Mingled dread and amazement surged within Aravon. Swordsman’s beard! His jaw dropped as he stared at the enormous pit mine and the hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of captives working in its depths.
They had reached Illtgrund, the place where he would discover Tyr Farbjodr’s ultimate plan.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Something in the center of the pit mine drew Aravon’s eyes. Four massive monoliths of pure black stood arranged in a circle, one pillar set at each point of the compass. They were identical to the black menhir that stood amidst the flatlands south of Icespire—made of the same stone, darker than onyx or obsidian—yet these showed no sign of wear. Age and the elements hadn’t worn smooth the runes etched deep into the monoliths, hadn’t dulled the corners of the four-sided pillars.
The monoliths encircled a smooth stone surface that appeared to have been carved from a single enormous stone. Twenty yards across in a circle far too perfect for even the most skilled craftsman, it appeared like an inverted table—flat, near-glossy surface with four “legs” thrust upward into the sky. The strangest thing Aravon had ever seen, yet even from this distance, he could feel the power that hung in the air. Crackling, surging, writhing, an invisible force that pressed against his chest and tugged at his mind.
This, he knew, could never have been crafted by human hands. Only the Serenii—or creatures as ancient and powerful—were capable of such mastery. They alone had known the secrets of bringing the magic from deep within the bowels of Einan to the surface and commanding it to do their will. A place like this could very well have been a focal point for their power, similar to the glowing gemstone tower that was the Icespire.
So what in the fiery hell are the bloody Eirdkilrs doing here? Aravon’s mind raced, the dread coiled tight in his chest pushing away the cold. The Eirdkilrs had no written language or recorded history, so how was it possible they could hope to understand secrets lost to mankind—secrets men like Zaharis dedicated their lives to unearthing?
Aravon tore his gaze from the four black monoliths, turning his attention to the strange, crude-looking construction being erected just outside the smooth circle between the menhirs. Twin arms of stone jutted up from the muddy ground, rising forty feet into the air and tilting toward each other, as if forming the two sides of a massive archway. The two pillars were easily ten feet around, made entirely of the same black rock as the four obelisks.
Aravon sucked in a breath. They’re made of ghoulstone. All the ghoulstone Tyr Farbjodr had taken from Silver Break, Gold Burrows, the town square of Oldrsjot and Storbjarg, the sacred Blotahorgr at the Fjall capital, and everywhere else around Fehl.
At one side of the pit mine’s round base, scores of captives worked at crushing the ghoulstone, while others hauled the powdered black stone to where more prisoners mixed it in buckets with mud and water. To form a mortar, Aravon realized, which then went toward the wooden scaffolding erected around the pillars. From there, it was passed up hand to hand until it reached the topmost level of scaffolding, to be added onto the top of the growing back pillars to provide a firm surface for the next layer of ghoulstone.
It was a crude construction, but that was to be expected of ghoulstone, a mineral too light and soft for the Princelanders or Einari to use. Indeed, it was clear none of the captives had anything close to adequate building experience, as evidenced by the clumsy way they handled the mortar and the fist- and knuckle-sized chunks of ghoulstone that went onto the pillars.
And yet, despite that, through sheer force of manpower, with more than a thousand Fehlan and Princelander prisoners working on it, the construction was proceeding. Aravon estimated the archway needed rise only a few more feet—no more than ten—before the two arms joined at the crown. The project would be completed before the sun rose on the day of the Feast of Death.
But what is it for?
An Eirdkilr hand shoved him forward, sending him stumbling down the incline. He caught the cliff wall, steadied himself, and continued the descent down the mud-slicked stone ramp. Yet his eyes never left the crude archway, his mind racing.
He could see no reason for the Eirdkilrs to build such an unusual and seemingly worthless structure. The archway opened onto empty air, with nothing but mud on either side.
Yet its proximity to that strange stone circle and the fact that it was built using ghoulstone gave Aravon pause. Through his mind’s eye flashed the image of the inert chunk of black stone growing bright in Zaharis’ hand. Rangvaldr had used it alongside his holy stone to heal Endyn, and he had found no distinction between the two.
He wants it for magic, then? The very thought felt so terribly odd. Six months ago, he’d never have believed magic existed. Meeting Rangvaldr and seeing the holy stone work had changed that. Now, he couldn’t shake the notion from his mind.
What sort of magic, he couldn’t begin to imagine. He only had experience with Rangvaldr’s healing magic, which drained power from the Seiomenn’s body to pass strength to his patient, sealing wounds and restoring broken bones.
He sucked in a breath. Is that what he plans, then? The idea drove a dagger of ice into his gut. But instead of using his strength to give to another, he intends to take his captives’ strength into himself?
Again, the idea threatened to boggle his mind. The idea that someone could steal life and energy from another human being seemed impossible.
And yet, after watching Rangvaldr crumple after over-exerting himself, Aravon couldn’t shake the image of all those captives—thousands of them—collapsing as Tyr Farbjodr used the magic of the ghoulstones to drain their strength. Take their life energy into himself, use it to amplify his own power somehow. A proposition that defied belief to a rational-minded man, yet the only explanation that remotely came close to making sense. After everything he’d seen of the Eirdkilrs and all he’d heard of the man who led them, he had no trouble believing Tyr Farbjodr would willingly slaughter thousands of enemies for the sake of power.
Power he’ll then unleash on Fehl and the Princelands! Fear curled like a serpent in Aravon’s gut. He had an image of Tyr Farbjodr marching at the head of his armies, every one of them brimming with the strength of ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred men. Strength enough to run a thousand miles without slowing and tear down the walls of Icespire with bare hands.
That thought sent a shiver of worry down his spine. Keeper’s teeth! He gritted his teeth, his fingers clenching into tight fists of their own accord. We’ve got to find out a way to stop him!
This went beyond the tactics of battle and war. An army of Eirdkilrs he could defeat—had defeated time and time again. But this…this was something no Legionnaire, ducal regular, mercenary, or Fehlan warrior could hope to withstand. Eirdkilrs, powerful giants armed with massive weapons, wielding power drained from the captives held here.
Not only would Tyr Farbjodr be unstoppable, but all the men, women, and children around him would die. That was far more civilian casualties—any casualties, in truth—than Aravon could stomach.
Already, the death toll proved far too high. Aravon’s eyes strayed to the eastern edge of the pit, where four men were struggling with two corpses—a man and woman, Fehlans both, eyes wide and unstaring. Blood stained their bruised, battered, and emaciated bodies, but they were far beyond pain. Hunger, exhaustion, thirst, or Eirdkilr cruelty had claimed them. Them, and the hundreds more already lying on the twenty-foot-tall pile formed against the cliff wall. The tiny bodies of children lay intertwined with the men and women thrown—no, discarded like so much refuse—onto the ever-growing mound of carcasses.
“The pile of corpses waiting to feed something,” the Fehlan, Hrani, had said. Disgust shivered in his stomach. Had the Eirdkilrs adopted the way of their Bein cousins and taken to feeding on human flesh? Not that he could see; the three score barbarians moving around the base of the pit mine gave the pile of bodies a wide berth, disdain etched into their brutish faces.
So what, then? Aravon slipped on a patch of mud, bu
t Captain Lingram’s arm held him upright. Nodding gratefully, Aravon focused on the descent, but he couldn’t help glancing back at the pile of corpses time and time again. What in the fiery hell are they keeping them for?
Even the Eirdkilrs had to know that dead bodies brought disease. The Ministrants of the Bright Lady and the Trouveres of the Bloody Minstrel taught that upon death bodies released a foul miasma that carried sickness. Keeping that many corpses so near the living captives increased the risk of plague a hundred-fold.
No, Aravon decided, they’re keeping them there for a reason. The question is, what?
Try as he might, he couldn’t decipher its purpose. Or, for that matter, the reason for the archway in the first place, or how Tyr Farbjodr could possibly know the secrets of the ancient Serenii—much less use them to unlock the power that crackled in the air above the pit.
Then he caught sight of the figure standing in the heart of the stone circle: a giant even among his own people, easily eight feet tall from the top of his blond-haired head to the tips of his heavy boots, with shoulders to rival the ice bear he’d killed for his fur cloak. A massive single-headed axe hung on his back, its blade larger than the head of the Eirdkilrs that flanked him as his honor guard. He carried no shield, and no dagger sat on his belt, but one look at the brute and Aravon knew this particular Eirdkilr could tear him apart with bare hands.
This, then, was Tyr Farbjodr.
A sharp intake of breath echoed from Aravon’s right. His head snapped around, and he found Captain Lingram frozen, every muscle in his body rigid. The Legionnaire’s eyes were wide, horror mingled with fear as his gaze locked on the giant within the stone circle.
“Lingram?” Aravon whispered. “What is it?”
“That’s him!” Captain Lingram’s voice came out in a harsh whisper edged with steel and hatred.
The sharp reaction confused Aravon. There was more than just simple recognition of the enemy they’d come hunting—this was something more. Something deeper…personal, even.
“He’s the one!” Captain Lingram whirled toward him, and a fire of fury blazed in his eyes. “He’s the bastard who led the attack on Highcliff Motte!”
Icy feet danced down Aravon’s spine. Highcliff Motte. Where Lingram had lost his father and brothers, his friends, everyone he’d lived beside for years. This had just gotten very personal for the Legionnaire.
“But-but…” Confusion twisted Lingram’s face into a frown and he faltered mid-step. “He shouldn’t…it’s impossible!”
The outburst caught the attention of a nearby Eirdkilr, who barked an insult at them and stormed down the ramp, raising his whip to strike.
Aravon grabbed Lingram’s arm and dragged him down the ramp before the barbarian could lash them. “What are you talking about?” he hissed, his voice pitched low for the Legionnaire’s ear only. “What’s impossible?”
Captain Lingram stumbled, his eyes glazed and unfocused. When he spoke, his voice was thick and hoarse. “I saw him die.”
That nearly stopped Aravon in his tracks. “What?” Surprise hummed within him. He tore his eyes from Lingram, glanced down at the giant Farbjodr, then back at the Captain. “Are you—”
“Yes!” Anger blazed on Lingram’s face, pushing back the shock of his surprise. “Koltun put a crossbow bolt into him.” He tapped his chest. “Right in the heart. I saw him fall in the battle just minutes before Arch-Guardian Dayn brought the canyon down on top of the Ninth Company and the Eirdkilrs.”
Aravon’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, he wondered if the cold had shattered Lingram’s mind. Or, worse, if the horrors he’d endured during their desperate flight from Highcliff Motte had warped his memories. Keeper knew that happened all too often when the rush and terror of battle consumed a man.
But that hesitation only fueled the fire of Lingram’s fury. “Don’t look at me like that, Aravon!” His voice came out in a spitting hiss. “I know the fog of war and the confusion of battle as well as you do!” An angry glint sparkled in his eyes and he gave a vehement shake of his head. “This isn’t that. I saw him die!”
Aravon held up a placating hand. “I believe you.” He glanced at Tyr Farbjodr, now just a hundred or so paces away from where he and Lingram descended the muddy ramp toward the base of the pit mine. “But somehow he survived. Survived and took command of all the Eirdkilr forces. Whatever happened at Highcliff Motte is in the past. All that matters is that we’re here, now. And this time, we’re going to put him down once and for all. This, I swear!”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Killing Tyr Farbjodr would prove far easier said than done.
Two hundred Eirdkilrs stood between Aravon and the enemy commander. Massive, heavily-armed brutes with clubs on their belts, axes on their backs, or spears in their hands. The blond-haired giants cracked their whips, shouted at the captives to work faster, and shoved the freezing, exhausted newcomers down the ramps to join the other miners working with hammers and picks at the walls of the pit mine.
Aravon, Colborn, and Captain Lingram had no armor—nothing beyond their thin woolen undertunics and leather trousers—and only the miner’s tools for weapons. Even if they could somehow get within ten yards of Tyr Farbjodr between the stone pillars, they’d have to deal with the dozen or so Eirdkilrs that surrounded the commander as his guard of honor. Taking on all the enemies in the pit mine alone, without reinforcements or proper armaments, was suicide.
Urgency set his nerves twanging. The day was far advanced—they had only two or three hours before twilight—and the Fjorlagerfa would be upon them when the sun next rose. He had to find out everything he could about the mine, its captives, and its guards, then make a break for freedom.
The chaos of the pit mine would hopefully offer ample distraction, keep the guards occupied long enough for the three of them to get out. He studied the activity that consumed the mine: hundreds of workers chipped black ghoulstone free of the wall, while bucket chains and decrepit wooden handcarts transported the mineral down the ramp to be distributed to the grinding and building.
By his count, at least thirteen hundred captives worked within the pit mine. Thirteen hundred prisoners guarded by two hundred Eirdkilrs? He ducked his head to hide a grim smile. Not the best odds, but it could be far worse.
Most of the captives already within the mine were Fehlan—Eyrr, judging by the ragged and torn remnants of their clan clothing, though many appeared to have come from the southern clans, including the Haugr and Hafr, the Myrr, and Bein. Some bore the darker hair and thicker features of the Deid clan and the broader build of Fjall. Only a handful—perhaps a hundred or so—had come from the Princelands.
The rest, to Aravon’s surprise, were Tauld. Giants as large as the Eirdkilrs, but with the long, lean build of hunters, trappers, fishermen, and herdsman of the shaggy-haired oxen that pulled the wagons and carts hauling supplies. Their faces were free of the blue stains left by war paint, but had the gaunt, hungry look of men and women living on far too little food in the cold, harsh Wastelands.
The sight of the Tauld prisoners twisted a dagger in Aravon’s gut. They’re not just taking captives from their enemies; they’re imprisoning their own.
Aravon’s eyes went to Tyr Farbjodr, who stood amidst the circle of black pillars and stared at his captives, a cold, calculating expression on his blunt face. Even from hundreds of yards away, something about the giant sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. There was something utterly devoid of humanity in the way the Eirdkilr commander watched his captives slave away. Disdain, or was that a hint of glee written in his expression?
Damn you, Tyr Farbjodr! Aravon resisted the urge to snatch up a hammer or pick and charge the giant. He’d be dead before he took two steps, and that would do nothing to help those imprisoned here—or stop the bastard from unleashing his magic-enhanced armies across the mountains. I swear, by the Swordsman, you will pay for this!
His gaze went back to the filthy, black-stained, exhausted-looking Tauld slaving aw
ay beside their Fehlan cousins. His mind flashed to the night he and Rangvaldr had crept into the nameless Tauld village and raided their stores for food, furs, and supplies. Those supplies had saved their lives, enabled them to get here. He’d vowed to repay the debt—now he had a chance.
But first, we figure out what we’re up against and how to deal with it. And, he added, almost as an afterthought, how the bloody hell to get that intelligence to the others.
Thirteen hundred captives could inflict serious damage on two hundred Eirdkilrs, but if he wanted to guarantee success, he needed to ensure Tyr Farbjodr was isolated with as few guards as possible. The enslaved Tauld, Fehlans, and Princelanders would only fight if they had hope. Even a faint hope, barely a glimmer, like a candle in the eye of a hurricane, but that one spark would be enough.
It fell to Aravon and his comrades to give them a chance.
As he marched down the ramp, he studied the movement of the guards. There seemed to be no real pattern to their watch, but they busied themselves scowling, growling, and shouting at whichever cluster of miners and workers moved slowest. Eirdkilrs were warriors, not prison-keepers or slavers. They could pound the life out of their captives with ease, but they couldn’t possibly hope to keep an eye on every corner of the pit mine.
Especially after dark. Aravon shot a glance at the sky. Just a few more hours, then we make a break for it.
And not a moment too soon. He’d taken a huge gamble getting the three of them captured on the last day before the Feast of Death. It had paid off, but even once they managed to get free, they’d be cutting things damned close. Whatever plan they hatched would have to go off quickly and without a hitch to take down Tyr Farbjodr before the sun rose on the Feast of Death.
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