The charger’s smooth, rolling gait ate up the miles, but every thundering step sent a jolt to the core of Aravon’s being. Hunger, thirst, and anxiety only added to the exhaustion that settled into his bones. Yet they were as nothing compared to the burden that weighed on his shoulders every time the gentle thump, thump of the Duke’s bouncing, cloth-wrapped body reached his ears.
Try as he might, he couldn’t fully shake the melancholy. He’d dragged himself from the depths of grief for the sake of the mission, and for his soldiers. His Grim Reavers, as the men of Rivergate had called them. He owed them his life, and losing himself in his sorrow over the Duke’s death would get them killed in return.
Yet he still struggled to remain focused on their surroundings. Only the ever-present threat of the Eirdkilrs kept him from retreating into his mind, into the gloom filling his thoughts. He had lost too much already—the men of Sixth Company, Draian the Mender, and now Duke Dyrund. He’d be damned if he let even a single moment of inattention take anyone else from him.
He scanned the canyon ahead, searched the rocky tops of the red sandstone cliffs, glanced back for any sign of pursuit. The rumbling beat of their horses’ hooves echoed off the high walls, amplified by the nervous thudding of Aravon’s heart. Sweat trickled down his face, slithered its stinging way into his eyes, and traced a sodden path down his spine. His jaw ached from clenching and his knuckles had long ago gone mottled white around his reins and the wooden haft of his spear.
His nervousness only worsened as they neared the end of the canyon. Colborn, who rode lead with Noll, reined in and motioned for them to stop within the shelter of the crimson-colored cliff walls. Ahead, the dry creek bed curved to the west, but their path led straight across the flat sea of green grass that stood between them and the banks of the Daellausa River.
Colborn turned to Aravon. “Crossing’s just there,” he signed one-handed. “Where the land dips between the two rises.”
Aravon followed the Lieutenant’s pointing finger. A quarter-mile in the distance, the flat lands rose gently to a ridge, but there was a depression in the ridges due straight north.
“That’s a lot of open ground.” Aravon shot Colborn a questioning look. “Anywhere else nearby we can cross? Someplace with a bit more cover?”
Colborn shook his head. “The Daellausa’s going to be running high at this time of year,” he signed with one hand, the other gripping his unsheathed Fehlan-style longsword. “And even if it was flowing low, the current’s carved deep into the ground between those two ridges, making for steep banks. Unless we want to head east toward the Hardrfoss and skirt Cold Lake that way, this is our only path north. Right across this stretch of open land and the Daellausa.”
Damn! Aravon stifled a silent curse. They couldn’t head east—that would lead them straight into the arms of the Eirdkilrs rampaging through Deid lands.
But the way ahead wasn’t much better. Even reaching the crossing would pose a serious risk. The grassy expanse of flatlands stretched for miles to the east. Any Eirdkilrs in the vicinity would spot them from a long way off.
What choice do we have? The question settled like a weight in Aravon’s mind. We need to get to Saerheim ahead of the Eirdkilrs, and find the traitor that poisoned Duke Dyrund.
“Fair warning, Captain,” Colborn signed. “The river crossing’s going to be hard enough for the horses at this time of year. We can’t push them too hard if we want to make it.”
Aravon gritted his teeth. “Slow and steady, then, Lieutenant.” Praying for the Mistress’ luck all the while. One last gamble, and they would reach safety on the opposite bank of the Daellausa.
“Aye, sir.” Colborn made to kick his horse into motion, but Aravon stopped him.
“You and Rangvaldr bring up the rear,” Aravon signed. “Shields to guard our backs.”
Colborn nodded and pulled his horse to one side, off the hunting path.
Aravon turned to Skathi. “You and Noll, in front of them, bows ready in case things go sideways.”
Skathi unslung her short horsebow and gripped three red-fletched arrows in her bow hand. Noll did likewise.
“Belthar, you’re across first,” Aravon signed to the man. “Anything happens, that crossbow of yours will be our back-up plan. Zaharis, we cross on his heels.”
Both men nodded.
Aravon glanced up at Snarl. The Enfield still circled high above their position, yet he hadn’t barked a warning or given any indication of enemies nearby.
It’s now or never. He drew in a breath and nodded to Belthar. Swordsman be with us.
The big man spurred his horse forward and trotted down the hunting path in the lead. Aravon and Zaharis followed, with Noll and Skathi behind them and Rangvaldr and Colborn in the rear. A tight formation, barely one horse-length apart, as fast as they dared while still heeding Colborn’s warning to give the horses a break.
Aravon resisted the urge to break into a gallop. The sound would carry across the open land, and he wanted nothing to draw attention to their small company. And giving the horses a break could spell the difference between escape and capture should the Eirdkilrs stumble upon them.
The crossing seemed to take an eternity. That quarter-mile of open ground felt like an endless expanse, as vast as the Frozen Sea, yet all the more perilous for the knowledge that enemies could lurk all around them. The light of the setting sun bathed the grassy field in brilliant gold and orange, casting long shadows. Every instinct shrieked at Aravon to flee, to give the order for his men to race across, but he bit down hard on the panic threatening him. He had to keep his head, had to remain in control for the sake of his men.
He drew in a slow, measured breath and forced his racing thoughts to calm as he counted the steady hoofbeats of his massive Kostarasar charger. His mind focused on his collection of aches and pains: the bruises on his chest and face, the twinge in his right shoulder, the throbbing in his knees. One step at a time, one agonizingly slow heartbeat, his eyes locked on that distant dip in the terrain that would lead him and his company to safety.
Then came the sound he’d dreaded for hours: a high-pitched bark from Snarl circling above, followed by the howling, piercing war cries of the Eirdkilrs.
Aravon’s head snapped to the right, and his eyes locked on the shaggy, fur-clad figures boiling from the trees—dense-packed trees beneath a canopy too thick for Snarl’s keen eyesight to pierce. Fifty of the towering barbarians, their faces stained blue with war paint, shields stained with Legion and Fehlan blood. They appeared like monsters of legend, clad in filthy pelts of icebears, and from their throats poured that keening shriek of battle.
The foremost of the Eirdkilrs thrust his huge spear toward Aravon, and the lumbering figures broke into a charge. Their massive legs ate up the ground at a pace to match any Legion horse. Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat—the enemy would reach them in less than a minute!
The time for stealth had passed.
Chapter Two
“Go!” Aravon bent lower over his horse’s neck, his eyes fixed on the crossing ahead. A hundred yards separated them from the dip that led down to the banks of the Daellausa. Eighty. Fifty. The Kostarasar chargers, specially bred for speed and endurance, ate up the distance at a tremendous speed. Yet the massive Eirdkilrs were just three hundred yards away. At any minute, they’d—
An arrow whistled past Aravon’s head, missing him by a full arm’s length. Yet more came, black-shafted missiles that rained down around them in twos, threes, fives, then dozens. Pain lanced Aravon’s shoulder as an arrow slammed into his pauldron. Even with Zaharis’ alchemical treatment to harden the leather, the impact set Aravon’s shoulder aching. Another glanced off his backplate, sending a shiver of pain down his spine.
Twenty yards to the crossing. Come on! Aravon gritted his teeth. Fifteen. More arrows whistled past—the Eirdkilrs had found their range. Only the horses’ speed saved Aravon and his men from certain death, yet the barbarians’ accuracy was surpassed only by t
he Agrotorae. At any moment, an arrow would find exposed flesh or bring down one of their horses.
Ten yards. Five.
Then Belthar was charging down the riverbank and splashing into the fast-flowing Daellausa. Aravon was a heartbeat behind him, Zaharis at his side.
Aravon sucked in an involuntary breath as the shock of the glacial water hit him. His heart sped up until it threatened to burst free of his chest. His legs, submerged in the river, grew cold and went numb in seconds. A torrent of chills shot up his spine, driving icy fingers into his brain.
But the chill wasn’t Aravon’s only worry. As Colborn had warned, the river ran high, the current fast. Faster than he’d expected, and strong enough to knock his horse off-balance. The beast staggered and nearly lost its footing, barely managing to remain upright as water slammed into its hocks and surged up around its body. Rising steadily toward Duke Dyrund’s wrapped corpse.
No!
Twisting in his saddle, Aravon gripped the Duke’s body and hauled it around in front of him. With a grunt of effort, Aravon wrapped his arms around the corpse and hefted it high, onto his shoulders. The smell of Zaharis’ preservative herbs seeped through the cloaks used to wrap the body, and the Duke’s natron-crusted flesh crunched in Aravon’s grip.
But even though the weight threatened to knock him from his saddle, Aravon forced himself to hold on with his cold and aching legs, to keep the Duke’s body up out of the water. Moisture would rot the natron, hastening the corpse’s decomposition. The Duke would rot long before he could receive a proper burial in the Princelands, one worthy of a former Legionnaire and the ruler of Eastfall.
Deeper into the Daellausa the horse pushed, its powerful muscles straining with the effort of remaining upright and making forward progress. The water flowed over its withers, rising to its neck. The chill rose with it, settling into Aravon’s waist and creeping up his spine. A fist of iron constricted his lungs and cut off his breath. His pulse hammered so loudly he feared his eardrums would burst.
Then something splashed into the water beside him, disappearing beneath the surface in an instant. A moment later, the thump of an arrow striking wood echoed loud from behind him.
He didn’t need to look back to know the Eirdkilrs had caught up and were firing on them.
Yet, by the Swordsman’s mercy, the high, fast-flowing river saved them. The Eirdkilr arrows couldn’t strike the horses, who barely managed to keep their heads above the rushing water. With Colborn and Rangvaldr’s shields protecting their backs, the Eirdkilrs had few targets for which to aim.
Yet with every passing second, the howling war cries drew nearer. The wild shots, loosed from extreme bowshot range, fell closer and closer around Aravon. Blinking water from his eyes, Aravon lifted his gaze in search of the eastern riverbank. It seemed so impossibly far. His straining horse emitted a strange groaning, wheezing as it fought the current.
An arrow thunked into the Duke’s body, then two more in quick succession. Rage burned in Aravon’s chest.
The bastards! The Eirdkilrs desecrated the Duke’s corpse with their accursed arrows! Yet he forced himself not to think about it, not to picture the sharp-tipped missiles punching into the flesh of the man he’d loved as a father. The Duke was gone; nothing but the cold, lifeless husk of the noble, virtuous man he’d been remained.
A bark of pain echoed from behind Aravon, and he turned to see Noll reeling in his saddle. The little scout swayed violently, losing his balance and his grip on his reins. Aravon’s heart stopped as he toppled to the side.
Skathi’s arm snapped out just in time to hook a finger in Noll’s collar. She grunted with the effort of holding him upright as Noll struggled to regain his balance. Finally, he righted himself, blinking and shaking his head, and gave the “All good” hand signal. Yet, as he turned to loose an arrow at the Eirdkilrs, Aravon could see him reeling still. His shot flew wide, slicing the sky high above an Eirdkilr’s head.
Then from the eastern riverbank came a massive thwump. A missile three feet long and two fingers thick hurtled past Aravon, a dark shape that sliced through the air and punched into the chest of an Eirdkilr on the riverbank. The towering barbarian was hurled onto his back, pinioned to the ground by Belthar’s crossbow bolt.
Hope surged within Aravon as he turned his eyes forward and found he was just five yards from the eastern riverbank. Belthar knelt at the river’s edge, his huge crossbow in hand, muscles straining as he worked to reload the weapon. Beside him, Zaharis had just emerged from the river and rode up the bank, water streaming from his horse’s withers, legs, and barrel chest, his leather armor sodden.
Aravon’s horse struggled onto the bank beside the Secret Keeper and Belthar. Eirdkilr arrows wobbled across the river, thumping into the dirt and grass all around them.
“To the forest!” Aravon shouted. “Get under cover!”
“But the others—” Belthar began.
“That’s an order!” Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, pushing the tired animal up the bank and into the cover of the mulberry trees growing on the ridge.
Only once he was safely under the tree cover did he lower Duke Dyrund’s corpse and turn his mount around. Skathi and Noll had nearly made it across, but Rangvaldr and Colborn were going more slowly. Two arrows protruded from the neck and shoulder of Colborn’s horse, and long threads of blood flowed downstream with the water rushing around the beast. Rangvaldr’s shield was studded with arrows, and the Seiomenn was fighting to keep his seat against the fast-flowing current.
The Eirdkilrs now clustered on the far riverbank, firing a steady stream of arrows at the two Fehlans. Colborn and Rangvaldr had their shields, armor, and helmets to ward off the arrows, yet there were too many gaps for arrows to slip through and find flesh. Beneath the hail of Eirdkilr shafts, backed by their powerful longbows, the two men were in serious trouble.
Aravon leapt from his saddle, seized his spear, and prepared to race toward the riverbank. Though he’d never make the throw across the river—and even taking down one Eirdkilr would do little to stop the arrow fire—he couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. He had to help, somehow.
But he didn’t fight alone.
Snarl swooped low toward the Eirdkilrs, sharp talons outstretched. The Eirdkilrs cried out as the Enfield swept in front of them, claws raking, wings snapping in their faces. Though Snarl only injured two—little more than flesh wounds—the attack came as such a surprise that the barbarians nearly dropped their weapons. The stream of arrows fell slack, only for a few seconds, yet long enough to give Colborn and Rangvaldr time to make the crossing.
Worry thrummed within Aravon as the Eirdkilrs lifted their bows to the sky and took aim at Snarl, but the Enfield gave them no chance to fire. Before they could loose, the clever Snarl disappeared among the trees clustered atop the ridge north of the crossing. The little Enfield darted among the trees and quickly lost himself amidst the underbrush.
Yes! The Eirdkilrs’ angry howls came as music to his ears. Snarl would remain out of sight, his fox’s instincts keeping him safe and on the ground until he could find a way to cross safely. He’d catch up to Aravon and the others in due time.
The sound of loud splashing and horses’ hoofbeats snapped Aravon’s attention back to his side of the Daellausa River. A very sodden Colborn and Rangvaldr lurched out of the river and up the bank, charging toward the tree beneath which Aravon and the others sheltered. Eirdkilr arrows studded the shields on their backs, but the two men appeared no worse for the wear—as bedraggled, exhausted, and cold as the rest of them, yet unwounded.
“Hah!” Noll snorted. “Come and get us, you bastards!”
Whether or not the Eirdkilrs heard him, only a handful of them ventured out into the river to attempt the crossing. After the two in the lead were swept away by the fast-flowing current, the rest retreated to the safety of their riverbank. Their war cries turned to howls of anger at seeing their prey escape.
In vain they loosed a hail of ar
rows. Aravon and his soldiers had already reached the sheltering safety of the trees, and the Eirdkilr missiles thumped into tree trunks and branches harmlessly.
“Suck rotten eggs, you bastards!” Noll shot the Eirdkilrs a rude gesture—from under cover of a thick blackthorn hedge, of course. His defiance might have been more effective had he not appeared like a sopping wet cat fresh out of a muddy bath.
To be fair, none of the others appeared particularly heroic at the moment. Soaking wet, their leather armor sodden, trying to hide the fact that the cold left them shivering, they all looked in dire need of rest and a fire.
Yet Aravon couldn’t stop, not yet. Not until he was certain they had left the Eirdkilrs behind.
Without a word, he spurred his horse to a trot, and rode deeper into the forest. Only once the trees blocked all view of the Daellausa River did he rein in.
“Everyone good?” Aravon asked.
“Cold as a witch’s tits!” Belthar’s teeth chattered.
“We are,” Colborn said, “but the horses aren’t.” He leapt from the saddle and frowned at the arrows protruding from his horse’s neck and shoulder. “Nothing serious, but he’ll need time to rest and recover. They all will.”
The crossing had fatigued the horses, that much Aravon could immediately tell by the way their heads hung down and they strained for breath. Even just that few minutes of trotting seemed to have worn them out. They’d reach the limit of their endurance far sooner than he’d like.
“Think they can go for a few miles?” Aravon had no desire to push the horses any more than necessary, but he wouldn’t risk the Eirdkilrs getting across the Daellausa and catching up to them here. “Just until we can get someplace safe to get warm and hole up for the night.”
“Here.” Zaharis reached into his pouch and pulled out a long strip of white willow bark. “Should help with the pain.” He chewed on the bark for a few moments, crushing it between his teeth, then spat it into his hands and applied the pulpy mixture onto the wounds. “Not much more I can do, but Stonekeeper may be able to help.”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 2