“Yes, Captain.” Skathi stood and, raising her right hand, gave him the Agrotorae salute: forefinger and pinky finger bent, ring and middle fingers ramrod straight. An archer’s insult to their enemies, but a promise—“My bow and arrows at your command!”—to their allies.
Belthar followed suit, snapping off a sloppy yet enthusiastic Legion salute, banging one ham-sized fist against his barrel chest. Noll rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, but nodded his assent.
Zaharis’ fingers flashed. “We’ll be ready, Captain.”
“One final thing.” Aravon’s voice stopped the four of them mid-step. They turned toward him, curiosity etched on their expressions. “We’ll be seven once more.”
Three eyebrows—belonging to Belthar, Skathi, and Noll—rose at those words. Zaharis’ lips quirked into a smile. The Secret Keeper doubtless knew what Aravon planned to say. Colborn’s face held no hint of surprise; Aravon had filled him in before they rode out of Bjornstadt.
“Rangvaldr will be joining us.” Aravon fixed them each with a solemn stare. “He’ll be our healer, replacing Draian.” The name sent a pang of sorrow through his chest, but he kept his expression impassive. “And he knows a thing or two about Fehlan battle strategy. Not just Eyrr, but every clan.”
Noll’s eyes narrowed. “No offense to the Seiomenn, who did right by joining the fight for Bjornstadt, but are we sure we want a Fehlan on our team?”
Colborn stiffened, his jaw muscles working.
Noll seemed to realize what he’d said and color rose to his cheeks. “W-What I meant to say…” He swallowed, his eyes darting toward the Lieutenant. “A Fehlan we don’t know. Someone we’re not sure we can trust fully. He’s no coward, that much is clear, but how can we be sure of his reasons for joining us?”
“I’m certain he has his own reasons.” Aravon nodded to Colborn, and the Lieutenant strode from the War Room. “Why not ask him yourself?”
At that moment, Colborn returned, with Rangvaldr a step behind. The Eyrr Seiomenn was a few inches shorter than the Lieutenant, but he carried himself with an air of authority, an almost mystical aura enhanced by the glowing blue gemstone hanging around his neck. The fact that he wore the same camouflage-patterned armor that Polus had fashioned for their company made him appear far more dangerous—the warrior he’d once been before he donned the shaman’s furs.
“Rangvaldr, the floor is yours.” Aravon gestured for the man to speak. “Why would a Fehlan, and a Seiomenn no less, want to take up arms against the Tauld clan?” He used the name once given to the barbarians that now called themselves “Eirdkilrs”. “Why should we, whose forefathers invaded your home and claimed your lands, trust you to stand shield to shield with us, rather than turn and join our enemies?”
A tad dramatic, Aravon knew, but it was the underlying cause of Princelander distrust of all Fehlans. Most Princelanders feared that the clans of Fehl perceived them exactly as he’d just described—invaders to be hated and, if possible, driven off the continent. The Eirdkilrs were one of the few clans taking action, but far too many Princelanders believed that all Fehlans harbored similar sentiments.
Rangvaldr’s solid face creased into a smile, which set the bones and stones in his braided beard jangling. “A wise question, Captain.” He turned toward Noll, Belthar, and Skathi. “And one I expected coming from the moment Duke Dyrund agreed to let me join you.”
One of Noll’s eyebrows raised a fraction and he shot a questioning glance at Aravon. Clearly he hadn’t known of the Duke’s stamp of approval on the Seiomenn’s presence, though he should have guessed it from the fact that Rangvaldr had been in the heretofore top-secret Camp Marshal.
Rangvaldr clasped his hands in front of his waist. “Before I was Seiomenn of Bjornstadt, I was a warrior of the Eyrr, one more among many in the shield wall. I watched my brothers fall to our enemies or succumb to old age.” He gestured to his beard, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “A fate I was prepared to share until the Eirdkilrs attacked my home and slaughtered my people.”
His smile faded, his broad face growing serious. “And in the moments of quiet following our battle for Bjornstadt, I heard the voice of Nuius speaking in my heart.” He tapped his broad chest. “My god has called me to take up arms to protect my people—not only the Eyrr, but all Fehlans who suffer at the hands of the Tauld. Those who are determined to wreak slaughter and death rather than sue for peace.”
Now the shaman turned to Aravon. “It is your Duke’s example that I follow. He seeks the path to end the bloodshed and war. An impossible dream, perhaps, yet a dream that I share. That I have shared since the day I accepted the Seiomenn’s mantle.” He stroked the shining gemstone pendant with a strong, scarred hand. “That is what brings me to join your cause. To heal any who I can, and to do everything in my power to bring my land and people through this time of violence, of turmoil and into an era of peace and prosperity. For Fehlans and Princelanders alike.”
A solemn silence settled over the room as Rangvaldr’s words trailed off. Noll’s expression remained pensive, but all hint of suspicion had fled his eyes. And how could it have been otherwise? No one in the room could have doubted the conviction that rang in the Seiomenn’s voice, that shone in his eyes.
Rangvaldr broke the silence. “And, of course,” he said, a smile broadening his face, “if I can convert you all from that swill you call ale to proper ayrag-drinking men, I will consider my life’s work fulfilled.”
“Hah!” Noll straightened and slapped Rangvaldr on the shoulder. “Please make Belthar your first disciple! Anything’s better than hanging around him after a few pints of ale.”
Belthar colored and mumbled something about “indigestion”, which only made Noll laugh all the harder. Skathi smiled and shot Rangvaldr a nod, which Aravon took as her approval.
“Welcome, Seiomenn,” Zaharis signed. “If nothing else, your presence means I have a chance to study that ‘magic stone’ around your neck.”
Rangvaldr closed a protective hand around the amulet. “Oh no you don’t!” A look of mock severity flashed across his face. “I want none of your ‘science’ around my magic, you skeptic.”
“Skepticism is the first step toward rational thought,” Zaharis shot back, his round, pale-skinned face breaking into a smile. “No wonder you are still such savages. Next you’ll be telling me you worship the mud and pray to the lightning.”
Rangvaldr threw an arm around the Secret Keeper’s shoulders. “Now that you mention it, that reminds me to speak to you about the mercies of Umma, goddess of pig’s feet and cow tails. It’s said that…” The Seiomenn’s voice trailed off as he and Zaharis strode from the War Room.
Aravon turned to Noll. “Satisfied?”
The little scout hesitated, then inclined his head. “For now.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “You doubt him still? After that?”
Noll shook his head. “Not that we can trust him, trust his motives.” He gave a little shrug. “We’ve only seen him fighting for his home. I’m just not certain how he’ll fight when it’s someone else’s home he’s protecting.” He held up a hand as Aravon opened his mouth to speak. “I’m all for giving him a chance, don’t get me wrong. But it’ll take me a bit before I’m comfortable putting my life in his hands.”
Aravon nodded. “Fair enough.” He couldn’t force Noll to trust anyone, especially not a Fehlan. Just as Aravon had had to prove himself to his men—as they all had to prove themselves to each other—Rangvaldr would have to do the same.
“Captain.” Inclining his head, Noll strode from the room.
Skathi had already left, and Colborn was disappearing through the door as well. Belthar had remained seated throughout Rangvaldr’s speech, but as he stood, Aravon stepped toward the big man. “Stay a moment,” he said in a quiet voice.
Belthar’s shoulders knotted, worry flashing across his blunt, solid face. Skathi and Noll seemed to have forgotten his actions in Ironcastle—or at least let the matt
er lie, for now—but Belthar clearly hadn’t gotten over their reactions. The previous night had been the first time since leaving Ironcastle that Belthar had appeared comfortable around his comrades.
Aravon waited until he was certain the others were out of earshot before speaking. “What you did back in Oldcrest, finding that tunnel—”
“Captain, I—”
Aravon held up a hand. “As I said, I trust you’ll tell us when you’re ready.” He shook his head. “That’s not important right now. What I want to know is if you can do the same in Rivergate.”
Belthar’s blocky features creased into a frown. “You mean find a B—” He swallowed whatever word he’d been about to say. “—a tunnel into the city?”
Aravon nodded. “Yes.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Anything like that we can use to get in, or get people out?”
Belthar remained silent for a drawn-out moment, his expression pensive. Long seconds passed before he shrugged. “Sorry, Captain. Never been to Rivergate, so I can’t tell you for certain.”
“You’d never been to Ironcastle before, either.” Aravon took care to keep any hint of recrimination from his tone. Belthar could be…sensitive, and he’d get defensive if Aravon said the wrong thing.
“I know.” A shadow flashed across the big man’s eyes. “What I mean to say is that I can’t know for certain until I get there. See the…signs for myself.”
Curiosity burned with Aravon. Signs? He replayed his memories of the desperate flight through the streets of Ironcastle, but he couldn’t remember seeing anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps Belthar had a sharper eye, or he’d simply known what to look for. That raised even more questions, but Aravon had promised to let Belthar open up at his own pace.
“So once we’re near Rivergate, you’ll be able to spot any tunnels like that?” he asked.
Again a moment of hesitation, and another shrug of Belthar’s huge shoulders. “No promises, but I’ll keep an eye out.”
Aravon nodded. “Good.” That was the best he could hope for—until Belthar told him how he knew about the tunnel’s existence, he’d have to settle for that answer. “Then I’m trusting you’ll tell me if you see anything that could help us get in and out of Rivergate unseen.”
“Yes, Captain.” Belthar saluted. He was getting better, but he still couldn’t quite manage the crisp, military precision of a Legion salute.
“Thank you.” Aravon clapped the big man on one huge bicep. “Now, let’s get geared up. We ride out in two hours.”
* * *
“Ye bring that back broken again, don’t bother showing yer face in my smithy!” Polus’ shout followed Aravon from the forge. “All the time and effort spent crafting a masterpiece, and ye damned fools…”
The closing door silenced the last of the blacksmith’s tirade, which had gone on the entire time Aravon had spent in the smithy gathering his gear. But, at least there was one bright side to enduring that haranguing: his spear was once again whole.
On the return journey from Bjornstadt, he’d felt naked with nothing more than his Fehlan-style longsword. Years spent behind a Legion shield had trained him to fight defensively as much as offensively, but his injured arm meant he could no longer carry a heavy shield. His six-foot-long spear with its Odarian steel head and metal-capped end had become his defensive weapon. The extendable iron spike in the butt had given him an extra weapon to wield—one that had won the battle against Hrolf Hrungnir.
Now, with the spear in his arms and his sword by his side, he felt once again complete. Or, as complete as he could be without a hundred pounds of solid wood and steel to protect himself. He was still growing accustomed to the more offensive style of fighting demanded by the spear.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Colborn gave a quiet whistle. “Did he even pause for breath?”
Aravon grimaced. “Worse than a mother black bear guarding her cubs, he is.”
“I’d take the bear over a pissed-off smith any day,” Belthar muttered.
“That’s because you’re about the bear’s size.” Skathi shot him a fierce grin. “But Polus’ll rip you a new bunghole far faster.”
It seemed each of them had also had to endure the blacksmith’s lecture over their “piss-poor care for my works of art”, as he’d put it. Belthar worst of all. He’d had the unfortunate lapse of judgement to use the wooden butt of his oversized crossbow as a weapon, and Eirdkilr faces had left bits of bone, bloodstains, and scuff marks on the stock. To hear Polus tell it, he had just defaced a masterpiece on par with a de Stigar painting or the sculptures of Dendur Ariss.
But at least they had all emerged unscathed from the tongue-lashing. Armed and armored, his six men were busy stowing the last of their gear. Aside from the standard Legion-issue supplies—flint and steel, waterskin, dried trail rations, wooden bowl and spoon, a fresh tunic, and three changes of socks—each of them carried their own “extras”.
In Belthar’s case, that meant three additional days of rations. For Noll, that usually meant a waterskin or two filled with wine—little better than vinegar, but the scout liked his vintages rough. Skathi carried two additional oilcloth-wrapped quivers of red-fletched arrows and a dazzling array of knives, plus the glue, twine, turkey feathers, and beeswax required to maintain her bow and craft new arrows.
Colborn traveled light, as befitted a Legion officer, which left space for Zaharis to saddle him with additional alchemical potions, pouches of dried herbs, clay jars filled with powder, and more Secret Keeper paraphernalia. Behind his own saddlehorn, Zaharis strapped a wooden chest with a lock that Noll declared “an Illusionist-damned nightmare” after just one glance.
Aravon’s only extras hung around his neck: two small, oval silver pendants displaying the Prince's torch-and-sword-wielding griffin insignia—his own, and the one he’d taken from around Draian’s neck—and Snarl’s bone whistle.
The little Enfield scampered around Camp Marshal, barking at squirrels, leaping into the air to chase butterflies and blackbirds, and scurrying between the horses’ hooves, much to the mounts’ discomfort. Finally, Aravon climbed into his saddle and summoned Snarl with a short blast of his whistle, which brought the fox-like creature running at full dash.
“Come on, Snarl!” Aravon braced himself and caught the Enfield without falling from his saddle. Snarl looked up at him with shining amber eyes that gleamed with intelligence. The Enfield was smart enough to know that something big was underway, and he was eager to be part of it. He yipped and licked Aravon’s face with a rough, moist tongue.
Aravon stroked Snarl’s head and scratched under his chin, just the way the Enfield liked it. As soon as they rode out the gates, they would once again be back on duty, off to a battle they had little hope of surviving, much less winning. He would enjoy this moment with Snarl—it could be his last for a long time.
As ever, his thoughts returned to Mylena and his sons in Icespire. It had been too long since he saw nine-year-old Rolyn and Adilon, the “baby” at age seven. Closing his eyes, he shot up a silent prayer to the Swordsman. Keep them safe, and watch over them. After a moment, he added. My father as well.
The Duke’s news of his father’s illness had added to the burden on his shoulders. At least he could console himself knowing the Prince and Duke were both looking after his family. One day, the missions would be over and he could return home. Hopefully, not before his father forgot him completely.
“Captain.” Colborn’s quiet voice sounded at his elbow. “It’s time.”
Aravon opened his eyes. His six men sat their horses around him, their faces expectant. They waited for him to give the order.
Drawing in a deep breath, he steeled his resolve and pushed away his worries, along with the aches and pains of his recent battles. Now he had only the mission—impossible, yet one he had to somehow complete. Until it was done, nothing else mattered. Nothing else could matter.
He reached up and tied his leather greatwolf mask in place over his face, his movements slow and precise
. Each of his men did likewise. Once again, they became the faceless, nameless warriors, the silent champions of the Princelands.
“We ride.” With a nod, he spurred his Kostarasar charger to a gallop and rode out Camp Marshal’s front gate.
Chapter Nine
The hours of riding passed in a blur of blinding sunlight, pounding hooves, and the mounting worries tightening in Aravon’s shoulders. With Noll to guide their path and Colborn and Rangvaldr flanking him to the right and left, he had nothing to do but keep his mouth closed against the road dust kicked up into his face. That, and wrestle with the matter of Rivergate.
He and his six warriors prepared to face close to three thousand enemies. Even against just the eight hundred Eirdkilrs, they’d have an impossible task. Add to that the twenty-three hundred Jokull, and Aravon felt as if they rode to certain death.
But this wouldn’t be the first time. They had achieved the impossible first in Anvil Garrison, then again with Jade Battalion in Broken Canyon and in Bjornstadt. Not him alone, but all the brave soldiers around him. The burden didn’t rest solely on his shoulders. This was a problem they all had to work together to solve.
That didn’t stop him from puzzling over the impossible task they’d been given. He’d grown accustomed to the Kostarasar chargers’ impressive speed—ten miles per hour at a steady pace, a smooth, rolling gait the specially-bred mounts seemed able to sustain for up to twelve hours a day with infrequent rests—and years spent in the saddle allowed him to ride instinctually while his mind worked.
For the hundredth time since riding out of Camp Marshal five hours earlier, Aravon went over the map of Rivergate he’d committed to memory. Rivergate, like so many other cities built along the Chain, had a fortified outer wall surrounding the city proper, the dwellings, marketplaces, warehouses, and other buildings occupied by the populace that made their homes in Rivergate and served the Legionnaires and Westhaven regulars guarding the city. The outer wall had also been built up to the banks of the Standelfr River, protecting the Rivergate Bridge.
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 7