Lord Eidan! The name sent ice coursing through Aravon’s veins. Why would he—
The chill turned to a full-on shock that rocked Aravon to the core. No! Realization struck him like a blow to the gut.
“You’re sure?” he demanded. “Lord Eidan sent you?”
“Came for us himself.” Scathan’s head bobbed. He turned to the two men beside him—Aravon recognized Barcus and Urniss. “Said the bastards coming for Lord Virinus were the ones as killed the Duke. Gave us specific orders to burn the mansion down and roast the traitors alive—send them to the fiery hell as they deserve!”
Vomit rose to Aravon’s throat, and his stomach heaved as the truth sank into his mind. Lord Eidan sent them…to kill us.
Pieces clicked into place. Lord Eidan. The man who had sent them here, to this isolated mansion, in pursuit of Lord Virinus. The only man who had known that they were coming. There was no other explanation.
“I don’t understand, Captain Snarl.” Confusion echoed in Scathan’s voice. “I thought you lot were working for Lord Eidan.”
“So did I.” The thickness to Aravon’s voice had nothing to do with the smoke rising from the still-burning oil splashed across the mansion’s northern wall. “But the truth is that Lord Eidan is the traitor we’ve been hunting all this time.”
Scathan’s eyes widened, and Noll’s gasp echoed from his position at Aravon’s side. When Aravon glanced back, he found Rangvaldr, Belthar, and Zaharis had joined Noll and Skathi in the bedroom. They, too, appeared stunned by the realization.
“What?” Scathan’s explosive question snapped Aravon’s head around. “Lord Eidan—”
“Is the traitor,” Aravon repeated. He might not have all the proof, yet there was no doubt in his mind. “He is the one who betrayed Duke Dyrund.” The words sent a wave of nausea through him—how could I have been so blind?
The mercenaries in the gardens seemed as stunned by the revelation as Aravon’s companions.
Aravon turned to his Grim Reavers and spoke in a low voice. “Lord Eidan sold the secrets of Silver Break, Gold Burrows, and Steinnbraka Delve to the Eirdkilrs. And who just tried to have us killed because we were too close to finding out the truth.”
His mind worked at the problem. He cursed himself for not seeing it sooner—it had been in front of his eyes the whole time, he’d just been too focused on the individual problems to see the big picture.
How many people outside the Prince’s Council might have known about Silver Break Mine? Enough to believe the truth could get back to Lord Aleron Virinus, surely. Yet, if the Prince had told Duke Dyrund, what were the odds that the Duke’s aide also knew the truth?
Then there was the matter of the Duke’s agent in Rivergate. Lord Eidan would have known of Turath’s existence, and could have sent his own agent to murder him during the siege.
Gold Burrows Mine. Another secret Lord Eidan could have sold to the Eirdkilrs. Otton, the mercenary the Duke had hired…on Lord Eidan’s recommendation. The costly poison that could only have been purchased in Icespire. Lord Virinus certainly had the means, but what motive? Aravon couldn’t ascribe any motive to Lord Eidan, either, yet the evidence weighed more heavily in favor of his guilt than Lord Virinus’.
Lord Virinus’ death tipped the scales even farther. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the old nobleman had died before Aravon and his companions showed up, nor that the mercenaries had been sent with orders to burn down the mansion with them in it. With their deaths, his treachery would go undiscovered. And the murder of Lord Virinus as well. A murder he would have been in a perfect position to perpetrate—either in person, or through an intermediary.
“Aravon.” Colborn’s voice cut into his thoughts. The Lieutenant stood framed in the doorway, a parchment in his hand. “You need to see this.”
Aravon snatched the paper and read the words written in Lord Aleron Virinus’ crabbed, slanting handwriting. The message sent a chill down Aravon’s spine.
“Lord Eidan, three weeks have passed since last we had word from Morshan, and he is past due to deliver the latest shipment to your associates among the Brokers. Unless, given recent events, you’ve determined to cut me out of our arrangement with the Shalandrans. I cannot overstate the folly of such action. I will not waste words on idle threats—you know what awaits you should I discover you maneuvering behind my back. And this, so close to our triumph. Your man might have failed in his mission to bring back the Duke’s signet ring, but the poison served precisely as…”
The rest of the words faded into scribbles, jagged and harsh, as if Lord Virinus’ hand could not hold the pen steady to write. He’d succumbed to the poison mid-missive.
Yet the unfinished letter left no doubt in Aravon’s mind. He had the proof of Lord Eidan’s guilt.
Everything was just too perfect. Lord Virinus had been working with the Brokers, had been stealing from Prince Toran. Yet he hadn’t been the only one involved. Lord Eidan had played a role in the treachery, and poisoned Duke Dyrund.
Yet there were still so many things missing. The “why” of it all, to start. Aravon couldn’t understand why a man in Lord Eidan’s position—aide to one of the most powerful men on Fehl, the Prince’s trusted spymaster—would betray the Princelands. Would betray the Duke. No, not only betray him, but order his death.
More puzzling still, why he would align himself with the Eirdkilrs. What reason could Lord Eidan possibly have for wanting to aid the bloodthirsty barbarians? A share of the mined gold and silver, perhaps.
General Traighan had always loved to say, "Do you know how you buy a man's soul? One gold piece at a time."
Even if the nobleman had sold himself out for gold, how could he ensure the Eirdkilrs kept up their end of the bargain and deliver his portion?
It just doesn’t make sense! He didn’t know Lord Virinus well enough to pretend to understand his motives. Yet he couldn’t imagine any Princelander would work with the Eirdkilrs. Especially not to steal gold from the Prince—the very gold used to hire the Legionnaires that protected the Princelands from Eirdkilr savagery.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Noll’s hiss from beside the window snapped Aravon’s head up. The scout had gone pale white in the moonlight, and his finger stretched into the darkness to the north. “Look, Captain.”
Torches, hundreds of them, illuminated the night on the hill north of Lord Virinus’ estate. Dark figures surged up the incline, towering hulks clad in filthy white furs, steel skullcaps, and chain mail.
Ice froze in Aravon’s veins. Eirdkilrs! He’d been so focused on Lord Virinus’ mansion and the threat of the mercenaries’ attack that he hadn’t seen it before. Now, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Anchored off the northern shore at the base of the hill sat ten low, sleek ships. Eighty feet long, with curved hulls and snarling bears’ heads carved into the prows, the single-masted vessels had the dreaded square sails and row after row of oars bristling along its sides. A Jokull valdrskipa, the Fehlan-made longships not seen this far north in nearly a hundred years.
Aravon’s eyes snapped to the hulking figures laboring up the hill. It seemed impossible, yet there was no doubt about it. Eirdkilrs had come here, to Lastcliff, less than fifty miles from Icespire.
How in the bloody hell is that possible?
There were no Jokull among the Eirdkilrs—the Jokull warband had fallen at Rivergate. Yet the Eirdkilrs shouldn’t have been able to sail this far north. Duke Olivarr of Westhaven had a vast fleet patrolling the western coastline year around. The Eirdkilrs would have had to travel hundreds of miles out to sea to evade the Westhaven warships, a journey that would have taken weeks. Four, at least. If the weather was bad, perhaps five or six.
Five or six weeks! A shiver ran down his spine. Before the attack on Rivergate.
Gears clicked into place in his mind. Rivergate hadn’t just been a random attack. Not even an attempt to invade the Princelanders across the Rivergate Bridge. Or at least, not only that. It had been a distractio
n to keep the Westhaveners focused on the besieged stronghold while another force of Eirdkilrs used the Jokull boats to sail north.
Then came the screams. Hundreds of them, the cries of terrified men and women, shrill with agony and panic. Aravon’s head swiveled to the east, toward the mines carved into the cliff below. Scores of Eirdkilrs wielding clubs, axes, spears, and torches surged along the paths wending up the sheer rock face. Their howling, shrieking war cries echoed loud in the night as they rampaged among the miners. Men and women died beneath their massive weapons. The few mine guards and overseers that fought back fell where they stood, crushed by the towering Eirdkilrs.
Yet the Eirdkilrs didn’t only kill. Those they left alive were bound with heavy ropes and left under a small guard force. More still were being herded up the incline toward the top of the bluff, doubtless to be dragged down the hill toward the beached longships.
Another gear clicked into position: the attack here. The Eirdkilrs had come for miners. Lord Virinus’ miners, men and women that had spent their lives working the vast gold mine here. Aravon still had no idea why the Eirdkilrs wanted the miners, but now they had them. And the barbarians surging up the hill would burn Lord Virinus’ villa to the ground—and them with it.
No wonder Lord Eidan insisted we had to come tonight! Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. He knew this attack was coming.
And yet, something else was missing. Something that didn’t feel quite right. The Jokull were rumored to have more than a hundred warships, but only ten lay at anchor below. The Eirdkilrs weren’t stupid enough to announce their presence on the Princelands just for the sake of a few hundred prisoners. They’d only raid here if—
“Their main attack is somewhere else!” The words burst from his lips, loud enough for his companions and the mercenaries below to hear.
Scathan and the Black Xiphos mercenaries had heard the screams, but they had no idea of the danger surging up the hill behind them. They realized soon enough, as Eirdkilr arrows whistled through the trees and bushes, falling around them in a black-shafted hail of clattering death.
“Take cover!” Scathan roared. “Get inside the mansion!”
Aravon barely heard the order, barely saw the towering figures stampeding through Lord Virinus’ fancy garden. He was trying to figure out where the Eirdkilrs would be launching their main attack.
Only one target made sense: Icespire.
The attack on Bjornstadt was all the proof he needed. There, the Eirdkilrs had gone straight for Chief Ailmaer. At the Waeggbjod, the Blodsvarri had intended to capture and eliminate Eirik Throrsson, remove the Hilmir as a threat. And if they wanted to throw the Princelands into chaos, deal a mortal blow to their true enemy, they simply had to cut out its heart.
They were going for the capital. Icespire had no navy—none was ever needed, with the Westhaveners patrolling the western coastline and keeping the Jokull reavers contained. That left the richest city on Fehl, the seat of power in the Princelands, a near-undefended target.
Horror thrummed through Aravon as the full realization struck him. All of the attacks—on the Eastmarch garrisons, on the Bulwark and Dagger Garrison to the west, on Rivergate, on the Deid, the Fjall, and the Eyrr—had all been intended to stretch the Princelander military to the breaking point. The last proper military force near Icespire, Onyx Battalion, had marched south to aid in the defense of the garrisons and to join battle with the Fjall.
The memory of the empty, darkened Legion encampment outside the Soldier’s Gate in Icespire flashed through Aravon’s mind. There had been no one. No Legion Companies convalescing, no Battalions awaiting reinforcement from the mainland. The Legion had marched south. Had been drawn south, away from Icespire, leaving the capital undefended. Only the Icewatch, a guard force of fewer than a thousand, remained to hold Icespire. Men who had never faced the Eirdkilrs in battle, now threatened by enemies from their worst nightmares.
And Lord Eidan had made it all happen. The Duke’s aide had doubtless offered his advice, encouraged the Duke’s actions as he strengthened their southern garrisons and strongholds, marched the Legion away from Icespire. Lord Eidan had been the one to ensure that when the Eirdkilrs attacked their true target, the city would be at their mercy.
Acid surged in Aravon’s throat. Disgust roiled within him, so violently it threatened to empty his stomach. For a heartbeat, he felt paralyzed by the full scope of Lord Eidan’s treachery. The meticulous, step-by-step planning that had led to this very moment.
How could I have been so blind? The truth had been staring him in the face from the beginning. Lord Eidan, the only man close to both Prince Toran and Duke Dyrund, a man trusted by both, had been the traitor. And neither of them had seen it.
Nor had Aravon himself. Not even as he stared the man in the face. Mere hours ago, Lord Eidan had appeared to grieve over the loss of Duke Dyrund, had shown outrage at the discovery of Lord Aleron Virinus’ treachery. It had been an act, a façade so flawless it had deceived Aravon. Deceived even Duke Dyrund and Prince Toran, two of the most perceptive men Aravon had ever known.
A memory rang in his mind. “There is no shame in being too honest to see the duplicity in your fellow man.” He’d spoken those words to Scathan, a reassurance after the mercenary had learned that his companion, Otton, had been the traitor responsible for poisoning Duke Dyrund. Yet at that moment, they echoed hollow in his thoughts, a cruel mockery. He felt that shame, that burning, biting, acidic sting of humiliation that he’d missed the duplicity in Lord Eidan. Or, at the very least, for not even considering it. Duke Dyrund had trusted him, so he had instinctively trusted the man as well. That made him feel a trusting fool.
“Captain!” Colborn’s voice shattered his thoughts. “We need to get the bloody hell out of here!”
The urgency of the Lieutenant’s words snapped Aravon back to the moment. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t yet reached the outer wall of Lord Virinus’ estate, yet they’d be through that ridiculous archway and into the property in less than a minute. Those that didn’t burst through the pathetic defenses of the glass-walled sitting room would doubtless spread out around the mansion to find other entrances.
The Eirdkilrs surging toward the mansion numbered fewer than sixty or seventy, but more than a hundred rampaged through the mines and Lastcliff below. Hundreds of Eirdkilrs against the seven of them. In the time it would take them to reach and open the southern gate, the Eirdkilrs would have flooded the estate. Even with Scathan’s mercenary force—barely more than twenty-strong, now—they had no hope of fighting their way through.
They were trapped inside Lord Virinus’ mansion. Caught in the snare Lord Eidan had so neatly laid out for them. And, like a fool, Aravon had walked his men right into it.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
My family!
The thought drove a dagger of ice into Aravon’s gut.
The Eirdkilrs were heading for Icespire. Even now, Mylena and his sons were in danger. Worse, Aravon had placed the safety of his family into the nobleman’s hands. He’d been so completely fooled by the nobleman’s façade that he’d left the city trusting Lord Eidan to look out for them.
That realization drove any shred of hesitation and indecision from Aravon’s mind. He had to find a way out—if he didn’t, his family would die, along with the rest of his city. There was no question of if.
His thoughts whirled, and an idea sprang to his mind. “Zaharis, Rangvaldr, get looking for Lord Virinus’ secret escape!”
The floor plan for Lord Virinus’ mansion had put the safe room in the nobleman’s office, and with it, a tunnel that led outside the estate. A way of escape for him, his men, and the mercenaries, one that didn’t demand they fight their way through thrice their number of Eirdkilrs.
“Hurry!” Already, the Eirdkilrs had reached the broad archway and now flooded through the lush gardens toward the mansion. “The rest of you, we’re holding the bastards off until we find the way out! Noll, Skathi, arrows. Colborn, Belthar, with me downs
tairs.”
Without waiting for acknowledgement—he needed none, for his Grim Reavers knew their tasks—he whirled and sprinted out of the bedroom, up the hall, and down the grand staircase to the main floor below. Scathan and his twenty-odd Black Xiphos mercenaries had already flooded the mansion. The sounds of crashing furniture, shattering glass, thudding metal locks, and the squawking protests of Lord Virinus’ guards and servants echoed through the mansion.
“Scathan, report!” Aravon barked, his voice commanding.
“Sir!” The grizzled mercenary responded without hesitation. “Three doors into the mansion, and I’ve stationed six of my men at the kitchen entrance, with nine more at both the front and garden door.”
“Good.” Aravon nodded. The narrower doorway into the kitchens would stymie the Eirdkilrs, force them to come at any defenders one or two at a time. The front double doors would hold out, but only for so long if the Eirdkilrs were determined to get in. But the real weakness was the doorway to the gardens. “Ghoststriker, to the kitchens. Scathan, take the front. Ursus, we’re holding the garden way in.”
“All due respect, Captain Snarl,” Scathan began, “but holding here—”
“Is buying us time!” Aravon didn’t glance back, but shouted over the tumult echoing the mansion. “I’ve got my people working on a way out, but we need to give them a few minutes to pull it off!”
“Understood!” Scathan shouted. “We follow your orders, sir. For the Duke.”
“For the Duke!” Aravon called out as he raced down the hall toward the garden door, Belthar at his heels. Even as he reached the armored Black Xiphos mercenaries clustered in the corridor, the locked and barred door shuddered beneath the thump of a heavy Eirdkilr body.
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