He’d always hated the courts of Icespire, the backbiting, deceit, and treachery inherent in matters of statecraft—one of the primary reasons he’d joined the Legion of Heroes at such a young age. A soldier’s life had its share of dangers, yet he would stand a shield wall far more eagerly than dance at the Wintertide formal or engage in the saccharine repartee of the high nobility. Polite conversation had never been his forte, a trait he’d inherited from his father.
A bitter sneer twisted Aravon’s lips. Conversation of any sort was out of the General’s realm of expertise. Barking orders came easy to his father, the result of years spent commanding Legionnaires. Yet Aravon couldn’t think of one meaningful exchange he’d shared with the man. Or, at least one that hadn’t involved his father shouting, raging, or cursing at him. Even on those occasions when his “bloody disappointment of a son” hadn’t been the true target of the General’s anger, proximity made Aravon the most convenient victim.
“Captain Snarl.” Duke Dyrund’s quiet words brought Aravon’s attention back to the present. “A word.” He inclined his head toward the wall of furs at the rear of the longhouse.
Curious, Aravon pushed back his meager meal and followed the Duke into the privacy of the back chamber—little more than bare walls, piled furs, and a wool-stuffed armchair set beside a smaller firepit.
“Sir?” Aravon asked as the Duke turned to him.
“How is he?” Duke Dyrund signed.
Confusion twisted Aravon’s brow for a moment, until the Duke’s eyes snapped to where Colborn sat against the north wall. Evidently, he hadn’t missed the cloud of gloom that hung over the Lieutenant, no matter how preoccupied he was with matters critical to the Princelands.
“Rangvaldr spoke to him,” Aravon replied, careful to keep his hands out of Colborn’s line of sight. “Troubled by what happened at Rivergate and Gold Burrows, but solid.”
A puzzled frown creased the Duke’s face. “What happened at Rivergate?”
“He killed Jokull. First time he’s gone against his own.”
“Ahh.” Understanding gleamed in Duke Dyrund’s eyes. “That’d take a toll on anyone, even a man as strong as our Lieutenant. Finding the Deid warriors slaughtered at the mine would just compound things.”
Aravon cocked his head. “You knew he was Deid?”
The Duke’s shoulders gave a little twitch. “That’s half the reason I recruited him. The Deid are our closest allies, and some of the best huntsmen on Fehl. And, given his history...” His fingers remained motionless for a long moment. “He needed a change, to get away from the Legion, and I needed a man like him for our mission. Two Eirdkilrs, one arrow.”
Aravon nodded. He’d learned precious little of Colborn’s past, but what the Lieutenant had told him made it clear Colborn had few ties binding him to the life he’d lived before joining their company.
“A word of advice from someone who’s spent his life around soldiers.” The Duke gave him a wry grin. “Give him space, but don’t leave him adrift.”
“Words at once cryptic and poetic.” Aravon snorted. “You’d have made one hell of a Lectern, Your Grace.”
Duke Dyrund rolled his eyes. “What that means is that men like Colborn need time to clear their heads. But, if they spend too much time in their heads, they start to feel alone, like a boat cast adrift.”
Aravon inclined his head. “I’ve been there, more than once.” A part of him wished he could call Snarl, that he hadn’t had to order the Enfield to hide in the woods out of sight of Storbjarg. The little Enfield had brought him back from the depths of his gloom. That, and the camaraderie of men like Duke Dyrund, Colborn, and the rest of his company.
“So let him think, let him feel.” The Duke nodded. “But not too long, and not alone. Be there for him, even if he thinks he’d rather face it on his own. Once he comes out the other side, he’ll be grateful for it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Aravon signed. “For the advice, and for caring.”
The Duke seemed genuinely surprised by the words. “Is that so foreign an idea, Aravon?”
“Just…” Aravon hesitated a long moment. “Just not the sort of thing he’s had much of.”
A knowing look entered the Duke’s eyes. “Or you, either, eh?”
Aravon’s gut clenched. He’d tried to deflect to Colborn’s struggles, but ever since seeing the Hilmir embrace his son, he hadn’t been able to push back the bitterness burning a hole in his stomach.
The Duke leaned forward, placing a hand on Aravon’s shoulders. “Traighan’s many things, Aravon,” he signed one-handed, “but he’s not a monster, and he’s not made of stone.” A frown creased his face. “He…might not have always known how to show it, but he cares. In his own way.”
Aravon felt the anger simmering deep, deep down threatening to rise to the surface, the way it always did when the matter of his father came up. “Of course.”
“No, truly.” Duke Dyrund searched his eyes. “Before his…illness, every time I spoke with him, he would tell me about your latest promotion, some new posting you’d gotten, or some new triumph of yours.”
Aravon’s eyes widened. That sounded nothing like the cold, stony man he’d lived with—on the occasions his father had been home, of course, which grew ever more infrequent after the death of his mother—and even less like the roaring, swearing, drunken Legionnaire smashing the wooden furniture of their kitchen, living room, and sitting room to pieces.
“Even now, in his moments of lucidity, he’s proud of you, Aravon.” The shadow of pain and sorrow glimmered in the Duke’s eyes. “Proud of the man you’d become. The Legionnaire, Mylena’s husband, father to your sons.”
A fist of anger squeezed at Aravon’s heart. “Then he should have said something before I died.”
“He wanted to.” The Duke’s face fell. “If he’d known how, he would have. But men like the General…” He drew in a deep breath. “It doesn’t come easy to them.”
“It should!” Now the anger boiled over. Aravon felt like shouting, like leaping to his feet and raising his voice so loud it would set the mud walls rattling. Yet he wouldn’t, wouldn’t let it get the better of him as it had gotten the better of his father so many times before. He wouldn’t be the raving, shouting madman who had turned his son’s home into a nightmare.
His muscles clenched so tightly his hands trembled as he signed. “It couldn’t have been that hard to say the words. Swordsman knew he said them often enough when giving grand speeches to his Legionnaires. But no.” He shook his head. “That would have been too much for his soldier’s pride.”
“Perhaps.” The Duke gave a little nod. “But that doesn’t change how he feels. Nothing ever will, not even his illness. His mind may be leaving him, but he will never forget his love for you.”
Aravon bit back an angry retort. The Duke’s kindness stood at such sharp contrast with his father’s aloofness. A part of him—a small, quiet part that Aravon rarely allowed to give voice, even in his thoughts—had often wished that the situation had been different. That he’d had a different father. A better father, one more like Duke Dyrund rather than the cold, hard block of granite that was General Traighan.
He raised his hands to reply in the silent hand language, but a sound from outside the longhouse snapped his attention around. The voice of Urniss, one of the two mercenaries guarding the front entrance, echoed loud, though Aravon couldn’t make out the Fehlan words.
In an instant, he was through the curtains and racing back to the table to snatch up his spear. “Stay behind me, Your Grace,” Aravon called, retreating toward the Duke.
Zaharis and Rangvaldr were on their feet before the Black Xiphos mercenaries. Belthar all but leapt upright, and the creak of Skathi’s bow filled the longhouse. Noll and Colborn pressed deeper into the shadows, weapons held at the ready.
But it was only Gyrd who pushed through the wall of furs and strode into the longhouse. The graying Fjall warrior seemed unperturbed by the multitude of weapons array
ed against him—if anything, he seemed amused to find the Hilmir’s guests ready for an assault.
A small smile tugged at his thin lips. “Come, men of the Princelands.” The warrior motioned toward the door. “The Hilmir has your answer.”
* * *
Aravon had heard of the Fjall’s sacrificial temples—the Blotahorgr, or “the place of blood and worship”—but never seen one in person. As with the wall of Storbjarg, he found himself impressed by the sheer size and scope of the construction.
Built from the same stone as the city wall with the same near-black mortar, the Blotahorgr was a massive dome that stood fully thirty feet high and sixty feet across. While many Princelander priests adorned their temples with marble, gold, or precious stone, the exterior of the Fjall’s temple was a glittering surface of black. The ghoulstone seemed even darker now that the sun had set, and the light of flickering torches reflected off the temple, casting eerie shadows.
Yet it was the temple’s interior that stood as the true marvel. The entire surface of the floor was paved with the same deeper-than-black ghoulstone, and the wooden pillars and support beams had been stained red—doubtless with the blood of slaughtered victims, enemies, or sacrificial animals. Suspended from the rafters hung hundreds, perhaps thousands of swords. Copper, bronze, iron, and steel blades, their sharp tips dangling over the heads of the five men who stood within the Blotahorgr.
Gyrd took his place at Throrsson’s left hand, with Grimar standing a step behind and to the right of the Hilmir. Throrsson’s right arm was wrapped around the shoulder of his son, Bjarni. Though the young man’s fever had broken, he still appeared gaunt, weakened by the disease. Yet he stood tall, clad in a warrior’s furs and chain mail, sword on his belt. In his eyes glimmered the same warrior’s spirit Aravon had seen among so many Legionnaires before—walking wounded determined to stand in the shield wall and fight the enemy beside their comrades, pain or injury be damned.
Behind the sacrificial altar stood a man, doubtless the Seiomenn of Storbjarg, with a beard and braided hair of pure white that had been dyed into long, lank streaks of red, black, and purple. Aravon glanced to the man’s neck, expecting to see a holy stone similar to Rangvaldr’s, but found none. It seemed not all Seiomenn had magical gemstones—perhaps that explained why Wraithfever had spread so widely among the Fjall.
The Seiomenn pounded an animal-hide drum and he chanted in an unfamiliar language—one that sounded like Fehlan, but far older, with a poetic intonation that flowed with the beat of the music, the clacking of the myriad bones entwined in his beard. The mélange of sounds echoed off the stone floors, rising to fill the temple and mingling with the thick haze of smoke that emanated from a stone bowl atop the sacrificial altar.
“You come to us with talk of peace, men of the Princelands.” The Hilmir’s voice rang in the temple, a deep, booming cadence that harmonized with the ceremonial music and chanting. “Yet we do not bandy our words, do not waste our breath on clever tricks of the tongue!”
The sudden tightening of Aravon’s stomach had nothing to do with the reek of smoke or the bloody décor. The deal had been all but sealed. Bjarni’s presence at Throrsson’s side should have been the end of negotiations. Yet the way the Hilmir spoke, it almost sounded as if he intended to reject the Duke’s offer.
Eirik Throrsson’s eyes flashed with anger. “The Fjall are men of war, warriors of Striith, descended from the first men to walk the lands of Fehl. To us is given the gift of battle and death.” He raised a clenched fist. “We bring those gifts to any who seek to take from us what is rightfully ours!”
Aravon tightened his hold on his spear, ready for anything. Had Throrsson taken offense at the Duke’s request to let Legionnaires enter Fjall lands? Had he seen their offer as nothing more than a ploy to encroach on his territory, take advantage of his weakness?
Yet, as Aravon caught sight of the Duke’s face, he recognized the familiar glint in the man’s eye. Triumph, the same look he’d gotten every time he defeated Aravon at Nizaa.
“And so it shall be!” Throrsson roared. “Let us bestow those gifts upon our enemies. Let battle and death once more flood our lands, and let the Tauld know the true meaning of Fjall courage, resolve, and steel. By the will of Striith, let it be so!”
“By the will of Striith!” echoed Gyrd, Grimar, Bjarni, and the Seiomenn.
“By the will of Striith,” the Duke intoned.
Relief coursed through Aravon. The Fjall had joined their side. Their mission had been a success.
Thus far, Aravon reminded himself. Now comes the hard part.
The Hilmir had agreed to lead his men into battle, but many, many Eirdkilrs and Fjall would die before this was all over. It was up to him, the Duke, and Throrsson to find a way to tip the scales as far in their favor as possible.
Chapter Forty-One
“We cannot engage the Tauld directly, not yet.” The Hilmir shook his head, setting his braided beard and hair whipping about. “Only once the warband is at full strength can we truly be confident of winning.”
“Waiting could be a mistake.” Duke Dyrund frowned across the wooden table at the Fjall chief. They, along with Aravon, Lord Virinus, Gyrd, and Grimar, had returned to the Hilmir’s longhouse, sharing another horn of mead before diving into the discussion of tactics and strategy. A discussion that had, until now, proven only partially productive. Throrsson was nothing if not stubborn and self-assured.
“Right now,” the Duke continued, “the Eirdkilr forces are divided, locked in a siege of the Eastmarch garrisons.” He snapped his fingers and Lord Virinus stepped forward, passing him the canvas map of Fehl. The Duke unrolled the map across the Hilmir’s table and bent over it, tapping on the black squares indicating Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark. “At last report, close to six thousand of them, committed to an assault they had no chance of winning.”
Both strongholds were strong, well-supplied, and each home to a full battalion and a half of Legionnaires, along with their cavalry, attached Agrotorae, and auxiliaries. Six thousand Eirdkilrs could only hope to capture the stone fortresses through a surprise attack, as they had at Anvil Garrison and Rivergate. The fact that the Legion retained control of both meant the gates had been closed in time and the garrisons fortified. The men of Pearl, Sapphire, and Diamond Battalions could withstand an Eirdkilr siege for two full months before their supplies ran low.
Eirik Throrsson’s huge brow furrowed. “So I have heard. A strange strategy, yet since the arrival of Tyr Farbjodr, the Tauld have been anything but predictable.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow behind his mask. He recognized the name “Farbjodr” from the Saga of Gunnarsdottir; it was the name given to the monstrous beast that plagued the icy wastelands beyond the Sawtooth Mountains.
The Duke pursed his lips. “I have heard the name spoken, but beyond the fact that he commands the Eirdkilrs, I have uncovered little more.” Frustration echoed in his voice. “What can you tell us about him?”
“I can only share what I have heard from the rumors spread among the southern clans.” Eirik Throrsson gave the Duke a wry grin. “It is whispered that he strode naked from the icy wastes in which no man can survive, clad only in snow and stone. In his hand, he wielded a sword made of blood, a blade that gleamed with the light of death. And with it, he fought his way to claim command of first one village, then more, until all the Tauld marched beneath his black banner.”
Aravon resisted the urge to snort. Rumors and legends tended to be highly exaggerated—he knew firsthand, for he’d heard the true account of the Battle of Stormcrow Pass, where his father and Duke Dyrund had slain thirty Eirdkilrs between them, not three hundred as the Legion stories held.
“He called himself Tyr, and Farbjodr was the name given to him by the men who serve him.” Eirik Throrsson’s expression grew grim. “For he is as ravenous as the monster Gunnarsdottir faced, and he will stop at nothing until the Eird are driven from their lands.”
The Duke narrowed his eyes.
“Sounds like a real charmer.”
Throrsson chuckled. “I have not met him, but the stories of the savagery unleashed on his defeated rivals are matched only by the reports of his cunning and strategy. For fifteen years, he has commanded the Tauld, and in that time, their reach has grown long, their foothold in my lands strengthened.”
Fifteen years. Right around the time the Eirdkilrs had attacked Highcliffe Motte and attempted to storm the eastern passage through the Sawtooth Mountains. That was when the Eirdkilr battle strategy had changed, grown more difficult to predict. In that time, Prince Toran had been forced to triple the number of Legionnaires on Fehl just to hold the fortresses and stave off attacks on allied Fehlan lands.
The Duke leaned forward. “So he is the one we need to take down to put an end to the war?”
“His word guides the Tauld,” the Hilmir replied, “but it is said he never ventures north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Instead, he sends his loyal chieftains to carry out his orders.”
Anger flared hot and bright in Aravon’s chest. “Men like Hrolf Hrungnir,” he growled.
Throrsson’s eyes snapped to him, and a shadow flashed across his face. “The Blodhundr chief numbered among one of Tyr Farbjodr’s most capable leaders. And the cruelest.” He fixed Aravon with a piercing stare. “Far too many of my people suffered under his heel before he was defeated at Brotna Hamarr, what you call Broken Canyon. No Fjall will mourn his sudden, mysterious disappearance.”
The Duke inclined his head. “Nor will the Princelands.” He gave the Hilmir a sly smile and raised his horn of mead. “And the Eyrr will rest more soundly for his absence.”
Curiosity blazed in the Hilmir’s eyes. The Duke hadn’t just taken credit for Hrolf Hrungnir’s death; he’d also hinted at a relationship with the Eyrr, thereby solidifying the Princelands’ hold over northern Fehl. A reminder to Throrsson that they may be in Fjall territory, but the Prince wielded far more power on the continent than the Hilmir.
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