Skathi’s oak tree collapsed a heartbeat later, crushing another five Eirdkilrs at the far rear of the line. Far too few. The ambush, intended to demolish the rearmost Eirdkilrs and leave the foremost twenty arrayed against the Fjall’s forty, had only slowed the Eirdkilrs and taken a few casualties. Nowhere near enough. The five Eirdkilrs north of the felled trees died beneath the Fjall’s onslaught, but twenty-five trapped between the two fallen oaks were unharmed.
Five arrows whistled from the forest in quick succession, slamming into the clustered Eirdkilrs. One took an Eirdkilr in the throat and the huge barbarian fell, blood gushing over his filthy white icebear pelt. Another collapsed with an arrow driven deep into his eye socket. But the remaining three slammed into upraised Eirdkilr shields or pinged off their steel skullcaps.
Then Belthar charged out of the forest. Five lumbering steps, then he knelt, aimed his massive crossbow, and pulled the trigger. The loud whomph of the bow’s arms snapping forward was followed a moment later by a piercing shriek as the three-foot bolt drove through an Eirdkilr shield and deep into the chest of the man beneath.
But more Eirdkilrs remained—blocked from reaching the Fjall by the huge oaks, yet unharmed. Aravon’s gut clenched as their battle cries split the air and they surged up the shallow, muddy walls of the ravine. Right toward Belthar.
With slow, deliberate movements, the big man set down his crossbow and unslung the enormous axe from its hook on his back. The snarling wolf mask hid his face, but Aravon would have sworn a smile broadened Belthar’s face as he rolled his head and loosened his shoulder muscles.
“Avenge the Hilmir!” he shouted in thickly accented Fehlan.
He met the first charging Eirdkilr with cool calm. The double-bladed head of his enormous axe knocked aside a thrusting spear and bit deep into the side of the barbarian’s neck, plowing devastation through the man’s collarbone and ribs. Blood sprayed as he tore the axe free, spun, and slammed the crimson-stained edge into the next Eirdkilr’s shield. The barbarian cried out as Odarian steel chopped through tough hide, wooden planks, and the fur-covered arm beneath. A savage kick to the Eirdkilr’s chest sent him stumbling backward.
Then the first of the Eirdkilrs clambered up the ravine walls on Aravon’s side. Tearing his spear free of the tree, Aravon raced the three steps to where the barbarian was hauling himself up onto the grassy bank. With a snarl on his lips, Aravon drove the sharp spearhead straight into the man’s chest. Chain links snapped beneath the thrust. Steel sliced through leather, furs, flesh, and bone. The Eirdkilr gave a weak gasp and fell back, dark red gushing from his chest.
Two more Eirdkilrs scrambled out of the ravine and onto firm ground before he could tear his spear free. Bestial howls of delight burst from their throats as they swung enormous, iron-studded clubs at him. In desperation, Aravon ripped his spear from the Eirdkilr’s corpse and leapt back, barely avoiding the skull-crushing blows. His foot caught on a mound of earth and he fell, hard. Acting on instinct, he threw himself into a backward roll and came to his feet. Barely in time to bat aside a club swinging for his head. Too slow to dodge the low strike.
Pain flared through his thigh. The force of the blow sent him staggering to the side, off-balance. He slammed into a solid tree trunk hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, rebounded, and lashed out with a wild, slashing strike of his spear. The sharp tip tore a gouge out of one Eirdkilr’s cheek and bit through the other’s ear, spanging off his skullcap.
The wounds did nothing to slow the Eirdkilrs. With savage ferocity, they swung their heavy clubs at his head, chest, legs, arms, spear—anything to bring him down. It was all he could do to dodge and duck the strikes; without a shield to block, he had only his spear for defense. He had to regain his balance, take control of the combat before one of those crushing blows landed.
Another desperate strike, and this one struck home in an Eirdkilr’s throat, tearing flesh and cartilage. The barbarian gurgled, gasping as blood gushed from the torn vein in his neck. Hot, wet crimson pelted his mask and splattered the face of the second Eirdkilr. In the instant the barbarian blinked to clear the blood from his eyes, Aravon brought the iron-shod butt of his spear around and slammed it into the man’s knee. Bone crunched and the Eirdkilr shrieked in agony. Before he could fall, Aravon whirled the spear around once and drove the sharp tip up, beneath the man’s chin, into his brain. The screams fell silent. The Eirdkilr flopped to the ground, limp, eyes wide and lifeless.
A loud cry from a few feet away brought Aravon whirling around, in time to find the Fjall warriors finishing off the last of the Eirdkilrs. The smaller, more compact Fehlans had scrambled out of the ravine far faster than their enemies. On the far side of the ravine, a panting, bloodied Belthar tore his axe free of an Eirdkilr’s skull.
Aravon’s mind raced. Let’s hope that’s the last of—
A shout of alarm from behind Belthar shattered his thoughts. Loud crashing sounds, like heavy bodies stampeding through dense forests, echoed from the east. A moment later, Skathi’s armored figure appeared racing among the trees, straight toward the ravine. “A third company on their way!” she shouted in Fehlan. “Half a minute out and closing fast!”
Chapter Sixty-Four
Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. Another company? The Blodsvarri was smart. She hadn’t just sent a second group of skirmishers to follow the first—the cunning commander had sent three, maybe more. Who knows how many more are out here, hunting us? And now they know where we are!
“Fall back!” he shouted, also in Fehlan. He had to sell the deceit that the Hilmir’s forces were in retreat, but in this case, it was no ruse. Going up against a third company of Eirdkilrs here wasn’t part of the plan. They had to pull back, find another spot to set up an ambush.
The Fjall had already clambered out of the ravine to deal with the Eirdkilrs. Aravon’s cry sent them racing for the woods west of the ambush, back to Bjarni’s main body of warriors.
Skathi had just broken from the tree cover when she pitched forward, as if hurled by an invisible hand. The archer fell, hard, rolled once, and smashed into the trunk of one of the two felled oak trees.
“Skathi!” The shout tore from Belthar’s lips. Instantly, he was a blur of motion, his bulk moving with impossible speed as he took four huge steps to where the archer lay in a heap in the shadow of the oak.
Aravon was on the move as well. Ignoring the twinges of pain shooting up and down his leg, he leapt onto the nearest downed tree and scrambled across the improvised log bridge.
Right into the teeth of an arrow storm. A dozen Eirdkilr missiles whistled out of the trees. One slammed into his pauldron and spun off over his right shoulder. A second struck his helmet a glancing blow, and two more skittered through the branches mere inches from his legs. Agony exploded in his chest as an arrow slammed into his breastplate. Dead center. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and slowed his forward momentum. Gasping, staggered, Aravon nearly slipped off the log and plummeted into the rock-strewn ravine.
Somehow, impossibly, he managed to keep his balance and throw himself onto the western bank beside Belthar. Every breath sent waves of pain radiating through his torso, but at that moment, he couldn’t worry about that.
“She’s out cold, Captain!” Belthar shouted. The big man knelt over Skathi, his body and his huge double-headed axe a shield from the Eirdkilr arrows. Only the dense cover of the surrounding trees kept the Eirdkilrs from riddling them with shafts, but the moment they broke through the underbrush and got within view, he, Belthar, and Skathi would be vulnerable in the open.
“The…arrow?” Aravon gasped. “Bad?”
“No,” Belthar shook his head. “Armor held.”
“Good!” Relief flooded Aravon, but it died as the Eirdkilr howls echoed in the trees. So close, maybe forty or fifty yards west of them. And closing quickly. It sounded as if a herd of stampeding oxen crashed through the forest. They had seconds before the Eirdkilrs reached them, and their Fjall comrades
were on the far side of the ravine and retreating fast.
A dozen options, each more suicidal than the last, flashed through Aravon’s mind in the space between heartbeats. Plans considered and discarded. He couldn’t just think of how to get out of this skirmish alive, but how to keep their plan on track. The plan that would put an end to the Blood Queen and turn the tide of battle.
“Go!” he shouted to Belthar. “Get her out of here. Pull the Fjall back.”
Without hesitation, Belthar scooped up Skathi’s limp form, careful to collect her quiver and longbow as well. He cradled the archer in his arms, his enormous bulk shielding her from the arrows hissing past. “What about you?” Belthar asked, then ducked as a missile slashed the air an inch from his head.
“Let’s see how these Eirdkilrs fare at a game of ‘catch the Legionnaire’!”
Whirling, Aravon sprinted straight into the forest east of the ravine. He crashed through the dense underbrush, making as much noise as he could manage as he sprinted northeast. Forty Eirdkilr ambushers would move in a fairly tight formation—both for unit cohesion and maximum impact when striking at their enemies—and the storm of arrows had given him a rough idea of the enemy’s position. He could only hope none of the Eirdkilrs had gotten too far ahead of their fellows, or he was in for a nasty surprise.
“Hey, goat-buggers!” Aravon shouted one of the Fehlan insults Colborn had taught them—at Noll’s insistence, of course. “I’m over here!”
The tumult of the approaching Eirdkilrs grew louder, and huge, lumbering figures appeared through the woods. Their shaggy icebear pelts gave them the appearance of towering forest monsters with slavering fangs and faces stained a hideous blue. They moved far too fast for such enormous men, bursting through bushes, cracking branches, and trampling anything that stood between them and their prey.
Aravon couldn’t outrun them on flat terrain, but in the woods, with his mottled armor and the woodcraft skills Colborn had hammered into them all, he stood a chance.
And he had to pull the Eirdkilrs away from Belthar and Skathi. He had to give his men a fighting chance.
Pain lanced his chest and radiated in throbbing waves through his entire torso. That arrow might not have punched through his alchemically-treated armor, but it would leave one hell of a bruise. And as Aravon ran, he found it increasingly difficult to draw breath. The ache constricted his lungs, preventing him from pulling in enough air. Coupled with the sharp, stabbing pain in his thigh, Aravon knew he had minutes to lose his pursuers.
Aravon half-expected enemies to leap out at him. But he’d gotten lucky, chosen a path that led him in front of the enemy. A faint hope surged within Aravon—he might actually pull this off!
He caught sight of a flash of orange fur winging through the trees above him. Snarl had followed him, circling high overhead. Aravon felt a sense of relief, and gratitude. He’d almost forgotten about the Enfield, hidden away in the bushes, keeping out of sight of the Fehlan warriors. But Snarl hadn’t forgotten him. He’d stayed close on Aravon’s heels, watching out for his fellow pack mate.
Come on, boy! Aravon gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself to run faster. Let’s give these bastards a proper chase!
* * *
Aravon hadn’t felt so tired in…well, he was too tired to remember. And muddier than a prized Princelander pig. The long hours of running, walking, and climbing had helped to ease the pain of his leg—or he’d simply pushed his muscles so hard he’d gone through the discomfort period—but the ache in his chest had grown with every long, weary mile.
Yet a quiet elation burned within him. It had taken the better part of twenty miles, but he’d finally given the Eirdkilrs the slip. He’d headed northeast, cut back sharply south through a thicket of blackthorns, and snuck around behind the Eirdkilr pursuers. The same narrow creek he’d used to trap the Eirdkilrs had served to conceal his presence—he’d crossed far downstream where the current was faster, the water deep enough to hide his bootprints.
With Snarl as his guide, he had no trouble keeping out of sight of the enemy and finding his way back west to where Colborn and the rest of his company waited with Bjarni and Sigbrand’s Fjall warriors. If he was reading the terrain right, he was a mere half-mile away from the camp. And, hopefully, a fire where Zaharis brewed up a half-decent meal and something to help with the pain.
Mist slowly settled over the land as darkness blanketed the forests. The gray haze had a chilly edge that seeped into Aravon’s mud-soaked armor, sending a shiver down his spine. With the deep shadows of the forest pressing in around him, it was hard not to imagine enemies hiding in the darkness, ready to leap out at him.
He distracted himself from his fatigue by going over the day’s mission. A success, no doubt about it. Eighty Eirdkilrs dead, with only a handful of Fjall casualties. That ought to be enough to keep the Blood Queen seeing red.
The Fjall ambush would send the Blodsvarri a clear message that the Hilmir—or his son, now that Throrsson was “on his deathbed”—wasn’t going down without a fight. Yet, as the small size of the counterattack and the quick retreat indicated, the Fjall didn’t have enough warriors to mount a proper defense.
By Aravon’s best guess, the Blood Queen would continue to send the bulk of her forces at the main Fjall warband, but use skirmishers like she had today to keep Bjarni on the defensive, retreating. That suited Aravon just fine. As long as the Fjall kept the Eirdkilrs from circling around behind them, they could maintain the steady retreat. Let the Blodsvarri think she was herding them toward Hangman’s Hill, rather than the other way around.
Aravon tensed as a shadow appeared in the gloom, but relaxed at the sight of orange fur, gleaming yellow eyes, and dark wings. Snarl padded up to him and dropped something at his feet with a quiet yip of delight.
Kneeling, Aravon scooped up the object. A fat rabbit, with blood staining its brown fur where Snarl’s teeth had closed around its now-snapped neck. The little Enfield stared up at Aravon with an eager light in his eyes.
“Thanks, boy,” Aravon whispered, chuckling, and stroked Snarl’s fur. “You eat it.” He held the rabbit out to the Enfield. “I’ve got my own meal waiting back at camp.”
After only a moment’s hesitation, Snarl snatched the rabbit in his teeth and tore into it. Aravon couldn’t help smiling at the Enfield’s gesture; Snarl was becoming more and more a part of their “pack”. He’d taken not only to Aravon and Skathi, but to everyone in their company. Rangvaldr, certainly, though that likely had to do with the bits of meat the Seiomenn kept sneaking him. Snarl seemed to tolerate even Noll, though he gave the occasional growl whenever Belthar moved too close to Skathi at the campfire. He was protective over every member of his pack. Not just their messenger, but part of their odd little company.
Aravon’s stomach growled as he watched Snarl devouring the rabbit. He’d left his pack and rations on his horse, which meant a long day with no food and only a few mouthfuls of water. He was all too eager to get back to the camp and get something hot and warm in his belly. He needed enough energy for what lay in store for them—
Snarl dropped the half-eaten rabbit and his head perked up, ears twitching. The little Enfield’s fox body tensed, his posture stiff, amber eyes alert. A low barking growl rumbled in his throat.
Aravon tensed as well. Only one thing could make Snarl react like that. Enemies in the night!
Snarl slunk into the bushes, padding between the trees, his eagle’s claws near-silent on the soft, damp forest floor. Aravon followed in a low crouch, one eye on the slinking Enfield and the other on the surrounding forest.
Deep shadows hung thick in the forest, the mist blotting out any starlight that seeped through the dense canopy. Yet, in the darkness, Aravon heard the sound of clanking armor, the quiet thump of booted feet on soft earth, and the harsh breathing of men.
Aravon froze as a figure appeared through the mist. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing shaggy furs with a round shield slung over his back. Then an
other, and a third, and more. Ten, twenty, fifty, more. Moving slowly, slipping quietly through the trees.
Straight toward the place where Bjarni’s forces made camp.
Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. The Eirdkilrs are going to launch a sneak attack!
Chapter Sixty-Five
Aravon tightened his grip on his spear, his mind racing. The Fjall, exhausted from a day spent locked in a fighting retreat, would be resting in shifts. Yet with the dense mists providing cover, the Fehlan sentries would be hard-pressed to see the approaching enemy.
Not if I have any say about that! Drawing in a deep breath, he opened his mouth to shout a warning.
Yet something stopped him before he raised his voice. Something about this was…wrong.
Then a figure moved right in front of him—so close Aravon could reach out and tap the warrior’s shoulder with the tip of his spear. His eyebrows shot up as he realized what had stopped him.
They’re too small to be Eirdkilrs. The figures were strong, tall warriors clad in furs, carrying rounded shields—the same shields carried by the Fjall warband and the Eirdkilrs. But they were no hulking behemoths with blue-stained faces. Their furs had come not from wasteland icebears, but Fehlan brown bears, reindeer skins, otters, and other smaller animals found north of the Sawtooth Mountains.
Aravon’s eyes fell on a figure moving at the front of the clustered warriors, and his eyebrows shot up. Grimar? He recognized the Fjall—the blond hair and beard pulled into two tight braids, his broad jaw and heavy brows—from the day they first arrived in Storbjarg. The man had been in command of the three thousand warriors left to guard Storbjarg. How in the fiery hell did he get here?
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