Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  The three Grim Reavers had a chance, but the exhausted, starving, and battered Fehlans would slow them down. Worse, every additional man increased the risk of being spotted. The Eirdkilrs had already lit most of their torches and begun to disperse them toward every corner of the mines, lighting the prisoners’ labor. At any moment, one of the giants would march in their direction. If they weren’t high enough up the cliff wall, the light of the torches would illuminate them, and an Eirdkilr arrow would bring them down.

  He waited until Colborn drew within earshot before hissing in a voice barely above a whisper, “What are you thinking?” He gestured toward the five Deid trailing Colborn. “If they come with us, we’ll never get out of here.”

  The question seemed to surprise Colborn. He glanced over his shoulder and froze as his eyes fell on the Deid.

  “No!” Colborn waved the five men back. “Go back!”

  “Not until you tell us what you’re planning,” Hallad hissed. A defiant light blazed in his eyes. “Chief Hafgrimsson wouldn’t command you to leave us here, which means you’ve got a plan.” His gaze darted from Colborn to Aravon and back again. “So tell us what the plan is and how we can help.”

  Colborn’s muscles went rigid, his jaw muscles working. “The plan—”

  Aravon cut in. “The plan is to cause a distraction in Praellboer that will pull as many Eirdkilrs away from this place as possible.” He shot Colborn a meaningful glance; he hadn’t filled in the Lieutenant, but he knew the man was smart enough to fill in the gaps for himself. “Isn’t that right, Alsvartar?”

  Colborn nodded without hesitation. “It is.” He turned back to the Deid. “Even now, we have men waiting for us on the tundra, preparing to strike at the Eirdkilrs holding the village.” Realization dawned on his face. “At the pens holding all the captives.”

  Aravon hid a smile. Once again, Colborn proved his ability to intuit Aravon’s strategy.

  “So you’re leaving us?” Hrani, the biggest of the Deid, rumbled.

  “Only until we can come back and free you all.” Colborn gripped the big man’s arm. “By Olfossa, I swear we will return and help you. All of you.” He looked to Hallad. “Including your wife and children.”

  Hallad’s expression hardened. “You saw where they are being held, yes?”

  Colborn nodded. “Ten Eirdkilrs will not be easy to deal with. Not yet, at least.” He shot a glance at Aravon. “First we must thin out the ranks guarding the mine.”

  The five Deid exchanged determined glances. “We are no warriors,” Skuli protested. “We—”

  “But we fight for our families.” Hallad cut him off with a slashing gesture. “And for our people.”

  Light behind the cluster of Deid caught Aravon’s attention. His gut tightened at the sight of a torch-carrying Eirdkilr striding toward them. The giant moved in no apparent hurry but his tree-trunk legs ate up the ground quickly. They had only seconds before the light of the torch revealed them huddling in the darkness by the base of the unguarded section of cliff.

  “We need to go!” he hissed in Fehlan.

  “Go,” Colborn told him, an unmistakable note of command ringing in his voice, and turned back to his fellow Deid. “Be alert, watch for your moment. You will know when it is time to strike.”

  “Olfossa be your strength, Alsvartar.” Hallad gripped Colborn’s forearm. “Until we meet again, in this life or at the feasting table of Seggrholl.”

  Aravon turned away, began climbing the cliff wall. A moment later, the scrape of Colborn’s boots echoed below and beside him.

  “Come, my brothers.” Hallad’s quiet voice drifted up from the muddy ground. “Let us buy them a few minutes.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows rose, but he couldn’t afford to tear his gaze from the cliff wall above his outstretched arms. The rough surface offered ample hand and footholds, but his muscles were exhausted from the work and the chill within the mine’s depth weakened his fingers. He’d climbed barely five feet off the ground and already he felt ready to collapse.

  “You bastard!” Hrani’s voice echoed from twenty yards away. “Get your own damned hammer!”

  “That was mine first!” Skuli shouted back. “I put it down for one moment to—”

  The loud crack of a whip cut off his words, and Skuli cried out in pain. Another crack, crack and Hrani’s agonized bellow followed.

  “Shut up and get back to work!” a guttural Eirdkilr voice roared. “Or by Bani, I’ll tear out your eyes and piss in the empty sockets!”

  Now Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder, and gratitude surged within him. The Deid’s scuffle had distracted the Eirdkilr. The giant stood glaring down at the two captives, whip upraised to strike again. But Hallad moved faster, helping the smaller Skuli stagger to his feet and away from the Eirdkilr before he could lash out. The other two Deid did likewise with the broad-shouldered Hrani. The Eirdkilr snarled and followed after the five Fehlans, growling curses at their retreating backs until they retrieved Aravon’s dropped yoke and a few mud-covered tools dropped by captives too exhausted to work.

  With a silent thanks for the Fehlans’ courage, Aravon turned his attention back to the climb. Like most adventurous children of Icespire, he’d tested his strength on the cliffs that rose west of the Port of Icespire. Few ever made it to the top of those jagged bluffs, but he had experience enough to scale these walls, which offered ample protrusions and crevices for hand and footholds.

  But it was the height of the climb that proved most daunting. The pit mine had been cut deep into the tundra, at least two or three hundred feet straight down. Had Aravon been at full strength and in the spring warmth of Icespire, he’d have managed the climb with little difficulty. Yet now, exhausted, hungry, and chilled to the bone, it proved a near-impossibility.

  The muscles in his shoulders, arms, and legs burned with the effort of supporting his weight. His lungs begged for air, setting his heart beating with such force he feared it would burst free of his chest and send him plummeting to his death. Worst of all, the chill grew heavier as the encroaching darkness brought biting cold. A cold far worse than anything Aravon had imagined on his icy journey across the Wastelands.

  His fingers went numb, until he no longer felt the pain of the myriad of shallow wounds the jagged stones carved into his flesh. The mud staining his improvised foot wrappings froze, hardened, cracked every time he jammed his toes into a crack in the cliff. A fierce, shrieking wind tugged at his clothing as if trying to pull him free of the stone wall and drag him down, down, down to a muddy grave.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain and cold, Aravon forced himself to climb. One hand over the other, one foot at a time. Upward, a single painful step after another. Fingers clutching at stone until his forearms burned and his muscles spasmed. Toes scrabbling at hard, unyielding rock as cold as ice and as sharp as steel.

  Every movement drove the icy chill deeper into his bones, sent the numbness climbing farther and farther up his limbs until he could no longer feel his hands and feet.

  And still he climbed. Climbed toward freedom, toward hope—not only for himself and his companions, but for the captives trapped within that pit mine. If he faltered, if he weakened, even for a minute, thousands would die. His people, fellow Princelanders. Beside them, Fehlans captured and dragged south across the Sawtooth Mountains. And the Tauld, those struggling to scrape a living from the barren Wastelands, imprisoned and enslaved by their own.

  Determination hardened within Aravon and he forced himself to keep moving. Up, up, up, one handhold at a time, one desperate foothold to push off. Face and chest grinding against hard stone, his teeth chattering from the cold, he climbed with every shred of strength he possessed.

  The darkness thickened, enveloped him, and consumed his world. At first, it came as a welcome shelter from the eyes of the Eirdkilrs below. The light of their torches burned too far below, and the shadows of night hid him from their sight.

  But the farther he climbed, the more perilous t
he darkness became. He could no longer see his way up the cliff; he could only feel with fingers that had long ago gone numb. His progress slowed, until it felt as if he crawled up the stone wall slower than Rolyn the day he’d taken his first tottering steps. Too slow! The thought echoed in his mind in time with his racing pulse. The longer it took them to escape, the less time they’d have to plan their attack. We have to get out of here now!

  He glanced up, but only unbroken blackness met his gaze. Hundreds of feet of unbroken stone towered above him. Beyond, the first stars twinkled high in the heavens, but how much remained to climb, he could not tell.

  All he knew was that he had to keep moving. Had to keep climbing, one agonizing, bitingly cold step after another. He had no idea how far above Captain Lingram had climbed, or how far below him Colborn clung to the cliff wall. He could see no hint of their presence, no sign of their dark shapes in the night. The only thing he knew was cold, hunger, exhaustion, and the unwavering urgency to climb.

  Climb, damn it! Aravon growled a silent curse, clenched his jaw tighter to stop his teeth from chattering. His muscles groaned, shrieked in protest, quivered from exhaustion. His right leg refused to support his weight but trembled so violently Aravon feared he’d fall. Drawing in a deep breath, fighting to ignore the burning in his lungs, he let his right leg hang free until the flow of blood returned and the muscles responded once more.

  The simple act of resting for those seconds sent fire coursing through his arm and shoulder muscles. His forearms cramped, the muscles tightening and loosening with such force he nearly lost his grip. One hand at a time, he forced his fingers to release their grip on the cliff and gave them a few seconds to rest.

  “Dróttinn!” A shout pierced the racing pulse hammering in Aravon’s ears. It came from the top of the nearest ramp—the one that led to the muddy track back toward Praellboer.

  Aravon’s head snapped in the direction, found a torch-carrying Eirdkilr racing down the muck-covered ramps. The giant barreled through slow-moving captives without hesitation, sending a pair screaming and plummeting to their deaths. The falling bodies crushed three Fehlans as they splashed into the muck. Two of the struck prisoners shrieked and cried out at the agony of broken bones. The third and the pair that fell lay still and silent.

  Aravon’s gaze darted back toward the racing Eirdkilr, followed his movements down into the pit mine. Tyr Farbjodr turned to face the newcomer, and exchanged a few sentences in the guttural Eirdkilr tongue. The wind carried away the words long before they reached Aravon, but there was no mistaking the urgency in the Eirdkilr’s message, and the sudden tension in Tyr Farbjodr’s massive frame. The moment the messenger fell silent, Tyr Farbjodr began shouting orders that galvanized the nearest Eirdkilrs into action. More than a score of the giants abandoned their captives, drew their weapons, and lumbered up the ramps.

  What in the fiery hell? Aravon had no idea what news had provoked such a reaction, but it couldn’t be good.

  Worry wormed like acid in his gut. Had the Eirdkilrs spotted the Grim Reavers? Were Rangvaldr, Zaharis, and the others even now fighting or fleeing for their lives? If so, Aravon, Colborn, and Captain Lingram would be in serious trouble. Even if they reached the top of the pit mine, only the icy expanse of the tundra awaited beyond. Aravon’s plan hinged on Noll and Rangvaldr keeping a sharp eye on their position.

  “Climb!” He hissed into the darkness. It didn’t matter if Colborn and Captain Lingram heard it; they knew as well as he what happened if those Eirdkilrs spotted them on the tundra around the mine. The three of them stood no chance against so many armed and armored giants. Their only hope of survival lay in disappearing into the darkness and rejoining their comrades. But would the Grim Reavers be waiting for them? What else but the presence of armed enemies could have stirred the heretofore unflappable Tyr Farbjodr?

  Aravon’s breath came in great, ragged gasps as he hauled himself up the cliff face one agonizing step at a time. The icy wind grew colder, fiercer, more biting as he ascended, but he forced himself to ignore the pain in his hands, arms, shoulders, legs, and feet. All he could think about was climbing, getting out of the pit mine before—

  His reaching hand brushed something too yielding to be stone. Furs, he realized. The furs wrapping Captain Lingram’s foot!

  Looking up, he found the Legionnaire crouching just above him. Little more than a shadow dark against a landscape of black, his shape silhouetted against the light of the stars high above.

  He opened his mouth to call out, to ask why Lingram had paused, but instinct stopped him. The utter stillness of Lingram’s body warned him that something was amiss.

  Slowly, Aravon fumbled his way along the cliff wall to the right, climbing until he could move around Lingram, then draw abreast of the man. He felt more than heard Lingram’s presence, his breath, the tension that radiated from the Legionnaire.

  Then Aravon heard it: voices. Low, harsh, and guttural, they came from just above Lingram’s head. Eirdkilrs!

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  A chill ran down Aravon’s spine. Yet with it came a flicker of hope. If I’m hearing Eirdkilrs, we’ve got to be near the top! He’d scanned the cliff face before darkness concealed its craggy features. There had been no ramp or vertical benches on this section of the wall. The only place where Eirdkilrs would be stationed would be on the tundra overlooking the mine.

  Fear shuddered through him. How long had the Eirdkilrs been standing there? Had they spotted the three Grim Reavers climbing and even now waited with drawn weapons to strike down the escaping captives?

  Yet the only shouts came from the Eirdkilrs below. Shouts of disdain and barked orders for the prisoners to work faster. If the Eirdkilrs above had seen them trying to climb, they clearly had no fear of the three captives.

  Or they don’t know we’re here, and they’re just set there to guard the mine. Aravon clung to that faint shred of hope. Slowly, hand by hand, one inch at a time, he clawed his way silently up the wall of the cliff. The voices grew louder until he could make out the words.

  “…wonder what that’s all about?” spoke one Eirdkilr. The guttural accent made his words difficult to understand, and every gust of wind carried his voice away, leaving only fragments of the conversation audible.

  “…gone to look…”

  “…come to Praellboer to deliver…”

  The wind fell silent, and Aravon heard the last sentence as clearly as the Lady’s Bell ringing out the midday hour.

  “If they’re really out there, Mattr will find them,” the Eirdkilr said.

  Icy feet danced down Aravon’s spine. They! He had no doubt of whom they spoke: the Grim Reavers had been discovered, and now the Eirdkilrs hunted them.

  Keeper’s teeth! Clinging to a rocky wall, hundreds of feet above the base of the pit mine, Aravon had no choice but to reconsider his plan. If the Eirdkilrs were hunting the Grim Reavers, would Noll and the others still be waiting for them nearby? Close enough that they’d spot Aravon, Colborn, and Lingram in the darkness? Or would they be riding hard, leading the Eirdkilrs on a wild chase?

  That sounded like the sort of thing Noll would do. Had done countless times before. His abilities as a scout and horseman made him bloody difficult for even the fastest-moving Eirdkilr to catch.

  But this wasn’t the grasslands or forests of Fehl. The icy Wastelands was the Eirdkilrs’ home, and they had to know the surrounding terrain far better than the Grim Reavers. If Noll did try something so desperate, he could very well be riding to his death.

  And yet, that was the sort of sacrifice every one of them had been prepared to make. Noll would risk his life to lead the Eirdkilrs away, if only to give the others a chance to scoop up Aravon, Colborn, and Captain Lingram. Even if it left them with one fewer when it came time for battle, Noll might count it as a chance worth taking.

  He’d be right. Though it pained Aravon to the core, he knew the Grim Reavers would make the right choice. None of them would leave their companions t
o rot in the pit mine, not with the Feast of Death so close at hand. Noll would take the risk, for the sake of the mission.

  Aravon’s plan remained in effect. Somewhere in the darkness, his Grim Reavers waited and watched. Aravon had no idea where or how they’d find each other, but he had to try. If they didn’t, Tyr Farbjodr would slaughter all the captives, harness the magic of the ghoulstone, and Fehl would burn.

  So be it. Determination hardened within Aravon’s chest. Now we’ve just got to deal with the Eirdkilrs up there.

  He’d heard only one voice, but that meant at least two Eirdkilrs. Between the three of them, they had a chance—albeit a slim one—of getting out alive.

  He glanced to his left, to where Colborn and Captain Lingram clung to the cliff wall. With effort, he climbed closer to the Legionnaire, close enough that he could whisper in a voice pitched low for Lingram’s ears only. “We deal with them, quick and quiet.”

  A hint of rustling cloth as Lingram nodded, then the Legionnaire passed the message on to Colborn.

  Aravon climbed first, careful to put enough distance between himself and the other two. He had no idea how many men awaited him at the top or how they stood arranged. First he had to get up top, then he could formulate a plan of attack.

  The lip of the cliff hovered just ten feet above him, and the light of a torch filled the air with a soft orange glow. The wind set the flame flickering, nearly blew it out altogether, but the fact that the Eirdkilrs held torches meant they would likely be fairly night-blind.

  A cold smile spread on Aravon’s lips. That works out nicely, doesn’t it?

  Up he climbed, the top of the cliff drawing closer one breath at a time. Eight feet. Six feet. Five, four.

  The shaggy-haired head of an Eirdkilr appeared above the clifftop. First one, then a second. The torchlight came from the one on the right. After a moment of listening, Aravon heard only the two voices of the Eirdkilrs conversing.