“I…” Colborn began, but nothing came out. He seemed to struggle to form words, to explain to the others the pain and emotional anguish that had finally been unleashed.
Rangvaldr stood and came over to stand beside the Lieutenant. “You are not alone in your struggle, Lieutenant.” His gaze locked with Colborn’s ice-blue eyes. “Perhaps your particular burden is one that none of us share. Yet we all wrestle with our own questions and inner turmoil.”
Colborn swallowed, hard, and his voice came out barely above a hoarse croak. “Thank you.” His usual stoicism seemed to give way before the Seiomenn’s gentle reassurance. “But you all deserve better than that mad, raving lunatic you saw last night.”
Rangvaldr shrugged. “We all process feelings in our own way.” A kind light sparkled in his eyes. “Perhaps not quite so…theatrical.”
Something between a strangled sob and a harsh chuckle burst from Colborn’s throat. His lips twisted into a bitter smile, which seemed to accentuate the bluntness of his Fehlan features.
“It is never easy for a man to take a life.” Rangvaldr turned to look at the others around the camp. “Harder still when it is one’s own blood being spilled.”
Skathi nodded, and even Noll seemed to agree with the Seiomenn’s words. Belthar’s face, however, grew hard, his expression darkening as if he, too, knew the toll such a death could take on a man’s soul.
Yet another layer to peel away, Aravon thought. The more time he spent around Belthar, the more he realized he had to learn about the man beneath the easy smile.
Colborn drew in a deep breath. “But, be that as it may, I vow that what happened last night will never happen again. No matter…” He swallowed and tried again. “No matter what enemies we face from here on out.”
Aravon nodded approval, and Zaharis shot Colborn a silent hand gesture of reassurance.
Noll threw up his hands. “Keeper’s beard, you think that’s what you need to explain?”
Colborn’s eyes darkened, narrowed.
“No!” Noll shook his head. “You need to explain why in the bloody hell you drank all the good brandy.” A grimace twisted his lips. “Thanks to you, Lieutenant, Belthar and I had no choice but to drink that rubbish rose wine Nyslians seem to love.”
“Like fruity piss,” Belthar grumbled.
“Worse than swill!” Noll snarled. “We need something with real legs, else we might as well just drink…” He shuddered. “…water.”
The shadows lifted from Colborn’s eyes and a small smile tugged at his lips. “Then next time I find myself drowning my sorrows in drink, I’ll make sure to stop while there’s still enough for you two.”
“That’s all any good soldier could ask for.” Noll punched the Lieutenant in the arm, earning a scowl from Colborn. He held up a hasty hand. “Er, sir.”
Colborn nodded. “Now, tell us what you found out about Turath’s death.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you spent all your time in Rivergate searching for something good to drink.”
“Not a drop, honest!” Noll’s crooked grin belied his words. “Even when the men of Eighth Company were raising toasts to the ‘Grim Reavers’!”
Aravon cocked his head. “Grim Reavers?”
“That’s what they’re calling us, sir.” Noll’s smile broadened until it stretched from ear to ear. “Seems it’s traveled from Anvil Garrison in the last few weeks. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
Colborn rolled his eyes. “Screw the name. What’d you find out about Turath, Noll?”
“Not a bloody lot.” The scout shook his head, his smile fading to a grimace. “A couple of Sixth Company’s platoons were watching that section of wall on the night in question, but they were more focused on the enemy outside the keep than anyone moving around inside. Didn’t see or hear anything, they say. No one noticed Turath missing until the next day, and he wasn’t discovered until after the battle ended.”
“So nothing we can use?” Aravon’s heart sank. He’d wanted to confirm his suspicions, to have something to relay to the Duke. But by the sound of Noll’s report—
“Well, there was the matter of the dagger wound.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “Dagger wound, after a drunken man walks off a parapet?”
“Mad suspicious, right?” Noll jabbed his thumb into his side. “While it’s not impossible for a man bleeding out from a thrust to the vitals to jump off the wall of the inner keep—”
“I’d say it’s pretty damned unlikely.” Aravon chewed at his lip, a hand stroking the non-regulation beard that had grown uncomfortably thick since leaving Camp Marshal. “You’re sure about the wound?”
Noll nodded. “Saw the body myself. All it took was a sob story about his being a relative of mine, and the Legionnaires allowed me to ‘pay my respects to my dearly departed uncle’.”
Aravon drew in a long, slow breath, letting his mind tug at the dangling threads of information. A dagger thrust to the side would kill a man in seconds, minutes at best. With the Legionnaires focused on the besieging enemy, someone with intimate knowledge of the inner keep could conceivably find a way to dump a dead body over the wall unnoticed. All evidence pointed to murder.
The question was why. Why had Turath been murdered? A quarrel with a fellow Rivergater, or was someone hunting the spies working for Lord Eidan and Duke Dyrund? And, if that was the case, how had the killer known Turath was the planted agent? More questions with no answers.
No way we can go back to Rivergate, not with Darrak there. That meant he’d have no way to dig deeper into the matter in person. All he could do was send word to the Duke and let him sort it out.
But one look at Snarl told him the Enfield was nowhere near ready to travel. Snarl had returned to the comfort of Aravon’s blanket and, after finishing off the scraps of grouse left for him, fallen fast asleep once more. He’d likely sleep until midnight, but he wouldn’t be ready to travel until morning.
Nothing we can do but wait, then. Aravon sighed, but he couldn’t feel too disappointed. Since leaving Camp Marshal, they hadn’t slept a full night through. Now, with the battle won and the threat passed, he and his company—the Grim Reavers, he thought, with a chuckle, what a name!—could afford to spend the night resting here. Come morning, he’d send Snarl winging off to the Duke with a message. They’d wait here until the Duke sent instructions on how to proceed.
As far as places to wait and rest went, they could be far worse off. The nearby thicket of fir trees provided ample cover for their little camp, as well as wood for their fire and soft boughs to use for a bed. With the warmth of the flames and Snarl’s furry body curled up around his legs, Aravon barely felt the night’s chill.
The campfire crackled in time with the gentle sound of splashing water. Moonlight gleamed on the little waterfall, dappling the ripples that ran through the small pond formed at the cascade’s base. The quiet rushing and the sight of the glittering water brought to mind a fond memory. Long ago, a much younger Aravon had snuck away with the most beautiful woman in Icespire to enjoy the peaceful beauty of a place much like this.
Thoughts of Mylena filled him with a familiar longing. A longing for home and family, a family he hadn’t seen in far too long. He’d grown adept at pushing them out of his mind when the din of battle or the duty of command occupied him, but it was in quiet moments like this that the yearning struck hardest.
He tried to distract himself by studying the people sharing the camp with him. Noll, who lay sprawled in his bedroll, already fast asleep. Zaharis, hunched over one of the Secret Keeper books he carried everywhere he went. Rangvaldr, lying with his back turned to the fire, doubtless trying to rest before his midnight watch.
Aravon’s brow furrowed as he studied Belthar. The big man’s fingers toyed with the leather thong wrapped around his wrist, yet his gaze drifted time and again to Skathi, who sat opposite him, fletching the arrows she’d spent the evening preparing. Aravon had seen the look in Belthar’s eyes far too many times—the man was
moonstruck.
I’ll have to have a talk with him. Skathi would set Belthar straight should the big man cross any lines—the archer could more than handle her own problems—but Aravon wanted to be certain it never came to that. Such things could interfere with the cohesion and solidarity of their company. Given the challenges they had faced thus far, they’d need to be strong, their unity as solid as the towering Icespire itself.
Belthar had drawn the last watch of the night, so Aravon would use the time alone for a private conversation. After seeing the reaction to Colborn and Zaharis’ words, perhaps Belthar would be willing to open up. If not to the entire company, then at least to Aravon.
But not yet. Aravon yawned, his eyelids drooping. Not until after a few hours of rest.
Snarl gave a little whine as Aravon’s movements disturbed his comfortable resting place. Yet he was more than content to snuggle under the blankets with Aravon, curling his furry body against Aravon’s chest.
Closing his eyes, Aravon allowed the emotions of the day and the worries for what lay next drain from his mind. His muscles seemed to uncoil, the knots relaxing and the tension within him uncurling. Snarl’s warmth and the sound of his breathing comforted Aravon, lulling him into a deep, peaceful sleep.
* * *
Snarl’s movement snapped Aravon awake. Even as the little Enfield leapt to his feet, Aravon was reaching for his spear. Years as a soldier had trained him to sleep light; he was awake and alert the moment his eyes snapped open.
Cool, silent darkness hung like a blanket over their campsite. The fire had died to glowing embers, the faint light barely illuminating the five forms sleeping in their bedrolls. Save for the quiet, merry splashing of the waterfall, no sound met Aravon’s keen ears. The shadows of the night were deep, with the moon already disappeared behind the western horizon and a thin cloud of fog blurring the glow of the stars above.
Yet Snarl was fully on the alert, his wings outstretched as if to leap into flight, his gleaming amber eyes locked on the sky to the east.
Then Aravon heard it: the quiet flap of wings, a rustling of feathers so quiet it seemed barely more than a trick of the wind.
A dark shape dropped out of the sky and landed lightly on the grass ten feet from Aravon. Another Enfield, with a thicker body, darker orange fur, and wings with lustrous golden feathers that extended nearly twice Snarl’s wingspan. Skyclaw, Duke Dyrund’s personal Enfield.
With a delighted yip, Snarl raced toward Skyclaw, greeting him with happy barks and racing around the older Enfield. Skyclaw, however, ignored Snarl. Instead, he padded toward Aravon and sat on his haunches, wings curling up around his dark orange-furred body. He barked, deeper and throatier than Snarl’s youthful yaps, and lifted his head to show Aravon his collar and the attached steel message tube.
Aravon hurried to open the tube and extract the rolled-up parchment within. The note, scrawled in Lord Eidan’s handwriting, was succinct. “Meet the Duke at Deepwater, second mile marker north, in three days. His mission promises to turn the tide of the war.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
What could possibly bring the Duke south of the Chain once more so soon after Bjornstadt? Three days and nearly four hundred miles of riding hadn’t offered Aravon an answer to the nagging question. And to the western arena, of all places?
As the Prince’s foremost political councilor, Duke Dyrund’s place was in Icespire, or in his home duchy of Eastfall. Doubtless he had a myriad of matters to attend to in the Princelands. Which could only mean something of monumental importance drew him south.
Yet what that “something” was had escaped Aravon, though certainly not for lack of trying.
Since the moment he relayed the Duke’s message to his company, they’d indulged their imaginations and come up with a wild range of theories. Noll maintained that Duke Dyrund wanted to personally lead the army marching south to break the siege at The Bulwark. Belthar, with his usual rock-solid stubbornness, insisted that the Duke had a secret mission to head up an assault on Snowpass Keep, deep in enemy-held territory. Skathi maintained that Duke Dyrund was traveling to solidify their alliance with the Deid, an opinion shared by Colborn. Zaharis had offered no speculation, saying only, “He’ll let us know when we need to know.”
Aravon shared Rangvaldr’s suspicion that the Duke intended a visit to the Fjall. A conversation he’d had with Duke Dyrund echoed in his thoughts. “If the Eirdkilrs refuse to speak of peace, we must drive them out of Fehl once and for all. And the only way to do that is if all the clans join us. The key, my boy, is the Hilmir.”
Eirik Throrsson, Chief of the Fjall, had taken advantage of the fact that his clan was the largest and most powerful on Fehl, adopting the title of Hilmir. The appellation—a Fehlan equivalent to “great King”—had not been used on Fehl since the first Einari invaded and defeated the clans north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Yet, if Throrsson had claimed the title, it meant he’d gained enough confidence to assert his dominance—not only over the Deid to the north and the Bein to the south, but perhaps even over the Eirdkilrs invading his homeland.
If the Duke can actually manage to get Throrsson on our side, we’ve got a shot at this!
A faint hope had blossomed within Aravon’s chest over the last few hundred miles, and he’d nurtured it silently. Little else could matter enough to cause the Duke to risk his life.
Aravon gripped his reins tighter, leaned lower over his horse’s mane. The Duke’s failure at Bjornstadt notwithstanding, he was the one best-suited to represent Prince Toran in any negotiations with the Fjall. If anyone can talk some sense into the Hilmir, it’s him.
With the Fjall marching beside the Legionnaires, there was a real chance the combined armies could push the Eirdkilrs back across the Sawtooth Mountains. Peace could once again return to northern Fehl.
With the Kostarasar chargers riding hard, the miles seemed to flash by. This far south of the Chain—nearly one hundred and twenty miles—the terrain bordering the Westmarch had transformed from Smida-held grasslands and hills to the thicker forests of the Deid clan. To the west, the Standelfr carved a glistening ribbon of blue through miles of greens and browns as it snaked its way through the land on its way downriver toward Rivergate, Bridgekeep, and the Frozen Sea beyond. To the east, legions of alders and birch trees stood solemn vigil beside the stone-paved highway. Towering cypresses and willowy, drooping sallows were interspersed with maples of vivid red, orange, and yellow.
Overhead, the sky sparkled a brilliant blue with only the occasional hint of lazy white clouds, the sun beaming golden warmth down on Aravon and his men. The dazzling brilliance of the day only added to the sense of impending excitement growing within Aravon.
His men seemed to sense it as well. Though he knew all were exhausted—they’d ridden hard to cover nearly four hundred miles in three days—there was no trace of fatigue in their postures, the wariness in their eyes. They, too, knew the importance of whatever the Duke had summoned them for.
The bond between them had grown stronger over the last few days of travel as well. At night when they made camp, they appeared more relaxed, the conversation coming with greater ease. In the wake of the battle at Rivergate, Rangvaldr had assimilated among the others so quickly that even Noll seemed to have forgotten his initial suspicions.
There had been a noticeable wariness among them all as they crossed Silverhill, the Lightmoor city through which the Westmarch ran. Every one of them had cast darting glances, heads on a swivel, doubtless searching the shadows for hidden Secret Keepers. And Noll had made it a point to procure a bottle of brandy and offer it to Colborn with true Noll theatrics—earning a scowl and the midnight watch as a reward.
Yet now, as they approached the mile marker where they were to meet the Duke, all trace of playfulness and leisure faded. Only grim determination and steel-eyed resolve remained. A serious group of professional, highly-trained soldiers off on a mission for their commander.
Aravon’s brow furrowed as they re
ached the stone mile marker as instructed. Two miles south, the solid sharpened palisade walls of Deepwater rose high in the sky. Yet the Westmarch was empty, with no sign of the Duke. No men or horses moved through the broad-leafed poplars bordering the highway.
Aravon signed silent orders to his men. “Colborn, Noll, spread out and—”
A high, piercing whistle echoed from the thick forest to the east. Aravon’s head snapped toward the sound, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the dense trees. Nothing but smooth white tree trunks and a thick wall of broad, dark leaves.
“High in that big cottonwood,” Colborn muttered beside him. “Fifty yards south.”
Aravon lifted his gaze toward the tree the Lieutenant had singled out. “You sure?” Colborn’s eyes had to be better than his, for he could see nothing.
“He’s there, and he’s good.” Colborn’s voice was quiet. “Fehlan good.”
Aravon’s mask hid his surprise. The Lieutenant had learned woodcraft and tracking from the Fehlans, and his skills far surpassed any of theirs. Coming from him, those words were the highest form of compliment.
Just then, a hint of movement flashed through the forest. So quickly Aravon nearly missed it, had he not been looking right at the tree. Slowly, as his eyes adapted to the colors of the forest, he caught sight of a leaf-and-branch covered shape slithering down the trunk of the cottonwood. The man wore the same Fehlan camouflage Skathi and her archers had used to approach Rivergate Bridge.
Noll whistled. “Good thing he’s on our side.” He paused, then, “He is on our side, right?”
“If he was Eirdkilr,” Skathi told him, “you’d already be dodging arrows.”
The bright, sunny day seemed to grow suddenly chilly at the words. A memory flashed through Aravon’s mind: the thrum of a hundred bowstrings , a hail of arrows streaking from the thick trees bordering the Eastmarch road. Acid churned in his gut, and he swallowed hard to force it down. He and his men of Sixth Company had spotted the Eirdkilr ambush too late.
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