To his surprise, Scathan spoke up. “We’ll see to them.”
Aravon’s eyes snapped toward the mercenary. The mercenary’s grizzled face was grimmer and greyer than usual. Blood flecked his stubbled face and oozed from a cut on his left cheek. Yet he stood straight and spoke in a firm voice, determination hardened like flint in his eyes.
“The Eirdkilrs are here for the miners, right?” Scathan asked. “So they’re not going to kill them. That’s what the boats are for.”
Aravon nodded.
“So we take away those boats.” A fierce grin tugged at the corners of Scathan’s mouth and he raised a clenched fist. “Burn the damned things and cut off the Eirdkilrs’ escape. Stop them from taking the miners prisoner.”
Aravon sucked in a breath. He’d been so focused on his thoughts of Icespire he hadn’t even considered that option.
“Just the eighteen of you?” Colborn asked. “You’ll be doing battle against hundreds of Eirdkilrs.”
Barcus snorted. “We ain’t no Legionnaires! No bloody shield walls and heroic charges for us.” He thumped a hand against his splinted mail breastplate. “We do our best work in the shadows. That’s why the Duke wanted us on his mission.”
“Aye.” Pain edged Urniss’ voice and twisted his face into a grimace, yet he forced himself to stand straight despite the deep gash in his side. “We may not be Grim Reavers, but we know a thing or two about fighting Eirdkilrs.”
Aravon’s mind flashed back to the first time he’d met Scathan. The mercenary had been concealed in the trees bordering the Westmarch, hidden by Fehlan camouflage so skillful not even Colborn had spotted him. And the rest of the Black Xiphos had fought well in the battle above. They might not be Legionnaires or Grim Reavers, but they were no raw recruits, either. And if they were willing to risk their necks to help the people of Lastcliff, Aravon owed them the respect to let them try.
Scathan met Aravon’s eyes. “It’s what the Duke would have done,” he said in a quiet voice. “What he did do, back in Storbjarg. Giving his last shred of strength to help others.” He glanced to Barcus and Urniss for confirmation. “Man sets an example like that, how can we do anything but follow in his steps?”
Pride filled Aravon’s chest, and he swallowed the emotion rising within him. Stepping toward the grizzled man, he held out a hand. “Lord Eidan might be a traitor, but he got one thing right. The Black Xiphos truly are worthy of trust.”
Scathan shook Aravon’s hand, stood a bit straighter. “It’s been an honor, Captain Snarl. Fight well, die later.”
“May the Swordsman strengthen your arms and guide your steps.” Aravon spoke the words—a farewell, perhaps final, to the mercenaries.
“Not to piss on your parade and all,” Noll signed, “but until we get the bloody hell out of this passage, won’t none of us get off to play hero anytime soon.” He shot a glance at Skathi and Zaharis. “So let’s quit kissing each other’s arses and figure out where this damned tunnel leads, yeah?”
Aravon nodded. Irreverence aside, Noll was right.
He glanced back at Scathan, and the mercenary gave a dismissive wave. “Go. You’ve got farther to travel, and you don’t want us slowing you down.” He shot a wry grin at his comrades. “Besides, we’ve got some fun of our own waiting for us outside this place, right, lads?”
A chorus of “Ayes!” echoed from the mercenaries. Only two remained unwounded, but all had taken a battering in the Eirdkilr assault. Yet there wasn’t so much as a glimmer of hesitation in their eyes.
With a nod, Aravon turned back to his Grim Reavers. He paused only long enough to let Skathi pass the candle off to one of the mercenaries, then signaled for their company to move out. Scathan was right—they had a long journey ahead.
Thankfully, their trek through Lord Virinus’ underground tunnel took only ten minutes. The passage ran straight for a few hundred yards—impossible to tell by the faint light of Zaharis’ alchemical globes—before ending in a staircase. The stairs ascended just one floor, and the trapdoor at the top opened onto the same forests south of the estate where Aravon and his Grim Reavers had perched to watch Lord Virinus’ mansion. Out into the cool, gloomy night they went, into the deep shadows cast by the thick trees.
The sound of the Eirdkilrs’ rampage echoed loud in the darkness. A company thirty-strong surrounded the entrances to Lord Virinus’ mansion, howling in triumph as the villa burned. Below, in the mines and the now-burning village of Lastcliff, more towering figures herded the bound and bloodied miners up to the cliff and from there down toward the anchored longships.
A part of Aravon ached to go help the captured miners. They were Princelanders, as Rangvaldr had said. But they were just a few, compared to the hundreds of thousands that would die if the Eirdkilrs stormed Icespire. He had to trust that Scathan and the Black Xiphos would find a way to rescue the prisoners in time.
The only saving grace was that the miners of Lastcliff numbered in the thousands. It would take at least a couple of hours for the Eirdkilrs to round up and herd their captives to the ships. Plenty of time for the mercenaries to make sure the bastards have no way out.
He didn’t know how the Eirdkilrs would react when they discovered their escape cut off—they’d flood the Princelands hunting the Black Xiphos, and there was a chance they’d execute their prisoners—but at the moment, he had bigger problems on hand.
“Damn.” Noll shook his head. “Those bloody brave mercenary idiots are going to get themselves killed.”
“I wonder how many times someone’s said the same thing about us,” Belthar rumbled.
“The idiot part, pretty much daily.” Noll punched the big man in the arm, earning a glower.
“Come on,” Aravon said. “We’ve got our own problems.” He said no more; nothing else was needed. They all knew the stakes.
Scathan and his company could worry about a few hundred villagers—the Grim Reavers had a city of four hundred thousand men, women, and children to save.
Chapter Eighty
Aravon’s heart hammered a staccato beat in time with his horse’s flying hooves. The knots in his shoulders had grown tighter with every passing mile—every step brought him closer to Icespire, yet he couldn’t shake the worry that they’d arrive too late. Too late to stop the Eirdkilrs from flooding through the gates and setting the city ablaze, as they’d done at Storbjarg.
The memories of the Fjall capital—the thick pall of dark grey smoke hanging over the city, the screams and cries of dying Fehlans, the metallic tang of blood tinged with the stink of burning wood and flesh. But instead of unfamiliar Fjall, the faces of those he knew played through his mind. Mylena, her chestnut hair terribly dark against cheeks gone pale in death. Rolyn and Adilon, never to laugh or shout again, their little chests caved in by Eirdkilr clubs, skulls crushed and hewn by massive axes.
But it was more than just his family that worried him—so, so much more. Icespire was the largest city on Fehl, home to four hundred thousand Princelanders, Fehlan refugees, and transplanted mainlanders. If the Eirdkilrs got through the gates and unleashed the full force of their rage and hatred on the city, the death toll would exceed anything in living memory.
Rivers of blood would run thick through every street, alley, and back lane of Icespire. The wooden shanties of the Glimmer, Littlemarket, Portside, and the Outwards would burn to the ground, and countless innocents would burn with them. Even the sturdy brick and stone structures of Eastway, Princetown, and Bayrise Hill wouldn’t withstand the full force of the Eirdkilrs’ fury.
And once the barbarians got past the Icewatchers holding the bridges, the wealthy, spoiled noblemen and women of Azure Island would fall. Then Prince Toran, the finest ruler Icespire had had for five generations of Princes, and his family. With one attack, the Eirdkilrs would annihilate the Princelander base of power.
I can’t let that happen! Aravon gritted his teeth and leaned lower in the saddle. I’ve got to get there in time.
The fifty-mile journey f
rom Pinehollow had taken them eight hours, letting their horses set the pace. Now, Aravon pushed the Kostarasar chargers to the limits of their endurance. The beasts had been bred to run fast and far without tiring. The fact that they’d covered nearly forty miles in just under four hours proved that the mounts truly lived up to their reputation.
But they weren’t at Icespire yet. They still had a long way to go, and they were running out of time.
Trees, farmland, hills, forests, and villages flew by in a blur. Aravon saw nothing of his surroundings, not even the wagon road snaking into the darkness ahead of him. His eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, toward the place where he knew the towering pillar of glowing light waited. The Icespire had been meant to guide sailors far out to sea safely home—now, it would guide him home in time to save his family.
“This way!” Aravon jerked his horse’s reins hard, pulling the mount off the main road onto a smaller, narrow trail. He’d taken that road dozens of times when hurrying home after months spent marching through the western duchies. It led up a broad, gently-sloping hill, cutting past the tiny farming village of Southbrook, and straight toward Icespire from the southwest. The fastest way to the city when coming from the west.
Aravon’s chest tightened as he thundered up the ridge that separated their path from the broad, grassy plains surrounding Icespire. One last hill to climb, one last obstacle between him and Icespire.
Yet with every step, the dread grew heavier. Worry gnawed at his stomach. Something was wrong. There was too much light shining beyond the ridge. Not the gentle blue glimmer of the Icespire—a raw, harsh light that bathed the thick evening clouds in splashes of crimson, orange, and gold.
No, not clouds, Aravon realized. Smoke. Smoke, and fire.
No!
He galloped over the crest of the hill, and the sight that greeted him flooded him with the icy chill of horror.
The Eirdkilrs had come, and the city of Icespire burned.
Aravon’s breath froze in his lungs. From his vantage point atop the ridge southwest of the city, they had a clear view of the Eirdkilr rampage. Could feel the waves of heat billowing up from the blaze that consumed the Outwards—scattered in some sections, clustered together in a raging inferno at others. Dark grey and hazy white smoke billowed up from the shanty town. The screams, cries, and shouts of panicking Outwarders mingled with the howled war cries of the Eirdkilrs. The barbarians unleashed their fury on their Fehlan cousins, the “traitors” that had chosen to align with the Eird, the half-men. Thousands—perhaps even tens of thousands—of civilians living in the slums that spread along the south and western edges of the city wall would fall before the Eirdkilrs sated their bloodlust. Many more when the Eirdkilrs took the city.
Aravon struggled to draw in a gasp—his limbs felt leaden, every muscle in his body locked up and immobile. Only supreme will of effort enabled him to tear his eyes from the burning, crumbling Outwards. To drag his gaze along the slums toward the city gates.
The gates stood closed. What? For the first time in centuries, the massive Prince’s Gate had been sealed against an enemy.
Impossible! The Icewatch knew how to operate the mechanisms that shut the Serenii-built gate, but would they have the presence of mind to react with alacrity at the first sign of danger? Someone had—some blessed soul had raised the alarm and closed the city gates in time.
A horde of Eirdkilrs howled and battered at the thirty-foot gate. Steel swords and clubs backed by enormous muscles rained down a hail of fury against the iron-banded, stone-filled wooden gate. In vain. The Serenii had built that gate to withstand siege—and no army in the history of Fehl had breached the gate.
Aravon couldn’t see the Soldier’s Gate on the far northeast of the city, but the smoke rising from the abandoned buildings that had once been the Legion of Heroes’ encampment marked the Eirdkilrs’ presence.
But even with the gates shut, how long can the Icewatch hold?
The conical helmets of the Icespire city guard glimmered atop the wall around the Prince’s Gate. The Icewatchers manned the parapets, and they would fight to defend the city. Yet what hope did they have? With no more than a thousand guards in Icespire, their chances of repelling a full-scale Eirdkilr assault were slim. They’d hold out for hours, at best. Once the Eirdkilrs cobbled together ladders and scaling poles from the wreckage of the Outwards, their numbers—easily two thousand that Aravon could see, and doubtless more he couldn’t—would inundate the city’s defenses.
It was only a matter of time.
From his vantage point atop the hill, Aravon had a clear view of the ships anchored in the Legion’s Harbor. The harbor, built outside the protective shelter of the city wall, served as the anchorage and seaport for the arrival and departure for sailing vessels transporting the Legion of Heroes from the mainland. Now, however, every one of the one hundred and ten ships lying in wait had the same sleek, shallow-draft hull and single square mast of the ships he’d seen at Lastcliff.
Jokull ships, each capable of carrying nearly seventy men, complete with equipment, weapons, and supplies for their long sea voyage. Judging by the chaos and carnage within the burning city, the boats had been loaded to capacity.
An army of Eirdkilrs nearly eight thousand strong now laid siege to Icespire.
The words of Eirik Throrsson flashed through Aravon’s mind. “The Blood Queen was just one of those leading the Tauld’s attacks, and her death will only slow Farbjodr’s plans, not stymie them completely. There is one, in particular, you would do well to watch out for when bringing my daughter south. A bastard of a man named Asger Einnauga. One-Eye, they call him. He commands the eight thousand Tauld that live among the Myrr and Bein. Though I have not heard rumors of his presence this far north for weeks, I have little doubt he will be the next arrow loosed from Farbjodr’s quiver.”
Realization sucked the air from his lungs. This was why the Hilmir hadn’t heard of such a large force of Eirdkilrs—they hadn’t been among the Myrr and Bein in the south of Fehl. Instead, they’d traveled north, likely cutting through the westernmost reaches of the Deid lands to reach the Jokull capital of Flodvordr and set sail for Icespire. A journey begun before the attack on Rivergate diverted Duke Westhaven’s forces.
Doubtless Duke Olivarr had been forced to pull men from his fleet to reinforce Rivergate—after all, the Jokull hadn’t sailed in number for more than forty years. It wouldn’t take all two hundred ships of the Westhaven fleet to keep the reavers and raiders at bay, especially after the Jokull warband had been slaughtered at Rivergate.
So much calculating and forethought! The sheer cunning of a strategist that could come up with such a plan boggled Aravon’s mind. Plans within plans, events set into motion weeks and months in advance. The one who directed the Eirdkilrs hadn’t simply launched random strikes—everything had been in service of his larger endgame.
The total destruction of Icespire. The elimination of the Princelander seat of power and the death of Prince Toran.
A chill shivered down Aravon’s spine. But not just Prince Toran! His eyebrows shot up. Every Princelander Duke, Lord, and noble of importance is within Icespire right now. They had all come for Duke Dyrund’s funeral.
The realization drove a mailed fist into Aravon’s gut, nearly doubled him over. The Duke’s death had been just one more calculated move—either concocted by Lord Eidan or his true master. Not Prince Toran, the man he swore to serve. But Tyr Farbjodr, the chieftain and commander of the Eirdkilrs, the one who truly pulled the strings in this war.
Aravon couldn’t imagine why any Princelander would choose to align with the Eirdkilrs. One look at the chaos, death, horror, and destruction now tearing through Icespire, only a madman or greedy fool could believe that this was the logical course of action. Everything he’d seen and heard of Lord Eidan made it clear the man was highly intelligent and capable—so how could he possibly want this? How could he want to visit such torment and misery on his own people?
At the mome
nt, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the enemy howling at the gates of Icespire. His city. His home, and that of his family. He would deal with Lord Eidan and get answers after the capital was safe.
The sight of the sealed Prince’s Gate filled him with hope. For all their cunning and planning, the Eirdkilrs hadn’t executed their plan to perfection. The barbarians would have a bloody hard time getting over the city wall—they’d never get through the Serenii-built gate.
Their seaward assault hadn’t fully succeeded, either. Though the majority of the Jokull ships had unloaded their Eirdkilr passengers at the unguarded Legion’s Harbor, the enemy couldn’t enter Icespire Bay. Lanterns still shone on the wolf’s head prow of nearly thirty valdrskipa lying in wait. They sat at anchor out at sea, nearly half a mile from the shores of the Port of Icespire, just beyond the perimeter of the Deepshackle.
Aravon had no idea where the name had come from—the Deepshackle, like the city wall, the Prince’s Gate, and the Icespire itself had stood long before the first mainlanders invaded Fehl. The Serenii-built chain was made of links thirty feet wide and ten feet tall, with bands of steel thicker around than a man’s torso. Steel treated with some unknown alchemy or magic that rendered it immune to rust, sea salt, or decay. For longer than the Princelands had existed, the Deepshackle had guarded Icespire Bay. Ships far larger than the Jokull valdrskipa had assailed that solid barrier of interlocked chain links. Every one now slept in the frigid depths of the bay.
The Prince’s Ebonguard had received warning of the assault in time to raise the Deepshackle. Now, the unbreakable fetters kept the Eirdkilrs out to sea. The barbarians had been forced to make landfall at the Legion’s Harbor. Now, with the city gates closed and barred, the Icewatch atop the wall, the Eirdkilrs would have to lay siege to Icespire.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 64