It didn’t matter that the Blood Queen had lost nearly fifteen hundred of her warriors in the space of an hour. More than four thousand marched at her back, and the Hilmir had only the two thousand of his warband. Closer to seventeen hundred when the retreat was sounded. The clash in Storbjarg had cost Throrsson, and the battle here hadn’t been entirely one-sided. With a single cruel command to slaughter her own men, the Blodsvarri had whittled down the Fjall warband to just sixteen hundred.
And however many more are still alive in Storbjarg, Aravon tried to console himself. The city hadn’t fully fallen yet. Sounds of battle had still rung out within the walls an hour earlier. The Hilmir’s warriors fought with dogged tenacity, holding on to their city and protecting their people to the bitter end.
But even if all three thousand remained alive—an impossibility, given the fact that they had faced an equal number of Eirdkilrs—they would have their hands full trying to hold or recapture the city. That left only the few with Hilmir to defeat the four thousand marching with the Blodsvarri, and however many more she could summon from the Eirdkilr-held lands.
Aravon gritted his teeth and bent lower over his horse’s neck. We’re hurt bad, but not out of this fight yet! He glanced left, spotted Colborn keeping pace just beyond the edge of the forest. A few hundred yards off to the right, Belthar and Skathi were mounted and galloping north as well. And we’re all still alive.
The battle had just begun, the opening move played. Though they had taken a beating, their ranks thinned, Aravon had to hold out hope that they still had a chance.
As Aravon charged past the retreating Fjall, he sought out Throrsson among the body of warriors. He caught the Hilmir’s gaze and the man shot him a grim nod. Blood stained Throrsson’s armor and exhaustion lined his face, yet a grim determination blazed within his eyes. He and his Fjall were far from being out of the fight.
Aravon spurred his horse faster, and within a few minutes, pulled far ahead of the fast-moving Fehlan column—little more than a ragged string of warriors struggling to outrun their pursuers. Yet they did not have far to run.
Aravon’s gaze roamed the terrain to the north, and his heart leapt as he spotted the first trees rising in the distance. Three miles away, the next step of his plan awaited. They just had to hope the Fjall reached it before the Eirdkilrs caught up.
Gritting his teeth, Aravon bent lower in his saddle and fixed his eyes on the bridge ahead. The Fornbryggja was the only way across the broad, deep Ormrvatn River for ten miles to the east or west. That single ribbon of water was the Fjall’s best hope of not only holding off the Eirdkilrs, but by the Swordsman’s grace, defeating them altogether.
But only if Zaharis and Rangvaldr played their parts.
The Fornbryggja, called the Immortal Bridge, had stood for as long as any Fjall could remember. Eirik Throrsson had spoken of the bridge as a marvel of ancient Fehlan construction, a landmark that all on Fehl recognized by name if not by sight.
Compared to some of the stone bridges built by Legionnaires—Rivergate Bridge, for example—the Fornbryggja was far from an architectural masterpiece. One hundred and fifty yards long and wide enough to march ten men abreast, it was a flat, solid construction of oaken planks set atop vast redwood beams. Legends held that it could bear the weight of a thousand men without crumbling. The fact that it had stood for more than five hundred years—as far back as the Fjall’s historical records remembered—was the true marvel. The wood had been sealed against water and the elements by an ancient mixture of oils and resins that no Fehlan alive today could replicate.
So Aravon had set Zaharis to studying the bridge and finding a way to bring it down.
It had taken two full days to convince the Hilmir to let him enact his plan, but finally Throrsson had agreed that the dire nature of their situation demanded such…extremes. Yet Aravon knew that the act would pain the Hilmir as deeply as if Aravon had watched the gleaming Icespire itself torn down.
The horses’ hooves clattered atop the solid oak planks as he and his four companions thundered across the Fornbryggja. Aravon glanced at the Ormrvatn River flowing beneath the bridge—sharp rocks protruded from the riverbed, churning the fast-moving water to white. Even the Eirdkilrs wouldn’t risk that crossing without the bridge.
Hope surged within him as he reached the far side of the crossing and reined in his horse. The ground beyond was flat, the wagon road wide and dry, with only a few ruts left by iron-banded wheels. They’d have a good position to hold.
He turned to scan the trees clustered bordering the road to the east and west, searching for any sign of Rangvaldr or Zaharis. It was up to them to prepare the ground for their next battle—the most critical strike of the day, one that could finally give them a real advantage over the Blood Queen.
Yet the sparse forests were empty. Aravon saw no sign of either man.
“Captain?” Confusion echoed in Belthar’s rumbling voice. “Shouldn’t they be here?”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. What in the bloody hell? In Zaharis’ case, that likely meant he was still busy putting the finishing touches on his surprise. But Rangvaldr should be in place, waiting for them to arrive.
“Stonekeeper!” Aravon’s shout echoed through the woods. Silence answered him. Not so much as a leaf or branch stirred within the forest. Where in the Keeper’s name are they?
Aravon whirled to face his four companions. “Fan out,” he ordered. “Find them.”
Worry gnawed at Aravon’s belly, doubt digging sharp claws into his mind. Something’s wrong.
He whirled northward at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. A single figure rode a massive Kostarasar charger. No Fehlan warriors marched at his back or slithered among the trees. Only Rangvaldr, alone, with his heavy sword and round shield slung over his back.
Aravon’s brow furrowed, his apprehension deepening with every pounding hoofbeat of the Seiomenn’s horse. Rangvaldr was riding from the north, far beyond the place where he should be waiting.
“Captain!” Rangvaldr drew his horse to a halt in front of him. “They’re gone!”
Aravon sucked in a breath, and a fist of ice closed around his heart.
“Svein Hafgrimsson and the Deid warband.” The Seiomenn shook his head. “They’ve abandoned us.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“What?” Aravon snapped. “What in Keeper’s name happened?”
Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened. “Word came of Gold Burrows Mine.”
Aravon’s stomach bottomed out. His breath caught in his chest, and the realization set his mind spinning. His and the Hilmir’s battle strategy, carefully orchestrated and planned to the minutest detail, had just crumbled before his eyes.
“And they just…left?” Colborn sounded incredulous.
Rangvaldr nodded. “Hafgrimsson said to tell the Hilmir, ‘If you cannot protect your own lands, how can we trust you will take care of ours?’ I’ve spent the last hour riding alongside them, trying to convince him to change his mind. Nothing.”
Bitter fury echoed in Colborn’s voice. “Cowards!”
Aravon felt the burning anger, the frustration at the Deid fleeing at the most inopportune moment, but he could understand the Deid’s actions. That same fear for home and family had led the Hilmir into the Blood Queen’s trap.
Worse, he felt guilty. Had he spoken up earlier, he might have been able to avert this disaster. He fixed Rangvaldr with a piercing stare. “I should have told them.”
The Seiomenn shook his head. “No, that burden rests with me.” His shoulders tightened, his posture stiffening. “For the last four days, I have broken bread and shared the fire with the Deid, knowing the truth of what happened to their lands, their warriors.” He drew in a breath. “I carry the blame for this.”
“Much as I’m all for hearing someone else cocked everything up,” Noll interjected, “no pity party’s going to solve our current problem.”
Aravon swallowed the emotions surging within him, pushed back the anger, guilt,
and frustration. Biting sarcasm aside, Noll was right. “We’ve got to figure out how to deal with this.”
“And quickly.” Colborn’s voice was solemn. “The Hilmir’s almost here.”
Chaos whirled in Aravon’s mind and he struggled to marshal his thoughts, to formulate a new tactic on the go. A glance toward the southern horizon revealed the foremost Fjall racing toward them. He had minutes—ten, maybe fifteen at most—before the Hilmir’s warriors reached them, the Eirdkilrs hot on their heels. He needed to figure out how to pull this back from the edge of defeat.
Thoughts racing, Aravon turned back to his comrades. “Rangvaldr, how’s your aim with a bow?”
The Seiomenn shrugged. “I was a passable hunter during my days as an Eyrr warrior.”
“Good.” Aravon rounded on Skathi. “Give him your horsebow and a quiver of arrows.”
The Agrotora hesitated, her eyes darting to the three quivers hanging from her saddlehorn. One was all but empty, and the other two held only sixty arrows between them.
“Half a quiver, and that’s an order.” Aravon’s tone brooked no argument.
With visible reluctance, the archer handed her short horsebow to the Seiomenn and passed a fistful of arrows to the near-empty quiver.
Rangvaldr accepted bow and arrows with a nod. “I will treat them with the respect I show my own weapons.”
Skathi inclined her head, but Aravon didn’t need to see beneath her mask to sense her displeasure. In a way, she was right to conserve her ammunition. Swordsman knows we’ll run out of arrows long before we run out of enemies.
But for his plan to work, he needed as many archers as possible. At the moment, he had just five.
“Skathi, Colborn, get into the trees on the west,” Aravon commanded. “Belthar, Noll, Rangvaldr, take the east. When the enemy starts crossing the bridge, let loose on them as fast as you can. Rate of fire over accuracy, got it?”
Colborn’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “The five of us?”
Aravon shrugged. “It’s all we’ve got for now.” He turned to Belthar. “Get off one shot with your crossbow, then it’s up to you to make enough noise to convince the Eirdkilrs we’ve got an army waiting in the woods.”
“Aye, Captain.” Belthar cleared his throat loudly. “Been a while since I’ve been able to bellow properly.”
“Now’s your chance.” Aravon clapped him on the shoulder.
“All due respect, Captain,” Colborn interjected, “but you want us to start shooting while they’re crossing, not after?”
Aravon nodded. “Even experienced archers loose their missiles prematurely.”
“That’s what every woman ever has said about Noll,” Belthar muttered, earning a scowl from the little scout.
Aravon ignored the gibe. “We want them to hesitate before they cross that bridge, expecting the ambush we planned to have lying in wait for them.”
Noll scooped up the horses’ reins and led them out of sight, deeper into the sparse woods west of the wagon road. Belthar saluted and, unhooking his crossbow from his horse’s saddle, followed Noll and Rangvaldr to their designated positions under cover of the trees. Skathi left as well, after shooting a look of mild irritation at the departing Seiomenn. Aravon knew better than to separate an Agrotora from her bows, but he had little choice in their present circumstances. She was, after all, the only one who carried two bows with her.
And it’s not like I had anyone touch her longbow. That conversation would have gone very differently. The Agrotorae were vicious in the defense of their longbows, masterpieces on par with the finest sword or shield. Skathi would have put an arrow into Rangvaldr’s chest before letting him touch her prized possession and weapon of war.
“What are you thinking?” Colborn’s voice sounded from beside him.
Aravon turned to the Lieutenant. “You know our plan for this bridge, yeah?”
Colborn nodded. “Lure a portion of the enemy across, then have Zaharis work his magic on the bridge.” He chuckled at the use of “magic”—he knew as well as the rest of them how testy the Secret Keeper got when anyone used the forbidden word in reference to his alchemical sciences. “With the bridge gone, there’d be a thousand or so of the big bastards trapped on our side, between the Fjall and the Deid.”
“But without the Deid,” Aravon said, “we’ve got no way to spring the trap. Not the way we originally intended.” He drew in a long breath, resisted the urge to remove his helmet and run a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “But if we make them think there’s a trap waiting for them, the Blodsvarri’s going to think carefully about how to approach the crossing. Either she pulls back and we have a bit of time to breathe—”
“Or she’ll come across all nice and organized-like. Neat little rows of Eirdkilrs all dressed up for battle.” Colborn whistled. “Then, when the Magicmaker does take the bridge down, they take heavier losses.”
“Precisely.” Aravon appreciated and respected Colborn’s quick grasp of his thinking; the Lieutenant had proven he had a mind as sharp as any officer Aravon had met. He’d never have advanced within the Legion due to his Fehlan heritage, but not his lack of skills.
A fact we’re bloody well going to change, if we get a chance. I’ll take it to the Duke myself if…
The thought died half-formed. Sorrow welled within him at the thought. After seeing the Eirdkilrs’ thorough destruction of Storbjarg, even the most willfully stubborn fool would have trouble clinging to the hope that Duke Dyrund still lived. Even the Hilmir’s reassurance couldn’t keep the grim truth at bay. No way the Duke would have escaped that towering inferno or survived the Eirdkilr assault. If he had, he’d have found a way to reunite with them by now.
With effort, he pushed the bleak thoughts aside and pulled his mind back to the matter at hand. I’ll take it to the Prince, he amended, shooting a pensive glance at Colborn. If that’s what he wants, of course.
Once, Aravon himself had desired nothing more than to rise to rank of Battalion Commander, perhaps even to General someday. Yet now, given everything that he’d endured since the death of Sixth Company, he wasn’t certain what lay in his future. A part of him wanted nothing more than to return home to Icespire, to live the rest of his days in quiet comfort with Mylena. To watch Rolyn and Adilon grow into strong, capable men. To live in a version of the Princelands that wasn’t consumed by battle and war.
Yet none of that would happen—not for him, and not for Colborn, if his heart ran in the same direction as Aravon’s—until the Eirdkilrs were defeated. That defeat began here, now.
“The Hilmir’s not going to like the change,” Aravon said, “and Keeper knows he’s going to be spitting fire and venom when he hears about the Deid. But we’ve got no time to catch him up. We’ll have to trust that he’ll handle his part and keep the Eirdkilrs occupied. Hopefully, between the Fjall and our arrows, we’ll have enough to pull the Blood Queen across, into our trap.”
“By the Swordsman’s grace.” Colborn shrugged. “Best get to it, then.” With a quick salute, he turned and raced after Skathi, deeper into the woods.
Aravon shot a hesitant glance toward the south. The retreating Fjall covered ground as only running Fehlans could, and they’d reach the bridge within ten minutes. That gave him just enough time to get down to Zaharis and make sure the Secret Keeper knew the change in plans.
Swordsman, have mercy on us, Aravon prayed silently. Please help us pull this off.
Courage bolstered a fraction, he hurried toward the bridge and slipped down the hill beside it, using his spear to steady himself on the steep incline.
“Zaharis?” he called out as he reached the heavy redwood supports holding up the ancient wooden Fornbryggja.
The Secret Keeper poked his head out from his perch, just beneath the spandrels under the bridge. “Captain?” he signed. “What’s the matter?”
Aravon explained the situation in a few brief sentences. “Whatever you’re doing to bring down the bridge, I need you to make it…big
ger, more lethal.”
“About that…” Hesitance flashed in Zaharis’ eyes.
Aravon’s gut tightened. That can’t be good.
“Foraging didn’t turn up anywhere near enough to do real damage here.” He thrust a mud-covered finger toward small patches of what looked like drying reddish-brown clay dabbed onto the underside of the bridge, where the wooden support pillars met the girders that formed the base of the Fornbryggja’s deck. “Truth be told, I’m not even sure this will be enough to bring it all down, much less inflict any serious punishment.”
Aravon stifled a growl of frustration. Damn it!
“Sorry, Captain.” Zaharis’ eyes darkened. “I know how important this is. It’s just that…” He blew out a breath. “Lots of unfamiliar plants in the Fjall lands, and no time to test what they can do. Best I could come up with on short notice was—” His fingers signed a name Aravon didn’t recognize, likely the name of the plant or plants he’d used for his alchemical concoction. “It’s just too damned long and wide to bring down without the proper supplies.”
Aravon studied the underside of the bridge, and his mind flashed back to the Rivergate Bridge. “What if you concentrated it all right there?” Aravon pointed toward a section just shy of the middle of the bridge. “Bring just the center section down.”
Zaharis squinted up at the wooden structure, at his alchemical concoction, then back at the bridge. After a long moment, he nodded. “Should work. Might even take a few Eirdkilrs with it.” He glanced back at Aravon. “But that’s just a short gap. Five, maybe ten yards long at best. Nothing a few logs won’t bridge.”
“That’s fine.” Aravon gave a dismissive wave. The wheels had begun turning, his mind working at the new problem. “In fact, that might actually be a good thing.”
Zaharis cocked his head. “Now this I have to hear.”
Aravon shook his head. “I can’t exactly predict what the Blood Queen will do. But I think that if we piss her off badly enough, she’ll be itching to follow us, even if she has to waste a few hours felling trees. And it’ll pull them farther from Storbjarg.”
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 51