Yes! They could at least get out of sight there, make it harder for the Eirdkilr pursuers to find them. Or, if they had no choice but to fight, have at least a chance of getting out alive. It’s better than being out in the open!
“Captain…Snarl.” The Hilmir’s voice drifted toward Aravon, weak, so faint he nearly missed it.
Aravon glanced over his shoulder and up at the mounted Fjall. Throrsson swayed like a drunken scout, his hands locked around the horn of his saddle and his face pale from exhaustion and blood loss. As Aravon slowed the horse, the Hilmir’s eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he toppled to the side.
Whirling, Aravon leapt to the man’s side just in time to stop him from falling out of the saddle. Throrsson blinked down at him, his eyes unfocused, glazed over.
“Hold on, Hilmir,” Aravon growled, pushing the big man back upright on the horse and holding on until Throrsson found his balance. “We just need to get there, out of sight.”
The Hilmir squinted into the darkness, blinking hard. “Hellir,” he muttered.
Aravon’s brow furrowed. The Fehlan word was unfamiliar. Perhaps it wasn’t a word at all, but a name. Throrsson wouldn’t be the first warrior to see the faces of dead enemies, friends, or loved ones floating before his eyes, his weakened mind hallucinating.
“Don’t you die on me, you bastard!” Aravon tightened his grip on the Hilmir’s blood-soaked leather belt and held him upright. “We’ll get you to safety, but you’ve got to hang on.”
Throrsson muttered something Aravon didn’t quite hear. Yet the words were drowned out a moment later by the howling of the Eirdkilrs behind him. Aravon cast a glance backward, and his gut clenched at the sight of torches shining in the darkness. The Eirdkilr pursuers were catching up.
“Come on!” Aravon released his hold on the man’s shirt and, scooping up the reins, took off at a fast run. He could never hope to outrun the Eirdkilrs, but he was close enough to the gully to get out of sight.
Aravon’s heart hammered in his chest, beat a frantic tattoo against his ribs. Sweat stung his eyes and his mouth begged for water just as his lungs cried out for air. Fire ran through his legs, up and down his spine. Yet he ran, desperate to reach safety before the Eirdkilrs found them.
The war cries grew nearer, so near Aravon almost imagined he could hear the footsteps of heavy boots pounding across the grasslands toward him. It didn’t matter that the enemy was the better part of half a mile behind them—he and the mounted Hilmir would be plainly visible moving across the flat grasslands, bathed in the faint silvery light of the quarter-moon.
Come on! Aravon gritted his teeth and forced himself to run faster, to keep a tight grip on the horse’s reins. His pulse pounded so loud in his ears it drowned out the soft padding of the horse’s hooves on the grass. The race to the gully seemed interminable, the distance so vast Aravon imagined he raced across the Frozen Sea with lead weights dragging at his limbs.
Then the horse’s hooves clattered on hard earth, and Aravon’s booted feet scrambled over stone-strewn ground. The gully loomed large in front of Aravon and he dropped down the steep side. His boots dug into soft ground and he fell, hard, sliding for a few feet before he caught his balance. To his relief, the horse and the mounted Throrsson managed the descent with far more grace.
The dried-up riverbed made for tricky going, and Aravon had to move more slowly to avoid stepping on loose stones or stumbling on the uneven ground. His relief at reaching the gully was short-lived. The faint moonlight shone on high earthen walls of the hill, with only sparse shadows to conceal them from their enemies. Once the Eirdkilrs caught up, no way they’d miss the huge shape of the horse and two men hiding in the gully.
Keeper take it! Grinding his teeth, Aravon turned back the way he’d come and tried to scramble back up the gully’s earthen walls, but stopped short. The first of the Eirdkilr torches appeared to the south, less than a quarter-mile from the gully. His only hope was to push through the gully, to keep running with the exhausted Hilmir. If they followed the trail of the riverbed, there was a chance, however faint, that they could find shelter somewhere to the north.
“Hellir.” Throrsson’s muttered word reached his ears once more.
Aravon whirled toward the Hilmir. “What is it?”
“Cave.” The word was faint, little more than a whisper.
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “Where?”
Throrsson lifted a weak finger. “Deeper into…gully.”
Aravon’s hope renewed. With speed born of desperation, he seized the horse’s reins set north along the gully. The clatter of stones and the sound of the horse’s hooves on the dried-up riverbed echoed loud in his ears, so loud he feared their pursuers would overhear. Yet if the Hilmir was right and there was a cave farther along the gully, it gave them a faint hope of surviving the night.
The gully curved sharply to the west, the steep earthen walls rising twenty feet over Aravon’s head and blocking out the faint moonlight. Yet there, in the deep shadows, was a man-height radius of black so profound it could only be the opening to the cave.
He hauled on the horse’s reins and hurried toward the blackness. His questing hands found damp earth walls that gave way to an opening taller than his head and wider than his shoulders.
Elation bloomed within Aravon. Yes!
He whirled back toward his horse to help Throrsson down. Not a moment too soon. The Hilmir sagged and Aravon barely had time to reach out to catch the falling man. A grunt of effort burst from his lips; his exhausted muscles strained from the effort of supporting the heavily-muscled warrior. He dragged the Hilmir from the saddle and into the cave, pausing long enough to tug on the horse’s reins.
The scent of damp earth hung thick within the pitch blackness of the cave, accompanied by the fetid rotted-meat reek of mushrooms and mold. Aravon felt his way along the tunnel one-handed, the other struggling to hold the slumping Hilmir upright. Finally, his muscles and Throrsson’s legs gave out and he dropped the heavy warrior to the ground. Throrsson hit the soft earth with a loud thump and groaned.
Something bumped Aravon’s back and he whirled, only to find himself face to face with his horse’s wet nose. He pushed the beast aside and slipped back toward the narrow opening of the cave. His heart pounded a nervous rhythm as he crouched in the darkness, eyes fixed on the shadowed gully beyond.
Had the Eirdkilrs spotted them before they reached the gully? Did they know of this cave’s existence? He gripped his spear tighter and prepared for anything.
Knots tightened his shoulders as a faint noise echoed through the night beyond. A moment later, the sound coalesced to the familiar clatter of stones, the heavy tread of Eirdkilr boots on the hard-packed earth of the parched riverbed. The night grew brighter, the stink of burning torches drifting past on the chilly breeze.
Damn it! If the Eirdkilrs searched the gully with their torches, there was no way they’d miss the cave. Aravon slipped backward, deeper into the shadows, until he bumped up against his horse’s flank. He could retreat no more, so the time had come to fight. The narrow opening would force the enemies to come at him one at a time, but the desperate flight from the Eirdkilrs’ camp had left him drained.
Yet fight he would, no matter how exhaustion weighed on his limbs. He’d fight until his last breath for a chance to get out of here alive—and to bring the Hilmir back alive with him. The future of Fehl depended on it. If Throrsson and the Fjall fell, nothing would stop the Eirdkilrs from dominating the southern half of the continent. The Deid alone couldn’t stand against them, and the Legion had few men to spare in the defense of their allies.
Aravon gripped his spear tighter, forced himself to draw in calm, slow breaths. He couldn’t get ahead of himself, couldn’t let his mind run rampant with images of doom and gloom.
He clenched his jaw. We will get out of here! One way or another, even if he had to fight through a horde of Eirdkilrs alone.
A quiet groan shattered the silence and drove a da
gger of ice into Aravon’s gut. The triumphant shouts from outside the cave left him with no doubt. The Eirdkilrs had heard Throrsson, and now they were coming. The night outside grew steadily brighter, the flickering glow of the Eirdkilr torches dispelling the shadows.
Gritting his teeth, Aravon gripped his spear in both hands and prepared to meet the attack. Within the cave, he had little room to maneuver. It would take just one enemy to summon reinforcements; he couldn’t hold out forever.
Yet he’d be damned if he let the Blood Queen take him alive. He would fight until his last breath, no matter how many of the blue-painted savages came for him.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Light blazed blinding and bright in the cave as an Eirdkilr burst through the narrow opening, torch in one hand, spear in the other. He let out a howl of delight at the sight of Aravon and drew his spear back for a thrust.
But Aravon was ready. He struck first, driving his weapon forward, slamming the Odarian steel head home in the man’s chest. Chain mail links snapped beneath the force of the blow. The bright blade punched through leather, tunic, and flesh, sliding between the man’s ribs. Dark red blood poured from the wound and the Eirdkilr stumbled back. Spear and torch fell from numb fingers and he gasped once, twice, three times, before slowly toppling backward.
Aravon tore the spearhead free of the dead Eirdkilr and whipped it back toward the narrow entrance, splattering the stone walls with blood. Taking a step back, he braced himself for the impending onslaught.
It never came. Two loud crunches echoed from outside the cave, followed by the audible snap of shattering bone. Wet, weak gurgling accompanied three thumps. Then silence.
Aravon’s heart hammered a rapid beat, but he stood firm, forcing in one deep breath after another. Whatever was out there—
A familiar figure stepped into the faint light of the dropped torch. “Good to see you, Captain.”
Aravon’s jaw dropped. “Zaharis?”
A grin broadened the Secret Keeper’s unmasked face. “Seems I got here just in time, eh?”
“I’ll say!” Aravon lowered his spear and let out a long breath. Tension drained from his shoulders and his muscles uncoiled. “But what are you doing here? I sent you to join Colborn and find the others.”
Zaharis shrugged. “I figured you needed a hand,” he signed. “We do this as a unit, right, Captain?”
A warm glow suffused Aravon’s chest, tingling down his spine. “Thank you, truly.” A feeling of gratitude nearly overwhelmed him. “If you hadn’t gotten here when you did…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “How did you get here?”
Zaharis stooped to retrieve the torch and leaned it against a nearby rock where it could burn unimpeded. “After setting the blaze, I began circling around south to rejoin you. Figured you might need someone to cover your getaway. When the Eirdkilrs began hunting, I had to take to my horse and get out of there. South seemed the most logical choice. Less chance of being found. Imagine my surprise when I found you thinking the exact same thing.”
Aravon couldn’t help smiling. “Wise minds think alike.”
Zaharis chuckled, a sound made harsh, rasping without a tongue. “I knew what I was looking for, so it was easy to spot the two of you. I followed, though the Eirdkilr hunters forced me to take a longer way around, else I might have gotten here sooner.”
Aravon threw up his hands. “No complaints from me.”
Zaharis jerked a thumb toward the dead Eirdkilr. “I only found this spot thanks to our noisy friends.” He looked around the cave. “Good hiding place. His idea?” His eyes darted past Aravon to where the Hilmir lay.
“Yeah.” Aravon turned to Throrsson. In the faint light of the Eirdkilr torch, he could see the Hilmir’s face had gone pale, pain twisting it into a grimace. A circle of blood leaked from a deep wound in his right side. “Shite!”
He crossed the distance to Throrsson in a single bound and knelt beside the quietly groaning Hilmir. Crimson seeped through a long, ragged tear in his flesh, just beneath his lowest rib.
“Damn.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “This looks bad.”
Zaharis pushed in beside him, and worry furrowed his brow. “Hit an organ, you think?”
“Possibly.” Aravon studied the blood trickling down Throrsson’s side. “Even if not, he’ll die if he keeps bleeding like this.” He glanced up at Zaharis. “Tell me you’ve got something for this.”
Zaharis’ expression grew pensive. “I’m no Mender or Seiomenn, but…” He dug into his pouch and drew out a single slim saw-toothed blade of grass. “This ought to at least stop the bleeding.”
Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“Dragon Thorngrass,” Zaharis replied one-handed. “The last of what I collected before Rivergate.”
Aravon’s eyes widened and he stared down at the plant. It appeared so innocuous, yet Aravon had seen what it could do—first in the flaming wall outside Rivergate, then again a few hours earlier. That little blade of grass had caused water to burn and bought the Hilmir time to escape.
“The oil burns hotter than the fiery hell, even when floating on water,” Zaharis explained. “But we won’t get more than a few drops out of this.” He shrugged. “Hopefully enough to cauterize his wound.” From his pack, he drew out his small pestle and mortar, along with a small pouch that contained shriveled, dried-up roots of some plant Aravon didn’t recognize.
“Chew on this.” The Secret Keeper thrust the root toward Aravon. “But whatever you do, don’t swallow!”
Aravon hesitated, eyes narrowing. “This isn’t going to kill me, is it?”
Zaharis shook his head. “Make things awfully uncomfortable next time you squat behind a tree, though.”
Aravon took the root but made no move to put it in his mouth.
“Look,” Zaharis signed, “as long as you don’t swallow, you’ll be fine. But we need that root nice and moist so it’ll mix with the Dragon Thorngrass oil. Together, it’ll form a crust, similar to hardened maize starch.”
Aravon chewed with caution, careful not to swallow. He grimaced at the taste, little better than mud with a hint of stick and rotted leaves. The treacle-like consistency was worse. It coated the inside of his mouth and threatened to slide down his throat despite his best attempts. Thankfully, only a few seconds passed before Zaharis held out the small stone mortar, and Aravon could spit the foul-tasting muck. He spat again on the ground to clear the taste from his mouth, and found lips and tongue gone slightly numb.
Zaharis busied himself mashing the chewed-up root together with the crushed Dragon Thorngrass. He worked for long, silent minutes, until he finally seemed satisfied. “Here.” He held out the mortar to Aravon. “Apply this to the wound.”
As Aravon worked the paste onto the tear in Throrsson’s side, Zaharis drew his dagger and held it over the torch. The Odarian steel blackened, then slowly brightened to a glowing red. Without a word, he held out the torch to Aravon and gestured for him to make room. Aravon moved out of the way for the Secret Keeper to kneel next to the pale-faced, unconscious Hilmir.
“Better cover his mouth,” Zaharis signed one-handed. “This might sting a little.”
Setting down the torch, Aravon lowered one knee onto Throrsson’s right shoulder, leaned a hand on his chest, and pressed the other over the Hilmir’s mouth. The last thing they needed was Throrsson’s screams to alert any nearby Eirdkilrs, or his agonized thrashings to make the wound worse.
“Do it.” He nodded to Zaharis.
With only a moment’s hesitation, the Secret Keeper pressed the glowing tip of the knife against Throrsson’s side. Flesh sizzled and crackled, and the reek of burning meat and scorched swamp grass grew thick in the cave. Throrsson’s eyes snapped wide and his muffled screams sounded terribly loud, reverberating off the stone walls. The Hilmir jerked and thrashed, forcing Aravon to lean all his weight on his knee and hand to keep the Fjall warrior still for the long, agonizing seconds Zaharis spent searing the wound closed.
> “Done!” Zaharis pulled the blade away, leaving behind scorched flesh and a blackened, crusted mess of crushed root and grass.
Slowly, Throrsson’s writhing diminished, his movements weakening as the agony retreated, and he soon fell still. Pain twisted his face, but already Aravon could see a hint of color returning to his pale cheeks. His eyes closed and he lay back, gasping for air, yet his breathing came easier.
“Here.” Aravon drew out his waterskin and tilted it up to the man’s lips. “Drink.”
Throrsson took a few sips, barely swallowing a mouthful before falling unconscious once more.
Aravon seized the opportunity to give the Hilmir a quick examination. The wound in his side was the worst, though he bore nearly twenty lacerations on his chest, face, and arms from the Blood Queen’s knives. Those would heal, in time, and the deepest wounds would be those on his soul. Watching his warriors tortured to death would weigh on him heavily, Aravon knew. Such horrors could shatter even the strongest spirit. How the Hilmir emerged from this trial remained to be seen. Either the Blodsvarri’s cruelty had broken him, or it had lit a fire of fury and vengeance in his chest.
Aravon turned to Zaharis. “Even with that wound closed, he’s still in bad shape. Anything you can do for him?”
“Sorry, Captain.” Zaharis’ expression grew strained, tight. “I left everything I had for pain back…” His eyes dropped, and it took him a moment to continue. “…back at Rivergate.”
Aravon understood the meaning for his hesitation. Zaharis had left the pouch beside Darrak.
For the first time, he got a clear look at the cave that had proven their salvation. It was wide, more than ten feet across, but barely long enough for the Kostarasar charger to fit. Roots dangled from the ceiling, reaching tendrils down through the ground above in search of water. Hundreds of mushrooms in varying shades of white, brown, and even a few hints of red sprouted to the soft earthen walls.
“Maybe there’s something in here?” Aravon asked.
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 45