“To the world, perhaps.” Aravon stepped closer and rested a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “But not to us. Until this is done, we’re all we’ve got. Whatever happened, whoever you were, there’s no judgement here. Remember that, and remember that we all need to trust each other if we’re to make this work.”
Belthar held Aravon’s gaze, mingled reluctance, fear, and gratitude in his eyes. Aravon had seen that in his father’s eyes before; General Traighan had spent his life at war, and he wrestled with more than his share of inner demons. But the General had kept everything bottled up, until alcohol and sorrow over his wife’s death brought it out in a torrent of vitriol and enmity—a torrent he had unleashed on his son time and again until Aravon was old enough to join the Legion and escape his father.
He couldn’t let Belthar go down the same path.
“Promise me, Belthar,” Aravon said, gripping Belthar’s massive shoulder tighter. “Promise that when the time comes, when you feel ready, you’ll trust us.”
Belthar nodded. “I-I will, Captain.” The guarded look remained, yet Belthar seemed to relax slightly, the tension draining from his shoulders.
“Good.” Aravon clapped the big man on the arm. “We trust each other with our lives. It’s important to know who we’re trusting.”
Belthar swallowed, but managed a jerky nod. “I understand.”
As if on cue, Colborn’s dark figure appeared in the moonless night, slipping across the rolling plains toward them. A moment later, the quiet thump, thump of horses’ hooves on grass-covered earth echoed from behind. The mounted Noll, Skathi, and Zaharis reached them at the same time as Colborn. The Agrotora had replaced her mask, but Aravon caught the glint of suspicion in the gaze she shot Belthar. Noll and Zaharis seemed far less perturbed and said nothing as Aravon, Colborn, and Belthar mounted up.
The chargers, bred specially by Duke Dyrund himself, had broad withers, deep chests, with muscled shoulders and long, powerful legs. Their double coat would keep them warm in even the coldest Fehlan winter, and their name—Kostarasar--was Fehlan for "fleet-footed". After weeks spent riding, there was no doubt in Aravon’s mind that they were the fastest horses on Fehl, perhaps even the mainland itself. Horses worth a fortune, entrusted to them by the man who had recruited them for his special company.
Aravon replaced his leather mask—it had the added perk of keeping out the night’s chill and road dust as well as concealing his features. “Lead the way,” he signed to Noll. “To Wolfden Castle.”
With a nod, Noll dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and the beast leapt into motion. Riding at night on the grassy plains could be dangerous; even with the horse’s excellent night vision, any number of hidden obstacles—from gopher holes to sudden drop-offs in the terrain—could snap a horse’s leg or cause them to stumble and throw their rider. They’d have to keep their pace slow and steady, riding toward the highway that led away from Ironcastle to the east.
Aravon glanced back at Belthar, but a wall had gone up in the big man’s eyes. Belthar had told him as much as he was willing to for the moment. It would take Aravon time to pry more details from him; for now, he’d have to leave well enough alone. They’d have enough time on the road to Icespire—or wherever the Duke wanted them next—to dig deeper.
Dawn found them riding hard up the northern highway, fifty miles away from Ironcastle. Only then did Aravon call for a halt, certain they were far enough from Duke Leddan’s city that they had no fear of pursuit.
They made camp on the leeward side of a sharp hill that concealed them from any traffic on the highway. In silence, they spread out their bedrolls and shared a cold meal of trail rations. Skathi’s gaze fixed on Belthar, suspicion burning in her eyes. Colborn, too, seemed curious, but after a single questioning glance at Aravon, he let the matter rest.
Belthar alone forgot to remove his mask—forgot, or refused. Used it as a shield to protect the secrets he wanted to hide from the rest of them.
Zaharis, however, seemed unperturbed. He sat hunched over one of his many books, pausing every few minutes to jot down some note or annotation in his illegible Secret Keeper script.
Noll’s face was a mask of contemplation. Instead of his usual banter, he simply sat in silence. Aravon didn’t know if he was occupied with thoughts of Belthar or the outcome of their mission.
If it wasn’t the Duke that betrayed the presence of Silver Break Mine, who was it?
There was always a chance that the Eirdkilrs had simply stumbled upon it, yet not even Aravon could believe that. Not after seeing the camp perfectly still, undisturbed by any sign of struggle. There had been no bodies, no burned tents, not even a drop of blood. Simply…nothing. Silence. Emptiness.
And that odd note in the overseer’s journal. “Why does it glow?”
Aravon had no idea what it meant, and without the man himself, no way to find out. That only made the total absence of any Eyrr or Princelander miners and guards there even eerier.
The quiet flapping of wings shattered the silence. Aravon’s eyes darted upward and he scanned the brightening sky for the Enfield. Snarl’s orange and white-furred body grew larger with every passing second, his wings spread wide as he soared through the glorious hues of pink and blue filling the dawn sky.
Aravon braced himself for impact as the Enfield plummeted toward him. Though Snarl was growing larger, he still hadn’t mastered landing. The weight of the little creature slammed into his chest, but this time he was ready and managed to stay upright.
“Hey, Snarl!” Aravon scratched the scruff of the Enfield’s neck, and Snarl licked his dusty face. “Let’s see what you brought us.”
Removing the cap of Snarl’s collar tube, he plucked out the tightly-rolled parchment. The message, printed in Duke Dyrund’s neat handwriting, was succinct. “Camp Marshal.”
The word sent a little chill down Aravon’s spine. The message gave no explanation as to what the Duke wanted or why he re-directed them to Camp Marshal, and that only added to Aravon’s curiosity.
Whatever the reason, if their path led to the clandestine camp in the marshes near Wolfden Castle, that meant the matter was something both important and of the utmost secrecy.
Chapter Five
The shout of “Riders!” echoing from the wooden watchtower beside Camp Marshal’s gate brought a strange tightness to Aravon’s stomach. Everything from the heavy gate to white-haired Clem the watchman to the marshlands surrounding the secret camp brought back memories.
Memories of mourning the men of Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company and struggling with the burden of guilt over their deaths. Of pain as his shattered bones and torn flesh healed. Of battling with the Duke’s request, his question of Aravon’s loyalty—to the Legion of Heroes he served or his home in the Princelands. Of meeting his companions for the first time, training beside them, becoming a company not just of fellow warriors, but soldiers with a common goal.
And of Draian, the Mender who had nursed him back to health. The same Mender who had trained beside them, and died fighting with Duke Dyrund.
Once again, the weight settled on Aravon’s shoulders. He knew he’d done everything in his power to keep Draian safe; the Mender was just one more casualty in the brutal Eirdkilr Wars. Yet that didn’t make it easier to ride through the gate and into the encampment where he’d helped turn Draian from a healer into a killer—a transformation that ultimately led to his death.
Noll, riding in the lead, reined in his mount just inside the gate and leapt from his saddle. The little scout was born to sit a horse and appeared no worse for the last two days of travel. Aside from the road dust that covered them all from helmeted head to steel-booted toe and the exhaustion of weeks without more than four hours of rest a night, of course.
The others of Aravon’s small company moved more slowly, fatigue dragging at their muscles as they drew their horses to a stop, dismounted, and removed their masks. They hadn’t had a proper night of sleep since they first rode out of Camp Marsha
l almost a month earlier. Every one bore wounds in various stages of healing, and the ceaseless travel had taken a heavy toll on each of them.
A shadow flashed over Aravon’s head, and a little figure with orange fur and dark brown wings swooped toward the obstacles erected in the middle of the training field. Snarl landed on the climbing wall with a little yipping bark and sat proudly grinning down at Camp Marshal. Despite his exhaustion, Aravon couldn’t help smiling at the young Enfield’s exuberance. At least one of us is excited to be here, however long we stay.
He suspected they wouldn’t be getting much time to rest. Duke Dyrund would only call them here and risk Camp Marshal’s discovery if it was truly important.
“Welcome back, Captain.” Aravon turned to find Clem, the grizzled guardsman, grinning up at him. The gray-haired man’s smile revealed five teeth—it seemed he’d lost one in the weeks since their departure, though his single eye appeared as sharp as ever. “I’ll see to your mounts, sir. Polus’ll be wanting to get his hands on your weapons, make sure everything’s in order.”
“There’s no chance he’ll spare us the lecture on proper maintenance, is there?” Aravon asked.
Clem shook his white-haired head. “Not a chance.”
Aravon grimaced. “Give me a suicidal ride into enemy territory any day over a blacksmith’s tongue-lashing.” Every man in the Legion of Heroes had to endure the griping of master craftsmen bemoaning the pitiful state of their armor and weapons—a rite of passage, of sorts, but one that never grew more enjoyable. “Thankfully, command comes with a few perks.”
He turned to Belthar and Noll. “You two, get our weapons to the smithy. Make sure Polus gives them a thorough going-over.”
Noll groaned. “Really, Captain? A night ride, no breakfast, and we have to put up with the smith’s whining? That’s cruel, even for you.”
Belthar was too tired to protest; he simply climbed down from his horse and set about collecting their weapons: Colborn’s Fehlan-style longsword and shield, Zaharis’ spiked mace, and the sword that had once belonged to Draian. The big man winced when Aravon drew out the two halves of his spear. A blow of Hrolf Hrungnir’s greatsword had shattered the shaft in the middle, though the Odarian steel spearhead and the extendable iron spike built into the spear’s butt were still good. Aravon was glad someone else would bear the brunt of Polus’ harangue.
As Belthar and Noll carried their armfuls of weapons toward the smithy at the back of the stone barracks, the front door opened and three figures stepped into the noon daylight.
“Aravon.” A tired smile brightened Duke Dyrund’s face. “You made good time.” Taller than Aravon himself, the Duke had the broad shoulders and chest of a career soldier, blue eyes gleaming with intelligence, and only the first hints of gray and white dusting his hair and beard.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Aravon gave a respectful nod. “Anything important enough to take you away from Icespire or Wolfden Castle has to be important.”
“Important is right.” The Duke’s expression grew grim. “And if Lord Eidan’s reports are to be believed, I fear things will only grow worse before we can take action.”
Aravon’s eyes shifted to the lean, well-dressed man in the Duke’s shadow. Lord Eidan looked every inch the Duke’s aide, from his hooked nose and prominent cheekbones to his permanent frown and his long, slim fingers.
“Captain, I wish I had better news.” The only oddity was Lord Eidan’s voice, which had the deep, rich boom of a career Drill Sergeant. “I’m certain you are all exhausted from your travels, but the situation must be addressed at once.”
“Of course.” Aravon inclined his head.
“And when that is done,” said the third figure, a tall, broad-shouldered man with the heavy features and braided blond hair and beard of a Fehlan, “I will see to your wounds.”
Rangvaldr had been the Seiomenn, or “shaman”, of Bjornstadt, but when Chief Ailmaer of the Eyrr refused to send aid to the embattled Legion, he’d chosen to leave his home to take up the fight. With the Duke’s blessing, he had joined their small company. A welcome addition, if an unusual one. He’d proven his skill in battle and bore the scars to prove it, yet his true value lay in his abilities as a healer.
Around the Seiomenn’s neck hung a pendant set with a brilliant blue gemstone—an Eyrr holy stone. Aravon had seen Rangvaldr bring a man back from the brink of certain death with that amulet. He didn’t understand how it worked—the Fehlan hadn’t explained the “magic” of how it healed, only that his faith brought forth the gods’ power stored within the stone—but it was enough to know that it did. With their Mender slain, they could use a healer.
“Thank you, Rangvaldr.” Aravon’s smile held genuine warmth. During the few days he’d spent in Bjornstadt and traveling alongside the Seiomenn, he’d come to like the man. Like him, Rangvaldr had sacrificed everything to be here, to help fight the Eirdkilrs alongside him. That earned him a great deal of respect as well. “Start with Belthar and Colborn. They need it the most.”
“All due respect, Captain, but you should be tended to first.” Colborn’s face took on the stubborn, determined look that characterized his nature perfectly. “I’ll wait my turn.”
“Belthar first, then,” Aravon insisted. “He’s gone with Noll to the smithy. He’ll definitely be needing some tending to after one of Polus’ dressing-downs.”
Rangvaldr’s smile broadened. “Of course, Captain.” He gave a Legion salute—surprisingly crisp, his form precise, for a Fehlan—and strode around the stone barracks toward the smithy.
“Come, Captain, Lieutenant.” Duke Dyrund beckoned for them to follow, his expression somber. “We have much to discuss, and little time left.”
A heavy dread settled in Aravon’s stomach as he fell in step behind the Duke. The last time Duke Dyrund had looked so solemn, an army of fourteen hundred Eirdkilrs had been preparing to assault Gallows Garrison. They’d barely arrived in time to prevent wholesale slaughter.
What could it be this time?
He followed Duke Dyrund into the barracks. Made of brick and stone, the building was solid with a hint of chill that felt drafty for the breeze blowing through the windows. Nine doors flanked the long, straight hallway. It was to the first of those that Duke Dyrund led him.
Nothing in the War Room had changed since Aravon last stood in the chamber. Someone, likely Clem, had dusted off the heavy oaken table, displaying the detailed topographic map carved into the surface in perfect clarity.
Yet, before Aravon’s gaze rose from the map to the heavily-laden shelves that lined the wall, he caught sight of a figure standing hunched over the table. His eyes flew wide. Even with his face downcast and his eyes locked on the map, there was no mistaking the familiar features of Prince Cedenas Toran, Prince of Icespire.
“My Prince!” Aravon dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Beside him, Colborn did likewise.
“Come, Captain.” Prince Toran’s voice was relaxed, almost familiar. “Only the living need kneel before their ruler.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed, and confusion flashed through his mind for a long moment before he understood the Prince’s meaning. As Duke Dyrund had explained, he was dead to everyone outside these walls.
“Of course, My Prince.” He stood, though he fought back the urge to salute.
Prince Cedenas Toran stood a few inches shorter than him and narrower in the shoulder, yet had the strong build of a man accustomed to fighting. Older than Aravon by a decade, he exuded an air of confidence and command that not even a blind man would miss. On the few formal occasions Aravon had crossed the Prince’s path, he’d been awed by the authority that rang in the man’s voice, the way he dominated his surroundings without being overbearing or arrogant. A ruler Aravon had been honored to serve, and one who had surpassed all of his ancestors at advancing the conditions in the Princelands.
Prince Toran seemed to size him up for a long moment, his lips pursed in contemplation. “How long has it been since last
we crossed paths?”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Six years, Sire.”
“Of course.” The Prince’s lips quirked into a smile. “That horrendous soiree at Lord Kytur’s, shortly after you earned your Lieutenant’s commission.”
Aravon’s eyebrows rose a fraction. He remembers? He had been just one more junior Legion officer among those brought in to entertain the noblemen and women—the women, especially—of Icespire.
“I never did thank you for knocking Lord Achdan on his arse that night, did I?” Prince Toran’s smile grew. “Almost made the evening tolerable, the way that boor kept blathering on about his amorous conquests.” He sighed. “Some men just don’t know how to hold their tongues.”
Aravon struggled to mask his surprise. He hadn’t expected the Prince to know his name, much less remember so many details. Yet when Duke Dyrund had recruited him, he’d mentioned that Prince Toran had requested him specifically. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he was the son of Traighan, one of the Princelands’ most celebrated Generals.
“And now, it seems you’re doing much the same with the Eirdkilrs.” The Prince’s smile grew sly. “Sammael has filled me in on your actions at Gallows and Anvil Garrisons, as well as the battle for Bjornstadt. I had to come in person and meet the men who have given everything. To look them in the eyes and let them know of my deep gratitude for their actions.” He turned to Colborn. “Not just those born to the Princelands, but all the brave soldiers fighting to end this war.”
From the corner of his eye, Aravon saw Colborn stiffen, a flush of color rising to his cheeks.
Prince Toran stepped toward the Lieutenant. “I know your father, and I have little doubt that being his son held its share of…challenges.”
The muscles in Colborn’s jaw worked, yet he remained silent.
“It is not my place to apologize for him, but I will offer my sincere thanks for your choices.” He held out his hand to Colborn. “And the promise that when this is all over, we will speak of your place in the Legion and the Princelands.”
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