“So,” Noll took up the story, “when the big, ugly bastards saw her holding the head of that damned demon, her face all stained with blood and holding that shield and sword, they couldn’t help thinking that maybe, just maybe, Gunnarsdottir had come back as promised. Especially when the Tauld captives lent a hand convincing them of the threat we’d just defeated.”
No one who had seen that portal into the frozen hell or the creature that had almost gotten through would doubt the apocalyptic nature of the threat.
“The Tauld were the ones who really played it up, in fact.” A slow smile broadened Belthar’s huge face. “Made a big deal of wanting to throw a feast in her honor, of asking her for her blessings, and petitioning her to show favor on their families.” He shook his head. “Better actors I’ve yet to see, even on the stages of Icespire.”
“Your life’s in danger like that, you’d probably turn into a hell of a thespian, too.” Noll chuckled. “Fear of death has a way of changing a man.”
“Aye, so it does.” Belthar nodded, then turned back to the Prince. “Either way, the Eirdkilrs swallowed the story—how could they not, with that damned demon’s head and that weird dagger of his right in front of them? When the mighty Gunnarsdottir—” He nudged Skathi with an elbow, eliciting a scowl from the archer. “—insisted the captives be set free and allowed to return home, they weren’t going to put up much of a fight.” He glanced at Skathi. “What was it you said that sealed the deal?”
Skathi’s face flushed an even deeper crimson and she buried herself in her plate.
Noll, however, seemed delighted by the archer’s discomfort. “That Bani had sent her to warn them the enslavement of their fellow Fehlans had displeased him, so much that he had allowed the Farbjodr to return to life as well. And, that if they wanted any chance to join him in Seggrholl, they had to return the captives to their homes. Only by fighting an honorable battle against their enemies’ soldiers would they be welcome into the warrior’s afterlife.”
Aravon couldn’t help smiling. Where she came up with that, I’ll never know. Though the idea had been his—to use the Tauld and Eirdkilrs’ reverence for the woman they believed was Gunnarsdottir reborn—it was Skathi’s quick thinking that had gotten them through the ordeal. She had been the one to order the demon’s head mounted on a spear and paraded through the Wastelands, using it and Tyr Farbjodr’s dagger as trophies to herald the return of the ancient heroine.
Beneath that grisly standard, she had led the way back to Praellboer, to free the last of the captives that survived the battle there. The demon’s horrible grinning skull had stood watch as the Eirdkilrs, Tauld, Fehlans, and Princelanders sent their dead to the afterlife. Including Captain Lingram.
The sight of another burning body still haunted Aravon. He had laid Captain Lingram to rest on the same funeral biers as the Princelander captives that died fighting at his side. The crude metal pendant Belthar had given him—the Swordsman’s iron blades—had joined the Legionnaire in the flames. A final tribute to a brave Legionnaire, a friend, and a brother-at-arms.
Food, clothing, and equipment had been furnished by the Eirdkilrs at Praellboer, under the watchful eye of the decaying demon’s head. Skathi had led the way north, the Grim Reavers riding behind her, an honor guard of Eirdkilrs and Tauld to escort her. Word of Gunnarsdottir reborn had spread through the icy Wastelands and into Snowpass like a hurricane. Hundreds of Tauld had made the trek from their remote villages to watch her pass.
There had been a tense moment when their column reached Saetavirki. The four thousand Eirdkilrs stationed there seemed disinclined to believe the news of Tyr Farbjodr’s death, the slaying of the demon, and the return of their heroine. One look at Skathi—still wearing Rangvaldr’s shield and sword—and the demon-head standard she carried, and they had fallen to their knees. As had the three thousand Eirdkilrs guarding Snowpass Keep. Tosti Arnthorsson, a slim, wolfish man and the warrior given command of the forces at the mountain fortress, had insisted she remain with them, her people, to be revered as Gunnarsdottir reborn deserved.
But again, Skathi had found an answer that both gave them a way out and turned the situation in their favor.
“For centuries you have awaited my return,” Skathi had told them. She’d stared up into the faces of the giants without a shred of hesitation, her voice ringing with command. “Now I have come, but before I can guide you to a better future—one worthy of your place at Bani’s feasting hall—I must know the enemy you face.”
Tosti Arnthorsson and his under-chieftains had tried to argue with her, but she’d held firm. “Do you really believe that I, who stared the mighty Farbjodr in the eyes and now stand here triumphant, have any fear of the half-men? I will challenge the Prince himself to see what manner of man he is. I will look in the faces of your Fehlan cousins, those who have turned their backs on our ways, and decide their fates.” The look she’d given them—one filled with utter confidence, that brooked no argument—had silenced the giants. “I will return once the moon has cycled twice. Then, and only then, will I pass Bani’s judgement on our lands.”
Thinking back on it, Aravon found it hard to repress a smile. But in the mighty hall of Snowpass Keep, surrounded by thousands of kneeling Eirdkilrs, there had been no doubt in Aravon’s mind. Skathi could very well have been Gunnarsdottir reborn, with her fiery strength, her unyielding will, the power inherent in every fiber of her being.
“…I will return to them, as I promised, Your Majesty,” Skathi was saying. “I believe it is our best chance to find a path to peace, or at least an end to this war.” Though her face was crimson, her eyes shone with a steely edge of certainty. “But for it to work, I will need your help to know what to say to them.”
“Indeed.” Prince Toran’s expression sobered, his brows furrowing in thought. “I will send word to Eirik Throrsson in his mountain fortress at Ornntadr, and Chief Svein Hafgrimsson at Jarltun. We will speak of how best to approach this matter. Between us, I am certain we can find the best outcome.”
Aravon glanced toward an empty bench and swallowed hard. If only Rangvaldr was here. He’d know what to say. He always did.
The Seiomenn would have found a way to speak with the Eirdkilrs, to reason with them. With Tyr Farbjodr dead, the Eirdkilrs had lost any momentum they’d gained in the war. Now, they had only a few thousand troops north of the Sawtooth Mountains, plus those in Snowpass Keep and Saetavirki. Against the Legionnaires holding the garrisons and the combined might of the Fjall, Deid, Jarnleikr, Vida, Smida, and Eyrr—who, despite Chief Ailmaer’s hesitation, had finally been convinced to throw in their lot with the Princelanders—the Eirdkilrs had no hope of victory.
Tyr Farbjodr’s plans had failed. If they could take advantage of the situation, the war could soon be over.
Rangvaldr would have championed the cause of peace. Had done so, to his very last breath. He would have been the perfect man for the task of negotiating with the Eirdkilrs at the side of “Gunnarsdottir”.
Aravon closed his eyes. At least you can rest in peace, my friend, knowing you truly did help to bring about the end of the war. A smile—sad, yet accepting—tugged at Aravon’s lips. You completed your duty to Nuius. May you enjoy the feasts of Seggrholl forever more. I can only hope the food and ayrag are as good as you believed they’d be.
“If that’s all, Your Majesty, we’ve got something important to be about.” Skathi’s voice cut into Aravon’s thoughts. The sound of scraping wooden benches echoed in the room, and Aravon opened his eyes in time to see the archer rising to her feet.
“Oh?” Prince Toran cocked an eyebrow.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” A ghost of a grin played on Skathi’s face. “We’ve got a funeral to plan.” She turned and nudged Belthar playfully.
After a moment of puzzlement, the big man seemed to realize her meaning, and he leapt to his feet. “Right!”
“Funeral?” Noll’s brow twisted in confusion. “For who?”
“For you!” Skathi
rounded on the scout with a nasty grin and thrust a finger at his feet. “Or, should I say, for those!”
Belthar wrapped his huge arms around the scout’s legs, locking them in place long enough for Skathi to wrest off Noll’s boots.
“Wait!” Noll shrieked. He struggled against Belthar’s grip—he might have been fighting a mountain for all the good it did.
“Gah!” Skathi’s face twisted in disgust as she held up Noll’s prized boots. “Damn, Noll, but you should be thanking us for burning these.”
“But—”
“A wager’s a wager!” Belthar rumbled, and his grin had the same nasty edge as Skathi’s.
“I didn’t just put an arrow into Tyr Farbjodr’s right eye.” Skathi jabbed a pair of fingers into Noll’s chest. “I bloody well put two! Including the iron one that rocked the bastard on his heels.”
“B-but…” Noll spluttered, his voice a droning whine. His head whirled, eyes darting toward Aravon. “But the Captain sent me with Rangvaldr to help free the captives. I never got close enough to—”
“Excuses are merely nails used to build a house of failure!” Skathi recited the adage with wicked glee shining in her eyes. “You lost, fair and square. Which means it’s time these damned things finally get the fiery end they deserve.”
Waving the once-fine, now terribly tattered Legion cavalry boots, she raced through the door and out of the mess hall. Her laughter rang through the stone barracks, high and merry.
The moment Belthar released his grip on Noll’s legs, the little scout was on his feet and racing off after the archer. “Waaiiiit!” he shrieked.
Belthar stood, his movements almost serene. “Your Majesty.” He bowed to the Prince, then nodded to Aravon. “Captain.” With a smile, he marched from the mess hall in pursuit of Skathi and Noll.
Long seconds of silence passed between Aravon and Prince Toran. The Prince seemed to be chewing on something, lost in thought, his brow furrowed. Aravon had no intention of interrupting. After so many weeks on the road, he welcomed the moment of quiet. His fingers toyed with the dagger he’d taken to wearing on his belt; Tyr Farbjodr’s strange, magical blade, so similar to the one wielded by the unkillable assassin, the Hunter of Voramis. He had no idea what it could do, but he planned to find out.
When Prince Toran spoke, his voice held an edge of incredulity. “A demon. Truly?” He lifted his gaze to Aravon’s. “Like, a bloody demon from the dark, fiery hell?”
“Frozen hell, sir.” A smile quirked Aravon’s lips. “Colder than the Long Keeper’s tits, that world was.”
A stray thought had occurred to him on one of the long days spent riding northward. If Tyr Farbjodr was a demon like the one we fought, maybe that’s why he never came north of the Sawtooth Mountains. The warmth of Fehl might be too much for a creature so accustomed to ice and snow. An errant thought, one he’d only given passing contemplation, yet it might explain the Eirdkilr commander’s behavior. Rather than leading his troops in person, he’d remained in the Wastelands. To complete his magical portal to the frozen hell, certainly, but that could also be an explanation.
He’d never know, and it didn’t much matter anymore. Tyr Farbjodr was dead. Unless there was another demon masquerading as human among the Eirdkilrs, they wouldn’t have to worry about such things again.
“So that was what Lord Eidan meant when he said Tyr Farbjodr’s ‘summoning his true strength’?” the Prince asked.
“Maybe.” Aravon gave a little half-shrug. “I find it hard to believe any human would willingly go along with a plan to see our world overrun by the demons that once fought at Kharna’s side. Or, for a Fehlan, a monster like the Farbjodr.” He tugged at his long, unkempt beard—grown far longer and more unkempt in the weeks since he first rode south. “My best guess? Tyr Farbjodr probably told him a variation of what I originally believed. That he intended to use blood magic to strengthen his army. With just the few hundred he had at Praellboer and Illtgrund, he probably would have had enough to invade southern Fehl. With so much ghoulstone, he might have found a way to use the magic on his entire army.”
“If he ever intended to do so.” The Prince quirked an eyebrow.
“Aye, if.” Aravon inclined his head. “Truth be told, I don’t even know if that sort of thing is possible, or how the magic would work. If the words Rangvaldr used to bring his holy stone to life were the only words that worked, or if there were more that could reverse the effect, drain strength from someone.” He lifted his hands. “I guess we can be thankful Tyr Farbjodr either didn’t know the magic, or he chose not to use it.”
“Indeed.” Prince Toran’s expression grew musing. Then his eyebrows shot up. “A Keeper-damned demon!” He leapt to his feet. “Bloody hell, Aravon!”
Aravon chuckled. “Bloody hell’s right.” It would be a long, long time before he got Tyr Farbjodr’s face—mangled by shards of iron, flesh torn to shreds, bone pulverized, the muscles wriggling and writhing like maggots—or those eyes of foul, hideous black from his mind.
“How are you so calm about this?” Prince Toran demanded. “You just faced a demon. Two demons! And killed them!”
“I didn’t do it alone, Your Majesty.” Aravon smiled. “And I guess being there, seeing the damned things, it’s a bit easier to swallow what actually happened.” His face fell, and he stared down at his hands. “And what it cost us.”
Again, silence descended between them. This time, the Prince held his peace out of respect for Aravon. Respect for what he and the Grim Reavers had lost.
“I would offer to give him a grand funeral in Sanctuary Court,” the Prince finally said, his voice quiet, “as big as the one for Duke Dyrund and your father. But he wouldn’t have wanted that, would he?”
“No, Your Majesty.” Aravon lifted his head, and though tears pricked at his eyes, he couldn’t help smiling. “Zaharis would have hated so much pomp and spectacle. He’d have awoken just to scold us for wasting so much effort on his part.” He swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “I think, if he’d have seen his final resting place, he’d have loved it.”
Zaharis and Rangvaldr had been buried side by side beneath twin cairns of piled ghoulstone, in the tunnel where the Seiomenn had freed the captives. And where the ice saffron, the plant that had eluded Zaharis for so many years, spread its soft blue petals.
Reaching into his pouch, Aravon drew out Zaharis’ alchemical notebook. “Before he died—” Even just saying the words still proved difficult. “—he told me to use it to live my life.”
Prince Toran’s brow wrinkled, a question in his eyes.
“I didn’t understand it then, but I think…” Aravon drew in a deep breath. “…I think he meant for me to use it to bargain with the Secret Keepers. My life—and those of the Grim Reavers—for the book. And for what Zaharis found.”
Aravon thumbed through the pages until he found the one he sought. Opening it, he showed the Prince the wax parchment-covered flower—a flower with petals the color of a clear blue sky, shot through with crimson threads—Noll had pressed there.
“This is what he spent his life searching for,” Aravon said. “Even at the cost of his priesthood, his love, and his home. Now, he’s proven he was right.”
Ice saffron. Or, as the Fehlans called it, the Reginkunnr, the Flower Divine. A plant that bloomed just once a year, on the day the ancient Tauld had called the Blómágaeti. The Revelry of Blossoming, the name meant in the language of the Tauld. The day that had been the celebration before the Eirdkilrs lost their way and began to celebrate the Fjorlagerfa, the Feast of Death.
Drawing in a breath, Aravon closed the notebook and tapped its alchemically-hardened leather cover, scored and slashed by shards of iron from the exploding Earthshaker. “In here is everything he learned, everything he discovered over his decades of studying the most wild and wonderful plants of Fehl and Einan. Including his recipe for the Elixir of Creation.”
Prince Toran’s eyes rose. “Truly?”
Aravon nodded. �
��He wanted me to make certain the Secret Keepers got it. That they knew he had continued to serve the Mistress even after they banished him and ordered his death. He wanted to know that his work wouldn’t die just because he did.” He held out the book to the Prince. “The Secret Keepers might kill me on sight—just for the principal of the thing—so I believe it’s best you deliver it.”
“So I will.” Prince Toran took the book and turned it over in his hands. “I will make certain they understand my position on the matter in no uncertain terms.” His eyes flashed. “You and your companions need not fear them any longer, on this, you have my word as Prince.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Aravon bowed. If anyone could make the Secret Keepers see reason, it would be Prince Toran. And, hopefully, Darrak would receive the note Aravon had inserted between the pages—promising the location of Zaharis’ body and the ice saffron, in exchange for a chance to speak in private, somewhere far from Icespire. He’d considered offering up the demon’s dagger for the Secret Keepers to study. It would certainly intrigue the Mistress’ priests, perhaps enough that they’d be willing to exchange it for the Grim Reavers’ lives. But, at the very least, the meeting would give him the chance to deliver Zaharis’ last words to the Secret Keeper, the man he’d loved until his dying breath, in person. Aravon owed his fallen friend that much.
Prince Toran tucked the book into his robes and stood. “Come, Aravon. We have satisfied our hunger and thirst, so let us walk outside together. The day is beautiful and I find my legs in need of stretching.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Aravon bowed. He’d managed to eat enough to satisfy his stomach, yet in the weeks since the battle at Illtgrund, his appetite had suffered. It proved difficult to eat around the lump that seemed to remain fixed in his throat, the tightness in his chest. Every time he looked around, he saw only his missing companions. The empty spaces where Rangvaldr, Zaharis, and Colborn had once sat.
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