“We’re too far north,” Colborn said. “And too close to Deepwater for them to risk it.”
Not long ago, Aravon might have accepted that statement as given fact. “Then again, after Rivergate, we can’t be certain of anything.”
Colborn grunted agreement. The Eirdkilr-led Jokull assault on Rivergate was just one more indication that the enemy could and would strike in unpredictable locations. Fiery hell, they’re even laying siege to Dagger Garrison and The Bulwark!
“Eyes peeled, weapons loose,” Aravon said. He rested a casual hand on the spear strapped next to his saddle. Given the Duke’s instructions, he could be fairly certain the man ahead was friendly, but the days of taking such things for granted were long past.
“Aye, Captain.” Wood clacked quietly against wood as Skathi slid an arrow into ready position across her bow.
The branch-covered figure appeared from the woods and strode toward them, arms spread wide to reveal empty hands.
“The Duke’s expecting you,” the man called. Though thick leaves and sturdy branches concealed his face, his voice rang with calm confidence and he spoke with the unmistakable accent of Icespire. “This way.”
Aravon shot a questioning glance at Colborn, who answered with a shrug as if to say, “Who else could it be?” After only a moment’s hesitation, Aravon nudged his huge horse forward and rode off the Westmarch, across the thirty-yard stretch of cleared ground bordering the highway.
Before they crossed half the distance to the forest, the man turned and slipped back through the forest. Between the Fehlan camouflage and the dense undergrowth of the forest, Aravon found it difficult to track the man’s movements.
“Colborn, sharp eyes in the lead,” he called.
“Aye, Captain.” Colborn spurred his horse faster, riding in front of Aravon and slowing to match his pace.
The horses pushed through a thick wall of forest ferns without hesitation, but soon the tall poplars gave way to low-hanging cottonwoods and willows, forcing all but the diminutive Noll to duck to avoid the branches. Though Aravon couldn’t see the man, he followed Colborn, who rode with confidence. He trusted the Lieutenant to guide him aright.
Less than three minutes of riding from the road, they broke into a small clearing. The low-hanging willow branches had provided such excellent cover Aravon didn’t spot the figures sitting around the cleared space until he was nearly on top of them. Colborn’s quick hand signal barely warned him in time to rein in.
Ten men sat in the clearing. Eight had the hard eyes, grizzled faces, and broad shoulders of men accustomed to battle. They wore mottled brown robes, fur cloaks, and leather armor, but the lack of insignia or distinctive ornamentation marked them as hired swords.
Aravon narrowed his eyes. Mercenaries?
The ninth man in the clearing rose as they entered. “Ah, Captain Snarl.” A broad smile split the Duke’s face—delight at seeing them or amusement at the codename, Aravon couldn’t tell. “Just in time.”
“You called, sir.” Aravon dismounted and, doing his best to ignore the aches of too many hours spent in the saddle, marched over to the Duke. “Here we are.”
“I’d pretend surprise,” the Duke said, clasping Aravon’s forearm, “but those are my horses you’re riding. I trust you’ve taken care of them?”
“Better than we’ve taken care of ourselves, sir.” Aravon couldn’t help relaxing around the Duke. Despite his position and the responsibilities that had to weigh on him, Duke Dyrund had an easygoing nature. Aravon had always felt comfortable when in the Duke’s presence—something he couldn’t say for his own father.
The Duke had been General Traighan’s best friend during their days in the Legion, but they couldn’t have been more opposite. For as long as Aravon had known him, Duke Dyrund had been the sunshine to the General’s gloom, the smile to Traighan’s frown. Stern and authoritative were good characteristics for a military commander, but Duke Dyrund’s welcoming, empathetic nature made him a perfect choice to serve Prince Toran in more political endeavors.
Duke Dyrund beamed at Aravon’s six companions as they dismounted and took up positions behind Aravon in silence. “Glad to see you all made it through in one piece. According to reports, it was a close thing.”
“Never doubt Legionnaires, sir,” Colborn said. “Especially those fighting for their homes and families.”
“Indeed.” The Duke’s smile cracked slightly as he turned to the ninth man, who had remained seated. “Allow me to introduce you to Lord Myron Virinus of Icespire.”
Lord Virinus rose to his feet and strode toward them. “Captain Snarl.” The man’s voice had a distinctly nasal quality, barely above a perpetual whine. He thrust out a hand to Aravon. “If even half of what I’ve heard about you and your men is true, it’s an honor to ride beside you.”
Aravon met the nobleman’s eyes, blue and cold as Frozen Sea ice, without hesitation and returned the grip. “My lord.”
Virinus had a face far too narrow and angular for the ears protruding from the messy brown hair that hung lank down to his shoulders. His fur cloak had once been the pelt of a brown bear, and its voluminous mass made his slim build appear slight. At his hip hung a long, slim sword of the style popular among Voramian and Praamian fencers, its hilt gilded and far too ornate to be more than decorative. Then again, the scabbard showed some signs of wear.
The name Virinus was familiar to him. Lord Aleron Virinus numbered among Icespire’s wealthiest noblemen, and Myron was his second oldest of five sons. His presence here confused Aravon, but he let no trace of that puzzlement show on his face, mask or no.
“Scathan, take Barcus, Torin, and Urniss and see to the horses,” the Duke ordered. “As soon as I’ve filled Captain Snarl in on our mission, we move out.”
“Sir.” The man who responded was tall, with a dark brown beard cropped close to his face, hair that hung in a long tail down his back, and eyes the same color. He had the appearance and accent of an Eastfallian—Aravon would place him as a man of Eastbay, the easternmost fortress in the Chain. Turning, he and the three other men named hurried toward the horses, which stood placidly munching forest grass and fallen leaves a few yards east of the small clearing.
“Captain.” Duke Dyrund gestured for Aravon to take a seat, a gesture that included the rest of Aravon’s men. Sitting, Aravon leaned forward, nervous anticipation tying his stomach in knots as the Duke drew a canvas map from within a nearby pack and unrolled it across the springy grass.
“We are here, just under a hundred miles south of the Chain.” Duke Dyrund tapped a finger above the black-inked square marking Deepwater’s position on the map. “Our journey leads us here.”
Aravon’s heart leapt as the Duke’s finger slid southward along the Westmarch, to the vast wildlands of the Fjall. “Five days ago,” Duke Dyrund said, “I received word from Storbjarg. The Hilmir’s ready to talk.”
A smile broadened Aravon’s face beneath his mask, and he exchanged an excited look with Rangvaldr. They’d been right.
“The Fjall have grown tired of the Eirdkilrs running wild on their lands,” the Duke continued, looking up from the map. “Eirik Throrsson will hear what the Princelands have to say, and decide if our offer is worth entertaining. Which, if you read the meaning beneath the message and the fact that he reached out to us, means he’s seriously considering throwing his lot in with the Legion.”
Aravon cocked his head. “Desperation, from the Fjall?” He frowned. “Given the size of their warband, shouldn’t they be playing it a bit more coy?”
“Yes.” Duke Dyrund nodded his head. “But they think we don’t know about the Wraithfever.”
Aravon had never heard of it, but Zaharis stiffened, wincing beneath his mask. “Wraithfever?” he signed to the Secret Keeper.
“An ancient malady, one long ago eradicated from Einan,” Zaharis responded, his eyes darkening. “Far worse than the Bloody Flux or anything we’ve seen in the Princelands as far back as anyone can remember.
And, one with no known cure.”
“Not according to the High Ministrant of Wolfden Castle.” Duke Dyrund’s lips quirked into a knowing smile. “Let’s just say it’s not the first time we’ve heard of its presence on Fehl. The problem is one the Prince has had certain people working on for a few years in anticipation of its return.”
Even with the mask hiding his features, Zaharis’ surprise was evident. “Impossible!” he signed.
“That was the original belief.” Duke Dyrund shot Zaharis a knowing smile. “Until a Secret Keeper stumbled across a particularly potent plant with a foul-smelling root.”
Zaharis sucked in a breath. “You mean—”
“Yes.” The Duke nodded. “Your discovery of Fetidroot was the key. When combined with other ingredients suggested by the Ministrants of the Bright Lady and the Bloody Minstrel’s Trouveres, it not only slowed the fever, it cured it altogether.” He pulled a bottle from within his cloak. “And this will be the proof of it.”
Zaharis’ eyes widened, his gaze locked on the glass bottle and the dark red liquid swirling within.
“This is what we bring to the table for the Hilmir.” Duke Dyrund’s smile widened. “Not just an alliance against a common enemy, but a hope for saving his people. According to the reports I’ve gathered, Wraithfever has already laid low more than fifteen thousand Fjall. Including three thousand of the Hilmir’s warband.”
Now it was Aravon’s turn to suck in a sharp breath. “Three thousand?”
The Duke nodded, his expression growing grave. “And hundreds more falling ill with every passing week. If nothing is done to stop the illness, the Fjall will weaken until they are too decimated to hold off the Eirdkilrs. They, once the strongest clan among the Fehlans, will be the first crushed beneath the enemy’s boot.”
The gravity of that statement struck Aravon like a physical blow. The Fjall had served as an example of Fehlan resistance to Eirdkilr dominance for more than a hundred years—since the Battle of Vigvollr, bloodiest clash in Fehlan history. There, near the Fjall capital of Storbjarg, ten thousand of the Fjall warband stood against twelve thousand Eirdkilrs. Fifteen thousand warriors had fallen on both sides and though the outcome favored the Eirdkilrs, the Fjall survivors had remained numerous enough to give the southerners pause. Nothing but a tenuous peace and the threat of the Fjall warband—returned to its original strength of ten thousand—kept the Eirdkilrs at bay.
But with three thousand dead and more fallen ill, the Fjall are weak, vulnerable to Eirdkilr attack. It would be a simple matter for the Eirdkilrs to break off their sieges of the Bulwark and Dagger Garrison, and they’d be numerous enough to launch an attack on the debilitated Fjall. And if the Fjall crumble, so will every other clan. Even our allies among the Deid and Jarnleikr will have no choice but to side with the Eirdkilrs or else face destruction. The war would be over, and the Eirdkilrs would drive the Princelanders north behind the Chain—and, if they had their way, back across the Frozen Sea.
Aravon’s fists clenched. “Then we ride, and hard, sir.” He stood, determination echoing in his voice. “If getting this to the Fjall is enough to convince them to join us, then by the Swordsman, we’ll reach Storbjarg, even if we have to fight through every Eirdkilr on Fehl.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Duke Dyrund, a word?” Aravon signed.
Raising a curious eyebrow, Duke Dyrund indicated the woods beside them with a thrust of his chin. In silence, Aravon followed the Duke deeper into the forest until two thick walnut trees hid them from view of the camp.
The Duke turned to face him, his fingers flashing in the silent hand language. “Speak your mind, Aravon.”
“You know how deadly Wraithfever is, Your Grace, and yet we’re riding toward it?”
The Duke’s lips quirked into a smile. Clearly he’d expected the question. “The Ministrants and Trouveres swear that the fever is only contracted when someone comes in direct contact with the death miasma of those infected.” He shrugged. “I’m assured that if we steer clear of anyone too close to the Long Keeper’s arms, we have nothing to fear.”
Aravon grimaced. “Still, sir—”
Duke Dyrund held up a hand. “It’s a risk, I know. But one worth taking if it sways the Fjall to our cause.”
Much as he wanted to, Aravon couldn’t argue with that logic. He made a mental note to tell his soldiers to steer well clear of wherever the Fjall kept their ill. He’d have to have a conversation with Rangvaldr, most of all. The Seiomenn would doubtless want to minister to the sick and dying, just as he had in Bjornstadt. His prayers for the fallen Jokull spoke to his character—he might be willing to put himself in the plague’s reach if it eased the pain and suffering of those afflicted. The Duke might have eased his first concern, but he had a few more to raise.
“And mercenaries, sir?” Aravon cocked his head. “And Lord Virinus? Not that I’ve cause to doubt Your Grace, but—”
“But you’re doubting anyway.” A wry smile twisted the Duke’s lips. “And for good reason, given the danger we face.”
Aravon nodded, but his fingers remained silent.
Duke Dyrund’s smile faded into a tired frown. “After what happened in Bjornstadt with Syvup, Astyn, Farrell, and Rendar, I found myself in need of men I could trust to keep my secrets. Lord Eidan suggested these men. It seems they have served the House of Eidan faithfully for years.” He grimaced and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Much as I would rather have men of Wolfden Castle or even Hightower by my side, my forces are stretched too thin. The recent attack on Rivergate has given me reason to suspect the Eirdkilr assault may soon strike closer to home. Duke Olivarr isn’t the only one scrambling to send his men to man his southern borders. Just as he had to pull men from the Westhaven fleet to reinforce Rivergate and Bridgekeep, I’ve been forced to strip Wolfden Castle’s garrison as bare as I could risk it. It’s the only way to have enough reinforcements to send to Eastbay, Lochton, and Hightower, just in case.”
“Can they be trusted?” Aravon narrowed his eyes. “To guard your secrets and to faithfully watch your back?”
“According to Lord Eidan, yes.” The Duke shrugged. “My aide thoroughly researched these men—sellswords of the Black Xiphos—and swears they have no idea who you and your company are.”
“Which means even if they saw our faces, they could not reveal our identities.” Aravon glanced through the trees in the direction of the clearing. The mercenaries moved with the calm confidence of men who knew their business. The leather wraps on their hilts were faded from use, their leather armor maintained yet clearly well-worn. They had the look of professional sellswords and two of them, including the man Scathan, emanated the certainty of a Legionnaire. He turned back to the Duke. “And the fact that they’re for hire?”
“The Black Xiphos has been paid enough to assure their silence and loyalty. They are all men of Westhaven, I’m told, but the fact that they are mercenaries and thus have no direct connection to me gives us a better chance of evading suspicion. After all, if our enemies somehow discovered my presence and my reasons to travel to Fjall, I have little doubt they would make it a high priority to find and capture me.”
Aravon chuckled. “Such modesty, Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Duke Dyrund’s expression grew strained. “Reluctant as I am to rely on the services of mercenaries, let us call this the best worst situation.” His jaw muscles worked as he continued in the silent hand language. “But I trust you and your company implicitly. I would have no one else by my side, watching my back on this dangerous mission.”
The unspoken meaning was clear: Duke Dyrund needed Aravon to not only keep an eye on the Fjall or watch for Eirdkilrs, but to pay close attention to the mercenaries. No matter how much Lord Eidan insisted otherwise, the Duke had to be certain the men around him were trustworthy.
“Understood, sir.” Aravon straightened. “We’ll keep our eyes open and our swords ready.”
“I’ve come to expect no less.” Duke Dyr
und clapped him on the shoulder.
“And Lord Virinus?” Aravon cocked his head. “The second son of an Icespire nobleman isn’t exactly the man I’d imagine you bringing on a secret mission to the Fjall.”
“Princeland politics at its most delightful.” The Duke’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “When old Aleron tells the Prince that he wants his son to study diplomacy—a way of getting his second son out from underfoot as he passes the family mining business on to Gravis—Prince Toran has no choice but to think long and hard about how he’s going to answer the request from the Princelands’ wealthiest family and biggest contributor to the war effort.”
Aravon shot a glance at Lord Virinus. “Not an ideal answer, is it?” He’d never met the second oldest son of House Virinus, but he hadn’t exactly heard the man’s praises sung through the streets of Icespire. All the nobility knew of the clever, business-minded Gravis Virinus, but Myron had remained in relative obscurity in his older brother’s shadow. Perhaps this was the nobleman’s means of making his own mark. Playing a part in the negotiation and, by the Swordsman’s grace, ultimate peace treaty with the Fjall would be a golden feather in a cap that had, until now, remained featherless.
“I’ve made it clear that he’s to be seen and not heard,” Duke Dyrund continued. “Especially when it comes to negotiations with the Hilmir. Everything I’ve heard about Throrsson leads me to believe he’s a man of fire and passion, far more warrior than statesman. But, if Lord Virinus is content to listen and observe, he may come away from this experience a far wiser man.”
“Let us hope he has wisdom enough now to know his place.” Aravon clenched his jaw. “We can’t afford any dead weight, not so close to enemy territory.”
“Every man on this journey will stand watch, share in his load of the camp duties, and pitch in.” Duke Dyrund’s lips tugged into a smile just short of sardonic. “Thus far, he’s proved an…adequate traveling companion. Not more than a dozen complaints about the lack of comforts or the long hours of travel.”
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 27