Walls slammed into place in Callista’s almond brown eyes. “That…” she hesitated. “That is a matter best discussed with my Proxenos.”
Aravon cocked his head.
“My commander,” Callista clarified.
“Ahh.” Aravon nodded. “I’d like to speak to him, then. Hear what he has to say about Shalandrans this far south of the Chain.”
To his knowledge, the Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades had only served as military counterparts to the Legion of Heroes. Yet insofar as he knew, there was no military action taking place in the middle of Deid lands. Or, if there was, Duke Dyrund hadn’t thought to fill him in as they rode south toward their meeting with the Hilmir.
Then again, the Duke had kept many secrets from him—it was his job as the Prince’s counselor and leader of his spy network. The Shalandrans were Prince Toran’s allies; they could have a legitimate reason for being out here, he just didn’t know what. Yet.
Again, the look in Callista’s eyes grew guarded. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Not possible?” Aravon leaned forward. “After we just saved you?” The Shalandrans were allied to the Princelanders, but they had their own military structure independent of the Legion of Heroes. Aravon couldn’t be certain if Prince Toran had written to them regarding the identities of his special company.
“Your intervention is greatly appreciated.” Callista inclined her head respectfully. “But the fact that you don’t know why we’re out here means that you’re not supposed to know why we’re out here.”
Aravon would almost swear the hint of crinkling around her eyes was the fault of a smile.
“We’re no strangers to secret missions,” Belthar rumbled from beside Aravon. He loomed over Callista, his huge axe—still dripping Eirdkilr blood—resting on one massive shoulder. “If the Captain asks, it’s probably best you tell him.”
Despite being a full head shorter than Belthar, Callista showed no sign of hesitance or intimidation. She remained silent for a long moment, her eyes roaming the big man, sizing him up.
“That decision is not mine to make,” the Archateros finally said. “My Proxenos’ instructions were clear.”
“And, unless we meet the man, we cannot convince him to permit you to let us meet him.” Aravon gave a wry chuckle. “Seems a fine quandary.”
“Such is the nature of secrecy.” Callista shrugged. “The best I can offer is my sincere gratitude for your arrival, and a prayer that the Faces of Justice and Mercy smile on you.”
Belthar recoiled, his eyes widening behind his mask. He made the gesture all Princelanders knew warded away the unblinking gaze of the god of death.
Aravon chuckled. “They worship the Long Keeper,” he signed in the silent hand language. “It was a kindness.”
That placated Belthar enough to nod through his surprise.
Callista’s eyes narrowed at him, but she held her peace. “By your leave, Captain Snarl, my men and I will be on our way.” She glanced over her shoulder at the black-armored soldiers. The worst of the wounded had already been loaded up onto the wagons—which, it turned out, were empty—their injuries tended to. Those few that had emerged from the battle unhurt set about hitching up the draft horses. “There is much ground to cover before nightfall, and I must see to my people’s safety.”
“Of course.” Aravon nodded. “I, too, have my own people to return to.” Captain Lingram and his convoy would be glad to hear that the Eirdkilrs here had been eliminated, the danger past. They could get underway and still reach Sentry Garrison by—
“Captain!” Colborn’s voice rang from the base of the hill. “Captain, get over here!” A dire note of urgency rang in his words.
Aravon broke into a dash, Belthar on his heels. The two of them raced past the black-armored figure and around the encircled wagons toward the western side of the hill. Colborn hadn’t climbed the hill, but remained near the shelter of the woods—doubtless to watch for more Eirdkilrs arriving from the south or east, just as Skathi watched the west. Following the Lieutenant’s pointing finger, Aravon saw a flash of movement in the trees east of the hill.
His eyes struggled to track the figure—it moved too quickly to be running, and the strange mottled-pattern of his armor blended with the dense forest. That told Aravon it was one of his, moving fast.
Too fast.
With the Eirdkilrs’ war cries fallen silent, Noll, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr would never push their horses through the forest that hard. Not only for fear of injury if the mount tripped over an exposed root or stepped into a hare nest, but also to avoid exhausting the beasts.
Worry set Aravon’s nerves twanging like bowstrings. Only something truly dire would cause them to ride like that.
The compact, lithe figure that came pounding into view could only be Noll. Even from the distance, Aravon could see the worry sparkling in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.
“Captain!” he shouted as he rode up the hill. “We’ve got a problem!”
Chapter Twenty
Aravon’s shoulders tensed as Noll charged up the hill. He rushed down the slope, meeting the scout halfway.
“Six hundred Eirdkilrs, five miles to the southwest and racing north fast!” Noll spoke before he’d reined in.
“Any idea where they’re headed?” Aravon called to memory the Duke’s crude canvas map of the Deid and Fjall lands. “Think they’re looking for Captain Lingram’s men?”
“Don’t think so.” Noll shook his head. “Been tracking them with Zaharis for about five miles now, keeping just ahead and east of their position. They made no attempt to cross the Standelfr to head west toward the wagon road, but their path leads straight north. Too damned straight to be roaming. They’ve got a target in mind—someplace that’s on no map I’ve ever seen.”
Aravon’s eyes narrowed, and he turned to shoot a glance up the hill at Archateros Callista. It can’t be a coincidence.
“Stonekeeper with you?” Aravon asked.
“No, but we left enough marks for him to track our progress following the Eirdkilrs.” Noll cocked his head. “By that look in your eyes, you’ve had the sort of thought that sends us off to do something insane.”
Aravon shrugged. “Let’s just say the Shalandrans’ presence here isn’t exactly widely known. Begs the question what could be so important it has to be kept secret.”
“And if that secret is what the Eirdkilrs are after,” Noll finished the thought.
“Precisely.” Aravon nodded. “Get back to Magicmaker and keep an eye on the enemy. I’m going to see if the threat of an imminent attack is enough to loosen the Blade’s lips.”
“Aye, Captain!” Noll gave a hasty salute and wheeled his horse around.
“Leave the signs for Ghoststriker to follow,” Aravon called after him. Colborn’s tracking skills far exceeded Noll’s ability to conceal his presence, but a few signs would make it far easier to follow the scout and Secret Keeper.
Without waiting for Noll’s answer, Aravon whirled on Belthar. “Get your horse and get ready to ride!”
“Aye, Captain!” Belthar saluted and charged down the slope to where he’d left his mount.
Aravon dashed around the hill’s circumference toward the northeastern slope, where his own horse stood grazing contentedly, cropping the grass thirty yards away from the Eirdkilr corpses. He leapt into the saddle, the threat of danger momentarily driving back the aches and pains of battle.
He paused only long enough to signal to Skathi to “mount up” before spurring his horse up the hill to where Callista and her soldiers were busy hauling Eirdkilr bodies away from the western slope, clearing a path for the now-hitched wagons to move.
Aravon drew up directly in front of the black-armored soldier. “You’ve got enemies beyond the Standelfr River, five miles southwest of our position and heading straight north. What are the odds they’re headed right toward wherever your commander’s holed up?”
Archateros Callista’s face went a shad
e paler and she sucked in a sharp breath. “Keeper’s mercy!”
“You know how fast Eirdkilrs can move when they’re on the hunt.” Aravon narrowed his eyes. “What are the chances they reach your Proxenos before you and your wagons do?”
Callista appeared thunderstruck, at a loss for words, and anxiety darkened her eyes.
“We can get there,” Aravon said, gesturing to his horse. “These can outrun any Eirdkilrs. Just tell us where we’re going, and—”
“No.” Callista shook her head.
Aravon opened his mouth to protest—secrecy be damned in the face of such a threat—but Callista continued before he could.
“I’ll take you there. It’s the only way we reach them before the Eirdkilrs.” She glanced down at Aravon’s horse. “But I’m going to need one of Duke Eastfall’s Kostarasar chargers to make it.”
Again, Aravon prepared to retort, but he couldn’t fault her logic. They’d reach their destination faster with her guiding them in person; even explicit directions could be misleading or unclear.
“So be it.” Aravon whirled toward Belthar, who was trotting up the hill, a mounted Skathi at his side. “Ursus, the Blade’s going to need your horse.”
“Captain?” Belthar’s eyes narrowed.
“We’ve got no time to wait for regular horses.” Aravon spoke in a tone that brooked no command. “And we’ll get there faster with a guide.”
After only a heartbeat’s hesitation, Belthar nodded and clambered down from his horse. Callista didn’t wait for him to lift his huge crossbow down, but leapt into the saddle without hesitation.
“Take my horse,” Callista called as she wheeled the charger around. “Tell Dictator Quillan the Archateros commands it.”
With those words, Callista dug her heels into the horse’s ribs and set off at a thundering gallop around the slowly uncircling wagons. Aravon and Skathi took off in pursuit, racing down the steep western slope of the hill a few yards behind the racing Keeper’s Blade. Colborn was already saddled and waiting for them at the edge of the forest beyond. He spurred his horse to a run and fell in just behind Callista.
The Keeper’s Blade led them west and slightly north, along the deep-rutted wagon track they’d clearly been following through the dense forest. The woods were a blur of green, brown, and silver as they raced down the track, urging their horses to greater speeds. There was no doubt in Aravon’s mind—they had to reach the Shalandrans’ camp before the Eirdkilrs.
Time sped by in a blurring thunder of galloping hooves, the pounding ache in Aravon’s face and chest, the sweat streaming down his face. Mile after mile, the urgency burning a hole in his gut. At any moment, he expected to hear the Eirdkilrs’ howls, or Snarl’s warning bark that enemies were near.
Aravon did quick calculations and cursed. Callista’s path now led due east, turning only slightly toward the south. Closer to the approaching Eirdkilrs. At their fastest, the barbarians could cover those five miles in little over half an hour. And it had been fully a quarter-hour since Noll had arrived with the news.
It seemed an eternity but couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before Aravon caught a glimpse of the Standelfr River through the trees. To his surprise, a wooden bridge had been built spanning the fast-flowing river. And no simple, makeshift footbridge, but a solid construction wide enough for a heavily-laden wagon to cross easily. Aravon risked a glance at Colborn, riding beside him, and saw the surprise in the Lieutenant’s eyes. This crossing hadn’t been marked on any of Duke Dyrund’s maps of the Deid lands; it couldn’t have been more than a few months old.
Then they were clattering across the bridge and charging through the forest west of the Standelfr. The trees were thinner here, the underbrush sparser, and Callista cut a path straight through the woods rather than follow the meandering wagon trail. In less than five minutes, they were racing out of the tree cover across a vast, open expanse of flat ground toward a sharp-peaked mountain thrusting up from the heart of Deid lands.
The mountain stood alone, a single monolith of stone amidst a sea of dense forest. It was far smaller than the towering peaks of the Sawtooth Mountains—perhaps four hundred yards tall and two or three miles in diameter at its broadest.
But Aravon spared the inselberg only a passing glance. His eyes were riveted on the wooden palisade wall built around the eastern base of the mountain. A wall that shouldn’t have existed, yet which stood a solid barrier between the cleared expanse of open ground and whatever lay behind it. Though it was only twelve feet high, it stretched more than two hundred yards from north to south, a convex shape with a single iron-banded wooden gate set in the center. Above the sharpened wooden tips of the wall, more black-armored Shalandrans stood guard.
Callista charged straight across the open land toward the gate. “Open the gate!” she shouted.
The soldiers atop the wall responded instantly. Less than ten seconds after Callista raised her voice, the huge gate rumbled open. Aravon, Colborn, and Skathi thundered through and found themselves riding up a muddy lane between row after row of wooden shelters covered with canvas roofs.
Aravon’s eyebrows rose. A mining camp?
There was no mistaking it. The shelters were built and the layout of the streets, radiating outward from the side of the mountain in concentric rings, and an abundance of picks, shovels, and carts lay piled neatly around the camp. Yet, unlike the camps at Silver Break and Gold Burrows, this had a near-military precision, an orderliness that belied the makeshift appearance of the buildings lining the mud-soaked streets.
Deep in the heart of the camp, a few hundred feet from the western side of the mountain, stood a two-story building built entirely of stone. Square and squat, it had an air of efficiency that could only come from a military architect. A building constructed for defense, privacy, and as a command post. The two black-armored guards standing at attention beside the heavy wooden door only served to cement the appearance.
Even as Callista reined up in front of the building, the door flew open and a stern-looking man in full plate armor strode out. Tall, nearly as tall as Aravon, with a commanding presence and handsome, bearded features as dark as Callista’s, he carried an enormous sword on his back and his snarling lion helm tucked under his arm. His kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Aravon and his companions behind Callista.
“Archateros, report!” His voice was hard, commanding, with a crack as sharp as any bullwhip. “Where are your wagons and who are these strangers with you?”
Callista leapt from her saddle and snapped a salute. “Forgive me, Proxenos, but the Eirdkilrs attacked us not three miles from here, at Loam Hill a few miles west of the Standelfr. I barely had time to circle the wagons before they hit us. And, were it not for the timely intervention of Captain Snarl and his associates, I might not be standing here today.”
The Proxenos’ gaze darted toward Aravon for a heartbeat, then snapped back to his Archateros. “That doesn’t explain why he’s standing here.” He spoke with the same rhythmic accent as Callista.
“We came to warn you that you’re about to have company.” Aravon spoke before Callista could. He, too, dropped from his horse and came to stand in front of the commander. Up close, he realized they were of a same height, but the man emanated the same air of authority that Duke Dyrund had. Perhaps not as quiet—his voice and demeanor was far more martial than the Duke’s—but no less dominant. “Six hundred Eirdkilrs, less than ten minutes out.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and the suspicion twisting his face pulled his long, braided beard tight. “Why would so many be this far north? At last report, the Eirdkilrs were busy dealing with Eirik Throrsson and his Fjall.”
“A battle which the Hilmir won,” Aravon responded, “but more than two thousand Eirdkilrs fled before the combined Fjall, Deid, and Legion forces could finish them off.”
“Fled?” The word came out in a half-snort laced with disdain. “The Eirdkilrs don’t flee from battle.”
“These d
id.” Aravon met his gaze without hesitation. “After we shattered their will and slew the Blood Queen.”
Again, the Proxenos’ eyes narrowed. “We?”
Aravon nodded. “My men and I fought beside the Hilmir at Hangman’s Hill three days ago.”
“Three days?” One black eyebrow rose, and he glanced at Aravon’s horse. “Given the beast you ride, perhaps not as surprising, yet that is a punishing pace for any soldier, no matter how fleet-footed their mount.”
“We had urgent business,” Aravon replied simply. “One that necessitated haste.” He cocked his head. “But is questioning us really the best use of your time? You’ve got a horde of Eirdkilrs on their way here at this very moment.”
“Intelligence is only as trustworthy as the one who delivers it.” The Proxenos’ face hardened. “While I’d never doubt Callista, your word means little to me.”
Aravon threw up his hands. “So be it.” He drew out the Prince’s silver insignia and held it up to the Proxenos’ face. “I am Captain Snarl, commander of Prince Toran’s special company. The Grim Reavers, they call us.” He’d heard the name from the soldiers at Rivergate and again from Onyx Battalion at Hangman’s Hill—doubtless it had passed through the myriad of Legion companies and beyond.
“Grim Reavers, eh?” The Proxenos stared at the pendant, which dangled in front of him, the silver glinting bright in the sunlight. After a long moment, he nodded, the hardness of his face relaxing. “I’ve heard of you. Stories and rumors, mostly. But enough to recognize the man in the snarling wolf mask and strange leather armor.” He glanced past Aravon at Colborn and Skathi. “And his companions.”
“Enough to quit wasting our time by questioning our word?” Aravon demanded. His patience was wearing thin—every second’s delay meant a greater risk to the soldiers here.
With a nod, the Proxenos turned to the two soldiers behind him. “Killian, Elmessam, sound the alarm.”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 16