Colborn’s hand tugged at Aravon’s collar again and he gestured at the Legionnaire. “But sho…sho doesh he!”
The Legionnaire had skin far darker than Colborn’s, and his features—either Praamian or Voramian—bore little resemblance to the Lieutenant.
“It’sh the a…armor.” A hiccup interrupted Colborn’s words, accompanied by a noisy belch that blasted alcohol-soaked breath in Aravon’s face. “M-My armor! I wore that, too. Sho long. Y-Yearsh. But all the time, I looked like him. Why, Captain?”
The question caught Aravon by surprise. “Why what, Colborn?”
“Why?” Colborn shook his head. “Why did I do that?”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Do what?”
“Kill them!” Colborn’s shout echoed off the stone walls, setting Aravon’s ears ringing. “I killed them! And they look like me. Just like me.” He shook the jug hard, splashing brandy across Aravon’s face, but his eyes were locked on the dead Jokull. “Just like me,” he said in slurred Fehlan. “But they’re not, are they? No one’sh like me.”
Aravon’s gut tightened. Rangvaldr had warned him that Colborn might struggle with killing Jokull—Fehlans, just like him. He’d intended to speak to the Lieutenant but hadn’t gotten the chance before Colborn departed. Now…
Colborn’s face whipped around, his gaze locking with Aravon’s, and a wild light entered his eyes. “You can’t undershtand, Captain!” he shouted. His grip tightened around Aravon’s armor, pulling the collar so tight it cut off Aravon’s breath. “No one can!”
Aravon sighed. “Forgive me, Colborn.” Twisting in his crouch, he threw a quick hooked punch to the drunken man’s face. The blow rocked Colborn’s head to the side and spun him around. The strike, which the half-Fehlan Lieutenant might have shrugged off under normal circumstances, dropped him hard. He flopped to his back and lay still, covered in mud and the blood of the Fehlan and Princelander seated beside him.
Aravon checked Colborn’s pulse. Slightly accelerated by the effects of the potent liquor, but otherwise steady.
“Belthar.” Aravon spoke without turning away from the prone Lieutenant. “Help me with him, will you?”
Heavy footsteps sounded behind Aravon and Belthar appeared at his side. With careful movements, the big man stooped and picked up Colborn. The half-Fehlan Lieutenant was tall, only a few inches shorter than Belthar with broad shoulders, but Belthar carried him like a mother cradled an infant.
“Noll, find us somewhere quiet.”
The little scout slipped out of the alleyway and took off down the street, glancing into the open doorways of burned and crumbling homes until—
“This one!” Noll gestured to a house built of stone rather than wood. The door had been smashed off its hinges and the furniture inside destroyed by the rampaging Eirdkilrs and Jokull, but at least the structure was sound. And, as Aravon discovered as he entered, the straw-tick mattress had only been slashed, not scattered.
“Set him down there.”
Belthar lowered Colborn gently onto the pile of straw.
“Allow me, Captain.” Rangvaldr knelt beside Colborn’s head and drew out his pendant. The Seiomenn pressed the pendant to his lips and whispered quiet words, and the blue gemstone began to glow with an inner light. The soft azure brilliance bathed Colborn’s face and lit up the darkened room as Rangvaldr touched the stone to the Lieutenant’s bearded jaw. After a few long seconds, he removed the still-glowing pendant and tucked it beneath his armor. “That will ease the pain, at least a little.”
Zaharis produced a small pouch from within his oilskin pack. “Water,” he signed to Belthar. The big man took off, and Zaharis turned back to Aravon. “It’d dissolve better in wine, but I think he’s had enough for one night.”
When Belthar returned, he carried a Legion-issue canteen half-filled with water. Nodding his thanks, Zaharis dropped in two pinches of the dark brown powder. After a vigorous shake, he held it out to Aravon.
“Drink half,” he signed one-handed. “Give him the rest when he wakes. It won’t take the pain away completely, but it’ll help.”
Aravon accepted the canteen. “Thank you.” He turned to the four men in the small stone house. “I’ll stay with him. You’ve earned some downtime. Go, enjoy it while you can.”
“Not much trouble we can get up to while wearing these.” Noll gestured to the leather greatwolf mask. “Makes it mighty hard to drink.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Belthar clapped a huge hand on the scout’s back, hard enough to knock Noll forward a step. Together, the two of them turned to leave.
“Given Colborn’s current condition, maybe a drink’s not our best choice,” Zaharis signed.
“Hey, just because he can’t hold his liquor, that doesn’t mean we’re all going to end up…” Noll’s voice faded as he and Belthar strode from the house, the Secret Keeper a step behind.
Rangvaldr hesitated, worry in his eyes.
“Go,” Aravon told him. “If you don’t want to drink, at least you can get a few hours of rest.”
“And you, Captain?” Rangvaldr cocked his head.
“I’ll stay with him.” Aravon lowered himself to a seat beside the pile of straw. “As his Captain, it’s my duty to see to him.”
“But perhaps more than just his Captain, yes?” The Seiomenn’s tone was kind, filled with concern. He stared down at the half-Fehlan Lieutenant. “The counsel of a friend may go a long way towards calming the tempest raging within him. He carries a great many weights, not just those of war. Sometimes, it does a man good to know he is not the only one struggling beneath a heavy load.”
Aravon nodded. “Go, Rangvaldr. Rest, for only the gods know what tomorrow will bring.”
“May the words of Nuius flow through your lips, Captain.” With a little bow, Rangvaldr turned and strode from the house, leaving Aravon alone with the unconscious Colborn.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Colborn’s groan snapped Aravon awake. He sat upright, dragging himself back into wakefulness despite the sleep that hung heavy on his eyelids.
“C-Captain?” Colborn’s words were thick, his voice still tinged by the receding effects of the alcohol. “Wha—” He grimaced, a hand rising to his jaw. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Sitting in that alley, drinking…” He drew in a deep breath. “…talking to corpses?”
Colborn’s heavy, bearded face creased into a frown. After a moment, his eyes widened a fraction and his gaze darted up to Aravon. “Keeper’s teeth!” he groaned, and slumped back against the wall. “So I didn’t dream that.”
Aravon shook his head.
Colborn’s eyes darted around the small, sparse room. “Which means the others—?”
Aravon nodded. “They were the ones who came and got me.”
A shudder ran down Colborn’s spine and he pressed a hand to his eyes. “Of course.” Shame set his cheeks flaming red hot. “Of course that’s how you all had to see me.”
Aravon hesitated, uncertain how to broach the subject that had weighed on him all night. He’d expected Colborn to be reeling from the loss of so many of his men—fully a third of the soldiers under his command, a heavy toll for even experienced officers. Yet this, this was something Aravon had not been prepared for.
“Do you remember what you said?” he finally asked.
After a long moment, Colborn nodded silently.
“Was that…the first time?” Aravon spoke in a quiet, gentle tone.
“Yes.” Colborn’s voice came out in a hoarse croak. “Never had to kill a Fehlan before. Never…” He drew in a shuddering breath. “…one of my own people.”
Aravon had never heard Colborn refer to Fehlans as “his own people”. In the few weeks he’d known the Lieutenant, Colborn had only mentioned his heritage once, on the only occasion Aravon had gotten him to speak of his past before the Legion. Even then, it had only been in passing, an explanation as to how he’d grown skilled at Fehlan wo
odcraft and tactics.
But last night, he’d seen another side to the usually stoic Lieutenant. The loss of his men, the effects of the alcohol, and the Jokull raider he’d slain in the alley had all combined to shatter the strong, composed façade. Perhaps this man, the one torn between two peoples, was the most honest version of Colborn he’d glimpsed yet.
“I always knew it’d happen. Always knew I might have to do it.” Colborn didn’t meet Aravon’s gaze, but kept his eyes down, locked on the leather mask he picked up from beside his bed. His fingers toyed with the material, traced the snarling wolf etched into the surface. “But knowing and actually doing it…” He shook his head. “I-I thought I was ready.”
“The fact that you weren’t doesn’t make you weak.” Aravon’s voice held no recrimination, no disdain, only acceptance. Swordsman knew he had struggles of his own; Colborn’s quiet words had helped him cope with the loss of the Mender, Draian, which had only compounded his guilt over Sixth Company’s fate. Now, it fell to him to return the favor. “What it does is make you human. Anyone would hesitate, question, feel pain at their actions. You?” He shrugged. “You just did it a bit…louder than any of us expected.”
He tried to chuckle, to laugh it off as a joke, but his words had the opposite effect on Colborn. The Lieutenant’s face went ashen, disgust twisting his features.
“Listen, Colborn.” Aravon spoke quickly. “What you had to do yesterday is something no one should be asked. If someone asked me to take up arms against the Legion or my fellow Princelanders, I don’t know if I could do it.” He thrust a finger toward Colborn’s chest. “The fact that you’re feeling it means you’re a good man. Only a good man would feel that pain you’re feeling now.”
“Pain!” Colborn snorted. “Pain’s all I’ve ever known. Why should this be any different?” His face twisted into a snarl and he lifted his eyes, blazing with fire, to meet Aravon’s. “All this proves is that he was finally right about me in the end!”
The vehemence of the Lieutenant’s voice surprised Aravon. He raised an eyebrow. “He?”
Colborn’s jaw muscles worked, but no words formed on his lips. Instead, his lip curled up in disgust and his hands clenched and relaxed a half-dozen times. When he finally spoke, his tone was little more than a harsh whisper. “He loved to say it, almost as much as he loved beating it into me.” His right hand closed as if around a sword hilt, so tight his knuckles turned white. “Said I was too much a savage to be a proper Princelander. A proper man. A hundred times, more probably, he threatened to drag me to the Chain and throw me across, back with ‘those ferocious bastards’ where I belonged. Nearly did it, more than once. He would have, if not for the fact that the Captain of his guard took a liking to me.”
He lifted his gaze to Aravon’s, and a shadow darkened his ice blue eyes, turning them the color of a storm-tossed ocean. “Leish, his name was. The Captain, I mean. A good man. Former Legion, returned home to Whitevale and took a post with my father.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. He’d never heard of anyone by the name Leish, but he knew only a few of the irregulars serving in the various duchies.
“Leish saved me more times than I could count.” Colborn’s words were quiet, his face a torrent of emotions. “The day he died, I did what my father wanted. I went south, lived among the ‘savages’. But they didn’t want me, either.”
Though Colborn’s voice never changed tone, something broke in the man’s eyes, his expression. His shoulders drooped and the grimace on his face had little to do with his aching head.
“No matter where I went, they only saw the Princelander.” He clenched his jaw. “And when I came back, all they saw was the Fehlan.”
“Belonging to both worlds and neither.” Aravon nodded. “An outsider among your own people.”
“Who are my people?” Colborn gave him a bitter laugh. “I’m no Princelander, not looking like this!” He gestured to his blond hair and beard, braided with bones in the Fehlan style. “And the one time I tried to seek out my mother’s family, they treated me the same way my father did.” He shook his head. “That’s why I took up the Duke’s offer to join. Not because I gave two shites about his mission, but because it meant I could be dead to the world.” Again, the grim chuckle. “Colborn of Whitevale is dead, and not a damned person will mourn him.”
“I’d mourn you.” Aravon fixed him with a piercing gaze. “And I know the others would, too.”
Colborn gave a dismissive wave. “You have to say that.” His expression grew cynical. “A Lieutenant who cracks under pressure’s no good to anyone. Especially not what we face.”
“Of course.” Aravon inclined his head. “And if I thought for a single moment that last night had cracked you for good, you would be no good to us.”
Colborn’s face turned hard, stony, his eyes glittering icicles.
“But the man I saw last night is a man burdened by the same things we all have to deal with.” Aravon held Colborn’s gaze without hesitation. “A man who faced an impossible situation and didn’t crack under pressure. You not only completed your mission, you got most of your men back in one piece.”
Colborn’s lips twisted bitterly. “Forty-five men lying dead in the marshlands might beg to differ.”
“But the eighty-five still living won’t.” Aravon drew in a deep breath. “After losing Sixth Company, I very nearly died. Not from the wounds, but from the burden of guilt. I told myself that I was the reason that the soldiers under my command were dead. Men I had marched beside and served with for years.”
Colborn snorted. “That’s idiotic.” He shook his head. “I read the reports of the ambush. No way your hundred could have stood against that many Eirdkilrs.”
“Four hundred and eighty of them.” Aravon’s jaw clenched; even after all this time, the memory still weighed heavy on him. The screams of pain, the pale faces of his slain men, the stink of blood and bile hanging thick in the air all remained to plague his dreams. “But is that any more idiotic than to feel the same guilt because you lost forty-five unarmored Legionnaires in a battle against nearly two thousand Eirdkilrs and Jokull?” He shook his head. “If anything, your casualty rate makes you a better leader than me.”
Colborn’s pale blond eyebrows rose a fraction.
“My point,” Aravon continued, “is that a good leader feels the deaths of his men. He doesn’t just write them off as casualties of war, but he does his damnedest to keep his soldiers alive. The way you hung back last night, stayed to the end to help me buy time for Noll and Rangvaldr, that proves you’re a good leader. Back at Camp Marshal, that first night training in the marshes, you said you never wanted command. Your actions over the last few days and your pain now, that’s the mark of a leader.”
Colborn’s expression grew somber, pensive.
“As for the matter with your heritage…” Aravon drew in a long breath. “I’m not the one best-suited to help you. But, perhaps the words of a wise man might help.” A smile tugged at Aravon’s lips as he remembered his conversation with Rangvaldr the night they left on the mission. “We fight a battle for peace, to put an end to the bloodshed on Fehl. Our hearts must be strong, and we must carry the burdens of our actions—all our actions—as our solemn duty. We were chosen by our Prince to bear the weight.”
The Lieutenant’s eyes grew dark. “And what if the weight is too heavy?” His gaze dropped to the wolf mask in his hands. “What if—”
“There is no what if, Colborn.” Aravon reached out a hand and gripped the man’s thick forearm. “We bear the weight because we must. Not for ourselves, but for the people of the Princelands, and the Fehlans. My people and your people.”
After a moment, the stony sharpness of Colborn’s expression softened.
“But remember, you do not bear it alone.” Aravon met the man’s gaze. “No matter your past, all that matters is the present. Now, today, you ride with friends at your side. Friends who would fight beside you and for you, against impossible odds.” He
thrust out a hand. “We are your family now, Colborn. The six of us. And together, as you proved last night, we can do anything.”
Colborn held his eyes for a long second, and gratitude brightened the shadows there as he returned Aravon’s grip. “Thank you, Captain.”
They remained like that, hands clasped, warriors and brothers in battle sharing a silent moment of camaraderie. Men who bore heavy burdens placed on them by their pasts, yet who fought on for the sakes of those they cared about.
Then the moment passed and Colborn released Aravon’s hand. A loud groan escaped his lips as he slumped back against the wall.
“Here.” Aravon reached for the canteen Zaharis had left him. “This will help your head.” Already, the ache in his chest—courtesy of an Eirdkilr axe—had diminished, thanks to whatever the Secret Keeper had added into the water.
Colborn accepted the canteen with a nod and, pulling out the stopper, drained it in a long pull. “Keeper’s teeth!” He spat, disgust twisting his face. “Warn a fellow next time, will you?”
Aravon grinned. “Consider it payback for letting me fight the Secret Keeper bare-handed.” He’d borne the bruises of that sparring match with Zaharis for long, painful days.
“I guess that’s fair, then.” Colborn’s grin was crooked, strained, but slowly the tension in his face faded. “Whoa!” He sat up, blinking hard. “Damn, that stuff really works!”
Aravon nodded. “We certainly don’t keep Zaharis around because he makes for great dinner conversation.”
Colborn gave him a laugh. “If that was the standard, we’d have to get rid of Noll, too.” His smile widened. “And Belthar, for that matter, especially if beer’s being served.”
Chuckling, Aravon stood and offered a hand to help Colborn up. The Lieutenant accepted with a grateful nod and pulled himself upright. He swayed, somewhat unsteady, and leaned on the wall for long seconds until his skin had returned from sickly, nauseated to its usual Fehlan pallor.
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