“But one among them stood tall. Gunnarsdottir, shieldmaiden and daughter of the Tauld chieftain.” Pride echoed in Rangvaldr’s voice, and a smile pulled up his lips. “She would not cower in her hut and wait for the Farbjodr to come for her, to tear her flesh from her bones and suck out the marrow. So, she devised a plan to defeat the Farbjodr. It could not be killed, but she had no need to kill it.”
“What did she do?” Belthar’s words came out in a whisper, his expression clearly enraptured by the Seiomenn’s story.
“Gunnarsdottir strode onto the battlefield alone, shield and sword in hand, and faced the Farbjodr with no one to guard her back.” Excitement sparkled in Rangvaldr’s green eyes. “The Farbjodr laughed and taunted her, but she would not back down. When it came for her, she fled, not in retreat to the safety of her home, but toward the icy heights of the Sawtooth Mountains. The Farbjodr gave chase, taunting her all the way. Steeling her ears to his mockery, Gunnarsdottir led him into a deep canyon between two cliffs, where the Svellberr River once flowed. There, she turned to face the Farbjodr with a smile on her face and a battle song on her lips. And there she fell, the Farbjodr’s claws in her throat, sword buried into its side.”
Aravon’s heart sank; a grim ending to the saga, as was the case with so many Fehlan legends.
“But as the Farbjodr feasted on her flesh, Gunnarsdottir raised her voice one final time and unleashed a mighty shout. Then the men of the Tauld appeared atop the cliffs, as she had instructed, and brought rock walls crashing down onto the Farbjodr. Seizing the beast’s massive limbs, she held it fast as the mountains collapsed atop them both, burying them forever.”
The sinking feeling in Aravon’s stomach gave way to triumph at Rangvaldr’s words. Despite impossible odds, facing a creature of nightmare, Gunnarsdottir had proven victorious. Even though it had cost her life, her people had won.
“Some versions of the legend say that Gunnarsdottir did not die that day,” Rangvaldr continued. “But that Bani claimed her before the ice collapsed atop her. For her bravery, he carried her to Seggrholl, where she waits to return on the day that Fehl most needs her courage and—”
“Keeper’s teeth!” Aravon sat bolt upright and sucked in a deep breath.
“Captain?” Colborn turned to him, brow furrowing.
Aravon’s mind raced. The idea that had sprung fully-formed into his head might work. Might. Whirling, he dug the map of Rivergate from within his pack, his movements almost frantic as he unrolled it and studied the city’s layout. His thoughts were a seething, chaotic mess, but the first hints of a desperate plan came into clarity as he stared at the map. Rangvaldr’s story echoed in his mind and filled him with hope.
“Yes!” He rolled up the map and raised his eyes to his men. Curiosity and worry etched into their expressions, but Aravon met their gazes with an elated smile.
“Mind cluing the rest of us into whatever’s going on in that brain of yours?” Noll put in.
“I’ve got an idea that could work to take back Rivergate.” Aravon’s grin broadened. “A crazy, suicidal idea that’s barely a hint of a plan, but if we put our heads together, we’ve got a real shot at winning this!”
“What are you thinking?” Colborn asked.
Aravon turned to the Lieutenant. “We need a Gunnarsdottir of our own.” A laugh burst from his throat at the incredulous look on Colborn’s face. “And I know just who will play the part!”
Chapter Twelve
Aravon reined in his horse as the village of Bannockburn came into view at the bottom of the hill. One by one, his men drew their mounts to a halt and turned their masked faces toward him.
“You all know your roles to play?” he signed in the Secret Keeper hand language. “Once we assume command, you’ve got your tasks.”
Six helmeted heads nodded assent. The fragments of Aravon’s plan—inspired, in part by Rangvaldr’s story—had come together over the last two and a half days of travel. Everyone in their company had contributed to the battle strategy and though plenty of details remained to sort out, at least each of those under his command knew their part of the mission.
Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon turned back toward the Legion encampment below. And it all begins with Captain Lemaire.
Worry tightened his gut; after his less-than-delightful encounter with Commander Oderus of Jade Battalion, he was leery of what lay ahead. But he had to take control of Topaz Battalion’s Second and Third Companies, and quickly. The more time wasted convincing Captain Lemaire of his bona fides, the greater the risk that Rivergate’s supplies would run out or the Eirdkilrs and Jokull overran the weakening defenses.
Aravon grimaced beneath his mask and, tapping his heels against his horse’s flanks, set the charger into motion. Colborn fell in beside him, flanked by Belthar, Skathi, and Rangvaldr, with Zaharis and Noll bringing up the rear. Down the hill they rode, seven faceless, nameless warriors wearing strange mottle-patterned armor and bearing the Prince’s personal seal.
A shadow wheeled above Aravon’s head, and he caught a glimpse of wide-spread wings and orange fur circling high over the Legion encampment. Snarl had been too energetic to remain in hiding, and the nearest tree cover had been more than a mile from Bannockburn—too far for the sound of Aravon’s bone whistle to travel. He could only hope Snarl didn’t tire himself out flying; they might need to get a message to Duke Dyrund, and an exhausted Enfield would serve them no good.
Bannockburn was a medium-sized town located at the crossroads where the Marshway intersected with the road that led to Bridgekeep, Westhaven’s westernmost fortress. Home to a few thousand souls, it thrived on the herds and cattle that grazed the hills north of the town, as well as the trade that flowed through on the way to and from Rivergate.
But Aravon’s course led east, away from the village itself and toward the cleared stretch of ground upon which the men of Topaz Battalion had made their camp. Though there were no trees to provide shelter from the winds, the broad swath of grassy flatland near the village made an excellent location for a camp. There, the sea of dull brown canvas tents spread out in the precise, neat layout universal to every Legion encampment.
Aravon rode straight toward the broad pathway that led to the heart of the Legion camp, mud flying from the hooves of their fast-moving horses. The sentries on guard straightened at their approach, raising spears and tightening grips on their shields.
One, a man bearing the insignia of a Sergeant with the unshaven jaw, broad face, and growling voice to match, held up a hand. “Stop right there!”
Aravon recognized the accent—Nyslians spoke in a rounded, flowing tone far softer than harsher Voramians or Praamians, or the clipped, fast-speaking Drashi—but not the man. Then again, he had only come in contact with Legionnaires from Nysl once, and that briefly during his years as a Lieutenant.
“Sergeant.” The mask muffled Aravon’s voice, but he’d learned—as they all had—to project their voices to get past the thick leather covering their faces. “Take us to Captain Lemaire.”
Without dismounting, he drew out the Prince’s silver griffin pendant and held it up to the Legionnaire. Sunlight glinted off the bright, shining metal, and recognition dawned in the soldier’s eyes. Clearly he, like the rest of the Legion, had heard of Prince Toran’s instructions to defer to them.
Yet still the Sergeant hesitated. Like any well-trained officer—even a non-commissioned one—he didn’t just follow orders blindly, no matter who they came from. Years of experience had apparently taught him to rely on his own intuition as well. His eyes narrowed and he fixed Aravon and his companions with an intense scrutiny that bordered on suspicious. But, as his eyes flashed back toward the pendant in Aravon’s hand, he seemed to make up his mind.
“Straight down the middle.” The Nyslian Sergeant stepped aside and motioned for them to pass. “You can’t miss him. Look for the oversized bruiser and Captain Lemaire will be the fellow in his shadow.”
Aravon cocked an eyebrow—an expression
rendered useless by his mask—but nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
The Legionnaire gave him a crisp, military salute as he rode past.
A familiar longing surged within Aravon as he cantered down the muddy avenue toward the Captain’s tent. He’d spent the last fifteen years of his life in camps like this, living in cramped tents, eating food that could barely be considered edible at the best of times, and sharing every part of his life with soldiers just like those around him. Men who sat sharpening their weapons, throwing dice, or napping in the shade of their tents, or watched Aravon’s silent company pass with curiosity burning in their eyes.
The clang of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed somewhere in the distance. On the western edge of the camp, the officers’ horses stamped at the ends of their tethering ropes. Soldiers swore, shouted, laughed, and barked orders—or, in the case of one unfortunate platoon, dug latrine trenches. Downwind of the camp, of course.
All around him, soldiers lived their lives for the only today guaranteed them, making the most of their life in camp, knowing that at any moment they would be summoned to battle. A battle from which many of them would not survive or walk away unscathed. This, Aravon knew, was the calm before the storm. He and his men brought the storm with them. By nightfall, this orderly encampment would be uprooted and packed as the Legionnaires prepared to march on Rivergate.
Sorrow tightened his chest. He’d been here before, had watched men laugh, shout, and doze one day and buried them the next. It never got easier, no matter how many times he lived it.
“Soldiers do as soldiers must,” his father had always told him. That knowledge filled their eyes with a grim determination, despite the smiles on their lips and the bragging, jesting words rolling off their tongues. The veterans of Topaz Battalion laughed harder, shouted louder, and boasted bigger than the raw recruits. They knew what lay in their futures and they were determined to squeeze every drop of life out of their day.
Yet, he forced himself to keep riding, to sit tall in his saddle. If he didn’t give the orders that sent these men to face death, Rivergate would fall. He would put his life on the line beside these men, for the sake of their comrades and the Westhaveners trapped in Rivergate.
He steeled himself as he approached the Captain’s tent, but his jaw dropped in surprise as he caught sight of the man standing guard at the entrance. Taller than Aravon, taller even than Belthar by fully half a foot, he was a towering wall of steel and muscle defending his commanding officer. He stiffened at Aravon’s approach and dropped a hand to his short sword—little more than a dagger in his massive fingers.
“State your business,” he growled.
“The Duke’s business,” Aravon said, though it took effort to keep the surprise from his voice. Even atop the oversized Kostarasar charger, he felt dwarfed by the giant of a man.
The soldier’s face creased into a pensive scowl as Aravon drew out the silver griffin pendant and held it up. After a moment, he nodded. “Captain!” he called without turning away. “We got company.”
Seconds later, a man—normal-sized, almost appearing small in the shadow of his huge sentry—strode from the tent. He took one look at Aravon’s pendant, armor, and mask, and gestured for them to enter the tent.
Aravon dismounted, which made him feel even slighter as he strode past the giant and followed the Captain into his tent. A simple tent, with only a cot, canvas camp chair, foldable table, and wooden chest containing all of his belongings. The only personal item was the round, wax-covered bottle tucked sitting beside the leg of the Captain’s chair.
Captain Lemaire stooped, retrieved the bottle, and poured wine into a tin cup. “Drink?” He held out the cup. “It is not the best white, but it is Nyslian, so it cannot be too bad.” He spoke with the same soft, rolling accent as the Nyslian Sergeant, and he failed to conjunct his words like Princelanders or men from the mainland’s southern cities.
Aravon shook his head. “Thank you, Captain.” He reached into his pocket and drew out Duke Dyrund’s letter.
Captain Lemaire scanned the letter—a simple message proclaiming Aravon’s right to command Topaz Battalion’s Second and Third Companies—glanced at the Duke’s seal at the bottom, and nodded. “Good enough for me.” He rolled up the letter and tucked it into the official Legionnaire dispatch pouch. “You are here to lead us to Rivergate, oui?”
“I am.” With deliberate movements, Aravon reached up and untied the two straps holding his mask in place. His face uncovered, he held out a hand. “You may call me Captain Snarl.” He’d grown to like the nom-de-guerre, an easy one to remember.
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure, Captain, but that would do the both of us a disservice.” Captain Lemaire’s mustachioed face grew grim as he shook Aravon’s hand. “It’s nasty business we’re facing. Three thousand enemies, and just the two hundred of us. Half of whom are greener than a ripe Anjou.”
Aravon shrugged. “From what I’ve heard of Nyslians, I’ve no doubt their metal will hold strong when it comes time.” He actually hadn’t heard anything particularly special about the men of Nysl—Princelanders held few mainlanders in high regard—but a bit of encouragement to the Captain could build confidence, which would trickle down to his Lieutenants, Sergeants, and Legionnaires.
“Your words are kind.” A smile broadened Captain Lemaire’s handsome, angular face. “I trust my men will do you proud.”
“Given it’s their comrades holed up in Rivergate, I’ve no doubt.” Compliments given, Aravon moved on to the matter at hand. “Have you scouted along the Standelfr?”
“Oui.” Captain Lemaire nodded. “I’ve had men up and down the river for ten miles east and west.”
“Excellent.” Aravon found his own confidence increasing; it seemed Captain Lemaire was at least fairly competent. “Have them give a report to my man Foxclaw. The little one at the back.” He used Noll’s code name—after adopting the nom-de-guerre of Captain Snarl for himself, he’d assigned similar sobriquets to the rest of his company.
The Captain shot a glance past Aravon. “Of course, Captain.”
“And I’ll want to see Rivergate Bridge for myself as well, once night has fallen.”
“Captain?” The officer cocked his head, curiosity etched into his aquiline features.
“I’ve the beginnings of a plan, but in order to know more, I’ll need to see the bridge personally.”
“As you say.” Captain Lemaire tugged at one corner of his dark brown moustache. “I will send Private Woryn along as a guide.”
“Good.” Aravon shot a glance over his shoulder. “Also, I need you to pass the word to your men that I and my men are now in command of Second and Third Companies.”
Again, Captain Lemaire’s brow furrowed, this time a hint of worry showing in his eyes.
“We’re not here to stay, Captain,” Aravon said. “But while we prepare for the battle at Rivergate, I need it to be clear to everyone that the orders I and my men give are to be followed immediately, without question.”
After a moment, Captain Lemaire inclined his head. “I shall make it clearer than Nyslian crystal, mon Capitaine.”
“Thank you.” Aravon fixed the man with a piercing stare. “And there is one thing I need you to understand, Captain.”
Captain Lemaire’s face grew serious, a shadow passing behind his eyes.
“I have no intention of throwing your men’s lives away.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice. “The danger we face, the monumental impossibility of the task laid at our feet, I fully understand the risks that you and those under your command are taking. And, we will be asking a great deal of all of you in the battle to come. We will all face certain death against an overwhelming enemy. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to give your men a fighting chance.”
Captain Lemaire digested the words in silence, his expression pensive. Like any Legion officer with battle experience, he had to know that Aravon couldn’t promise anything more. Men died in war, no matter h
ow much their officers, comrades, and loved ones wished otherwise. Yet there were two types of commanders: those who fought for an objective, and those who fought for their men. The mission always mattered, but a good officer knew not to let it outweigh the lives of the soldiers bleeding, sweating, and dying to complete it.
“Thank you, Captain.” Lemaire held out a hand once more. “That is all I can ask for.” The tension drained from his face, and he inclined his head. “I will assemble the Lieutenants so you can relay your orders.”
“Good.” Captain Aravon nodded. “And while you are gathering your men, I will speak to mine.” Replacing his mask, he strode from the tent.
Outside, he found his men had dismounted—all but Colborn and Zaharis, who hadn’t moved from their saddles. “Go,” he signed to the two. “But be back an hour after dark.”
“We’ll do our best, Captain,” Zaharis’ fingers flashed. “But I’ve always found Dragon Thorngrass to be notoriously stubborn.”
“Get what you can, then get back here,” Aravon commanded. “I need both your eyes and minds at Rivergate Bridge.”
“Yes, Captain!” Colborn saluted and, turning his horse’s head, galloped down the avenue toward the edge of the Legion encampment. Zaharis followed, and the two soon disappeared among the sea of tents and soldiers.
Aravon turned back to his remaining men; he, Noll, Belthar, Skathi, and Rangvaldr had their own tasks to attend to. His fingers flashed in the silent hand language, but Noll paid him no attention. Instead, the little scout was busy staring up at Belthar and the hulking sentry.
Belthar stood head and shoulders taller than Noll, yet the top of his head barely reached the giant’s eyebrows. The Nyslian sentry frowned down at the masked man, sizing him up just as Belthar did. Despite the size difference, the breadth of their shoulders were comparable, and Belthar’s heavy musculature was a match for the giant’s.
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