Chapter Fifty-Eight
Stunned silence hung thick in their camp. The Secret Keeper’s tirade seemed to have come out of nowhere, yet it left them all, even the usually irreverent Noll, speechless.
Zaharis straightened and fury blazed across his face. “You wasted your effort on me, Rangvaldr!” He jabbed an angry finger at the Seiomenn. “Wasted on a man too pig-headed to listen when everyone else with half a brain told him his mission was a fool’s errand. And they were right!”
He slumped to his furs, his strength and the ferocity of his anger spent. “They were right.” He buried his face in his hands.
Aravon stared in silence down at the Secret Keeper. He’d seen a glimmer of this pain and sorrow long ago, the first time Zaharis had raced off into the forest alone to hunt down the ice saffron. It had deepened after Rivergate. After meeting Darrak. Though he’d gone to Icespire in defiance of the Secret Keeper’s intentions to kill him, Aravon had seen the anguish that Zaharis suffered after his final confrontation with Darrak and the Mistress’ priests. It had bubbled up to the surface at Camp Marshal, though Zaharis had tried to brush it off, had found welcome distraction in the wonders of his alchemically-made holy stone.
But now, he could no longer run from it. Could no longer hide from the voice that had wormed deep into his mind and heart. The voice of recrimination that echoed over and over again that he had failed.
“No.” Colborn’s gasp echoed with pain, yet iron edged his words. “We’re only here…because of you!”
Zaharis didn’t move, didn’t lift his head, as if he hadn’t heard the words. Or he simply drowned too deep in his own remorse, guilt, anguish, and feelings of inadequacy for them to register.
“Everything we’ve done,” Belthar rumbled, “from saving Bjornstadt to retaking Rivergate to repelling the attack in Icespire to crossing the Wastelands, we only did it because you were with us. Because of your alchemy and your brilliant mind.”
Skathi moved to kneel beside the Secret Keeper. “You might not have found the ice saffron, but you’re far from a failure.” She gripped his shoulder with a strong hand. “You’re our friend. You’re our brother. And we’re only alive—all of us—because of you.”
Zaharis’ shoulders stopped shaking, but his face remained buried in his hands.
“And because of you, we have a real chance of taking down Tyr Farbjodr.” Aravon’s voice rang with confidence—perhaps more than he felt, but his exhausted, cold, and hungry soldiers needed to hear it. “That’s why we chose you. That’s why Colborn insisted that Rangvaldr heal you, and why Rangvaldr gave you his strength. Because we need you. We need your brilliant mind, the secrets of alchemy that only you know. But it’s not only that.” He came to stand beside Zaharis. “We believe in you. All of us do. In your holy service to the Mistress, in your abilities as a Secret Keeper, and your desire to serve your goddess and the people of Einan.”
“We may not know a bloody thing about ice saffron,” Noll put in, “but we’re damned well going to do what we can to help you find it.” He gave a derisive snort. “We’re all freezing our arses off in this frozen hell alongside you, aren’t we?”
Aravon smiled. Flippancy aside, Noll’s words held a kernel of truth.
“Every one of us would do whatever we could to help you complete your life’s mission.” He gripped the Secret Keeper’s shoulder. “But to us, it doesn’t matter whether you find the ice saffron or not. We believe in you, Zaharis. Not what you might do, but who you are. Who you’ve been all these years.” Kneeling, Aravon spoke in a quiet voice. “It’s time you believe in yourself. You are not defined by your hunt for ice saffron and the discovery of the Elixir of Creation, but—”
Zaharis’ head flew up, so fast he nearly sent Aravon sprawling. The Secret Keeper leapt to his feet, darted toward Colborn, and flung himself to his knees at the Lieutenant’s side. One hand darted into his pouch while the other tossed aside the blood-stained furs over Colborn’s chest and removed the bandages.
Aravon sucked in a breath as Zaharis’ hand emerged from his pouch holding a familiar glass vial. Even without a source of light, the liquid within glowed a gentle light blue.
The Elixir of Creation!
Zaharis pulled open the cork and, without hesitation, emptied the last threads of liquid onto Colborn’s chest. The effect was instantaneous; the ragged edges of flesh began to re-knit, the muscle beneath once more filling out, thickening, growing strong. The fracture in Colborn’s sternum repaired itself in the instant before the wound sealed shut seemingly in the space between two heartbeats.
Colborn gasped, his spine going rigid. A moment later, however, he sat up. No hiss of pain escaped his lips, but his jaw dropped as he stared down at his chest. Nothing, not even a hint of scar tissue, remained to mar the skin. Almost as if he’d never been wounded in the first place.
“By the Swordsman!” Colborn breathed. Surprise etched into every line of his face, and he lifted his eyes to Zaharis. “B-But…” He seemed to be at a loss for words. Swallowing, he tried again. “But that was the last of the Elixir of Creation.”
“It was.” To Aravon’s surprise, all trace of anguish and misery had fled from Zaharis’ face. Now, only a look of utter calm, of deep-rooted peace and contentment, remained. “I’ve hunted ice saffron for more than a decade, but not because of what it offered me or the Mistress’ priests.” The Secret Keeper hefted the empty bottle, and a beatific smile broadened his lips. “I searched for it in the hopes that I could change the world. Perhaps…” He looked to each of his seven companions. “Perhaps leave it a bit better than the world I was born into. I sought it because of all the lives I thought it could save.” He smiled at Colborn. “And now, knowing my obsession saved the life of a man I consider my brother, my true friend, that alone makes it worth it.”
Emotions warred in Colborn’s face. Reaching out, he grasped Zaharis’ hand and pulled him into a fierce hug. The Secret Keeper returned the embrace with abandon—two comrades, brothers in spirit and purpose.
Long moments of silence passed, all in their small company digesting Zaharis’ words and the truth of what he’d just given up for Colborn.
“Aww, aren’t they cute?” Noll’s irreverence shattered the stillness. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were—OW!”
A meaty thump cut off his words, and the scout went sprawling into knee-deep snow. He came up spluttering and growling at Belthar. “What in the fiery hell?”
“Sorry,” Belthar rumbled in a voice that held no tone of apology. “Got a sudden cramp in my arm.” He made a theatrical show of loosening his massive bicep.
Colborn and Zaharis broke off the embrace as Noll clambered out of the deep snow. The scout glared daggers at Belthar and muttered under his breath, shaking the snow off his armor like a wet dog. Aravon chose not to hear the choice remarks on Belthar’s parentage, bathing habits, girth, prowess with the women, and other insults Noll heaped on the big man. All went unnoticed by Belthar, who was staring down at Skathi, who sat leaned against his shoulder—a posture that had grown decidedly more familiar in the last day.
Aravon drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs for what felt like the first time in ages. His Grim Reavers were whole—exhausted, hungry, still in pain from far too many wounds, yet still standing and ready to fight. They had lost too many hours of darkness already. If they were to stop Tyr Farbjodr’s plan and the slaughter of all the captives in the pit mine, they needed to move fast.
“I’ve got a plan that will give us a real shot at taking down Tyr Farbjodr.” Aravon looked from face to face. Though the masks hid their expressions, a grim light of determination shone in the eyes that stared back at him. “I don’t need to tell you how impossible this us. We have no Legionnaires, no Fehlan warband, no Shalandrans, no Princelander regulars or mercenaries. We’re alone in this. Just the eight of us against more than four hundred Eirdkilrs.”
He couldn’t be certain how many warriors dwelled within Praellboer,
but he’d counted at least a hundred and fifty guarding the captives. Add to that the two hundred at Illtgrund and those hauling the prisoners south, and they had less-than-ideal odds to deal with.
Yet that had never stopped them before, and it wouldn’t now. “But,” he held up a finger, “if we can make absolutely certain every part of our plan falls into place, we’ve got a chance. A bloody slim one, but a chance nonetheless.”
He fixed his Grim Reavers with a piercing stare, drawing strength from the confidence in their eyes. Confidence in him, in his ability to lead, and in each of their skills. They might be just eight, but together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
A giant of a man with strength to rival the Eirdkilrs and a stubborn streak fierce enough to stop an army in its tracks. A scout so clever and lucky he alone had survived the slaughter of his entire Legion company. An archer without peer even among her own Agrotorae. A Lieutenant with a keen mind, a strong will, and the skills of both Princelander and Fehlan. A genius with the ability to turn simple plants into marvelous alchemical weapons and even more remarkable skills at hand-to-hand combat. A Legionnaire and officer who had survived impossible battles and emerged victorious, a hero of Icespire. A wise Seiomenn, revered among his own people, gifted with a magical stone capable of healing fatal wounds.
All of them had chosen to follow him here. Had volunteered for this mission knowing full well it would be their last. They’d signed on to join him without hesitation—none then, and none now. Only determination and grim resolve shone in their eyes.
“I could think of worse ways to die, Captain.” Colborn broke the silence. “Saving our people from the Eirdkilrs is about as good an ending as a soldier could ask for.”
“Worse places, too,” Belthar added. Then he glanced around and seemed to reconsider. “Well, uglier places, at least.”
“Seems like we’ve got a bit of fun ahead, sir.” Noll’s voice had lost all trace of irreverence and mockery, but rang with unwavering certainty. “Best we be getting on with kicking Eirdkilr arse, says I. Keeper knows we’ve got little enough darkness left to get in place, eh?”
Aravon looked at each in turn. Masks hid Skathi, Belthar, Rangvaldr, and Noll’s expressions from view, yet he saw courage written in their eyes. The same bravery and steadfastness etched into every line of Colborn, Zaharis, and Captain Lingram’s faces.
Yes, the Grim Reavers had indeed made their peace with their fates. Now, the time had come to do what they’d come here to do.
“Then let me tell you how we’re going to defeat Tyr Farbjodr once and for all…”
* * *
“No bloody way!” Noll folded his arms defiantly across his chest and shook his head. “Belthar gave it to me for Goodie Day, and there’s not a snowflake’s chance in the fiery hell I’m giving it up!”
Aravon said nothing, simply fixed the scout with a stern gaze and focused on chewing his meager meal of dried fish. Noll knew what he had to do; he’d just be difficult until he relented.
“Captain!” Noll pleaded. “Don’t make me do this. I’ll give up anything else. Keeper’s teeth, I’ll throw in my left bollock instead!”
“Not much call for that,” Belthar rumbled, a generous helping of sarcasm in his voice.
Noll scowled at Belthar, at Aravon, at Colborn, at the ice and snow around him. His shoulders squared in a stubborn set as he tried in vain to think of an argument. Anything, no matter how desperate, that would keep him from giving up his prized possession.
Long seconds passed before Noll finally threw up his hands. “Keeper take each and every one of you!” Reaching into his pouch, he drew out the little glass bottle of Nyslian brandy and cradled it as he would a newborn. More so, knowing Noll’s fondness for the liquor. When he handed it over to Colborn, he appeared crestfallen, as if he’d just given up his first- and last-born children. “This is just cruelty!”
Colborn’s eyes twinkled beneath his mask. “If there was any other way, Noll—”
“We’d probably still do this anyway.” Laughter echoed in Belthar’s deep voice.
Again, Noll glared daggers at Belthar, but it had little effect on the big man. Indeed, Belthar seemed to derive a morbid sense of pleasure from tormenting Noll. Anything to take his mind off the battle to come.
All of the Grim Reavers seemed equally determined not to think about what they now prepared to do. Captain Lingram checked and re-checked his gear for the tenth time in the last five minutes. Skathi applied another layer of beeswax to her bowstring and ran an expert finger over the fletching of her arrows—the last three sheaves, fewer than three score, all tipped with good steel heads. Zaharis knelt beside Rangvaldr, helping the Seiomenn drink a foul-smelling slurry filled with ground-up herbs and melted snow—”something for a little jolt of energy,” Zaharis had said, doubtless similar to the draught that had kept him, Aravon, and Eirik Throrsson moving during their flight from the Blood Queen.
The seven of them appeared as exhausted as Aravon felt—Rangvaldr more so than the rest of them—yet they moved with purpose, resolve. They had no more time to rest, no more time for planning. All that remained was the battle to come. They’d fight it until their strength gave out, or until the Long Keeper gathered them into his arms.
The eight of them had come all this way for this specific purpose. No turning back, no hesitation now.
Their small company moved out five minutes later. Midnight approached fast and a blanket of darkness lay thick and heavy over the icy tundra. Aravon huddled deeper into his furs, glad for the warmth after a day spent miserable and cold. The solid weight of his armor and weapons reassured him. This, at least, held an almost welcome familiarity.
Give me a weapon and men to fight beside, and I will battle to the bitter end.
Noll led the way, pushing their pace steadily. They’d gone less than a mile before Zaharis and Rangvaldr broke away from their pack, riding northwest. Aravon didn’t pause to watch them go—he gave only a farewell wave, lost in the darkness—as he and the remaining five Grim Reavers turned northeast. On they rode for the better part of two hours, deeper into the darkness and vast expanse of ice-covered snow.
Worry gnawed in Aravon’s gut as the distance to Praellboer increased. They had only a few hours until sunrise, until the Feast of Death. He needed to make damned certain that they stopped Tyr Farbjodr before he slaughtered the prisoners.
When the hill lands gave way to a flat, unbroken expanse of ice, Aravon understood why they’d traveled so far off course. They couldn’t simply use the bridge south of Praellboer, not without alerting the Eirdkilrs. To follow him, Colborn, and Captain Lingram south, the Grim Reavers had had to find another way to cross the fast-flowing river. It was only by the Swordsman’s grace the crossing was only ten or fifteen miles out of the way. On foot, it would take more than three hours to get from Praellboer to the frozen-over section of river.
Hopefully, this will slow the Eirdkilrs down long enough for us to execute our plan. To execute Tyr Farbjodr before he ordered the deaths of more than thirteen hundred captive Fehlans, Princelanders, and Tauld.
Once across the river, Noll led the way due west. An hour or so later, the lights of Praellboer’s dung fires appeared on the horizon.
The Grim Reavers didn’t slow until they reached the last hill bordering the land east of Praellboer. Now came the time for one final division of their forces.
Aravon turned to Noll, Skathi, and Colborn, the three lightest and most capable riders. “Swordsman strengthen your arm and guide your aim,” he signed.
Skathi gave him the two-fingered acknowledgement of the Agrotorae, and Colborn clapped his hand to his breastplate, a Legionnaire’s salute.
Noll’s farewell proved a bit more long-winded. “I’d ask if you were sure about this, Captain,” the scout signed, “but we both know that dances well beyond the line of madness.” Despite his words, a glint of eager excitement sparkled in his eyes. “So let’s settle for good luck and good hunting, yeah? Save a
ll the weepy speeches and hugs for after we’re done kicking Eirdkilr arse.” He turned to ride after Colborn, but paused and looked back. “And when this is all over, I’m giving Zaharis an earful about how pissed I am he’s letting Colborn play alchemist instead of me!”
Aravon chuckled and waved the man away. The three of them had much farther to ride to get into place for the attack.
He watched until the Grim Reavers disappeared into the shadows north of Praellboer, then turned his attention back to the Eirdkilr village below. The dung fire still burned in the main square, and the cracks of whips and the cries of prisoners echoed on the wind. There were still enemies in the village, and slaves in need of freedom.
Closing his eyes, Aravon drew in a long breath. We have no Legionnaires, no Fjall, no Shalandrans, no Princelanders. We’re alone in this. Just the eight of us. A cold smile touched his lips. Fiery hell, but this is going to be insane!
Yet if anyone could do it, it was Captain Lingram and the six Grim Reavers riding with him. After a long moment, Aravon opened his eyes and met the gazes of the two soldiers at his side.
“Let’s do this,” he said in a quiet voice.
As one, the three soldiers kicked their horses into a slow trot, riding toward the top of the hill—and to the impossible battle that awaited them beyond the rise.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Aravon checked his weapons one last time. Spear in hand, its leaf-shaped Odarian steel head sharpened to a razor point. Regular oiling had kept the moisture and cold at bay, ensured the iron spike built into its butt extended smoothly without rust or tarnish slowing its twisting mechanisms. The longsword on his belt sat loose in its sheath and ready to draw in a moment’s notice. If it came to drawing the blade, he’d be in dire straits. But in the battle to come, he had to be ready for anything.
He gave his armor one final examination. The breastplate had sustained dents and scratches aplenty. Gulon saliva had worn holes in Zaharis’ hardening treatment, leaving the leather cracked and weak. Without that alchemical finish, it was plain leather—a pitiful protection from the Eirdkilrs’ massive weapons.
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