“Five more, east of us,” Noll signed. “Archer or two.”
Nervous tension stiffened Aravon’s spine, yet he forced himself not to reach for his spear. Instead, he drew in a calming breath and raised empty hands. “Heil og sael,” he called, the traditional Fehlan greeting.
“We come in peace.” Rangvaldr spoke up, also in the Fehlan tongue. “With greetings from Storbjarg for Chief Svein Hafgrimsson of Jarltun.”
At Colborn’s quiet insistence, Aravon had designated the Seiomenn the speaker for their interactions with the Deid. He’d said it was because Rangvaldr had the best Fehlan of any of them—Noll was banned outright from speaking, and even Aravon had to be careful not to let his Princelander accent show—but Aravon was all but certain Colborn didn’t want to risk being recognized by the people of his clan. From his words, their treatment of him, an outsider, a bastard Princelander, had been far from kind.
“Identify yourselves,” came the call from the forest. Aravon could see no sign of the warriors hidden among the trees, but he hadn’t expected to. Fehlan camouflage was so good Zaharis had adopted it for their alchemically-treated armor.
With slow, cautious movements, Aravon reached down and unslung from his saddle the leather-bound bundle Gyrd had given him. He untied the leather thongs holding it closed, opened the wrappings, and drew out a thick, heavy object: the sharp horn of a male musk-ox, dyed a deep, bloody crimson and the mark of a black raven burned into its surface.
“From the Hilmir himself,” Rangvaldr called in Fehlan. “The situation has changed, and he has sent us to relay the news to your chief.”
Long moments of silence passed before the voice echoed again. “Ride on until you reach the fork, then follow the eastern trail for a mile. There you will find Chief Hafgrimsson.”
“Takk, min brodr.” Rangvaldr, assuming the role of commander, gave the signal to advance. Aravon shifted his horse to the left, opening space for the Seiomenn to move ahead, and fell back beside Zaharis.
Less than five minutes later, they reached the fork in the wagon road. The eastern path was little more than a hunting trail, yet even with his rudimentary tracking skills, Aravon could see the underbrush bordering it had been freshly trampled beneath a multitude of booted feet.
Aravon spotted the Deid’s makeshift campsite only a few seconds before he rode right into the first Fehlan warrior. A hundred Deid leapt up at their approach, leveling weapons and shouting for them to identify themselves. Yet, once Aravon held up the Hilmir’s horn, the warriors let them pass, one guiding them to where the Deid chief sat among his trusted warriors.
Svein Hafgrimsson was a big man by Fehlan standards, though he failed to match Throrsson’s towering bulk. Yet he still had an impressive, looming air about him, amplified by the heavy wolf pelts slung over his shoulders. He wore no helmet, but the snarling fangs and skull of a greatwolf protected his head. Chain mail rings clinked as he stood and stepped forward to greet them.
Rangvaldr drew up his horse. “Heil, Chief Svein Hafgrimsson.” He dismounted and strode to clasp arms with the man. Aravon leapt down to join him, carrying the crimson horn with its raven—the mark of the Hilmir himself—to present to the Deid chief.
“You are not of the Fjall warband,” Hafgrimsson rumbled. His eyes narrowed and he stroked the thick, red locks of his braided beard. “Yet there is no trace of the Princelands in your voice. Who are you and why do you hide your faces? Only cowards wear masks; true warriors meet death face to face.”
“All due respect, Chief Hafgrimsson,” Rangvaldr replied in a calm voice, “but my face is not important. What matters is that I bring word from the Hilmir, as you can see.” He gestured toward the horn in Aravon’s hand. “And for the sake of what we prepare to face, Fjall and Deid alike, I will forget that you called my men and me cowards.”
Svein Hafgrimsson harrumphed, but accepted the proffered horn without further insult or question. “What word from Storbjarg?” His voice was a deep, rumbling bass, like thunder rolling across foothills. “Does the Hilmir, too, march to battle? Long have the Tauld plagued our lands and slaughtered our brave warriors. My sword grows dull waiting to taste the blood of my enemies!”
“The Hilmir has sent us with news of great importance, Chief.” Rangvaldr’s words echoed with a solemn, almost ceremonial tone. “The enemy has abandoned their siege of the Legion’s Dagger Garrison, and now three thousand of them march south to join the Blodsvarri.”
“Dire news, indeed.” A low growl issued from the Deid chief’s throat and he narrowed his eyes. “Few would call Eirik Throrsson a coward, but if he plans to withdraw from the battle ahead—”
“The Hilmir will be at the Waeggbjod at noon tomorrow.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “But he insisted that you know the threat we will face. Those three thousand Tauld will soon be deep in Fjall lands, and if tomorrow’s attack fails, there will be enemies to the south, west, and north of Storbjarg.”
“Then the attack must succeed,” Svein Hafgrimsson rumbled. “And the Deid will make certain it does!” He gestured to the men clustered around him. “More than two thousand of the finest warriors on Fehl, clad in armor with shield, sword, and spear eager to taste enemy blood. Our faces will be the last thing the Blood Queen sees before we send her screaming through the flames of Helgrindr. Our war cries will shatter the Tauld’s courage, our swords and axes carve their flesh for the crows. Tomorrow, the Deid repay in kind the suffering that they have heaped upon us for so long.”
“The Hilmir will be pleased,” Rangvaldr replied. “Long has he desired peace between the Fjall and Deid, and now it has come to pass.”
“Tomorrow’s battle decides the fate of our peoples,” Svein Hafgrimsson replied. “We shall see if the vaunted Fjall warband can hold their own, or if the Hilmir’s boasts are simply that.”
“May Olfossa strengthen your shields and guide your swords,” Rangvaldr intoned.
“And may our enemies crumble beneath Her strength!” Hafgrimsson finished the ceremonial words.
“Until we stand side by side on the field of battle, Chief Hafgrimsson.” Rangvaldr bowed, and Aravon followed suit. The Deid chief responded with a grunt and a dismissive wave.
Aravon and Rangvaldr mounted up and, at Rangvaldr’s shouted order of “Ride!”, their small column of seven headed south. They still had ten miles to go to reach the northern slope of the hill upon which the Waeggbjod stood, and only twelve hours to slip past or eliminate Eirdkilr watchers and get into position.
Aravon didn’t need to see Colborn’s face to recognize the storm brewing in the man’s mind. The Lieutenant rode hunched over, his shoulders tight, his eyes darker than the midnight shadows. Being among the Deid—his own people—had had a marked effect on him. Aravon nearly stopped their ride to speak to Colborn, but doubted singling the man out would improve his mood. He’d have to find a chance to take the Lieutenant aside sooner rather than later.
They made slower progress as they rode south toward the Waeggbjod. Colborn and Noll kept them off the hunting trails and pathways, pushing them through the thinnest sections of underbrush to make as little noise as possible while avoiding any Eirdkilr watchers. Moonlight dappled the forest and cast the trees in dense shadow. Aravon had no idea how Colborn, Noll, or Rangvaldr could move with such confidence when he could barely see. Yet he had only a few weeks of training in the marshlands—the three of them had spent their lives moving through the darkness, scouting, hunting, and tracking. Experience had instilled in them an innate skill he doubted he’d ever match.
It was approaching the third hour after midnight when Colborn called for a halt. “We’re two miles away,” he signed. “We go on foot from here.”
The seven of them dismounted and removed their packs, weapons, and other necessary gear from their horses. While Belthar and Zaharis set about tethering the horses, Aravon slipped toward Colborn, who was preparing to lead them on their hike toward the Waeggbjod.
“Colborn—” Aravon began in a low voice.
“Captain, we need to move.” Even quiet, the Lieutenant’s words held a sharp, strained edge. “Eirdkilrs could be all over the mountainside.”
Aravon opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated. “Give him space,” Duke Dyrund had said. Judging by the stiff defensiveness of Colborn’s posture, the Lieutenant wasn’t yet ready to talk. Pushing him now would only push him away.
“Understood.” Aravon nodded. “We’re right behind you and Noll.”
Colborn slipped into the forest without a backwards glance, Noll a few steps behind. Zaharis, Belthar, and Skathi followed, with Snarl padding along silently at the archer’s side.
Aravon hung back to speak to the Seiomenn. “Rangvaldr, why didn’t you tell Hafgrimsson of the fate of their warriors at Gold Burrows Mine?”
“I considered it.” Rangvaldr gave a slow nod. “But I decided against it.”
Aravon cocked his head. “Why? They need to know what happened to their people.”
“They do,” Rangvaldr replied, again with a nod. “But not tonight, the night before battle.”
Aravon ground his teeth. “Damn it, Rangvaldr, they—”
“Tell me, Captain.” The Seiomenn’s words echoed with a quiet ring of steel. “Had you marched off to fight the same night you heard of your father’s health, how do you think you would have fared?”
Aravon’s retort died on his lips. That last evening in Camp Marshal, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours. “I see your point.”
Rangvaldr placed a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “You are a good man, Aravon, and I know you believe it to be the right thing to tell them the fates of their fellows. But such a distraction would only make it harder for them to fight. And, given what they face tomorrow, they need their full attention focused on bringing down the enemy.”
Aravon wanted to protest, but a part of him knew the Seiomenn was right. “So be it.” He let out a long breath. “I just hope we did the right thing.”
After a moment of silence, Rangvaldr said, “By the grace of Nuius.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. Was that uncertainty he heard in the Seiomenn’s voice? Rangvaldr had always been so assured, with years of experience as a warrior and holy man of the Eyrr guiding his decisions. Yet there had been a note of hesitance to his words, as if he, too, doubted his decision.
But Rangvaldr said no more, simply turned and slipped into the woods after the rest of their company. After a moment, Aravon shrugged and followed. If he can live with the decision, I owe him the respect to trust him.
The trek through the dense woods proved even more nerve-wracking than the ride through the fog or their approach on the Deid camp. Back then, they’d known they might face enemies; here, it was all but certain. Aravon was willing to gamble that any Eirdkilr that Eirik Throrsson described as “cunning” wouldn’t walk into a meeting with a potential enemy unprepared. Even a semi-competent commander knew to post scouts to watch for ambush or trap.
Aravon’s heart beat faster with every step deeper into the forest. Sweat streamed down his brow and the muscles of his legs, spine, and shoulders ached from the slow, cautious pace, controlling every step and movement. He did his best to imitate Noll, Colborn, and Rangvaldr, moving in a low crouch and scanning the ground before he placed his feet. The effort only added to the tension mounting within him. His mouth grew parched, his throat drier than a Westhaven drought. A primal part of his brain wanted to leap at every shadow, twitch at every sound. He knew enemies waited in the shadows—the only question was where and how many?
Yet as one mile became two and they reached the base of the hill, no enemies appeared. The forest was quiet, the stillness broken only by the rustling of the wind in the leaves and the rush of Aravon’s pulse. Drawing in a deep, quiet breath, Aravon pushed away the nervous anxiety. It seemed the Blodsvarri hadn’t had the presence of mind to leave guards. She wasn’t expecting an attack at the Waeggbjod.
Which means the Hilmir’s plan has a damned good shot at working. A hint of hope brightened his spirits, eased the tension in his muscles. If she’s not preparing for any surprises, she’ll be expecting Throrsson to actually accede to the Eirdkilrs’ demands.
His heart slowed its hammering beat, and Aravon felt his confidence growing. His movements came easier, his steps lighter. He darted from tree to tree smoothly, matching Colborn’s steady ascent of the hill.
Aravon did quick calculations on the rest of their trek. The climb was only half a mile or so, which meant they’d have plenty of time to get into position for their noon ambush on the Blood Queen. Fiery hell, I might even get a nap out of this. A grin split his lips. I could use a few minutes to—
A hand gripped his arm and pulled him flat to the ground. Aravon barely caught himself before his face slammed into the leaf-strewn side of the hill.
Beside him, Colborn’s face was grim, his eyes wide. “Eirdkilrs,” he signed, “dead ahead!”
Chapter Forty-Five
Every muscle in Aravon’s body went rigid and he froze, not daring to move, to make a sound. The fact that the enemy hadn’t cried out was good—he hadn’t been spotted. Yet the Eirdkilrs’ presence sent a pang of worry down his spine.
So the Blood Queen is expecting an ambush. Aravon’s mind raced. Either that, or she’s planning to attack the Hilmir in the sacred grounds. Both options left him nervous, and the fact that he didn’t know which added to his discomfort. The Blodsvarri was more duplicitous than the Hilmir anticipated—the question remained to find out just how much of his plan she had foreseen and made preparations to counter.
Slowly, Aravon rolled over onto his back, careful not to set the leaves rustling beneath him. He continued rolling until he reached a thick oak tree, with a heavy root system sprouting from the side of the hill. Once safely behind cover, he glanced around and let out a quiet breath of relief. Between the darkness and the mottled pattern on their armor, he could see no trace of his five companions.
Movement from behind a heavy boulder caught his attention. “Orders?” Colborn signed slowly.
“Where are they?” Aravon asked.
Colborn peered out from behind the rock. “First one, twenty yards up and to the left, behind the fist-shaped pile of rocks. Two more behind the twin ash trees, thirty yards up and off to the right. Last one’s thirty feet up the big cottonwood, fifty yards straight up the hill. The one that looks like Belthar’s knees.”
Aravon cautiously poked his head out of cover. He had no trouble making out the twin trees that grew thirty yards above them, and had he not been a heartbeat from battle, he might have laughed at the sight of the knobby, bulbous trunk of the cottonwood tree Colborn had indicated. Yet he could find no pile of rocks shaped like a fist.
“You take the one at the rocks,” Aravon signed. “Arrows or dagger?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Colborn reached for the blade at his belt. “Give me ten minutes to get in place. Blow a blast on that whistle when the others are ready.”
Nodding, Aravon turned back toward the hill they’d just climbed. He’d moved up in the column during the trek, climbing a few yards behind Colborn with Belthar and Skathi behind him, Zaharis, Rangvaldr, and Noll bringing up the rear. The darkness was far too thick and all-encompassing to make out, with only faint hints of moonlight streaming through the forest canopy and dappling the leaf-carpeted floor. Yet he had to trust the others were watching him for instructions.
“Four enemies,” he signed into the darkness. “Two at the twin trees, thirty yards and to the right of my position. Third one’s up in the knobby tree straight ahead. Colborn’s got the last one.”
Skathi’s strong hand appeared in a patch of moonlight between a pair of slender silver-birch trees. “Plan?” her fingers signed.
“I’m going up, try to get around behind them and cut off any escape.” Aravon would have rather sent Noll, but he needed the scout’s aim. “Skathi, Noll, when I blow the whistle to get their attention, bring them down. Belthar, take the one in the tre
e, thirty feet up. Signal to confirm.”
A long moment of tense silence passed before Skathi’s hand reappeared in the silvery moonbeam. “Belthar’s got no shot. Bad position.”
Aravon snarled a silent curse. “You got the one in the tree?”
“Can’t see him,” Skathi signed. “Noll’s going to try to get a better angle, but no way Belthar can load the crossbow quietly.”
Tension knotted Aravon’s shoulders. With Colborn dealing with the enemy behind the pile of rocks, he was the only one in a position to sneak up on the enemy.
“Noll, take the one in the tree,” Aravon finally signed. “Skathi, take the one behind the left-hand tree. Belthar, stay put. Zaharis?”
“Close by,” Skathi signed.
“Tell him to break out the quickfire lamps, twenty minutes. Give the bastards something to look at. The minute they poke their heads out from behind the trees, take them down.”
Skathi shot him the signal for “understood”, then her hand disappeared back into the darkness. Once again, the silence of the forest pressed in around him, and he marveled at their ability to move without making a sound. Knowing Skathi, she’d nocked an arrow and held her bow ready to draw. Noll, too.
That just left him and Colborn, and he knew the Fehlan would take care of his man.
Slow and quiet, he told himself, drawing in a deep breath. Just like back at Camp Marshal.
He replayed Colborn’s lessons on stealthy movements through dense forests or marshlands. Noise came in two forms: debris and objects trod underfoot or brushed up against, and the sounds made by clothing, gear, weapons, and the human body. Zaharis’ alchemical treatment had taken care of the noise made by leather armor, and Aravon slowly stripped off his pack and left it behind the tree. After a moment, he left his spear as well. He couldn’t risk a glimmer of moonlight reflecting off the Odarian steel head. That left him only his Fehlan longsword and belt dagger. The smaller, lighter blades stood far less chance of punching through Eirdkilr furs, chain mail, and leather armor. But this was no shield wall, no military charge. Speed, surprise, and superior-quality weapons gave him an edge.
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