Aravon glanced at Belthar, found the big man looking at him with curiosity burning in his eyes.
“Two thousand Aayida horsemen faced off against seven thousand Al Hani warriors riding desert camels,” Aravon continued. “There was no doubt which side would win the battle—the Aayida were starving, dying of thirst, and backed into a corner. But when the Al Hani charged, the ground beneath them seemed to open up and swallow their forces. Thousands of warriors and camels died before they ever closed with the enemy.”
“How?” Belthar’s eyes narrowed.
“Some called it the hand of the One Above All, or the Swordsman’s mercy.” A grin twisted Aravon’s lips beneath his mask. “But do you know what it was?” He chuckled. “A massive colony of crimson-jaw ants.”
“What?” Surprise echoed Belthar’s eyes.
“That’s right.” Aravon bobbed his head. “The Aayida walked away victorious that day, a mighty rout against a far superior enemy, all because of ants.” He held up a finger. “Ants that, mind you, the people of Ruwaid had been trying for decades to eradicate from their fields.”
“Damn!” Belthar whistled.
“Damn is right.” Aravon stopped and turned to Belthar. “Point of that story, Belthar, is just because something’s considered vermin, that doesn’t mean they can’t be useful.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Never listen to that voice in your mind that reminds you of being called ‘trash’. You’ve proven time and again that you’re anything but.”
Though the steel mask hid Belthar’s face, genuine warmth sparkled in his eyes. “Thank you, Captain.” He ducked his head.
“The voice is wrong, as is everyone who said those things to you.” Aravon placed a hand on the big man’s other shoulder. “Don’t give it power over you. Shut it out, and know that you are worth a great deal. To a lot of people.”
Belthar had no response—he seemed at a loss for words, and he turned away to hide a glimmer of moisture in his eyes. Aravon fell in beside him and together they walked up the side street in silence.
Long minutes passed before Belthar spoke. “Think it ever shuts up, that voice?” His voice was hoarse, tight with emotion.
“No.” Aravon let out a long breath. “No matter who you become, or how far you run from home.” Sorrow welled within his chest. “Even now, it’s still in my head, and I fight to ignore it every day.”
“You?” Belthar seemed surprised. “But you’re the son of a hero!”
“Even heroes can be disappointed in their sons.” Aravon swallowed the lump in his throat. “But one man’s disappointment isn’t going to stop me from being who I need to be. Doing what I need to do. The voice never shuts up, but as long as we don’t give it power, don’t listen to its erosive words, we can keep marching forward, no matter what.”
Again, long seconds passed in silence. Finally, Belthar nodded. “Understood, Captain.” After a moment, he added. “Thank you.”
Aravon said nothing—nothing more needed to be said.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Aravon and Belthar strode through the back streets of Portside, cutting east along the Legion’s Path before ducking into a narrow alley that led north, in the direction of the Wrinkled Pig. At Belthar’s suggestion, they turned down a cobblestone lane lit bright by lamps shaded with red and pink fabric. Yet neither of them paid attention to the scantily-clad women hanging off the second-story railings or leaning against the doorways of the bawdy houses—they had eyes only for the road behind.
After two more sudden changes of direction—down a westward-leading alley and cutting sharply north along a muddy lane barely broad enough for Belthar’s shoulders—it was clear no one was following them. Or, at the very least, they’d lost any sign of their pursuer. Content that they were safe, they hurried straight toward the Wrinkled Pig.
Before arriving in Icespire, Belthar had suggested they choose the inn as their base of operations for a number of reasons. Chief among those reasons was the fact that the inn catered to a clientele that prized discretion above all else. The postern door was tucked deep in a darkened alley, out of sight of the main road, and led into a heavy-curtained corridor in the rear of the inn. That corridor didn’t connect to the tavern’s main entrance, but adjoined two stairways that ascended to the second and third floors on both ends of the building. And, should they need to make a hasty escape and find the stairway blocked, the window of their room opened onto the roof of an adjoining two-story building—a far shorter drop to the muddy lanes below.
All in all, the sort of place a thief, assassin, or, in Belthar’s case, a former Broker would prefer. Though their rooms were sparse, the Grim Reavers needed little more than the four cots provided. Their time in Icespire would be better spent digging for proof of Lord Virinus’ treachery and collusion with the Brokers than resting in comfort. And now, it seemed, finding answers about the mysterious assassin that had attacked them tonight.
The back door was unlocked, as usual, and the hidden corridors were dark and quiet. It took less than a minute to climb the two flights of rickety, crumbling wooden stairs to the door of their third-floor room. Aravon paused long enough to knock twice—the signal heralding their return—before pushing the door open.
Five unmasked faces turned toward him and Belthar as they entered. Skathi and Noll perched on the room’s two beds, while Colborn sat on the floor between the cots. Zaharis and Rangvaldr had also taken a seat on the wooden floor by the door—the Seiomenn to close his eyes and rest, the Secret Keeper to frown down at the chunk of ghoulstone he’d been studying since leaving Steinnbraka Delve.
“Good.” Aravon waited until Belthar had closed the door before speaking. “I need to apologize to all of you.”
“Apologize?” Surprise etched fine lines around Skathi’s emerald eyes.
“For being distracted.” Aravon drew in a deep breath. “First Duke Dyrund, and now, finding out about General Traighan…” He trailed off, a lump rising to his throat.
“We understand, Captain.” Noll gave a dismissive wave. “News like that’s enough to bring down anyone.”
“But we’re not anyone.” Aravon fixed them each with a solemn gaze. “We’re the Grim Reavers, the Prince’s hand-picked and specially-trained champions.”
“That doesn’t make us men of stone,” Rangvaldr said. No trace of condemnation or accusation shone in his eyes, only the kindness and empathy that made him such an effective Seiomenn to his people—and to their company.
“You’re right. Aravon nodded. “But it does mean we need to push past whatever’s going on around us for the sake of the people we’ve sworn to protect.” Aravon gestured toward Belthar and Zaharis. “These two are risking their lives just being here in Icespire.” He turned to Rangvaldr. “You’re a Fehlan in the largest Princelander city, just the sort of person who might end up being treated like an Eirdkilr spy. Me, I’m supposed to be dead, yet here I am, standing in the city where I was raised, among people I know. Every second we spend in Icespire, we put not only our friends in danger, but the mission. The one that brought us here in the first place: to hunt down the traitor working with the Eirdkilrs.”
“We had him,” Skathi growled. “Nice and neat, until that damned assassin showed up.”
“And had I been thinking clearly, I might not have run after him.” Aravon gritted his teeth. “I should have thought before I acted. Should have taken a breath before diving out that window and racing across the city on a stupid chase. And because of that, we lost our chance to question Lord Virinus.”
“That’s not fair to put on yourself, Captain.” Noll had drawn the surgeonsbane and now his fingers toyed with the three-bladed dagger. “We all chased him.”
“Because you’re damned fine soldiers who have learned to follow my lead.” Aravon looked at each in turn. “Which means it is on me that we didn’t get a chance to question Lord Virinus while we had him. Keeper’s teeth, we could have used the confusion of the assassination attempt to haul him ou
t of there, take him someplace away from the Azure Island to question him properly.”
None of them argued with his words; they all knew he was right. They’d lost a prime opportunity to find out the truth about Lord Virinus. Chances were, it’d be bloody difficult to get another such.
“I’m owning it, and I’m telling you now, it won’t happen again.” He straightened, his fists clenched by his side. “Yes, today hit me hard, and I’d be lying if I said it’s not going to take me a minute to deal with it. But until the mission’s done, you have my word that my sole focus will be on doing what we came here to do, and getting each of you out of Icespire safely. On the Swordsman, I swear it.”
For a long moment, none of the Grim Reavers spoke. Six silent faces stared at him, the men and woman in the room digesting his words.
Belthar broke the silence. “Good enough for me.” His huge shoulders twitched up in a shrug.
“I’d have settled for a tankard of ale by way of apology.” Zaharis grinned. “Any chance we can get one of those?”
“Hear, hear!” Skathi echoed, slamming a palm onto the straw mattress. “It’s thirsty work, loitering among the poncy pricks on Azure Island all day.” She shot a hard glare at Noll. “Not all of us are lucky enough to while away our time drinking in a cool tavern.”
“We all play to our own strengths.” Noll gave a haughty sniff and drew himself to his full, albeit limited height. “If you know anyone that can hold their liquor as capably, feel free to point them out.”
A dagger appeared in Skathi’s fingers and she leaned toward the scout. “Might be hard to drink with your liver cut out.”
Noll only snorted—her gibe lacked any real fangs—and opened his mouth to retort.
“Enough.” Aravon glanced out the window. “Dawn’s a few hours off, but until things calm down on Azure Island, there’s no way Belthar’s getting past the Icewatch holding the Eastbridge.”
“I might talk my way through the Westbridge guards.” Belthar shrugged. “If I go now, before word of what happens spreads that far.”
“Then go.” Aravon nodded. “But before you do, give Noll and Skathi that list of people to talk to.”
“About?” Noll cocked his head.
“Why anyone would want Lord Virinus’ nephew dead.” Aravon rubbed a hand across the beard now grown thick across his chin—it itched whenever he removed his mask, and after years as a clean-shaven Legionnaire, it still felt wrong. “Whether they wanted to send a message to the nobleman himself, or the nephew just pissed off the wrong person.”
Skathi’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you said we weren’t going after the assassin.”
“We’re not.” Aravon shook his head. “But I find it hard to believe that this murder is a coincidence. Everything we’ve learned thus far has pointed to Lord Virinus as being the traitor. If there’s anything connecting tonight with the mines and the Eirdkilrs, I want to know about it.”
“Fair enough.” Skathi sat back, mollified.
“There’s still the matter of coin,” Belthar rumbled. He turned up empty palms. “We spent the last of our gold stabling the Duke’s horses and equipment in Pinehollow and buying the horses we rode into Icespire.”
“Ahh, not quite.” With a grin, Zaharis turned to Rangvaldr. “Show them.”
The Seiomenn smiled and drew out a heavy purse from within his cloak. “Courtesy of Camp Marshal.”
Aravon’s eyes widened. “You bloody geniuses!”
“His idea.” Rangvaldr cocked a thumb at Zaharis. “You Princelanders value your coins far more than us simple Fehlans.” A wry smile broadened his face, and he adopted a heavy Fehlan accent. “We trade for furs and food and metal, not for big shiny metal.”
Zaharis rolled his eyes at the Seiomenn’s drollery. “You don’t need to talk to know that coins speak loudest in big cities.” He gestured to the purse. “I figured we might want something handy in case we had to pay for information.”
“Good call.” Aravon turned to Belthar. “Take from there, and give Skathi and Noll everything they need to find the information we want.”
“Aye, Captain.” Belthar saluted and, pausing only long enough to snatch the purse from Rangvaldr’s hand, strode from the room.
Skathi and Noll followed, but both took pains to give him nods and looks of reassurance. Aravon mirrored their acknowledgement—he respected them, and wouldn’t take their respect of him for granted.
Once the door closed behind the three, Aravon turned to the Secret Keeper. “Zaharis, I think it’s best you stay out of sight until we need you for something important. Now’s a good chance to study that chunk of ghoulstone, see if you can figure out why the Eirdkilrs want it so badly.”
Zaharis made the chunk of black stone dance between the long, slim fingers of his right hand. “Suits me,” he signed left-handed. “I’ve brought everything I could carry from Camp Marshal, so I’ll have plenty to keep me occupied indoors.”
“Good.” Aravon looked at the Seiomenn. “Rangvaldr, what are the chances you actually did what I told you and took it easy on the trip here from Camp Marshal?”
“Quite excellent, I’d say.” Rangvaldr spoke with a perfectly straight face, but the lines around his eyes, mouth, and cheeks had deepened.
Aravon snorted. “Sure.” The fact that they’d arrived in Icespire only a day after Aravon and the others proved they’d ridden hard to cover the three hundred miles from Camp Marshal. “Time you actually do what I say and get some rest. You nearly killed yourself using your holy stones at Steinnbraka Delve. The time comes when we need your magic, I want you at full strength. Understood?”
“I do, Captain.” Rangvaldr nodded. “But certainly you could use my help—”
“Rest, Rangvaldr.” Aravon’s voice was firm, a command that brooked no argument. “That’s an order.”
The Seiomenn sighed and threw up his hands. “Yes, Captain.”
“And keep an eye on Zaharis.” Aravon thrust his chin toward the Secret Keeper, who had set about rummaging through the wooden chest that contained all his alchemical supplies and ingredients. “Someone’s got to keep him from making the wrong things go boom at the wrong time.”
“I’ll remember that next time you’re in trouble, Captain,” Zaharis signed one-handed without looking up from sorting through the chest’s contents with the other hand. “You’ll just have to find someone else to haul your arse out of the fire.”
“A fire you probably started,” Colborn shot back.
Now Zaharis glanced up, fixing the Lieutenant with a look of withering scorn.
“In all seriousness,” Aravon said, turning back to Rangvaldr, “rest, recover from your travels, regain your strength, and be ready for when we have need of you. We will move on Lord Virinus the first chance we get, and we’ll want you on hand.”
Rangvaldr nodded. “We will be ready.” He settled back on the bed and kicked his heavy boots up onto the straw mattress. A surprised look flashed across his face, accompanied by a contented smile. “On second thought, perhaps I will heed your orders, just this once. With a bed this fine, I find myself far too comfortable to think of any reason to argue.”
Aravon chuckled. That left just Colborn. He had no assignments for the man—they couldn’t make any moves until Belthar found a way into Lord Virinus’ mansion, and Noll and Skathi found out more about the assassination attempt.
But Colborn had been sent to gather information. He wouldn’t have joined them here in the Wrinkled Pig until he’d carried out his mission.
Aravon fixed him with a stern gaze. “Tell me everything you learned about the Brokers and their activity south of the Chain.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
A grimace twisted Colborn’s heavy, blunt features. “Wish I had more to tell.” He shook his head. “The biggest piece of news I could find was that there was a big shift in the Brokers’ operations a year or so ago. Around the same time, a bunch of the higher-ups in the organization were found drifting in the Icespi
re Bay.”
Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “A coup?”
“Seems like.” Colborn shrugged. “As to who’s in charge now, no one was willing to say. Not a friendly sort, that much all the Fehlans can agree on. The sort who cuts out tongues and eyes first, asks questions later.” He grimaced and shook his head. “The Outwarders already have a tough enough life trying to dodge the Icewatch and scrape together a miserable living.”
A shadow darkened his ice-blue eyes and his gaze grew distant, as if reliving unpleasant memories. Doubtless of the hours spent slogging through the muck, filth, and poverty of the Outwards. Aravon didn’t blame the man. He felt much the same as he entered the Glimmer—how anyone could survive such a life was beyond him, yet Belthar served as living proof that there was hope.
With visible effort, Colborn re-focused his eyes on Aravon and forced the emotion from his voice. “Every one of them is doing their damnedest to avoid any attention. Especially the Brokers.”
Aravon ground his teeth. “So no one in the Outwards has any idea about any Brokers operating in Fehlan lands?”
“Whispers here and there, but not much more.” Colborn stroked his beard—once long, braided, and as platinum blond as any Fehlan, now cropped close to his cheeks and dyed a dark chestnut brown. “Rumors passed down by a cousin of a friend of an uncle, that sort of thing. Nothing concrete, and certainly nothing that could give us proof they’re operating under Lord Aleron Virinus’ orders.”
“Damn!” Aravon’s brow furrowed. According to Belthar, the underprivileged enjoyed gossip—it numbered among the few pleasures that existed in their lives. And given that the Outwarders were Fehlans—Eyrr, Smida, Jarnleikr, and Vidr, doubtless with a few Deid mingled among them—they were the ones most likely to know about Broker operations in their lands. “You think it’s a dead end?”
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