“Corporal Balegar!” Captain Lemaire’s voice sounded from beside Aravon. “Get Aterraign, Dellare, and the others here double time. Rayoque as well.”
The big sentry hesitated a moment, eyes still locked on Belthar, before snapping a crisp salute. “Yes, Capitaine!” His huge fist clanked against his breastplate and he strode off, lumbering at a surprisingly speedy pace for his size.
Aravon snapped his fingers, and the sound brought the enraptured Noll spinning around.
“Noll, liaise with the companies’ scouts and find out as much as you can about the Standelfr,” Aravon signed.
“Yes, Captain.” Noll’s nimble fingers formed the hand signals easily.
Aravon turned to Skathi. “Find out what sort of archers you can scare up among Second and Third Companies.”
A noise suspiciously akin to a snort echoed from beneath Skathi’s mask. “I’d be surprised if there’s anyone even half as good as Noll.”
The little scout straightened at the compliment, and Aravon could almost imagine the bright smile beneath Noll’s mask.
Skathi’s fingers flashed once more. “So none of them will be able to hit anything smaller than the Sawtooth Mountains.”
Noll’s hands formed the rude gesture Zaharis had taught them—one that Aravon had purposely avoided learning the meaning of, due to its extreme vulgarity—but Skathi had already turned away.
“Belthar, you and Rangvaldr get into Bannockburn and see what supplies you can find. Lumber, steel, iron, anything else we can use. If nothing, a few dozen axes. We’ll cut our own lumber if we have to.”
“Aye, Captain.” Belthar saluted—it was getting better, Aravon had to admit, and he couldn’t fault the big man’s enthusiasm as his fist thumped on the alchemically-treated leather breastplate—and hurried away, Rangvaldr beside him.
Aravon watched the two men go. The previous night, Rangvaldr had approached him with an unusual request: he wanted to visit the Mender’s tents and offer what aid he could to any ill or wounded Legionnaires. Aravon had seen the power of his glowing holy stones, the way they’d healed an Eyrr warrior on the brink of death. Yet he doubted the Menders, healers and priests of the Swordsman, would welcome “Fehlan magic”. Many Princelanders regarded the Fehlans as heathens, little better than savages. He’d determined it was best to keep the power of those holy stones a secret, for now.
We may need them yet, given what we face, Aravon thought.
He turned back to Captain Lemaire, who remained standing at the entrance to his tent, a worried look darkening his angular features. Aravon, too, felt the same concern over what lay ahead, despite his confidence in his men’s abilities to carry out their plan. Yet he couldn’t let it show. Even with the mask to conceal his expression, he had to exude assurance. Soldiers looked to their commanders’ examples, and even a hint of uncertainty or self-doubt in the battle that lay ahead could spell the difference between success and failure—death for not only the Second and Third Companies, but all in Rivergate.
Drawing in a deep breath, he strode into Captain Lemaire’s tent, removed his mask, and steeled his courage to relay his orders—orders that the military-minded Legionnaires would see as insane.
Chapter Thirteen
As Aravon had feared, the Standelfr River truly was as impassible as he’d been warned.
The fast-flowing river had carved deep into the earth on its way west toward the Frozen Sea. Cliff walls thirty feet high bordered the river to the north and south, continuing unbroken as far as Aravon could see—according to Captain Lemaire’s scouts, at least twenty miles east and five miles west.
Even if they could manage to build a boat and lower it to the river, crossing the Standelfr river would be next-to-impossible given the river’s racing current. They’d waste precious time and energy trying to fight their way across in little boats and trying to scale the thirty-foot southern cliff. And all that beneath the watchful eye of the enemy.
From his position in the trees clustered twenty yards from the northern riverbank, Aravon had a clear line of sight into Rivergate. Eirdkilrs with blue-stained faces and clad in the filthy white pelts of wasteland icebears rampaged through the city, filling the air with their howling war cries. Beside them, the smaller, ragged figures of their Jokull cousins set fire to wooden homes, brought down stone walls, and wreaked havoc through the shops and markets of northern Rivergate.
But not all of the enemy was distracted in looting and destruction. Of the two hundred enemies Aravon could see, more than half were focused on the wall of Rivergate Keep itself, surrounding it and keeping the Princelanders locked up. Another thirty held the southern end of the Rivergate Bridge—they might not have to worry about soldiers marching across the destroyed bridge, but whoever led them clearly wasn’t going to take chances.
Damn! Aravon gritted his teeth and let out a long breath. And here I was hoping they’d make it easy for us.
He turned to the little figure crouching beside him in the late-night shadows of the trees. “Well?” he asked. “Tell me Rayoque and his scouts found something.”
Noll grunted. “Maybe.” A long moment of silence passed as the scout contemplated. “It’s not much, but there may be a spot around ten miles upriver where we could get a few dozen men across and into Jokull territory. And I say may with extreme hesitation. I saw it myself and it’s going to be a bloody nightmare.”
“Can you do it, though?” Aravon stared at Noll, his gaze piercing. “Pretend our lives depend on it.”
“Keeper’s teeth!” Noll snorted. “Won’t take a thespian to pull that off.” After a second, he shrugged and threw up his hands. “Best I can say is we’ll do our damnedest. With the Secret Keeper, Colborn, and Rangvaldr, we’ve got a half-decent shot. If Colborn can handle the Jokull marshes like he handled the bogs back at Camp Marshal, it might not be totally impossible.”
From Noll, that was about as positive as it got.
Aravon shifted to his right, his head swiveling to the figure on his left. “Thoughts, Skathi?”
The archer’s eyes were fixed on the walls, buildings, and streets on the other side of the Standelfr River, across the crumbled remains of what had once been Rivergate Bridge.
“Range isn’t ideal,” she muttered at last. “Two, two hundred-fifty yards, at least. Belthar’s crossbow will handle it, but he’s no marksman. Even perched right on the cliff’s edge, I’ll be lucky to hit four out of five targets at this distance if I have to shoot fast.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. He’d never heard Skathi admit even a hint of inability, much less within hearing range of Noll. Yet the scout made no comment; he was far too concerned with his own role in their desperate plan to spare any scorn.
“From what I hear, Woryn’s not half-bad with a bow,” Skathi said. “He’s no Agrotorae, but maybe, between us, we’ve got a chance of picking off a few targets.”
“If Colborn’s crew play their part,” Aravon said, “a few is all we’ll have to worry about.”
Skathi nodded, though her expression remained unconvinced. Finally, she shrugged. “I’ll do what I can.”
Aravon clapped her on the shoulder. “Best I could ask for.” Without rising from his crouch, he scrambled backward, deeper into the densely packed trees that grew alongside the Marshway. Leaves rustled as he passed and twigs snapped beneath his feet, so loudly he worried the enemies holding the bridge would hear him. Tension tightened his shoulders with every step, and the darkness seemed to press in around him, adding to the burden on his chest.
Yet he forced himself to remain calm, to push back the worry. We have the plan, now it’s time to work it through to completion.
A hundred feet back from the forest’s edge, he reached the small clearing that he’d designated the meeting spot for his companions scouting the river. Zaharis, Colborn, and Rangvaldr stood waiting for him in silence. All three turned at his approach.
Aravon addressed the Secret Keeper. “Now that you’ve given it a good look, Zaharis,
do you think you can make it work?”
Zaharis inclined his head. “Between all the materials Belthar and Rangvaldr came up with from Bannockburn and what the Legionnaires can chop down tomorrow, it ought to come together well enough.” His fingers moved calmly, yet his unmasked face revealed far more worry than Aravon had ever seen. “But I’m not sure it’s best for me to leave this half of the plan to Belthar.” He shot a glance at the big man. “No offense, but building’s not exactly your strong suit. Especially not something this specific.”
Belthar’s face tightened, but he held his peace. Zaharis truly didn’t intend offense; he simply stated a fact. Thankfully, Belthar’s temperament wasn’t so prickly he couldn’t recognize and admit his limitations, at least to those he considered his friends. And, without Noll nearby, he didn’t have to worry about being mocked for any shortcomings.
“I wanted you here, too, Zaharis,” Aravon said. “But I need you with Colborn and the others. That half of the plan carries twice the risk and thrice the difficulty. Without you and that Dragon Thorngrass, they’d be going into battle with nothing more than steel.”
Colborn nodded and smacked the Secret Keeper on the back. “Your fault for proving yourself so damned indispensable at Broken Canyon and Bjornstadt.”
Despite the solemn nature of their discussion, Aravon couldn’t help a small grin. Zaharis’ alchemical “tricks” had given Jade Battalion a chance to retreat, preventing a wholesale massacre by the Eirdkilrs.
“We’ll make it work,” Belthar said. “I’ve already conscripted half a dozen Bannockburners into helping me, men who actually know their way around building tools. With Legionnaire hands to help, we’ll get it done in time.”
After a moment, Zaharis inclined his head. “So be it,” he signed. “I’ll get you the final plans shortly after midnight. Follow them exactly—” Fire flashed in his eyes. “EXACTLY, down to the inch, and maybe it’ll save you all from a watery swim.”
Belthar nodded. “Down to the inch.” His eyes flashed past Aravon toward the edge of the forest where he knew Noll crouched, a wry smile tugged at his lips. Mention of “inch” seemed to have given him an insult or retort to use against the little scout next chance he got.
Aravon turned to Colborn and Rangvaldr. “Think you can do it?” he asked. “Think you can get the better part of a hundred Legionnaires through Jokull territory in time to attack from the south?”
Colborn and the Seiomenn exchanged glances. They appeared calm, no trace of uncertainty in their eyes. Battle-hardened men both, with years spent navigating the Fehlan wilds—Rangvaldr as warrior and shaman of the Eyrr, Colborn as half-Fehlan of…Aravon wasn’t certain which clan. Yet, they both appeared confident in their abilities.
“Aye, Captain.” Colborn nodded. “We’ll get where we need to go.”
Aravon drew in a deep breath. “Then, by the Swordsman’s grace, we attack Rivergate tomorrow at midnight.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aravon sat beside the small fire burning in the center of their small camp, a hundred yards south of the Legion tents, and stroked Snarl’s fur absentmindedly. The Enfield was fast asleep, exhausted from a day spent circling the Legion camp and trotting through the shadowy woods after Aravon, Skathi, and the others scouting the Standelfr River. His wings gave a little flap in time with his scratching back leg, as if he dreamed of pursuing a particularly plump rabbit or tasty pigeon.
Despite his own fatigue, Aravon found it difficult to calm his racing mind enough to sleep. He wouldn’t get another chance until the following night’s battle had been won, but his whirling thoughts spun about in a seething, chaotic maelstrom that kept rest at bay.
Is this the right plan? He asked himself the question for the hundredth time. The rest of his company hadn’t come up with any better plan—though their additions to his strategy had increased their chance of success—but he couldn’t help worrying. There had to be something he’d missed, forgotten, overlooked, or simply didn’t know. The cleverest plans rarely survived the clash of swords. The last thing he wanted was to be caught off-guard or surprised in the middle of the battle.
Finally, he gave up any hope of rest and stood. Snarl didn’t so much as stir as Aravon extricated his feet from beneath the Enfield’s furry belly and left the comforting warmth of the fire. He couldn’t sit idle or rest with so much hanging in the balance. The only way to find peace was to get up and do something.
Maybe I can help Colborn. After a moment’s thought, he discarded the idea. Colborn didn’t need any help; the half-Fehlan Lieutenant might see his presence as interference, or an indication that Aravon didn’t trust him. That was the last thing he wanted. Colborn had proven himself worthy of Aravon’s confidences every time. Letting him do his job was the best way to ensure it got done.
Aravon welcomed the cool, dark silence of the night. Away from the fire, with the Legion’s main encampment three hundred yards to their east, the only sound he heard was the whistling of the wind, the gentle rustling of the grass that grew thick on the flat land. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, willing his mind to calm.
The sound of creaking leather and quiet conversation echoed behind him. Aravon opened his eyes and glanced back. Rangvaldr was strapping on his armor and adjusting the cinches on his leather breastplate, while Zaharis rummaged through the contents of the wooden chest he’d carried all the way from Camp Marshal. Noll sat beside the Secret Keeper, trying to peer around Zaharis’ body to get a glimpse into the chest’s contents.
“What’s this?” Noll held up a small object that looked like a studded metal ball. “Some sort of steel apple?” He shook it around, earning a frantic look from the Secret Keeper
“It’s called an Earthshaker, Noll.” Anger etched Zaharis’ face as he snatched it from the scout’s hand. “Shake it around too much,” he signed one-handed, “and we’ll all find out why it’s got that name.”
Noll’s eyes widened and he leaned back, as if from a striking serpent. “Damn, Zaharis, and you just leave that lying around?!”
“No, I don’t.” Zaharis’ jaw clenched, his face reddening with irritation as he stuffed the Earthshaker into the chest. “I’m trying to find the specific ingredients needed to save your ass once we hit the Eirdkilrs and Jokull. But you’re making it damned difficult and nearly getting us killed in the process!”
“Easy!” Noll threw up his hands in a defensive gesture. “Forgive me for taking interest in your ‘magic’, Secret Keeper.”
As Noll had no doubt intended, the jab struck home. Zaharis’ fingers signed insults that would have made even the hardest Icespire sailor cringe, and the scout’s eyes flew wide beneath the barrage.
“Whoa, Zaharis, take it easy.” Noll recoiled beneath the force of the Secret Keeper’s anger. “I was just playing around here.”
Zaharis breathed through his nose, his face a mask of fury. “Don’t you have some getting ready to do?”
“Nah!” Noll gave a dismissive wave. “I packed hours ago. Then again, I’m not carrying half as much stuff as—”
“Noll.” Rangvaldr’s deep, authoritative voice cut into the scout’s words. “Maybe we give Zaharis a few moments to himself, yes?”
“Sure,” Noll said, a hint of sarcasm tingeing his words. “I’ll do that.” Standing, he turned away from the Secret Keeper and strode toward Rangvaldr. He came to stand face to face with Rangvaldr—face to chest, more like, given that the Seiomenn towered over the little scout—his jaw thrust out in that stubborn, defiant expression of bravado he adopted when trading boasts with Belthar or trying to out-retort Colborn.
“Then again, maybe you explain what in the fiery hell you’re really doing here, eh, Seiomenn?” He spat the last word like a curse. “Oh, you talked a fancy game back in Camp Marshal, but I’ll believe you’re being straight when I see it with my own eyes.”
Aravon hurried toward the two men. “Noll this isn’t the time to—”
“No, Captain!” The scout whirled
on Aravon, the dim moonlight turning his scar bright white against the deep, angry red of his face. “Now is exactly the time. Now that we’re going into an impossible battle with him by our side.” He thrust a finger at the Seiomenn. “He said he’d have no trouble killing Eirdkilrs, but we’re going up against the Jokull as well.” He turned back to Rangvaldr. “Can you really swing your sword knowing it’s one of your own people dying at the opposite end?”
“If I must.” Rangvaldr’s face and manner was serene, yet his expression had grown serious. “The Jokull have chosen to align themselves with the Eirdkilrs. They have chosen the path of war and bloodshed.”
“And you’re all sunshine and smiles?” Noll snarled. He jabbed a finger into Rangvaldr’s chest. “Isn’t what you’re doing exactly the same? Killing them before they kill you!”
Rangvaldr met Noll’s fury with icy calm. “There are battles and there are battles, young man.” He leaned forward, looming over the scout. Yet no anger blazed in his eyes; instead, a deep, almost sorrowful shadow settled onto him. “I fight the battle for peace, to put an end to the war on Fehl. I and my people have no quarrel with the Princelanders. We want nothing more than to coexist, to share the bounties of this world with which Nuius has blessed us. But the Tauld, and now the Jokull, fight for the sake of war and death. That is why I fight. Peace not only for the Eyrr, but for all on Fehl. Fehlan and Princelander alike. Even the Eirdkilrs, if they managed to see past their hate and lay down their weapons.”
“Bloody little chance that’ll happen!” Noll spat.
“Indeed.” Rangvaldr inclined his head. “And that is why I choose to take up arms against those who were once my people.” Anguish darkened his expression. “Even as I grieve at the senseless death, I will do what I must to protect my home, my land. As do you. As do we all. That, young man, is the mission that unites us all.”
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 11