Yet, with the help of every member of his team, he had achieved the impossible before. Duke Dyrund and the Prince had faith in not only him, but the soldiers under his command. Together, they would find a way. They had to—as the Duke had made clear, the fate of Rivergate rested in their hands.
Chapter Seven
The knocking at Aravon’s door pulled him from his dour contemplation. Snarl perked up at the sound, leaping off Aravon’s blanket-strewn bed and racing toward the small room’s only entrance.
“Enter,” Aravon called.
Colborn appeared in the doorway. “Dinner, Captain.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Already? He’d retreated to his chamber after the briefing with Duke Dyrund and lost himself in thought, puzzling over their mission. Snarl’s playful antics hadn’t pulled him from his grim mood, but as the Enfield calmed down and dozed off, Aravon had sat stroking the creature’s soft orange fur. It didn’t lift his spirits, but it provided a few moments’ distraction from what lay ahead.
Now, he could hide from it no longer. He had to leave his room, face his soldiers, and tell them what was expected of them. A conversation he’d dreaded for hours, yet a necessary one. He hadn’t yet come up with a solution to the problem—together, with each of their minds working at the problem from a different angle, they had a chance, however faint, to succeed in this mission.
He rose from his bed, grimacing at the knots in his muscles. Zaharis’ alchemical concoctions had sped up the healing process, but the wounds in his shoulder and face still ached. The stiffness in his left arm would never truly heal—a reminder of the toll the Eirdkilr Wars had taken not only on him, but every man, woman, and child in the Princelands.
“By your bright smile, I take it you’ve solved our problem.” Colborn’s voice held a hint of droll humor. “And here was me worried we had a challenge on our hands.”
“Sure.” Aravon gave a dismissive wave. “I also figured out how to end the Eirdkilr War tomorrow and cure the Bloody Flux.”
Colborn snorted. “Now that’s asking the impossible.”
Aravon found his lips quirking into a ghost of a smile. “You had any strokes of genius this afternoon?”
Colborn shrugged. “Nothing yet, but I’ll keep you apprised.” He stepped out of the room and fell in step beside Aravon. Together, they strode down the short hall toward the barracks’ mess hall.
“Did you say anything to the others?” Aravon asked.
Colborn shook his head. “Figured I’d give them one proper night of rest.”
Aravon nodded. Knowing his company, they’d be curious, but Colborn’s decision to hold off on revealing their mission meant they could enjoy tonight, at least.
“For what it’s worth, Captain,” Colborn said in a quiet voice, “we’ve got the best shot of dealing with this as anyone on Fehl. And even if death is what’s in store for us, we’re all marching by your side.”
The words surprised Aravon. It was the closest the stoic Colborn would come to paying him a compliment.
“Except for Belthar.” Colborn grinned. “He’s been getting into the beer, and you know how that makes him.”
Despite his mood, Aravon couldn’t help a small smile. “Swordsman! Best keep him downwind at all costs.”
“Who knows, maybe that’ll come in handy for this mission.” Colborn chuckled. “We’ll just set him to gas the Eirdkilrs to death.”
At that moment, the sound of laughter drifted from the open door of the mess hall. Aravon and Colborn entered a scene of merriment and revelry. Noll had clambered onto one wooden table, an overflowing tankard in one hand and a chicken drumstick in the other. He danced in time with the clapping, stamping, and horribly out-of-key singing echoing in the room. Even Prince Toran smiled and sang along with the bawdy, raucous lyrics of “The Soldier Down Under”, a song known in every Legion encampment but one Aravon thought foreign to the lofty halls of Icespire.
Duke Dyrund sat beside Zaharis, and their hands flashed in the Secret Keeper hand language almost too quickly for Aravon to follow. Belthar led Clem and the two Camp Marshal servants in chorus, his huge boots stamping the ground with such force Aravon feared an earthquake. Skathi sat in a corner, apart from the men filling the mess hall, nursing a tankard of ale. A small smile cracked the Agrotora’s usually stern, fierce demeanor as she watched Noll make a complete and utter fool of himself—as he tended to do.
The song ended with a final ringing shout, and the room broke into enthusiastic applause for Noll. As he bowed, he upended his tankard, spilling half its yeasty contents over the table and bench. The little scout stepped down, right onto the ale-soaked wooden bench, and promptly slipped, falling hard onto the table. Much to the amusement of everyone in the room, especially when he popped back up to his feet with another broad smile and bow.
Aravon filled his plate with food—oat and barley bread with a generous helping of herb-and-goat-cheese stuffed venison, Clem’s specialty—but stayed away from the keg of ale. He needed a full belly and a sharp mind for what lay ahead. Plate in hand, he slipped onto the bench beside Duke Dyrund, who shot him a greeting nod before returning to his conversation with Zaharis.
As Colborn took his seat near Skathi—close enough to be companionable, but not so near as to invade her personal space, Aravon noted, a very conscientious Colborn thing to do—Prince Toran rose and climbed onto the table Noll had just evacuated.
“Gentlemen, lady!” He nodded to Skathi. “Let us raise our cups in a toast. A toast to each one of you, brave champions of the Princelands.”
Belthar and Noll cheered, pounding their tankards on the table. It seemed they’d gotten into the ale shortly after delivering their gear to Polus, and appeared unlikely to stop drinking anytime soon. Aravon didn’t begrudge them their merriment. Zaharis’ potion—aptly called Drunkard’s Salvation—could prevent all but the worst hangovers, and Noll’s tolerance for alcohol was a marvel to behold, a rival for the hulking Belthar despite his small stature. They deserved a few moments of revelry before facing their next mission.
Prince Toran’s smile dimmed, his expression growing somber. “I know what is being asked of you, my friends, and there are no words to convey my deep gratitude for the sacrifices you are making and the risks you are taking in the name of our home. Though the world may never know what you have accomplished in the name of peace, I swear, by the Swordsman, that your deeds will never be forgotten.”
He raised his tankard once more. “To you, brave warriors, my silent champions! May the Swordsman strengthen your arm and guide your steps.”
“The Swordsman!” echoed every man in the room, and even Skathi joined in.
The Prince drank deep, emptying his full tankard in a single pull and earning a round of cheers from Belthar and Noll. He descended from the table and took his place at the table, where he was quickly dragged into a rousing rendition of “How Low Do They Hang?”, an even bawdier drinking song—one to which he seemed to know every word.
A somber silence hung over Aravon as he ate his food. He couldn’t bring himself to join in the merriment, though it felt good to see his men laughing, smiling, and enjoying themselves. Colborn had engaged Skathi in a quiet conversation, leaving Aravon as the only man sitting alone. Well, except for Lord Eidan, who sat on the far side of the mess hall, sipping a glass of wine and picking sparingly at the carcass of a chicken breast.
Aravon was about to go over and join Lord Eidan—he was interested in finding out more about the Duke’s aide, the man who furnished them with information amassed through the Prince’s network of spies—but the nobleman finished his meal, gathered up his notebook and parchments, and strode from the room. It seemed the business of espionage and intelligence-gathering kept him busy.
But Aravon found himself following Lord Eidan’s example. Pushing back his plate, he stood from the bench and left the mess hall. He might not be able to sleep, his mind busy worrying over the problem of their next mission, but his body could use a few hours
of rest.
He stepped into the cool, welcoming darkness of the hallway and strode toward his room.
“Aravon!” Duke Dyrund’s voice echoed in the corridor behind him.
Turning, Aravon found the Duke emerging from the mess hall, an intent look on his bearded face. “Duke?”
“I wanted to speak with you earlier,” the Duke said, “but after our briefing, I could see you needed time to wrestle with thoughts of the mission.”
Aravon cocked his head. “Speak with me? About what?”
“Duke Leddan.” Duke Dyrund fixed him with that piercing stare of his. “Your note didn’t give specifics. What did he say?”
“Oldcrest is suffering, but he’d rather sell his land than sell our secrets to the Eirdkilrs.”
The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “Sell his land?”
Aravon nodded. “To the Nyslians. For growing icewine, he said.”
“Hmm.” Duke Dyrund pursed his lips. “I’ll have Eidan look into that, confirm he actually made the sale. But it sounds right. It wasn’t more than a month or two ago that a Nyslian approached me about the same thing.”
“It’s definitely worth verifying the story,” Aravon replied. “But when I looked him in the eyes, I saw nothing that hinted at treachery. Even with a dagger to his throat and the promise of certain death.”
“Good.” Relief pierced the Duke’s solemn expression. “I’d hoped it wasn’t him. Leddan and I may rarely be on the same side of political matters, but I always admired his dedication to his people. Takes after his father and grandfather in that way, both men my own father spoke highly of.”
Aravon had no reply to that; he was a soldier, son of a General, with little experience in the world of Princeland politics. But he did have experience reading men. First, as a low-ranked Legionnaire watching the volatile moods of his Drill Sergeants and Commanders, then as an officer trying to keep his company in line and follow orders while doing his best to protect his men. Everything he’d seen in Duke Leddan’s defiant reaction made him believe the man truly was innocent.
“Of course,” he said, “I find myself asking, if not the Duke, who is the traitor?”
The Duke frowned. “Leddan was the only member of the Prince’s Council with any visible motive for selling out Silver Break Mine.” He ran a hand through his beard, which seemed shot through with more strands of gray with every passing day. “I’ve tasked Lord Eidan with digging into the matter of the ledger. I’ll have him probe deeper into the Dukes’ retinues and aides as well, along with anyone else who might have had access to the information. He’s like a bloodhound, he’ll always sniff out the truth.” A wry smile tugged at the Duke’s lips. “Makes him invaluable, truth be told. Just like his father, grandfather, and every Eidan since the foundation of the Princelands.”
Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve never heard of any Eidans until we met here.”
Duke Dyrund nodded. “That’s by design. Denever, first Prince of Icespire, knew he needed someone to keep an eye on his enemies, so he recruited his best friend, Lysekel Eidan, to run his spy network. Every generation of Eidans is raised to the same calling—one they are all well-suited to. From a long line of bright, cunning men, Ardenas Eidan is among the brightest and most cunning. It is thanks to him and his family’s eyes and ears around the Princelands and Fehl that we know what we do.”
Aravon inclined his head. “Then I’m glad he’s on our side.”
“Indeed.” The Duke smiled. “Anyways, I wanted you to know that we’ll keep looking into the matter, keep digging until we find out who is guilty. They will not escape punishment for their treachery!”
“And the missing miners?” Aravon asked. “What of them?”
Duke Dyrund remained silent a long moment, his frown deepening. Finally, he shrugged. “I’ll have Eidan put out feelers among his Fehlan contacts, and I’ll do the same with my own. But if they were taken by the Eirdkilrs—and there’s no other explanation I can think of that makes sense—then I can’t begin to guess at the horrible fate that awaits them.” A shadow flashed behind his eyes. “We can only hope the Eirdkilrs made their deaths quick and painless, but you and I both know that’s not likely.”
Acid surged in Aravon’s throat. It was a cold, dark day when a speedy execution was the best possible outcome.
“One more thing,” Duke Dyrund said.
“Sir?” Aravon cocked his head, curious at the strange, strained tone in the Duke’s voice.
”It’s...” Duke Dyrund hesitated. “It’s your father, Aravon.”
A fist of iron gripped Aravon’s heart, cutting off his breath. “What of him?” A mélange of emotions roiled in his stomach, as was the case every time he thought of General Traighan.
“He’s fallen ill.” The Duke fixed Aravon with a solemn gaze. “Nothing too serious, according to Prince Toran’s healers. A cold and cough that has settled in his lungs, one which should heal in a few weeks. But it’s how he fell ill that matters.”
Aravon’s mouth had grown suddenly dry. “They found him wandering again, didn’t they?”
Duke Dyrund nodded. “Yes.” He drew in a deep breath. “Swimming, actually, in Glacier Bay.”
Aravon swallowed, hard. His father’s retirement from the Legion hadn’t been because he was physically unfit for duty. Instead, it was his mind that failed him. Forgetfulness, confusion, and sudden changes in mood coupled with bouts of poor judgement made him an unreliable commander. He’d lost one battle too many because he simply forgot to give an order or couldn’t remember the strategy he’d laid out for his men. He’d grown worse over the last year, a part of the reason that Aravon had chosen not to return home on his last leave. His father had always been an angry man—the loss of his wife, his experiences during the war, and now his failing mind only compounded the issue.
“But Prince Toran has made certain he is receiving the care he needs,” Duke Dyrund continued, his voice quiet. “He has a Ministrant of the Bright Lady with him at all hours of the day. And Mylena and your boys are with him.”
Aravon’s breath caught in his lungs. He couldn’t imagine Rolyn and Adilon enduring half of what General Traighan had subjected him to during his own childhood. Yet Mylena knew the truth of Aravon’s history with his father—if she had chosen to remain with him, she had to believe it the right choice for her sons as well as her father-in-law.
“And all your family’s financial needs are being met.” Duke Dyrund placed a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “They want for nothing, Aravon.”
A lump rose to Aravon’s throat. “Thank you, sir.”
“I know it’s poor comfort, given what is being asked of you.” The Duke’s face was solemn, sorrow sparkling in his eyes. “But I promise that the Prince is looking after them, as am I.” His grip on Aravon’s shoulder tightened, a paternal, comforting squeeze. “I will care for them until the day you can return home.”
Swallowing once more, he nodded, but no words came out. Throat thick with emotions, he could find nothing to say.
“Go,” the Duke said, releasing his shoulder. “Get what rest you can tonight. Tomorrow, you do the impossible.”
Chapter Eight
“So that’s our mission.” Aravon met the eyes of each of his company in turn. “Any questions?”
Noll’s hand shot up. “Yeah, how in the bloody hell are we supposed to pull that off?” As Aravon had explained the Duke’s instructions, the little scout’s expression had gone from questioning to skeptical to full-on incredulous. “I’m all for doing the impossible, but some impossibilities are just too…” He trailed off, fishing for the word.
“Impossible?” Belthar put in helpfully.
Noll shot the big man a withering glare, but shrugged. “Good as any way to say it, I guess.” He threw up his hands. “Us and fewer than two hundred Legionnaires have about a spark’s chance in a frozen hell of pulling this off.”
“Six of us took on twelve hundred Eirdkilrs before,” Zaharis’ hands flashed in the silent h
and language. “Seems much better odds this time around, if you can do the math.”
Noll’s face drooped into a scowl. Numeracy, along with literacy and genteel manners, hadn’t been included in whatever education life had given him. He could get an accurate enemy count and do the basic calculations for distances to march or ride, but anything more complex than asking him to split a crust of bread between himself and his companions was beyond him.
A fact Zaharis had taken upon himself to correct. Despite the scout’s recalcitrance, the Secret Keeper had begun teaching him the rudiments of letters and numbers—just one more of the many skills they’d need on their new mission for the Princelands.
“Here’s the Swordsman’s honest truth.” Aravon’s voice was solemn, his expression grave. “I’ve no Keeper-damned idea how to do what needs to be done. Neither does Duke Dyrund, Prince Toran, or anyone else with a military or noble title in front of their names. But now it’s our job to figure it out. So that’s what we’re going to do. On the march. We ride for Bannockburn in three hours. That’s enough time to gear up, collect any supplies we need—” He shot a meaningful glance at Zaharis, who nodded in response. “—and get underway. Duke Dyrund’s sending maps of Rivergate and the surrounding terrain with us, and thanks to Snarl and Lord Eidan’s man inside the city, we’ll have the best possible intelligence to guide our steps.”
He drew in a deep breath. “But everything else is on us. Us, and those one hundred and eighty Legionnaires that will be following our commands. That means we’ve got to come up with a damned good plan in the five days it’ll take us to get there. Because by the time we reach Rivergate, the garrison and citizens there will be running out of supplies. Starving men can’t fight, which means the Jokull and Eirdkilrs have a better chance of overwhelming their defenses with every passing day.” He raised a clenched fist. “Every hour counts!”
Colborn, who had stood silent at Aravon’s right shoulder throughout the briefing, now stepped forward. “You heard the Captain. Gear up, pack your belongings, and get the horses ready to ride.”
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