The stone monolith behind him flared brighter, and for the first time, Aravon noticed the low humming beneath his feet. Power crackled in the air around him, far more tangible than the first time he’d drawn near the stones. So thick he could almost taste its sharp tang. His skin prickled, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and somewhere deep within his mind, beneath the shock, exhaustion, and pain, he knew that everything about this place was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
With a snort of derision, Tyr Farbjodr tossed the spear aside as casually as he’d discard a twig. His gaze locked on Aravon. “You must be the Grimabrandr I’ve heard so much about.”
Grimabrandr? The sound of the word seemed to snap Aravon from his stupor. He recognized it, a Fehlan word meaning…
“Shadow Blade?” He tested it out on his tongue. “I like it!” A broad grin tugged at his lips. His muscles seemed to come alive in that moment. Pain raced through his body, but he found he could move. Slowly, carefully, he backed away from the giant Eirdkilr.
No, not an Eirdkilr. Something else. Something…he had no idea what, but no human he’d met could survive wounds like that.
“The way these fools talk about you, I expected someone bigger and stronger.” Tyr Farbjodr gestured around him, though at the Eirdkilrs or the Fehlan and Princelander captives, Aravon couldn’t tell. “Someone more like him.”
Aravon’s instincts shrieked in his mind—he dared not look away from the giant for even a heartbeat. A foolish mistake like that would get him killed.
Instead, he forced himself to shrug. “You’re not what I expected, either.” His grin widened. “You’re a lot uglier.”
The taunt—intended to goad Farbjodr into a hasty attack—had no effect. The giant simply chuckled. “You have no idea.” He adjusted his grip on his axe, more like a child fiddling with a toy than a warrior preparing to attack. “But then again, your pathetic kind never do. You pitiful humans are only capable of accepting what you can understand, rather than looking deeper for what lies beneath the surface.”
The words puzzled Aravon. “Your kind” could be a reference to the Princelanders, who the Eirdkilrs considered less-than-human. But he spoke of “you pitiful humans” with a tone of such disdain. Almost like he was trying to confuse Aravon.
That won’t work on me!
Aravon attacked, so suddenly and with such ferocity Tyr Farbjodr had no chance to raise his axe before Aravon’s sword whistled in a blur of steel toward his face. The blade carved a deep gouge across the Eirdkilr’s forehead, cutting to the bone. Aravon darted backward, out of Tyr Farbjodr’s reach, and prepared for the counterattack.
It never came. The Eirdkilr seemed unfazed by the assault, by the crimson trickling from the gaping wound in his forehead. He barely blinked as the blood ran into his eyes. Indeed, he only smiled and stuck out his tongue to lap up the droplets that fell through his beard.
Aravon’s jaw dropped beneath his mask, his eyes locked on the Eirdkilr’s forehead. In the space of two heartbeats, the severed flesh grew back together, re-knitting, leaving no trace of the wound. Just as his eye had. And, Aravon realized, the wound in his chest. Through the tear in his armor, Aravon could see the barbarian’s hairy chest, the blood staining his skin. Yet the skin was as whole and unbroken as before Aravon’s attack.
A memory flashed through Aravon’s mind: An assassin faced him across Lord Aleron Virinus’ office, his head fallen back in the battle, his scarred face twisted into a sneer. Blood gushed from a wound in his neck, yet the flow slowed, then stopped as the wound closed, the flesh healing in seconds.
Keeper’s teeth! The assassin in Icespire had eyes as cold and black as the giant in front of him. The man—or whatever he truly was—had faced the seven of them and lived. Indeed, Aravon had little doubt the outcome would have been quite different had he faced the assassin alone.
And now he stood in front of another such man—monster, creature, or whatever Tyr Farbjodr truly was. He stood alone, with only a sword, his armor weakened, his body drained from hunger, thirst, and pain. If he fought the Eirdkilr giant, he would die.
Yet he’d accepted that fate. A fate he’d chosen for himself the moment he proposed this mission to kill Tyr Farbjodr. He would embrace death, but by the Swordsman, he’d drag this...thing to the grave with him.
Baring his teeth in a snarl, he prepared to launch himself at the Eirdkilr. He might not be able to overcome the giant’s defenses through sheer ferocity, but his speed gave him an edge. Let’s see if he can re-grow a head!
To his surprise, the Eirdkilr made no move to attack. On the contrary, he seemed almost relaxed, perfectly content to stand and wait for Aravon to come to him.
That set Aravon on full alert. Every Eirdkilr he’d battled had fought in a near battle-frenzy, howling war cries and loosing wild swings of their massive weapons. But one look at Tyr Farbjodr’s pitch black eyes, and Aravon knew this giant was unlike any other.
Instead of leaping into the attack, Aravon moved slowly, like a Voramian fencer, sliding toward his target one cautious step at a time. He scanned Tyr Farbjodr’s stance, posture, even the way the giant gripped his axe, searching for any openings in his guard. The Eirdkilr appeared unconcerned with something as mundane as defending himself or warding off blows of his enemy’s weapons. Then again, the way he’d healed from the arrow to the eye and the spear to the heart, he truly had no reason to fear.
But Aravon did. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine, and his feet faltered. Only for a heartbeat, yet in that moment, a question slammed into his mind.
How in the fiery hell am I going to kill something that just won’t die?
Chapter Sixty-Seven
A massive shape suddenly hurtled into his field of view, moving so fast neither he nor Tyr Farbjodr had time to register Belthar’s presence before the big man crashed into the giant. Belthar drove his shoulder into Tyr Farbjodr’s chest with bone-crushing force. The impact hurled Tyr Farbjodr from his feet, sending him flying through the air to splash into the mud beneath his constructed archway.
“You good, Captain?” Belthar rumbled at Aravon’s side. Blood stained the big man’s masked face, arms, leather armor, and both heads of his axe. More than a little of it was his own, trickling from a vicious collection of wounds both shallow and deep. Eirdkilr weapons had finished what the ice bear began, and his armor hung in shredded strips of leather from his massive shoulders. Yet he gripped his axe in strong fingers and planted his feet firmly on the stone.
“Aye.” Aravon tore his gaze from Tyr Farbjodr long enough to search for his spear. It lay in the mud ten yards away—too far to retrieve before the giant Eirdkilr stood and lunged at Belthar. Better he fight with his sword than let Belthar battle the hulking brute alone. “Turns out the bloody bastard doesn’t stay wounded. He heals, like that damned assassin in Icespire.”
Belthar swore. “Gonna make things awful tricky.”
“Not really.” Aravon grinned beneath his mask. “Just keep hitting until he doesn’t get back up.”
Belthar chuckled. “Simple enough.”
At that moment, Tyr Farbjodr picked himself up from the mud, shaking his head as if to clear away cobwebs. “Not bad.” His black eyes locked on Belthar. “Maybe you’ll give me a few minutes of entertainment before I tear you apart, like I did the last of your kind to challenge me.” He scooped up his axe and made a show of brushing mud from the wooden handle. “But—”
Whatever words formed on his lips never came to life. Something slammed into him from behind. Colborn, shield-first, the steel boss slamming into the giant’s spine. Bone cracked audibly and Tyr Farbjodr flew forward.
Right into Belthar. The big man wound up and brought his double-headed axe swinging around. The sharp steel blade tore a chunk of flesh from Farbjodr’s shoulder, crunched into his skull, and tore through helmet and head alike. He flew to the side, splashed into the blood-soaked mud, and lay still.
A gasping, exhausted Colborn slid to a stop
beneath the archway. Blood soaked him from head to toe, bathed the blade of his sword and his wooden shield. “Bastard talked a lot, didn’t he?”
“Aye,” Belthar rumbled. “Good thing we shut him up.”
But Aravon wasn’t so certain. He raced toward the downed Tyr Farbjodr, sword held at the ready for a downward thrust into the giant’s brain, visible through the sheared-off back half of his skull. He’d barely crossed half the distance before Farbjodr’s arms twitched, once, twice, then suddenly moved. So fast Aravon had no time to stop, slow, or backpedal.
Farbjodr’s sudden explosion of movement caught him off-guard. The head of the giant’s axe crashed into his chest. Air exploded from his lungs and the impact hurled him backward. He flew, smashed into the nearest monolith, his head and back cracking against hard stone.
“Captain!” Colborn’s shout, faint and distant, barely audible through the dizziness, the rush of blood in Aravon’s ears.
But Tyr Farbjodr’s harsh, grating laughter pierced his dizziness.
“Come on!” the giant roared. “Is that the best you pathetic humans can do?”
Aravon blinked, desperate to clear the blurring edges of his vision. His chest felt as if a stampede of wildebeests had just barreled into him, and pain raced up and down his spine, his ribs, and the muscles of his back, neck, and shoulders. Try as he might, he couldn’t move—agony held him paralyzed on hands and knees, gasping for even the faintest shred of air.
“By the Destroyer!” The giant Eirdkilr’s tone echoed petulance, frustration. “Can no one in this age give me a real fight?”
The words barely registered through the pain flooding every fiber of Aravon’s being. They sounded wrong, but why, his mind was too numbed and dazed to comprehend.
“Do better!” Tyr Farbjodr shouted, shaking his axe at him. “I expected more from the one called Grimabrandr.” He shook his head. “Continue to bore me, and you’ll find I quickly grow tired of playing with my food.”
The cold, callous detachment of the Eirdkilr’s voice sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. The way Tyr Farbjodr healed, his utter contempt for the weapons he and his Grim Reavers wielded, he truly didn’t fear them. Like a cat toying with a trapped mouse, he was enjoying this.
But why? Aravon struggled to rise, twinges running up and down his spine. Our attack is preventing him from executing the captives and draining their strength for his warriors. Of whom, he realized, only a handful remain.
The Fehlan, Tauld, and Princelander captives had overwhelmed most of Tyr Farbjodr’s warriors, though more than a score remained standing, locked in a shield wall and cutting down any who came within reach.
A thought slammed into Aravon’s mind. But what if that’s not his plan? He pulled on the thread, following what little information he had.
Tyr Farbjodr stood alone, the bulk of his forces here either slain or on the defensive. Yet he showed no sign of fear or hesitation; indeed, he actually appeared to relish the confrontation. Like an undefeated champion of the mainlanders’ Labethian Tournament goading challengers to take him on. A peerless warrior seeking a worthy rival. A man surrounded by so many enemies would never act thus unless he had nothing to fear from those enemies.
But his healing alone won’t save him, not against so many. It would take a great deal to cut the Eirdkilr giant to shreds, yet with hundreds of captives and the Grim Reavers out for his blood, he couldn’t hope to survive them all. Not without an army of his own.
Was he expecting reinforcements from Praellboer? Or from farther south, deeper into the icy Wastelands? A horde of bestial creatures waiting for his command to attack?
That seemed unlikely—beyond the gulons, Aravon had seen no hint of any nightmare monstrosities. The only monsters he’d encountered in the Wastelands were the Eirdkilrs.
Something about the glowing black pillars drew his attention. His eyes narrowed. They’ve changed, he realized. Brightened.
When first he’d ridden up to the top of the pit mine, there had been little more than a faint blue-white glow coming from the depths of the pillars. Barely threads of light visible among the eerie black. But now, the monoliths seemed to shine with an inner light of their own. Angry red light that pulsed and throbbed, as if the beat of some enormous heart. Light that grew brighter with every passing second.
Aravon’s gaze moved downward, toward the black stone circle with its strange grooves. Blood filled the indentations in the stone, flowing like a whirlpool around the lines, drawn toward what appeared to be a narrow slot at the heart of the circle.
The blood! Rivers of crimson ran through the mud, dark rivulets that flowed downward from every corner of the pit mine. From beneath the pile of corpses, from the bodies of the Eirdkilrs, Fehlans, and Princelanders that lay wounded, dead, and dying in the muck.
Keeper’s teeth! Horror drove a dagger of ice into his spine. He’s not after the captives’ strength. He needs the blood!
Every Princelander had heard the tales of blood magic, ages-old curses, spells, and foul rituals used by the demonic hordes of Kharna, used in secret over the last centuries by power-hungry madmen. The ancient Fehlans had once practiced blood sacrifices and the ritual of the Tolfreadr.
It seemed impossible, but everything about Tyr Farbjodr was one impossibility after another. Aravon had seen the Eirdkilr pluck an arrow from his eye and pull a spear from his chest. Was it such a stretch to imagine he’d found some ancient secret of blood magic that he intended to put to use here?
This changes everything!
Aravon’s plan had been crafted first and foremost with the intention of freeing the captives. Yet the fact that they now fought and bled played into Tyr Farbjodr’s plan. Every death here, every drop of blood spilled, it all was precisely what the Eirdkilr wanted.
By the Swordsman! Gritting his teeth, Aravon shoved himself upright, forced himself to stand. Somehow, he’d managed to hang on to his sword, though the simple act of gripping its hilt sent waves of fire up and down his arm. Yet he had to stand. Had to take Tyr Farbjodr down before the bastard unleashed whatever foul magic he needed so much blood to summon.
Something about that narrow aperture in the heart of the stone circle set a thought racing through Aravon’s mind. Tyr Farbjodr had been standing there when Aravon attacked. It meant something. A slot maybe two or three inches wide and half an inch thick. Perhaps the lock to insert a key—a key that would let loose the blood magic gathered by the stones.
“Belthar, Colborn!” Aravon called in the Princelander tongue. “We need to keep him out of the stone circle!” If they could stop Tyr Farbjodr from activating the magic, perhaps they’d have time enough to figure out how to take him down.
Whether the Eirdkilr understood the words or not, he clearly comprehended the intention. A savage smile tugged at his lips as Belthar and Colborn formed up in the space between the two monoliths—a wall of steel, wood, and muscle to keep him from his goal.
“Yessss!” He spoke the word in a sibilant, joyous tone, a gleam shining in his eyes. “Give me a real battle. It’ll make it all the more delightful when I tear you apart and feed your flesh to my kin.”
Aravon staggered forward, joined Colborn and Belthar in their hastily-formed shield wall. A pathetic defense against the giant, yet their only hope of getting through this alive. Together, they stood the best chance of taking him down and preventing him from activating the blood magic.
With a fierce grin, Tyr Farbjodr charged.
The giant moved so fast Aravon barely had time to raise his sword. The huge axe came crashing down toward Colborn’s shield and helmeted head. Belthar met the charge axe-first, wooden haft cracking against the Eirdkilr’s. He spun with the impact, sending the head of Tyr Farbjodr’s axe sliding off the butt end of his own and bringing one of his moon-shaped axe blades across. The sharp steel carved a deep gouge into the Eirdkilr’s face and tore away a chunk of his beard.
“Yes!” Tyr Farbjodr’s scream rang with a horrifying ecstasy. “A battle w
orthy of—”
Colborn’s steel-rimmed shield slammed into the side of the Eirdkilr’s jaw. The overhand swinging blow cracked bone, tore flesh, and ripped away another long strip of bloodstained blond hair. The Eirdkilr staggered, slipped on mud, caught himself. Just in time to block a vicious swing of Belthar’s axe.
Aravon lunged in that moment, a low thrust that slipped between Belthar and Colborn. His sword bit deep into Tyr Farbjodr’s knee. Slashed tendons, severed cartilage, and hacked off a chunk of bone. Tyr Farbjodr shrieked, yet delight mingled with his pain. As if the wounds somehow brought him pleasure rather than agony.
Aravon tore his sword free, darting backward to give Belthar room to swing again. The big man’s axe slammed into Tyr Farbjodr’s. Steel struck sparks on steel as the two massive axe heads clashed. The kneeling, bleeding Eirdkilr grunted with the impact. Grunted again as Colborn’s front kick drove into his throat. Cartilage crunched and the Eirdkilr’s windpipe gave way. The Eirdkilr toppled backward into the mud, gasping for air.
Yet his ragged breaths gave way to wheezing laughter. He surged upward before either Colborn or Belthar could attack, lashing out with a vicious swing of his huge axe. Colborn managed to drop his shield before the blow shattered his arm, but the top of the shield exploded in a spray of splinters.
Belthar wasn’t so fortunate, or so quick. The sharp edge of Tyr Farbjodr’s swinging axe tore a long, ragged tear across his chest. A cry of pain burst from his lips. Silenced a moment later as the giant Eirdkilr drove his mailed fist into Belthar’s gut. The big man doubled over, dropped to one knee.
Just as Tyr Farbjodr raised his axe for an overhand decapitating strike at Belthar, Aravon hurled himself at the giant. His sword flashed out twice, scoring deep cuts across Tyr Farbjodr’s gut. Blood gushed from the wounds but they didn’t so much as slow the massive Eirdkilr. He brought the axe swinging down in a vicious arc straight toward Belthar’s neck.
A blur of motion from Tyr Farbjodr’s right, and a meaty crunch. The giant screamed in agony. The axe fell from his numb fingers, his right arm hanging at a terrible angle. A blurring figure attacked with such ferocity the Eirdkilr stumbled back. Tried in vain to ward off the lightning strikes that seemed to come from every angle.
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