With most of his warband dead, embroiled in a bitter battle for Storbjarg, or weakened by illness, the Hilmir knew the impossibility of the battle they faced. Yet that only served to strengthen his determination. That desire for vengeance against the Blood Queen for what she had done to his men and to his city burned like a bonfire in his chest—a fire that would drive him to fight until his last breath, his last drop of blood.
“This plan forces the Blood Queen’s hand,” Aravon pressed. “She cannot leave the Hilmir alive, so she will have no choice but to commit.”
“And when she does,” Throrsson said, stepping close to the Deid chief. “The Deid will be there to bring down Striith’s mighty hammer.”
The words appeared to mollify Chief Svein Hafgrimsson . After a long moment, he threw up his hands. “So be it,” he growled. “The Deid will hold the Fornbryggja.”
Hope surged within Aravon. That was just a part of their plan to defeat the Blood Queen, but a critical one.
“Long has it been since Fjall and Deid marched together.” Throrsson spoke in an almost ceremonial tone. “Let the old alliances be rekindled, the old resentments laid to rest. Let our clans stand shoulder to shoulder as it was in the days of the Grimafaegir, once more the chosen warriors of Striith and Olfossa joined in common purpose.” He thrust out a huge, hairy hand toward the Deid chief.
“As you say, Hilmir of the Fjall.” Chief Svein Hafgrimsson clasped Throrsson’s hand. “The forgotten oaths of our people are renewed until such a time as the Tauld no longer threaten our lands.”
With a nod, he turned away and marched off into his war camp, barking orders to his men. The Deid warriors exploded into a flurry of motion, pulling down tents, stowing bedrolls, and preparing to move out.
The moment Chief Svein Hafgrimsson strode out of view, Throrsson gave a little groan and sank back into his chair.
“Hilmir!” Aravon hurried to the man’s side.
“I am fine.” Throrsson waved a huge hand, dismissing Aravon. “Nothing a mug of fine mead and a night of rest cannot cure.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow, an expression lost beneath his mask.
“But perhaps you might consider taking care of yourself, Captain Snarl.” Throrsson leaned forward. “Do not think your exertions of the last few days have gone unnoticed. The last thing we need is for you to collapse before the battle has even begun.”
Aravon forced a tired chuckle. “I look that bad?”
“No, which is to your credit.” Throrsson gave him a wry smile. “One would almost think you a man of the Fjall warband.”
Aravon inclined his head. “High praise from the Hilmir.”
Eirik Throrsson gave a dismissive wave. “Praise means nothing to a dead man. Rest while you can. Tomorrow, we march to battle.”
“As you say.” Aravon gave a little bow and turned to leave.
“If I asked how you find yourself in the company of a Seiomenn, would you answer?” Throrsson’s comment stopped Aravon in his tracks. When Aravon turned back to the Hilmir, a sly smile tugged at his lips, and his teeth shone white against his thick black beard. “Holy stones are not so common as to be found simply lying around Fehl. Yet, knowing your Duke Dyrund, the answer to that question is as forthcoming as to who you are behind that mask, is it not?”
Aravon hesitated a moment. “If my Stonekeeper wishes to tell you his story, he will do so. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “We wear these masks to protect not ourselves, but those we love.”
“A fact that has not escaped me.” The Fjall chief pursed his lips. “Yet, were the Duke here, I might press him for answers. A Hilmir’s curiosity, you understand.”
Mention of the Duke brought back the burden of sorrow, and Aravon’s shoulders drooped beneath the weight. His throat thickened and he could find no words to reply.
“Do not despair, Captain Snarl.” Throrsson’s voice was surprisingly gentle, a kind look in his blue eyes. He stepped up to Aravon and rested a huge hand on his shoulder. “At the first sign of danger, Asleif would conceal him alongside herself and Branda.”
Aravon cocked his head. The Hilmir had mentioned his wife, Asleif, but the other name was unfamiliar. “Branda?”
A shadow flashed across Throrsson’s eyes. “My daughter.” His face darkened, his expression growing grim. “She, too, was cursed by the Wraithfever.”
Aravon sucked in a breath as his mind flashed back to the night Duke Dyrund offered Throrsson the Wraithfever cure. The Hilmir had chosen his son, Bjarni, to receive the cure. The realization of the choice Throrsson had made staggered Aravon. He couldn’t imagine doing the same—if both Rolyn and Adilon fell ill, how could any father make such a decision?
Throrsson seemed to understand Aravon’s reaction. “The burdens of command, Captain Snarl.” He appeared tired once more, and he stood, his shoulders stooped beneath a great weigh. “At least I can console myself with the knowledge that Bjarni lives, and he will fight beside me as we attack Storbjarg tomorrow. I owe your Duke his life, at least.”
With that, he shuffled off into the war camp, toward the section where his Fjall warriors—and Bjarni, his son—had pitched their tents.
Aravon watched the Hilmir go and a wave of fatigue crashed atop him. He felt drained, too exhausted to move, to think. It took every shred of effort to rise to his feet and ascend the short hill toward the patch of forest where Noll, Rangvaldr, and Zaharis had set up their little camp.
The Fjall would march to battle within the hour, and he’d be beside them when they did. But first he needed a few moments of rest and a bite to eat. Anything to stop his stomach from gnawing itself from the inside out, to restore strength to limbs that felt little better than soggy ropes.
The smell of cooking food reached him twenty yards away from the campsite. Aravon drew in a tired breath, the scent of fresh herbs, spices, and venison stew set his mouth watering.
Noll spotted him first. “Captain!” Leaping to his feet, the scout scooped up a bowl and filled it with a generous portion of the thick, meaty stew.
Aravon took the bowl with a nod of thanks and settled against a nearby tree. He nearly wept tears of relief at the first bite of the rich, perfectly-spiced meal—doubtless Zaharis’ handiwork, for Noll could never produce anything beyond barely edible and Rangvaldr’s culinary skills didn’t extend beyond skinning and dressing animals. It was the best thing he’d eaten in what felt like an eternity.
The clamor and clatter of the departing Fehlan warriors faded into the background as Aravon lost himself in the meal—the first simple comfort he’d enjoyed since…he couldn’t remember when. He stretched out his legs, and a lump rose in his throat as he remembered that he’d left Snarl with Skathi. She’d need the Enfield to send word if the Eirdkilrs abandoned Storbjarg or the city fell. But that left Aravon feeling lonely—so, terribly alone, burdened by his sorrow over the Duke’s death—and miserable, even after a bowl of Zaharis’ delicious stew.
“Zaharis was just telling us about the battle.” Rangvaldr’s eyes were dark behind his mask, his shoulders tight. “The Tolfraedr is an antiquated cruelty, one I believed even our southern cousins had given up long ago.”
“This Bloody Bitch really is a piece of work, ain’t she?” Noll shook his head. “Get me within bowshot, and I’ll plant a pair of arrows in her eyes.”
With effort, Aravon pulled himself out of his shell of misery and sorrow. “If we get the chance,” he said quietly, “I expect you to take it. But no unnecessary risks. We’re going to need all hands alive and ready if we’re to pull this off.”
“Aye, Captain.” Reluctance echoed in the scout’s voice. “Shame I wasn’t there.” He turned to Zaharis, excitement echoing in his voice. “I’d love to have seen what those Earthshakers could do.”
As if by magic or truly dexterous sleight of hand, the Secret Keeper made two small iron orbs, the size of apples and studded with knobby spikes and deep notches, appear in his palm. “I didn’t use them all,” he signed one-handed. “With wh
at’s ahead, it’s likely you’ll get a chance to see them in action yet.”
“Hah!” Noll burst out laughing. “Let me carry one. Nothing like the heat of battle to give me cover enough to sneak up on the Blood Queen and shove them so far up her arse she’ll be spitting metal.”
The Secret Keeper made the Earthshakers disappear as quickly as they’d appeared. “I wouldn’t trust you with a pair of pointy sticks, Noll, much less something with this much boom!”
“Careful,” Noll retorted, “or I’ll be forced to put two of my pointy sticks in your backside.” He shook a pair of steel-tipped arrows at the Secret Keeper. “I could use a bit of target practice.”
In the second that Aravon glanced down at his bowl, he missed Zaharis’ response. When he looked up, however, Noll’s sharp gesture and snarled “Bah! Keeper take you, then” made it clear Zaharis’ sharp wit had won this verbal exchange.
Aravon almost managed a smile…almost. This sort of banter had been sorely lacking over the last few days. It didn’t matter that tomorrow their company marched into battle against a superior foe that far outnumbered them—as long as his men could bicker and snap at each other, they were alive.
“You good?”
Rangvaldr’s quiet question brought Aravon’s head around. The Seiomenn was staring at him, a worried look in his eyes, his right hand toying with the gemstone hanging at his neck.
“Yeah.” Aravon nodded. “Nothing needing healing. Just a bit tired, hungry, sore, muddy, thirsty…and did I say tired?”
That elicited a chuckle from Rangvaldr.
“I’m good,” Aravon replied. “A bit of rest will do me good.”
“Your body, yes.” Rangvaldr inclined his head. “But your heart will be heavy still. The Duke was more than just your superior officer. I saw as much every time you spoke to him. And when he spoke of you as well.”
The lump returned to Aravon’s throat. “The Hilmir’s confident that his wife got the Duke into hiding.” It took effort to form the words, and his voice came out raspy, strained. The sight of the Seiomenn’s healing stone filled him with a twisting pang of sorrow. Had he known Eirik Throrsson had a daughter, it might have been worth revealing Rangvaldr’s true identity long enough to heal Branda. Saving both his son and daughter would have immediately convinced the Hilmir of the Duke’s honorable intentions.
“Perhaps.” Rangvaldr’s tone was musing. “Asleif isn’t only renowned for her mead and the beauty of her flaxen locks. She is as much to credit for the Hilmir’s ambition and success as Throrsson himself. It is likely she had the presence of mind. And yet…” He trailed off, shrugging. “Storbjarg burns, and the enemy rampages in its streets. Many a man would find it hard to hold out hope for the one he loves.”
Aravon’s stomach twisted. He forced himself to say the words aloud. “I have to hope,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And to keep fighting no matter how I feel about it. If he really is gone, I will have time to mourn when this is all over.”
“Wise words,” Rangvaldr said, not unkindly. “But sometimes the heart knows truths the lips cannot speak.” He reached over and rested a hand on Aravon’s leg. “I, too, pray to Nuius for the Duke. And for you, if the worst comes to pass.”
Aravon swallowed hard, swallowed again. “Thank you,” he managed to croak out.
“If you have need of me, you know where to find me.” Rangvaldr removed his hand and, with a little nod, turned back to the fire and Zaharis’ silent conversation with the noisy, protesting Noll.
Aravon paid the two little heed. Rangvaldr’s words hung heavy on his heart, a weight that pressed on his chest and pushed him down to the ground. He lay down, not bothering with a bedroll, missing the warmth and comfort of Snarl’s presence, too tired and burdened to move. It was all he could do not to curl up and wallow in misery.
He wanted to hold out hope. To believe the Duke was, in fact, still alive. Yet a part of him knew that was only delaying the inevitable. He’d have to come to terms with the painful truth sooner or later. If he didn’t, it would drive him mad.
But not tonight. Not with the threat of battle looming over him. Tomorrow was another day, a day when they would take the fight to the Eirdkilrs. The Blodsvarri would taste defeat, would watch her men slaughtered. Even if Throrsson didn’t have the numbers to retake Storbjarg and eliminate the Eirdkilrs entirely, by the Swordsman, he’d make them bleed!
Chapter Fifty-Six
Aravon snapped awake at the sound of a stealthy footfall a few paces from where he lay. He was halfway to his feet, spear ready to strike, before he recognized Noll’s compact form, mottled pattern armor, and masked face.
“Tried to let you sleep as long as I could, Captain.” Noll sounded apologetic. “But we need to move now if we’re to be in position by daybreak.”
Aravon blinked the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes and rolled the kinks from his muscles. A fresh, dewy scent filled his nostrils. The world around him was still dark, the chill of night hanging over their small forest camp. Yet the air was filled with the anticipation of pre-dawn, a stillness that settled over nature just before the first threads of morning light appeared on the eastern horizon.
The total absence of sound felt eerie. The previous night, more than two thousand warriors had camped a short distance away, the clamor of their movements and marching resounding through the forest. Now, only dense , oppressive silence pressed in around him.
He and Noll were alone.
“Zaharis and Rangvaldr?” Aravon asked.
Noll nodded. “Off to their posts an hour ago. Knowing Colborn, he, Belthar, and Skathi will be in position as well. All that’s left is for us to get in place when the show starts.” He gestured to Aravon’s horse, which he’d evidently fed, watered, and saddled before waking Aravon.
“Thank you, Noll.” Aravon clapped the little scout on the shoulder.
“We’ve all got our roles to play, Captain.” Noll hitched up the quiver of arrows slung over his back. “Truth be told, after Rivergate, I don’t mind being on the sidelines at the beginning. Things…” His brow furrowed. “Things got nasty back there.”
Aravon struggled to mask his surprise. Noll had never shown anything short of utter confidence, the same blustering ego common to so many experienced soldiers. Yet now, with no one around but Aravon, none of his companions to judge him, he felt free to open up and reveal the truth beneath the swaggering façade.
“I’d have died if not for the Seiomenn. And you, Colborn, Skathi, and everyone else.” Noll shook his head. “Not the first time I’ve stared the Long Keeper in the face, but every time I do, it makes me think about what really matters.”
“And what’s that?” Aravon asked gently.
Long moments of silence passed before Noll spoke. “My family.”
The words sent a jolt of ice down Aravon’s spine. “Family?”
“Three sons and a daughter.” Noll nodded, his voice heavy, laden with heartache. “In Lochton. Haven’t seen them in the better part of a decade. Their mother’s idea.” His shoulders drooped and his eyes couldn’t meet Aravon’s. “Kicked me out. Wanted nothing to do with me.”
Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “I had no idea.”
“Not the sort of thing a man shares with strangers. Or commanding officers.” Noll gave a harsh chuckle. “Makes a man look bad, you understand.”
Aravon laughed. “I can understand that.”
Noll nodded, gaze downcast. “It’s why I got into this. The Duke’s mission, working with you and the others.” He drew in a deep breath. “I owed a few debts, and the Duke promised to settle them all, keep my family fed and clothed as long as I served.”
“As noble a reason as any other.” Aravon shrugged. “We’ve all got a duty to our families.” His thoughts flashed to Mylena and his sons, Rolyn and Adilon. He’d taken on this mission for their sakes—to protect them from the war that had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember.
After a long moment of silence,
Noll sighed. “Kind of a cruel joke that I’m a better father to them dead than alive, isn’t it?”
Aravon shook his head. “One day, when this is all over, you’ll go back to them. If the last weeks are any kind of proof, I’ve no doubt you’ll be the sort of man that makes their lives better, not worse.”
Noll swallowed, but gave a slow nod. “Thanks, Captain. Here’s hoping.” He turned away, but not before Aravon caught a hint of moisture in his eyes. When he turned back, his voice was once again gruff, edged with his usual sharpness. “Now, if you’re done napping, maybe we ride out and get into position. This battle ain’t going to win itself.”
* * *
The first gentle swirls of reddish-gold painted the eastern sky as Aravon hauled himself up and into position beside Colborn. The Lieutenant glanced over from his camouflaged perch on a branch forty feet up an enormous red beech tree and nodded.
“Captain,” the Lieutenant muttered in a low voice. “Had me worried you’d sleep through the fun.”
“I thought about it.” Aravon shrugged. “Figured I’d better be here, make sure none of you messed up my careful battle plans.”
“You ever hear that old saying about battle plans?” Colborn shook his head. “Only useful until—”
“Some idiot buggers it up.” Aravon chuckled. “Best we can do is hope the idiot’s on the other side of the battlefield, yeah?”
Colborn chuckled, then turned his attention back toward the thick haze of smoke shrouding Storbjarg. “The Hilmir?”
“Knows his part to play,” Aravon replied. “It’s half his plan, after all.
“With just enough Zaharis thrown into the mix to give the Eirdkilrs a nasty surprise.” Noll’s voice held a wicked edge. The scout had joined Aravon and Colborn in the tree, sitting comfortably on a branch thicker than his head, as relaxed as a man taking an afternoon nap. A sharp contrast to the acrid wall of smoke, the shouts of fighting Eirdkilrs and Fjall, and the crackling of burning buildings echoing from within Storbjarg.
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