“Belthar?” Aravon shouted the question.
“Ahead!” Colborn thrust a finger. “He’s alive!”
Aravon tried to see the big man, but he could see nothing save the white, foaming caps of the water rushing around him. It was all he could do to keep afloat and let the current carry him downstream—the direction they’d intended to go anyway. A few yards ahead, his horse struggled to keep its head above the surface.
Triumph surged within him as he heard the angry howls of the Eirdkilrs. Five towering figures slid down the new slope, slipped on the scree, and plummeted into the water. Three more tried to make the descent more slowly, only to find the ground unsteady underfoot. They, too, joined their comrades in the river, dragged down by the weight of their heavy iron-studded leather armor, enormous weapons, and great shields.
A flash of orange hurtled past Aravon, a few yards above his head. Snarl’s wings snapped out to catch the breeze and he flew low along the water’s surface. Aravon twisted back downstream to follow Snarl’s movements. Hope surged within him as the Enfield landed on the muddy western bank of the river.
“There!” Aravon thrust a finger toward Snarl. “Make for the shore.”
Colborn needed no encouragement. He leaned forward in his saddle, urging the horse to swim, and tugged on the reins of Belthar’s mount. Aravon’s relief doubled as he caught sight of Belthar hauling himself onto the muddy riverbank toward Snarl. The big man collapsed just out of the water’s reach and lay gasping for air. Somehow, he’d managed to keep his grip on his axe even as he tumbled downhill and fought the river’s current.
Aravon set to swimming, using his hands to keep his head above water while kicking with his legs to propel himself toward the riverbank. He couldn’t fight the current—the river flowed far too fast and strong for him to defeat—but used it to propel him in the direction he needed to go.
His muscles burned and his lungs begged for air, but he forced himself to keep swimming. One kick after another, never stopping. If he gave in, the river would claim him as it had the Eirdkilrs.
It seemed an eternity before he hauled himself out of the water. Belthar was waiting there, hand outstretched, and he grabbed Aravon to drag him onto the muddy riverbank. Aravon’s horse whinnied and shook itself, nearly dislodging the sacks, satchels, and pack bound tightly in place behind his saddle. Nearly. Aravon had secured everything with his usual caution, and none of his belongings were going anywhere—strong current or no.
“Well, damn!” Surprise echoed in Colborn’s voice as he rode out of the river. Soaking wet and dripping as much water as the horses, he appeared no worse for the wear. “That’s one way to get out of a tight spot.”
“You’re welcome.” Belthar’s chuckle turned to a groan, and he hunched over his stomach.
Aravon climbed slowly to his feet, muscles exhausted, and stumbled on squelching boots toward the man. “You hurt?”
“Yeah, but it’ll pass.” Belthar’s voice was strained, as if he struggled to bite back a gasp of pain. “Damned tree root sucker punched me on the way down.”
Colborn snorted. “A wise man might rather a punch over being crushed any day. Then again, a wise man probably wouldn’t have gone full woodcutter on a tree getting ready to fall.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking?”
“That I could bring down that tree and make some kind of bridge to get us down.” Belthar drew in a long breath, groaning softly. “So much for that plan.”
“Hey, a bruised gut is the least of your problems right now.” Colborn gestured toward Belthar’s horse. “Your crossbow got wet.”
Belthar’s eyes widened and he struggled to his feet, lumbering toward where his massive crossbow was strapped in place behind his saddle. “Bloody, twisted hell.” He turned to Aravon with a shake of his head. “Better give me a merciful death now, Captain. Otherwise, Polus is going to kill me slow for mistreating his masterwork!”
“We’ll just have to make sure you never return to Camp Marshal, then.” Colborn chuckled as he dropped from his saddle, boots squelching in the muck. “Either that, or you stay well out of hammer-throwing range.”
“At least we’ve still got our equipment.” Aravon did a quick check of his gear. The oilskin satchel had kept out the river water and kept the important items within—including his meager trail rations and Duke Dyrund’s pouch—safe. “Horses and weapons, too. All in all, a far better outcome than it might have been.”
“Let’s just hope we bought Captain Lingram and the others time to get away,” Colborn said as he lifted his mask and wiped water from his face and beard.
Aravon shot a glance at the sky and started. Were we really riding for two hours? Time tended to both speed up and slow down during battle or times of peril—the mind’s reaction to danger and anxiety. That should have put at least fifteen miles between us and the survivors of Saerheim. That’ll cost the Eirdkilrs a good few hours.
There was a chance, albeit a small one, that the barbarians would abandon their pursuit of Captain Lingram’s men and the fleeing Deid. If they drew too close to Sentry Garrison, the Legion would march out in force to counterattack. The fact that the Westmarch was just a few miles to the west of their position gave Aravon hope that the Eirdkilrs might call off the hunt for the survivors of Saerheim.
But just in case, he determined, we’re going to make sure they’re too distracted chasing us to bother.
Aravon turned back to Belthar, who was still busy bemoaning his fate when Polus found out his misdeeds. “If you’re done griping, what say we get back to poking the icebear?”
Belthar and Colborn shot questioning glances at him. Aravon explained his logic. “As long as they’re trying to catch us, there’s a chance they’ll forget all about Captain Lingram.”
With a grunt of effort, Belthar pulled his ponderous bulk into his saddle. “We really do get to have all the fun, don’t we?”
Colborn patted the big man on the leg. “Perks of the job, my friend. Unlimited travel. The finest sights on Fehl. Undiscovered marvels of nature.”
“And rubbish food.” Belthar’s stomach rumbled. “I’ve had enough trail rations and dried meat for a lifetime!”
“Then you’ll be thrilled about the feast awaiting us once this is all over,” Colborn said.
“Feast?” Belthar’s eyes brightened.
“Yep!” Colborn drew a sodden bundle from within his armor. “Biscuit soup and soaking wet beef!”
Aravon wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that every Eirdkilr within a hundred square miles heard Belthar’s groan.
* * *
“Anything?” Aravon signed.
Colborn shook his head. “Not since we shook the last pack three miles back.”
The forest sounds around them seemed muted, the faint hum of living creatures oddly silent. Even the chuffing of their flagging horses felt quieter than usual. But that was ever the way of the world as the sun set. The approach of dusk sent the diurnal animals to their woody habitats, but the nocturnal fauna only came out once darkness fell fully. The twilight hour always found the woodlands eerily absent of sound.
Or perhaps that was just how it felt to Aravon. The weight of exhaustion dragged on his limbs, made heavier by the water soaking his undertunic and breeches. His eyelids were drooping as low as his horse’s head. Even the tireless Colborn looked ready to fall asleep in his saddle—if not for the fact that Eirdkilrs hunted them, of course. The knowledge that a hundred or more howling barbarians were in the woods somewhere behind them could wake even the drowsiest man.
Yet, after more than half an hour of stillness, he found his vigilance waning. The only movement in the nearby bushes was Snarl—the Enfield couldn’t decide whether to keep pace with them or hunt for food, and thus made far more noise engaging in both activities at the same time.
Aravon cocked his head. “Think we lost them?”
After a moment, Colborn shrugged. “I’d wager Belthar’s dinner that we left them with nothing but
their pricks in their hands.”
“Touch my dinner and you’ll lose the arm!” Belthar’s stomach hadn’t ceased its chorus in the hours of riding. Indeed, it had grown so loud Aravon almost feared it would attract bears to mate or summon the Eirdkilrs like a bullhorn.
“Can’t say for sure, Captain,” Colborn signed. “But until we hear otherwise, I’d say our best choice is to head back northeast, see if we can’t run into Captain Lingram and the others. If nothing else, we’ll be on hand on the off-chance the Eirdkilrs catch up.”
“Fair enough.” Aravon drew out the bone whistle, but hesitated before blowing. A single sharp blast would summon Snarl, but it could also alert the Eirdkilrs to their location. After a moment, he tucked the whistle away.
“We’ve got an hour or so until full dark,” he signed. “We’ll head in the right direction and put some distance between us and the Eirdkilrs. Make sure we’re out of earshot.”
Belthar and Colborn nodded. They rode in silence for the better part of half an hour, pushing deeper into the forests on the north of Deid clan lands. The evening air grew heavy with the scent of rotting leaves, green grass, and the sweet flowers that grew on the many bushes filling the woodlands.
Finally, convinced they’d given the Eirdkilrs the slip, Aravon drew out the whistle and summoned Snarl. Long seconds passed, and no furry, winged figure appeared in the sky. Aravon’s brow furrowed. Odd. Snarl should have come by now.
He had just placed the bone whistle to his lips when a rustle from the nearby bushes stopped him. He whipped around, spear ready to strike. Tension drained from his shoulders as Snarl’s orange-furred body appeared from the shadows beneath a mulberry tree.
Sneaky little thing!
That cunning was what made Snarl such a useful messenger. Enfields had a fox’s cunning as well as an eagle’s wings. If Snarl sensed danger in the skies, he’d find cover on the ground. Those instincts made Enfields notoriously difficult to spot—likely the primary reason people believed they had gone extinct.
Somehow, the Duke had gotten his hands on the creatures—found or bred, Aravon couldn’t be certain—and converted them into the messenger service for his network of spies…and now Aravon’s company.
Snarl padded closer to Aravon, his amber eyes gleaming in the near-darkness. With a single leap and a flap of his eagle’s wings, he landed in Aravon’s lap. Aravon’s horse danced beneath him, rendered skittish by the Enfield claws scrabbling for purchase on its haunches. It took a moment for Aravon to calm the horse and it only stopped moving once the Enfield settled onto Aravon’s lap.
“Here, Snarl.” From within his pouch, Aravon drew out the strip of cloth that Duke Dyrund had given him. He held the scent-heavy fabric up to Snarl’s sensitive nostrils, then dangled the golden coin before his gleaming amber eyes. “Find him.”
Snarl gave the cloth a few sniffs, but the glow of his yellow eyes darkened. With a whining bark, he laid his head in Aravon’s lap.
The sight brought a lump to Aravon’s throat. He knows. Snarl had been there when Duke Dyrund died, and the knowledge that the Duke, a member of his pack, was gone filled the Enfield with the same sorrow Aravon felt.
“The scent will fade,” Aravon whispered into the Enfield’s ears, “but the memory will remain. For you and me both.” He held the little creature close, scratching the scruff of his neck. The warmth of the furry body comforted him as much as he hoped it consoled Snarl.
Finally, Aravon lowered his hand. “Go, Snarl.” He spoke the command word to send the Enfield flying in search of his target.
Snarl lifted his head, amber eyes locked in Aravon’s, and gave another whine. Slowly, he stood, forepaws scrabbling on Aravon’s leather breastplate and rear claws digging into the saddle horn, and licked Aravon’s neck. Again, a surge of emotions welled within Aravon’s chest—the pain of grief, the void left by the Duke’s death, and gratitude at the Enfield’s attempts to reassure him. Such a simple gesture, yet in that moment, it was all he needed.
With one last whining bark, the Enfield leapt off Aravon’s lap and darted off into the forest. Within seconds, he disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
Neither Colborn nor Belthar spoke; they, too, knew what Aravon had lost with Duke Dyrund’s death. Their silence and the compassion in their eyes spoke volumes as they commiserated with him.
The moment passed and Aravon nodded—silent gratitude to his comrades. No words were spoken; none were needed.
Without waiting for the order, Colborn spurred his horse into motion and pushed deeper into the forest, heading northeast, following the Enfield’s trail.
Snarl would lead them to the Duke’s body—his sensitive nostrils would pick up the Duke’s scent from the heavy cloak wrapped around his natron-treated corpse—and to the Legionnaires escorting it home.
Chapter Thirteen
“Who goes?”
Aravon grinned with relief at the familiar challenge. Exhausted or not, the Legionnaires that survived Saerheim hadn’t lost their discipline—Captain Lingram wouldn’t let them. The two sentries were concealed well beneath the deep shadows of a towering beech tree, and only challenged when Aravon, Colborn, and Belthar strode straight toward them. Standard Legion protocol for standing guard in hostile territory—stay out of sight, yet keep an eye on everything that passed.
“Captain Snarl and company,” Aravon responded.
A sharp gasp, and two surprised Legionnaires emerged from the darkness. Clearly the soldiers hadn’t expected to see Aravon here; after all, seven men couldn’t hope to defeat two or three hundred Eirdkilrs.
“Watcher’s beard!” Scathan popped out from behind a leafy ash tree opposite the Legionnaires’ perch. His voice and sudden appearance startled Aravon, Colborn, and Belthar. The Black Xiphos mercenary had been well-hidden enough that none of them had spotted him. “Glad to see you in one piece, Captain.”
“There are a few hundred Eirdkilrs and an Icespire nobleman who might not say the same thing,” Aravon replied with a chuckle, “but the sentiment’s appreciated.”
Scathan’s gaze slid past Aravon’s shoulder, and a frown creased his face. “Just the three of you?”
Aravon nodded. “We split up. Led the bastards on a merry chase. The others had a longer ride.” He shot a glance toward the west; Snarl would find Skathi and lead her back to him. He’d sent the Enfield after her after finding his way back to Captain Lingram’s group.
“By the Swordsman’s grace.” Scathan gestured to the darkness behind him. “Just keep on straight and you can’t miss the entrance. Not much chance of a proper meal, but there’s clean water, a bit of ayrag, and a few morsels of food—what little the Deid managed to bring with them as they fled.”
“Thank you.”
From the corners of his eyes, Aravon caught the slight stiffening of Colborn’s spine, the tension in his shoulders. Since running into the mercenary and the two Legionnaires the previous night, Colborn had been focused solely on the mission. Yet now, in a moment of calm, the truth of what had happened would doubtless weigh heavy on him. Saerheim had been the home of his Fehlan mother’s family. Even though that family had rejected him, treated him like offal to be scraped off their boots, the loss would be painful, a wound that would be long in healing.
“Colborn,” he signed as he led his horse past the sentries, “get to Captain Lingram and report. After you’re done, find me and we’ll figure out the best route to get these people to Sentry Garrison and avoid the Eirdkilrs.”
“Yes, Captain.” The darkness hid Colborn’s masked face, but Aravon could sense the turmoil brewing within the Lieutenant.
Aravon turned to the big man. “Belthar, see to the horses then get us some food. I’m sure the others will be famished by the time they return.”
Belthar nodded acknowledgement and collected Aravon and Colborn’s reins, while Colborn followed on Aravon’s heels up the way the mercenary had directed them.
Both would be better off kept busy. Belthar ha
d surprised Aravon by not volunteering to follow Skathi—perhaps he’d realized, as Aravon had, that his bulk would strain the horses, so he’d made the choice for the mission’s sake. A welcome change, one Skathi would doubtless appreciate. After all, she’d made it clear just how unwelcome his overprotectiveness was—she certainly didn’t need Belthar watching over her, that much was certain.
Yet Aravon hadn’t missed the worried glances Belthar kept shooting to the west, as if he expected to see Skathi materialize from the shadows. At the moment, food was the best distraction to take Belthar’s mind off his worries. And giving Colborn a tactical or logistical problem would keep his mind busy and away from the emotions doubtless running rampant within his thoughts.
As Scathan had said, the entrance was easy to find. The path the Legionnaires and mercenary had guarded, little more than a game trail, led up a short incline, ran between two towering boulders, and descended five feet before reaching an aperture in the rocks.
What Scathan hadn’t told them was what the entrance led to.
Through the opening, Aravon found himself inside what appeared to be a high-ceilinged dome built entirely of dirt, mud, and stone. Massive tree roots formed an arching roof, their fibrous branches the only support keeping tons of earth from collapsing inward. There were no beams, tresses, or reinforcements—the entire dome, more than a hundred feet across and an almost perfect circle, appeared carved by nature itself, untouched by human hands.
“What is this place?” Aravon asked.
“The Purssetja.” Colborn’s fingers spelled out the letters of the unfamiliar words. “An ancient meeting place of giants, some said. From long before our time.”
Aravon couldn’t help staring up at the roof—with all its exposed roots, it appeared like the back of some hideous monstrosity from the legends of Einan before the first humans. Yet, the clank of armor, a quiet cough, and the low hum of muttered conversations snapped his attention back to the people within the dome. Beneath the high ceiling, steps had been carved into the earth, like some massive amphitheater leading to a broad stage in the heart of the cavern. And it was upon the steps that the survivors of Saerheim had made their camp.
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