His words trailed off into a cough as Noll dropped a pinch of Sleeping Lily powder into his open mouth. A second later, Duke Leddan’s head slumped against the woven woolen carpet, eyes closed in slumber.
Aravon stood and glanced at Zaharis. The Secret Keeper had removed his hand from Duchess Leddan’s mouth long enough to dose her with Sleeping Lily as well. The gray-haired woman slept peacefully, dagger still clutched in her right hand.
“Orders, Captain?” Belthar rumbled from his place at the door.
“Down and out,” Aravon replied without hesitation. “Once we’re over the wall, we send a message to Duke Dyrund.”
“You believe him?” Noll glanced down at the sleeping Leddan.
“I do.” Aravon nodded. There’d been no deceit or treachery in the Duke’s eyes, only genuine outrage at the accusation. “He’s not the one who sold out Silver Break Mine.”
Noll cocked his head. “So if not him, then who?” He rammed his dagger home in its sheath. “You saw the same thing I did. No tracks, no signs of a fight at all. The only people capable of something like that are the bloody Eirdkilrs. They couldn’t have just stumbled across it, so how in the Keeper’s twisted teats did they find out?”
Aravon had no answer for that question, yet he knew without a doubt that if they didn’t unmask the real traitor soon, many more Princelanders would suffer. The wrong secrets whispered into Eirdkilr ears could not only harm the Princelands—they could turn the tide of battle against the Legion and open the way for the bloodthirsty barbarians to conquer all of Fehl.
Chapter Three
Aravon’s hand dropped to his sword as a figure materialized from the shadows of the alleyway.
“Easy. It’s me.” Colborn spoke in a low, calm voice, his movements unhurried. “No one saw any of you leave the way you came in, and I left no trace of our presence.”
Aravon nodded. “Good.” His mind hadn’t stopped puzzling over the mystery of Silver Break Mine since he left Duke Leddan’s bedchamber. If the Duke of Oldcrest wasn’t behind it, someone else had betrayed the mine’s location—and the Princelands. Duke Dyrund needed to know as soon as possible so he could have his people look into the matter.
That meant waiting for Skathi and Snarl to rejoin them. Aravon had already scrawled out a short note—“Leddan innocent”—on a piece of the special parchment given him for sending messages. Much as he hated to be parted from the Enfield, Snarl was their only way of getting word to the Duke at once. The little fox creature’s wings covered ground far faster than Aravon, even on one of Duke Dyrund’s magnificent Kostarasar chargers. Snarl could get word to the Duke at Wolfden Castle within the space of a few hours, rather than days.
A quiet flapping of wings from above warned Aravon a moment before Snarl’s weight crashed into his chest, knocking him off-balance. Aravon grimaced as his back struck the wall behind him, though he managed to both stay upright and catch the Enfield in his arms.
Snarl gave a happy yip and licked his mask and neck with a rough, wet tongue. The little creature saw Aravon as the alpha of his pack, and at just a few months old, Snarl was still over-exuberant in his affection. If Skyclaw, Duke Dyrund’s Enfield, was any indication, the vivacity would diminish with maturity.
Most of the time, Aravon was happy for Snarl’s eager antics. Snarl had a way of cheering him up in the gloomiest circumstances—the Enfield had been Aravon’s source of comfort after Draian’s death. Now, however, they were on a mission, so there was no time to play.
Aravon opened the metal tube secured to Snarl’s collar, removed the cap, and inserted the scroll. Pulling out the strip of cloth covered in the Duke’s scent, he held it up to the Enfield’s nose. “Find the Duke, Snarl.” Even wrapped in waxed parchment, the cloth would soon lose its scent. The Enfield would always recognize the trinkets attached to the cloth—a golden disc for Duke Dyrund, and another silver disc to direct him to Lord Eidan.
Snarl gave the fabric a little sniff, yipped quietly, and flapped his wings as if eager to be off. Those wings, grown larger and stronger in the last few weeks, batted Aravon’s face with stiff feathers like those on an eagle. Grimacing, Aravon lifted the bone whistle that hung around his neck, placed it to his lips, and gave a short, quiet blow.
At the sound, the Enfield’s sharp avian claws flexed in excitement and dug into Aravon’s hand, and his furry face broadened into a vulpine grin. Paws scrabbled on armor as Snarl found footing on Aravon’s shoulder and, with a single bound, leapt high into the air. The flapping sound quickly grew fainter as Snarl sped upward, cleared the nearby rooftops, and disappeared into the night.
“He’s a good one to have watching over you.” Skathi’s voice greeted him from the opposite end of the alley. The archer hurried through the shadows toward them. “Though he’s getting damned heavy.”
“I’ll say!” Aravon snorted. The Enfield’s collision with his chest had set his still-healing wounds throbbing. “Anyone see you leave?”
Skathi shook her head. “Guards are still out cold in their watchtowers, and the ones in the courtyard are too busy getting warm to bother with checking up on them. We’ve got at least another half-hour before—”
The peal of an alarm bell shattered the stillness of the night and cut off her words. The ringing grew louder, echoed by shouts from within Ironcastle Keep’s walls.
“Damn it!” Noll whirled on Zaharis. “I thought you said they’d be out for an hour.”
Zaharis threw up his hands. “Didn’t have much chance to test it, now did I?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Aravon interjected. “That alarm’s going to have every guard in Ironcastle on the alert. And the six of us looking like this aren’t exactly going to blend in.”
“Good thing we’ve got lots of back alleys to get lost in,” Belthar rumbled. “I’ve got an idea.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow, an expression lost beneath his leather mask, but he had no time to indulge his curiosity. They had mere minutes before Duke Leddan’s guards flooded the city. He had no desire to kill innocent Princelanders, especially those just doing their jobs.
“Go!” he said. “Anything happens to split us up, you don’t stop running until you get back to the horses!”
His five companions nodded and, with Belthar taking the lead, set off at a loping run through the alleys of Oldcrest.
Aravon had always had a good head for directions, yet within minutes, he found himself losing all sense of surroundings as they raced through one alleyway after another. The back alleys of Ironcastle seemed utterly chaotic, with buildings thrown up haphazard. Crumbling shanties stood beside three-story stone buildings, and muddy alleys suddenly turned to larger, paved-stone streets that ran for only a few hundred yards before returning to muck-coated ground. Were it not for the occasional light of a candle or lamp streaming through open windows, Aravon would have run into houses, warehouses, and wooden shacks that seemed to spring up out of nowhere.
Yet Belthar moved without hesitation, turning down one muddy lane, darting along a side street, cutting back through a narrow gap between collapsing houses. He struggled to squeeze his enormous shoulders through two walls that had bowed inward, sagging beneath the weight of their thatched grass roofs. His head clipped a faded wooden sign that dangled from a fraying rope, eliciting a growled curse.
Colborn moved on the big man’s heels, with Zaharis and Aravon behind then, Noll and Skathi in the back. A driving sense of urgency pushed them on; at any moment, they could be spotted by the guards. Already, a chorus of whistles and shouts filled Ironcastle, surrounding them on all sides. The baying of hounds filled the night.
Yet, as they followed down one side street and darted into a side alley, the sounds of pursuit grew closer. They’d barely taken ten steps before Belthar skidded to a halt. “Damn it!” he growled.
What had once likely been a thoroughfare was now surrounded by small stone buildings thrown up in a hurry to expand the city. Now, surrounded by solid walls, they had no way out
.
“Back!” Belthar raced past them, back the way they’d come.
Straight toward the sound of hounds, shrieking whistles, and shouting guards, the light streaming from torches and lanterns.
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. What in the bloody hell is he doing? He opened his mouth to shout at Belthar—he couldn’t let the big man attack the Duke’s guards. They had to find another way out, a way that didn’t leave bodies on the streets of Ironcastle.
With surprising speed for a man his size, Belthar hurtled down a narrow alleyway—one Aravon hadn’t seen tucked between two wooden buildings. Instantly, Aravon was on the move, racing after the big man, the rest of his small company in tow. His eyes locked on the nearby intersection as the cries of alarm and the light of torches drew closer.
Aravon threw himself into the shadows of the alley just as the first of the guards appeared around the corner. He didn’t slow, didn’t stop to check if the others had gotten away clean. None of them could afford even a moment’s delay in the cramped space between buildings. They just had to keep running, keep following Belthar and hope the big man could find a way out.
“This way!”
The shout sent Aravon’s heart plummeting. The guards had spotted them.
Chapter Four
“They’re headed into the marketplace!” a guard shouted from the street behind Aravon and his comrades.
“We’ll cut them off!” came the answering cry.
Aravon sucked in a breath as he burst out of the alley and found himself in a wide, circular marketplace surrounded by solid stone buildings. The wood and stone stalls were shuttered and dark, but there was only one avenue leading in and out of the market.
“What’s the plan, Belthar?” Skathi shouted. She was on the big man’s heels, her bow gripped in one hand and an arrow in the other. “This looks like a dead end!”
“It’s supposed to,” Belthar called back.
To Aravon’s surprise, Belthar never slowed, but charged through the marketplace, straight toward one of the stone buildings on the south side of the circular plaza. Yet instead of racing up the stairs to the heavy door, he headed toward the building’s western edge—where its wall met the eastern wall of the neighboring house. Aravon drew in a breath as the big man pressed something in the walls and a narrow gap appeared where there had been solid stone a heartbeat before.
“This way!” Belthar stepped aside and motioned for them to enter.
A tunnel? Aravon had no time to question; the sound of the guards’ whistles and the light of their torches brightened the main avenue, flooding the marketplace.
Skathi darted into the tunnel first, followed by Colborn and Zaharis. Aravon went next, ducking low to avoid scraping his head on the low stone ceiling. He cast a glance back in time to find Noll scrambling in after him, then darkness fell around them as Belthar’s bulk filled the tunnel.
“Wait!” Belthar hissed.
Aravon froze in a half-crouch, leaning on the narrow stone walls of the tunnel. His heart hammered a rapid beat against his ribs as he waited, listening for any indication the guards had found them.
“Where in the bloody hell’d they go?” came a guard’s voice, muffled by whatever Belthar had used to seal the tunnel behind them.
“Spread out, search every house in the area!” another guard snapped, a tone of command to his words. “They can’t have gotten far!”
A grin broadened Aravon’s face. We’ll see about that!
“Go,” Belthar rumbled in a low voice.
Aravon’s legs soon burned from walking in a half-crouch, but he hadn’t gone more than thirty yards before the tunnel widened and the ground sloped downward, with the low ceiling rising above his head. Ahead of him, a faint glimmer of red and blue light filled the tunnel. The oil burning in Zaharis’ alchemical quickfire globes lit up a narrow passage of reinforced stone and wooden beams as wide as Aravon’s outstretched arms and tall enough for all but Belthar to stand comfortably.
What in the fiery hell is this? The question pierced Aravon’s mind. The hard-packed earth floor sloped gently downward and disappeared into the darkness far, far ahead of the faint glow of Zaharis’ alchemical lights. And how did Belthar know it was here?
He turned to ask Belthar about the tunnel, only to find the big man shouldering his way past. “Keep going,” the big man rumbled. “Can’t stop. Don’t know if the guards know about this, but we can’t risk it.”
Without waiting for an answer, he kept squeezing past Noll and Colborn until he reached Zaharis and Skathi at the front. He kept a steady pace, as if hurrying would keep the others from asking the same questions burning within Aravon.
Less than five minutes passed before a gust of fresh, chilly night air drifted up the passage toward them. Fifty yards ahead of Belthar in the lead, Aravon caught sight of the starry night sky beyond the mouth of the tunnel.
As he emerged from the tunnel last, he found himself on the grassy plains a short distance southeast of Oldcrest. The lights of the city lay far behind, with the shouts, whistles, and the baying of hounds faint, muffled by the houses that blocked the guards from view. When Aravon glanced around, he found the tunnel had let out far enough from both the southern and eastern highways into Oldcrest that it was invisible to any travelers, concealed from the city by the hill into which it had been dug.
Skathi removed her mask and whirled on Belthar. “What is this tunnel, and how did you know it was there?” Suspicion etched plain on her expression.
Belthar shook his head. “I-I didn’t know, exactly. I…” He hesitated. “I just took a gamble and got lucky.”
Aravon recognized the evasiveness in the big man’s answer. Like everyone else in their small company, it seemed Belthar had bits of his past he didn’t want his comrades to know about, at least not yet. It took time for soldiers to open up to each other. If Belthar didn’t want to share this tidbit, Aravon and the others could respect his privacy. But there was one thing they all needed to know.
“Will the guards find the tunnel?” he demanded. “Are they coming after us?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so. Not unless they use the hounds, but even then…” Uncertainty echoed in Belthar’s voice. “We’d have heard them by now.”
Aravon nodded. That confirmed what he’d suspected when the guards sounded surprised to have lost their quarry. Oldcrest, like all cities in the Princelands, had its fair share of secrets and mysteries.
“You didn’t answer my question!” demanded Skathi. She stabbed a finger into the big man’s chest. “How. Did. You. Know?”
Belthar recoiled from the intensity in her eyes and voice, yet he seemed unwilling to give up the one thing that would quell her distrust: the truth.
“Enough, Skathi.” Colborn’s quiet words rang with a note of command. “We’re out of Ironcastle, but Duke Leddan’s going to be spitting fire and pissing venom when he wakes up. Best to put some distance between us before then.” He turned to Noll. “You remember where we left the horses?”
Noll removed his mask for the sole purpose of shooting the half-Fehlan a withering glare. “No, I’ve suddenly gone and turned into a forgetful idiot in the last twenty minutes.”
“Then get hoofing,” Colborn snarled. “Take Skathi and Zaharis and get the horses ready. The rest of us will follow once we’re certain we’re not being followed.”
Noll opened his mouth to retort, but seemed to think better of it. “Yes, sir.” Rolling his eyes, he replaced his mask and slipped off into the darkness. Skathi shot one last suspicious glance at Belthar before following. Zaharis never removed his mask, but he seemed unperturbed by this latest discovery. A man so accustomed to keeping a multitude of secrets likely expected others to do the same.
Colborn watched the others leave, then turned to Aravon. “I’m going to scout the way back to the highway, make sure it’s clear.” The look in his eyes held a depth of meaning; there was no need for any scouting, but he recognized that Aravon needed time to s
peak to Belthar alone. As the Lieutenant, it was his job to make sure his Captain got the chance to take care of his men.
Aravon shot him an appreciative nod. Once again, the half-Fehlan Lieutenant proved his worth, not only as a warrior, but as an officer. Other men might have needled Belthar for details, which would cause the big man to dig in his heels even more. Or, they could have tried to order the big man to divulge, an act that would drive a rift between them. The situation needed delicate handling, and Colborn had set Aravon up so he could do the heavy lifting, as expected of the commander.
Belthar’s eyes followed the retreating figure of the Lieutenant, then turned to face Aravon. “Captain, I—”
Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, but his words were edged in steel. “There’s only one thing I need to know, Belthar.” Slowly, he untied the thongs that held his leather mask in place. “But I need you to look me in the face as you answer.”
Slowly, Belthar removed his mask as well. His square jaw was set in a stubborn cast, a shadow behind his eyes. Yet he met Aravon’s gaze without wavering.
“We all have our pasts,” Aravon said, his tone softening a fraction. “Some we try to run from, others we try to forget. But the past always catches up with us, one way or another. So my question is this: will yours affect our mission?”
Belthar didn’t hesitate. “No.” He shook his head. “I…I left it all behind me, a long time ago.” His expression darkened and his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the braided leather thong on his wrist. A faraway look flashed in his eyes, and he seemed lost in memories for a long second.
Finally, he snapped out of it, and a wry smile tugged at his lips. “And, like you, I’m dead, remember?” He lifted the leather mask with its ornately-tooled features of a snarling greatwolf.
A stab of pain and longing burrowed into Aravon’s heart, but he pushed away the memory of Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on his family—a family that believed he had died with the Sixth Company.
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 3