Hot blood stung Aravon’s eyes and he staggered backward, frantically pawing at his face. He managed to open his left eye just as a Jokull leapt high into the air, spear raised for a thrust.
The spearhead crashed against bright Odarian steel. Colborn’s sword hacked through the wooden shaft of the spear, the wrist beneath, and finally the man’s head on the return stroke.
“Captain?” Colborn shouted. “You good?”
“Blood in my eyes!” Aravon called back as he tried to scrub the gore from his mask.
“You don’t need to see to run!” A hand gripped Aravon’s arm and spun him around, half-dragging him back up the hill toward Rivergate.
“But Noll—”
“Rangvaldr’s got him.” Colborn was breathing hard, a sign of how exhausted the usually-robust Lieutenant was. “We’ve…got to look after…ourselves!”
Aravon allowed Colborn to drag him along for a few steps, his feet moving of their own accord as he wiped at his mask. Tears streamed from his eyes, washing out enough of the blood that he could finally see where he was going. He and Colborn had covered a third of the distance to the wide-open gate. Just thirty yards to go, and most of the Legionnaires had reached safety.
But, as his eyes snapped toward the two figures laboring up the hill, Noll stumbled and collapsed. Rangvaldr stooped, lifted the little scout to his feet, and hauled him along through sheer force of will.
Without hesitation, Aravon sprinted east, toward the two men. A loud curse echoed from behind him, but Colborn’s footsteps pounded along in his wake.
The Eirdkilrs were closing the distance to Noll and Rangvaldr fast, their long legs eating up the ground far too quickly for the two to reach safety. Skathi’s arrows whistled downrange, bringing down first one, then a second giant barbarian. Yet even as the shafts flew, Aravon knew the slow-moving Noll and burdened Rangvaldr wouldn’t escape.
Suddenly, a loud, high-pitched barking sound echoed in the night. A dark shape swooped down at the Eirdkilrs with a flap of feathers and raking talons. Blood sprayed from blue-painted faces and the Eirdkilrs cried out. A few slowed long enough to fumble for the bows still slung on their backs, but most were too focused on their prey to pay attention to the small, fox-sized Snarl in the darkness.
Aravon couldn’t see the Enfield, but hope surged within him. It didn’t matter that Snarl hadn’t delivered a message from Colborn—all he cared was that the little creature still lived!
Snarl’s attack slowed the foremost Eirdkilrs. Just a few steps, but enough to buy Rangvaldr and Noll precious seconds. And, in those seconds, Aravon and Colborn reached the pair.
“Need a hand?” Aravon shouted. Without hesitation, he bent, hauled Noll onto his shoulder, and whirled to race back up the hill. Noll’s armor was light—the alchemically-treated leather weighing far less than chain mail or Legion half-plate—and the scout himself was short, compact, the result of years spent in the saddle. Though Aravon’s lungs burned and fire coursed through his calves, he refused to slow as he carried his wounded soldier up the hill.
Aravon’s eyes fixed on the slowly lowering portcullis. He had seconds before it slammed shut and trapped him outside forever. Eirdkilr howls of delight grew furious, and the Jokull seemed to redouble their efforts to reach the fleeing survivors. Gritting his teeth, Aravon leaned into Noll’s weight and the angle of the incline, his boots churning the mud as he sprinted toward the gate.
The portcullis rose once more, and a rush of armored Legionnaires burst through the wicket gate. Thirty men of Topaz Battalion rushed from safety to form a protective shield wall around Aravon and Noll. Just in time. They’d barely closed ranks when a smattering of Eirdkilr arrows rattled against the shields.
Aravon staggered through the wicket gate, slipped on a patch of ground turned muddy with blood and heavy boots, and staggered to the side. He crashed into the wall but managed to remain upright, still clinging to Noll. He craned his neck and spotted Colborn and Rangvaldr stumbling into the city, followed by the brave Legionnaires. One at a time, the soldiers retreated through the wicket gate. The resounding BOOM of the dropping portcullis set the ground trembling, but filled Aravon with triumph. His elation doubled as the howling cries of the Jokull and Eirdkilrs echoed outside the walls.
Gasping, exhausted, Aravon sagged against the stone wall. Belthar materialized at his side, broad arms offering support and lifting Noll’s weight from Aravon’s shoulders.
“Hah!” Colborn fell to a knee beside Aravon, laboring for each breath. “Nice night…for a little swim…isn’t it?”
Rangvaldr, equally winded, snorted beneath his mask. “Always did love…the marshes after dark. So…peaceful and…quaint.”
Aravon shook his head. The two men were covered in mud from head to toe, and bits of marsh scum, water grasses, and swamp vegetation hung from their armor. “Glad to see…you enjoyed it.” He was too exhausted to laugh, and the exertion of running and fighting had amplified the ache in his chest. “Next time…we can send you both…alone.”
“Nothing like a dinner of raw fish…to lift a man’s heart.” Colborn recovered his wind first, though he remained kneeling, leaning on the wall beside Aravon. “Good to see you pulled this off, Captain. For a moment, you had us worried.”
“Worried?” Aravon shook his head. “Three thousand enemies against us? They never stood a chance.”
“Hear, hear!” Rangvaldr chimed in.
Aravon found himself fighting back a laugh. It held little genuine mirth. Before the mission, these words would be little more than bravado to push back worries over what lay ahead. Now, after the battle, they echoed the relief of men who had prepared to die and found they’d somehow come through the impossible alive.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A dark shape materialized before Aravon, and he looked up to see Zaharis standing over him. “Sorry, Captain,” the Secret Keeper signed. “I’d have done more to cover your asses, but I used up everything alchemical I had to make that fire and to get out of the marshes alive.”
“Are you kidding?” Noll’s voice echoed from where the scout lay on the ground, Belthar hovering over him. “You set the bloody marsh on fire! That’s more than enough where I’m concerned. Besides, I had my own special guardian watching over me.” His masked face lifted as Skathi rushed down the steps toward them. “See?” he told the archer. “I knew you liked me!”
Skathi snorted beneath her mask. “Dream on, little man. I just didn’t want our only healer to wind up dead. Belthar’s got a scratch that needs looking after.”
Noll muttered something under his breath, muffled by his mask, but Belthar perked up.
Aravon studied the archer. She still held her longbow, and only a single arrow remained in her quiver. However, she appeared unharmed, concern for her companions foremost in her mind.
Belthar’s scratch, however, was far worse than Skathi’s flippant tone hinted. The big man had a long gash running down the side of his face, across his jaw, and along his neck. Aravon sucked in a quiet breath—the wound had come within a finger’s breadth of slicing the artery. Only the Swordsman’s grace kept him alive.
“Stonekeeper.” Aravon addressed Rangvaldr by his code name. “Get Ursus and Foxclaw somewhere out of sight and see what you can do for their wounds.”
Rangvaldr nodded. “Of course, Captain Snarl.” No question echoed in his voice; he knew as well as Aravon that the secret of the Eyrr holy stones was one best kept precisely that.
Aravon turned to Skathi. “Redwing, get back across the Standelfr and get word to Bannockburn as quickly as possible. We need those supplies here yesterday.”
“Aye, Captain.” Skathi stood and, with only a quick glance at the departing Belthar, Rangvaldr, and the injured Noll, hurried north, deeper into Rivergate, in the direction of their makeshift barge bridge.
“Need something for the pain, Captain?” Zaharis signed.
Aravon grimaced as he climbed to his feet. “If you’ve got it, I’ll take it.”
He’d gotten off lucky in this battle—despite the throbbing ache in his chest, he considered a single semi-grievous wound good fortune. Better than far too many Legionnaires.
“I’ll get something mixed up. But first, I’ll go see if I can do anything for Noll and Belthar.”
Aravon nodded. “Thank you.”
With a little salute, Zaharis strode off in the direction Rangvaldr, Belthar, and Noll had gone.
“Captain.” Colborn’s voice was quiet beside Aravon, a solemn tone to his words.
Aravon turned a questioning glance on the Lieutenant.
“About the message.” Colborn actually seemed hesitant. “I know we were supposed to send it with Snarl, but I didn’t want to risk it.” He drew in a deep breath. “Too many Eirdkilrs and Jokull around by the time we got into position. Couldn’t take the chance he’d get shot down. I know it messed with your plan, but—”
“It is no matter, Ghoststriker.” Aravon gave a dismissive wave. “What matters is that you did what you needed to do. Impossible odds or not, you carried the day. And got most of your men back alive.”
“Yeah.” A heavy gloom seemed to settle over Colborn, weighing on his shoulders.
“How’d you do it?” Aravon asked. “How did you pull it off?”
“Zaharis’ fire did most of the work.” Colborn shrugged. “And Rangvaldr’s plan did the rest.”
“Plan?” Aravon cocked his head.
“Playing to the Jokull’s expectations,” the Lieutenant replied. “They’ve studied our tactics, like every other Fehlan clan, and they’d know that Legionnaires don’t flee unless they’re routed. That was all it took to lure them out, and the Eirdkilrs with them.” He let out a long breath. “I couldn’t be sure how many would actually give chase…if it’d be enough.”
“More than enough!” Aravon clapped the man on the shoulder. “Pulled more than half away from the city.”
“Good,” Colborn grunted. “After that, it was just a matter of hiding when the Jokull expected us to run.” He chuckled. “We’ve all had enough marsh scum in our mouths, noses, and skivvies for a lifetime. But there are plenty of places to hide if you don’t mind a bit of mud.”
Aravon chuckled. “Mud’s better than being Jokull fish bait.”
“Aye.” Colborn nodded. “But we couldn’t all hide...” His head seemed to droop, his spirits sagging.
“How many?” Aravon’s voice was gentle, firm.
A long moment of silence passed before Colborn responded. “Forty-five.”
The words struck Aravon a blow to his gut. He’d been an officer and leader of men for years, but losing men never came easy. “I’m sorry, Colborn. That can’t be—”
“Captain Snarl!” A familiar voice cut into Aravon’s words. “Just the masked man I was looking for!”
Aravon turned to find Captain Lemaire marching toward him. Beside him strode a lean man with a pockmarked face, neatly trimmed gray beard, and piercing green eyes. Behind the Nyslian Captain was the looming shadow of the giant, Balegar.
From the corner of his eye, Aravon caught sight of Colborn slipping off down a side street. He wanted to call after the Lieutenant, but Captain Lemaire spoke before he could.
“Capitaine Snarl, permit me to present you to Commander Rheamus.”
Aravon thrust a hand—still covered in Eirdkilr blood—toward the Commander of Topaz Battalion. “Commander.” If he offered a Legion salute and a “sir”, it would establish Rheamus’ authority over him. This way, he showed the man respect while tacitly sidestepping the matter of who, precisely, was in command here. Now that the battle had ended, he had no reason to wrest control from the Commander, Prince’s orders or no.
Commander Rheamus fixed him with a stern scrutiny, suspicion plain in his eyes and weathered face. His brow furrowed, pulling his thick, close-cropped hair into a perfectly straight line. After a long moment, he accepted Aravon’s hand. “Captain Snarl, it seems Rivergate is in your debt.”
“Just doing our job, Commander.” Aravon shrugged.
“Indeed.” Commander Rheamus’ green eyes flashed to Captain Lemaire, then back to Aravon. “You’re the Prince’s special envoys, yes? The ones mentioned in the official dispatch we received last month?”
Aravon nodded. “That’s us.” He drew out the Prince’s silver pendant and held it up just long enough for the Commander to get a good look before tucking it away.
“According to the Prince, we’re to defer to your orders.” The words seemed to rankle, but there was only a hint of grimace on the man’s face. He, it seemed, had swallowed the news of Aravon’s authority far more easily than Commander Oderus of Jade Battalion. Perhaps the fact that Aravon had just saved his city made it more digestible. “What are they, exactly? Other than doing our jobs and holding the walls against the howling bastards outside.”
Aravon chuckled. “Seems you’ve got things under control again, Commander. I doubt you’ll need us to do anything more than sit back and let you handle things. Though I might advise you to send a message west to Bridgekeep, warn them the Eirdkilrs might try something there.”
“Understood.” Rheamus actually looked relieved; he had no idea who “Captain Snarl” truly was beneath the mask, and a Commander of Rheamus’ years likely loathed the idea of answering to someone younger and less experienced. With a nod to Aravon, he turned to Captain Lemaire. “We owe your boys of Second and Third Companies for what they did. It’s only right you lot get the pleasure of stringing the fish-fuckers up and hanging them from the walls.”
Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “Commander?”
Commander Rheamus’ head swiveled back to Aravon, a slim gray eyebrow cocked.
“You’re ordering the Jokull executed?” Aravon asked.
“Best way to deal with them.” Rheamus nodded. “Nothing sends a message to the bastards like the sight of a few score bodies stripped and strung up. And, after everything the lads have endured these last days, they’ll settle for nothing less than blood!”
“Commander, these men surrendered in good—” Aravon began.
“All due respect,” Rheamus said in a voice that held next to none, “I’ve been holding Rivergate for the better part of a decade, which means I’ve had to deal with these reavers every day since.” His words dropped to a low growl, anger darkening his eyes. “The only way to stop the attacks is to send a clear message in blood.”
“That message, Commander, will only make the Jokull hate us more.” Aravon’s jaw clenched and he straightened, meeting the officer’s eyes without hesitation. “Every one of the men who surrendered is someone’s son, father, or brother. If we kill them here, all of the Fehlans still howling outside these walls will have twice as much reason to continue the war.”
“They’ve already made their stance clear, Captain Snarl.” Rheamus’ tone was measured, tinged with barely-restrained anger. “They threw in their lot with the Eirdkilrs against us. There’s only one answer to a statement like that.”
“No, there’s not!” Aravon stepped closer, looming a full half-hand taller than the Commander. “Answering cruelty with more cruelty will only continue this war long after the Eirdkilrs are defeated. Fehl will never know peace if we keep killing each other.”
“Peace!” Commander Rheamus snorted and threw up his hands. “The words of a dreamer, not a soldier. You’re Duke Dyrund’s man through and through, no doubt about it.”
“And proud of it.” Fury blazed within Aravon’s chest. His fists clenched by his sides, but he bit back a sharp retort. “I understand that you are angry, Commander,” he finally said through clenched teeth. “I would be, too, if I watched my city burned and my men slaughtered.”
Aravon had been angry after Hrolf Hrungnir slaughtered his men on the Eastmarch. Had it been the Eyrr that killed them rather than the Eirdkilrs, he might not have been able to hold his peace or join the battle in Bjornstadt. But that was beside the point. At the moment, all that mattered was preventing Commander Rheamus from slaughtering Jok
ull who had surrendered.
“If you kill them,” Aravon insisted, “there’s no chance we’ll ever put an end to the war or convince the Jokull we’re anything but the monsters they believe us to be.”
The Legion Commander’s jaw muscles worked. “So what, pray tell, do you suggest we do?” he growled, eyes blazing.
“Imprison them.” Aravon met the Commander’s eyes, pouring every shred of authority into his gaze. “And send word to the Prince in Icespire. Let him decide what to do.”
Commander Rheamus’ eyes narrowed, and Aravon could see the wheels in the officer’s mind turning. Prince Toran was commander-in-chief of all military forces—Legion, ducal regulars, and irregulars—in the Princelands. Technically. The Prince usually left matters of war up to his two Generals, Vessach and Tinian, with the five Dukes as advisors. Commander Rheamus received his orders from Vessach, general in charge of the war’s western theater, not the Prince. To a military man, Prince Toran was nothing more than a politician, one who ought to spend his time focused on running his kingdom and leave battles and strategy to “men of war”.
But sometimes “men of war” needed “men of peace” to restrain them. Duke Dyrund had impressed upon Aravon the importance of what came after the Eirdkilrs were driven off Fehl, a belief shared by Prince Toran. And if that belief could spare a few hundred Fehlan lives and pave the way to potentially opening negotiations with the Jokull clan, it was one Aravon would choose to espouse in front of Commander Rheamus.
Long moments passed as Aravon locked eyes with Commander Rheamus. He had the authority to simply order the man to carry out his instructions, but if he did that, he ran the risk that he’d have to stay in Rivergate to see it was enforced. But if the Commander chose to heed, even if he felt he had no choice, Aravon could trust it would be carried out. Career soldiers like Rheamus rarely survived long if they disobeyed orders.
Finally, Commander Rheamus nodded—little more than a tiny jerk of his head, but grudging acknowledgement flashed in his eyes. Grunting, he turned and stalked off north, back toward the inner keep.
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