“Scores.” The Duke nodded. “Perhaps hundreds, and thousands of your people with them. But that would have happened had I not arrived. Your only hope, Hilmir of the Fjall, is to make peace.”
“Peace!” The Hilmir threw up his hands. “You call it peace, but to my people, it means war.” His lip curled up into a snarl. “War with an enemy far deadlier and closer to home than the Legion ever was.”
“I understand what we are asking,” the Duke replied. “Which is why I came to do the asking in person. As the voice of the Prince, his personal envoy, out of respect for the decision you must make.” He stepped toward the Hilmir, the fingers of his right hand motioning for Aravon to stay. “I have no desire to hold the future of your people as leverage to convince you to join us, but you know that if the Fjall do not join us, the future of my people is at stake. But together, Hilmir, with Fjall fighting beside Princelander, there is hope for both our peoples. That is what I offer here.” He raised the bottle. “A hope for all of Fehl. A Fehl free of the Tauld and their cruelty.”
A torrent of emotions passed through the Hilmir’s eyes, and anger darkened his face. Yet he remained silent for long moments, his heavy brow furrowed, deep in thought.
“Gyrd,” he said without looking away from the Duke. “Bring Bjarni.”
“Hilmir—” The graying Fjall warrior began.
“Now.” Throrsson’s quiet voice echoed with an edge of steel that brooked no argument.
“Yes, Hilmir.” The man hurried into the shadows at the rear of the longhouse.
Aravon’s eyes narrowed as he watched Gyrd go, then turned back to study Throrsson. The man’s face had grown tight, his expression strained. The Hilmir’s huge jaw muscles worked and his hands tightened on the back of his wooden chair.
Gyrd reappeared a few minutes later, and in his arms he carried a young man. Fever brightened the young man’s lightly-bearded cheeks, which had grown gaunt, as hollow as his glassy, unfocused eyes. Sweat streamed down his face, yet even through the thick blankets and furs bundling him, shivers wracked his body. He mumbled incoherent words in Fehlan, his mind tossed on the currents of fever nightmares.
Aravon’s gut clenched. Despite the young man’s sallow appearance, he had the same strong features, black hair, and solid build as Throrsson.
“Give it to him.” Something broke in the Hilmir’s voice as he turned and rested a hand on the young man’s forehead. “Heal my son. If you can do that, you will have your peace.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Aravon’s mouth felt suddenly dry. He hadn’t expected the Hilmir to simply accept the Duke’s word that the cure would work without demanding proof. But to test it on his son? That raised the stakes far beyond anything Aravon had imagined.
If the cure fails or, Swordsman forbid, makes the Wraithfever worse, we won’t just fail to make the alliance. Aravon’s fingers tightened on the ash shaft of his spear. The Hilmir will kill us for killing his son.
Duke Dyrund’s calm façade cracked for a single heartbeat—little more than a sidelong glance at Aravon, a flash of worry in his eyes, flitting by so fast that Aravon only recognized it because he knew the man so well—but the sight of that apprehension added to Aravon’s nervousness. The Duke had sounded confident when speaking of the Wraithfever cure, yet there was no such thing as “foolproof” alchemy or healing remedies.
With the Hilmir’s son’s life on the line, Aravon had to hope that the Duke’s confidence was well-founded. The fate of Fehl sloshed within that tiny glass bottle.
The Duke hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Of course, Hilmir.” Without a hint of tremor in his hands, he reached for the bottle. The pop of the cork echoed loud in the longhouse. Aravon held his breath as the Duke stepped toward the feverish young man and, with Gyrd’s help, emptied the contents into the youth’s open lips.
For long seconds, it seemed nothing would happen. The young man’s eyes remained glassy, unfocused, sweat streaming down cheeks tinged bright red with fever. He seemed beyond protest, barely capable of swallowing the dark red liquid sliding down his throat.
Eirik Throrsson leaned forward eagerly, eyes locked on his son, his huge hands flexing and relaxing. Aravon recognized the frustration of a helpless man—Swordsman knew he’d felt the same during the long hours Mylena had spent laboring in childbirth. Only at the end of his wife’s struggle, new life had come into the world. Throrsson’s waiting could very well be shattered by his son’s death.
Yet as seconds turned to a minute and still no sign of effect, Throrsson’s helpless frustration gave way to irritation, then towering anger. He whirled on the Duke, fury flashing in his eyes. “Your healers are no better than ours! Worse, they do not promise—”
“Hilmir!” Gyrd’s gasp snapped Throrsson back around.
The flush of fever had diminished, the dark red in Bjarni’s cheeks slowly giving way to a healthy pallor. Slowly, the young man’s eyes focused, fixed on the Fjall chief. “F-Father?”
Bjarni’s voice was little more than a croaking whisper, weakened by the Wraithfever. Yet the brilliant glow of delight and relief set the Hilmir’s heavy face glowing. He crossed the distance to his son in two huge steps and swept him up into an embrace, clutching him tight against his barrel chest.
“My boy,” he rumbled, pressing a fierce kiss to his son’s tangled black locks. “My valiant herknungr.”
For long minutes, the two remained locked in the embrace, weakened son upheld in the arms of his father, the most powerful man in southern Fehl. A chieftain, a warrior, and a father filled with indescribable joy at finding his son returned to him from certain death.
A lump rose to Aravon’s throat at the sight, and a sudden desire to turn away gripped him. Despite his relief to find the Duke’s healing draught worked, he couldn’t help the surge of resentment burgeoning in his chest. If only my father cared that much.
He tried to banish the thought, to push down the stone that had settled like a lead weight in his stomach. Yet he could not. For twenty-five years, since the death of his mother, the burden had never truly lifted. He’d ignored it, thrown himself into caring for the soldiers by his side and under his command. But it always came back, eventually. That feeling of anger, resentment, the biting acid that surged in his stomach, whenever he thought of General Traighan.
“Thank you!” Throrsson’s hoarse voice pierced Aravon’s maudlin thoughts. He looked up to find the Hilmir staring at the Duke, gratitude burning in his ice-blue eyes. “Truly, man of the Princelands, I owe you a father’s gratitude. You have given me a gift I could never repay.”
The words drove the bitter dagger deeper into Aravon’s gut. He could never imagine his own father saying such a thing to anyone.
“There is no debt between us, Hilmir.” Duke Dyrund’s voice was calm, yet it echoed with confidence. “I could not stand by while your people suffer.” His gaze went to the young man still crushed to Throrsson’s chest. “Your son’s life is but the first of those that will be saved if you join us against the Eirdkilrs. Princelander and Fehlan alike, our land will only know peace and plenty once the Tauld are driven back across the Sawtooth Mountains.”
Throrsson’s expression grew somber, and he released his son back into Gyrd’s waiting hands. In just the few minutes since he’d received the draft, already Bjarni had begun to appear healthier, his fever waning, the sweat drying on his forehead. He even managed to stand upright, tottering weakly alongside Gyrd as the Hilmir’s second-in-command led him from the room.
Eirik Throrsson gestured for the Duke to sit, and resumed his own seat. “Your remedy, you say it could be delivered within a week?” He clasped massive hands across his thick stomach and leaned back in his chair. “No sooner?”
The Duke mirrored the Hilmir’s posture. “The wagons already sit waiting at Silverhill, but it is a journey of many miles, and through territory plagued by enemies.” He shook his head. “I will give instructions for my people to travel with all haste, yet—”
<
br /> Throrsson held up a hand. “So be it, Duke of Eastfall. Speak your Prince’s terms, and you will have my answer.”
“The terms are simple,” the Duke replied. “Join us against the Eirdkilrs, and send your warband to fight beside the Legion and our allies. Once the Tauld have been pushed back across the Sawtooth Mountains and our Legionnaires once more hold Snowpass Keep, our only request is that you permit us to re-establish the defensive garrisons along the Westmarch and Eastmarch.”
Throrsson’s eyes narrowed. “Solely to prevent the Eirdkilr return, no doubt.” His voice held a mocking edge.
The Duke shrugged. “Prince Toran has no desire to claim Fehlan land. Once the war is ended and peace returns to Fehl, the Fjall and every other clan are free to do as they please.” He leaned forward. “My Prince will, however, continue to maintain friendly relationships with the Deid, Eyrr, and other clans that have valuables worth his interest.”
“You Princelanders and your mines!” The Hilmir snorted. “I have never understood why you hold those gleaming metals in such high regard.”
Aravon cocked an eyebrow. Throrsson wore three heavy torcs—two bearing the likeness of the Reafan, and one with the snarling face of a bear—all made from glimmering gold and silver.
“The garrisons require men to maintain them, and men must be paid in coin,” the Duke replied simply. “But the garrisons in Fjall land will be manned by no more Legionnaires than are required to keep them operational and to maintain a close eye on the Eirdkilrs and their allies among the southern clans.”
The Hilmir’s face creased into a wolfish grin. “And if the Fjall move to…control the clans that sided with our enemies?”
Duke Dyrund turned his palms up. “Prince Toran will see it as a service to peace and prosperity on Fehl, of course.”
“Of course.” Throrsson’s rumbling chuckle echoed in the longhouse. “Peace and prosperity.”
Aravon’s eyebrows rose behind his mask. With a few simple words, Duke Dyrund had made the Prince’s position clear: should the Fjall attack northward, the Legion would side with their Fehlans allies. However, he’d also given the Hilmir free rein over the south of Fehl—the fractious Bein, Myrr, and the smaller clans to the west. The Legion would never be able to subdue them and maintain tight control on their territory. Throrsson and his warband would have no oppositions to the expansion of their territory—a desire the man had made plain by adopting his great-grandfather’s title of Hilmir—by crushing the clans hostile to the Princelands.
Damn! Aravon whistled silently. That’s a bargain where both parties came out ahead.
The Prince had chosen his envoy well.
At that moment, Gyrd returned to the meeting room. The tightness in his face seemed to have relaxed slightly, and his posture behind the Hilmir had grown far less wary and hostile.
Throrsson’s smile didn’t waver, but neither did it grow warmer. The Hilmir fixed the Duke with a piercing scrutiny, the same look that Snarl adopted when hunting a particularly juicy mouse. Long moments of silence passed before he spoke.
“I have heard your Prince’s terms, and I find them agreeable. However…” He held up a huge finger. “I must first consult with my Seiomenn, hear what Striith would have us do in this matter.”
“Of course, Hilmir.” Duke Dyrund inclined his head. “My men and I await your pleasure.”
“I shall not be long.” Throrsson stood and gestured to Gyrd. “In the meantime, allow me to offer you the hospitality of Storbjarg.”
The Duke stood as well as bowed from the waist. “May your god speak clearly to you, Hilmir. And may his guidance lead down the path that is best for your people and mine both.”
With a nod, Throrsson strode deeper into the shadows of the longhouse and disappeared through the hanging wall of furs.
Chapter Forty
The longhouse prepared for them certainly didn’t look like much—walls of mud daub and sod, a heavy odor of oxen and cattle, the haze of wood smoke hanging thick around the firepit—yet Aravon had learned enough of Fehlan customs to understand that the Hilmir had shown them a high honor by placing them here. The building stood opposite the Hilmir’s, second largest in size to the chief’s longhouse—a place for distinguished guests.
Yet even as that thought flashed through his mind, he was assessing the interior for vulnerabilities, hidden threats, and escape routes. Noll and Colborn pushed through the door first, fanning out to the right and left, searching the shadows. The two men disappeared through the hanging furs at the far end of the longhouse, then returned a moment later.
“All clear,” Colborn signed.
Aravon strode deeper into the longhouse, analyzing the layout to find the best defensive positions should the need arise. It was only after he’d formulated a plan for holding the structure that he paid attention to the crackling fire radiating warmth and light, the platter of food sitting on the table, and the half-sized barrel with its collection of drinking horns.
The Duke nodded to Grimar, who had served as their escort and guide. “Thank you.”
Throrsson’s second-in-command grunted. “The Hilmir will summon you when he is ready.” It was all the answer he gave before turning and striding from the longhouse.
Duke Dyrund gestured to the table. “Captain Snarl, Lord Virinus, let us refresh ourselves.”
Lord Virinus gave a little sniff, pressing a hand to his nose. Yet he managed to hold his tongue at the simplicity of their accommodations and the heavy smells. Taking a seat across the table from the Duke, he picked at a chunk of roast lamb delicately.
“My lord, far be it from me to question your wisdom,” Lord Virinus said, in a tone that held immeasurable doubt, “but wasn’t revealing the Wraithfever cure so early in the negotiation giving up a crucial advantage? Reserving it to the end would have allowed you to extract as much from Throrsson and his Fjall as the Prince desires.”
“Perhaps.” The Duke took a bite of suckling pig and chewed thoughtfully. “But a man like Throrsson does not negotiate like a Princelander. He responds better to a more direct, forthright approach. You see, Myron, the Fjall are warriors at heart, dedicated to…”
Aravon stopped listening as the Duke spoke about the Fjall’s warlike customs and culture. Instead, he turned to his men.
“Any other way out than the back door?” he asked.
“No,” Colborn signed with his right hand, his left gripping a fire-roasted chicken leg. “Fehlan longhouses are sealed against the cold winters, so there are only ever two entrances.”
“Cellars?” Aravon signed.
Noll shook his head. “Nothing underground.”
Aravon nodded. “Good.” The meeting with the Hilmir had gone far better than he’d expected—he’d almost believed Throrsson would agree to the Duke’s terms on the spot—but that couldn’t cause him to let down his guard. This close to Eirdkilr-held territory, he had to be wary for spies, assassins, and enemies on all sides. If the Eirdkilrs had managed to plant a spy or turn a traitor in the Prince’s Council, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that they’d done the same among their Fehlan neighbors.
“Belthar,” he signed to the big man, “post up by the front door. Show off that axe of yours, yeah?”
Gathering up a handful of nuts, fruits, and meat, with a drinking horn full of mead, Belthar strode over to the main entrance to the longhouse and settled to the ground right in front of the opening. He leaned his massive crossbow against the wall, drew his axe, and set about sharpening it. The long, loud strokes of his whetstone were only occasionally interrupted as he snatched a bite of his meal—a task that proved difficult, given the heavy leather mask. He, like all of them, had to loosen the lower strap and lift the mask to put the food in his mouth. Yet it was the only way to conceal their identities from Lord Virinus and the Black Xiphos mercenaries scattered around the longhouse.
“Colborn, Noll, north and south walls,” Aravon signed. “Skathi, dead center, arrows handy.”
The three m
oved to their designated positions. Colborn and Noll settled into the shadows against the walls, out of the dim light of the fire burning in the firepit. There, they could remain undetected while keeping an eye on the front and rear entrances. Skathi’s short horsebow would be far more maneuverable indoors, and her position at the center of the longhouse meant she could shoot in both directions in an instant.
Rangvaldr and Zaharis, he kept with him near Duke Dyrund. Even with nine mercenaries and Lord Virinus, he wouldn’t trust the Duke’s personal safety to anyone else.
Two of the sellswords remained outside the front door, with two more posted as guards at the rear entrance. The man Scathan sat at the Duke’s left hand, Barcus at Lord Virinus’ right. The remaining three were scattered around the longhouse, eating and drinking yet never relaxing their wary vigil.
Satisfied, Aravon took his seat on the Duke’s right hand, rested his spear against the table’s edge, and picked at the meal.
“…understand, my lord.” Lord Virinus was saying. “Thank you for clearing that matter up for me.”
“Of course, Myron.” Duke Dyrund nodded. “Diplomacy, at its core, is about finding a way for both sides to get what they want.”
Lord Virinus’ expression was pensive as he stood and turned to refill his drinking horn. A loud squelching sound echoed in the longhouse, and the reek of cow dung rose from the dark brown pile beneath his foot. The nobleman growled and shook his foot, trying to kick free the ordure clinging to his costly leather boots. “Bloody savages,” he muttered beneath his breath.
Not the most diplomatic diplomat. Aravon shook his head. The elderly Lord Aleron Virinus must have had significant pull at court to convince the Prince to send his second son along on this mission. A mission for which he seemed far less than ideally suited.
But isn’t that always the way of Princeland politics? Aravon snorted inwardly. Men using their wealth and influence to grow even more powerful.
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