Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  In the half-hour he’d been studying the fortress, he’d counted the better part of three score. Doubtless more remained inside the strange-looking longhouses of stone and mud.

  Yet he’d only seen a handful—five, maybe ten, hard to tell from this distance—that had the heavy build and long, braided beards of warriors. The rest had been women, children, and those too withered and stooped by age to fight.

  The sight struck Aravon as terribly strange. He’d faced the Eirdkilrs in battle for fifteen years, had heard the tales of their cruelty and bloodlust dating back more than a hundred years to the first time they appeared over the Sawtooth Mountains. He’d stood across a battlefield from them, met their howling charge, fought men screaming for his blood. Had killed them before they killed him, and saw the fiery hatred burning in their eyes.

  Never, however, had he imagined them as so…human. To most Princelanders, the Eirdkilrs were as terrifying as the demons that once invaded Einan at Kharna’s behest, a threat at once legendary and oddly distant, a foe faced by others yet never seen in person. To Legionnaires, ducal regulars, the Agrotorae, and the mercenary companies of Fehl, they were a fighter’s worst nightmare. Vicious enemies that never backed down from a battle, and who would keep fighting until every Princelander lay dead. Foes most dire and cruel, as monstrous as those ancient creatures of nightmare.

  But never men and women trying to eke out a living.

  A simple living, at that. The furs of small animals hung on drying racks alongside the longhouses. A handful of thick-wooled mountain sheep huddled together in a stone-fenced pen, and next to them a shaggy-haired creature Aravon had never seen—like a massive ox with a coat of fur thicker and shaggier than any bear’s—munched at the bits of mountain sedge sprouting on the mountainside. One man hauled a one-wheeled barrow of dung away from the pen; doubtless it would fuel their fires for a few more hours, driving back the chill until morning dawned.

  Everything about the sight before him reminded him of the Fehlans he’d encountered at Bjornstadt and Storbjarg. Men and women going about the day to day tasks of their mundane existence, uncaring of anything beyond the confines of their village limits. Save for their enormous height—none of the adults shorter than seven feet tall—they appeared as Fehlan as the clans north of the mountains. Indeed, even the ice bear pelts they wore seemed far more practical than martial; against the biting mountain wind, those heavy furs proved a gods-send.

  Seeing them like this—so Keeper-damned normal—made Aravon’s decision all the more difficult. If he and his Grim Reavers charged in weapons drawn, they would have little trouble cutting down the few fighting-age Eirdkilrs. They carried spears and bows, weapons better-suited to hunting than battle. And therein lay the problem.

  Even if the men scratching out the meager living in Highcliff Motte had been Eirdkilr warriors, bloodthirsty and howling for Princelander blood, taking them down would undeniably lead to civilian deaths. Aravon had seen the women of Bjornstadt fight beside their men; they’d faced the enemy and protected their homes without hesitation, battling with the same ferocity as their husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons.

  If we charge in, too many innocent civilians die.

  An image flashed through Aravon’s mind, and suddenly he stood once more in the streets of Icespire. Surrounded by the thick, choking smoke rising off the burning Outwards and Mains, his ears ringing with the terrified shrieks of Princelanders dying beneath the Eirdkilrs’ savagery. The mud beneath his feet turned a gory crimson, rivulets of blood running around the corpses of massacred civilians. Men, women, children—far, far too many children—who could not escape in time.

  A shudder ran down his spine. His mind recoiled from such cruelty, and he blinked away the images with effort. The sight of so much carnage in his city had filled him with disgust—how could the Eirdkilrs be so bloodthirsty and barbaric as to do that?

  In that moment, Aravon knew that if he attacked this Eirdkilr village built in the ruins of Highcliff Motte, he’d be no better. He would be as savage and cruel as the Eirdkilrs he’d despised his entire life.

  But we need to get through somehow. His eyes searched the shadows between the burning fires that dotted the interior of the once-mighty fortress. The Eirdkilrs had erected their longhouses with the same neat, orderly precision that marked most Fehlan villages, building close enough together that only narrow mud lanes cut between the wattle and daub-covered stone structures.

  They had no chance of getting through Highcliff Motte unseen. It would be difficult if they attempted it just the eight of them; the addition of fifteen horses made it impossible. They had no hope of riding straight through without the Eirdkilrs fighting back, and that meant civilian casualties.

  So what the bloody hell are we going to do, then?

  Frustration set Aravon’s teeth grinding. Turning back to his Grim Reavers, he motioned for them to follow him back up the trail. The eight of them slipped down the outcropping and back onto Cliffpass, silent as wraiths. None of them spoke until they’d put an additional two hundred yards between them and the wall of Highcliff Motte—they wouldn’t take chances the Eirdkilrs would overhear them.

  Rangvaldr broke the silence. “Captain, while I appreciate the nature of our mission, I hope you’re not thinking of—”

  “I’m not.” Aravon shook his head. “Those are civilians there.”

  “Not all of them,” Noll put in. “I counted at least fifteen warriors.”

  “Hunters more than warriors,” Rangvaldr countered. “Left behind to defend their homes and families.”

  “Defend them?!” Surprise echoed in the scout’s voice. “They’re the bloody Eirdkilrs! What could they possibly be defending from?”

  “Wasteland predators.” Captain Lingram’s voice held a grim note. “Ice bears, chiefly.”

  All eyes turned to the Legionnaire.

  “A few of the Myrr that lived in the mountains before Cliffpass was sealed used to speak of it.” He met their questioning gazes. “A few times a year, the ice bears would wander up into the mountains, searching for safe places to mate on the highest peaks.” He shook his head. “Two came up Cliffpass while I was stationed here. It took a bloody ballista to put them down. Crossbow bolts just bounced off their thick hides.”

  “Not this one.” Belthar patted the massive crossbow strapped to his back.

  Captain Lingram inclined his head—one look at the enormous weapon with its three-foot bolts, and no one could doubt its power. “If the Eirdkilrs have made their home here—”

  “The Tauld.” Rangvaldr’s voice cut into the Legionnaire’s words.

  Now all eyes shifted to the Seiomenn.

  “These are not Eirdkilrs,” Rangvaldr intoned. “They are Tauld.”

  Skathi cocked her head. “There’s a difference?”

  Rangvaldr nodded. “The Eirdkilrs are of the Tauld clan, but not all Tauld are Eirdkilrs.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes, digesting the Seiomenn’s words. The distinction wasn’t lost on him.

  “Not all of those who live south of the mountains hate the ‘half-men’.” Rangvaldr met their gazes levelly. “Many, like those you see below, are simply struggling to survive in the Wastelands.” A hint of fire sparkled in his eyes, bright and defiant. “They were given no choice when the invaders drove them across the mountains. They were forced from their homes, condemned to live among the ice and cold.”

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Those who took up arms against the invaders—those like Hrolf Hrungnir, the Blodsvarri, and Tyr Farbjodr—they stain their faces with the color of battle and death.” He tapped his masked face. “But not all of those who live beyond the mountains are Eirdkilrs, or so it is believed. They are content to live simply as the Tauld, as Fehlan as the Eyrr or the Deid.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. Now that Rangvaldr mentioned it, he realized none of the giants he’d seen moving through Highcliff Motte had had faces stained blue with the Eirdkilr war paint. “If that’s tr
ue, why is this the first we’re hearing of it?” he asked.

  “Because few north of the mountains believe it’s true.” Colborn spoke up now. His gaze went to the Seiomenn. “My mother’s people also spoke of the Tauld—not the Eirdkilrs taking up arms to slaughter us, but those she called the For-faras, the lost clan.” Something akin to wonder sparkled in his eyes. “My grandmother, Eira, loved to tell the tales of the For-faras and their journeys among the frozen south. Tales rife with creatures of icy magic and ancient places long lost to time.”

  The mention of Eira as Colborn’s grandmother surprised all save Aravon. They had all met the white-haired Deid healer—first on the road from Saerheim, and again in the Prince’s Palace in Icespire—but hadn’t known that she was Colborn’s relative. He’d confided that to Aravon alone.

  “These people are Tauld,” Rangvaldr persisted, gesturing down the path toward Highcliff Motte. “There is nothing war-like about them. It is all they can do to survive on what little they can scratch from the Wastelands. They are innocent of the cruelties inflicted by their cruel-hearted Eirdkilr kin.”

  Aravon saw the look in Noll’s eye—the scout wanted to protest, to insist that the giants in the ruined Legion stronghold were enemies, but even he didn’t believe it.

  “You saw what the Eirdkilrs did at Icespire.” Rangvaldr studied them in turn. “The pain, death, and misery they inflicted upon you, just as they did to my people, the Fjall, Deid, and every other clan on Fehl. We must be better than that.” He shook his head. “We are better than that.”

  “We are.” Aravon nodded. “Which is why we’re not going to attack.”

  “So then what the bloody hell are we going to do?” Noll cocked his head. “We can’t just ride up and ask them nicely to let us through!”

  “Yes and no,” Captain Lingram said.

  Aravon’s head snapped toward the Legion Captain. Lingram’s eyes sparkled beneath his mask, a hint of humor, as if at some joke only he knew.

  Aravon gestured for the man to continue. “Speak, Lingram.”

  Captain Lingram jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back when I lived here, there was a sally port built into the western wall, carved right into the cliff face.” He gestured to the sheer rock wall bordering the western side of Highcliff Motte. “We never used it when…” His eyes darkened, all traces of humor fading. “…when the Eirdkilrs attacked. That means there’s a good chance the Eirdkilrs—” His gaze darted to Rangvaldr, and he corrected himself. “—the Tauld living here don’t know about it.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “A sally port.” Most fortresses had them, smaller side openings that allowed a defending force to charge out and launch a surprise rear or flank attack. If it remained functional, it could provide a way out that didn’t involve riding through the front gate.

  A bloody strong front gate, at that. The Eirdkilrs had battered in vain at the gate for two days before they finally gained a foothold atop the southern wall. If the Tauld occupying the ruined stronghold had it closed—very likely, given what Captain Lingram had said about ice bears occasionally wandering up Cliffpass—it’d be damned difficult to open. But a sally port would give us a way out, possibly even unnoticed.

  “Again, we’re kind of stuck with the matter of riding through a hundred or so Eirdkilrs,” Noll said, then corrected. “Right, Tauld! Either way, they’re going to have a thing or two to say about a handful of Princelanders riding through their village…er…fortress…whatever!” He threw up his hands.

  Aravon frowned. Based on the size of the village, he estimated the Tauld would have at least thirty or forty hunters and young men of fighting age, with spears and bows enough to pose a real threat.

  “True.” Captain Lingram nodded. “But we just need to convince them it’s not an attack.”

  “Gifts and kisses, then?” Belthar rumbled. He shot a glance at Noll. “You’ve got that last one covered, for sure.” Loud smooching sounds echoed from beneath his mask.

  Noll snorted and drew himself up haughtily. “I save myself for only the really special people.”

  “You two love-birds bat your eyelashes at each other on your own time,” Zaharis signed, rolling his eyes. “For now, shut up and let the Captain tell us his plan.”

  Colborn shot a glare at the two Grim Reavers to silence them. “Continue, Captain.”

  Captain Lingram nodded his thanks. “What I have in mind is a bit…unusual, but from what I’ve heard of the Grim Reavers, it might just be the sort of thing you lot specialize in.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Aravon drew in a deep breath and adjusted his furs one final time, pulling them as high as possible until they concealed his outline. In the dim light of the waning moon, he and the Grim Reavers appeared as little more than fur-clad lumps on the horse’s back.

  Pulling Snarl from beneath his heavy cloak, Aravon tossed the little Enfield into the sky with the command word to “Fly!” Snarl would circle high in the darkness, out of sight of the Tauld below, and keep pace with them as they rode.

  When Snarl had disappeared into the night, Aravon glanced at his companions. “Ready?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  Noll’s hand popped out from beneath the cover of his fur. “No offense to Captain Lingram,” he signed, “but maybe we should have spent more than ten seconds planning this, yeah?”

  “You wanted to play hero,” Belthar shot back, his cloak slipping for a brief instant as he formed the words. “Now you get your chance and you’re scared?”

  “Scared?” Noll snorted. “I’m just worried you’re going to trip and take down over half the longhouses in Highcliff Motte in your fall.” A low, harsh chuckle emanated from beneath his mask. “Or worse, you hit your head on a rock and lose your memory. You’ll wake up and think you’re among your own kind. I can see it now: Belthar, five years from now, settled down with a Tauld wife and three—”

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Colborn hissed. “Just get on with it already, Noll!”

  Noll sniffed, pretending offense, but the fur-covered lump of his head nodded. “Let’s do this.”

  He dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, setting the huge black charger trotting down the Cliffpass. The riderless horses moved behind him, strung together by loose-hanging ropes. Captain Lingram, Aravon, and Colborn came next, with the rest of the Grim Reavers bringing up the rear. They rode two abreast, giving the horses their heads. Slowly, the massive mounts picked up speed as they raced the few hundred yards around the trail.

  Straight toward the widest of the gaps in Highcliff Motte’s rear wall.

  Noll, in the lead, hunched low in his saddle—so low his fur-clad body was concealed behind his massive warhorse’s head. In the near darkness, with only the dim lights of the dung fires, he appeared as little more than a furry lump. More furs covered the saddles and the bags holding their gear. Beneath the cover of those pelts, Aravon had to hope he and his companions would be all but invisible. The Tauld would be too stunned at the presence of the horses stampeding through their village to get a clear look at the lumpy shapes clinging to their backs.

  Mighty Swordsman, please let this work! Aravon prayed silently. He had no desire to draw his spear, but he couldn’t let the Tauld stop them from reaching Tyr Farbjodr in time. Swordsman willing, there would be no need. The burdens on his heart and soul weighed heavy enough without adding civilian deaths.

  The horses picked up speed, their trot turning to a gallop. Aravon peered out from beneath his heavy fur cloak, his eyes locked on the backs of the riderless horses racing down the incline. Gritting his teeth, he clung to his saddle for dear life, legs locked on his mount’s massive ribs.

  The near wall of Highcliff Motte seemed to loom suddenly larger. Closer it drew, one pounding hoofbeat at a time. A hundred yards. Seventy-five. Fifty. Aravon’s heart hammered in time with the horse’s rolling gait.

  Twenty-five yards. Fifteen. Aravon gritted his teeth and drew in a shaky breath. Ten yards. Five.

  Then they wer
e through the gap. Racing into the muddy streets of the once-mighty Highcliff Motte. Though clouds of sickly sweet, animal-heavy smoke rising from the dung fires edged with the icy bite of snow. Wind set the flames flickering, setting the shadows dancing through the Tauld village.

  The first of the Tauld appeared around a corner. Eyes going wide at the sight of the galloping horses. No one could have missed the deafening thunder of the horses’ hooves, yet the Tauld were no more expecting the stampede than a thunderstorm from the cloudless night sky. Even as Aravon and his companions raced past the first stunned villager, a shout of alarm and terror echoed behind him.

  Aravon’s gut clenched. The wordless cry set a chorus of answering calls reverberating through the village. Men and women poured out of nearby houses, clutching hunting spears and bows. They fell back before the pack of madly racing horses. Shouted their surprise, fear, and confusion.

  The very presence of the horses threw the Tauld into disarray. The massive chargers, specially bred for battle and endurance, towered as tall as the giants themselves, bodies heavy with ropes of muscle. The sudden appearance left them bewildered and panicked.

  But for how long? Aravon and his companions had mere minutes, seconds perhaps, until the Tauld recovered their wits enough to hunt down the horses—food, a commodity so precious and scarce this side of the Sawtooth Mountains. Aravon had briefly entertained the idea of using one of the horses as a decoy, setting it free within Highcliff Motte to draw the Tauld’s attention away from them. But the idea of sacrificing one of Duke Dyrund’s specially-bred mounts rankled. Not only because the beast had been the Duke’s pride and joy. Crossing the icy Wastelands would be a harsh trip, and the more horses they had to carry them, the faster they could make the trip.

  Speed was their only ally now. They had to get through Highcliff Motte and out the southern side before the Tauld thought to hunt the horses. Or looked too closely at the dark, fur-clad figures clinging to the mounts’ backs.

  Hunched low in the saddle, Aravon’s spine and ribs bore the full impact of his mount’s pounding gait. Twinges of pain shot up and down his back, and every step jarred his seat, jolted his teeth, set his head aching. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow. They had to get out of Highcliff Motte—out of the encircling walls, away from the Tauld—before the villagers recovered from their shock.