He followed Prince Toran out of the common room and into the stone hall of the barracks he and his Grim Reavers had called home what felt so long ago. The place where he had recovered from the ambush on the Eastmarch. Where he had first met his Grim Reavers and begun the work of forming a tight-knit unit. Where he’d found a way to connect with each of his companions, until they became a company as close as family.
Out of the barracks he and the Prince strode, into the glorious midday sunlight that filled Camp Marshal. Aravon’s eyes roved the training yard with the now-crumbling wooden obstacles, the archery field with its straw targets, the sparring ground where he and his Grim Reavers had trained, fought, sweat, and laughed for weeks. The smoke rising from Polus’ smithy filled the air with a tang of metal, accompanied by the sickly-sweet scent of rotting vegetation that hung thick around the Black Marsh outside the wooden palisade walls.
His smile came again, sad, heavy with nostalgia, yet tinged with something akin to acceptance. They had come so far since the day he first limped out of the stone barracks on Duke Dyrund’s arm. He and the Grim Reavers had changed, and changed the world around them. He could only hope it was for the better.
Judging by Noll’s shouts of protest, Belthar’s rumbling laughter, and Skathi’s vicious chortles as she watched Noll’s boots consumed by the roaring fire they’d lit in the center of the training yard, Aravon couldn’t be certain. Yet, the fact that Skathi could laugh with Noll and not threaten to stick a dagger into him—a threat he’d more than earned time and time again with his provocative comments—felt like progress. And the way Belthar and Skathi spent more and more time together definitely came as a welcome change. Even as he watched, Skathi took Belthar’s hand and rested her head against his huge arm. The big man leaned into her and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.
Keeper knows the two of them have endured enough misery in their lives. He smiled at the sight of the two, once companions, now something more. They deserve to find that bit of happiness together.
Yet, he found himself scanning the grounds, searching for more faces. The faces of his friends, those he’d never see again.
“How long until Colborn returns?” Prince Toran’s voice drew Aravon from his thoughts.
“I’m not certain.” Aravon frowned. “He insisted on guiding the freed Fehlan captives back to the safety of Eirik Throrsson’s lands. Knowing the Hilmir, I’m certain he’ll get every shred of information he can from Colborn. Likely, he’ll be ready the moment you send word of your plan to negotiate with the Eirdkilrs, using Gunnarsdottir over there as your mouthpiece.”
“Of course he will.” Prince Toran smiled. “And, having Colborn by the Hilmir’s side could actually work out in our favor. It’s going to take some serious diplomatic smooth-talking to figure out what to do next. What to offer the Eirdkilrs—and the Tauld—that could entice them into accepting an end to the war. Eirik Throrsson is going to have the loudest voice of the Fehlans, so it’ll be good to have someone close to his side that both we and the Fjall chief trust.”
Aravon nodded. Colborn had told him as much the day they parted ways, nearly ten days earlier. The plan hadn’t even occurred to Aravon—proof that the Lieutenant was as insightful and tactically-inclined as Aravon had believed. When he returned from Ornntadr, Aravon would make certain Colborn had whatever future he wanted in the Prince’s service. Hopefully as a Grim Reaver, if the Grim Reavers continued to exist. With only four remaining, it would be a while yet before they were mission-ready.
A part of Aravon hoped Colborn didn’t return. He’d meant what he told Colborn as he lay dying. Colborn had been a man without a home for too long. Too much a Princelander for his Fehlan kind, and far too Fehlan for the Princelanders who could never see past his blond hair and heavy features. Yet over the last few weeks, since their journey to Storbjarg, Colborn had come to terms with his heritage. Fehlan and Princelander both, a man of neither world.
Or, perhaps, one of both worlds.
His family in Saerheim had died; all but Eira, his grandmother, the only one who had been kind to him when the rest of his mother’s kin reviled him—just as his father, the cowardly Lord Derran of Whitevale, had. Eira had accompanied Branda, the Hilmir’s daughter, back to Ornntadr. There, Colborn could be reunited with her. Could reveal his true identity to her and find a semblance of family once more.
When last they spoke, Aravon had sensed a new purpose within Colborn. A Lieutenant in the Legion of Heroes, a man trained to master the Fehlan arts of woodcraft, tracking, and survival. He had something few others in the Princelands or Fehl would ever have: an understanding of both cultures, and a willingness to embrace both.
He could very well be the bridge between the Princelanders and their southern neighbors. If he remained at Eirik Throrsson’s side through the next few months, he could bring a Princelander perspective to the table, all while embracing his Fehlan heritage more fully.
Aravon had no idea where Colborn’s path could lead, but he couldn’t help feeling excited to find out. Though he would miss the man—who had become as much a brother to him as Captain Lingram, perhaps more so, over the past few months—he knew this was Colborn’s chance for a better future. A future in which he found true peace with who he was. Not only as a soldier and Grim Reaver, but as a man born to two cultures and peoples.
The quiet flap, flap of heavy wings brought Aravon whirling around. His heart leapt as he scanned the sky to the north, searching for the familiar figure. He barely dared to hope but—
Joy burst from his throat in an explosive laugh as Snarl careened into his chest feet-first. The Enfield’s weight nearly dragged him to the ground, but Aravon managed to brace his feet at the last moment. His arms encircled Snarl’s furry body and clutched the little Enfield tightly to his chest. Tears of happiness pricked at his eyes as Snarl licked at his face, his chin, his neck with a rough, wet tongue. The Enfield’s loud, happy yipping echoed loud in his ears, flooding him with a delight that glowed to the core of his being.
“Hey, boy!” A beaming smile cracked Aravon’s lips, so wide he felt his head would explode. He scratched under the scruff of Snarl’s neck, staring into the Enfield’s bright amber eyes, gleaming in the daylight. Snarl’s wounds had healed, leaving only a hint of a scar along the side of his vulpine face. And, judging by his weight and the span of his flapping wings, he’d grown in the weeks since Aravon saw him last.
Aravon couldn’t speak for the joy filling his heart. He’d missed the Enfield dearly. Snarl had become as much a part of the Grim Reavers as any of his comrades. Sending him away had torn a hole in his heart. Seeing the little fox-eagle creature here, at Camp Marshal, where they had first been introduced and their bond first formed, did wonders to ameliorate his grief over Zaharis and Rangvaldr. He pulled the little Enfield close again and whispered into his furry ears, ““I missed you, boy!”
Snarl gave a happy yap and nuzzled close, pressing his wet nose against Aravon’s neck. For long seconds they stood there, locked in an embrace, Snarl’s fur warm in Aravon’s arms and against his face.
Then the Enfield’s head whipped around, toward Skathi. He barked in eager delight and, claws scrabbling at Aravon’s armor, he struggled to break free of Aravon’s grip. Aravon released the Enfield and Snarl leapt off his chest, flapped his wings to glide twenty feet away, and landed in a full run. Like an arrow loosed from the Agrotora’s bow, Snarl ran straight toward Skathi and hurtled into her arms with the eager delight of a pup. The two of them went down in a tangle of furry limbs, delighted laughter, and an assault from Snarl’s happy yapping.
Aravon couldn’t help himself. Seeing Snarl’s exuberant antics always lifted his spirits. Even now, after everything that had happened, just being near the Enfield made him feel better.
A quiet chuckle sounded at his side, and he turned to find Prince Toran grinning at him. “I’ve never seen an Enfield so energetic.”
“Aye.” Aravon laughed. “Thank you for sending hi
m, Your Majesty.”
Prince Toran actually tried to pretend a look of innocence, but Aravon wasn’t buying it. The Enfields were housed atop the Prince’s Palace, and in the wake of Lord Eidan’s betrayal, the Prince was personally overseeing the care and use of the secret Enfield messenger service. Snarl wouldn’t be here without the Prince’s explicit command.
After a moment, the Prince’s grin returned. “Truth be told, I was tempted to send him the moment I received word that the Grim Reavers had reached the Bulwark.” Aravon had marched his column of liberated captives straight to the southernmost fortress on the Westmarch, where the garrison of Legionnaires could sort out the matter of feeding, clothing, and transporting them home. “But I couldn’t, not until I was certain…”
The Prince’s words faded as another figure appeared in the blue sky above. Darker, heavier, and with a wider wingspan than Snarl, the second Enfield moved with an almost somber majesty as he came to land in front of Prince Toran. Skyclaw, Duke Dyrund’s personal Enfield, regarded Aravon with dark amber eyes, then trotted over to sit at Prince Toran’s feet.
“Ahh, just in time.” The Prince’s face broadened into a cryptic smile. Kneeling, he tugged at the cap holding Skyclaw’s message tube sealed and pulled out a strip of tightly rolled parchment. Unrolling the note, he read its contents, and his grin grew. Without a word, he held the note out to Aravon.
Curious, Aravon took the message and read. “Authenticity verified.” Two words, meaningless to Aravon. Confusion twisted his face into a frown as he looked up at the Prince. “Your Majesty?”
Prince Toran gestured toward the scrap of parchment in Aravon’s hand. “You could say that’s the real reason I’m here, Captain. The reason we’re here in Camp Marshal.”
Aravon cocked his head, uncertain as to what the Prince meant.
Prince Toran’s smile never wavered. “The moment I heard you had returned, I knew I owed you my gratitude in person. After all you and your Grim Reavers have done for the Princelands, it would be a poor Prince who failed to look his most loyal and courageous subjects in the eyes and express his thanks in person.”
“No, sir.” Aravon shook his head. “It is our honor to serve.”
“I know.” Prince Toran inclined his head. “And that is largely why I and the Princelands owe you so much.” He looked around Camp Marshal, at the three Grim Reavers and Snarl standing beside the smoldering ruins of Noll’s prized boots. “You and your soldiers acted without hesitation, steadfast through even the most impossible battles, never expecting a word of praise or reward of any kind. True sons and daughters of Fehl. Some might even say heroes.”
Heat suffused Aravon’s cheeks and he ducked his head, embarrassed. “Your Majesty—”
Prince Toran held up a hand, and Aravon fell silent. “Had I wanted to simply convey the Princelands’ appreciation and bestow upon you and your soldiers a reward, I would have summoned you to attend me in Icespire. Yet it seems fate has conspired to send you down a vastly different path than either you or I could have expected. And thus, it seemed only fitting to do it here.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. The Prince’s words confused—and, he had to admit, even worried—him.
The Prince’s smile faded and, face sobering, he reached into his robes and drew out a rolled-up scroll. Without a word or a hint of expression on his face, Prince Toran held it out to Aravon.
Curiosity blazed bright within Aravon as he reached for the scroll. His hands shook—with excitement, fear, or trepidation, he couldn’t be certain—as he opened the already cracked wax seal. A seal that bore the familiar wolf’s head seal of Eastfall. Duke Sammael Dyrund’s personal emblem.
Aravon’s eyes darted up from the scroll to the Prince’s face, but Prince Toran’s stony expression revealed nothing. Slowly, almost hesitant, Aravon unrolled the scroll. He read the words written in in the Duke’s neat, precise hand. A second time, then a third. His eyes narrowed, confusion seething like a maelstrom in his mind.
He looked to the Prince again. “B-But—”
“Its authenticity was verified.” Prince Toran gestured to the scrap of parchment Skyclaw had delivered. “There is no mistake.”
The words, spoken with quiet authority, rocked Aravon to the core. The world seemed to spin around him, dizzying and suddenly terribly hot. He could do nothing more than stare down at the words penned by Duke Dyrund.
“I, Duke Sammael Dyrund, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare and appoint Aravon, son of Traighan, Captain of the Legion of Heroes’ Sixth Company, Garnet Battalion, as my sole and undisputed heir. To him, I bequeath my title as ruler of the Duchy of Eastfall, and all the responsibilities and privileges accompanying the position.”
Most of the document was filled with the sort of flowery language only understood by scribes and devotees of law, but at the bottom, the Duke had written a short note.
“Aravon, I understand that this is a heavy burden to bear. I do not ask this of you lightly, nor without due consideration. And yet, try as I might, I can think of no one better suited to taking up my mantle. No one else who I would trust as much to not only act with forethought and sound judgement, but who will seek to do what is right no matter the personal cost. I can only beg your forgiveness for placing this duty on your shoulders, and pray that the Swordsman grants you the strength to bear it with the courage, grace, and dignity that I have seen in you since you were young.”
Moisture pricked at Aravon’s eyes. Blinking, he swallowed and continued reading. “I am proud to have known you, to fight by your side, to be your friend. And, I hope, with these words, you know how much you truly mean to me. Though not of my own blood, you are unquestionably my son, and I can pass on to the Long Keeper’s arms knowing everything I have done is in your hands. Farewell, Aravon, and may the Swordsman guide you on this new path.”
Tears flowed as the Duke’s words ended, but Aravon made no attempt to stop them.
“We discovered it among his personal effects stored safely in his room in the Palace.” Prince Toran’s voice sounded distant, faint beneath the torrent of emotions roiling in Aravon’s chest. “It has taken us weeks to verify its authenticity, but as you can see…” He trailed off.
Aravon stared down at the scroll once more. At the Duke’s words, written for him by the man he’d loved as a father. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to the Duke, yet with this message, he felt a sense of closure.
“Captain?” Skathi’s words drifted to him from across a vast chasm. “You good?”
“Looks like you just kissed the Long Keeper himself,” Noll said.
Aravon could find no words. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to speak around the lump in his throat. He held out the parchment to the three Grim Reavers. Belthar took it and read aloud.
“Bloody hell!” Skathi sucked in a sharp breath. “Captain, you…” She trailed off, as speechless as Aravon.
Belthar’s gaze went from the parchment, to Aravon, to the Prince. “Your Majesty, is this—?”
“Genuine.” A hint of a smile cracked Prince Toran’s face. “While we have yet to locate the Duke’s signet ring, it is only a matter of time.”
Ice slithered through Aravon’s veins. Blinded by tears, he fumbled in his pouch until his fingers felt smooth, cold steel. Grasping it, he drew out the object he’d kept safe since the day he found it hidden among the belongings of the traitorous mercenary, Otton.
“You meant that signet ring?” Belthar rumbled.
Prince Toran stared at the silver ring, bearing the wolf’s head crest of Eastfall, then at Aravon. A question shone in his eyes, but he remained silent for long seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice echoed with a hint of wry humor. “Well, isn’t that all neat and tidy?”
Aravon studied the ring, sparkling bright in the sunlight. He had all but forgotten it since finding it in Otton’s pouch, and realizing Lord Eidan’s treachery could include an attempt to gain control of Eastfall. Yet here it was, the final piece of
this strange, confusing puzzle. The Duke’s signet ring…now his ring.
“Damn!” Noll whistled through his teeth. “Does that mean we’re going to have to start calling you ‘Your Grace’ now? Your Dukeship? Your Worship?” His smile took on a nasty edge. “It’s going to get awful cumbersome in the field, you know. ‘Which way do we go, Your Graceful Ducal Worshipfulness?’” With a sigh, he threw up his hands. “And learning to say that in the Secret Keeper hand language is going to be a b—”
“Wait.” Noll’s mention of “in the field” brought reality flooding back to Aravon’s mind. He turned to the Prince. “But I can’t be the Duke of Eastfall.”
“No?” Prince Toran’s eyebrows knitted together, a hint of shadow darkening his eyes. “And why, pray tell, not?”
“Because I’m dead.” Aravon wore no mask—he didn’t need to in Camp Marshal—and Polus hadn’t yet finished repairing his armor, yet their very presence in the secret training camp was all the reminder he needed. “The Duke said it the day he recruited me. Doing what we do, fighting the way we fight, the only way to keep our families safe is to keep our identities a secret. Captain Aravon of the Legion of Heroes is dead. There was a funeral and everything!”
“True.” The Prince inclined his head. “And yet, perhaps not.”
Confusion hummed within Aravon. But beneath, deep within the core of his being, a flicker of hope sprang to life.
“Captain Aravon is dead, and yet, who’s to say that dead men can’t come back to life?” The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of the Prince’s mouth. “It wouldn’t be the first time such a mistake was made, and it certainly won’t be the last.”
“B-But…” Aravon found himself struggling to speak.
“Captain Snarl is a man behind a mask, one that only a handful of people have ever seen.” Prince Toran’s smile grew, confidence echoing in his voice. “Who’s to say that there can’t be a new Captain Snarl, someone else to wear the mask while Aravon of Icespire comes back to life?”
Courage to Sacrifice Page 67