Turning to the Grim Reavers climbing on his left, he held up two fingers. Nodding, Colborn moved slightly to the left, while Captain Lingram went straight up.
Aravon paused, drawing in a deep breath. They had only one chance to do this right. If the Eirdkilrs spotted them too early, they were dead.
He tensed his muscles, gritted his teeth. Here goes everything!
Hand over hand, he fairly flew up the last few feet of the cliff wall and threw himself over the lip and onto the icy tundra in a forward roll. He lashed out with a foot as he did, felt a satisfying thump as his kick connected. Bone crunched and the Eirdkilr’s knee buckled at a terrible angle. The torch-wielding giant had no time to cry out in surprise or pain. The force of Aravon’s kick sent him stumbling backward, onto his ruined leg, and he toppled over the edge, taking the light of the torch with him.
But the remaining Eirdkilr had already seen Aravon. Starlight glinted off the edge of the giant’s massive axe as he swung it in an overhand chop. Right toward Aravon’s head
Aravon had only an instant to act. He threw himself into an ungraceful sideways roll. Barely in time to avoid the descending axe. Steel plowed through thick snow and thunked off hard stone, spraying shards. One slashed Aravon’s face and opened a line of fire along his cheek.
Yet that desperate move had saved his life. Now, the night-blind Eirdkilr couldn’t see him, but his darkness-trained vision could just make out the blurry shadow of the giant’s form. And the two figures that pulled themselves over the cliff behind him.
The Eirdkilr roared a wordless cry and swung out with his axe. The blow whistled past Aravon’s head, so close he could feel the wind rustling an inch from his face. A loud thump echoed in the darkness, accompanied by a quiet grunt and a meaty crack of bone breaking. The Eirdkilr screeched and the axe fell from his huge hands. One of the figures twisted so quickly he was barely a blur in the darkness. The giant seemed to fly off his feet and hurtled into the air over the cliff. A terrified gasp was all the sound he made as he plummeted to his death far below.
Captain Lingram straightened from his grappling throw, stumbled on a patch of snow, and nearly toppled off the cliff’s edge. Aravon snatched at the Legionnaire’s arm and held him firm.
After a precarious moment, Lingram managed to find his feet and stumbled into the deep snow away from the lip of the pit mine. “Thanks!” he hissed.
“Good work,” Aravon murmured. “Colborn?” he called a bit louder.
“I’m here.” Exhaustion strained the Lieutenant’s voice, but he stood, moved toward them with a determined stride. “Let’s…get the bloody hell…out of here.” His breath came in ragged gasps—the climb had left them all winded and struggling for air. The biting wind, fierce and savage without the high stone walls to shelter them, made even the simple act of breathing agony.
“Any idea…where we can find…the others?” Aravon spoke through teeth gritted against the wind.
“Hills half a mile…to the northeast,” Colborn replied, tension clipping his words. “Best place…to keep watch…and stay hidden.”
“Let’s go.” Aravon’s gut tightened as he turned away from Illtgrund and strode into the tundra, Colborn and Captain Lingram at his side. Clouds hid the moon from view and only a few stars flickered in the heaven, providing just enough light to see the empty sea of white that surrounded the mine. The lights of Praellboer seemed a world away, far to the northwest, but Aravon’s eyes locked on the featureless mass of ice to the northeast. It was their only chance of survival.
The snow grew deeper with every step, until the three of them struggled through drifts piled knee-high. The cold burrowed into Aravon’s bones and seeped into his muscles. Lead filled his limbs; he could no longer feel his hands and legs. Not even a spark of warmth in his fingers or toes, nothing but the slowing, agonizing thump, thump of his laboring heartbeat.
Time slowed to a grinding halt. All thoughts faded from Aravon’s cold-numbed mind. His ears registered nothing but the howling of the wind. The landscape around him faded into a blurred expanse of nothingness. White and black faded to shades of grey. Dark, empty, cold, unforgiving grey. A void absent of life and warmth. Nothing but the biting chill of the tundra.
Fear settled deep in his gut, the only sensation in a world gone numb. He no longer felt the pain and exhaustion in his muscles, the cold in his limbs. He felt…nothing. Nothing but the knowledge that death came for him. The Long Keeper’s arms opened to welcome him into an icy embrace. Inevitable, as inescapable as the wind thrashing at his clothing and driving ice into every inch of exposed flesh.
Something struck his face. Hard. He blinked, found snow filling his eyes. Cold against his face, pressed against his lips. He blinked again, felt a hint of warmth from his breath. His face was buried in snow. He’d fallen and hadn’t felt it. Mind as senseless as his limbs, he tried to move. Tried, but failed.
Hands grasped his arms. Weak, barely with strength enough to haul him upright. He found himself standing, supported between two men as unsteady as he. Somehow, they managed to stagger onward. Lingram fell, Aravon and Colborn helped him to stand. Colborn sagged, his strength failing. Aravon and Lingram dragged him to his feet. Supported him, leaning on each other with every shred of determination and willpower they possessed.
“Just…a little…farther!” Aravon managed to gasp. He had no idea how far—it could be two steps or two thousand leagues—or if the Grim Reavers even waited for them. He only knew they had to keep walking, keep moving, one frozen, miserable step at a time. Keep moving until they could move no longer.
“Cap…tain!” A voice, faint, distant, borne on the wind. Impossible. A voice that shouldn’t have been there in the empty darkness.
Another sound. Thud, thud, thud. Hooves on hard-packed snow.
Aravon lifted his head, found his eyes had fallen shut, and forced his eyelids open. A dark shape appeared before him. Not the empty void, but something solid, tangible. Radiating warmth, strong hands that clasped his arms, dragged him upright before he fell.
“—on the horse!” the voice shouted at him.
A huge shape loomed in front of him. An Eirdkilr, Aravon’s cold-numbed mind screamed. He tried to recoil, tried to flee the fingers that clamped on his arm.
“Damn it, Belthar, hurry up with them before they freeze!”
Belthar! Aravon recognized the name, the breadth of those powerful shoulders. Belthar’s muscles corded as he shoved Aravon bodily up into his saddle. Clutching at his reins, Aravon could do nothing but sit, shivering.
“Here, Captain.” Skathi’s voice sounded at his elbow. Something soft and warm wrapped around his shoulders. His ice bear pelt!
His horse jolted forward, leaping into motion so suddenly Aravon nearly fell from his saddle. Only instinct and years spent on horseback kept him seated. It was all he could do to cling to his horse’s mane and hold on for dear life.
They rode—for a minute, an hour, an eternity, he couldn’t know—the wind whipping at his hands, face, and feet. Yet he felt none of it. Drowning within the blessed warmth of his furs, too cold and exhausted to lift his head, he let the world pass around him.
The horse slowed. More voices, accompanied by faces. A glimmer of light, now. Soft blue tinged with red. The light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern. Held in Rangvaldr’s hands, but no sign of the Secret Keeper.
That sight snapped Aravon from his exhausted haze. Pulled his mind back from the brink of collapse.
He blinked, stared at the four masked faces around him. Noll, Skathi, Belthar, Rangvaldr, worry darkening their eyes.
“You…found us!” he managed to croak.
Relieved breaths exploded from their lungs. “Hah!” Noll managed a laugh. “Damned right we did!”
Aravon allowed Belthar to help him down from his saddle, then to a seat amidst a pile of heavy furs. “How?”
“By the Mistress’ fortune, really.” Noll shrugged. “We weren’t certain what your plan was, but we knew damned
certain you’d need us to keep an eye out for you. When we saw that Eirdkilr torch suddenly disappear into the pit, I took it as a sign from the Swordsman.” Relief sparkled in his dark eyes. “Good thing, too. We found you just in time.”
“Aye, so you did.” Aravon swallowed, found his tongue thick with thirst and hunger. Behind Noll, Belthar was helping Captain Lingram to a seat where Skathi swaddled him in heavy furs.
Colborn still hadn’t dismounted. He appeared frozen in his saddle, though the slight rise and fall of his shoulders told Aravon he still breathed. Yet, before Belthar could rise from helping Captain Lingram to a seat, the Lieutenant seemed to sway in his seat. Swayed, his eyes rolling back in his head, and he toppled to land face-first in the snow.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“Colborn!” Skathi’s voice cut through the harsh wind. The archer crossed the distance to the Lieutenant in two long steps, grasped his arms, and pulled him onto his back. A sharp intake of breath burst from her lips. “No!”
Even from where he sat, Aravon could see the deep, dark threads of crimson staining the snow where Colborn had fallen. The light of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern shone on a ragged gash across his chest.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Skathi sucked in a breath.
Aravon struggled to his feet and stumbled over to where Colborn lay. The gaping wound had laid open his chest to the sternum and shattered a rib, perhaps two. Only the cold had kept him from exsanguination—blood had frozen over the gash, almost sealing the wound. Almost. A trickle of blood ran down his side and dropped onto the snow, staining the pristine white ground beneath him a grisly red.
How—? The image of the battle on the edge of the pit mine flashed through his mind before the question fully formed. The axe strike that had missed him struck something. Colborn’s chest. The tightness in his voice hadn’t only been cold or exhaustion, but pain he’d kept hidden.
Aravon’s head swiveled to where Rangvaldr crouched beside Colborn. Even with the mask to hide his face, worry shone in his eyes. He had no need to say it—one look at the long, ragged tear that ran from Colborn’s shoulder to beneath his ribs, and everyone knew it was bad.
Noll said it anyway. “Bloody hell, Lieutenant!” He whistled quietly though his teeth. “What’d you do, throw yourself at an Eirdkilr axe?”
Colborn had recovered enough to growl a Fehlan curse at the scout. His words cut off in a hiss and grunt of pain. Even the slightest movement had to send pain rippling through the gash.
“Get him into some furs,” Skathi snapped to Belthar. The big man bustled off to collect a handful of the Tauld ice bear pelts and set to work spreading them out beside Colborn.
As Belthar, Skathi, and Noll moved the Lieutenant carefully onto the furs and bundled him as tight as they dared, Aravon stood and beckoned for Rangvaldr to follow him. They moved a few steps away, far enough to hopefully be out of earshot without depriving the Grim Reavers of their only light source.
Aravon studied the Seiomenn’s masked face. “Can you do it?” he asked quietly.
Deep shadows lingered in Rangvaldr’s eyes, and the lines of exhaustion hadn’t yet disappeared. Yet he hesitated only a minute before speaking. “I rested enough to have the strength to spare, but…”
The Seiomenn’s gaze darted to Zaharis. The Secret Keeper lay unmasked and curled within his furs a few paces away from the standing horses, sheltered in a hut of ice the Grim Reavers had evidently built while they waited. He hadn’t stirred once since their return, and he appeared to be sleeping. Sleeping! In all the months Aravon had known Zaharis, he’d only ever seen the Secret Keeper asleep when bone-tired. Or, in this case, exhausted by the pain of his broken ribs and the exertion of travel. Even so, his sleep appeared uneasy, and every other breath brought a hiss.
“I’ve just enough strength for one,” Rangvaldr said quietly.
Aravon’s gut clenched. The reason for Rangvaldr’s hesitation was clear. He’d only now recovered sufficient strength to offer healing to their wounds. Zaharis had refused to allow them to check his injuries, but he’d been close to collapse a day earlier. In the faint light of the alchemical globes held in Zaharis’ hand, the flecks of blood around the corner of his mouth were clearly visible. The Secret Keeper could be dying, but he’d been set on Rangvaldr healing Snarl. Now the time had come to make a choice…
He thought he and Rangvaldr had spoken quietly, but Colborn evidently overheard them. He made the decision. “Heal…him!” He thrust his chin toward Zaharis. “You’ll need…him for the plan…to succeed.” A grimace twisted his face and he groaned, pressing a hand to the bandages Skathi applied over his chest.
Aravon’s jaw muscles worked. He stared down at Colborn, at the pain written in every line of the Lieutenant’s face. Few men could match Colborn’s ability at arms—none of their company fought as well in a shield wall, or had the scouting, hunting, and tracking skills that made him such a valuable member of their team. But for any chance of success, the Grim Reavers would need Zaharis’ alchemy. Even without the chest that contained his alchemical supplies, the Secret Keeper still had a lifetime of knowledge and experience that had proven vital countless times over. His ingenuity had saved them over and over, and he was as fierce a warrior as any of them.
Colborn was right about Zaharis’ importance to the team. Every one of the soldiers around him knew it.
That didn’t make the decision any easier to make. Skathi and Belthar exchanged worried glances and Noll muttered something about “thick-headed Fehlans” in a voice clearly intended to reach Colborn’s ears. Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened and a burden weighed on his shoulders, as if he somehow took upon himself the blame for not being strong enough to heal both his comrades.
Captain Lingram fixed Aravon with an intense stare; he knew the burden of command better than any of them, the weight that now rested squarely on the leader of their company. Aravon felt the pull on his heart. Heal Colborn, the man who had become like a brother to him, or Zaharis, the linchpin of his plan to stop Tyr Farbjodr? He wished he could spare both the pain, take it upon himself, if that were possible.
But he could not. He had a choice to make—one few men would be capable of making. One few men should ever have to make.
Therein lay the greatest trial of command. To him fell the duty of reaching a decision when both options could kill his friends. Both would insist on fighting in the battle to come. Whichever didn’t receive healing would likely die—either by wounds already inflicted, or, slowed by pain, would succumb to the enemy assault.
He had to choose which man lived and which died.
It was the hardest decision he’d ever had to make. Yet he could not run from it. He alone could bear the burden.
And bear it he would.
“Do it,” he told Rangvaldr quietly. “Heal the Secret Keeper.” Saying the words aloud nearly shattered him. It might have, had he not seen the grim reassurance written in Colborn’s eyes. The Lieutenant nodded once and lay back, curling deeper into his furs.
A lump rose to Aravon’s throat, but in that moment, he knew he’d made the right choice.
Drawing out his holy stone, Rangvaldr muttered the arcane words that brought it flaring to life. A soft blue glow bathed Zaharis as the Seiomenn set the gleaming gemstone to his chest. When Rangvaldr finally pulled the stone away, his shoulders dropped in exhaustion and he sat hard in the snow.
“I-It was bad. Worse than he led us to believe.” The Seiomenn’s voice echoed with strain, the lines around his eyes deeper than ever. “I-I did what I could. He will live.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. Worse than he led us to believe? He stared down at the sleeping Secret Keeper. Why would Zaharis keep the truth from them? He’d insisted that Rangvaldr heal Snarl, but if he was so badly off, why conceal the extent of his injuries?
At that moment, the Secret Keeper’s eyelids fluttered open. He moved slowly as if expecting pain, then bolted upright, his hand going to his healed ribs. A strange light shone in his eyes a
s he stared at Rangvaldr, at the blue-glowing gemstone in the Seiomenn’s hands. He drew in a slow breath, then another. No pain.
He lifted a hand to sign something, but at sight of Aravon, his gaze slid past Rangvaldr to take in Captain Lingram and Colborn. Colborn, lying in pain, his furs and chest stained with blood, his face twisted into a grimace.
Fire blazed in his eyes and he leapt to his feet. “No!” His fingers flew, forming the words with short, sharp gestures thick with anger. His gaze darted to Rangvaldr. “Why?” His face twisted with a pain far deeper than any broken rib.
“I had the strength…for one.” Exhaustion thickened Rangvaldr’s words. “You were—”
“No!” Zaharis cut him off with a slash of his hand. “You should have healed him!” He stabbed a finger at Colborn. “Should have gotten him back on his feet. You wasted your strength on me. I’m…useless!”
Aravon’s jaw dropped at those words, his eyes flying wide. He’d never expected that from Zaharis.
“Don’t you see?” Tears sprang to Zaharis’ eyes but he didn’t bother to brush the moisture away. “I have nothing to offer! My alchemical supplies, gone! My belief in the Mistress, shattered! My fellow priests want me dead. The one thing—the one Keeper-damned thing—I’ve spent my life trying to accomplish is nothing but a fool’s dream!” Bitterness twisted his lips into a sneer. “Here I am in the middle of the bloody Wastelands, and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing but the scars of battle, the empty ramblings of a man my own people—even Darrak, the man I loved above all others—consider a misguided fool. Everything I ever wanted, ever dreamed could come to pass, where is it?”
He scooped up a handful of snow and threw it up into the air, where the wind carried it away in little white puffs. “Here it is!”
When the Secret Keeper rounded on them, the darkness of despair filled his eyes. “My life’s work failed. I failed.” His shoulders slumped. “I am a failure.”
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