At the bottom of the ramp, a wooden yoke and pair of buckets were thrust into his hands and an Eirdkilr shouted orders at full volume. “Get hauling, you filthy little goat-face!” The giant, believing Aravon couldn’t understand his guttural language, gesticulated wildly with his whip and shoved Aravon toward the nearest group of miners chipping ghoulstone from the wall. Aravon made a show of stumbling and staggering in the direction indicated, feigning weakness and exhaustion.
Not much of an act, truth be told. Though the depth of the pit mine blocked the worst of the wind, the biting cold of the tundra settled into the stone around him, chilling him to the bone. He hadn’t had anything to eat for far too long, and his muscles ached from endless hours of riding and marching.
Yet he bent to the task with only a little groan of fatigue. As chunk after chunk of ghoulstone went into the buckets, his eyes never stopped roving the pit mine, his mind analyzing every aspect of the layout—the arrangement of the Eirdkilrs whipping the captives, the workers themselves, the sections of the pit mine where only a handful of prisoners worked at the smaller lodes of ghoulstone visible along the cliff wall.
He had dedicated his life to evaluating and understanding troop movements. Fifteen years as a Legionnaire—first as a soldier, then as an officer—had taught him to scrutinize an enemy’s position and recognize their stances. A defensive stance, as marked by the presence of a protective barrier against potential threats. An offensive stance on terrain perfect for a charge or sneak attack. A holding position of a defensible fortress or terrain, or a temporary bivouac as an army rested overnight before moving on. He could read the field, analyze the arrangement of the soldiers, and use it to gauge the enemy’s intentions.
Here, everything he saw told him the Eirdkilrs had no intention of remaining here any longer than necessary.
The giant barbarians were spread out in positions intended to concentrate on the prisoners, their collective attention focused inward, never bothering to scan the tundra around Illtgrund for enemies. After all, who would be foolish enough to invade the icy Wastelands? Even if an army managed to force the Snowpass, defeat the Eirdkilrs doubtless stationed at Saetavirki, and survive the hundred-mile march south, they would have to first attack Praellboer long before they reached the mine.
Tyr Farbjodr knew it. The Eirdkilrs serving as his bodyguards, prison guards, and slavers knew it. The enslaved Fehlans and Princelanders knew it. Here, in the middle of nowhere, there was no fear of attack. The Eirdkilrs’ brutality kept the captives docile and compliant. Hunger, thirst, cold, and exhaustion sapped their strength and killed them. An enemy attack on a place like this was no more likely than the sky opening and diamonds falling to the earth.
But impossible’s what we do, right? A cold smile tugged at Aravon’s lips as he slung the yoke over his shoulders and hauled his burden across the muddy ground toward the twin pillars being built in front of the stone monoliths.
The Eirdkilrs roaming the pit mine were focused on their slaves, beating them into submission and keeping them from fleeing. They delighted in tormenting the half-men and the Fehlans they considered “traitors to their blood”. But they had no fear of them—not even fear enough to leave guards posted at the top of the ramps leading into the mine. The captives were too tired and battered to resist, much less fight back, and no enemy could possibly attack from without.
Which makes this the perfect target for us. Aravon emptied his buckets and trudged back toward his section of the wall. Surprise is our best weapon here.
The assault on Icespire had nearly succeeded—would have succeeded, had Aravon and the Grim Reavers not repelled the invaders—because the surprise attack came from an unexpected direction. A force of just eight thousand Eirdkilrs had come dangerously close to capturing and destroying the largest and most powerful city in the Princelands.
Now, the time had come to turn the tables on Tyr Farbjodr.
As Aravon set about filling his buckets again, he scanned the bottom of the mine for Colborn. A hint of fear tightened his gut. He could find no sign of the Lieutenant. Or Captain Lingram, for that matter. He forced himself to calm, pushed back the anxiety roiling within him. Colborn’s blond hair and beard would be difficult to spot among the Fehlans—that was a part of what made him so indispensable as a Grim Reaver.
Relief flooded Aravon when he finally caught sight of a handful of familiar figures working a section of the mine wall a few hundred yards away. Colborn and Hrani swung hammers while Hallad and Skuli worked picks. Of Hallad’s wife and children, however, Aravon caught no sign.
Again, he hauled another load of ghoulstone to the pillars, slogging through ankle-deep muck and mud. With every step, his eyes roved the pit mine, searching for any sign of the captives’ families. Plenty of women worked alongside the Fehlan and Princelander men, but Aravon could see no children.
Then his eyes fell on the dark mouth of a tunnel set behind a jagged section of cliff on the western edge of the pit mine. Ten Eirdkilrs stood guard with weapons drawn and bared, blocky faces as hard as the stone behind them. Aravon had no doubt the captives’ families were being held there.
Damn! He bit back a growl of frustration as he emptied his bucket and trudged back toward the wall. That’s going to make things more difficult. The miners would hesitate to attack their captors if they knew the Eirdkilrs would slaughter their children.
Aravon’s mind whirled. We’re going to have to find a way to do something about them. The question was, what?
As he strode past the spot where Colborn worked, he caught the Lieutenant glancing at him. Miners’ families, held captive to the west, he signed.
Colborn gave the tiniest nod of acknowledgement. We’re talking about how to deal with it, he signed back.
Then Aravon was past and Colborn swung his hammer at the wall again, the exchange too quick for the Eirdkilrs to notice. But Aravon couldn’t help smiling inwardly as he bent to re-fill his bucket. Never one to be idle, Colborn. The Lieutenant had lied when he said Chief Svein Hafgrimsson had sent him, yet he’d taken to his role of liberator seriously. It seemed his mind was already working in the same direction as Aravon’s. Between the two of them—and Captain Lingram, wherever he was—they’d find the best way out of Illtgrund and a solution for taking down Tyr Farbjodr. Freeing the captives, too, by the Swordsman’s mercy.
Someone jostled against Aravon’s shoulder hard enough to send him staggering. His yoke and buckets slipped from his shoulders and splashed in the muck, and only Aravon’s quick reflexes saved him from joining them.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
Captain Lingram’s voice accompanied the shove. The Legionnaire bustled around Aravon, bent, and lifted the buckets from the mud. “Here, let me help you.” He made a show of retrieving Aravon’s yoke and replacing it on his shoulders. All so he could get close enough to Aravon to whisper, “I count thirteen hundred and fifty. Seven hundred strong enough to fight.”
Aravon gave no response, for an Eirdkilr was splashing through the muck toward them, eyes blazing. Captain Lingram managed to get Aravon’s buckets back in place before the giant reached them and unleashed the fury of his coiled whip, and together they set off to fill the buckets with the ghoulstone chipped free of the wall.
“Against two hundred Eirdkilrs, it’s not going to be enough,” Lingram said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aravon nodded. “I know.” They had to thin out their enemies if they wanted a chance. “But I’ve got a plan I think might just work.”
Captain Lingram’s eyebrows rose a fraction, but he didn’t look up from his task. “Now we find the way out, yeah?”
“First chance we get after dark,” Aravon replied. “See what you can come up with. The three of us, no more.”
Captain Lingram’s brow furrowed for only a heartbeat before smoothing out once more. He knew as well as Aravon that trying to break out of Illtgrund with just the three of them would prove difficult enough. Attempting it with dozens of Princ
elanders and Fehlans in tow would draw too much attention.
Without a word or a nod of acknowledgement, Lingram abandoned the task of filling the buckets and strode toward the cliff wall. He snatched up a nearby hammer and set to work pounding the stone beside the Fehlan captives. Between the strikes, Aravon caught snatches of muttered Fehlan. The captives working there seemed surprised to hear a Princelander speaking their tongue, but after a few moments, answered back in equally quiet voices.
Good. Aravon slogged through the muck, loaded down beneath the weight of the stones filling his buckets. The more Captain Lingram and Colborn learned, and the more they spoke to the captives, the greater the chance this mission would prove successful.
Again, Aravon’s gaze lifted skyward. It seemed the sun had barely moved, still hanging far above the horizon. His muscles ached from the exertion and the yoke dug painfully into his neck and shoulders. The work only pushed back some of the cold, but he could feel the icy black mud seeping into his improvised foot wrappings.
Exhaustion settled over him as time dragged on. Numbness crept into his mind, like wool that filled his head and dragged at his eyelids. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other, to keep moving when his ice-numbed fingers begged for warmth and his spine protested beneath the weight of the yoke.
It took all his willpower not to shut down, not to retreat into his mind to escape the chill, hunger, thirst, and fatigue. Instead, he struggled to keep focused on the pit mine, and on the giant figures cracking their whips, barking orders, or beating Fehlans or Princelanders that collapsed beneath the strain. No rest was given, no food or water distributed. Simply endless, back-breaking toil beneath the furious, scowling glare of the Eirdkilrs and their cold-eyed master.
Aravon glanced at Tyr Farbjodr. The Eirdkilr commander remained standing, his gaze locked on the growing archway. The influx of fresh workers had sped up the construction of the strange black pillars; now, the two arms tilted inward, so close together they nearly touched.
Anxiety wormed into Aravon’s gut. It’s almost done, he thought. The construction is almost complete, and when it’s done, every one of these captives will die.
His eyes traveled to the black stone circle upon which Tyr Farbjodr stood, and a shudder ran down his spine. In that moment, it appeared like the top of some hideous sacrificial altar. Up close, Aravon could see grooves etched into the surface, like the channels that irrigated the farmlands around Icespire.
But no water would flow through those grooves, only blood. The blood of thirteen hundred captives, all of whom would die upon the morrow to feed Tyr Farbjodr’s lust for power and conquest.
Aravon’s fingers gripped the smooth wood of his yoke tighter. Fire coursed through his veins, energy crackling along his nerves and flooding his muscles with vigor. He stood just twenty paces from the Eirdkilr commander. Was he fast enough to cross the distance and crush Tyr Farbjodr’s skull with the heavy yoke?
The thought burned into his mind, then faded in an instant as an Eirdkilr stepped between him and the stone circle. The brute growled down at him. “Faster, cur!” He jabbed the wooden handle of his whip into Aravon’s chest. “Move or taste the heel of my boot!”
Aravon ducked his head, pretending ignorance, and hurried with his empty buckets back to the wall. The Eirdkilr didn’t follow, but splashed off across the muck-covered ground toward another group of miners wrestling with a handcart that had gotten enmired and refused to move. The crack, crack, crack of the whip echoed loud, accompanied by shrill cries of agony. Aravon gritted his teeth and forced down the anger that surged within him. He could do nothing to help…yet. The time would come when the captives would taste their freedom—and vengeance against their captors.
The world around him grew steadily darker, yet something about it seemed somehow…off. He glanced at the sky, and his gut twisted. The setting sun had just dipped below the western horizon, but instead of brilliant colors of sunset, the heavens had turned an angry, violent crimson. Like blood gushing from a gaping wound.
The sight sent a shiver of worry down Aravon’s spine. This was far worse than the blistering red sky that presaged a storm—this was something unnatural, an omen that could only bode ill. The heavens had turned red in anticipation of the Feast of Death. Of the blood that would flow upon the morrow as Tyr Farbjodr massacred his captives in the name of power.
Urgency set Aravon’s nerves on edge. We’ve got to get out of here. The days this far south had grown longer, and they’d have far too few hours of darkness before the sun rose on the Fjorlagerfa. We’re going to have to move bloody fast if we’re going to pull this off!
He scanned the captives until he found Colborn among the Deid, and Captain Lingram among a handful of Princelanders. Worry darkened both their eyes, and tension lined their shoulders. They both knew the stakes, what would happen if they couldn’t get out in time.
The Eirdkilrs, too, seemed to feel the insistence. “This must be finished!” A guttural voice, ringing with such power it could only be Tyr Farbjodr’s, echoed around the mine. “Before the sun rises, or by the gods these fools worship, they will know a fate far worse than death!”
Scores of whips cracked around the pit mine, and their shouts to “Work faster!” drowned out the cries of those they beat. Torches and lamps were lit one by one, pushing back the falling darkness within the mine. The work seemed to reach a feverish pitch as the giants whipped the captives into a frenzy. Exhausted men and women slumped beneath their heavy loads, tools dropped from fatigue-numbed fingers, but still the Eirdkilrs snarled, shouted, and cracked their whips. They would heed their commander’s orders, even if it killed every one of their captives.
In that moment, Aravon knew their time had come. With the Eirdkilrs consumed by the work and the captives too weak and tired to rise, he, Colborn, and Captain Lingram would have the best chance of escape. The commotion and thickening shadows of night would cover their movements.
He sought out Colborn and Captain Lingram, found them staring at him, their muscles tense and eyes alert.
“Let’s go,” he signed, his movements quick and sharp. “We break out of here, now.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
“Northeastern corner.” Colborn’s fingers flashed in the silent hand language. “That’s our way out.”
Aravon glanced around and, finding no Eirdkilr eyes on him, quickly discarded his wooden yoke and one of the two wooden buckets. The other he kept, if only to maintain the appearance of working should any of the giants happen to glance his way.
He turned his steps toward the darkness away from the circle of light shining from the torches burning around the black stone pillars. The Eirdkilrs had already lit half a dozen with more catching ablaze every second, but until they dispersed around the base of the pit mine, the descending night offered ample concealment from watching eyes.
That suited Aravon’s purposes just fine. Eyes darting around for any sign he was being watched, he hurried toward the corner of the pit mine Colborn had indicated. Captain Lingram appeared from the shadows and fell in at his side, a hammer and pick slung over one shoulder. It didn’t matter that he spoke no sign language—he’d read Aravon’s intentions clearly enough, and simply had to follow.
Aravon’s heart hammered a nervous beat as he splashed through the mud and muck toward the northeastern corner of the mine. The sound of the mine—the metallic clink of picks digging into the cliff wall, the thunk of hammers crushing stone, the crack of the Eirdkilr whips, and the pained cries of their victims—echoed terribly loud through the blood rushing in his ears. His gut twisted in knots and his muscles tensed in expectation of a shout. At any moment, his captors would spot him, call out, and their attempt of escape would be delayed. Given how little time they had until sunrise—no more than eight hours—they couldn’t afford any setbacks.
Yet the shout never came. No Eirdkilrs loomed out of the darkness in front of him to bar his path to escape. They were too busy driving the r
est of the captives to work harder, to complete the project before sunrise, or collecting the torches that would illuminate the mine after dark and enable the work to continue through the night. Aravon and Captain Lingram reached the northeastern corner of the mine unhindered.
There, Aravon found a thirty-yard stretch of wall utterly ignored by miners and Eirdkilrs alike. By the last threads of daylight, he could see the stone—all solid grey and brown, utterly devoid of ghoulstone. Either the miners had depleted the vein of black stone or there simply had been none to begin with. Whatever the case, the Eirdkilrs had no interest in working this section of the mine.
This is our way out, then.
Dropping his bucket, Aravon ran a hand up the wall, felt the rough, jagged stones protruding from the cliff. It would be a daunting climb, but they could make it.
What choice do we have? The thought drove an icy dagger into his gut. Either we get out of here now or we die.
And not just them. If they failed to stop Tyr Farbjodr, everyone in Illtgrund would die as well. All thirteen hundred Fehlans, Princelanders, and Tauld. He’d be damned if he let that happen.
“Go!” he hissed to Captain Lingram. “Get up there.”
Without hesitation, Captain Lingram dropped his hammer and pick and began the climb. Muscles hardened over years of swinging a sword, carrying a shield, and marching beneath the weight of a Legionnaire’s armor and pack carried him up, up, up the cliff face at an impressive speed. In less than a minute, he had nearly disappeared into the deepening gloom.
Aravon let out a long breath. That’s one. He turned back to find Colborn—he just needed to collect the Lieutenant and they’d be out of here.
Dread settled like a weight over his shoulders. Colborn stood not twenty yards away, but behind him came Hallad, Hrani, Skuli, and two more men of the Deid.
What are you doing, Colborn? Aravon couldn’t sign the question—the night had grown too dark for his hand gestures to be visible from this distance—but his mind raced. There’s no way we can all escape!
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