“The Swordsman is often merciful.” Aravon chuckled.
The Duke grinned, but his expression sobered quickly. “I know this isn’t ideal, Aravon. Truth be told, Lord Eidan and I had no choice but to throw this together at the last minute. I had no time to protest the Prince’s request for Lord Virinus to come with me because I knew the threat that Wraithfever poses to the Fjall’s might. The sooner we reach them and make peace, the more of the Hilmir’s people we will be able to save.”
“Not just his people, but his warriors,” Aravon replied. “Warriors that can help us push back the Eirdkilrs.”
“Precisely.” Duke Dyrund nodded. “Skyclaw had already winged off toward Wolfden Castle before I rode out of Icespire. By the time we reach Storbjarg, the Ministrants, Secret Keepers, and Trouveres will have large quantities of the Wraithfever cure ready to deliver, loaded onto wagons prepared to depart the moment I send word that the treaty has been signed."
Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “Swordsman’s teeth, you’ve thought of it all!”
The Duke grinned. “I’ve been working at the Fjall for years, Aravon. They are the key to restoring peace to Fehl and driving out the Eirdkilrs. There’s no chance in the fiery hell that I’ll let an opportunity like this pass us by.” He winked. “It’s no accident that Throrsson learned of a potential cure for Wraithfever among the Princelands. I had people whispering it among the Fjall clans weeks before I actually discovered it.”
Surprise coursed through Aravon. That was precisely the sort of forethought and tactical thinking that made the Duke an invaluable member of the Prince’s Council. A military mind like Aravon’s—or minds like Generals Traighan, Vessach, and Tinian—were unlikely to conceive of such stratagems. They saw only the military, the ebb and flow of battle, the movement of soldiers on both sides of the war. It took a man like Duke Dyrund to think beyond the shield wall and Legion garrisons.
“Speaking of whisperers,” the Duke said, “I trust the meeting with my agent in Rivergate went well?” His fingers toyed with the heavy signet ring on his left hand—the ring of his office as Duke of Eastfall.
Aravon’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. “The man never showed up.” He drew out the scrap of parchment and crimson wax and handed it to the Duke. “But Noll found this at a dead drop.”
Duke Dyrund’s eyes narrowed as he took the seal. “I don’t recognize the insignia, though I feel as if I’ve seen it somewhere before.” His lips pursed into a frown as he looked from the imprinted wax to Aravon. “And you said my man didn’t show up? That’s not like him at all.”
“Turath, the tavernkeeper?” Aravon asked.
The Duke nodded, then seemed surprised. “If he never showed up, how did you kn—”
“Noll did some digging,” Aravon replied. “Found out that Turath died during the siege of Rivergate.”
The Duke’s fingers flashed a series of sharp, harsh gestures that Aravon didn’t understand—though the vitriol in the signed expletives was clear.
“Lost his wife and children to the enemy.” Aravon shot the Duke a meaningful look. “Which was why no one thought it suspicious when he threw himself off the parapet, when no one was looking. After stabbing himself fatally in the side with a dagger.”
The Duke’s eyes widened. “Murdered?”
Aravon inclined his head. “That’s our belief. We didn’t have a chance to find out more. Things in Rivergate got…complicated.”
Duke Dyrund cocked his head. “Explain.”
“Ask Zaharis.” It wasn’t Aravon’s place to share the man’s secrets, though he suspected the Duke already knew the full truth behind Zaharis’ eviction from the Temple of Whispers.
The Duke nodded, understanding written in his eyes. “The fact that you had only three days to get here also had to factor into it.” He tugged at his white-dusted brown beard. “If you’ll lend me Snarl, I’ll send a message off to Lord Eidan, let him know about Turath. He’s got another agent in Westhaven who can dig around a bit, find out what happened.” He tucked the wax seal away and, after a moment’s thought, removed his signet ring and added it into his pouch as well. “I’ll look into the matter personally when I return to Icespire.”
“Of course, sir.” Aravon reached for his bone whistle. “After the last few days, I’m sure Snarl’s eager to have something to do.”
The little Enfield was circling high overhead, close enough to come when Aravon called yet following orders to stay out of sight. After recovering from his exhaustion, Snarl had become his over-energetic self once more. With his eagle’s wings, he’d had no trouble keeping pace with the horses, and his exuberance had proven a lot for Aravon at the end of a long day of riding. It would do the Enfield good to put that energy to use.
Drawing out the whistle that hung around his neck, Aravon blew a short, sharp blast to summon the Enfield. Within a few seconds, a bright orange shape streaked through the canopy and dropped toward Aravon. Snarl’s wings snapped out at the last moment to slow his descent, yet he still crashed into Aravon with bruising force. The little fox-creature hadn’t yet mastered the landing, and Aravon’s chest would continue to suffer until he did.
Aravon set Snarl down on the ground and straightened, catching his breath. Snarl gave a happy yip and trotted around Aravon’s legs, shaking the feathers of his wings, his vulpine face breaking into a broad smile.
The Duke studied the Enfield with a grin of his own. “He’s getting bigger. Soon enough he’ll be properly grown into his wings.”
“Yes, sir.” Aravon gave the Duke a little bow. “I’ll give you a moment to pen your message, and I’ll make sure everything is in readiness for our journey.”
Duke Dyrund gave no answer, for he had already drawn out a strip of parchment and a charcoal writing stick and begun scribbling his note to Lord Eidan.
As Aravon returned to the clearing, he found the mercenaries had packed up their camp and made ready to ride. Eight of the men sat in their saddles, and the ninth was just finishing stripping out of his Fehlan branch camouflage. Lord Virinus had also mounted up and now sat beside Aravon’s men, who hadn’t dismounted through the entire exchange. All but Colborn, who stood holding the reins to Aravon’s horse.
“Explanation?” Colborn’s fingers flashed as Aravon approached, and his eyes darted toward the mercenaries and the Icespire nobleman.
“Not ideal,” Aravon replied, “but no other choice. I’ll fill you all in later.”
With a little shrug, Colborn handed the reins to Aravon and climbed into his own saddle.
A quiet flapping of wings echoed from behind Aravon as he mounted up. He turned in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of bright orange fur before Snarl was lost in the thick canopy.
Watch over him, Aravon prayed to the Swordsman. And bring him back safe. Snarl had become a part of his company as much as any of the others riding beside him.
Duke Dyrund emerged from the trees a moment later, hurrying toward them and taking his own seat atop his horse, a compact, heavily-muscled Kostarasar charger. Turning to Aravon, he flashed the silent hand signal to move out.
With a nod, Aravon relayed the order to his own men. “Go.”
Noll and Colborn kicked their horses into motion. Within the space of a minute, they disappeared among the dense forests.
Now Duke Dyrund glanced at Lord Virinus and the mercenaries. “You all know your positions, your roles to play in our mission. We ride, for Prince Toran, and for peace on Fehl.”
Simple words, yet it was all that needed saying. Long miles separated them from their destination, but Aravon felt a surge of hope that, at the end of this journey, they truly would have hope that the Duke’s dream of peace would become reality.
* * *
Aravon leaned back against the magnolia tree trunk and closed his eyes, grateful for a few hours of rest. One more long day of riding after so many others had taken a toll on his muscles. Thankfully, he’d mostly healed from wounds sustained in battle at Bjornstadt and Rivergate,
though a dull ache still radiated through his chest.
The sounds of their small camp broke the peaceful silence of the forest around him. Mercenaries laughed, carried on quiet conversations, sharpened weapons, or tended the pot hanging over the fire. Lord Virinus had gone off a few minutes earlier to tend to the horses, and the Duke had taken Zaharis into the forest for a silent conversation—likely about the events of Rivergate.
The others of Aravon’s company were silent, each absorbed in their own task. Colborn had drawn the first watch, and now stood somewhere among the trees near their camp. Rangvaldr sat with his eyes closed, likely in prayer to Nuius, his hand clasped around the pendant at his neck. Skathi had taken up the evidently eternal task of making arrows, and Belthar fumbled his way through whittling a long, straight branch to make an extra bolt for his crossbow.
They appeared relaxed, yet Aravon knew they were as alert as he. One sound out of place in the forest, one crack of a twig trod underfoot, and they’d be armed and ready. This far south of the Chain, enemies could lurk behind every tree.
Their route to reach Fjall lands only made the chance of stumbling across enemies even greater. On Duke Dyrund’s orders, they had kept to the smaller trade trails and hunting paths through the Deid lands. Though the Westmarch would have been the faster, more direct route south, the recent Eirdkilr attacks—on both Rivergate far to the north and Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark—necessitated greater caution. They couldn’t risk being caught on the highway by Eirdkilrs planning an ambush on the Legion. Out here in the Fehlan wilds, with Noll and Colborn riding scout, they had the best chance of covering ground unseen.
However, that meant speed was sacrificed in the name of stealth. The smaller back ways through the woods often meandered, following the path of game, the dips and rises in the terrain, or the banks of rivers and streams. When the trails turned east or west, their small company had no choice but to cut straight south through the dense trees and bushes of the Deid lands. They couldn’t push the horses beyond a jog trot, and the uneven, unfamiliar terrain forced them to slow their pace.
Aravon did a quick calculation of the distance left to cover. Since passing Deepwater just before noon, they had made good time—close to fifty miles, thanks to one broad, deep-rutted wagon trail that led south, deeper into Deid lands. That left roughly three hundred miles more to cover on their trek to Storbjarg. They’d be lucky to make the journey in fewer than three days—even after they found a way across the Standelfr River, a great deal of forest, hill country, and the vast watery expanse of Cold Lake stood between them and the Fjall lands.
“That’s my seat.”
The nasal pitch of Lord Virinus’ voice snapped Aravon from his thoughts. He lifted his gaze to find the nobleman standing in front of Rangvaldr, hands on his hips.
Rangvaldr looked up. “What’s that?”
“My seat.” Lord Virinus stabbed a slim finger at the log upon which Rangvaldr sat. “I was sitting here earlier, but left for a few moments to tend to my horse.”
“Right.” Rangvaldr’s flat, toneless voice revealed nothing, his face still covered by his leather greatwolf mask.
Lord Virinus drew himself up. “I demand that you vacate my seat at once.”
The Seiomenn flashed a questioning glance at Aravon. At Aravon’s nod, the Fehlan stood. He towered half a head above Lord Virinus—a fact not lost on the nobleman, who retreated a half-step. Yet Rangvaldr spoke in a calm voice. “Of course.”
Lord Virinus seemed to recover, the Seiomenn’s easy acquiescence bolstering his confidence. “Thank you.” His voice held no trace of genuine gratitude, only the icy, courtly courtesy of an Icespire nobleman. Sweeping past Rangvaldr, he bundled his heavy bearskin cloak under himself and took a seat before the fire.
“Serve me a bowl,” he demand of Urniss, the Black Xiphos mercenary tending to the fire.
Urniss’ jaw clenched but he complied, ladling a small portion of the stew into a wooden bowl and handing it to the nobleman. Lord Virinus sniffed at the food and a grimace twisted his face. With barely concealed disdain, he took the bowl to “his seat” and set about spooning it into his mouth.
Rangvaldr strode around the fire and settled on the ground beside Aravon. “I didn’t think he was serious about that,” he signed. “Not the sort of thing I’d expect from someone on a diplomatic mission.”
Aravon gave a little shrug. “Far be it from me to speak ill of my land’s nobility,” he replied in the silent hand language. “Wealth and power have their privileges, but they can twist the minds and hearts of those who wield them.”
“Reminds me of Ailmaer.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “I left Bjornstadt to get away from men like that.”
Aravon nodded. “I’ll have a word with the Duke when he gets back from talking with Zaharis.” He glanced in the direction of the low-hanging willows where the Duke and Secret Keeper had disappeared a few minutes earlier. “It seems Lord Virinus’ lessons in diplomacy will start in earnest long before we reach Storbjarg.”
“Good.” Rangvaldr settled back against the knotted, twisted trunk of the tree behind him. “Because if he keeps this up, it’s going to make our days of travel feel like months.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The next day, Lord Virinus’ disposition seemed to improve—courtesy of a quiet conversation with Duke Dyrund. At least, he no longer complained about the food. He still carried himself with the hauteur bred into young noblemen, looking at all around him with the silent disdain that sprang from an inflated sense of superiority. Even his words echoed with forced courtesy, politeness that ran only skin-deep.
But as they pushed deeper into Fehlan territory, Aravon had no time to worry about the young nobleman. Such matters were better left up to Duke Dyrund. As long as Lord Virinus didn’t interfere with their mission or piss off Aravon’s men, he could be as quietly disdainful as he wanted. Aravon and his men learned to give Lord Virinus a wide berth. Easier to avoid the man than have to deal with his unspoken scorn.
The farther south they traveled, the closer they drew to enemy forces. By sundown on their second day of travel, they had nearly reached Saerheim, one of the largest cities in Deid lands. The Deid numbered among the Princelanders’ strongest Fehlan allies—a fact the Eirdkilrs had not let go unpunished. Even with the bulk of their forces committed to the siege of Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark—a siege that had left both Eirdkilrs and Legionnaires locked in a stalemate that neither seemed willing or able to break—they still launched regular raids on the Deid lands.
That meant Noll and Colborn had to be particularly cautious as they scouted the way ahead. They rode less than a mile to the southwest and southeast of the main company, alert for any signs of enemies among the Deid lands. The knots in Aravon’s shoulders grew tighter with every hour that the two men remained out of sight, yet even when they returned to report or for food and rest, he couldn’t stop worrying about Eirdkilrs lurking in the shadows.
Tension hung thick over their small camp, and even the Black Xiphos mercenaries sat in silence, all focused on their tasks—among them, sharpening the short, heavy, black-handled swords that had earned their company its name—and on watching the surrounding forests. All knew the dangers that could lurk in the shadowy woods.
Only the Duke’s voice broke the stillness. “Tomorrow, we reach the Yfir crossing. That’ll put us a few hours north of Saerheim. We’ll be well-received by Elder Asmund.” He grinned and patted his belly. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a night’s rest in a proper bed and a good meal.”
From the corner of his eye, Aravon caught the sudden tension in Colborn’s posture, the rigidity of his spine. He’d reacted the same at mention of the Deid clan, and the shadows in his eyes had darkened the moment they rode into Deid territory.
Until now, Aravon hadn’t found an opening to ask Colborn about the Fehlan half of his heritage. The stoic, reserved Lieutenant had revealed a few details of his Princelander father—a man who, it seemed, had
inflicted all manner of cruelties on a young Colborn. Yet the only mention of his Fehlan blood had been the night in Rivergate when they’d found him drunk and raving beside a Jokull corpse.
But now, curiosity blazed within Aravon. Is Saerheim home to Colborn’s Fehlan family? The Lieutenant hadn’t spoken of his mother or anything to do with her side of his heritage, except to say that they had treated him the same way his father did, as an outsider, an outcast. If that’s the case, no wonder he has no desire to enter the city.
“While I’m all for a bed and meal,” Aravon said quietly, “perhaps it’s best we push past Saerheim.” He ran a finger along the Duke’s canvas map and tapped the broad blue circle of Cold Lake. “If we rest in Saerheim, we’ll have to ride around Cold Lake to continue south. Seems we’re better off crossing at Yfir and skirting Cold Lake to the west, avoiding the wetlands east of Saerheim. It’ll certainly make it quicker to reach Storbjarg, even if that means another night sleeping on the ground.”
The Duke’s face creased into a frown. “Well, damn. Trust you to use logic and the needs of our mission to talk us out of a few creature comforts.”
Aravon inclined his head. “That’s why you brought me, Your Grace.”
His gaze darted toward Colborn. The Lieutenant had relaxed, the tension leaving his shoulders, but a shadow darkened his ice-blue eyes.
Colborn’s mood hadn’t improved by the time morning dawned—cold and windy, with a thick bank of fog rolling through the forest. Though the mask covered his face, Aravon could tell the man hadn’t rested much. He moved a step slower than usual, his shoulders stooped as if beneath a great weight. But before Aravon had a chance to speak to him, the half-Fehlan rode out of camp, off to scout their path to the southeast.
Noll snapped awake at the sound of Colborn’s departure. Leaping to his feet, the little scout hurried to stow his bedroll and gear behind his saddle and mount up. He was still scrubbing sleep from his eyes as his horse disappeared into the forest, heading southwest.
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