Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  That’s enough to make anyone hate us. A shiver ran down Aravon’s spine. And not just hate us, but want to wipe us out, to ensure it never happens to them again.

  The cold, hard truth buried a steel dagger in his gut: the Eirdkilrs had been born in this very place, on the day the Legionnaires slaughtered the men, women, and children of Hafoldarholl. Those first Princelanders—the ruthless invaders from across the ocean—had created the savage barbarians that now threatened Aravon’s home and family.

  Aravon could find no words—what could he say in the face of such a terrible realization?

  Long seconds passed, and the Grim Reavers remained utterly still and silent, eyes locked on the ruins of the ancient Eirdkilr stronghold. The stillness was broken only by the sound of the whistling wind and the quiet crunching of the horses cropping the sparse shrub grass.

  “Come,” Aravon finally said in a quiet voice. “We camp here for the night.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Silence hung like a thick blanket over the Grim Reavers. None of them spoke, but simply sat and stared into the dancing flames of their guttering campfire. The high stone walls of the fortress kept the worst of the wind at bay, but icy gusts seeped through the myriad of holes and cracks. The empty stronghold seemed to amplify the chatter of clacking teeth, the whisper of the frigid evening breeze, and the relentless crunching of the grazing mounts.

  Zaharis alone of their company moved. He bent over Noll’s armor, using a stiff brush to paint on the viscous alchemical mixture that gave the armor its mottled pattern—stark white and various hues of grey and black instead of the greens and browns that had concealed them within the Fehlan forests. The scout sat nearby, huddled deep within his cloak, trying his best to fight the shivers wracking his body. The faint warmth emanating from the fire failed to drive back the chill in the drafty chamber.

  Colborn sat by the shattered doorway, keeping watch on the dark, empty Cliffpass outside the crumbled walls of Hafoldarholl. None of them wanted to take the chance, however slim, that the Eirdkilrs caught them here.

  Suddenly, a voice broke the silence. Rangvaldr’s voice, lifted in a tune at once mournful and wistful.

  High among the stars

  In the dark and moonlit heaven’s hall

  Sings the Daughter of Winter

  A ringing, lament for all

  For all the days gone

  And all the loves long lost

  She sings her mournful tune

  ‘Midst the swirling, dancing frost

  Snow for her cape

  Eyes of stars and gown of frozen dew

  Soft breeze lifts her tune

  A song of memories old and true

  Days past forgotten

  Yesteryear’s solemn, mournful call

  For the lost souls laid to rest

  In the dark and moonlit heaven’s hall

  The song had a strange effect on their small camp. The chattering of Noll’s teeth fell silent and his shivering stopped. Snarl’s head rose from where he lay buried in Aravon’s furs and his ears cocked as he listened to the tune. The wind whistling through the mountains seemed to still, as if the world held its breath to hear the lament. The fire grew brighter, lighting up the darkness, and in those golden flames danced the faces of “lost souls laid to rest”.

  Aravon didn’t know who the others saw—he was too busy watching the familiar figures that appeared in the flickering tongues of fire. Duke Dyrund, that sly, knowing smile on his face. Draian, with kindness sparkling in his eyes, a light far brighter than the glowing embers. The Deadheads, the men of Sixth Company, the Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades, General Rodalus, and the countless others who had fallen at his side. His father, for once the dark look gone from his sharp features, his anger replaced with peace.

  Then came the ghosts of his former life, the life he’d left behind the day he became Captain Snarl. Mylena. Rolyn and Adilon. The faces he’d never see again.

  The loud clearing of a throat snapped him from his trance. With effort, Aravon tore his eyes from the dancing flames. Belthar had risen to his feet and moved close to the fire, an almost embarrassed look on his face.

  “When I was young, our life in the Glimmer was far from luxurious.” He had removed his mask, and a hint of color rose to his heavy cheeks. “But every year, around this time, the Brokers took a page from the Fehlans’ books and chose to celebrate their Time of Harvest.” He turned to the Seiomenn. “Or, as you said your people call it, the Time of Plenty.”

  Rangvaldr smiled. “My favorite time of the year.”

  “Mine, too.” A small smile brightened Belthar’s face. “I’d spend the rest of the year hoarding what copper bits I could collect, just so I could see the smile on Inaia’s face when she awoke to find a present waiting next to her bed. She called it Goodie Day.” Happiness flashed in his eyes at the memory. “For that one day, we could forget everything else. Forget the fact that we were orphaned Glimmertrash scraping and begging to survive on the streets. None of that mattered for a little while.”

  Aravon’s admiration for the big man rose even higher. No one who met Belthar could ever have imagined the hardship he’d endured in his life. With his quick smile and sunny demeanor even in the face of certain death, he numbered among the most good-natured people Aravon had ever been fortunate to encounter.

  Belthar’s smile grew sad. “Since Inaia, I haven’t had anyone to share Goodie Day with. No one that really mattered.” His gaze traveled to the faces around the campfire, and to where Colborn sat by the door. “Until now. She was the only family I had until you all.” A blush of color rose to his cheeks once more. “So I figured I’d continue the tradition. Even if it’s one last time.”

  Aravon’s eyes went wide as the huge man turned to him. Belthar dipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a shining metallic object hanging from a simple leather thong. “Captain, I know it’s not as good as the one you had.” He held it out to Aravon. “But maybe it’ll remind you of home and family—and of Draian—for as long as you wear it.”

  A lump rose to Aravon’s throat as he took the pendant from Belthar’s fingers. Made of iron, it was shaped like a sword, a tribute to the Swordsman, god of the Legion and heroism. Though far cruder than the silver pendant Mylena had given him—the one he’d left with Draian after the battle at Bjornstadt—it was still a work of art.

  “Thank you, Belthar.” Aravon struggled to form words around the emotions tying his tongue. He slung the leather thong over his head and looked down at the metal sword pendant. “It’s perfect.”

  Belthar beamed, his eyes glowing. This time, when he reached into a pocket, he turned to Colborn. “According to Rangvaldr, the word ‘Deid’ in the Fehlan tongue means ‘stag’, because the first Deid were mighty hunters.” He glanced to the Seiomenn for confirmation. At Rangvaldr’s nod, he drew out another leather thong hung with a shining metal object: the head and antler rack of a deer made from shining bronze. “I saw this one in the People’s Markets before battle broke out in Icespire. I thought it would be a reminder of your mother. Of your Fehlan heritage.”

  Colborn rose slowly, his face an expressionless mask as he accepted the gift with a curt nod. Yet as the Lieutenant turned away, the firelight glimmered off a hint of moisture in the man’s eyes, and he cradled the stag pendant carefully in his hand.

  “Noll.” The big man moved toward the scout next. “There’s one thing always guaranteed to make you smile.” From within his saddlebag, Belthar drew out a small bottle of dark brown glass.

  “Nyslian brandy!” Noll fairly leapt to his feet and, forgetting he stood in only his undertunic, threw off the heavy bear pelt as he snatched the bottle from Belthar’s hands. His eyes went wide as he stared down at the gift. “Ellestini gold!” He threw himself at the big man. “I could kiss you right now!” His lips puckered and formed loud, wet smooching noises.

  “Don’t,” Belthar growled, fending off the little man with his huge arms, “and you can call it you
r present to me!”

  “Deal!” Laughing in triumph, Noll returned to his seat, pulled the cork from the bottle, and took a sip. “Maiden’s teats, that’s good!”

  “Share it around, then.” Skathi held out a hand for the bottle.

  “Not a bloody chance!” Noll clutched the brandy to his chest with the caution of a mother cradling her newborn. “Get your own gift.”

  When Aravon’s gaze returned to Belthar, the big man had drawn out something else.

  “Seiomenn,” he said, “I had no idea what sort of gifts the Eyrr give each other, but Colborn said the Deid exchange gifts of food, clothing, seeds for planting, tools, and barrels of ayrag.” From within his cloak, he drew out a bottle the same size as Noll’s, but made of clear glass and filled with a thick white liquid. “I know it’s not much, but it was the best I could find in the Outwards.”

  Rangvaldr’s bushy white eyebrows flew up. “Is it—” He took the bottle, removed the cork, and sniffed at its contents. “Is it Eyrr-made?”

  Belthar’s eyes brightened and he nodded. “That’s what the Fehlan who sold it to me said. Made using the Oldrsjot method, I think, though I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

  Rangvaldr took a sip, and a smile brightened his face. “A very fine thing, my friend!” The Seiomenn stood and pulled the big man into a bear hug. “Made even greater by the thought that went into procuring it.”

  Blushing beneath the Seiomenn’s praise, Belthar turned to Zaharis. He actually hesitated before drawing out his gift for the Secret Keeper. “I-I didn’t know…” He swallowed and opened his huge hands. “I thought…maybe you’d like it.”

  Nestled in his palms lay a simple wooden figurine bearing the beautiful features and lithe, feminine figure of the Mistress, goddess of trysts and whispered secrets. The patron deity of the Secret Keepers.

  “Even though Darrak and the rest of the Secret Keepers have banished you,” Belthar rumbled, “I know that you still see yourself as a faithful servant of the Mistress.” He held the dark red wooden figurine out to Zaharis. “Everything you’ve done with us, your search for the ice saffron, it’s all in Her service. So perhaps this could be a reminder of that. Of who you are.”

  Zaharis’ hands trembled as he took the carving from Belthar. Tears sprang to the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “Thank you,” he signed, his fingers fumbling the words. “Thank you for the reminder that no matter what happens, I am and always will be Her devoted priest.”

  He stood, gripped Belthar’s hand, and looked the big man in the eyes. A slow smile spread on Belthar’s face, mirrored by the light shining on Zaharis’ face. After a long moment, the Secret Keeper released the big man and sat down, the figurine cradled in his hand.

  Belthar cleared his throat and turned to Lingram. “Captain Lingram.” His grin turned lopsided. “I didn’t have much of a chance to find anything meaningful for you.” He shrugged. “We haven’t exactly had a lot of down time since leaving Icespire.”

  Captain Lingram chuckled. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

  “Yes, but I figured you might like this.” From within his pouch, he drew out a small bundle of waxed parchment and unwrapped it. Inside lay a finger-length strand of bright blue crystals crusted around what looked like a length of twine—rock candy, Aravon recognized, a costly sweet treat brought decades earlier from across the Frozen Sea that had become popular among the wealthy merchants and nobles of Icespire. “These were Inaia’s favorite. I thought if I was leaving Icespire and never coming back, I’d have some one last time. In her memory, you know?”

  “Then I can’t accept it, Belthar.” Captain Lingram tried to wave the big man away. “It’s not—”

  “You can.” Belthar’s hand never moved. “I always had to buy three of these for her Goodie Day gift. One for her, one for me, and one for Diedran, the cripple who shared our hovel. She was kind like that, my sister. She never would have enjoyed it alone.” He thrust the crystallized treat forward. “Take it, Captain. Don’t make me disappoint her, not on Goodie Day.”

  A smile spread across Lingram’s face and he took the bundle with a nod. “For your sister.”

  As Belthar turned slowly toward Skathi, uncertainty etched into every line of his face. “I…” His voice cracked, cut off. Doubt and hesitation darkened his expression.

  The archer’s gaze never left the big man. She leaned forward, an eager light in her eyes, and seemed to hold her breath.

  Belthar coughed and tried again. “For weeks, I’ve been trying to think of what to get you.” He swallowed. “Something that showed how much…” He hesitated. “How much you mean to us. All of us.”

  Aravon stifled a wince—Belthar had come so close to speaking the truth of how he felt for her, only to retreat at the last moment. Fear was a powerful deterrent, especially in matters of the heart. Keeper knows how long it took me to confess my feelings to Mylena!

  Skathi, too, seemed to sense the big man’s sudden recalcitrance. Though her expression never changed, the eager light faded from her eyes, and her face grew rigid, fixed, a stony mask that revealed no hint of emotion.

  “Inaia….” Belthar swallowed again, cleared his throat. “Inaia hated fancy things, but every year, I promised myself I’d one day get her the most expensive item in the People’s Markets. Every year, I’d wander the marketplace and look at every stall until I found something I knew she’d love. I could never afford it, but I would bring her to the marketplace and say, ‘That is what I’ll get you one day when we’re wealthier’.” Sorrow filled his eyes. “She would always tell me, ‘I don’t need it, not when I have you.’ She’d take my hand, give me that big smile of hers, and we’d go home to our Goodie Day feast. But every time it killed me to walk away without it.”

  Moisture rimmed his eyes and a tear slid down his cheek. “Then came the year I could finally afford it. I went to the People’s Markets and bought it. Brought it home and hid it under the floorboards, keeping it safe until I could give it to her on Goodie Day.” More tears flowed, but he made no attempt to stop them. “She died a week before I could give it to her.”

  He opened his hands and in his palms lay a small silver statuette: the figure of a dancing girl, her slim form frozen mid-pirouette, with long, flowing hair made with breathtakingly thin strands of gleaming gold. Two tiny blue gemstones shone for her eyes, and at a butterfly made of translucent crystal perched at the tip of her outstretched fingertip. The Maiden, goddess of purity, devotion, and festivities.

  Skathi gasped, and her eyes sparkled.

  Belthar looked lovingly down at the statuette. “Inaia loved the Maiden. Loved her purity of spirit, the simple joy of a goddess dedicated to laughing, loving, and celebrating.” His eyes lifted from the statuette to Skathi’s face. “I thought…” His voice broke. “Maybe, since you’re so much like her—er, the Maiden, I mean—with your laugh and…”

  Skathi reached out, took his huge hand and squeezed his fingers in hers. “It’s perfect.” Her voice grew husky, hoarse with emotion. “Perfect.” She rose, so suddenly Belthar stumbled backward, and hurried away into the darkness of the crumbling fortress.

  Confusion twisted the big man’s face, and he took a half-step toward the fleeing archer, as if wanting to pursue her.

  “Belthar,” Aravon called. When the big man glanced toward him, a hint of hurt mingling with the bewilderment in his eyes, Aravon shook his head. “Let her go.”

  “B-But…” Belthar stammered.

  “She said it was perfect.” Aravon gave the man an encouraging smile. “And it was.”

  He’d caught the sudden flush in Skathi’s cheeks, the moisture brimming in the archer’s eyes as she turned away. He had spent enough time madly in love with Mylena to recognize the symptoms of that particular malady’s onset. After everything Skathi had endured, it would take her time to understand and acknowledge the feelings taking root in her heart. Belthar needed to give her space, but she would come around.

  “All of t
hem were, Belthar.” Aravon reached for the pendant around his neck. “Truly, thank you.”

  As the other Grim Reavers echoed the sentiment, color rose to Belthar’s cheeks, accompanied by a dazzling smile that brightened his heavy face. Eyes shining, face flushed and glowing, he returned to his seat once more.

  “Wait, that’s not the end of the Goodie Day gifts, is it?” Colborn asked from his place by the door. He rose to his feet with a broad grin on his face. “You forgot the last and most important Grim Reaver.”

  “Oh!” Belthar’s eyebrows shot up. “Of course!”

  Colborn crouched over his pack and drew out a sackcloth-wrapped bundle larger than his fist. To Aravon’s surprise, the bundle contained two massive beef kneecaps heavy with salt-dried meat, the bone gleaming white. “We’d have died long ago without Snarl.” He came over to crouch in front of Aravon, setting the twin bones down between Snarl’s paws. “So this is our way of saying thank you.” He rubbed the Enfield’s head.

  With a happy bark, Snarl set about gnawing at the massive bones, his amber eyes gleaming in the firelight.

  “To Snarl!” Noll raised his bottle of Nyslian brandy and took a drink.

  Rangvaldr snatched the bottle from Noll’s hand. “To Snarl!” A healthy pour disappeared down his throat as he drank deep.

  “H-Hey!” Noll spluttered, leaping to his feet and pursuing his prized possession. “Drink your own!”

  Rangvaldr handed the bottle off to Zaharis, who spun as he too drank, placing his body between Noll and the prize. Belthar went next, and even Colborn had a quick sip before Noll managed to recover his bottle. Scowling and muttering dire curses on his comrades, the scout settled back in his place and disappeared into his furs.

  All in the camp laughed—all but Noll, too busy glowering at them, and Skathi. The archer had returned during the fracas with Noll’s bottle and now sat staring at the gift in her hands. Her strong fingers held the figurine by the foot, twirling it like a dancer spinning on a stage. Belthar shot a glance at her, a flush of happiness coloring his cheeks.