Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  “Not in another life.” Aravon knelt at Endyn’s side and clasped the giant’s massive hand in his own. “You are a Grim Reaver. You proved that today, and every day since I met you.”

  Tears of joy filled Endyn’s eyes. “You hear that…Duvain?” He struggled to draw breath. “I’m…a Grim…Reaver.”

  “I heard.” Duvain tried to scrub the moisture from his cheeks, but only succeeded in smearing the blood spattering his face.

  “Face the Long Keeper with pride.” The lump in Aravon’s throat turned his voice harsh and hoarse. “And know that you have earned your place at the Swordsman’s side.”

  A beatific smile spread Endyn’s mangled lips, and his eyes brightened.

  Now Aravon turned away quickly, his eyes burning. Even as he stood, Colborn raced down the tunnel.

  “They’re regrouping outside the mine,” the Lieutenant signed. “They’ll be back soon. Two, three minutes before they come at us again.”

  Aravon gritted his teeth. He wasn’t certain Zaharis could reset the sparkweed trail in time. The Secret Keeper had left his alchemical chest with the horses and Snarl a quarter-mile up the tunnel—even if he had enough of the dried, fast-burning reeds, the Rakki would renew their attack before he returned.

  Tension knotted his shoulders. We’ve got to figure out another plan. Gritting his teeth, Aravon turned to Lingram. “Give him a minute, but when I tell you…”

  Lingram nodded. “We’ll be ready to form the line again, Captain.” He hovered near Duvain, who had taken a seat at Endyn’s side, leaning his head against his brother’s huge shoulder.

  Aravon left the three Legionnaires and raced across the bridge. Skathi crouched beside Annur, fighting a losing battle to bind up the gash in the side of the Legionnaire’s neck. Even with Tassus’ help, fresh spurts of crimson pumped from the deep gouge. Noll was prying arrows out of the Rakki corpses still on the bridge, and Rangvaldr tended to wounds—Belthar, Corporal Rold, and Captain Lingram had all sustained nasty cuts—and knelt over the fallen Tark to close his eyelids. Aravon couldn’t help noticing that the Seiomenn hadn’t drawn out his pendant to heal the Legionnaires.

  Yet he had no time to question. As Aravon approached, Zaharis rose from where he’d crouched beside the bridge and fixed him with a dour look. “It’s bad, Captain.” He gave a grim shake of his head. “The blood’s so thick it’s turned the sparkweed sodden. No way it’ll light now.”

  Aravon glanced down at the bridge and the crimson-stained stone at the northern edge. Though Belthar and Zadan had dumped the Rakki bodies into the chasm, deep puddles of dark red blood soaked the ground.

  “I’ve got more Dragon Thorngrass and a few strands of sparkweed back in my chest, but that’s too far now.” His jaw muscles worked, frustration in his eyes. “Even then, there’s not enough for a fuse. The only way it would work is if someone set the firestriker to it directly.”

  Aravon’s gut clenched. Trying to light the sparkweed while fighting the Rakki would be suicidal. His mind raced, his thoughts a swirling chaos as he racked his brain for another solution. They’d killed four or five score Rakki—Endyn’s desperate charge had hurled dozens off the bridge—but there had to be as many more preparing to renew the attack. And unless they wanted to risk the Rakki sending word of their presence to the Eirdkilrs, they had to find another way to deal with them. That bridge was their best chance of putting an end to the barbarians, but—

  “What about your Earthshaker?” The question came from Noll, who stood a short distance away. “That could bring down the bridge, right?”

  “And the passage with it,” Zaharis retorted, his expression as sharp as his hand gestures. “There are faults in the walls and ceiling that run for hundreds of yards down that tunnel. Keeper knows how far we’d have to run to escape the collapse. And after that mess, there’s no chance I’d trust a fuse to set it off.” He shook his head. “No, the only way an Earthshaker works is if we set it off ourselves.”

  Noll’s expression soured, grew as dark as the shadows in Zaharis’ eyes. The scout knew full well what that meant. There’d be no escape from that blast. And yet…

  “I’ll do it,” he said quietly.

  Zaharis’ eyebrows flew up. “What?”

  “I said I’ll do it.” Noll turned to Aravon. “I’m the best one for the job, Captain, and you know it.”

  “Noll—” Aravon began.

  “Think about it, sir.” Noll drove on, almost as if trying to end the matter before he thought about it too carefully. “Colborn can handle the scouting, and Skathi’s almost as good a shot as me.” The taut lines of his face belied his grin. “Besides, you know how much I’ve wanted to play with one of Zaharis’ iron apples since the first time I saw them.”

  Fire blazed in Zaharis’ eyes. “You know you’re volunteering to die, right?” His fingers flashed, gestures short and snappy. “Whoever sets it off has no hope of surviving the resulting cave-in.”

  “So it’s not a perfect outcome.” Noll tried for a nonchalant shrug, failed. “I can think of worse.” Even his usual wry humor couldn’t pierce the gloom in his dour expression.

  “But your family—” Zaharis began.

  “Deserves far better than me.” Noll squared his shoulders, lifted his head. This time, he actually managed a convincing smile—sad yet sincere. “They’ve been well off enough without me all this time. This just makes it final.”

  The words left Aravon speechless. He tried to think of what to say, but nothing came. Noll’s determination to make the sacrifice stole the words from his mouth. In all the years he’d known the scout, he’d never have imagined him making a choice like this. But looking at Noll now, he saw no deceit, disingenuity, or hesitation. The scout had accepted his fate as the best possible outcome for all of them—a sacrifice he’d make for the sake of his comrades. A true Grim Reaver to the end.

  “Noll—” Belthar rumbled.

  “No.” Noll rounded on the big man. “Don’t you dare try to take this from me, you big lummox. You go find your own moment to play hero. I’m staying here to make sure that bridge comes down.”

  Sorrow darkened Belthar’s eyes. “B-But…” He swallowed. “There has to be another way!” An almost pleading edge of desperation echoed in his voice.

  “When you think of one, come find me in the Sleepless Lands and tell me what it is, yeah?” Noll smiled up at the big man—a sad smile, yet no less determined. He glanced at Belthar, Aravon, and Zaharis in turn. “You don’t have time to waste arguing this. Every minute you spend here gives Tyr Farbjodr a chance to escape. So you lot scoot along and make sure to put an end to this. I’ll just settle in all cozy-like here and make sure you’ve got time enough to get out.”

  Aravon’s eyes burned and a lump rose in his throat. He tried to think of a plan—any plan, no matter how desperate—that gave Noll a way out. Yet he could think of none. No plan to save his man. No words to express his gratitude.

  “There’s another way.” A new voice echoed from behind Aravon. He spun to find Captain Lingram and Duvain helping a sagging, stumbling Endyn across the blood-soaked bridge.

  “I’m the other way,” Duvain said. “I’ll stay behind and cover for you.”

  “What?” Corporal Rold snapped. A moment later, the man himself shouldered between Belthar and Noll and planted his feet in front of the bridge, glaring daggers at the slim Legionnaire. “Like the fiery hell you will, Meat!”

  Duvain gave Rold a sweet smile. “All due respect, Corporal, but go bugger yourself with a thornbush.” The grin turned nasty, edged with relief as if he were finally able to speak his mind. “Captain’s orders.”

  Corporal Rold’s blood-spattered eyebrows shot up, surprise etched in every line of his face. Impossibly, he seemed at a loss for words, but his gaze darted toward Captain Lingram.

  “He has the right to choose.” Lingram spoke in a quiet voice. “He’s earned that right.”

  Gently, he and Duvain lowered the massive Endyn to the crimson-
soaked stone in front of the bridge. Endyn struggled to remain kneeling, his body sagging with pain, fatigue, and blood loss. Yet with Duvain’s help, he managed to keep his head up, leaning on his huge hewing spear.

  “But—” Corporal Rold began.

  “Sorry…Corporal,” Endyn rumbled, voice weak. “I tried…to talk…sense into him.”

  “This is the only way our mission gets done right.” Duvain gripped his brother’s arm tight, but his eyes fixed on Aravon and the Grim Reavers. “I don’t have your training, your skills, your savvy. I’m just a Legionnaire, and a half-shite one at that.”

  “More than half!” Corporal Rold muttered.

  Duvain grinned. “But this won’t take much skill, right?” He glanced to Zaharis for confirmation.

  “Just pull the string and count to three,” Aravon translated the Secret Keeper’s answer.

  “See?” Duvain’s eyes shone with an almost eerie calm, an inner peace that came with acceptance. “That sounds like the sort of job I can handle.” He gestured to Endyn. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

  With those words, Aravon understood. Duvain and Endyn were family. Family stood by each other come fiery hell or tidal waters.

  “Keeper’s teeth, Meat, but you’re one fiery hell of an undergrown idiot!” Corporal Rold snarled. “Getting all moon-eyed and thinking you’re capable of more than scratching your arse with both hands.” He threw up his hands. “You’d get yourself killed without a real soldier to watch over you!”

  Duvain’s eyebrows shot up. “No, Corporal, you c—”

  Rold loomed over the slim Legionnaire, his voice a cracking whip that drowned out Duvain’s protest “One more sound out of you, and you’ll spend your eternity in the Sleepless Lands on latrine duty!”

  Duvain’s mouth snapped shut.

  Corporal Rold turned to Captain Lingram and Aravon. “If we’re going to do this, might as well do it right, sir. Lure every last one of the buggers in here before springing that trap.” He shrugged. “Besides, we both know what’ll happen if I leave these piss-pots alone. I’ve seen them cock up the simple act of rolling out of their blankets in the morning. No way I’m letting them handle something like this without proper oversight!”

  Captain Lingram hesitated, opened his mouth—to give an order or agree, Aravon would never know.

  Corporal Rold spoke first. “We need the enemy to believe it, Captain.” His voice was quiet, all trace of his usual harsh vulgarity gone. “I’ll make sure we sell it enough to sucker the bastards in.”

  “As will we.” Tassus rose from his crouch, helping Annur to stand. “We stay and fight.” Blood seeped through the bandage on Annur’s neck and he struggled just to remain upright, he, too, appeared ready to fight and die. Zadan stepped toward them with a silent twitch of his shoulders. The last of the Legionnaires still living, now willing to die for their mission.

  Corporal Rold turned a wry grin on Aravon and Captain Lingram. “Six of us ain’t much, but we’ll give those Rakki piss-guzzlers a hell of a fight!” A wild light sparkled in his eyes. “They don’t call us Deadheads for nothing, right?”

  Sorrow twisted in Aravon’s gut—how could he do anything less than give these brave soldiers the respect they earned with this choice? Captain Lingram’s face seemed frozen, as if he struggled to keep the emotion from his eyes, but there was no mistaking the moisture that rimmed his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Corporal Rold cut him off.

  “Off with you, sir.” The Corporal gave a dismissive wave. “Someone’s got to lead these Grim Reavers through the tunnels. The Princelands’ finest are guaranteed to wind up lost without a proper Legionnaire to guide them.”

  Aravon chuckled, a sound made harsh by the lump in his throat. He stepped forward and held out a hand to Rold. “Swordsman strengthen your arm, Corporal.”

  The Legionnaire returned the grip. “Aye, and to you, Captain Aravon.” Releasing Aravon’s hand, he stepped back, straightened, and brought his fist to his breastplate in a crisp Legion salute. “Give that Farbjodr cunt a taste of Princelander steel for us!”

  “Gladly.” Even the simple word proved hard to form. He clenched his jaw to keep the emotion from washing over him; he had to keep his head if they were to get out of this alive.

  Captain Lingram opened his mouth to speak, but before any sound came out, a chorus of piercing, shrieking howls thundered down the tunnel. The Rakki had recovered their wits and courage, and they had resumed the attack.

  “Go!” Corporal Rold shouted. He turned, scooped up his weapons, and rounded on Aravon and Captain Lingram. “We’ve got this handled. Piss off and go save the Princelands, you hear?”

  Endyn tightened his grip on his hewing spear, leaning heavily, his face set in a grim cast as he turned his massive body toward the bridge. The Rakki would have a bloody hard time getting past him.

  Zaharis drew out the Earthshaker and handed it to Duvain. Light from burning bundles of flameweed gleamed from the studded iron surface, painting the fist-sized metal orb in an eerie, vicious light. Zaharis simply pointed to the finger-length string that protruded from the top—Duvain nodded his understanding and thanks.

  Then the tunnel ahead darkened, the bodies of scores of charging Rakki blocking out the light streaming through the opening. The howling grew louder, the chilling sound piercing Aravon to the core.

  Gripping Captain Lingram’s arm, he turned and raced up the tunnel, away from the oncoming enemies and the Legionnaires that had chosen to stay behind and cover their rear. Lingram made no protest—he seemed at a loss for words, barely able to keep placing one foot in front of the other as he stumbled down the mine passage in pursuit of Aravon.

  Aravon glanced back once—dozens of Rakki poured across the bridge, howling their furious war cries. Charging the six standing, kneeling, sagging figures holding the near side, standing firm on the blood-soaked stone.

  Then the tunnel curved sharply to the right, around a corner, and the Legionnaires disappeared from sight.

  A dread chill settled into Aravon’s chest as he turned back to the strangely cold, pale blue light streaming from Zaharis’ alchemical lantern. The Secret Keeper raced far ahead of them, with the rest of the Grim Reavers hard on his heels. Aravon and Captain Lingram brought up the rear—the burden of command and the weight of what they’d just allowed the Legionnaires to do dragging on their limbs.

  The mountain seemed to choke off the war cries and howls of the Rakki, leaving only the thundering of Aravon’s pulse and the thump, thump, thump of his heavy boots on stone. His gut clenched, worry thrumming in his chest. Even as he ran, he listened for any sign that the Legionnaires had succeeded. Anything to tell him that they had set off the—

  BOOM!

  A tidal wave of sound washed over him, the thunderous report echoing off the solid walls around him and setting the ground beneath his feet rumbling.

  Beside him, Captain Lingram stumbled, a snarling half-growl, half-cry of anguish bursting from his throat. He, too, knew what that sound portended.

  The Deadheads had fallen, and in doing so, had saved the mission.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A heartbeat after the sound wave hit them, a pillar of dust billowed up the tunnel and washed over them. The stone walls and low ceiling gave an ominous rumble.

  Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s gut clenched as a knuckle-sized chunk of stone crumbled from the roof and clattered off his breastplate. A heartbeat later, a second section of ceiling cracked and collapsed behind him. We’ve got to get the bloody hell out of here!

  He broke into a mad dash, sprinting up the passage as fast as his feet could carry him. No time to see if Captain Lingram followed—he was too busy running for his life, racing to outdistance the tunnel collapsing behind him.

  What started as a low rumble rose to a full-throated roar, then to a deafening bellow like some mountainous behemoth awoken from slumber. Wooden pillars sprayed splintered shards and metal snapped beneath the weight of the coll
apsing mine. The crack and clatter of collapsing stone echoed all around him. Dust billowed from behind him as section after section of the tunnel groaned, sagged, and yielded to the force of gravity.

  Fear lent wings to Aravon’s feet as he raced through the darkened tunnels. Up the sloping incline, his lungs begging for air and fire searing through his leg muscles. He couldn’t slow, couldn’t even take a breath—if he stumbled or lagged, even for a heartbeat, the collapsing mine would bury him forever.

  Something twisted under his foot. He went down, hard, skidding across the rubble-strewn ground. Panic gripped at his thoughts, digging icy claws into his mind. He leapt to his feet and raced onward, his ankle protesting with every step. Legs ablaze, spine aching, yet terror driving him forward. Ever forward, desperate to escape before—

  An immense weight slammed into his back and bore him to the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. His face struck the floor hard. Stars whirled in his vision, the world spinning around him. Darkness. Immense and thick, heavy with choking dust. The ear-shattering tumult of the mine collapsing around him threatened to shatter his ears. Set his head racing, adding to the throbbing in his skull.

  He tried to push himself upright, couldn’t. Blinked his eyes to clear them and spat a mouthful of gritty saliva. Stone cold beneath his fingers, a weight pressing down on his back. He lifted his head and the world spun around him again. Gasping, he fell back to the floor, struggling to draw breath. The weight on his back, so heavy, crushing his lungs.

  Silence. Through the ringing in his ears, he realized the world had gone terribly mute. Save for a clatter of stone or the hissing of dust leaking from the shattered roof, no sound broke the stillness of the tunnel. From deafening to an all-consuming absence of sound.

  Panic twisted in his gut. He still lived—the pain in his back and spinning head told him that much—but what of his soldiers? Again, he lifted his head. Found the passage utterly dark. Not even a hint of Zaharis’ alchemical lamp.