The Duke set a brisk pace, striding across the black-paved square toward the longhouse assigned him. Aravon hurried to match the Duke’s fast walk. Behind him, Lord Virinus’ voice echoed in protest.
“Y-Your Grace, I must speak with you at once.” The nobleman’s words rang with a distinctively plaintive edge. “When my father sent me on this mission, he never intended I end up in harm’s way. If we are to ride to battle, I-I must insist I remain behind, w-with a guard to—”
“Silence!” Duke Dyrund rounded on the young man, eyes flashing. Lord Virinus shrank back. “You will be in no danger, my lord.” He spat the honorific like an insult. “You will remain here, in Storbjarg, at my side, where it is safe.” The word came out in a half-sneer, half-snarl. He shook a finger in the nobleman’s face. “But know that when I return to Icespire, I will include a full report to the Prince and your father on your diplomatic tact. Or lack thereof.”
Lord Virinus blanched, a look of utter horror on his face.
Before the young man could speak, Duke Dyrund turned on his heels and stalked away. Aravon hurried after the Duke.
He waited until the Duke put a few dozen strides between himself and the still-stunned Lord Virinus—time enough for his anger to cool, hopefully—before speaking in the silent hand language.
“I can have my company ready to move out by midnight, Your Grace,” he signed. Most of his soldiers had remained in the longhouse, content to relax after weeks spent traveling and battling. Rangvaldr, however, had wanted to minister to those stricken by Wraithfever. “To offer them Nuius’ healing grace,” he’d said.
Aravon had wanted to let the Seiomenn go, but prudence held him back. After using his holy stones in Bjornstadt and at Rivergate, Rangvaldr had been exhausted. Here, he could use all of his strength and it would heal only a handful of the thousands dead or dying from the Wraithfever. They’d need Rangvaldr in fighting shape for the battle to come.
And they couldn’t risk the Seiomenn’s identity being discovered. If the holy stones were unique to the Eyrr holy man, using them here would immediately identify him as the Seiomenn of Bjornstadt. Word of that could escape Storbjarg and reach the Blood Queen, or any other Eirdkilr chieftain. They had just finished saving the Eyrr—the discovery of Rangvaldr’s presence among their company could put the northeastern clan at risk of utter annihilation once again.
He’d said as much to Rangvaldr, and the Seiomenn had agreed, albeit reluctantly. It was in his nature to provide healing and comfort, so the idea of sitting back and doing nothing while others died went contrary to everything he stood for.
Aravon studied the Duke from the corner of his eye. “Are you sure it’s wise to send all of us? And why are you staying in Storbjarg, what with those three thousand Eirdkilrs—”
“Aravon!” Duke Dyrund cut him off with a sharp gesture. “My safety is not your primary mission. I have Scathan and his men for that. Your job is to make sure the Blodsvarri falls in that battle, and that the Fjall and Deid have a real chance of winning. That is the true reason you are here.”
The Duke’s words took Aravon by surprise, and his step faltered a moment. The Duke’s initial message had made it clear that he wanted Aravon and his company to watch his back so close to enemy territory, but now…
Aravon caught up with the Duke. “You knew there’d be a battle?” His fingers flashed in time with the clacking of his boots on the ghoulstone.
“I suspected,” the Duke replied. He paused just short of the longhouse door and turned to Aravon. “I didn’t know the Deid had joined him, but everything I’d heard about the Hilmir made it clear he was a man of action. Which is why I needed your company on hand, to tip the scales in our favor no matter what the Hilmir decided.”
The Duke’s foresight stunned Aravon. Duke Dyrund had known about Wraithfever long enough to not only have people produce a cure and prepare to deliver that cure, but to position himself in a place where he could take advantage of his negotiations with the Hilmir. Which meant positioning Aravon and his specially-recruited warriors at hand.
“At least allow me to keep one of my men with you,” Aravon pressed. “Zaharis was the one who discovered Fetidroot, so he might be able to produce a cure before—”
The Duke shook his head. “If the battle goes bad, you’ll want his bag of tricks handy.” He held up a hand to forestall Aravon’s protest. “Belthar’s the one best-suited to fighting the Eirdkilrs hand-to-hand. Skathi’s the best shot you’ve got, but you’ll need Noll and Colborn in case anything happens to her. And the two of them are critical for getting you past enemy scouts and navigating the terrain. You can’t go without a healer, and I know there’s no way you’ll send your men out into hostile territory without you there. And I need your eyes and mind at that battle. I heard what you did with Jade Battalion at Broken Canyon, and again at Rivergate.” His face set in a stubborn cast, his expression growing as hard and unyielding as the stone beneath his feet. “I need all of you there.”
“And you?” Aravon asked. “At least consider retreating to Saerheim or Jarltun, out of the path of the Eirdkilrs marching this way.”
“I cannot.” The Duke’s expression grew grim. “To leave Storbjarg would be an insult to the Hilmir. A signal that I expect his plan to fail.” His jaw muscles worked. “I must stay here, Aravon. It is my duty as the Prince’s envoy.”
“Then at least promise that you’ll keep at least one man watching the enemy at all times,” Aravon insisted. “Scathan’s a decent tracker and scout. So’s Torin. Use them so you’ve got a warning if the enemy turns this way.”
The Duke nodded. “I will, Aravon.” With a wry smile, he tapped the bone whistle hanging from his neck. “And just because I’m here in Storbjarg, that doesn’t mean I’m cut off from communication with the Princelands. I’ll be sending word to General Vessach to hurry his ass up and get Onyx Battalion to Dagger Garrison. And something along the same lines to the Commanders of Hammer and Sentry Garrisons. Even if the Hilmir’s not going to let us march two thousand Legionnaires into Fjall lands just yet, I’ll be damned if I let our men sit idle when they can be ready to make a difference in this fight.”
Aravon opened his mouth to argue, but it would do no good. The Duke had his mind made up and nothing short of divine intervention from the Swordsman himself would change that. And, Aravon had to admit, the Duke was right. He had enough to worry about with taking down the Blood Queen; he’d have to leave the Duke’s safety up to the men brought specifically for the task.
“Stop worrying about me, Aravon.” The Duke gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve got the bigger fight to face, and you need to make sure your men are all there.” Worry flashed through his eyes. “And that you’re all there.”
The memory of his earlier conversation with the Duke flashed through Aravon’s mind. The anger had dimmed—it always did, after a time, though it never truly left, but remained a hard knot deep within the core of Aravon’s being—and he had the task ahead to focus on. But the paternal concern in Duke Dyrund’s gaze brought back the feelings of longing. How different his life might have been had he been raised by a man like the Duke rather than his own father.
Drawing in a breath, Aravon pushed down the worry for the Duke’s safety, the ball of emotion burning in his chest. “We’ve got this, Your Grace.” The mission was all that mattered now. “The Blood Queen will never know what hit her!”
Chapter Forty-Four
A thick wall of chilly mist hung over the forest, ghost-gray, filling the world with a dense silence that seemed to swallow all sound. Not even the thundering of seven huge horses racing along the hunting trail seemed to break the eerie stillness; if anything, the fog only muffled the noise of their passage, deadening it and painting green-and-brown forest around a drab, colorless void.
Aravon tried to shake the gloom that hung over him. At least the mists give us cover.
The mist obscured the terrain for more than ten yards on all sides, making it near
-impossible to calculate their speed, but Aravon guessed they were riding at close to ten standard Princeland miles per hour. As long as the fog remained thick enough to obscure them from potential enemies hiding among the trees, he could let the Kostarasar chargers set the pace. They had to hurry to reach their designated spot for the ambush, but they had to be wary for any enemies. Even the allied Deid warriors lying in wait northeast of the Waeggbjod might be in a mood to attack first, ask questions later.
Once they approached the Waeggbjod, however, they’d be forced to slow their pace, likely leave their horses a mile or two back to avoid being spotted by Eirdkilr lookouts or ambushers. The Hilmir had made it clear that the enemy would almost certainly be expecting a trap and have men lying in wait. It was up to Colborn, Noll, and Rangvaldr to spot the Eirdkilrs and take them down silently to avoid alerting the Blodsvarri of what Aravon had planned for her.
Which meant that they couldn’t take the same direct route that the Hilmir would march to the Waeggbjod. Most of the land between Storbjarg and the ritual grounds was level, wide-open expanses broken only by the occasional hills or copses of short, broad-leafed trees. Unlike the land of the Deid and Eyrr to the north and west, Fjall territory was mostly grasslands and fields. The terrain turned mountainous farther to the south, with thick forests growing to the east and frozen marshes to the west, but the heart of the Fjall demesne was flatlands.
Thus, Aravon and his company found themselves riding northeast, back across the border and into Deid territory. There, the thick forests would provide ample concealment from any Eirdkilr scouts searching for enemy troops. Ten hours and a hundred miles from Storbjarg, Colborn had finally turned them down a small hunting trail that led east. They’d travel east for another seventy or so miles before turning southwest to come up on the Waeggbjod from the rear.
According to Gyrd, the Hilmir’s second-in-command, the Deid warband would be waiting ten miles northeast of the ritual grounds. At dawn, they would begin a slow, silent move through the dense woodlands surrounding the rocky hills upon which the Waeggbjod sat. But while the Deid would skirt the western edge of the hill to get into position for a flanking attack on the ritual ground, Aravon and his company would go straight up. Even with the cover of the trees that grew up the slopes of the hill, they’d likely have to take the ascent at a snail’s pace to avoid or eliminate Eirdkilr watchers.
Thankfully, they were making good time. Aravon guessed they’d rendezvous with the Deid warband shortly after midnight, which gave them twelve hours to cover ten miles and get into position. No easy feat, but if anyone could pull it off, it was the six highly-skilled warriors under his command.
Time seemed to stand still around him. No matter how far they traveled, they could not escape the mists. The dense, gray clouds blotted out the sun overhead and trapped them within a radius of limited visibility barely more than twenty yards across. Aravon had no way to tell if they were traveling in the right direction; he’d have to trust Colborn and Noll to keep them on track.
Aravon searched out Colborn, leading their small column. Noll rode forward scout somewhere fifty yards ahead of their position, which left the half-Fehlan Lieutenant as their eyes and ears in the front.
Much as he wanted to, he hadn’t had a chance to speak with Colborn. With the Duke’s orders ringing in their ears, the seven of them had hurried to pack their gear, load up on supplies—courtesy of the Fjall—and ride out. Midnight had found them three miles from Storbjarg. None of their small company had spoken a word since riding out, but Colborn’s silence spoke of more than just concentration on the mission. He was as alert as ever, his head on a swivel, his fingers toying with the shaft of a nocked arrow, but the gray clouds seemed to hang thickest about him, his mood dark.
The Duke’s words flashed through his mind. “Give him space, but don’t leave him adrift.”
They wouldn’t stop to rest until after their rendezvous with the Deid, but when they did, Aravon would make time to pull the Lieutenant aside. He had to be certain Colborn was focused on what lay ahead.
Twisting in his saddle, Aravon glanced at the four riding behind him. Rangvaldr was his usual calm self, and Zaharis’ mood had improved the moment they rode south of the Chain—worries about Darrak and the Secret Keepers left far behind. The shadows hadn’t quite left Belthar’s eyes, but the big man seemed fractionally more relaxed than before his conversation about the Brokers. Aravon didn’t know if he’d come out and told anyone—Skathi, Colborn, the others—but his brooding anxiety had waned.
As for Skathi…well, she was still a mystery to him. He’d only ever managed to draw her into one real conversation, three days before the assault on Rivergate. In those few minutes, he’d gotten a glimpse at the woman beneath the mask—not only the leather wolf mask they all wore, but the fierce façade that she, like so many other Agrotorae, donned around the Legionnaires beside whom they marched, fought, and died.
He knew so little of her—her past before and during her years of service, her thoughts of the future—and, truth be told, he hadn’t done much to learn more. He had been so consumed by his own concerns and those of the others in his company that he hadn’t put much effort into it.
But damn it, she deserves better from me. Fiery hell, she deserves better from all of us. She’s as much a part of our company as all the others.
The problem was that Aravon had never felt truly confident around women. Like most young Princelanders, he’d certainly pretended confidence—the swaggering arrogance of a soldier, son of one of Icespire’s most famous Generals. Yet that façade had only gone skin deep.
He’d gotten lucky with Mylena. She had made things so easy for him, had come out and told him what she wanted from him. In a way, that had helped him to grow more confident. Not only as a man, but as a husband, a father, and a soldier.
But he still felt uncertain of how to approach Skathi. He’d spent his life around men like Belthar and Noll, and he’d known many with qualities in common with Colborn. Rangvaldr was much like Duke Dyrund, and with Zaharis, he always knew where he stood.
Yet, just because Skathi proved a trickier nut to crack, that didn’t mean he could avoid it. It was his duty as her commanding officer—and, as he hoped, a genuinely decent human being—to help her feel comfortable among them, able to open up to the men who were her brothers-at-arms.
The “how” of that eluded him, but he determined to work at it. She deserved to find the same camaraderie in her company that the rest of them had.
Likely, that would begin with Aravon having a conversation with Noll and Belthar. None of the others had shown Skathi any unwanted attention—Colborn had dealt with her as any Lieutenant treated the soldiers under his command, and both Rangvaldr and Zaharis had developed a rapport as easy and open as she had permitted. But Noll had begun his relationship with Skathi in the worst possible fashion, and he hadn’t put much effort into improving it. And Belthar’s…fascination had earned her ire on more than one occasion. Thankfully, the big man had ceased his misguided, if good-intentioned, attempts at protecting her. At least, Aravon hadn’t heard anything after the Battle of Rivergate, so he could only hope Belthar learned his lesson from Bjornstadt.
But, as with every one of the soldiers under his command, Aravon had to ensure she felt at ease around her comrades. Skathi could more than handle her own battles, but it would be far better if all those battles came from external sources, not within her company.
One more matter for him to deal with. All part of commanding capable, strong-willed soldiers.
With no way to mark the passage of time, nothing beyond endless walls of gray, the hours seemed to drag by. Miles passed in a blur of ceaseless motion: the rise and fall of the horse’s back beneath Aravon, the swaying of his mount’s head, the blood pounding in his ears, the burn of muscles far too tired from not enough rest. The only break in the monotony came when Aravon’s growling stomach insisted it was time to eat.
They ate in their saddles, never sl
owing the horses’ steady pace. Aravon had to admit the Fjall made their travel rations far tastier than the Legion—the strips of deer jerky had cracked peppercorns as well as the salt used for drying. Yet it was still tough, rangy meat, and the tepid water in their waterskins did little to help to wash it down. Finally, he could stomach no more and fed the last piece to Snarl, who had descended from flying high overhead to run alongside his horse. The little Enfield gave a bark of delight and leapt to snatch the meat from Aravon’s hand, his sharp teeth making quick work of the morsel.
Colborn turned them south at some point during what Aravon guessed to be the late afternoon. The hunting trail gave way to a proper wagon-width road, complete with deep ruts carved by heavy wheels. On the broader path, they could push their horses to greater speeds, and the rapid, rolling gaits of the Kostarasar chargers ate up the miles.
Day turned to night slowly, the endless gray darkening around them. A hint of color pierced the dull fog, and Aravon caught his first glimpse of sky as they rode out of the mist to find the sun already descended beneath the western horizon. The shadows grew quickly long, deepening to blackness beneath the thick canopy of the dense forest through which they traveled.
Noll joined them then, slowing his pace to match the column’s speed. With night fallen and the darkness of the forest to conceal them from the enemy, he had no need to range so far ahead. Their only eyes and ears were Snarl, who Aravon sent flying overhead to watch for signs of danger.
Hours passed in silent riding. Aravon grew more wary with every mile, aware that they approached both the Deid warband and whatever scouts or skirmishers the Blodsvarri had watching the northern approach to the Waeggbjod. The knots in his shoulders tightened and his hand strayed more and more toward the spear strapped to his saddle.
An hour before midnight, Colborn slowed his horse to a walk and gave a quiet hiss. “Deid,” his fingers flashed. “Ten, to the west.”
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