And Zaharis was preparing a surprise for the Eirdkilrs, one that would give Aravon the chance he needed. One chance, little more than a few seconds, but he’d have to make it work.
If he didn’t, every captive warrior of the Fjall and the Hilmir would die screaming.
A pang of fear and worry flashed through Aravon’s chest. Somewhere in the darkness to the east, Duke Dyrund was in danger. Either trapped within Storbjarg, hiding or fleeing from the Eirdkilrs. With effort, he swallowed the anxiety, forced himself to calm.
The mission comes first, he told himself. This mission.
Belthar and Skathi would worry about the Duke—they’d take stock of the situation in Storbjarg, figure out the best plan to get Duke Dyrund and his companions out safely. Aravon had to focus on the impossible task at hand.
Come on, Zaharis! Aravon gripped his spear tighter. The two of them had taken shelter in the small thicket just before the Eirdkilrs sent out skirmishers to collect any Fjall stragglers, and the cover offered him ample concealment from the barbarians below.
And he needed the dense shadows within the trees to keep him out of sight. Though the majority of the Eirdkilrs basked in the Blood Queen’s gruesome spectacle, a hundred stood watch to the northeast, their eyes locked on the land in the direction of Storbjarg against any counterattack by the Fjall.
Yet it seemed a mere formality—the Blood Queen seemed confident in the total success of her ambush on the Hilmir’s forces. The absence of any counterattack after the Hilmir’s defeat only bolstered her belief that she had triumphed this day.
And she was right. No one would march to the Hilmir’s rescue. The Fjall two thousand had raced back to their burning capital, and the Deid wouldn’t assault a larger group of Eirdkilrs on their own.
Which left the fate of Eirik Throrsson and his men in Aravon’s hands. With only Zaharis nearby, he had to pull this off right, else he would join the Hilmir and his men under the Blood Queen’s cruel knives.
Then it came. The signal—in true Zaharis fashion, an unmistakable spectacle that drew all eyes.
Fire shot up from the surface of the pond, a brilliant wall of red and orange that reached flaming fingers high into the night sky. A thunderous whooshing of air drowned out the piercing shrieks of the dying Fjall warrior, the Blodsvarri’s delighted laugher. The darkness of the evening burst to blinding brightness as the pillars of fire grew taller, stretched across the length of the pond.
The Eirdkilrs reacted immediately. Hands dropped to weapons, men turned to face the blazing light and crackling flames, and those nearest fell back from the burning pond. Shouts of alarm, fury, and terror echoed from the Eirdkilrs’ camp. Hundreds of enemies surged toward the eastern edge of the camp in anticipation of a Fjall attack. Cries of stunned surprise mingled with their war cries echoed loud—they had never seen water burning, and the “magic” awed and terrified them. Just as it had been intended to.
And it bought Aravon precious seconds to move.
Silent as a wraith, furtive as a shadow, he darted out of the tree cover and dashed down the hill toward the captive Fjall. The Eirdkilrs holding them hadn’t abandoned their posts, but their eyes were turned away, facing the new threat. That light, so brilliant crimson and orange, didn’t just draw their attention—it blinded them to deep darkness of the evening.
Blinded them to the figure in mottled armor that flowed like liquid shadow down the hill. With the stealth of a stalking greatcat, Aravon crossed the distance to the nearest cluster of prisoners and threw himself to the ground behind their kneeling forms. He crawled on his belly, inching his way close enough to draw his dagger—coated with mud to conceal the gleam—and slash the ropes holding them bound.
Five were freed in the space of ten seconds. Then ten, fifteen, twenty. The sharp Odarian steel blade sliced through coarse Eirdkilr-made ropes with a single stroke, cutting away bonds and freeing the captive warriors. Aravon had chosen the warriors that appeared least injured; they bore a collection of bruises and bleeding wounds, but their limbs remained unbroken by their enemies. They had struggled most fiercely when watching their comrades dragged to the Tolfraedr.
That strength gave them a chance for freedom. And for vengeance.
Aravon reached the first Eirdkilr guard, one of the thirty who had been assigned to watch the captives. The man held an enormous axe in a thick-fingered hand, the huge steel head resting on his right shoulder. The weight of that axe would shear a Fjall’s neck—or Aravon’s—in a single stroke. But only if he could bring it to bear.
That instant of distraction meant everything. With his eyes fixed on the burning pond, the Eirdkilr never saw Aravon creeping up beside him. Never saw the long, sharp blade of a spear driving up toward his neck. The man didn’t so much as turn as Aravon rose to his knees and thrust his spear at the Eirdkilr’s throat in one smooth move. Odarian steel sliced through the barbarian’s beard, punched through the side of his neck, and severed his spine in the space between heartbeats. The body had barely thumped gently to the grassy hillside before Aravon snatched the axe from his lifeless fingers.
Whirling, Aravon thrust the haft of the enormous weapon into the hands of one large, broad-shouldered Fjall warrior. The man gave him a savage grin and, seizing the weapon, charged another of the Eirdkilrs holding the captives. Steel glinted in the alchemical firelight, blood sprayed, and another Eirdkilr fell, never to rise.
But Aravon hadn’t come to kill Eirdkilrs. He’d exhausted precious seconds racing down the hill, freeing the Fjall, and taking down the first enemy. The nearest guards would begin to notice the liberated captives at any second, and the Fjall would find themselves fighting for their lives.
He had to get to the Hilmir.
Aravon darted back, out of the circle of firelight, and raced south around the Eirdkilr encampment. The barbarians, still mesmerized and incensed by the mysterious and magical fire, had turned eastward to face the new threat. Never bothering to look backwards and see the figure darting through the shadows.
Zaharis hadn’t yet run out of surprises.
BOOM! Earthshakers, the Secret Keeper had called them, and rightly so. One moment the Eirdkilr ranks were clustered tightly across the southeastern road, the next a brilliant burst of orange light erupted in their midst with such fury it set the ground trembling. The explosion hurled a dozen backward and scores more fell with shrieking cries, scythed down by an invisible hand.
The Blood Queen shouted orders to her men, abandoning her torments and racing toward the line of warriors facing the invisible enemy. The Eirdkilrs surrounding the bound and bloodied Hilmir loped alongside her, leaving Throrsson guarded by only five enormous warriors.
Aravon raced toward them. Five Eirdkilrs against one of him. Rubbish odds on the best of days, but this is anything but.
Confused and enraged shouts echoed from the camp’s northern edge, accompanied by the clash of steel. The Eirdkilrs had discovered their captives freed and armed. Shouts of “For Striith! For the Hilmir!” pierced the darkness, adding to the turmoil within the Eirdkilr camp.
The Eirdkilrs guarding the Hilmir drew their weapons and formed a line between their prisoner and the Fjall captives.
Precisely what Aravon had hoped they’d do. Racing through the shadows, he slipped around the Eirdkilrs and ducked behind the posts to which the Hilmir was bound. Four quick strokes of his dagger severed the ropes holding Throrsson in place. The Fjall chief sagged with a groan, falling to the ground. Exhaustion, pain, and thirst dragged at his limbs, and blood loss had turned his skin pale in the light of the burning alchemical blaze. Yet as Aravon pressed his own longsword into the Hilmir’s hand, Throrsson’s grip tightened around the hilt, and a savage growl rumbled in his throat.
Aravon leapt past the still-kneeling Throrsson and brought his spear whipping around in a slashing blow. The blade, heavy enough to cut as well as thrust, slashed across the hamstrings of the three nearest Eirdkilrs. Odarian steel sliced through furs, leather, chain shirts, an
d flesh. The men fell with a cry, half-turning in their shock. Aravon thrust twice in quick succession, opening two barbarian throats. Before the third could bring his enormous club around, Aravon slammed the iron-shod butt of his spear into the side of the barbarian’s head. The man went down, hard, skull crushed.
Something dark hurtled past on Aravon’s left. The Hilmir, a blur of rage and motion, struck out at the startled Eirdkilrs. The blade in his hand—the finest mainlander steel forged in the style of a weighty Fehlan longsword—sheared through one enemy’s neck and buried deep into the second man’s chest. Aravon was there in an instant, driving his spear into the man’s throat to silence his cry of alarm and agony. The Eirdkilr gave a quiet, wet gurgle and toppled backward. Crimson gushed from the ragged tear in his neck, seeping into the ground and mingling with the blood of the tortured and slain Fjall warriors.
Aravon whirled on the Hilmir. “We leave, now!” he hissed in Fehlan.
“My warband—” Throrsson began.
“Fight for their freedom.” Aravon thrust a finger toward the battling captives. Less than a minute had elapsed since Zaharis set the pond ablaze, and in the confusion of the burning water and the sudden explosive blast within their midst, only a handful had turned toward the freed prisoners. None had noticed Aravon and the Hilmir…yet. “But you must escape!”
The Hilmir’s jaw set. “I will not leave my men.”
“You must!” Aravon took a step toward the man. “For the sake of your people, you must live to fight another day.”
Shouts echoed from the east, and more Eirdkilrs tore their eyes away from the wall of fire to join the battle against the liberated Fjall warband. Fully a hundred of the once-captive warriors had taken up arms—ripped from the hands of their slain enemies or fallen comrades—and hurled themselves at the nearest Eirdkilrs. Mayhem held the Eirdkilr camp in a fist of iron, yet Aravon knew it would only last a few minutes at most.
“Now, Hilmir!” Aravon seized the man’s arm and dragged him away from the torn and eviscerated corpses of his fellow warriors. “While the enemy is distracted.” And before the decimated Fjall succumbed to their wounds, exhaustion, and superior numbers.
Throrsson was a big man, and strong. For a long second, he refused to budge, his gaze fixed on his men, bloodstained sword gripped in knuckles gone white with fury. Yet, another explosive BOOM from the darkness, accompanied by the screams of dying and enraged Eirdkilrs, seemed to snap him out of it. When he turned, Aravon recognized the look in his eyes: the look of a commander who knew he was condemning men to die, yet had no choice but to do so.
It was the same look that had haunted General Traighan all of Aravon’s life.
Reluctance etched deep lines of sorrow into his strong face, yet the Hilmir nodded. “Go!” he growled. Fire blazed in his ice-blue eyes. “We live to avenge their sacrifice.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Without hesitation, Aravon slung the Hilmir’s arm over his left shoulder and hurried up the hill as fast as the wounded Throrsson could manage. Away from the carnage and death howling through the enemy camp. Away from the screams of wounded Fjall, dying Eirdkilrs, and the Blodsvarri’s shrieking cries to “Bring down the traitors!” Into the welcoming embrace of the shadows and hope of escape for Throrsson, even if it cost the lives of every man left behind them.
The fifty yards seemed to stretch on forever, and it felt like an eternity before Aravon and the gasping, staggering Throrsson dove into the shadows of the hickory thicket. The shouts grew louder, the clash of steel ringing high and piercing in the night. Aravon paused only long enough to risk a quick glance backward.
Fjall warriors had reclaimed their captured weapons or ripped them from their captors’ hands; now, men that lived and breathed battle fell upon their enemy. The enemy who had tortured their comrades to death, who had massacred nearly one-tenth of the Fjall warband. Cries to the Fjall god and shouts of “For the Hilmir!” echoed loud through the darkness.
Yet Aravon had to turn away before the slaughter began in earnest. Zaharis’ fire was dazzlingly bright and mysterious, but no enemy had appeared from the southeast. Now, the full might of the Blood Queen’s remaining warband flooded toward the freed Fjall captives.
Pain etched every line of the Hilmir’s face—not only from the wounds suffered in battle and at the Blodsvarri’s hands, but from the knowledge of his warriors’ fates. He limped as fast as he could, gasping for air, struggling to bite back a cry as blood trickled from a dozen lacerations in his arms, face, and bared chest. Yet, without a word, he stubborned on, hurrying along beside Aravon as best he could.
They couldn’t stop, not until they had left the enemy far behind. The moment the Eirdkilrs discovered the Hilmir’s absence, the Blood Queen would flood the surrounding land with her hunters. The enemy wouldn’t rest until Throrsson lay dead or bound at the Blodsvarri’s feet once more.
With deft movements, Aravon unwound his horse’s reins from the hickory tree. “Get on,” he hissed at Throrsson. “We need to cover ground quickly.”
Throrsson shook his head. “The Fjall do not ride.” A hard, stubborn tone edged his words. “A true warrior meets death on his feet.”
“And a King does whatever the bloody hell it takes to live!” Aravon gestured to the horse. “The only way we’re going to get out of here before they come looking for us is if you get on. You can’t cover ground fast enough in your condition.”
He’d lost a great deal of blood from the wounds sustained in battle, and the Blood Queen’s knives had done their terrible work on his body. He’d run himself into the ground long before they escaped the Eirdkilrs.
And Throrsson knew it. With a reluctant growl, he strode toward the horse and tried to mount. A grunt burst from his lips at the pain of trying to pull himself into the saddle. The effort re-opened wounds that had scabbed or crusted over, and fresh blood trickled anew. Finally after a few fruitless attempts, Aravon settled for shoving the heavy Fjall warrior onto the horse, not bothering to be gentle with his wounds. His effort elicited a growl from the Hilmir but Aravon had no time for polite decency. Every second’s delay could cost them their chance at escape.
Aravon gripped the horse’s reins and shot a glance up at the mounted Throrsson. The man looked supremely uncomfortable and unsteady, like a first-time swimmer thrown into the riptides of Icespire Bay. “Hang on,” he growled.
Before Throrsson could raise a protest, Aravon tugged the reins and pulled the horse into a slow trot. He broke into a jog, then a run as the horse gained speed. Down the southwestern slope of the hill they ran, away from the Eirdkilr camp and the din of battle—a din that had grown steadily louder, now tinged with the cries of Fjall warriors dying beneath the Eirdkilr onslaught.
Urgency thrummed in Aravon’s bones, fueled his muscles. The day’s exertions dragged on his limbs yet fear of what lay behind them forced him onward. He couldn’t slow, not for the Hilmir’s sake and certainly not for his own. He had to keep running, had to put as much ground between them and the Eirdkilrs before—
A savage, piercing howl split the night behind them, echoed a heartbeat later by a thousand throats. Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. The Eirdkilrs had discovered the Hilmir’s absence. Now, the giant barbarians were coming for them.
Gritting his teeth, he leaned into his run, forcing his tired legs to greater speeds. He shot a silent prayer of thanks to the Swordsman for the grassy hills hiding them from the Eirdkilr camp. The sliver of moon had just appeared over the horizon, giving him faint threads of light to guide his steps. Yet one wrong step and he—or, worse, the horse—could break something, and their chances of escape would be shattered.
Throrsson’s growl echoed from the horse’s saddle. “Where…are…you…going?” His words burst out in time with the horse’s bouncing gait. “Why…do we…head…south?”
“It’s the last place the enemy will look for us!” Aravon gasped. His lungs begged for air, his legs burned from the exertion, but his mind was
clear.
Most of the southern Fjall lands were held by the Eirdkilrs. It made the most sense for the chief to flee northeast, back in the direction of Storbjarg and his warband. If not back to his capital, then toward one of the larger Fjall towns to the east or northwest. Perhaps even to the safety of the Deid lands to the north.
But the Eirdkilrs would never expect the Hilmir to flee south, deeper into land they controlled. They’d send scouts to search in that direction, no doubt about it, but their efforts would be far more concentrated to the north, east, and west.
It’s our best chance of getting out alive. Aravon shot a glance over his shoulder at the Hilmir. Throrsson sat awkwardly in the saddle, swaying and unsteady, hunched over in pain. Exhaustion lined his face, dragged at his limbs. Aravon growled a silent curse. The man wouldn’t get far in his condition.
But until Throrsson actually collapsed or Aravon’s strength gave out, they would keep moving, keep putting as much distance between them and their enemies as possible. Zaharis would find his way back to Colborn and the others—that left Aravon alone in hostile territory with an injured Hilmir.
First we find a place to rest, Aravon decided, then we figure out how to get back to Fjall lands.
Yet as one mile became two, the terrain to the southwest of the Eirdkilr camp grew more rugged, the ridges steeper and taller, the ground uneven. Trees grew thicker along the spiny ridges of cliffs, and the grasslands gave way to stony hills. Hope surged within Aravon as he spotted the meandering bed of a dried-up river cutting through a deep gully directly west.
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