A thousand dire scenarios flashed through Aravon’s mind. The Eirdkilrs and Jokull had stormed the inner keep and overwhelmed the defenders. The enemy had somehow managed to cross the Standelfr and now surged toward their position, a howling wall of fury and steel. Rivergate had fallen, the people slaughtered to a man. The tone of urgency in her voice only compounded his fear.
No! He swallowed the surge of acid rising to his throat, tried to shake off the icy hand gripping his neck. He couldn’t allow himself to think the worst.
“What is it, Skathi?” Aravon forced his voice to calm, striding toward the archer at a fast clip despite his desire to break into a full sprint. He couldn’t let the Legionnaires of Topaz Battalion see him worried—even the slightest crack could shatter their faint hope of winning the battle.
Skathi pulled up short in front of Aravon, gasping for breath at her five-mile run. “Message…Captain!” she gasped. “From…Lord…Eidan.”
Aravon snatched the proffered strip of paper—thin and lightweight enough to be rolled into one of the message tubes secured to an Enfield’s collar—and tried to read it in the faint light. Growling in frustration, he hurried toward the Legion encampment, leaving Skathi panting and leaning on her knees behind him. He only stopped when he drew within the illumination of a nearby brazier and could finally read the message.
The words, scrawled in Lord Eidan’s neat, precise handwriting, sent a chill down his spine. “Rivergate’s supplies exhausted,” the message said. “People starving. Break the siege, or the garrison falls.”
Chapter Sixteen
Dread coiled like a serpent in Aravon’s gut. It can’t be!
Crumpling the note in his hand, he raced back to Skathi. “When did you get this?” he demanded. “And how?”
“Less than an hour ago.” The archer had recovered enough wind to speak without gasping. “Skyclaw delivered it.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Skyclaw?” His mind raced. The Duke’s personal Enfield, here?
Skathi spoke quickly. “He found me in my hiding place by the river, delivered the message, and took off. I don’t think Woryn or any of the other Legionnaires noti—”
“What is Skyclaw doing delivering messages to you?” Aravon’s brow furrowed. Duke Dyrund had said the communiques would be sent to him, which explained why Snarl had been given to him as a kit, nestling, or whatever Enfield young were called. Aravon was the alpha of Snarl’s pack, so Snarl would always return to him.
“After the Duke saw how much Snarl took a liking to me,” Skathi explained, “he gave me this.” From beneath her armor, the archer drew out a bone whistle much like the one hanging from Aravon’s necklace. “And he took a bit of cloth with my scent, so his Enfield messengers could find me. He figured you had enough to deal with, and he wanted a backup in case…” The leather greatwolf mask hid her face, but an odd strain tightened her words.
“Of course.” Aravon nodded understanding. Draian’s death hadn’t just hit them hard; it had shown Duke Dyrund the real-life consequences of what had, until Bjornstadt, been nothing more than theory and strategy. If, Swordsman forbid, something happened to him, Duke Dyrund wanted to be certain he could get messages to someone else in their company. Necessary redundancies, given the dangers they faced.
“Did you read it?” he asked.
Skathi nodded. “Which is why I ran all the way here. Figured you’d need to see it on the double.”
Aravon’s jaw clenched. “And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it!”
He’d acted based on Lord Eidan’s intelligence, the report that the people of Rivergate had less than a week’s worth of food. He and his company had pushed themselves and their mounts hard to reach Bannockburn in just under five days, which left them one additional day for Colborn, Noll, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr’s crew to get in place for their attack.
The problem with any intelligence reports, whether carried by Legion horseback messenger or Enfield wings, was that circumstances could change in the space of hours or even minutes. Anything could have happened to reduce Rivergate’s supplies: unexpected food spoilage, rats in the storehouse, or simply hungry men, women, and children wolfing down incorrectly calculated rations. With no food, the soldiers of Rivergate would weaken. The inner keep would fall and the Eirdkilrs would slaughter everyone in the garrison.
But Aravon could do nothing about it. He could race after Colborn and likely catch up to the marching Legionnaires before they crossed the Standelfr, but then what? Their entire battle plan hinged on Colborn’s attack from the south, behind enemy lines. Colborn needed time to navigate the marshes and get into position. They had no choice but to wait until the following night.
From the grim look in Skathi’s eyes, it was clear she’d come to the same conclusion. The people of Rivergate would go hungry another day. Wounded soldiers would fall prey to their wounds, and the ill, weak, and very young could starve. And Aravon had no choice but to let it happen. It was the only way to save Rivergate, and it broke his heart.
He crumpled the message in his fist but resisted the urge to hurl it away. The action would do little to ease his frustration, the feelings of helplessness coursing through him. No, he needed to be calm, his attention focused on the task at hand. The only way out of this terrible situation was through.
Aravon drew in a breath through his nostrils and nodded to the archer. “Thank you, Skathi.”
“Of course, Captain.” Her voice was quiet, her tone subdued. “I’ll get back to my post, then, sir. Make sure everything’s ready for tomorrow night.”
“Good.” Aravon clenched his fists, fighting back the anger. He hated this feeling of impotence, of being forced to wait and do nothing while others suffered. Yet acting rashly now would benefit no one. “How go the preparations?”
“Slow, sir.” Skathi’s grip tightened around her longbow. “Woryn’s not a half-bad archer, for a Legionnaire.” A high compliment, given Agrotorae skill and their disdain of the few men of the Legion who tried their hands at archery. “As for the others, I’ve seen better, but I’ve seen worse, too. As long as there aren’t too many enemies…” She shrugged. “Best I can say is we’ll do our damnedest.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.” Despite the tension tightening his shoulders, Aravon forced his voice to sound calm, confident. “I’ve seen what you can do, and I have full faith that you’ll pull it off. Impossible be damned, right?”
“Bloody right, sir!” Skathi straightened and, snapping a quick salute, turned and padded off down the grassy hill, back in the direction of her post at Rivergate Bridge.
For long moments, Aravon wrestled with an overwhelming sense of frustration. He wanted to lash out—preferably at a lot of Eirdkilrs—but finally managed to get his anger at the situation under control. Every one of them was playing their part, doing their best to win a fight against odds they all knew were insurmountable.
If he gave in to the irritation, he’d be no good to anyone. But, he determined, he could channel his feelings of powerlessness into doing something useful. Right now, that meant helping Belthar make sure Zaharis’ building project turned out exactly as the Secret Keeper had designed it.
Turning on his heel, he stalked up the hill toward the Legion encampment. The din of hammers, saws, creaking ropes, shouted orders, and braying donkeys had grown steadily louder in the last few hours. At their steady rate of progress, with the remaining Legionnaires of Topaz Battalion to pitch in, Belthar should have the construction completed before nightfall.
That creation was the final piece of their puzzle, the critical element to their battle plan. Without it, Colborn’s men would be walking into a death trap. Aravon had to ensure it was completed and that, when the time came, every man and woman at his heels was ready to cross the Standelfr and hit the enemy hard. The people of Rivergate were counting on them.
* * *
“Captain Snarl!”
At the sound of his name—the alias he’d adopted fo
r interactions with the Legion—Aravon looked up from the wooden log he was busy stripping of branches and found Captain Lemaire striding toward him. The light of the bright noonday sun seemed to cast shadows on the Captain’s angular face, and worry turned the bags under his eyes a deeper shade.
The Nyslian officer drew closer and spoke in a low voice. “A word, Capitaine?”
Aravon released his grip on the one-man saw and nodded. “Of course, Captain Lemaire.” Gesturing for a resting Legionnaire to take over for him, he followed the officer out of the sawdust-strewn construction area. Sweat streamed down his brow and soaked into his undertunic, and Aravon found himself stifling beneath his heavy leather mask. Yet he dared not take it off, even to wipe his face. He hadn’t recognized any of the men of Topaz Battalion, but there were enough veterans of the Eirdkilr Wars that one of them could recognize him.
Captain Lemaire didn’t slow until the sound of whirring saws and rapping hammers faded to a muted hum behind them.
Aravon raised an eyebrow as the Nyslian Captain turned to him. “What’s the matter?”
“While I understand the need for all this—” Lemaire waved his hand at the strange-looking skeleton of logs, planks, and ropes that had sprung up overnight. “—I question the wisdom of keeping the men working through the night and day.” His jaw muscles worked. “Tired soldiers will be no good to anyone. And many are still recovering from wounds or illness, while the rest...” A grimace twisted his aquiline features. “Let us simply say I was not given the cream of the Legion crop. After all, until a week ago, Rivergate numbered among the Chain’s best-defended cities.”
Aravon nodded. The Legion sent new recruits to the strongholds less likely to see battle, allowing them to gain experience and train without putting them on the front lines. Their presence on the walls of the northernmost fortresses along the Eastmarch, Westmarch, and the Chain freed up the most able-bodied, experienced soldiers to join battle on the front lines.
“Most of the true soldiers went with your men across the Standelfr,” Captain Lemaire continued, his expression tight. “But if we push those remaining too hard, they may be too exhausted to join battle come nightfall.”
Aravon drew in a long breath, basking in the warmth of the morning air, the feeling of the gentle breeze cooling off the sweat soaking his body. He had joined the men working on Zaharis’ construction, filling his time with hard work to speed up the project. But they would be fortunate to finish before night fell. And, to have everything in place when the time came for their attack, every one of the Legionnaires remaining in camp would be needed.
Yet that didn’t mean Captain Lemaire was wrong. The Legionnaires hadn’t had a moment’s rest since the previous night, and they’d worked hard under Belthar’s watchful eye and barked orders. Strong men and trained soldiers they might be, but even they needed to rest from their labor in order to be fresh enough to fight the coming battle.
“I’ve received word from inside Rivergate, Captain.” Aravon spoke in a voice pitched low for Lemaire’s ears only. “Their supplies are exhausted. The food has run out.”
The officer’s eyebrows rose sharply, disappearing beneath the rim of his Legion helmet. “How could you—?” He cut off, as if he knew the question wouldn’t be answered. “You are certain?”
Aravon nodded. “If we rest, they starve. Their only hope is for us to be ready for tonight’s attack. That means every one of us working to complete this.”
For long moments, Captain Lemaire’s eyes remained fixed on Aravon, his expression pensive. Suddenly, he whirled and stalked toward the building area. “Put your backs into it!” he shouted over the sound of hammers and saws. “This thing will not build itself, mes Légionnaires!” As he moved, he stripped off his heavy officer’s cloak, helmet, and unbelted his weapons. He reached the spot Aravon had recently vacated and, seizing a saw, set to work with abandon.
Aravon smiled behind his mask. Many commanders he’d met would have simply driven their men harder; it was a mark in Captain Lemaire’s favor that his response was to pitch in and toil alongside his men.
The smile faded as Aravon studied the ever-expanding framework of Zaharis’ project. It had begun to take shape, slowly at first, but more quickly now that he’d recruited able-bodied men from Bannockburn to join the Legionnaires bending their backs to the task.
Belthar moved among the working soldiers, calling orders, throwing his shoulder beneath heavy logs, and pulling on ropes that creaked beneath heavy burdens. His huge muscles and strong hands made him perfectly suited to the task—finesse might not be his strong suit, but they had carpenters for that.
Aravon’s eyes roamed toward the only figure in the encampment larger than Belthar. The Corporal, Balegar, matched Belthar’s tireless pace. Together, the two men hoisted a log that would have taken a team of horses and a rope winch to lift, settling it into place with loud grunts of effort. Working side by side, likely competing with each other under the guise of their task, they stood a good chance of actually finishing the construction.
Zaharis’ parting instructions flashed through Aravon’s mind. Instead of returning to sawing logs, he strode toward the huge man leading the project.
Belthar caught sight of him as he approached, and Aravon’s fingers flashed a silent request to talk. Nodding, Belthar called out one last order—“Shore up that beam before it crushes you, you damned fool!”—and marched toward Aravon.
“Progress report, Ursus?” Aravon used the big man’s code name.
Belthar’s shoulders tightened. “Some, but it’s not as fast as I’d like.” His huge head swiveled toward the toiling Legionnaires and he thrust a thick finger toward one man wearing the stripes of a Corporal. “We got lucky with Radalle over there. Father was a builder, taught him the tricks of the trade before he joined the Legion. A few of the others can swing a hammer without killing anyone. As for the rest…” He shrugged. “We’ll make do with what we’ve got, sir.”
“Good.” Aravon nodded. “The Duke sent word. Rivergate’s out of time. We have to attack tonight. Will you be ready?”
A long moment of silence elapsed, and Belthar’s eyes darkened in thought. Finally, he let out a long breath. “Not much choice, is there, Captain?”
Aravon gave a harsh chuckle. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. Have you had a chance to rest, grab a bite to eat?”
Belthar shook his head. “My hands are a bit full at the moment. Only way we’re going to meet the deadline is if we push all day long.”
“I know.” Aravon grimaced. “But I need you, especially, fighting fit tonight. Let the Legionnaires shoulder the weight of the work here; you’re far more useful swinging your axe than a hammer, especially against the Eirdkilrs.”
“All due respect, Captain,” the big man said, “but if we’re going to ask them to work and fight, I ought to do the same.”
“No question about it.” Aravon met Belthar’s gaze steadily. “Yet I need you to promise that you’ll take a few moments to rest and refresh yourself before we march out at sunset.” He held up a hand to forestall the big man’s protests. “You know what caliber of soldiers we’re fighting with. Good men, brave men, but can you truly say they’re a match for you when it comes to taking down Eirdkilrs?”
Belthar hesitated, but shook his head. “No, Captain.” Not a boast, simply a statement of fact.
“You’ve trained specifically for the battle we face tonight, but these men haven’t.” Aravon fixed Belthar with a stern gaze. “I’m not asking you to shirk your duties or lounge in comfort while the Legionnaires work. But I am asking—I’m ordering, if I have to—that you take care of yourself. Against the Eirdkilrs, you are Topaz Battalion’s best chance of staying alive. Got that?”
After long, silent seconds, Belthar nodded. “Yes, Captain.” Despite the tightness in his voice, Aravon saw a hint of something akin to mingled pride and gratitude sparkling in the big man’s eyes.
Aravon clapped the big man on the enormous, hea
vily-muscled shoulder. “Now, unless you’ve found one of those secret tunnels…?”
Belthar shook his head. “Nothing I could find here, Captain.” A shadow passed across his eyes. “But they’re supposed to be damned hard to find for anyone not a B—” Again, he swallowed his words. “—not in the know. I didn’t see any signs.”
Aravon fixed the big man with a questioning look, remaining silent for a few seconds to give Belthar a chance to expound. A wall had gone up in Belthar’s eyes, yet there was shame mixed in. The big man felt driven to keep his secrets, yet doing so left him guilty.
Finally, Aravon shrugged. “No tunnels, which means that’s our only way in. Let’s make it happen.” He turned and set off toward the construction area. “The people of Rivergate are counting on us.”
* * *
Worry twisted in Aravon’s gut as he glanced at the sky for the tenth time in as many minutes. The light of the setting sun bathed the wispy clouds in a glorious mélange of purple, orange, and red tinged with brilliant gold. Princelanders loved to say that the sunsets on mainland Einan could never match the beauty of Fehlan twilight. The descending sun filled the air with a glorious array of deep reds and fiery oranges, with hints of delicate blue and purple darkening the edges.
Yet all the beauty in the world didn’t stop Aravon from pacing a rut into the top of the grassy hill overlooking the Legion encampment. Fifty Legionnaires stood arrayed in ranks, their armor polished to glistening, shields forming a solid wall of red and gold that glimmered in the light of the setting sun. They remained silent, motionless, heads held high and backs straight. Waiting, as they had for the last half hour.
Yet Aravon couldn’t give the order to march, not yet. His eyes strayed toward the south, again. Nothing. No hint of wings high in the sky or a flash of orange fur blazing in the sunset glow.
What’s taking them so long? Why haven’t they sent word yet?
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