Horror sparked in Zaharis’ eyes as he watched his horse disappear into the icy Wastelands east of the marshes. His shoulders slumped, and his hands hung limp by his side, dejected.
A hand rested on the Secret Keeper’s shoulder. “Look at the bright side, Magicmaker,” Rangvaldr said in the kind, reassuring voice that had encouraged them all on many an occasion. “You still live, and your sharp mind can always create more alchemical marvels.”
Zaharis couldn’t even manage a glum nod. “Everything I had…” The fingers of his free hand faltered and fell silent at his side once more.
“Everything?” Rangvaldr cocked his head. “I seem to remember you carrying the most important things with you.” His eyes twinkled. “Surely you have more.”
Slowly, the Secret Keeper reached beneath his heavy fur cloak and drew out his large Secret Keeper pouch. He opened it and dumped its contents onto a dry patch of swamp grass: the glowing rock that had once been inert ghoulstone, the studded iron orb that was the Earthshaker, a handful of bundled herbs and dried flowers, and a small bag of some strange, dark powder Aravon didn’t recognize. And, most important of all, the glass bottle containing the deep blue liquid known as the Elixir of Creation.
“See?” Rangvaldr plucked the vial from the ground and held it up before the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “All is not lost.”
The Seiomenn’s words didn’t quite lift the Secret Keeper’s spirits. Crestfallen, he reached out and took the vial.
“What matters most is up here, my friend.” Rangvaldr tapped the Secret Keeper’s forehead. “While you still live, you can create more.” He gripped the man’s shoulder. “And while you live, your mission and the search for ice saffron lives on.”
“Remember what the Hilmir told us,” Aravon put in. “The Reginkunnr is supposed to only grow in the bitterest cold, yet for those brave enough to travel the wastes of Fehl, it offered a reward fit for the gods themselves.” He gestured to the vast expanse of tundra beyond the circle of marshlands. “I’d say this qualifies as bloody bitter cold, right?”
That perked Zaharis up. He’d given up so much—some could argue everything—on his mission to find the ice saffron.
“Stonekeeper,” Skathi’s voice echoed from where she stood beside the horses. “Belthar—”
“Is perfectly fine!” The big man’s words cut her off. “It’s just a scratch.”
All turned to Belthar, and Skathi held the big man’s hand upturned. Blood soaked his palm, oozing from a deep puncture wound. When he’d caught the gulon mid-air, one of its snapping teeth had pierced his glove and the flesh beneath.
“A bandage is all I need.” Belthar tried to pull his hand from Skathi’s grip. “No sense wasting the Seiomenn’s strength on a little cut like this.”
Zaharis suddenly went rigid. “Wait!” Had he been able to speak, the word would have come out in a shout. He leapt toward Belthar and snatched his hand from Skathi’s grip. Tearing off the leather glove, the Secret Keeper studied the big man’s skin. “Look here,” he pointed to the cut. “See what the gulon saliva is doing to the flesh.”
The cut wasn’t just a simple puncture wound; the flesh around it had gone a dark, angry red, far more inflamed and infected than a cut that size should have been.
Zaharis spun and crouched beside the furry corpse of a gulon. Using one spiked tip of his mace, he lifted a thick strand of green saliva from the creature’s slack jaws and held it up.
“Gulon saliva is dangerously acidic.” He placed the thread of drool onto a leaf. In a heartbeat, the saliva began to sizzle, eating through the leaf in the space of two seconds
The Secret Keeper’s eyes darkened. “This will do far more damage than their bite.”
“He’s right.”
All eyes turned to Captain Lingram. The Legionnaire stared at Colborn’s boot. “Their claws and jaws are just one of the weapons they wield.”
Colborn recoiled at the sight of his boot. The gulon’s claws had torn three long gashes across the top, but a few strands of saliva had dropped onto the leather and now set it sizzling, bubbling, eating away at it and widening the tear. Colborn tore at his laces, struggling to remove the boot before the saliva consumed his flesh.
Captain Lingram pointed to Aravon’s chest. “And look at your armor.”
Aravon glanced down and found large droplets of dark green spittle flecked his breastplate. The saliva hadn’t eaten through the leather, but when Aravon touched it with the tip of his spear, he could feel the material gone soft.
“Keeper’s teeth!” His eyebrows shot up. “Their saliva eats through the alchemical treatment!”
“Get it off, now!” Zaharis signed. He snatched up a strip of fur that had been cut to wrap around the horses’ hooves and threw it to Aravon, who scrubbed the sizzling, bubbling slobber away before it could damage the armor further. The rest of the Grim Reavers followed his lead, wiping their armor clean with quick, frantic movements.
When Aravon looked up, he found Zaharis staring off toward the tundra where his horse had disappeared, his eyes dark. The Secret Keeper seemed to sense Aravon’s gaze on him and turned. “Sorry, Captain, now I have nothing to repair the armor with.”
Aravon felt for the man. Zaharis had already lost so much—his place among the Secret Keepers, the love of Darrak, the respect of his fellow priests—that this fresh loss threatened to shatter the already-weakened foundation upon which he’d built his life. That was a pain Aravon understood all too well.
“Then we’ll just have to be more cautious.” He affected nonchalance in an attempt to reassure the Secret Keeper. “Avoid fighting unless we’ve no other choice.” That had already been the plan, but it couldn’t hurt to reinforce it in his comrades’ minds.
“Aye, Captain.” Colborn nodded. “And, first chance we get, I’m looking for a new pair of boots!” Scrubbing off the gulon saliva had stopped it from destroying the leather, but a hole the size of Colborn’s palm had been eaten away. The stocking and foot beneath had gotten soaked in the murky water and muck around the pond.
“Noll, Skathi, Colborn,” Aravon called, “get the horses ready to ride. Rangvaldr, work your magic on Belthar’s hand.” He turned to the Secret Keeper, hesitating a moment before giving the order. “Zaharis, before we ride out, see if you can find any useful plants around the marshlands. Take Lingram to watch your back.”
The Secret Keeper cocked his head. A hint of interest sparkled in his eyes, doubtless at the prospect of exploring the plants that grew in this remarkable island of life amidst the barren tundra. He was off before Aravon finished speaking, his eyes darting around and fingers twitching in eager anticipation as he studied the flora sprouting around the scummy pond. Lingram followed at his back, far more interested in keeping the Secret Keeper alive than investigating the unusual plant life.
As the rest of the Grim Reavers set to their tasks, Aravon drew out the bone whistle and called to Snarl. The Enfield dropped from high among the trees and landed at Aravon’s feet. He limped slightly as he leapt up toward Aravon, favoring his right foreleg.
“You hurt, boy?” Aravon caught the Enfield, cradling Snarl in his arms, and studied the leg. No blood, a good sign, though Snarl gave an angry yap when Aravon prodded the bone below his kneecap. “Easy, easy.” He stroked Snarl’s head, and the Enfield curled up contentedly in his arms. “You did good, Snarl.”
His fingers found Snarl’s favorite patch of scruff and scratched it just the way the little creature liked it. The Enfield had saved Aravon’s life. Skathi’s, too. His attack had helped the archer protect the horses.
Aravon’s eyes went to the mounts that had died, then to those still standing. Nine of the Kostarasar chargers remained—one for each of them, and another to carry what remained of the supplies they’d hoarded on their journey south.
That lack of supplies would soon become a problem. They had less than a day’s worth of feed for the horses, and Aravon had no desire to let the mounts graze on the thick, dark grass
surrounding the scummy pond. Even their own food supplies would run out in the next two or three days—much of it had ridden off into the tundra on the back of the fleeing mounts. They had more than two hundred miles to cover and fewer than four days to reach Praellboer. All riding through the unfamiliar icy expanse of the Wastelands. Without the extra horses to trade out when their mounts tired, the Grim Reavers’ chances of success had shrunk significantly.
But they hadn’t come this far to stop now, obstacles, enemies, and challenges be damned. Even if they had to march the rest of the way barefoot, they’d reach Tyr Farbjodr and put him down.
Chapter Forty-One
By the time Zaharis and Captain Lingram returned ten minutes later, Noll and Skathi had the horses ready to ride.
“Anything?” Aravon asked the Secret Keeper.
“Just these Wolf Tails.” Zaharis held up an armful of long, slim reeds. “They make a potent painkiller, so there’s that.”
“What about that Rankblossom?” Noll asked, gesturing to the bright green-and-white flowers that dotted the muddy edge of the pond. “With a name like that, there’s got to be something useful to it.”
Zaharis’ eyes narrowed in thought and he crouched down beside the odd-looking plants. After a moment, he plucked up a handful, careful to only touch the stems and avoid the leaves. “From what I remember, the oil makes a bloody thick and awful smoke when it’s burned. Other than that…” He shrugged.
“Well, then, that’s not nothing!” Captain Lingram’s voice was bright, as if attempting to inject a bit of cheerfulness into the fetid, gloomy surroundings. “Seems like things could have turned out far worse.”
“And,” Noll put in, “getting this disaster out of the way means it should be smooth traveling the rest of the way.” Humor sparkled in his eyes. “After all, as we all know, Grim Reaver lore insists that things can only go tits up once per mission!”
“Grim Reaver lore?” Belthar snorted. “That’s definitely not a thing.”
“Well it should be!” Noll retorted.
Despite the foul stench of the marsh and the scores of animal corpses that surrounded them, Aravon couldn’t help chuckling. He had a hard time finding the best in grim situations, but his soldiers had a way of finding it—if only to ridicule it. At the very least, their sniping at each other distracted from the harsh reality of the impossibilities they faced on a daily basis.
Once Colborn and Rangvaldr finished lashing the furs around the horses’ legs and hooves to protect the mounts from the sharp, cutting ice, the Grim Reavers mounted up and prepared to ride out. The time they’d spent in the foul-smelling, overcast marshlands hadn’t exactly been restful, but none of them protested. They were all too eager to leave the gulon corpses, the malodorous, bubbling pond, and the pursuing Tauld hunters far behind.
Aravon cast one last glance over his shoulder as they rode out of the dense marsh trees and back onto the wind-swept tundra. The Tauld had to have spotted the fleeing horses on the flat lands by now. That could work in the Grim Reavers’ favor—if the hunters went off in pursuit of the horses, they’d be too distracted to notice Aravon and his companions. But it was just as likely to work against them; one look at Zaharis’ wooden chest and the Princelander equipment on the horses, and they’d know the horses weren’t wild. If the Tauld came to the marshlands, they’d find the gulon corpses for certain.
Either way, we can’t wait for them to find out. He gave a grim shake of his head. Our best hope is to keep pushing southwest, keep as much land between us and them as possible and hope they don’t catch up in time to be a bother. Only one thing mattered: taking out Tyr Farbjodr before the Tauld alerted the Eirdkilrs to the Grim Reavers’ presence.
The sun shone down bright on the tundra though it failed to drive back the chill. The brilliance of early morning daylight reflecting off the snow grew quickly blinding, like daggers of pure light slicing through Aravon’s eyes and driving into his skull. The whistling wind made things even worse, evaporating every shred of moisture and leaving his eyelids feeling heavy, the skin stretched tight. The simple act of blinking proved painful. Finally, he had no choice but to turn his head away from the glistening snow, watching only out of the corners of his eyes.
An hour before the sun reached its peak, the sky darkened with thick, grey clouds—not the dark and boiling clouds of a storm, but the dense, billowing layers of white that presaged a chilly day. Here on the tundra, chilly came nowhere near describing the cold that settled over the land. The wind grew more biting, cutting through Aravon’s leather mask, working its way beneath his furs, freezing his limbs and seeping slowly into his bones. No matter how much he adjusted the heavy bear pelt, he could never quite manage to seal all the tiny cracks and openings into which the wind seemed determined to permeate.
Relief came in the form of a small fox-eagle. Snarl, tired from his flight and fight, took up his new place curled up behind Aravon’s saddle. The Enfield’s body was warm against his back, radiating heat that helped to keep out the cold. A little, at least.
For hours they rode without resting, ever-present in their mind the threat of the Tauld hunters at their backs and the urgent need to reach Tyr Farbjodr in time. Praellboer lay roughly three hundred miles southeast of the mouth of Cliffpass. Aravon’s best guess—without landmarks or anything on the horizon to mark distances, it was a poor estimate—placed them roughly forty miles from Highcliff Motte. That meant they had more than a hundred and fifty miles left to travel, and four days and nights to do it.
The absence of sunlight sent the temperature plummeting. The chill settled deeper and deeper into Aravon’s bones until not even Snarl’s warmth could keep the shivers at bay. It was all Aravon could do to grit his teeth against the biting wind and seeping chill, lower his head, and keep riding.
But as the sky darkened with the setting sun, the winds picked up. Icy breezes quickened and blew harder, driving bits of snow and ice into Aravon’s face, chest, and gloved hands with cutting force. The world around him blurred into a featureless void of white—sky, land, and everything in between, an expanse of white so vast and endless Aravon half-imagined he had died and gone to the frozen hell.
At one point, Aravon almost imagined he glimpsed something in the distance. Four dark fingers of black stone jutting up from the icy Wastelands, towering high above the impossibly flat terrain. Yet they appeared for only a moment. He blinked to clear his frost-blurred vision and found the stones had gone, swallowed up once more by the impermeable white.
It had to be his imagination. Those black stones had stood on the plains south of Icespire, monuments to the lost Fehlan clan of the Skyldr or the ancient Serenii—no one knew. There was no way they could be here—it was just his cold, exhausted mind playing tricks on him, trying desperately to fill in the featureless void with something familiar. Anything to break the utter barrenness of the Wastelands.
A strange sense of relief flooded Aravon as the wind died, the clouds thinned, and the lands around them turned to gently rolling hills. Calling them hills was generous—the tallest was barely higher than his horse’s head—but their presence marked a change in the monotonous, eternally flat landscape they’d just crossed.
As the biting wind receded, Aravon could finally lift his head and glance at his comrades. None of them glanced his way—they were too concentrated on staying in their saddle and ignoring the exhaustion and cold that gripped them to pay attention.
Something about Colborn, riding in the lead, caught Aravon’s attention. The Lieutenant bounced in his saddle with an awkwardness strangely at odds with his skill as a horseman. The closer Aravon looked, the more unusual it appeared. So much so that he called a halt.
The Grim Reavers reined in with visible relief, shoulders slumping, fatigue darkening their eyes.
“Colborn, what’s wrong with your foot?” Aravon asked before any of the others spoke.
The Lieutenant looked down. “I-It’s fine.” He sounded confused. “It was cold for a w
hile, but…” He trailed off and his eyes flew wide. Pulling his foot free of the stirrups, he set about removing the strip of bear pelt he’d lashed around his ruined boot. The sight of the foot beneath the fur and boot twisted the acid in Aravon’s gut.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Belthar rumbled.
The skin had gone white as the snow, with blotchy hints of blue around his toes. Colborn hissed as he tried and failed to move his foot.
“Damn!” Captain Lingram sucked in a breath. “That’s frostbite, no doubt about it.” A grim light shone in his eyes. “I’ve seen men lose hands and feet to the cold.”
Colborn recoiled. “Lose…?” His eyes darted to Rangvaldr and an almost pleading tone echoed in his voice. “Tell me you can do something, Seiomenn!”
Rangvaldr leapt down from his horse and strode toward Colborn, boots crunching loudly in the snow. Drawing out his pendant, he spoke the words of power and the holy stone flared to life. The blue light, usually so warm and soothing, bathed Colborn’s bone-white foot in an eerie glow that underscored the pallor of his skin. The Seiomenn placed his stone against Colborn’s foot and closed his eyes. After a long, breathless second when nothing happened, the blue blotches began to fade from Colborn’s toes. Five hammering heartbeats passed before the pink hue of healthy skin returned to Colborn’s foot.
Rangvaldr staggered and caught himself on Colborn’s saddle horn. “There.” Bone-deep weariness echoed in his voice—the damage done by the cold must have been deeper and more severe than they realized, required more of his strength. “That should do it.”
“Thank you!” Colborn sounded relieved, and with good reason. One-armed soldiers could still fight, hunt, track, and scout, but losing a foot or leg would limit him far more definitively. The Lieutenant lifted his gaze to meet Aravon’s, and embarrassment burned in his ice-blue eyes. “I-I’m sorry. As soon as it stopped feeling cold, I thought I’d just warmed up, gotten the blood flowing. I should have known!” He growled a long, vicious string of curses in the Fehlan tongue. “I’ve heard stories enough of the cold south of Fehl to know better.”
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