“Yet for years,” Rangvaldr continued, “he felt trapped. Torn between his holy calling and the burden of a warrior’s existence. Divided in two halves, neither of which could find peace with the other.” The Seiomenn turned toward him, his eyes locking with Aravon’s. “A life of misery and inner turmoil from which there appeared no escape.”
“So what did he do?” Aravon asked in a quiet voice. “When it looked like there was no way out?”
“He kept searching. Kept looking for the path to freedom.” Rangvaldr stroked his white beard with a strong hand. “Kept clinging to hope until a way out presented itself.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. “Really?” He snorted. “Your sage advice is to ‘wait and shite will sort itself out’? Not quite as profound as we’ve come to expect from you.”
“Maybe not.” Rangvaldr laughed softly, shrugging his broad shoulders. “Too many weeks without ayrag has likely impaired my Seiomenn wisdom.” The humor in his eyes faded, replaced by an earnest solemnity. “But sometimes it’s the simplest answer that offers the clearest path to hope. And when there’s nothing else, that hope is all we have to cling to.”
“Hope.” The word left a bitter taste in Aravon’s mouth. “And what hope is there for me? The Secret Keepers know my face now. So does Gengibar Twist, and the Steel Company. Do you really think shaving my beard and cutting my hair is going to keep the Mistress’ priests from realizing who I really am? That’s if I ever come back from the dead and get out of this Keeper-damned mask.”
The world seemed to close in around him. The trees pressed close, their leafy branches like grasping arms clutching for his throat. The leather mask felt like solid iron encasing his mind and heart—a wall around him, one that he could not escape.
“I don’t know.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “Right now, you’re where that handsome, heroic Eyrr warrior was when he realized the truth of what he wanted, what he was willing to do. It took years for him to find his true calling in life. To accept that he was meant to be a Seiomenn, to strive for peace, even if that meant sometimes taking up sword and shield. It may take time, but I know you’ll find the way to escape, just like I did.”
“Time’s not really on our side these days.” Aravon grimaced. “We’ve got enemies all around us.”
“The greater the battle, the greater the victory.” Rangvaldr rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder, a reassuring gesture at once brotherly and paternal. “In the end, consider a variation on what a wool-headed young man I once knew said: ‘wait, and shite will sort itself out’.”
Aravon groaned. “Get yourself a drink, old man. Your wise Seiomenn lectures are sorely in need of work.”
Rangvaldr laughed, but as the Seiomenn moved away to rejoin the others, Aravon found the weight on his shoulders a fraction lighter. As he’d said, he still saw no way out of this life—the mission he’d agreed to take on, and the future to which he was now condemned—yet a part of him clung to Rangvaldr’s words. A truly grim battle awaited him. He could only hope the victory would be equally great once he figured his way through to the other side.
A hiss from his left snapped Aravon to attention. He dropped to a crouch, spear at the ready, but stopped when he recognized the leather-armored figure slipping through the forest. Colborn’s armor hadn’t yet been re-dyed with Zaharis’ alchemical treatment, so it was solid brown instead of mottled green, brown, and black, and thus visible between the trees. Barely. Few men could match the half-Fehlan’s stealth, whether he wore chain mail, plate mail, or a jester’s motley. With the deepening afternoon shadows for cover, he was all but invisible from five paces away.
“Good news, Captain.” Colborn’s ice-blue eyes sparkled behind his mask as he emerged from the forest in front of Aravon. “I’ve found us a way in.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
“What sort of cretin sets a giant archway into a bloody stone wall?” Noll signed as he slipped through the high stone entrance that opened onto the mansion’s northern side. “It’s like he doesn’t understand what walls are really for!”
“You’re really going to complain?” Colborn shot back in the silent Secret Keeper hand language. “You could always try going in from the east.”
Noll shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m good.” He rolled his eyes behind his mask. “Just marveling at the supreme insanity of the man who does something like this.”
Aravon had to agree with Noll. Walls were built for very specific purposes. Seawalls protected the land from tidal waves and the ocean’s tides. City walls kept enemies from getting in, while prison walls kept the incarcerated from getting out. Compromising a wall’s solidity with something as idiotic as a grand archway made the barrier around Lord Virinus’ mansion about as useful as a codpiece on a bull.
What should have been a difficult entry into Lord Virinus’ stronghold had taken them less than half an hour. Twenty-nine of those minutes had been spent sneaking through the forest south and west of the estate and getting into position. Lord Virinus’ broad gardens sprawled out of the northern side of the mansion and descended down the hill in a series of massive stair-like levels lush with flowers, shrubs, and trees. All of which offered ample cover for the Grim Reavers to slip through the broad garden archway and into the estate. Now, with the shadows of night to conceal them, they had easy access to the doors that led from the mansion into the gardens. Doors which, they discovered, stood unlocked.
“Noll, Skathi, you’re on point,” Aravon signed. “Anyone gets in our way, take them down.”
“And the servants?” Skathi asked.
“Non-lethal, if possible.” He left the “if not” unspoken. He’d rather avoid unnecessary deaths—and the white-haired servants caring for the mansion and its owner certainly weren’t hostiles—but his first priority was getting his hands on Lord Virinus. Alive, in a condition to answer questions. Everything else came second.
A part of his mind recoiled from the ruthlessness of his actions. Once, he never would have countenanced such needless bloodshed. In Ironcastle, he’d instructed Zaharis to use alchemical gas to render Duke Leddan’s guards unconscious rather than killing them. But now, a cold, hard part of him almost welcomed the prospect of violence. A chance to vent his frustration, hatred, and anger on the traitor that had killed Duke Dyrund and condemned so many others to death with his duplicity. Casualties were unwanted, but acceptable.
With a nod, Noll and Skathi took lead. They moved in absolute silence, their boots making barely a rustle on the soft grass of the garden. Both held their short horsebows at the ready, arrows nocked. They could draw, aim, and loose faster than a surprised servant or unwary guard could raise an alarm.
They slipped through the deep shadows of the gardens and into the door, which Colborn held open for them. Aravon, Colborn, and Rangvaldr moved a few steps behind Skathi and Noll, with Belthar and Zaharis bringing up the rear.
The gardens let into a vast sitting room, complete with glass picture windows on the north and eastern walls, plush armchairs, and wooden shelves stocked with every manner of liquor from both sides of the Frozen Sea. Pale moonlight shone through the domed glass ceiling, offering ample illumination for the seven of them to navigate the spacious room without a sound.
A single door on the sitting room’s southern wall opened into the mansion itself. This door was solid, built of heavy oak, yet it, too, stood unlocked. Aravon shook his head at Lord Virinus’ carelessness—or the incompetence of his guards.
Through the door, a short hall connected the sitting room to the main hall. There, at least, lamps shone beside the marble staircase that ascended to the second floor. Noll’s fist flashed up, and the Grim Reavers halted.
“Two guards,” Noll signed. “Staircase.”
Skathi nodded and drew out one of the blunted shafts she’d prepared specifically for this infiltration. It had been the work of a few minutes to remove the iron tip from the Deid hunting arrow, replacing it with a chunk of wood wrapped in cloth and secured
by twine to the shaft. The “thumper”, as she called the arrow, would render their targets unconscious without killing them.
With cautious movements, Noll, too, drew out a thumper. Skathi mouthed the countdown from three. At “one”, they bent their short horsebows, aimed, and loosed so quickly the guards had no time to register the creak of wood or the twang of releasing bowstrings. Twin thumps echoed in the marble-tiled hall, followed by the clatter of heavy bodies hitting the stairs.
“Go!” Aravon hissed.
Noll and Skathi raced toward the staircase but didn’t ascend, instead darting down the hall that led into the kitchen and servants’ quarters. Aravon, Colborn, and Rangvaldr moved to stand over the two downed guards. The unconscious men didn’t so much as stir as sword and spear points were pressed to their throats.
At Aravon’s signal, Colborn raced down the hall toward Noll and tapped him on the shoulder. Immediately, the scout broke away from Skathi’s side, darted back into the main hall, and leapt up five stairs. There, he knelt, bow drawn and blunt-tipped thumper pointed at the torchlit second floor. If any guards appeared while Zaharis, Belthar, and Rangvaldr tucked the unconscious men out of sight in the sitting room, Noll would be ready.
The Grim Reavers moved so smoothly and quickly it was less than thirty seconds later that they ascended the stairs. The servants and guards in the kitchen—three remaining of the five Lord Virinus had brought with them, according to Lord Eidan’s information—were none the wiser of the threat slithering up the stairs toward their master.
The grand staircase opened onto four hallways, one for each arm of the compass. Noll and Skathi led the way down the northern corridor. The floor plan indicated the door to Lord Virinus’ office was on the northeastern corner of the villa. Aravon had spotted the gleam of lamplight through the glass window—doubtless the terrified nobleman would be cowering within convenient distance of his safe room and escape tunnel.
Yet he took no chances. The northwestern corner served as the nobleman’s bedroom, with another sitting room overlooking the gardens to the north.
“Noll, Belthar, sitting room,” he signed. “Zaharis, Skathi, bedroom. Rangvaldr, hold the hall. Colborn, with me. On my count, move in.”
The Grim Reavers moved with the stealth and precise cohesion Aravon had come to expect from them, stalking down the hall in silence and taking up positions before the doors into the three rooms.
Aravon raised his fingers for the count. “Three, two, one. BREACH!”
The wooden door to Lord Virinus’ office splintered beneath his boot. Behind him, two more thumps sounded in near-perfect unison. In an instant, he darted through the doorway and raced into the office, straight toward where he guessed the entrance to Lord Virinus’ safe room would be. No chance he’d let the nobleman make a break for it.
Lord Virinus was so stunned he didn’t so much as move from his plush armchair, didn’t cry out, didn’t even so much as draw in a breath of surprised horror. He simply sat, eyes wide, his face deathly pale in the light of the flickering candle sitting on the desk.
“Good evening, Lord Virinus,” Aravon growled in his deep, gravelly Captain Snarl voice. He was about to continue, when something stopped him. Lord Virinus hadn’t made a move to reach for a weapon, flinched, or called for his guards. He’d simply sat…still.
Then he realized the truth. The pallor of the nobleman’s cheeks and the horrified widening of his eyes weren’t shocked surprise. Lord Virinus was dead.
Keeper’s teeth! Aravon crossed the distance to the seated nobleman in two strides, tore the glove from his right hand, and pressed two fingers to Lord Virinus’ neck. No pulse. His body hadn’t yet cooled fully or gone stiff. He’d been dead for hours at most.
But how? Aravon gave the body a quick examination. He saw no wound, no blood, no signs of strangulation around the nobleman’s throat.
He rounded on Colborn. “Get Zaharis!” he signed.
The Lieutenant darted out of the room and down the hall. He was back seconds later, the Secret Keeper in tow.
Zaharis’ eyes went wide at the sight of Lord Virinus. “What happened?”
“Dead when we got here,” Aravon replied in the silent hand language. “Can you figure out what?”
Zaharis slipped in on the opposite side of the desk and crouched in front of Lord Virinus. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the old nobleman’s wrinkled, age-lined face, pulled back the man’s thin lips to study his teeth, and prodded the drooping flesh of his throat and sagging stomach.
He turned to Aravon, and his eyes had gone grim, shaded in the flickering light of Lord Virinus’ desktop lamp. “Poison.”
Aravon sucked in a breath. “What?”
Nodding, Zaharis pointed to Lord Virinus’ eyes. “The whites have gone red. Petechial hemorrhage, blood vessels bursting as he suffocated.” With one hand, he lifted the nobleman’s lips. “Look.”
Aravon’s stomach twisted. Bloody hell! Lord Virinus’ gums had turned a foul shade of purple so dark it appeared near-black in the candlelight.
“Bitterbite Thorn,” Zaharis said. “Slow-acting, wicked stuff. And he’d have to have ingested it at least twelve hours ago.”
Twelve hours ago. A maelstrom seethed within Aravon’s mind. Before he fled Icespire. Which means whoever poisoned him did so back in the city.
The question was: who? He could rule out the Hunter of Voramis—the assassin he’d faced would have simply put a crossbow bolt or dagger in Lord Virinus’ chest and be done with it. So who else could want the nobleman dead?
Before he could ponder the matter further, Skathi dashed into the room. “Captain, we’ve got company!”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Aravon raced out of Lord Virinus’ office, across the narrow hall, and into his bedroom. The chamber held a massive four-poster bed, heavy oak dresser and chair, a polished silver mirror worth a small fortune, and soft, plush Al Hani rugs. Yet Aravon had eyes only for the picture window that stretched the entire length of the northern wall.
Keeper’s teeth!
Below, the light of torches and lanterns illuminated a cluster of dark-armored figures hurrying through the gardens toward the mansion. All wore leather armor or splinted mail, but they were too far for Aravon to see any hint of insignia or branding mark. Yet there was no mistaking the threat their presence portended—had they, too, come for Lord Aleron Virinus? Or had he and his Grim Reavers been spotted entering the estate?
Time slowed to a crawl as adrenaline coursed through Aravon’s veins. Half of the mercenaries raised crossbows, taking aim at the bedroom, office, and sitting room. Aravon had only a split second to hurl himself backward before metal-tipped bolts sped up toward him. Glass shattered and the bolts whistled around him. The mercenaries fired blind, but one unlucky bolt pinged off his helmet and spun into the wall. The impact sent him staggering backward.
For a moment, the world spun dizzily around him, his vision blurring but one thought crystal clear in his mind: these mercenaries knew they were up here, and they’d be sent to eliminate them.
But how did they know? The question flashed through Aravon’s mind. They hadn’t been followed—no horse could match the speed of their specially-bred Kostarasar chargers, and Colborn had made sure to obscure all signs of their passage through the forest. These mercenaries could only have been lying in wait, ready for them to make a move.
Had Lord Virinus, expecting the worst, hired mercenaries to guard his home and kept them hidden until springing the ambush? His untimely demise would have gone unnoticed by anyone below, and the mercenaries would have been ready.
And now we’re trapped!
A shout echoed from below. “Light ‘em up, lads!”
Confusion gripped Aravon’s whirling mind. It should be impossible, but he recognized that voice!
Two dark shapes sprinted past him, and two loud twangs echoed at his side. Twin cries of pain came from the mercenaries in the garden.
The world ceased its dizzying spinni
ng and Aravon pushed off the wall. Even as he reached the windows, the mercenaries unshuttered their oil lanterns and prepared to throw.
Two more fell to Skathi and Noll’s arrows, but the rest loosed their burning lanterns. Glass shattered against the walls of the villa, splashing oil that caught alight in a heartbeat.
Aravon recovered enough to find his voice. “Scathan!” he roared. “Scathan, call off this attack!”
He ducked as a mercenary raised a crossbow bolt and loosed. The missile whistled past his head, and one of the mercenaries cried out as Skathi answered with her own arrow. Yet a moment later, Scathan’s shout echoed from below. “Hold, Keeper take it!”
When Aravon stood, he found himself looking down at the grizzled face of Scathan.
“Captain Snarl?” The light of an oil lantern shone on the Black Xiphos mercenary’s puzzled expression. “What in the Keeper’s name—?”
“I’d ask you the same damned thing!” Aravon shouted. He had the man off-balance, and if Scathan had come to kill him, he’d damned well find out why and who sent him. “What in the fiery hell are you doing here?”
“Hunting the bastards that betrayed Duke Dyrund,” Scathan snarled.
“What do you mean?” Aravon fixed him with a glare. “How does hunting the Duke’s killers put you on our trail?”
“I’ve got no bleeding clue!” Anger blazed in Scathan’s dark eyes. “All I know is we were hired to come here and take down the men responsible for poisoning the Duke. The men Otton was really working with while he pretended to be one of ours.”
“Wait, what?” Noll’s voice echoed from beside Aravon. “What in Derelana’s icy tits is he talking about?”
“Hired, by who?” Aravon demanded.
“Lord Eidan, of course.” Scathan’s brow creased, the lines around his eyes deepening. He gestured to the Black Xiphos mercenaries flooding the garden around him. “He was the one who sent us here. Told us to get here early, post up to keep an eye out for assassins coming to murder Lord Virinus.” A strange look entered his eyes. “But he never said it would be you.”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 61