Aravon’s head snapped around. Found Skathi standing atop the pile of rubble, her arms pumping as she tore arrows from Noll’s quiver, nocked, loosed, and drew again. Not since the archer’s first day at Camp Marshal had Aravon seen such a breathtaking display of her Agrotorae skill. Her hands blurred with the speed of her movements. Arrows flew from her bow almost faster than Aravon’s eyes could follow.
And through it all, that grating, growling sound of lament tore from Skathi’s lips. Sorrow and fury twisted her face into a snarl, fire blazing in her eyes. Eyes that never left the Eirdkilrs she cut down with that impossibly fast flurry of arrows.
Until Noll’s quiver hung empty on his back, and Skathi’s hand snatched only air. She tore her gaze away, found her supply of arrows run out, and instead reached for her sword. Scrambling down the pile of rubble, racing over collapsed stones and shattered brick, single-minded in her desire to unleash her anger.
“No!” Colborn stepped in her way. “No, Redwing, it’s done.”
The Agrotora made to bowl him over, to charge through him, but Colborn remained unmoving, solid as the stone upon which the city sat.
“Redwing!” Colborn’s voice cracked like a whip. He planted his feet in a crouch, shield barring Skathi’s way. “Stop!”
That seemed to pierce the chaos in her thoughts. She blinked, and locked blazing eyes on Colborn. “The Eirdkilrs—”
“Are dead.” Rangvaldr’s voice held a note of soothing calm. “Or they will be long before you reach them.”
Sure enough, as Aravon turned back toward the battle, he found it nearly over. Skathi’s arrows had taken down more than half the barbarians charging up the street, and Gengibar Twist’s Brokers were finishing off the rest.
“It’s over, Redwing.” Rangvaldr gripped her shoulder, hard. “It’s over.”
“Over.” Skathi spoke in a dazed, numb voice. Her eyes went to the Seiomenn’s masked face, met his eyes. “Over,” she repeated.
“Swordsman’s beard!” Noll slumped atop the pile of rubble, stones clattering around him. “I-I can’t…” He plucked up a crumbled chunk of masonry, stared down at it for long seconds, tossed it away. “I…”
When the scout lifted his eyes, moisture glimmered there. He shook his head, yet no words came from beneath his mask.
Aravon, too, felt the sorrow welling within him. He bit down hard to choke back a cry—he couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Belthar and Zaharis, gone. From one second to the next, their lives snuffed out. Not in the heat of battle or facing a howling enemy in some heroic feat of courage. But in a bloody building collapse here in the Keeper-damned Glimmer. Fleeing the Secret Keepers that wanted Zaharis dead for knowing their secrets.
The cruelty and injustice of that twisted the dagger in his belly. He suddenly felt tired…so damned tired. It took all his effort to remain upright, to keep his numb fingers locked around his spear.
“This way!” Gengibar Twist’s shout echoed up the street, but it sounded as if it came from a thousand miles away. Aravon turned, dimly registered the Brokers tearing off down a side alley. Gengibar Twist looked back at him, nodded—acknowledgement of the Grim Reavers’ help or their sorrow, Aravon didn’t know—and followed his men into the muddy back lanes of the Glimmer. Slowly, the stream of Brokers disappeared into the haze, until the street stood empty.
Empty and quiet.
It’s over. Rangvaldr’s words, spoken to Skathi, echoed in his mind. Realization settled over him, like a cold cloth on a feverish forehead. Calming, driving the last of the adrenaline from his veins. Leaving him as empty and quiet as the streets of the Glimmer.
Chaos still held Icespire in a firm grip. The noise of battle—howling Eirdkilrs, shouting Princelanders, steel clashing on steel—rang all around the city. Yet to Aravon, it sounded distant, faint, blocked out by the slums surrounding him. He, the Grim Reavers, and Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires stood in a lone isle of calm amidst the turmoil and tumult flooding Icespire.
But that would soon fade to silence. The tide turned in their favor. Though the fighting hadn’t finished—it would be long hours, perhaps even days, as the Princelanders hunted down the Eirdkilrs, sealed the city gates, and put out the blazing fires—the battle for Icespire had ended.
They had won.
But at what cost?
The question rang in Aravon’s mind. Blood and death surrounded him. The Brokers that had fallen in the latest clash with the Eirdkilrs—Eirdkilrs cut down by Skathi’s arrows. The Legionnaires that died fighting to buy Aravon and the Grim Reavers time to get in place. Beyond the Glimmer, in every corner of the city, thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—of men, women, even children had fallen. Cut down by Eirdkilrs, burned alive, or simply trampled in the mass escape to Azure Island. Slain, like Lord Myron Virinus, fighting to save the city.
Though Aravon had only known a fraction of those fallen in this attack, their deaths were no less real, no less a burden on his shoulders. But the true weight, the one that pressed against his chest and threatened to crush the breath from his lungs, was in the knowledge that two of his own had fallen.
His gaze slid past the stunned Skathi, who stood with Colborn and Rangvaldr, her eyes numb and unfocused. Past Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires, still locked in their shield wall, too stunned and weary to do more than remain standing lest they collapse. Past Noll sitting with his masked face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. To the pile of stones, rubble, and splintered wood that served as the unmarked grave for his Grim Reavers.
Belthar, the giant of a man with a heart too large and an even bigger smile. Burdened by his past and his hard life in the Glimmer, yet a soldier as courageous and tenacious as the finest Legionnaire.
Zaharis, Secret Keeper, mute and enigmatic, driven by his need to understand everything around him and his hunt for ice saffron. A man dedicated to leaving the world a better place than he found it. To using his forbidden knowledge to help mankind.
Two men that had served beside Aravon for what felt an eternity. Since that first day training in Camp Marshal, soldiers that had followed him without doubt or hesitation. Strong despite everything they’d endured, the burdens they carried. In the face of certain death, following him to Icespire for the sake of their mission. Giving of themselves time and again to protect their comrades—Fehlan, Shalandran, Legionnaire, and civilian.
A lump rose to Aravon’s throat, and tears stung at his eyes. He made no attempt to wipe them away; he had the time to mourn now. They deserved that much. After all they had done, every battle they had won at his side, every impossible challenge they had helped the Grim Reavers overcome. The two of them deserved to be grieved by those that had loved them.
He bowed his head, closing his eyes. The words of the Brave Soldier’s March sprang to his thoughts. March on into peace now, brave soldier. The Keeper’s arms open for thee. He swallowed, hard. Take your place—
“Say, Captain,” a familiar voice echoed through a nearby doorway, “any idea where in Icespire a fellow can get a stiff drink?”
Aravon’s head snapped up, his eyelids flying open. Impossible!
Yet there was no mistake. From within the shadows of a building across the muddy lane, two figures emerged. One far taller than Aravon—taller than everyone in the courtyard except for the hulking Endyn—with shoulders to rival an ox. The other shorter, his muscles far wirier than his comrade. Both clad in the snarling leather masks and mottled-pattern armor of Grim Reavers.
Belthar’s eyes went to Rangvaldr. “Or maybe a bit of ayrag.” He shook his head. “Oddly enough, it’s kind of growing on me.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped as Belthar strode from the building. Zaharis limped along beside the big man, one arm slung over his shoulder. Dust, soot, and blood stained them from head to toe, but somehow, impossibly, they were alive.
A strangled gasp burst from Skathi’s lips, and Noll’s eyes were wide and round as wagon wheels. Even Colborn and Rangvaldr seemed lost for words as
the two Grim Reavers crossed the street toward the stone courtyard where they stood.
“How—?” Aravon finally managed to gasp out. His eyes darted from Belthar and Zaharis to the pile of rubble, then back again.
“Oh, yeah, that.” A hint of embarrassment darkened Belthar’s eyes. He swallowed. “There’s…er…Broker tunnels running under Matron Lyera’s. Learned about it my first week living here back when…” He trailed off, as if for the first time realizing what was happening. “Wait, you thought…you thought I…?” His eyes went wide.
Skathi was the first to react. She crossed the distance to the big man in one huge step and drove her fist into his jaw. The blow, backed by the force of her fury and powerful muscles, snapped his head to the side and nearly dropped him. He staggered, caught off-guard, and just managed to keep his feet without dropping Zaharis.
“You idiot!” Skathi roared.
Belthar stared at the archer through wide eyes, a hand pressed against his jaw. Aravon had no doubt there would be a nasty bruise in a few hours.
Skathi seized Belthar’s collar and hauled him down until his face was mere inches from hers. “Warn us next time you’re going to do something stupid like that, yeah?” she hissed. A snarl twisted her face. She held the big man’s gaze for long seconds, then released him with a growl.
“I—” Belthar began.
“Look at him!” Skathi cut him off, jabbing a finger at Noll. “No one wants to see him getting all weepy! It’s damned unnatural, I tell you! Like seeing blood seeping from a stone, or watching a Secret Keeper dance. So if you get it in that idiotic, big, thick, dumb skull of yours to pull a dumb thing like that again, you’d better…”
Aravon didn’t hear the rest of Skathi’s tirade; he was too happy at finding Belthar alive, and too tired after the battle to more than simply stand. Stand, and bask in the glow of the warm light streaming down from the golden face of the sun. Tilting his face up, he closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Though the stink of smoke and dust hung on the air, the morning breeze brought a hint of the salty freshness rolling off Icespire Bay.
Against all odds, they had won. At a heavy cost, paid in Princelander blood, but a win nonetheless. That was worth celebrating, at least for a few brief moments.
The battle for Icespire was over.
Chapter One Hundred Five
It felt as if Aravon’s heart would tear free of his chest as he caught sight of the black-clad figure walking through Icespire Memorial Gardens. The woman stopped before a black marble headstone, simple and unadorned, almost unremarkable amidst a sea of dark grey and white grave markers. Aravon recognized Mylena even before she lifted her veil. Her perfect, heart-shaped face appeared all the more beautiful bathed in the golden light of the noonday sun. No tears streaked her cheeks, and all traces of the fury and fear that had twisted her face on the Palace rooftop were gone, replaced now by a quiet sadness as she stared down at a simple marble headstone.
Aravon threw himself behind an ornate marble statue—he couldn’t risk her seeing him, not here, not now. He’d come to have a few moments alone with Duke Dyrund and General Traighan, but what was his wife doing here?
“Sorry I’m late, love.” Her voice drifted toward him. “I know noon’s half an hour past, but things in Icespire have been a bit…unpredictable the last few days.”
Aravon’s eyebrows widened, and an acidic dagger twisted in his gut. Who is she talking to? Yet, when he peered around the statue, he found her staring down at the black headstone.
“You’ll be glad to hear Rolyn’s taking after his father,” Mylena continued, and a ghost of a smile played on her lips. “The way he protects Adilon from everything, putting himself in harm’s path to keep his brother safe. That’s you to the core. Which, I suppose, is why you’re not here to see it for yourself, isn’t it?”
Aravon’s heart clutched in his chest. She was talking to him.
“Adilon’s lucky enough to take more after me, though.” Her grin turned wry. “He may not have Rolyn’s brawn, but his brain’s sharp enough for the both of them.”
Aravon found himself choking back a half-chuckle, half-sob. Mylena had always loved to poke at him, calling him a “muscle-bound clod-head”. She’d definitely been cleverer than he, just one of the many, many reasons he’d fallen so deeply in love with her in the first place.
“But they both share one thing.” The smile faded from Mylena’s lips, replaced by bone-deep sorrow. “They miss you terribly. As do I.”
Every fiber of Aravon’s being ached to go to her. Here, alone among the dead, he could reveal the truth to her. He could once again be alive, at least long enough to take his wife in his arms.
Yet his feet remained frozen in place. Though his heart begged and screamed at him to move, he knew he could not. He couldn’t come back from the dead, only to go off and die once more. He couldn’t put her through that twice in one lifetime.
And so he stood, as still and cold as the statue that hid him from his wife. Stood and wished with every fiber of his being that he could put aside the mission he’d already decided would come next. The mission that would likely be his last.
Mylena continued speaking, albeit in a low whisper that didn’t reach Aravon’s ears. He strained to hear her words. In vain. He could only watch, a lump in his throat, as Mylena bent to speak to the black tombstone where she believed he lay in his final rest.
Long seconds passed in that terrible agony—Aravon desperately wanting to hear his wife’s words, yet not daring to move for fear of discovery. Finally, Mylena straightened, and her sad smile returned. “I’ll be back tomorrow, same time as always.” She pressed two fingers to her lips, then touched them to the gravestone. “Until I see you again, my love.”
Aravon’s eyes burned and a fist of iron clutched at his chest. He barely had the presence of mind to slip behind the statute as Mylena, once more veiled, hurried past him toward the entrance to Icespire Memorial Gardens.
For what seemed an eternity, Aravon remained leaning against the statue, waiting for his wife to leave. Waiting for his heart to slow its agonizing hammering and the lump to leave his throat. Finally, with a supreme effort of will, he forced his body to move. He broke free of the shadow of the statue and moved toward the black gravestone where Mylena had stood.
The stone was simple, unadorned, and carved with only a few words. “Aravon of Icespire,” it read, “beloved son, husband, and father. To the end he marched, brave soldier.”
Tears threatened in Aravon’s eyes as he stared down at the stone. At the place where Mylena had touched her fingertips mere minutes ago. Where she had whispered her words to him, trusting that he would hear them from the Sleepless Lands.
He had heard her, and he would carry her words in his heart for the rest of his life—what remained of it. They would accompany him on his next, final impossible mission, and would give him strength to do what needed to be done.
Scrubbing the tears from his eyes, Aravon moved toward the gravestone next to his. Equally black, a soldier’s tomb. He moved on without pause. That was a conversation he wasn’t yet ready to have. First, he’d speak to the Duke.
Duke Dyrund’s tombstone was dark grey—soldier’s black mingled with the white of nobility—and the inscription was nothing but a long list of his titles and accomplishments, both military and political. Aravon grimaced. He’d have hated that. The Duke had been an exceptional ruler of Eastfall, a hero of the Princelands, yet he was at heart a simple man. He would have preferred something simple and succinct adorning his headstone.
Aravon drew in a breath, but words came hard. He struggled to speak through the ache in his heart—far deeper and more painful than the misery of his bruised and battered body.
“You should have seen them, Your Grace,” he finally managed. His voice came out in a harsh rasp—he’d gone hoarse after so many hours of shouting, and Asger Einnauga’s grip on his throat had left nasty bruises. “They did the impossible, yet again. Just the six of
them—the seven of us, I suppose—stopping the Eirdkilrs like that. You’d have been damned proud.”
Bright sunlight filled Icespire Memorial Gardens, bathing the grassy lawns with a golden brilliance and warmth. Even the dark grey tombstone before Aravon seemed to sparkle, the flecks of gold and silver dotting its marble surface dancing in the sun’s radiance.
“We all owe you our thanks, sir. We’re only who we are because of you.”
Without taking his eyes from the grave marker, Aravon settled to a comfortable seat on the grass. He hadn’t had a chance to speak to Duke Dyrund since that night in the Hefjakumbl—now, with the battle ended, seemed the right time to say a proper farewell.
A wry smile tugged at his lips. “If you were here, I know you’d probably say that you just put us together, and we’re the ones who became a proper company. But that’s the thing, Your Grace. You put us together. Forced our paths to intersect, no matter who we were and where we were at before it all happened. And because of that, we did what we did. So here’s to you, Duke Dyrund.”
Aravon raised the glass bottle of Drashi rotgut—a classic Legionnaire’s cheap liquor—the best he could find in a city ravaged by Eirdkilrs. “To you for saving us all. Even from the Sleepless Lands, you just keep on being cleverer than the rest of us.”
A lump rose to his throat. Part of him felt foolish speaking to plain stone—the Duke had gone to the Long Keeper’s arms, and nothing but flesh and bone remained to be interred here. Yet Aravon needed one last chance to speak to the man who’d meant so much to him.
“I’m truly grateful, Your Grace.” He swallowed the lump, grimaced at the pain in his throat. “You gave me back purpose when I was ready to drown in my sorrow after Sixth Company. And it’s only because of that purpose that my family’s still alive. You might not have had a son of your own, but I was honored to serve that role in whatever capacity I did. I couldn’t have been prouder to serve you. I just hope you know that. Hope you know that, no matter what, your dream isn’t dying here.” He rose from sitting to one knee, leaning forward to place his free hand and his forehead on the cool, smooth granite headstone. “I’ll keep it alive, Your Grace. For as long as I draw breath.”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 88