A huge figure loomed suddenly over him. Belthar, his arrow-studded Eirdkilr shield upraised. He said something Aravon couldn’t hear through the ringing of his ears, then lifted Zaharis’ limp form from his shoulder. Relieved of his burden, Aravon found he could move faster. Together, he and Belthar raced into the darkness, away from the Eirdkilrs.
Then Noll was there with the horses, crouched low in his saddle, his compact frame a near-impossible target for the blind-firing Eirdkilr archers. The scout held the reins to Aravon’s charge, galloping the beast close enough for Aravon to scrabble into the saddle. No sooner had he mounted than the horse sprang into motion. Raced away from the arrows falling around it.
Aravon clung to his mount, blinking to clear his vision. The sparks had begun to fade and his eyes adjusted to the darkness once more. He craned his neck, searching the night behind him for his comrades. Belthar had draped the unconscious Zaharis over his saddle, mounted, and took off. Of the others, he saw no sign.
He ducked as an arrow hissed past his head. His mount screamed as the steel head sliced its neck, but it never slowed. Aravon’s heart thundered against his ribs as he let the horse have its head. Together, with Belthar and Zaharis behind, he and Noll raced into the darkness south of the bridge.
But where the bloody hell are the others?
Chapter Sixty-Four
Relief flooded Aravon as the brightening sky shone on three familiar figures ahead. Colborn, Rangvaldr, and Skathi all sat in their saddles, staring back down the trail in his direction. At the sight of him, Noll, Zaharis, and Belthar, the tension drained from their shoulders.
“Damn!” Skathi shook her head. “What in the fiery hell was that, Zaharis? Zaharis?!”
The Secret Keeper had no answer. He slipped off his saddle and collapsed limply to the ground.
Aravon leapt from his saddle and raced toward Zaharis. He reached the man a heartbeat ahead of Noll and Belthar, and the rest of the Grim Reavers joined them an instant later.
“Zaharis!” Aravon scooped up the man’s head and gave him a gentle shake. “Talk to us, Zaharis!”
A little groan escaped the Secret Keeper’s mouth and his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked, stared up at Aravon. “Captain?” Even the simple act of signing the word elicited a hiss of pain.
“Easy, Zaharis.” Rangvaldr came to kneel beside them. Exhaustion lined the corners of his eyes and tugged on his shoulders, but he reached for his pendant without hesitation. “I will give you what healing I—”
“No!” A defiant light burned in Zaharis’ eyes and he struggled to sit upright. The movement brought little grunts and groans, his pain evident in every sound, yet he didn’t stop until he had pulled himself—with Aravon and Rangvaldr’s help—up to a sitting position.
“No,” he signed again, this time with less vehemence. “Save your strength,” he told the Seiomenn. “We may yet have need of it. And you.”
Shadows darkened Rangvaldr’s eyes. “But you—”
“Are hurt, but not dead.” Zaharis turned to Aravon. “Help me, Captain, and I can stand.”
Aravon hesitated, but the insistence in Zaharis’ eyes moved him to action. Standing, he gripped the Secret Keeper’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Zaharis grunted with the pain, hunching over, yet forced himself to stand.
“See? Good as new!” He fixed his companions with a stern glare, as if daring them to argue with him.
Aravon exchanged glances with Colborn, read the question written in the Lieutenant’s eyes. He gave a little shrug and a twitch of his head toward the road south. Few men he’d met could out-stubborn Zaharis once he made up his mind. Yet Aravon had to try. Try to talk sense into the man, convince him to accept what little aid the exhausted Rangvaldr could provide.
“Let’s go,” Colborn gestured to Noll, Skathi, and Belthar. “One last gear check before we ride to battle.”
The three Grim Reavers seemed to understand the intention and moved off. Noll and Skathi drew out sheaves of arrows—their last—and set about re-filling their quivers. Belthar made a show of examining his massive crossbow with far too much attention.
With a nod, Colborn turned away and set about checking his own weapons. Leaving Aravon and Rangvaldr alone with Zaharis.
“Why, Zaharis?” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, pitched too low for the others to overhear. “Why refuse Rangvaldr’s aid?”
“I told you.” A stubborn light burned in the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “You will have need of his strength in the battle to come. Both his strength at arms and his healing.” He turned to Rangvaldr. “Look at you, my friend. You can barely stand. Had I not insisted you sleep as we waited for the Eirdkilrs to pass, you’d be collapsing even now.”
Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. The stiffness in the Seiomenn’s spine, the rigidity of his posture, and the deliberateness of each movement proved Zaharis’ words true. Had he been at full strength, he’d have withstood the Eirdkilrs’ charging attack. He was exhausted, nearing the limits of his endurance. Sparing his energy to heal Zaharis would use up his last reserves.
“Perhaps.” Rangvaldr inclined his head. “But in the battle ahead, it is you who will be needed to bring down the archway.”
“Not me. This.” Zaharis drew out a round metal orb, and its studded surface gleamed dully in the brightening pre-dawn light. His last Earthshaker. “We set this in the stone of Tyr Farbjodr’s strange pillars, and it will bring them crumbling down.”
“And to make that happen, you need to survive long enough to get into position to set it,” Aravon said. “Which you won’t do if you’re dying from internal injuries.” The Secret Keeper had concealed the extent of his wounds after the ice bear attack—was it so hard to imagine he was doing the same now?
“I know.” Zaharis gave a short, sharp nod. “But that darkness that came over me…” He hesitated. “…it has passed. Your words, your trust and faith in me, your brotherhood, it has given me a new perspective. A new outlook on everything that has happened to me, everything I have done in the name of the Mistress.”
A beatific light shone in his eyes. “No matter what my brothers and sisters of the Temple of Whispers say, I know I have done enough to be worthy of my goddess. I have given my life in her service, in pursuit of her secrets. They have brought me here, now, to fight by your sides against the greatest threat to this world—a world She charged me to protect. So here I stand, ready to fight, to die if She deems it necessary. Or to live. To live with the knowledge that I may never find the ice saffron and unlock the secrets of the Elixir of Creation. Everything else I have done, discovered, and created will be enough to earn Her gratitude. No man, creature, or god could ask more than I have already given. This, I know.” He tapped his heart. “I feel it here.”
Conviction showed in the Secret Keeper’s every movement, the glow filling his eyes. For weeks, since battling Darrak at Rivergate, he had wrestled with the knowledge of how his choices had led him away from his fellow priests. From the people he’d loved, the life he’d wanted to lead. Yet now, he had peace. Peace that, no matter what, he had made the right choice.
Zaharis turned to Rangvaldr. “I know you mean well, my friend. You give of yourself to the last shred of strength. And for that, I love you. We all do. But for what lies ahead, you must be strong enough to swing a sword, to hold a shield. To be the shield against the enemy, to free the captives that Tyr Farbjodr prepares to sacrifice even now. If that means I must endure pain a while longer, so be it.” Wry humor sparkled in his eyes and he lifted a finger to tap his mask just over his mouth. “After all, this wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done so.”
Aravon’s eyebrows rose. The Secret Keeper was making a joke about having his tongue cut out? Who was this new Zaharis?
“It’s not just pain,” Rangvaldr protested. “I couldn’t fully heal your ribs, or reverse the damage done to your internal organs. One blow to the chest or sides could kill you.”
Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Which is why he’s not going
to fight.” Zaharis stiffened, but Aravon held up a hand to cut him off. “You’re going to hang back, near the rear of the battle, until you can find a chance to get to the pillars and set the Earthshaker.”
“But, Captain—” Zaharis began.
“No buts!” Aravon shook his head. “You’ll stay by Noll and Skathi, deal with any Eirdkilrs that get past us, and look for an opening to bring down that damned archway.” He fixed the Secret Keeper with a stern glare. “Is that understood?”
A stubborn light shone in Zaharis’ eyes. For a moment, Aravon feared the Secret Keeper might force the issue. He prepared for an argument—he wouldn’t budge, either. Not with Zaharis’ life on the line.
But it seemed pain could defeat even the Secret Keeper’s monumental obstinacy. He hunched over, grunting as a wave of agony wracked his body. “Understood!” he managed to sign, though his hands shook.
Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr. “How bad is it?” he asked in the hand language.
“You made the right choice, keeping him in the rear.” Worry darkened the Seiomenn’s eyes. “But even so, I fear he will not live through the day without healing.”
Aravon grimaced. Damn! He hadn’t expected to survive this mission, yet now, coming face to face with the death of one of his men, he knew he had to find a way to get them through this alive. “The moment the battle’s over, do what you can. Keep him alive!”
With a nod, Rangvaldr turned to help Zaharis climb into his saddle.
Aravon moved back to his own horse, mounted, and found Noll, Skathi, Belthar, and Colborn already seated and staring at him, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr. Even with the masks concealing their features, Aravon could read the worry—worry for Zaharis, their friend.
“He has made his choice,” Aravon signed to the four Grim Reavers, keeping his hands hidden from the Secret Keeper’s view. “And it is the right choice for what awaits us.” He kept any hint of emotion from his eyes. “Skathi, Noll, keep an eye on him, and keep him out of trouble.”
“Aye, Captain!” Noll signed back.
Skathi just nodded, tightened her grip on her bow.
Rangvaldr and Zaharis rode up beside him at that moment, and Aravon let his fingers fall silent. He fixed his six companions with a solemn gaze. Emotion welled within him at the sight of these brave soldiers. His friends. His family.
“Our road has been long.” He spoke in a quiet voice. “Our path has led us through pain, loss, heartbreak, and sorrow. And yet, here we stand. Against impossible odds, despite everything the enemy has thrown at us, here we stand. Still alive, still strong. Still prepared to fight!”
He gripped his spear tight, his leather gloves creaking around its hilt. “We cannot run from the battle ahead. If we falter, if we break, Tyr Farbjodr wins, and countless innocents die. And so we fight. To the bitter end. Until Tyr Farbjodr lies dead at our feet and his plans to slaughter our people die with him. No matter the cost.”
His eyes roved the masked faces before him. He knew every contour of those snarling greatwolf masks as well as he knew the features beneath. Knew the emotions that swirled within each of the soldiers beneath the façade. They mirrored his own, just as his feelings mirrored theirs. Over their time spent together, they had become more and more like each other. United in spirit and purpose, in their determination to fight for peace, justice, and the protection of the innocent.
“No matter the cost,” he repeated. “Shields strong and swords sharp. The Grim Reavers ride to one final battle."
“Aye!” Colborn growled. “One final battle.”
“One final battle,” echoed Skathi, Belthar, and Noll in unison.
Zaharis grunted, and though Rangvaldr remained silent, Aravon could see the fire burning in his eyes.
“You know the plan,” Aravon said. “Captain Lingram fought and died to give us this chance to strike at Tyr Farbjodr.” He studied each of his companions in turn. The people that had become as dear to him as Duke Dyrund, Mylena, and his sons. “Swordsman be with us.”
With that, he clapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and set off down the road leading south. Toward the pit mine, Tyr Farbjodr, and their battle to the death.
Chapter Sixty-Five
The ever-brightening sky sent waves of anxiety radiating through Aravon. Though the sun hadn’t yet appeared over the horizon, the threads of angry red flooded the heavens, moving steadily westward as if a tide of blood washed over the halls of the gods.
The Feast of Death would be upon them at any moment, and the Grim Reavers were still too damned far from Tyr Farbjodr and the pit mine.
Aravon leaned lower in his saddle, urged his horse to run faster. The charger could give no more speed. As hungry, cold, and wounded as he, the specially-bred warhorse was reaching the limits of its endurance. They all were.
Yet they could not slow. Even the slightest delay could mean failure.
Aravon had no idea how Tyr Farbjodr’s blood ritual worked, how many deaths would be needed to activate his foul magic, or how he planned to bring the power within the ghoulstone to life. He didn’t even know how Zaharis had done it.
None of it mattered. He only knew he had to reach Illtgrund and stop the Eirdkilr commander before he sacrificed the captive Princelanders, Fehlans, and Tauld on his altar. Saving the prisoners and stopping the bloodshed would put an end to Tyr Farbjodr’s diabolical plan. They’d put an end to the bastard once and for all.
Gritting his teeth, Aravon gripped his reins and spear tighter, his eyes locked on the muddy road ahead. On the ever-brightening tundra, the empty expanse of white painted a grim ruby red by the light of the discolored sky.
Hope surged within him as a single blot of color appeared in the white, flat lands ahead. A finger of black, the line barely visible, that stretched a mile from east to west.
We’re almost there! Again, his eyes went to the sky. Swordsman grant we’re not too late!
Every thundering beat of his heart brought them one step closer. The biting wind slashed at Aravon’s face, seeped through the cracks in his armor, threatened to pull him from his saddle. He leaned into the flurry of snow and ice. Bent lower, steeling his body and heart for the battle ahead.
Whatever awaited him at the pit mine, he would face it. He had to, for the sake of Fehl.
The mine drew closer, closer, looming larger in his vision. The single line of black grew into the gaping chasm gouged into the unbroken landscape. A stain on the earth, the mark of mankind’s cruelty and bloodlust ripped from the Wastelands’ grim silence.
Something about the road ahead felt…off. No Eirdkilrs stood at the top of the mine. No giants watched the road north, guarding against attack from the direction of Praellboer.
Aravon’s gut twisted. That can’t be right! If Tyr Farbjodr expected enemies, he wouldn’t leave his position undefended. Not unless…
A new sound reached Aravon, carried on the whipping wind. Faint, distant, drifting up from within the mine. Screams. Cries of pain and terror. Men and women weeping, shouting, or shrieking. The voice of terror.
Then his horse reached the top of the path descending into the mine, and Aravon’s eyes fell on a scene of torment, carnage, and chaos.
Bodies lay scattered around the base of the mine. Eirdkilrs, their heads crushed, throats torn out, picks and shovels buried in their backs, chests, or caving in their skulls. Fehlans, men and women both, their limbs hacked off, ribs shattered, severed hands still clutching their crude tools or weapons torn from their Eirdkilr captors. Princelanders among them, arms and legs twisted at terrible angles, gaping wounds in their necks, arrows driven into their eye sockets. Blood—so much blood—ran thick in the base of the mine. Turned the mud a foul, dark red.
In that instant, Aravon knew a battle had taken place here. A terribly one-sided clash. Only a handful of Eirdkilrs had fallen, while nearly a hundred captives lay in the crimson muck, dead, dying, or screaming their agony.
Far more had survived. Survived just long enough to be sacrificed on Tyr
Farbjodr’s altar.
Thirty captives knelt on the circle of black stone between the four monoliths. Hands bound behind their backs, beaten just short of death, limbs shattered, heads hanging low, they had no strength left to fight their Eirdkilr captors. Their executioners. Even as Aravon came into view of the mine’s bottom, the Eirdkilrs guarding the prisoners raised their axes, clubs, and spears. Thirty prisoners died in the space of two heartbeats.
Horror surged within Aravon. Heads rolled, bodies thumped onto the black stone, and a tidal wave of blood washed through the grooves etched into the circle. The four monoliths at the base of the mine flared with a strange light. A soft blue glow, faint yet clearly visible in the early light of dawn.
Tyr Farbjodr had begun the Feast of Death.
The Eirdkilr giant stood between the stone pillars his captives had built—now completed, the two arms of black joined at the top, forming a crude archway fifty feet tall. Glee twisted his heavy, bearded face into a maniacal grin. His roaring laughter echoed off the walls of the mine. Impossibly loud, harsh, ringing with an inhuman note of cruelty, Tyr Farbjodr roared with mirth as his Eirdkilrs slaughtered the prisoners.
Bloody, twisted hell! Aravon’s eyes darted toward the figures bound and kneeling next in line for their execution. Hrani, his left arm broken, and Skuli, who sat listless, crimson trickling from a wound in his head. Hallad, the left side of his face mangled, covered in blood. A dark-haired woman and two small girls knelt beside the Deid captive—his family.
At Farbjodr’s order, the Eirdkilrs lifted the lifeless corpses of their captives and hurled them onto the pile of bodies. The pile had grown visibly since the previous day. Another group of Eirdkilrs seized the captive Deid—men, women, and children—and dragged them into the stone circle. Savage kicks sent them to their knees, splashing in the blood of those slain before them.
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