Azure Island, home to the wealthy nobility of Icespire, had escaped the turmoil and violence. Or, the buildings had—the lavish mansions of marble, stone, brick, and wood, with enormous glass and crystal windows facing the blue-glowing Icespire, lush gardens, and pristine lawns. Many of the Azure Islanders had taken up arms in defense of the city. Nobility, guards, and servants alike, all fighting for homes and families. They felt the loss no less keenly than those in the Mains, though their homes remained standing, their wealth intact.
The Icewatchers guarding the Eastbridge saluted as they passed—they had no idea that the steel-masked soldiers riding across the bridge were the same who had fought to save their city two nights earlier.
But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Aravon’s eyes roamed south, toward the Glimmer. Or what remained of it. Between the fire and the rampaging Eirdkilrs, nearly half of the slums had burned to the ground. But there, Aravon knew, Gengibar Twist held court over his Brokers and those the rest of Icespire called “Glimmertrash”. They had sworn to kill Belthar—and Aravon, for good measure—if their paths ever crossed. Fortunately, they believed the big man had died in the battle for Icespire.
The Secret Keepers, too, believed Zaharis gone to the Long Keeper’s arms. They had watched a three-story stone building collapse and bury their renegade priest. Though they’d made no attempt to kill Aravon and the Grim Reavers on the streets—with the battle raging around them still—Aravon wouldn’t take chances. He and his men had worn the borrowed Ebonguard armor for the last day and a half, and they’d continue wearing it until they reached Camp Marshal. Only there, in the privacy of the secret training camp, would they once again don their alchemically-treated leather armor and the snarling greatwolf mask that had grown instantly recognizable throughout the Princelands.
Tales of the “Grim Reavers”—a name given them by Jade Battalion after the Battle of Broken Canyon and taken up by Topaz Battalion in the wake of Rivergate’s siege—had spread like wildfire among the gossipy Legionnaires, and from there to the civilians of the Princelands. That had worked in Aravon’s favor during the battle for Icespire; he’d used that reputation as leverage to threaten Gengibar Twist and convince the Icewatch to open the bridges to let the citizenry flee to safety on Azure Island.
But now, as they departed Icespire, hunted by Secret Keepers, Brokers, and any spies and allies the Eirdkilrs had north of the Chain, that armor would be far too recognizable. No one would question a contingent of the Prince’s Ebonguards riding out of the city, however.
Through Portside they rode, through the smoldering, smoking, and blackened ruins of taverns, inns, warehouses, and brothels. Wooden structures set to the torch, buildings of stone and brick torn down or crumbled beneath the Eirdkilr onslaught.
But the corpses—the slain civilians, defenders, and barbarian invaders—had been cleared from the streets. Though the mud was still a grim ochre, mingled blood and muck, the streets had once again returned to a semblance of normalcy. Laborers, stonemasons, and carpenters hurried through the streets, hauling the supplies needed to rebuild. The skeletal husks of buildings were even now being torn down, and the first signs of new structures erected in their stead. Little more than knee-high walls and replaced floors, but those signs spoke of a return of life, of order.
As the Prince had promised earlier that day, Icespire would rebuild. He would see to it. The Royal Treasury had been all but depleted hiring Legionnaires from the mainland, yet that hadn’t stopped him from opening his coffers to his people.
Battle and death had come to Icespire. Tens of thousands had died, and the Eirdkilrs had left an indelible mark on the city. Yet, as always, the Princelanders would pull together, restore what was lost and broken.
Life would flourish. It always won out, in the end. And one day—perhaps not in his lifetime, but some day, certainly—the stain of death and misery left by the attack on Icespire would be erased.
Already, the repairs on the Soldier’s Gate had begun. The old gate had been burned, its timbers splintered and stone core cracked, torn down by the Eirdkilrs. Yet the artisans, engineers, and architects of Icespire had set to work building a newer, stronger gate in its place.
Outside the city wall, only a few blackened wooden structures remained of the deserted Legion encampment. Yet it, too, showed the first signs of life. The Prince had ordered the camp and the Legion’s Harbor restored along with the rest of the city.
As Aravon and his companions rode south, his eyes drifted west. The Outwards had suffered worst of all. The buildings—wood, rope, canvas, and stone cobbled together in a warren of slums and hovels—had been set to the torch as the Eirdkilrs attacked the Prince’s Gate. But, as it had so many times before, the Outwards had already begun to re-grow. New shanties had sprung up amidst the ashes and ruins, as fragile and pathetic as their predecessors, in defiance of the destruction.
Pride swelled in Aravon’s chest. The Outwards, like the rest of the city, stood testament to the resilience of the Princelands. While the Princelanders still lived, Icespire still lived. Nothing short of utter annihilation would keep the people down. For as long as they drew breath, the men and women of this proud city would rebuild.
He cast one last glance over his shoulder. The Icespire rose out of the darkness, a monolith of shimmering glass emanating a brilliant azure glow that lit up the night. The tower, a marvel of architecture as old as the land itself, that ancient monument from a race lost to time, seemed to call to him. Its gleaming depths darkened, as if bidding him farewell.
Somewhere, bathed in that glow, were Mylena and his sons. Safe, he hoped—he had to trust Prince Toran would keep his word to protect them until he returned.
That thought brought a bitter taste to his tongue. Once, long ago, Mylena had made him promise to return. She’d given him a silver pendant shaped like a two-inch longsword. “May it bring you the Swordsman's favor," she'd told him that day. "And may it bring you back to me."
I’m sorry, Mylena. Sorrow weighed on him, a heavy burden that grew all the more ponderous with every thundering step of his massive horse. I’m sorry I can’t keep my promise.
A fist of iron clutched at his chest, squeezing his heart. With effort, Aravon tore his gaze away from the Icespire and the Palace, from the city that had been his home, from his family.
Now, he turned his eyes southward. Somewhere out there in the darkness, more than a thousand miles away, lay his enemy. Tyr Farbjodr, the leader of the Eirdkilrs. The man who had nearly killed his wife and sons, had commanded the barbarians that massacred thousands of Princelanders and Fehlans.
He pushed aside all thoughts of home and family, all worries about the future. Only the mission mattered now. That had to be his sole focus, his sole concern—anything else would shatter his concentration, divide his attention. It would take all of his ingenuity and shrewdness to get them within striking range of the Eirdkilr commander. Until Tyr Farbjodr was dead, he could think about nothing more.
Gritting his teeth, Aravon fixed the image of the Eirdkilr commander in his mind’s eye. He imagined him like any other Eirdkilr—white-blond hair and beard pulled into tight braids, blunt features stained blue with war paint, clad in a shaggy ice bear pelt and crude armor. He burned that visage into his thoughts, poured every shred of anger and determination into that focus until the world around him faded.
I’m coming for you, you bastard!
Chapter Six
The small company of soldiers rode through the night and well into the next day. The Princelands flew by in a blur of rolling hills, fields of crops, farmlands, settlements, and dense forests. By noon the day after they left Icespire, they crossed the boundary marker that delineated the border into the duchy of Eastfall.
Aravon couldn’t help being impressed by Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires. Though none of them had experience on horseback—that much became immediately obvious by the way they bounced around like sacks of flour—they clung stubbornly to their saddles and reins
, refusing to be shaken by the jolting pace Aravon and his Grim Reavers set.
Despite their tenacity, Aravon took pity on them. All bore wounds from the battle at Icespire, and it appeared they hadn’t had much time to recover in the day since the fighting ended. For their sakes—and for Rangvaldr’s—Aravon called for more frequent breaks than usual, stretching out the rest periods. When they inevitably mounted up and rode onward, they followed with no complaint.
Well, not exactly no complaint. Aravon grinned beneath his mask. Corporal Rold hadn’t let up the stream of muttered curses since their last break an hour earlier, and those Aravon overheard proved surprisingly creative. That was the way of soldiers—obeying orders without hesitation, but plenty of bitching and moaning throughout the grind.
For the hundredth time that day, Aravon glanced at the sky. He searched for a glimmer of orange fur, his ears keen for the flapping of eagle’s wings. He had no doubt Snarl followed—though running along behind them or flying overhead, he didn’t know. He’d call the Enfield when they made camp for the night.
Speaking of night. The sun had begun a rapid descent toward the western horizon, leaving a brilliant trail of crimson, orange, and gold splashed across the cloud-dotted heavens. Night would be upon them in less than three hours. Best we start thinking of someplace to camp.
A part of him wanted to keep riding, to push hard to reach Camp Marshal. He couldn’t shake the strange sense of urgency that had descended over him since riding out of Icespire. Perhaps it was due to the fact that his family had been in danger, and he wanted to be damned certain that never happened again. But it wasn’t only that. Something else drove him onward—the fear in Lord Eidan’s eyes as he spoke of Tyr Farbjodr’s plans, and his terrified final words.
“Everything we’re doing is just buying time for Tyr Farbjodr to grow stronger,” the traitorous nobleman had said, “to summon his true strength.” Whatever “his true strength” meant, it could only bode ill for the Princelands. Aravon felt that drive in the core of his being, the insistent need to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr before he did whatever had made Lord Eidan so afraid.
But he couldn’t ride himself or his soldiers into the ground. He’d accepted Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires as part of the mission, which meant it now fell to him to look out for their wellbeing as well. While the Grim Reavers could ride through the night, it was probably best not to, given their conditions. Skathi, Belthar, and Zaharis were still recovering from serious wounds, and Rangvaldr hadn’t had a proper chance to rest and recover after healing them. The four of them needed a break as much as the sweating, cursing, exhausted Legionnaires.
As if reading Aravon’s mind, Colborn glanced back and signed, “Camp?”
Aravon nodded, as ever impressed by the Lieutenant’s ability to think ahead, to anticipate his orders. The Captains, Commanders, and Generals that refused to promote him were fools—the Legion of Heroes needed men with the mental acuity and strategic mindset Colborn had displayed.
When this is all over, Aravon vowed, I will make sure he has a chance to command his own men. If not the Legion, Prince Toran would certainly have a place where Colborn’s abilities as a leader and officer would prove useful to the Princelands.
If that’s what he wants, of course, he amended in his mind.
In the last few weeks, Colborn had changed a great deal. Truth be told, all the Grim Reavers had changed, but the Lieutenant more than most. Killing the Jokull besiegers at Rivergate had been the catalyst, and his encounters with the Fjall and Deid warbands, the destruction of Saerheim, and seeing his grandmother once more had furthered the transformation. Aravon had gotten a glimpse beyond the Lieutenant’s walls of stoic silence, had seen the man beneath. A man torn by his heritage—half-Fehlan, half-Princelander—accepted by neither and uncertain where he belonged.
If they survived the mission to kill Tyr Farbjodr, and that was a big “if”, Aravon had no idea where Colborn’s journey would lead. The Lieutenant had hinted at wanting to see his grandmother, Eira the healer, once more. Perhaps even explore more of what it meant to be a Fehlan. Aravon would encourage that path, even if it led Colborn away from the Grim Reavers. As he’d told Colborn the day after the Battle of Icespire, “You can’t know who you are until you understand where you came from.”
Oddly enough, Aravon found himself far more at ease with who he was. He’d defined himself by his father for so long—as the son of General Traighan, heir to a legend that felt both burden and curse. The guilt of his failure on the Eastmarch, the ambush that had killed his Sixth Company, had threatened to consume him. He had felt his father’s disapproval so strongly, felt that he’d failed to live up to the impossible standard he believed his father had set.
But the deaths of his father and Duke Dyrund had painted things in a different light. As he’d stood over his father’s grave, struggling to find words to speak, he had come to understand the truth: for all his faults and failings, General Traighan had been a father. Perhaps not the father Aravon had wanted—the kind, noble, empathetic Duke of Eastfall had filled that role—but one who loved him no less. He had followed his father’s footsteps in a childish attempt to make the General proud, and in doing so, had grown into the man the Princelands needed. Because of General Traighan, Aravon had the strength and courage to make this ultimate sacrifice, to risk his life for his family, his Prince, and the Princelands.
That was the man Aravon was, the man he’d become. With that realization came a sense of peace. He could ride onward knowing he was who he needed to be, doing what was necessary. Maybe even fulfilling the destiny the Swordsman had preordained for him.
Colborn called the halt half an hour later, with just enough light remaining to set up their camp amidst a stand of towering oak trees. Though the day and a half of riding had taken a toll, the Grim Reavers dismounted with only a few hints of groans—mostly from Belthar.
The Legionnaires, however, appeared far worse for the wear. Half of them slid from their horses in a clatter of armor and weapons, too tired to climb down. Endyn stumbled on the dismount, his huge feet tangled in the stirrups. He collapsed atop Duvain and his huge bulk bore them both to the ground.
“Steady on, Meat!” Corporal Rold shouted from his perch atop his warhorse’s back. “You’ve got Eirdkilrs enough trying to kill your brother, yeah? Your job’s to keep him and the rest of us alive!”
Duvain struggled to extricate himself from beneath the massive Endyn while helping his brother to stand. But the night and day of riding had left the huge Legionnaire too exhausted to rise.
“Rest where you are, Soldier,” Aravon called out. He leapt down from his horse and strode to where Duvain knelt protectively beside his brother. “You’ll take the morning watch. Both of you.”
Endyn rumbled low in his throat, nodding his appreciation, then lay back and closed his eyes.
“Thank you, Captain Snarl,” Duvain said, his voice quiet. “Riding takes more out of him than marching, but he’s too damned stubborn to say a thing.”
Aravon inclined his head. “I know the type.” His eyes went to Endyn’s neck—to the patches of thick, scaly grey skin, and the cracks of red, terribly inflamed flesh visible beneath his mask. “How’s his…condition?”
Even behind his mask, Aravon could see Duvain’s wince. “Fine, sir.” The slim Legionnaire’s tone belied his words. “Just needs a bit of rest, mostly.” His eyes darted toward Rangvaldr, a glimmer of hope shining there.
“Give Stonekeeper a chance to rest, too,” Aravon said. “He’ll see to your brother the first chance he gets.”
Duvain ducked his head, as if embarrassed that Aravon had read his thoughts. “O-Of course, Captain.”
Aravon clapped the man on the shoulder. “At ease, Soldier. Magicmaker’ll have something ready to eat soon enough.”
Duvain nodded and sat, hard, as if his last strength had given out. Aravon saw the way the soldier looked at his brother—Duvain was the smaller, and likely the younger, of the two bu
t that didn’t make him any less protective of the giant Endyn. Though the shadows that had filled their eyes on the road from the destroyed Saerheim hadn’t left, they had grown lighter. The Battle of Icespire had given them a chance to redeem themselves—not in the eyes of their Captain, but in their own minds and hearts—and in doing so, lifted the burden. A fraction, no more. The loss of their comrades would persist, a deep-rooted ache that never truly faded. But it could be eased, as Aravon knew well.
He’d lost much—his mother, his friends, Sixth Company, Draian the Mender, Duke Dyrund, General Traighan—but, like the wound that rendered his left arm incapable of carrying a Legion shield, time could soothe most pains.
Aravon turned away from the two brothers and found the camp already well set-up. Colborn was locked in conversation with Captain Lingram, while the rest of the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires went through the motions of preparing for a night on the road.
All but Corporal Rold. He remained firmly seated in his saddle, his posture stiff and his spine ramrod straight.
“Aint’cha coming down, Corporal?” called one of the Legionnaires.
“In my own bloody damned time!” Corporal Rold snapped back. “Blind and deaf idiots like you wouldn’t hear a night ambush by a bloody herd of wildebeests, so it falls to me to get a proper view of our surroundings, prepare for any attack.”
“Attack, in Eastfall?” another Legionnaire muttered to a comrade.
“Maybe by a pack of rats,” the second soldier mumbled back.
Aravon grinned beneath his mask. He recognized the Corporal’s predicament—the blood had pooled in his legs, his knees and muscles gone weak after a day of riding. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to dismount, he simply couldn’t. Not without help, anyway.
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