“Where are they now?” Aravon asked. “The Hilmir’s wife and daughter?” Throrsson would want to know—hope and relief at discovering his family alive would spur him to fight, but so would a desire for vengeance.
“Gone.” The Duke shook his head. “Asleif…fell in the flight. Captured by Eirdkilr skirmishers.”
Aravon’s jaw clenched. “And Branda?” He’d never forget the remorse that darkened the Hilmir’s eyes, the burden of knowing he’d chosen to let his daughter die.
“Sent north…with Lord Virinus.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
The Duke swallowed, coughed, and swallowed again before speaking. “We found a way…to slow the Wraithfever.”
“You found Fetidroot this far south?” Zaharis signed.
The Duke shook his head. “Feverfew, elderberry, something Asleif called yarrow. Bought her a few more days.” This time, he managed to push himself upright, his strength returning as the fever retreated. “I tried to send for help—“ His hand went to his neck. “—but my bone whistle got lost in the fighting as we fled…” He broke off into a spell of coughing. “Couldn’t call Skyclaw to bring…the cure!”
He gasped and coughed again, a deep hacking that brought up phlegm from his lungs, and only recovered after a drink of water. “Lord Virinus has instructions to bring her to Saerheim. Safely out of Fjall territory, and Lord Eidan is sending a dose of the Wraithfever cure there with a fast rider.”
Relief lightened the burden on Aravon’s shoulders. Throrsson would be glad to hear that his daughter had a chance of living.
The Duke’s eyes flew wide and he clutched at Aravon’s shirt. “Storbjarg!” he gasped. “The Hilmir was betrayed!”
Blood turned to ice in Aravon’s veins. “Betrayed? By whom?”
“I don’t know!” The Duke shook his head weakly. “But when the Eirdkilrs attacked, someone threw the gates open for them. Let a small force inside and to set fire to the city and hold the gates long enough for the three thousand from Dagger Garrison to arrive.”
They had known of the Eirdkilrs marching from Dagger Garrison, a force that shouldn’t have arrived until after midnight the day of the Waeggbjod ambush. But with the Blodsvarri marching to spring her trap on the Hilmir, where had that “small force” come from?
Horror seeped ice cold into Aravon’s bones. It can’t be! The very idea seemed an impossibility, and yet…
“How small a force?” He demanded. “How many?”
“A few hundred, I don’t know. Not enough to take the city, but certainly enough to destroy the gates and throw Storbjarg into confusion.” The Duke shook his head. “I never saw them, but Asleif said they weren’t the Blood Queen’s warriors.”
Aravon felt as if he’d just taken a warhorse’s hoof to the gut. He sat back heavily, his breath catching in his lungs. By the Keeper!
“Captain?” Confusion echoed in Colborn’s voice.
Aravon turned to the Lieutenant. “The Eirdkilrs from Rivergate.”
Colborn’s eyes flew wide, and both Belthar and Skathi sucked in sharp breaths. “What?” Skathi demanded.
A grim chill settled into his body. “We knew they had crossed the Westmarch, but we never found their tracks.”
“But Gold Burrows Mine—” Belthar rumbled.
“The attack on the mine came from the southwest.” Colborn’s mind was clearly working along the same lines as Aravon. “The Blodsvarri’s warriors!”
Aravon nodded glumly. “If she had someone within the Hilmir’s warband, she’d have to know that Throrsson had reached out to the Deid.” The sheer breathtaking scope of her cunning and foresight staggered him. “That attack wasn’t just about the gold. She wanted to send a clear message to the Deid.”
“Get them to abandon the fight, just like they did.” Colborn’s bushy blond eyebrows knitted together.
“What?” The Duke’s eyebrows shot up. “The Deid have abandoned the Hilmir?”
Aravon filled the Duke in on everything that had happened since they rode out of Storbjarg—the Hilmir’s defeat and loss of his eleven hundred men, the attack on Storbjarg and the ambush on the Blood Queen, the Fornbryggja and the fighting retreat. “We’ve managed to turn back everything she’s thrown at us, but no matter what we do, in the end it comes down to the fact that she’s just got too many damned men. We’re on our final play, our last hope. The Hilmir’s digging in at Hangman’s Hill right now.” Aravon shot a glance at the cave mouth—the sky outside had already begun to brighten. “We should already be on our way there. He’s expecting an enemy to attack just after dawn. With Bjarni’s eight hundred and the two-hundred fifty men under Grimar, that’ll put his forces at…”
He trailed off, fresh horror driving a dagger of ice deep into his spine. “Grimar!” The word burst from his mouth with explosive force. “Grimar was one of the only Fjall who knew the Hilmir’s plan. He was the one left to guard the gates of Storbjarg.”
“He is the traitor,” Colborn breathed.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Aravon’s gut clenched. Bloody hell! The warrior’s shame and remorse had all been an act. If he was the traitor, he could have been sent by the Blood Queen to strike down Bjarni. That explained his surprise at finding the Hilmir still lived—the Eirdkilrs had to have believed the Fjall’s rage at Throrsson’s death.
And we just sent him marching straight toward the Hilmir.
The Blodsvarri’s insidiousness knew no bounds. A sudden betrayal at the right moment in the impending battle could not only turn it into a rout—it would lead to the death of the Hilmir, Bjarni, and every Fjall loyal to Throrsson. Those two hundred and fifty Fjall warriors with Grimar were a sharp knife poised to drive into the Hilmir’s back.
Aravon leapt to his feet. “We’ve got to warn the Hilmir!”
Colborn, Belthar, and Zaharis were a heartbeat behind him, and even Skathi struggled upright, wincing at the pain in her head and shoulder.
“Colborn, Belthar, with me!” Aravon snapped. “Skathi, you’re with Zaharis.”
Anger blazed in Skathi’s eyes. “I already told you, Captain, I can fight!”
“I’m counting on that!” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “I need Zaharis to do everything he can to keep the Duke’s fever at bay until we can get Rangvaldr. Which means I need you to watch his back.”
Skathi’s expression hardened, her eyes going flat, cold. Aravon had a good guess what was going through her mind—he’d felt the same after the ambush on the Eastmarch, a need to earn the respect of the men beside whom he fought, to show he wasn’t weak despite his injuries. But this wasn’t the time for that. He needed her to obey, for her sake as well as the Duke’s.
After a long moment, her features softened. “Understood, Captain.” She nodded, the icy look leaving her eyes.
Relief flooded Aravon. That answer spoke volumes about the change in Skathi. She’d taken his words to heart. She was one of the team, with no need to prove anything to anyone.
Colborn spoke quickly. “The Eirdkilrs shouldn’t be coming this way, but just in case—”
“We’ll keep out of sight,” Zaharis signed. “Wait for you to send word that all’s clear.”
“Aravon.” Duke Dyrund’s voice drifted up from where he sat.
Aravon turned to kneel beside the Duke. “I’ve got to go, Your Grace, but Zaharis will get you fighting fit in no time.” He shot a glance up at Skathi. “As soon as we can, I’ll send Snarl with a place to meet us, where Rangvaldr can do his thing.”
Skathi nodded. “I’ll be watching.” She knelt and reached a hand under Snarl’s neck to scratch his scruff, earning a delighted yip from the little Enfield.
“Be safe, Aravon.” The Duke reached out to clasp his hand. “You’ve accomplished so much more here than I could have ever imagined. Know that no matter what happens today, I could not be more proud of you.”
A lump rose to Aravon’s throat. “Thank you, sir.” It was the first time he’d ever heard those wo
rds…from anyone. “You just worry about healing up, and leave the battle to us.”
He locked gazes with the Duke, saw the pride and respect glimmering there. Tears burned at his eyes and he felt an overpowering urge to embrace the Duke. But he settled for squeezing the Duke’s hand.
“We’ll be back before you know it.”
The Duke gave him a little smile and a nod, but his words were interrupted by a fit of coughing.
Aravon stood quickly—if he didn’t go now, he might not be able to bring himself to leave the Duke’s side—and turned to Zaharis. “Take care of him, Zaharis.”
“Aye, Captain,” the Secret Keeper signed. “Split some Eirdkilrs heads for me, yeah?”
With a grim chuckle, Aravon strode past the Secret Keeper. “Colborn, Belthar, we ride now.”
Colborn moved toward his pack and set about stowing his gear without a word. Belthar hesitated only an instant, casting a glance at Skathi.
“Get out of here!” Skathi growled. “It’s just cruel to rub in the fact that you get to have all the fun!” Her tone was angry, but humor sparkled in her eyes.
“Want I should send a few this way?” Belthar asked. “I can always paint a big sign in Eirdkilr runes saying, ‘The cave of wonders—get your arrows here’!”
Skathi chuckled. “Eirdkilrs can’t read, you big idiot!”
“Oh, yeah.” Belthar shrugged. “Next time, then.”
As Belthar turned to his pack, Aravon slung his own satchel over his shoulder and fixed Zaharis with a stern gaze. “Keep him alive, no matter what!”
“Go, Captain!” Skathi gave him a dismissive wave. “We’ve got this.”
Aravon scooped up his spear and Odarian steel longsword and, with Snarl, Colborn, and Belthar on his heels, strode from the cave. The four of them slipped through the pre-dawn darkness of the riverbank to where they had left their horses grazing out of sight beneath a rocky outcropping.
They moved in silence, strapping their packs in place with deft movements and climbing into their saddles. At Aravon’s wordless command, they wheeled their horses northwest, toward Hangman’s Hill and the place where the Fjall would do battle with the Eirdkilrs.
“Go, Snarl!” Aravon shouted the command word. The little Enfield sprang into the air, snapping out its wings, and rose quickly into the slowly-brightening sky. He disappeared into the darkness to the north, a silent shadow that would watch over them from high above.
Grim resolve hardened within Aravon as he kicked his horse into motion. Please don’t let us be too late!
Their pace was slow, the horses cautious as they picked their way over the smooth stones of the river. They’d chosen the cave not only for its location, out of the Eirdkilrs’ path; it was also accessible from a single spot where the bluffs along the Hardrfoss River dipped low enough to descend to the rocky riverbank.
Aravon chafed at the slow pace, but he couldn’t push the horses to run faster. He gritted his teeth and focused on figuring out how to prevent whatever treachery Grimar intended. He had to get to the Hilmir before the battle and warn him of his second-in-command's betrayal.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they reached the dip in the bluffs, and Aravon spurred his horse onto the flat ground west of the Hardrfoss River. The Eirdkilrs would be traveling east of the river, heading straight toward Hangman’s Hill. That meant the three of them could ride north along the Hardrfoss’ western bank without fear of discovery. They’d have to find a place to cross over before reaching Hangman’s Hill, but if they hurried, they might be able to reach it before the Blood Queen’s men arrived.
“Hyah!” Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, and the charger leapt forward into a gallop. The thundering of hooves filled Aravon’s world as he crouched low over the horse’s back, and the landscape flew past in a blur of dark and light grays. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but his horse had far better night vision than any human eyes. The Kostarasar chargers, specially bred for long-distance running at high speeds, were as stable and dexterous as any prized Princeland racehorse.
He slowed his horse only long enough for Colborn to take the lead—the Lieutenant could read the terrain far better than he, making him better-suited to guide their desperate ride. Glancing back, Aravon found Belthar stubbornly clinging to his horse’s back. The big man had never been the best rider, yet he had never slowed them down, either. He’d kept up through sheer force of will and physical strength.
Aravon’s heart hammered in time with his horse’s pounding hooves. Their little hidden campsite was less than ten miles from Hangman’s Hill, mostly across flat or lightly-forested terrain. With the horses running at top speed—galloping for the first half-mile, then slowing to that smooth, rolling gait unique to their breed—they’d reach the battleground in less than an hour.
An hour. Aravon’s gaze darted eastward. The first glimmers of light blue had begun to brighten the sky over the horizon. It’s going to be bloody close!
Up hills, through thickets of towering birch trees and leafy alders, down gentle inclines, and across rolling grasslands. One thundering step at a time, their horses’ hooves flying. Aravon’s jaw ached from clenching, his teeth grinding in his gums. Fire scorched through his legs and down his spine, yet he only gripped his reins tighter and silently urged the horse to run faster.
We’ve got to get there in time!
If they didn’t, Grimar would turn on the Hilmir and the Eirdkilrs—already vastly outnumbering the Fehlans—would win. The Fjall would be defeated, the most powerful warband south of the Chain destroyed. Without them, Fehl would fall to the Eirdkilrs.
I’ll be damned if I let that happen, Aravon growled inwardly. He’d stop the treacherous Grimar, even if he had to put a dagger in the man’s eye with his own hands.
Yet, as the eastern sky slowly brightened, the knots in Aravon’s shoulders grew tighter. Nervous, anxious sweat rolled down his brow and soaked into his tunic and leather gloves. With every rib-pounding heartbeat, dawn drew nearer.
Then the first golden rays of sunshine peered over the treetops. In desperation, Aravon scanned the terrain ahead. The gleaming, white-tinged ribbon of the Hardrfoss River carved a sinuous path through the grasslands and forests to the north. The tree cover to the east remained unbroken, the grasslands west of the river empty and silent.
Aravon blessed the silence. Had the Eirdkilrs arrived, they’d already hear the clash of battle, the howling war cries, the shouts and screams of men bleeding and dying. As long as the terrain remained quiet, blanketed in a shroud of peace, he was still in time to reach the Hilmir.
Hope surged within him as he saw the Hardrfoss River curving sharply east and disappearing behind a hill. A hill that rose in a steep incline, and upon which stood hundreds of Fjall warriors clad in heavy fur cloaks and ringing chain mail, who carried swords, axes, and shields emblazoned with the black Reafan of the Fjall.
Hangman’s Hill!
And still, silence hung thick in the air, broken only by the thundering of horses’ hooves and Aravon’s fast-beating heart.
We made it! He followed Colborn down the gentle hill that descended toward the river crossing just southwest of Hangman’s Hill. They had arrived in time to warn the Hilmir of Grimar’s treachery. They’d reached the battlefield before—
Then the first enormous figure lumbered out of the forest. Shaggy-haired, with a thick white icebear pelt slung over his shoulders, a steel skullcap crowning his head. He carried a shield four feet wide slung over his back, and his massive hands gripped a spear as long as Aravon was tall.
One Eirdkilr, then a second, equally massive and armed for battle. More followed, five growing to ten, then thirty, and still the barbarians emerged from the forest. One hundred, two hundred, five hundred, all forming up at the crossing, barring Aravon’s path to the Hilmir.
The sight shattered Aravon’s hopes and sent his heart plummeting into his stomach. They had arrived too late. The Eirdkilrs were here.
The battle for
Hangman’s Hill had begun, and there was no way he could warn the Hilmir of the traitor in the Fjall ranks in time.
Chapter Seventy
Colborn veered off sharply to his left, riding hard to the west and ducking into the sparse trees that grew a few hundred yards from the riverbank. Aravon, close on Colborn’s heels, barely had time to realize what the Lieutenant was doing and spur his horse to follow. With Belthar at their back, the three of them raced through the towering birches, leafy alders, and nut-laden walnut trees.
He risked a glance east; the Eirdkilrs at the crossing hadn’t turned toward them, gave no indication they’d realized the three riders were even there. Colborn’s quick thinking had avoided a fight. Now it was up to them figure out how to get to the Hilmir.
They raced north, drawing abreast with the crossing and thundering past. Branches slapped at Aravon’s helmeted head, shoulders, and face, forcing him to duck low. A grunt and crack from behind told him Belthar hadn’t been so lucky. Yet, the pounding hooves of Belthar’s horse remained close—the big man had managed to keep his seat.
Slowly, the forests thinned and gave way to berry bushes and thick shrubs. The gaps between the leafy branches widened and Aravon had a clearer view of the field of battle to the east.
Hangman’s Hill had earned its Princelander name for the twin king oak trees that stood at its summit. The thick branches of the hundred-foot-tall trees had intertwined as the oaks grew, forming a square frame resembling the arms of a gallows. But the Fehlan name, Banamadrhaed, meant Executioner’s Hill—a name that harked back to the ancient days of Fehl. Legends held that on Banamadrhaed, the mighty Asvard Giantsbane had forced Bergrisi, the giant from which it was rumored the Eirdkilrs had descended, to kneel in death or surrender. Bergrisi had chosen death by beheading, and his blood had watered the soil from which those enormous trees grew.
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