The inner keep at the center of the city, however, was intended only to house the Legionnaires stationed there, alongside the regular forces conscripted and compensated by the Duke of Westhaven. Their families lived in the city, and only the soldiers active on duty were stationed there. The keep was solid, built of river stone and raised on a foundation of bedrock far enough back from the Standelfr that the ground would never be undercut by the deep river’s fast-moving current.
But, the problem was that the inner keep was too small to house all the people of Rivergate—more than four thousand, according to Lord Eidan’s sources within the garrison. Not only the families of the Legionnaires and Westhaven regulars, but the usual assortment of merchants, artisans, smiths, and tradespeople that dwelled in Rivergate. All men, women, children, and the elderly, people who would occupy space in the keep and consume the meager stores without doing much to aid in the keep’s defenses.
Lord Eidan’s report indicated that the inner keep held enough supplies for a week, on the outside. It would take Aravon and his companions the better part of five days just to reach their rendezvous with Topaz Battalion’s reinforcements at Bannockburn. Once they did, they’d still have to find a way to break the siege with fewer than two hundred men.
Aravon’s studies with Lectern Kayless had included siege tactics, both offensive and defensive. Given time, he had little doubt they could break the backs of the Jokull surrounding Rivergate—perhaps before the Eirdkilrs received reinforcements. But time was against them. If they delayed even two or three days, the people of Rivergate would starve. And that was gambling on the fact that the men of Rivergate could hold the inner keep that long. They would be fighting to protect their families, but even that might not suffice in the face of so many enemies.
Which explained Aravon’s dour mood. Even if they arrived in time, he couldn’t be certain their actions would save Rivergate. Harrying the besieging army would do little more than anger the Jokull and Eirdkilrs, perhaps even divert a few hundred away from Rivergate’s wall. But nowhere near enough to make a difference for the Legionnaires and Westhaveners trapped on the opposite side of the Standelfr River. There would be no retreat, nowhere to run. The stone walls of the inner keep were all that stood between those brave Princelanders and certain doom.
Yet, even as the sun began to dip toward the western horizon, Aravon still hadn’t found an answer to the matter of the siege. His disposition grew steadily worse until Colborn finally called a halt two hours after sundown. Aravon bit back an angry growl—it would not do to push the horses harder, else they’d risk stumbling in the dark. And, much as he hated to admit it, he welcomed the rest as much as any of his men. The wounds sustained in the battle at Bjornstadt hadn’t fully healed. His face, in particular, throbbed fiercely—the result of clenching and unclenching his jaw all day long.
Colborn seemed to sense Aravon’s disposition, and he took care of assigning the watch shifts. They had little to fear nestled amongst a dense thicket of old-growth pines and oaks common in Oldcrest, yet the Lieutenant knew better than to take risks with their safety.
Rangvaldr and Zaharis drew the first watch, leaving Belthar, Noll, Skathi, and Colborn to join Aravon at their little campfire. Aravon sat hunched over the map of Rivergate, studying the layout of the garrison again in the fire’s flickering glow. Skathi ate and worked at cutting new arrows in silence, Snarl curled around her feet where he could receive the occasional handout from the red-haired archer. Colborn dozed against the trunk of a particularly thick oak tree, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Belthar sat across from Aravon, belt dagger in hand, whittling at a branch he’d picked up from the myriad strewn around the campsite. His eyes strayed toward Skathi from time to time, a frown furrowing his blocky face. When Aravon happened to catch the big man’s wandering gaze, he opened his mouth to say something to Belthar—Swordsman knew the archer didn’t appreciate the attention, much less encourage it—when he stopped.
The stick in Belthar’s hands was long and straight, the same dark, sturdy wood Skathi was using for her arrows. He wasn’t whittling as Aravon had thought; instead, he stripped the branches, carefully sliced off the outer layer of bark, and worked to straighten the shaft.
Aravon’s eyebrows rose a fraction. He’s making arrows for her?
“Skathi,” Belthar’s voice rumbled over the crackle of the flames, “am I doing this right?”
The red-haired Agrotora looked up from her work, her eyes narrowing.
Belthar held up the stick. “I thought…” He hesitated, tension suddenly squaring his shoulders. “I thought, given what we were going to be facing at the end of the road, you could use more arrows.” His big hand swept a hasty gesture toward Noll and Colborn. “All of you.”
Skathi’s jaw muscles worked, her expression going tight. She said nothing for a long moment as she fixed Belthar with an inscrutable stare, forest-green eyes piercing.
“Never mind.” Belthar’s face reddened and he tossed the stick aside. “Stupid, I know.” He turned his eyes back toward the fire, the color in his cheeks burning as bright as the glowing embers.
To Aravon’s surprise—and Snarl’s dismay—Skathi didn’t return to her work. Instead, she stood and extricated herself from the little orange-and-white bundle of fur and wings at her feet. In silence, she strode over to the stick Belthar had discarded, retrieved it, and held it out to him.
Belthar took a long moment to turn toward her, shame burning in his face. His eyes widened as he saw her holding out the stick and he took it in a hesitant hand.
“Not bad.” Skathi’s voice held no anger or scorn. Instead, a tone of encouragement—barely a hint, yet enough Aravon couldn’t mistake the gesture—echoed in her words. “But you need to cut the nock a bit deeper and wider. Otherwise, it’ll stick when you release the string. Just for a fraction of a second, but that’s enough to throw off your aim. So do it like this.”
Belthar listened in silence, his face a mask of studious interest as he watched her widen the groove in the nock of the arrow, then imitated it with another of the sticks he’d collected.
“Good.” She nodded. “An archer can never have too many arrows.” A wry grin crooked her lips. “Maybe tomorrow night, we cut down one of these oaks to make you another bolt for that crossbow of yours.”
Belthar smiled, a chuckle rumbling from deep in his belly, and ducked his head. With another nod, Skathi returned to her place against a tall, slim pine tree. Snarl gave a little whine of protest as he curled up around her feet and resumed his nap. Skathi stroked the Enfield’s neck, setting his wings rustling in delight, before picking up her own discarded arrow shaft and setting to work on it.
Despite himself, Aravon found his mood lifting slightly. He’d been worried about Skathi, given the attention both Belthar and Noll had shown her since her arrival at Camp Marshal. She’d straightened them both out on multiple occasions, and both men had learned to treat the archer with the same respect they showed Aravon, Colborn, or Zaharis. Yet it was still good to know that Skathi was starting to feel more relaxed around her companions. That was vital for the formation of a cohesive bond between all of them. Without that, they’d never survive what awaited them at Rivergate.
Aravon had just turned his attention back to the garrison map when Noll’s whispered question drifted across the fire. “Does she know you’ve already got a girl waiting for you?”
From the corner of his eye, Aravon caught Belthar stiffening. “What?” he mumbled. Color blazed in his face once more.
A mocking grin broadened Noll’s face. “The way you’re always playing with that bracelet, almost like you’re thinking about stroking its owner with the same tenderness.” Mischief sparkled in his dark eyes. “You can’t tell me you didn’t get that from someone awful special.”
Fire blazed in Belthar’s eyes and his fingers went to the braided leather thong at his wrist. He caught himself mid-stroke, his flush deepening. “It’s not lik
e that.” His voice came out in a low growl.
“Ain’t it, though?” Noll dug a finger into his hawkish nose and rooted around, then flicked his findings into the fire. “Lots of things a man carries into battle. Weapons mostly. Rations, particularly for a big fellow like yourself. But something like that…” He thrust his sharp chin toward Belthar’s wrist. “…that’s the sort of trinket you carry to remember a lady love by.”
“Sort of like that scar you’ve got running down your right side?” Colborn’s voice cut into the conversation. It seemed the Lieutenant, like most soldiers, had a gift for light sleep.
“Hey!” Noll held up his hands defensively. “I didn’t ask for that kiss, but when the woman planted it on me, what else was I supposed to think?”
“That she tripped and got unlucky enough to be falling in your general direction,” Colborn shot back.
“Ouch!” Noll mimicked a dagger thrust to the heart. “She didn’t seem to mind it all that much—”
“Until she put a knife in your side to register her protest,” Belthar rumbled.
Noll shrugged. “Whatever. So I misread the situation, that’s all.”
“Good thing you didn’t misread yourself into an early grave.” Colborn’s lips quirked into a grin. “Seems to me there’s a lesson in there for you, Noll.”
The little man scowled. “Never flirt with a Lightmoor tavernkeeper’s wife.”
“Wrong lesson.” Colborn sat up and leaned forward, eyes fixed on the scout. “Push your luck too far, and you may find it runs out.”
Noll snorted. “That’s what you got from—”
“Your watch, Noll.” Aravon spoke up. “Time to replace the Secret Keeper and Seiomenn.”
Mumbling under his breath, Noll stood and headed away from the fire to relieve Zaharis and Rangvaldr. Colborn followed suit, pausing only long enough to fix Belthar with a meaningful look. Gratitude shone in the big man’s eyes as he sat in silence, his fingers twirling the braided thong around his wrist.
Aravon couldn’t help wondering at the meaning behind the bracelet. Just one more of Belthar’s mysteries. He hadn’t forgotten about the secret tunnel at Ironcastle and Belthar’s skills at breaking and entering, but he would leave it alone until the big man felt comfortable. Noll’s poking and prodding, even if it was the sort of well-intentioned, spirited ribbing between comrades, wouldn’t help the situation.
A few moments later, Zaharis and Rangvaldr returned to the fire, rubbing their hands and taking the seats recently vacated by Noll and Colborn. The Secret Keeper dug into his pack and produced a bundle of rations, which he set about eating with relish despite their bland taste. Aravon made it a point not to watch—he had seen the mangled stump of Zaharis’ tongue, carved out by his order of priests, enough for one lifetime.
He found his eyes drawn to Rangvaldr, instead. From the moment he’d met the Seiomenn, he’d been drawn to the man. Not only the authority he emanated in his role as holy man and loremaster of the Eyrr, but the way he seemed at ease with his place in the world—a world that had grown increasingly more violent, threatening his home and clan in the process.
Rangvaldr had fought to protect his home, yet all the bloodshed, death, and suffering hadn’t diminished his merriment or put a damper on his upbeat nature. He had knelt over the bodies of slain comrades one moment, then smiled at his surviving friends and family the next. That was something Aravon, languishing under the burden of guilt over Draian’s death and now his mission to rescue Rivergate, envied immensely.
“Be careful, Captain.” Rangvaldr’s booming voice interrupted his thoughts and snapped him back to attention. “It’s said among the wise women of my clan that men who frown too much go gray in the hair and in the mind.”
Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “They do, do they?”
Rangvaldr shrugged. “I personally believe it’s simply a wives’ tale. After all, look at me.” He swept a hand toward his beard and hair, flecked through with gray and white. “All my smiling and still I can’t stop the graying.”
Aravon couldn’t help chuckling. “I’ll try to remember that next time.”
A grin broadened Rangvaldr’s Fehlan features. “Knowing you, next time will come all too soon.” He took a bite of his food and fixed Aravon with a piercing glance. “Thoughts of our mission ahead weigh on you.”
Aravon nodded, but couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud. How could he tell his men he had no plan to free Rivergate? He was the leader of this company, and they trusted him to give them orders. They’d help him enact whatever plan he came up with—fiery hell, they’d likely improve on anything—but he couldn’t reach Bannockburn with nothing to go on.
Rangvaldr leaned back against the tree and broke off another piece of trail biscuit. “Let me tell you a story, Captain.”
“A story?” Aravon cocked his head. Perhaps the Seiomenn wanted to distract him from his worries with a fable.
Rangvaldr spoke around his mouthful of food. “About the Hveorungr, an ancient creature said to live in the wilds south of the Sawtooth Mountains.”
Aravon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The Eirdkilrs were monster enough without bringing fictional creatures to life. Yet, something about Rangvaldr’s enigmatic smile and his calm self-assurance stopped Aravon from retorting. He simply nodded and gestured for the man to speak.
“Legends of my people’s past tell of the Hveorungr, a creature that haunted men’s nightmares. The Hveorungr would find a man, latch on to his deepest fears, and nurture them, drawing its victims deeper and deeper into those fears until they consumed not only his dreams, but his every waking thought. And the Hveorungr fed on that fear, growing stronger as its victims weakened, until finally, the man would die, consumed from within by his own terrors.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “So this story has a lesson, does it? Not to let my worries or fears for our future consume me?”
Rangvaldr shrugged. “I was simply telling a story. But now that you mention it…” A ghost of a smile played at his lips.
Despite himself, Aravon couldn’t help a little grin as well. Rangvaldr’s smile was infectious.
“Listen, Captain.” The Seiomenn leaned forward. “According to the legends, the only way to defeat the Hveorungr was to face your fears and defeat them. In doing so, you deprive the Hveorungr of its strength, until it weakens away and turns to dust.” His expression grew solemn. “Your Duke told me of what happened to your men. You faced your fears and defeated your Hveorungr at Bjornstadt.”
“Hrolf Hrungnir.” Even the name left a bitter taste on Aravon’s tongue.
Rangvaldr nodded. “But the problem with the Hveorungr was that if even a small part of him remained, he would come back and find a new fear to latch on to. And, as my ancestors discovered, there were always more fears, so the Hveorungr always had a new source of strength.”
Aravon digested the words. “So it’s a constant battle to face our fears.”
“Right.” Rangvaldr took another bite of food, leaving trail biscuit crumbs dangling in his long, braided beard. “There will always be another fear to face. All we can do is keep fighting.”
His deep green eyes went to the map in Aravon’s hand. “You are not wrong to fear what will happen in Rivergate. Only a fool would go into that battle without a measure of unease. And you, Captain, are no fool.”
Aravon found the words, spoken in a tone of such confidence, surprisingly reassuring. He’d only known Rangvaldr a few weeks, yet in that time, his respect for the man had taken deep root. If Rangvaldr shared that respect…
“But you cannot feed the Hveorungr, my friend.” Rangvaldr gave Aravon a knowing smile. “If you do, it will consume you alive.”
“How do you do it?” Aravon asked. “How do you face the unknown ahead and not feel fear?”
“I feel it,” Rangvaldr replied in a quiet voice. “I, too, am no fool.” The humor flashed through his eyes and disappeared in a moment, replaced by earnest sincerity. “But it is my fait
h in Nuius that keeps me fighting.” His hand went to his shirt, and he drew out the glowing blue pendant hanging around his neck. “I have only to look down and see the work of his hand. I have only to close my eyes and listen, and I hear his voice.”
“You…hear him?” Aravon couldn’t help his incredulity. Seiomenn like Rangvaldr were the loremasters, priests, and wisemen of the Fehlan clans, the equivalent to the Swordsman Adepts, Secret Keepers, Lecterns, and other priests that served the Thirteen gods of Einan. Yet only the highest-ranked priests ever claimed to hear the words of their gods directly. Aravon had spent his life serving the Swordsman, god of heroes, yet he had never come close to actually hearing the god’s voice.
“Not like I hear you now.” With a chuckle, Rangvaldr tucked the pendant back beneath his leather armor and undertunic. “But there is a feeling, in here.” He tapped his chest, above his heart. “I do not need to hear a voice in my ears to know that I am heard.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. The sincerity that sparkled in Rangvaldr’s eyes and echoed in his voice was as fervent as anything he’d witnessed from any Princelander priest. A quiet faith, yet incredibly deep-rooted and genuine.
“When I feel the Hveorungr coming for me,” the Seiomenn said, a smile on his face, “I simply turn to Nuius with my fears. That is enough, for I know I am heard. And that knowledge banishes the fears and starves the Hveorungr.” He fixed Aravon with a meaningful look. “Perhaps that might work for you, too.”
Aravon nodded. “Perhaps.”
Silence stretched on around the campfire, broken only by the sound of Belthar’s ponderous snoring and Snarl’s quiet whining. Rangvaldr leaned back against his tree and set about finishing his evening meal, that knowing smile still fixed on his lips. Yet, he made no attempt to belabor his point with Aravon. He’d said his piece and knew to leave well enough alone.
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