Zaharis moved faster than Aravon had believed possible. Injuries or no, the Secret Keeper fought with a savage speed that seemed too fast for Tyr Farbjodr to even comprehend. The giant stumbled backward, away from the stone circle, giving ground as blow after blow of Zaharis’ mace cracked into his studded leather armor. Knees, elbows, ribs, neck, wrists, shoulders—Zaharis went for the joints, clearly trying to incapacitate the giant long enough for the others to take him down.
Aravon didn’t dare join the fight; he’d only slow the fast-moving Secret Keeper, get in the way. Instead, he raced toward Belthar, gripped the big man’s arm, and helped him to stand.
In the instant he took his eyes off the fight, it was over.
A terrible wet crunch echoed loud in the pit mine. When Aravon’s gaze snapped back to the two combatants, the sight that met his eyes sent ice flooding his veins.
Tyr Farbjodr and Zaharis stood frozen in place, locked in a strange, almost peaceful tableau. Peaceful, save for the rigidity of Zaharis’ muscles, the fear that filled his dark eyes. And the vicious smile on Tyr Farbjodr’s face as he tore his fist free of Zaharis’ stomach, ripping a gaping hole in his guts.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
“Zaharis!” The cry burst from Aravon’s lips. Horror rooted him in place, locked up his muscles so he couldn’t move. Could only stand there, a hand on Belthar’s arm, and watch as coils of intestines slid from the hole in Zaharis’ stomach.
The Secret Keeper’s mace fell from weakened fingers and plopped into the mud. He joined it a moment later.
Time seemed to slow as Aravon’s eyes followed the collapsing Secret Keeper. The splash of Zaharis’ body hitting the bloodstained muck sounded terribly loud in his ears. His friend, his fellow Grim Reaver, fell onto his side, curled around the organs seeping out of his body, and lay still.
“Noo!” A cry of rage and pain shattered Aravon’s momentary stupor. His own. The word tore from his lips, a raw, ragged cry that strained the cords of his throat.
Suddenly, he was moving, his sword flashing out with blinding speed, hacking, slashing, cutting at Tyr Farbjodr from every angle. Blood misted in the air, pouring and spurting from gashes on the Eirdkilr’s neck, arms, shoulders, face, and hands. Aravon didn’t feel the sword striking flesh; he felt nothing but white-hot rage. Zaharis’ expression—the panic and terror in his dark eyes—and the looping ropes of guts filled his mind’s eye.
Red rage flooded Aravon’s vision. The world faded around him, went numb, until he saw only death. Heard only the roar of rage tearing from his throat. Felt only the heat of fury coursing through his veins.
His sword never slowed, never stopped. He wove a blurring wall of steel, his attacks backed by every shred of strength he possessed. No skill, no precision. Only a single-minded purpose: kill Tyr Farbjodr, no matter what.
Something slammed into his face with the force of a runaway carriage. In an instant, the red haze disappeared, replaced by shimmering, quivering blackness and sparks of blinding light. Everything went dark around him. So dark, so cold. All trace of emotion gone. Nothing but stillness. Silence, and peace.
It seemed to last an eternity, yet only a moment. One second he was on his feet, fighting, roaring his rage at the death of his friend. The next, agony coursed through every fiber of his being. Warm wetness flowed from his nose, filled his mouth, choking him. He swallowed, coughed, struggled to breathe, to rise.
Mud thick and heavy clung to his arms, his head, his legs. He lay in the mire and blood. The blood of the slain captives, the dead Eirdkilrs. Zaharis’ blood, too. So much it stained the ankle-deep muck a foul crimson. He couldn’t see it—couldn’t see anything through the dizziness filling his vision—but he could feel it. Could smell the metallic stink of blood, fresh and old. Could taste it sliding down his throat, filling his lungs.
He coughed, weakly, fought to open his eyes. They were already open, yet they stared unseeing at a river of blood. No, a dim part of his mind realized, not a river. The sky. Heavens that had turned an angry red for the Feast of Death.
Struggling to rise, Aravon groaned at a flare of pain racing through his neck. Tyr Farbjodr’s blow had nearly shattered his spinal column. Every movement sent twinges lancing up and down his spine, set his skull aching. Added to the throbbing in his face, the pain of his broken nose.
He blinked, tried to clear his vision, blinked again. Found the world spinning so violently it brought acid to his throat. He swallowed to keep himself from vomiting into his mask. The foul taste in his mouth pushed back the coppery tang of blood. Brought reality crashing back around him.
A shadow loomed large over him. Towering, reeking of blood and sweat, with eyes a terrifying black and a smile cold as ice. Tyr Farbjodr’s voice, guttural and growling, too faint for him to hear through the pounding of his pulse.
The Eirdkilr reached down a huge hand, wrapped his fingers around Aravon’s throat, and lifted him bodily off the ground. The iron grip crushed Aravon’s windpipe. He hung in Tyr Farbjodr’s grip as Skuli the Deid miner had. Kicking, gasping for air, struggling to draw breath. Even just the faintest gasp. Enough to keep him alive, to give him a chance to fight beside the others.
“…so I thank you, Grimabrandr, for the first real fight I’ve had in years. Centuries, really.” A snarling sneer twisted the Eirdkilr’s bloodstained lips. “Then again, thanks to that bitch Gunnarsdottir dropping the bloody mountain on me, I haven’t exactly had much time to search this pathetic world of yours for a proper challenge. From what I hear, the cowardly Serenii fled after our Great War, so I’m not exactly holding out hope.”
The words filtered into Aravon’s ears but failed to register in his mind. He was too busy choking, struggling to breathe, pounding on Tyr Farbjodr’s hand in a vain attempt to break the giant’s iron grip on his throat.
The Eirdkilr’s brutish face filled Aravon’s vision, his breath fetid, reeking of rotting gums and spoiled meat. “But, out of appreciation for what little fun you’ve managed to give me, I’ll keep you alive long enough to watch my kin devour your comrades.”
Comrades! Aravon’s pulse thundered in his ears, his eyes darting around. Colborn lay face-down in the mud, his right arm twisted at a terrible angle, his sword and shield ten feet away. Blood stained Belthar’s face and his eyes were closed. Whether his chest rose and fell with breath, Aravon couldn’t tell through the hazy darkness filling his vision.
Blurry figures moved in the distance. The whirr of a bowstring and the hiss of arrows told him either Noll or Skathi still lived. Which of them, where, or for how long, he couldn’t know. Somewhere in the distance, the shout of “For Nuius!” echoed loud—Rangvaldr or an Eyrr captive? He couldn’t clear his blurring vision, couldn’t push back the shadows closing in around him as Tyr Farbjodr slowly choked the life from him.
“Count yourself fortunate, half-man!” The Eirdkilr rumbled in Aravon’s face. “Today, you will witness something that has not been seen on this world in millennia.”
The edges of his vision began to waver, the world going hazy and dark around him. Then the grip on his throat suddenly loosened, just long enough for him to suck in a single lungful of air. Blessed, life-giving air, thick with the stink of death and the reek rising from Tyr Farbjodr. It pushed back the haze a fraction.
Then the iron fingers locked around his throat and lifted him from the ground again.
“Can’t have you dying on me yet, Grimabrandr.” Cruel glee shone in Tyr Farbjodr’s black eyes. “Not until you’ve seen my kin feasting on your comrades’ flesh, watched them crack your friends’ bones and suck out the marrow.” His tongue darted out to lick his bloodstained lips. “There’s something utterly delicious about human flesh steeped in fear.”
Aravon struggled in the giant’s grip, his muscles weakened by pain, exhaustion, and lack of oxygen. Yet that single breath, the desperate gasp of air, had pushed back the haze filling his world, clouding his vision. Instinct and training re-asserted itself as he seized the hand lock
ed around his throat. Desperate to break the giant’s grip, grasped Tyr Farbjodr’s smallest finger and, with a savage yank, snapped it.
For any normal man, that attack would have shattered their hold on his throat. Tyr Farbjodr, however, simply grunted and stared at the finger, bent backward at a terrible angle, an almost amused smile on his lips.
“Yessss!” The sibilant, almost ecstatic word hissed between his lips. “Fight until your last breath, half-man!” His black eyes locked on Aravon’s. “The terror that will flood you once you realize you are going to die, despite everything, will make you all the tastier.” He bared his teeth in a savage snarl, and through the blur of oxygen-starvation, Aravon found himself staring into the maw of a beast. Fangs as long as his fingers, razor-sharp, like those of a serpent, dripping foul acid and reeking of death. The odor twisted his stomach and brought acid rising to his lips.
He blinked, and again Tyr Farbjodr’s face hovered in his vision. Grinning, leering, lips curled back from exposed teeth, yet a very human face. The face of the man who was going to kill him.
As the darkness filled Aravon’s vision, panic sank its fingers into his brain, ice slithering like worms through his veins. He beat at Tyr Farbjodr’s hand, at his ruined finger—a finger that had somehow grown back into place, locked around his neck once more—at his wrist, his massive forearm. Anything to break free!
“Ahhh!” Tyr Farbjodr’s gloating voice echoed harsh in his ear. “There it is! There’s the fear. The delicious, wonderful fear.”
Aravon tried to bite back the fear, to swallow the dread that set his mind racing. Panic clouded the mind and shattered any attempt at rational thought, yet in that moment, with death looming ever closer, he couldn’t help feeling terror. Terror at knowing he was going to die.
“No you don’t, little human!” Tyr Farbjodr’s growling voice sounded so weak, so faint. “You’re not dying yet!”
The grip on Aravon’s throat loosened, but as air flooded his body and sense returned to his mind, he found himself hurtling through the air. Straight toward the nearest of the black monoliths.
He had no time to shield himself before he crashed into solid stone. Air rushed from his lungs in an explosive grunt, and pain flared through his chest, gut, and sides. He collapsed to the blood-soaked stone circle. His head struck stone, hard, setting the world whirling around him.
“After what you did to my Blood Queen, I owe you far more than just a quick, clean death.” Tyr Farbjodr’s words pierced the pulsing, pounding ache in Aravon’s head. Aravon’s helmet was torn off, a hand gripped his hair, pulled him upright. Neck twinging, agony racing through every inch of his body, Aravon stared up into the leering, blood-soaked face of Tyr Farbjodr. “I want you to watch what happens next, and to die knowing the truth of what I will do to your world.”
The hand gripping Aravon’s hair tightened, dragging him across the stone circle. Aravon, too weak to cry out or fight, gasped for air, struggling to draw in even a single breath through the throbbing waves of pain radiating through his torso, constricting his lungs. His neck protested at the strain, threatening to snap at any moment.
Tyr Farbjodr released his head, so suddenly Aravon’s masked face slammed into the stone before he caught himself. A fresh pounding, stabbing ache sprang to life in his broken nose. Tears of pain brimmed in his eyes.
Yet with the pain came a sudden clarity of mind. His eyes, blurred by tears, fluttered open. Fixed on the thick rivulets of blood running through the grooves in the black stone beneath him. He made no move to lift his head, but as oxygen slithered into his lungs—half a breath, just enough to restore sensation and clarity of thought—he pushed back against the pain. Forced himself to think.
He’d lost his sword at some point, and Tyr Farbjodr had cast his spear into the mud. All that remained at hand was his little belt dagger, and what good would that do against something—something definitely not human—that healed from an arrow to the eye? Trying to attack now would serve no purpose beyond irritating the giant and getting himself killed faster.
A smart commander never attacked an enemy without a plan to win. Never threw away lives—those of his men or his own—without purpose.
He shifted his head a fraction, just enough to see Colborn and Belthar out of the corners of his eyes. Belthar remained unmoving, but Colborn had rolled onto his back and pulled his injured right arm to his chest. The Lieutenant’s gaze was locked on Aravon and the giant in the stone circle. His good left hand fumbled toward the hilt of his fallen longsword.
Aravon gave a theatrical groan, tried to push himself up to his hands, then collapsed face-first into the bloody stone, arms outstretched. Tyr Farbjodr laughed, a cold, cruel peal of savage triumph. Aravon forced his body to lie still—better he pretend weakness, not much of an act at this point, and bide his time. Tyr Farbjodr wanted him to witness his triumph. To make him suffer and bathe in the sting of defeat. So be it. Aravon needed time to recover, to gather his strength enough to push past the pain. To find a way to attack the bastard and put him down.
“Wait and watch.” His fingers formed the silent hand signals to Colborn. Understanding dawned in the Lieutenant’s eyes. He gave no sign of acknowledgement, yet his movements slowed, grew more cautious. Colborn’s tactical mind had registered the danger of fighting Tyr Farbjodr—the Eirdkilr bloody healed from fatal wounds—and reached the same conclusion as Aravon: fighting the giant directly would only get them killed. They had to find another way.
What that was, Aravon had no idea. His belt dagger would be useless against the giant. But at any moment, Rangvaldr, Skathi, and Noll would finish with their part of the mission—freeing the captives’ families—and join battle here. Then Aravon could make his move.
Tyr Farbjodr came to stand in front of him, kneeling in the blood staining the black stone. With a savage glee, the giant ran a finger through the slowly seeping gore and brought it to his mouth, savoring its taste. “Ahh, you humans always did have the tastiest blood. Always plentiful, too.”
The giant drew something from his belt—a dagger, its blade curving and double-edged, a crystal-clear gemstone set into its pommel. The sight brought something screaming up from the depths of Aravon’s pain-numbed mind. He’d seen its like before, but where?
The assassin! The hooded killer they’d fought in Icespire had had one like it. And that stone set into its pommel—it looked identical to the one set in Lord Morshan’s blade. The Blade of Hallar, a weapon said to be as ancient as the city of Shalandra itself.
A weapon of terrible power, as Aravon had seen in the battle at Steinnbraka Delve.
And this man, this…creature that proved so impossible to kill, he had one, too?
Pieces suddenly clicked into place in Aravon’s mind in that instant. Snatches of memory, words spoken by the giant, all tied together by the sight of that dagger.
Gunnarsdottir. Tyr Farbjodr had snarled the name, venom and disgust dripping from his words. Gunnarsdottir, the Tauld shieldmaiden and chieftain’s daughter, the one who defeated the monster of legend by bringing down a mountain atop its head.
The Eirdkilr had spoken of “this age”, of “pitiful humans”. Had reveled in the blood and death, promised to feast on the flesh of his victims. The giant’s cunning in planning his battle, thinking far ahead, more intelligent than any Eirdkilr they’d faced over a century of war. His impossible healing abilities, and his knowledge of the blood magic—magic no living being should know.
He didn’t just take the name of the ancient monster, the Farbjodr, to instill fear in his enemies. Ice froze Aravon’s blood in his veins. Tyr Farbjodr is that ancient monster!
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The realization would have floored Aravon, had he not already been lying face-down on the blood-soaked stone. He wanted to shrug it off, to deny the very possibility, yet how could he? No other explanation made sense!
In the legend Rangvaldr had told them, the Farbjodr was a creature that dwelled in the vast wilds south
of the Sawtooth Mountains—what was now the icy Wastelands. Though the stories had spoken of a monster—with the tail of a serpent, the fangs of a greatwolf, and a hide hard as stone—stories had a way of morphing, twisting with time and retelling.
Yet now, looking into those black eyes and crimson-stained face hovering in front of him, Aravon could see the beast. A hellish creature of nightmares, lusting for the blood and death of his enemies, basking in the carnage he had caused. Even if the legends had mistaken his appearance, they had captured his true essence.
A monster to his rotten soul.
With that thought came a flicker of hesitation. By the creature’s own admission, he’d been buried beneath a mountain of ice since the days of Gunnarsdottir—hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years, until his arrival among the Eirdkilr fifteen years earlier.
But if that didn’t kill the bastard, how the hell am I supposed to?
Uncertainly held him rooted in place. He’d die in a heartbeat if it meant taking down the Eirdkilr—the monster who wore the face of a barbarian—but he wouldn’t throw his life away just to fail.
Think, damn it! Aravon’s mind raced. What did Rangvaldr’s story say about killing it?
The words, spoken around the darkness of a campfire so many weeks ago, flashed through his mind. “The mightiest warriors of the Tauld sought to defeat the Farbjodr, yet though every farmstead, village, and town sent their bravest sons against the beast, they could not slay it. A thousand warriors stood shoulder to shoulder, a wall of bronze and wood, yet the Farbjodr roared in derision and threw itself against the shield wall. Hundreds died beneath those rending claws and snarling teeth. For a day and a night they fought, the proud sons of Fehl against the solitary creature of nightmare. But when night fell, the Farbjodr stood alone on the battlefield. The Tauld broke, their courage sapped in the face of a creature that could not be slain.”
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