An arrow made by early Deid hunters and tipped with the only metal available to them: iron.
Tyr Farbjodr fell back, clutching at the shaft driven into his neck. Gasping, wheezing, struggling to breathe, yet snarling his defiance and rage.
Colborn snatched up the Eirdkilr’s fallen dagger and drove it into Tyr Farbjodr’s side. Crimson light flared to life from the crystal-clear gemstone and the giant’s screams of pain set the cliff walls around them quaking. The flayed, shredded muscle and shattered bones of his face twisted, contorted, like maggots crawling across a carcass.
With all the strength of his dying body, his rage and pain and anguish, hardened by his determination, Aravon threw himself at the giant Eirdkilr. Eyes locked on Tyr Farbjodr’s writhing features, on the mangled flesh studded with chunks of iron. Zaharis’ last gift to the Grim Reavers. His final “fuck you” to the enemy he’d given his life to defeat.
This is for you, my friend!
He gave a savage twist of his spear, and the six-inch iron spike shot out of the metal-shod butt. Screaming a wordless cry, Aravon thrust. Backed by the force of his muscles, and the blazing inferno of his fury, the sharpened spike punched through the underside of Tyr Farbjodr’s neck. Up through the roof of his mouth, straight into his brain. Aravon’s momentum drove the entire length of iron so deep it cracked on his skull, punched out the top of his head.
The spear was ripped from Aravon’s grip but he no longer had the strength to hold it. His feet stumbled over Tyr Farbjodr’s heavy body, his knees gave out, and he fell, hard. Splashing onto his back in the ankle-deep muck.
A terrible, howling scream of rage echoed somewhere in the distance. It barely registered through the labored beating of Aravon’s heart. His pulse sounded so faint, each thump, thump farther apart.
Ruby light flared blinding and bright, the glow mingling with the violent, angry crimson of the heavens and the bloodstained mud cushioning his body. But Aravon saw only a blur. Shadows that reached clawed fingers toward him, pressing in on the edges of his vision.
He knew he should feel something—the icy chill of the mud beneath him, the agony of his shattered wrist, the pain of far too many wounds—yet no sensations registered in his mind. Nothing beyond a slow, seeping numbness that stole over his limbs and dragged him deeper into darkness.
Faces hovered above him. Skathi, worry dark in her emerald eyes. Belthar’s bloodstained mask shredded and torn. Colborn, his mask removed, face etched deep with anguish. “Aravon!” His lips formed words but no sound reached Aravon’s ears. “Hold on, Aravon!”
“Col…born!” From somewhere deep within, Aravon summoned a final reserve of strength. Lifted his right hand to clap the Lieutenant’s. “Mission…complete.”
His lungs, too filled with blood, refused to draw breath. He couldn’t feel himself suffocating; he was beyond pain, beyond sensation.
“Go…home,” he gasped. “Find…home…wherever…it…”
He wanted to say more—wanted to say farewell to Skathi and Belthar, too, and Noll and Rangvaldr, wherever they were—but he could find no more energy. No words came to his lips, only blood. Blood, and a smile.
He’d done it. He’d crossed a continent and slain Tyr Farbjodr, the greatest threat to Fehl. He could go into the Long Keeper’s arms knowing he hadn’t failed.
His father’s face hovered before his eyes, and for the first time, pride shone in General Traighan’s eyes. I wasn’t your biggest failure, Father.
The General’s face disappeared, and Duke Dyrund’s took its place. Smiling, his eyes shining with mirth, laughter formed on his lips. That was the Duke that awaited him at the Swordsman’s side.
More came to him then. Lieutenant Naif, Sergeant Bytin, Corporal Older, and the rest of Sixth Company. Draian, the Mender, his bald head gleaming in the light streaming from of the Sleepless Lands. Lord Morshan, Archateros Killian, General Rodalus, Duvain, Endyn, Corporal Rold, and the other soldiers who had died fighting with him.
Captain Lingram, still too damned handsome for his own good, even in death.
Two young boys, their eyes wide with delight, laughing as they played in the brilliant golden daylight of the Prince’s Palace. Rolyn and Adilon, his sons.
His wife, her heart-shaped face framed perfectly by braided locks of chestnut hair. Mylena, still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
The faces of countless Princelanders, Fehlans, even Tauld. Men, women, children of Bjornstadt, of Rivergate, of Storbjarg, of Saerheim, Steinnbraka Delve, Icespire, and Highcliff Motte. Innocents who now had a chance to live because Tyr Farbjodr had died. Chance of a future, one free of war.
His eyelids closed but he made no effort to fight it. He welcomed the encroaching shadows. He had lived as best he knew how, battled with all the courage he could muster, and died a soldier.
Perhaps not the end he’d dreamed of, but a good one, nonetheless.
Until we meet again in the next life, my friends and family.
Darkness stole over him, claimed him for its own.
Chapter Seventy-One
Thump…thump.
A sound, faint and distant, reached Aravon through the empty, lifeless void.
Thump…thump.
He knew that sound. The beat of a heart. Slow and steady. His own?
No, that couldn’t be possible. He was dead.
The Swordsman comes to claim me. The thought flashed through his mind. It is His heart I hear beating.
It came again.
Thump, thump.
Louder this time. Stronger, echoing in the darkness. Piercing to the core of Aravon’s being.
Not his heartbeat. Another’s. But whose?
Thump, thump, thump.
The sound came stronger. Deep, calm, resonating with steadfast determination. Suddenly, it was joined by another. A weak heart, barely capable of summoning the strength to form a single faint pulse.
Warmth and energy seemed to flow between the two heartbeats. Invigorated the weaker heart until it, too, beat with the same steady rhythm. Threads of light glowed within the darkened void, pushing back the shadows.
Thump, thump, thump.
One heart grew stronger, beat faster. The other slowed, its pulse growing fainter, its life flowing into Aravon’s body. Slowed, then stopped.
Thump, thump, thump. Aravon’s heart beat alone.
His eyelids flew open and he jerked upright with a scream. “Noooo!” Pain flared bright and hot through every inch of his body, yet the anguish that echoed within that cry pierced to the core of his being.
Even before he turned, he knew whose heartbeat it was that had pulled him back from death. Had given its last strength to him.
Rangvaldr lay in the mud at his side. His green eyes had fallen closed. An expression of utter peace shone through the layer of blood and muck staining his unmasked face. Serenity etched into every deep line around his mouth, eyes, and forehead. In his palms rested two glowing gemstones—his Eyrr holy stone, and the stone Zaharis’ alchemy had brought to life.
“No!” The word tore from Aravon’s mouth, sorrow wrenching at his gut. He ripped his gaze from the Seiomenn, lifted them to Colborn, Skathi, Belthar, and Noll. The four Grim Reavers knelt beside the two of them, heads bowed in silent farewell.
“Why?” Aravon screamed, a raw, ragged sound filled with all the pain and grief writhing within his chest. His eyes went to Rangvaldr’s silent, still form, back to his companions. “Why didn’t you stop him?!”
Colborn lifted his eyes, wet with tears. “He said it was Nuius’ will.” The Lieutenant’s voice was hoarse, quiet, thick with the same anguish that crushed Aravon’s heart with a fist of iron. “His god’s final request of him.”
The words sucked the air from Aravon’s lungs. Rangvaldr’s faith in Nuius, his belief in his holy calling as Seiomenn, had been the reason he joined the Grim Reavers. The truth of his holy stone had rocked him to the core, so much that he nearly abandoned the artifact, cast it away. Aravon had spok
en to him in the mine, tried to help him find his way back to his faith. But not so the Seiomenn would do something so foolish as to die for it!
Hot, angry tears welled in Aravon’s eyes, burned their way down his cheeks as he struggled to his knees beside the Seiomenn. Why, Rangvaldr? The question set his stomach churning. Why would you do that? Why give your life to save mine?
A hand rested on his shoulder. Strong, confident, calming. Colborn’s hand.
“He knew you might not understand.” The Lieutenant said in a quiet voice. “And he wanted me to tell you, ‘It is faith and action that makes a thing holy.’ He said you’d know what that means.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped. For a moment, he felt the same bewilderment etched into Colborn’s tear-streaked face.
Then his conversation with Rangvaldr sprang to his grief-numbed mind. “Every time you speak those words and feel the power spring to life, you can know that you are doing precisely what he wants you to do. And in doing so, you consecrate it by using it in his service. You make the stone holy.”
A sob burst from his throat and tears flowed anew. Rangvaldr had dedicated his life in service to his god, to the task he believed Nuius had given him: bringing peace to Fehl. He’d given his strength, blood, sweat, and tears to see that mission fulfilled. Had sacrificed everything—home, family, friends, comfort, safety—in the pursuit of his holy calling.
Now, he had made one final sacrifice—himself. With that gift and his final words to Aravon, he made his belief clear. To him, their mission was as “holy” as the magical stones. Not because of any power they possessed or some inherent sanctity or goodness. Indeed, as Zaharis had proven, the stone that had once been the source of his faith and belief in Nuius was no more divine than a tree, river, or mountain. The Grim Reavers were as fallible as any man or woman on Fehl.
The Seiomenn had come to believe the stones were holy because of their use, in bringing life in a world filled with death. Holy in their service to Nuius and his calling in Rangvaldr’s heart. And so, too, he believed, was the mission they had undertaken together. Their fight to bring peace to Fehl—a fight Aravon had given his last breath to complete—was holy.
Now, Rangvaldr had sacrificed himself for that mission. Had brought Aravon back from the brink of death because he believed—truly, deeply believed, to the core of his being—that Aravon would see it fulfilled.
Oh, my friend! Aravon clasped the Seiomenn’s lifeless hand. Oh for a faith as strong as yours!
Few men in all the history of the world had been capable of making such a great sacrifice. Rangvaldr had made it without hesitation. In the name of his god, in the name of peace, and in the name of love for his fellow Grim Reavers.
And in doing so, he’d made himself holy.
Tears flowed freely, but Aravon made no attempt to stifle his sorrow. He knelt at Rangvaldr’s side, gripped the Seiomenn’s hand—a hand strong from years of battle yet as gentle as the man himself—and paid his final, silent tribute to the man who had given everything to save his life.
A quiet gurgling cough sounded behind him, so faint it barely pierced the maelstrom of sorrow whirling in Aravon’s mind.
“Zaharis!” Skathi shouted.
That brought Aravon’s eyes snapping open. Turning, he found Skathi and Belthar racing toward the Secret Keeper. What remained of him.
The explosion of the Earthshaker had ripped through Zaharis’ midsection with such force it had sheared away his spine. His legs lay ten yards away in the muck, bent and twisted, the bones pulverized. Gone, too, were most of his internal organs, either torn to pieces or shredded by iron shrapnel. He was little more than a head and chest, his ribs caved inward around his lungs and heart.
Yet somehow, impossibly, he still lived. The Secret Keeper struggled to draw in a gurgling breath, weak and wet with blood. He was simply too damned stubborn to die.
Aravon leapt to his feet, biting back a cry as pain flared through his body, and raced toward Zaharis.
“We’re here, Zaharis!” Skathi’s hands hung frozen over the Secret Keeper’s body, as if uncertain where to place them. Nothing could stop the blood trickling from Zaharis’ severed torso with every faint beat of his heart. However, he’d hung on this long, Zaharis would not live much longer.
“About…damned time!” Zaharis’ face twisted into a grimace of mingled agony and humor. His fingers moved slowly, barely forming the words in his silent hand language. “Here…I thought…the last thing…I’d see…was that demon’s…hideous face!” His eyes darted to Belthar. “Though…your ugly…grin’s not much…better.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped. Zaharis had clung stubbornly to life just to insult them one last time? He almost managed to laugh, though it cut off in a strangled sob.
“And…a demon…huh?” A harsh clicking sound burst from the Secret Keeper’s throat—his way of chuckling without a tongue, thought it was wet with blood. “Darrak…will be…so jealous.”
“Foolish priest!” Tears edged Skathi’s words. “Captain told you to stay away from the fight! Not to charge the bloody bastard on your own.”
Zaharis’ face broke into a smile. “Had to…save…Belthar…one last time.” He glanced from Skathi to Belthar and back. “I couldn’t have…future with…Darrak. Wanted…to give...you two one.” His hands seemed to weaken, his eyes falling closed.
“Zaharis!” Skathi shook him. “Stay with us!”
Aravon cast around, but even he knew it was too late. Rangvaldr had been the only one that might have saved Zaharis. Now, all that remained was to say their farewells.
“Be at peace, my friend.” Aravon rested a hand on the Secret Keeper’s shoulder.
To his surprise, Zaharis managed to open his eyes once more. “Captain.” He coughed, bringing up a trickle of blood that seeped down his already crimson-stained face. “Promise me…”
Aravon gripped Zaharis’ shoulder tight. “Anything.”
“Pouch…” The Secret Keeper’s fingers trembled as he signed the words. “Book…of notes.”
Aravon glanced down at the remnants of Zaharis’ torso, then over to where the Secret Keeper’s legs lay. Zaharis’ pouch lay torn open by the shrapnel and explosion, its contents scattered in the muck.
“Hold on!” Aravon told the Secret Keeper as he leapt to his feet and raced toward the destroyed pouch. Hope surged within him as he spotted Zaharis’ book. Shards of iron studded its alchemically-hardened leather cover, but the pages within remained mostly intact. Stooping, he snatched up the book.
He’d just turned to run back to the Secret Keeper when he caught sight of Hallad approaching. The Fehlan man cradled the younger of his two daughters in his arms as he came to stand behind Colborn, who had bent to the task of wiping the blood and mud off Rangvaldr’s lifeless face.
“By your leave, Alsvartar,” Hallad said in a quiet, solemn voice, “we would like to offer our thanks to your companion.” He glanced down at his daughter, his expression grim. “Arna would not be here had he not healed her.”
Colborn lifted his head, looked up at the toddling infant in Hallad’s arms. “Of course.” His voice was hoarse, his ice-blue eyes rimmed red with tears.
Kneeling, Hallad lowered his daughter to the muddy ground. Arna took a hesitant, unsteady step closer to Rangvaldr’s body and, stooping, placed a handful of pale blue flowers on Rangvaldr’s chest.
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up and he sucked in a breath. Can it be?
Before he realized it, he had skidded to a halt, changed directions, and raced toward Colborn, Hallad, and Arna. His eyes locked on the little blossoms, stark blue and contrasting sharply with Rangvaldr’s dark leather breastplate. He scarcely dared to hope. It seemed impossible, and yet—
Keeper’s teeth, it is them!
“Where did you find those?” Aravon demanded.
Arna recoiled and fairly leapt into her father’s arm, burying her face in his chest. Hallad, no less surprised than his daughter, gaped at Aravon for a long second, no words for
ming on his lips.
“The flowers!” Aravon pressed. “Where did they come from?” The petals had been crushed only slightly by Arna’s chubby hands, yet they were visibly fresh, recently plucked.
“I-In there!” Hallad thrust a finger toward the tunnel where the Eirdkilrs had held the women and children captive while the men worked to collect the ghoulstone and build Tyr Farbjodr’s pillars.
“Are there more?”
“Y-Yes!” Confusion and surprise twisted the Fehlan’s face. “But what do the flowers have—”
Aravon heard no more. Scooping up the blossoms from Rangvaldr’s chest, he turned and raced back toward Zaharis. Arna’s cry and Hallad’s shout echoed behind him, but Colborn’s voice cut in with the explanation.
Reaching Zaharis, Aravon threw himself to one knee beside Skathi, Belthar, and Noll, who had come over to say his farewell to the Secret Keeper.
“Look!” He held the flower up above Zaharis’ face. “You were right all along!”
Zaharis’ eyes widened a fraction. “Are…they…”
“Ice saffron!” The words burst from Aravon’s mouth. “They are real, and they are here!”
Zaharis stared at the flowers. A soft, pale blue, like the sky on the clearest summer’s day, petals shot through with threads of bright crimson. His fingers stretched, reaching for the flowers, though he was too weak to lift his hands. Aravon pressed the blossoms into the Secret Keeper’s palms, rested the man’s hand atop his bloodstained chest.
“You did it, Zaharis.” Emotion thickened his voice. “You found the ice saffron.” Despite what everyone in his priesthood had said, against all odds, the Secret Keeper had been proven right. “Now you have what you need to make the Elixir of Creation!”
“So…I do.” Zaharis gave a weak nod, and for a moment, the light of triumph shone in his eyes. “My book…”
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