—doubtless distorted by time and re-telling, but based on a kernel of truth. Stories told by the early peoples that settled the lands of Fehl thousands of years earlier. People that had traveled this far south and made their home in the icy Wastelands.
Had they, then, built this bridge? Such mastery of stonework was rare among even the most advanced of the Fehlan clans; he could hardly imagine the Tauld building something so impressive.
The more he traveled the lands south of the Sawtooth Mountains, the more Aravon realized how little they knew of the icy Wastelands. No Princelander had ever mapped out the full extent of the tundra. According to Zaharis, little was known of the myriad of flora and fauna that existed in this strange, harsh land of snow and ice.
Perhaps, when the war had ended, someone would have a chance. When Tyr Farbjodr lay dead, the Eirdkilrs either defeated or pacified, perhaps the Secret Keepers, the Lecterns of the Master’s Temple, or someone else would brave the harsh cold to see what secrets and marvels the Wastelands had to offer.
But first, we’ve got to end this damned war! Aravon bowed his head against the bitter wind and forced himself to take one plodding step after another. And we can only do that if we don’t bloody freeze to death.
The cold grew sharper, the wind stronger and more piercing, the farther south they went. Snow soon began to fall around them, huge, heavy flakes that clung to his clothing, melted, and soaked his skin. A wall of swirling white encircled them, blinding them to the icy tundra around, trapping them within a prison of ice and cold.
The Eirdkilrs cracked their whips louder and pulled heavy fur cloaks higher. The captives huddled closer together for warmth, tried to move their exhausted feet faster. Yet try as they might, they could not escape the cutting wind, the bone-deep cold.
Slowly, the chill leeched the strength from Aravon’s muscles, sapped every hint of warmth from within his body. Ahead in the line of captives, Captain Lingram shivered and flexed fingers that had grown dangerously white. All around him, Fehlans and Princelanders leaned into the cold, trying desperately to keep their feet moving, to not succumb to the vicious bite of the wind.
Colborn and the Deid, however, appeared fractionally less miserable. The Lieutenant, Aravon knew, had spent countless nights in the Fehlan wilds, and his Deid blood gave him greater resistance to the cold. He still shivered, his shoulders hunched against the wind, but he seemed to have strength enough to whisper to the handful of Fehlans—Hallad, Skuli, Hrani, and a few others—clustered around him, who cast furtive glances toward the nearest Eirdkilrs.
Crack! The sound of a striking whip echoed terribly loud beside Aravon. He recoiled, but it wasn’t aimed at him. Colborn’s shirt suddenly split open and a long, vicious tear opened on his back. Crack, crack! Twice more the whip struck, ripping the Lieutenant’s shirt and the flesh beneath. Colborn cried out at the sudden pain and fell to his hands and knees in the muck. Blood welled from the wounds and froze to his skin.
An Eirdkilr appeared from the swirling snow beside Aravon, looming over the downed Colborn. “Shut your mouth and keep moving!” he barked in his guttural tongue. The whip rose and fell again, drawing another line of blood down Colborn’s back.
“Up!” roared the Eirdkilr.
Colborn seemed unable to move, trapped within the cold, shock, and pain. Aravon’s gut clenched. Get up, damn it!
The Lieutenant’s back moved, then his shoulders and arms. Barely a tremor at first, then slowly the muscles coiled and he pushed himself up. One hand, then the other, until he rested on his knees. His head lifted, the muscles of his jaw working. Spine stiff as a spear, he struggled to rise.
The Eirdkilr raised the whip again, but Hallad and Skuli quickly fell to helping Colborn. They managed to get the Lieutenant onto his feet and moving again before the giant barbarian struck out again.
“Keep up the pace!” The Eirdkilr shouted into the wind. “Or you’ll all taste the lash!” Lowering his whip, he strode back to his place in line, keeping pace with the limping, shuffling captives.
Aravon gritted his teeth. Bloody bastard! It took every shred of willpower not to turn his head and glare at the Eirdkilr—the last thing he needed was to call attention to himself. With a company of forty armed and armored Eirdkilrs herding the hundred or so prisoners heading south, they had no chance of success if they struck. Even if they managed to take down the guards, they would be fleeing blind into a snowstorm. Making a move now would be foolish. He’d have to keep biding his time until the opportunity to escape presented itself.
His eyes went to Colborn, who limped along between Hallad and Skuli. The Lieutenant was clearly in pain, as evidenced by the tension in his shoulders and back muscles, but he was playing up his weakness. Doubtless to disguise his warrior’s musculature among the malnourished and exhausted captives.
Through the ragged tears in the Lieutenant’s shirt, Aravon caught sight of old, white scars crisscrossing his back. Long, deep wounds long ago healed, yet the flesh was raised and visible—the mark of whips, switches, or canes.
Aravon’s gut clenched. And I thought my father was bad. Colborn had spoken of Lord Derran’s abuse—it hadn’t stopped at just verbal, it seemed. In his younger years, growing up as the bastard half-Fehlan son of a Fehlan-hating nobleman, the Lieutenant had endured far worse than anyone would guess.
Yet despite it all, despite the beatings and insults and scorn and rejection, he had become the man he was. A capable Lieutenant, an impressive warrior, a leader of men. Not only the Grim Reavers that had followed him, but the Fehlans clustered around him. Though they kept their heads down and their voices low, Aravon could see a new life flooding their exhausted bodies, a renewed determination in their steps. Colborn’s promise of helping them fight for freedom, even under the farce of being Chief Hafgrimsson’s envoy, had galvanized them and bolstered their hopes.
Good, Aravon told himself silently. They’ll need it.
On they marched, through the ripping wind and biting cold, the wall of white swirling around them with the howling cry of a gale. Snowflakes and bits of ice lashed at Aravon’s face, back, arms, and legs with the force of a million cracking whips. But instead of drawing blood, they froze him to the core, slowing the beat of his heart as his body struggled to keep warm.
A dull, languid stupor descended over him. His eyelids grew heavy, his world narrowing to a hazy blur. He was too tired to do little more than stare down at his feet, watching them lift, move forward, and splash into the slush of the road as if seeing through another man’s eyes. The cold seeped into his limbs until he could feel nothing, not even the beat of his heart or the ground beneath his feet.
The only sensation that remained was hunger. It gnawed at his belly, sinking fangs of acid deep into his gut. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten—he could barely think beyond the immediate, the white haze around him, the cold in his bones, the exhaustion dragging at his limbs. So numb was he that he never noticed the man in line ahead of him falling. His foot struck the body and he fell, hard. To his hands and knees in the muck. His strength gave out and he collapsed face-first. Thick, choking mud on his cheek, seeping into his ears, nose, a
nd mouth.
So cold…so…
“Up!” A voice, faint and distant, as if it came from a thousand leagues away, speaking the language of the Princelands. A familiar face: handsome, blond, with worry-darkened eyes. “Come on!”
Lingram. The name pierced the haze filling Aravon’s mind. He blinked, blinked again, forced his head to lift from the muck. Hands gripped his arms and pulled him upright. Up, up from the muck, up to feet gone leaden.
“Come on!” Lingram growled. “Before they get here and crack those whips.”
Aravon stumbled forward on numb legs, his body propelled by instinct buried deep within his unconscious. He could hardly think to move, barely had the presence of mind to step over the next fallen body. His eyes drank in the details—blond hair, blocky features, tattooed runes of a Fehlan—without comprehension. It was all he could do to remain upright and stumble forward one step after another. Farther and farther into the blistering cold and the empty abyss that awaited him.
How long they marched like that, Captain Lingram gripping his arm and helping him to stand, Aravon never knew. It seemed he blinked and the wind had fallen silent, the sun emerged from behind the clouds, and brilliant light filled the world. Light, and with it, a shred of warmth.
Aravon lifted his face, closed his eyes, and basked in the brilliance of the afternoon sun that washed over him. The glow pushed back the chill…barely. Yet even a hint of heat came as a welcome relief after the deathly cold that refused to leave his bones.
But when next he opened his eyes, the sight that greeted him lit a fire in his belly.
A mile-wide hole had been carved into the endless expanse of white, and a muddy path descended along the nearest of the stepped stone walls, descending nearly a hundred feet into the hollowed-out pit. Hundreds of figures moved in the depths of the crater—fur-clad giants with bared weapons and faces stained by blue war paint; men and women covered from head to toe in black mud pushed wheelbarrows, swung picks and hammers, or hauled buckets laden with stone. The cacophony of the mining tools echoed so loud it drowned out the shouted orders of the Eirdkilrs herding their column south.
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