A grim smile touched his lips. I’ll just have to make sure none of the Eirdkilrs hit me. Easier said than done, given the odds they faced.
He drew in a deep breath, glanced at the two soldiers at his side. He’d chosen Captain Lingram and Belthar to accompany him—the big man’s strength and Captain Lingram’s shield and skill with his sword made them the perfect support for his half of the mission.
At his nod, the three of them crept over the snowy ridge and down the hill toward the edge of Praellboer. The horses’ hooves crunched in the snow, but the chargers remained as silent as the men who led them, as if aware of the need for stealth. The chest-high wall of stone and ice drew nearer, one slow, quiet step at a time. Aravon’s heart hammered in his chest as he ducked into the shadow of the wall.
That’s the easy part out of the way!
The darkness of the tundra gave them ample cover to slip in close to the village. Now, the hard part would be getting close enough to their target to strike before the enemy knew they were there.
The three of them crept along the outside of the wall, circling the perimeter of Praellboer, heading toward the southern edge of the city. The closer they could get to the slave pens, the easier it will be to race out of the Eirdkilr village when the time came.
Voices drifting between a nearby longhouse froze Aravon in his tracks. The squelching crunch of heavy boots slogging through ankle deep snow and mud echoed from within Praellboer, accompanied by the guttural sounds of the Eirdkilr language. He was too far away to understand the words, but there was nothing ambiguous about the sight of five heavily-armed and armored giants marching down the street, naked weapons held in their huge hands.
Aravon and his companions moved on after only a moment’s pause; the enemy was too far away to see them, and their focus remained locked on the streets within Praellboer. None of them had thought to look at the ice-and-stone wall outside their village for any sign of intruders.
Lucky for us! A wry grimace twisted Aravon’s lips. Let’s just hope the Mistress’ fortune keeps smiling on us tonight. It would take a miracle to pull off his daring, desperate plan.
Finally, Aravon raised his fist and gave the silent signal to halt. They’d come as close to the southern edge of Praellboer—and the road leading south toward the bridge and Tyr Farbjodr’s pit mine—as he dared. They couldn’t risk their horses being discovered. The entire success of their plan hinged on lightning-speed attacks, feints, and withdrawals.
They didn’t bother hobbling the horses; the highly-trained warhorses wouldn’t move unless directly threatened, and they’d attack enemies before abandoning their position. Instead, they directed the horses to kneel, then lie down, and covered them with ice bear pelts—both to keep them warm and hidden from enemy eyes.
With the horses taken care of, the time had come to enter Praellboer. Colborn’s team would be making their move at any moment. He and his team needed to be in position when the time came.
He had no need to give the order to move—the two men behind him followed him over the wall and through the muddy alleys and lanes that ran between the Eirdkilr longhouses without hesitation. Captain Lingram and Belthar knew the mission as well as he. They’d do whatever it took to complete it, no matter what happened to him.
The shadows of Praellboer hung thick between the close-set longhouses and the wind fell blessedly silent, blocked by the mud-and-stone buildings. The stink of muck and offal—human and animal—pressed in around him, digging reeking fingers into his nostrils. The quiet squelching of his and his companions’ boots sounded terribly loud in the near-silence. Blood rushed in Aravon’s ears, his heart beating with such force he could feel each pulsating throb running through the veins in his neck.
He drew in a deep breath, forced his mind to calm. Locked his fingers tighter around the wooden haft of his spear. No time for hesitation or fear; only the enemy and the promise of battle ahead.
Memories of his trek through Praellboer the previous morning flashed through his mind, and he turned his companions down a street that headed southwest. They had to reach the heart of the Eirdkilr village, where the forged metal pens held the captives. There had been easily a thousand men, women, and children locked within the pens when he’d marched out of Praellboer—how many of them had survived the day? What was more, how many had strength and spirit enough to fight?
We’re about to find out.
The cloying reek of the dung fire thickened around them, and the faint glow of the blaze appeared through a gap in the longhouses ahead. Aravon moved more slowly, placing each foot with caution. So close to the enemy, he couldn’t risk discovery until the perfect moment.
Yet he had to get close enough to see the enemy’s position, their strength. One careful step at a time, he and his two companions slithered through the shadows, drawing nearer the shadows at the edge of Praellboer’s center plaza.
Aravon’s gut tightened as he caught sight of the Eirdkilrs guarding the pens. At least three score, standing with weapons bared and eyes alert. Something about them appeared terribly wrong. Instead of the relaxed, careless stance that had marked them when he’d marched into Praellboer as a prisoner, they appeared wary, as if expecting an attack.
Aravon’s eyes narrowed. But how—
Then his gaze fell on the prisoners huddling in the nearest pen and his question was answered. A handful of giants, as large as the Eirdkilrs but with faces free of blue war paint, sat battered and bloodied among the Fehlans and Princelanders. Their ice bear pelts had been stripped away, revealing rough clothing made from the shaggy hide of the ox-like beasts Aravon had seen in Highcliff Motte and the Tauld village.
More Tauld, here? They hadn’t been there the previous morning, so where could they have come from?
A memory flashed through his mind—the memory of an Eirdkilr racing into the pit mine, delivering a message to Tyr Farbjodr. A message that had galvanized the Eirdkilr commander into action and sent scores of giants rushing off into the tundra.
Icy feet danced down his spine. It can’t be!
The Tauld hunters had followed them from Highcliff Motte. They’d found the runaway horses, recognized Zaharis’ alchemical chest and the slain Legionnaires’ belongings, and come all this way to deliver the news of enemies in the Wastelands to the Eirdkilrs. Only that could have prompted Tyr Farbjodr to pull men away from Illtgrund to send them out onto the tundra—to hunt whatever fools had invaded his land of ice.
And see how Farbjodr repays the Tauld for their warning! Aravon gave a grim shake of his head. He locks them up, doubtless to be sacrificed on his bloody altar to Bani.
Thirteen hundred Fehlans, Princelanders, and Tauld worked the pit mine, slaving away to build the Eirdkilr’s strange stone archway. Yet, when the sun rose on the Feast of Death, Aravon had no doubt every one of the captives held here in Praellboer would join their comrades in death. Their blood would stain the ghoulstone circle. The muddy ground would run crimson, and Tyr Farbjodr would complete whatever foul ritual he intended. More than two thousand men, women, even children would die to give Farbjodr’s four hundred barbarian warriors their strength.
Not a bloody chance we’re letting that happen! He scanned the eight pens within the square, studying the captives packed within. Eight pens, with more than a hundred prisoners apiece. Not a half-bad army, if we can get them to fight.
The first step lay in freeing them.
He glanced at Belthar. “Take the pen on the far right, and I’ll take that one in the middle, the one with the Tauld.”
Belthar cocked his head. “Think they’ll fight?”
Aravon frowned. The Tauld were hunters, not warriors like the Eirdkilrs. Yet he suspected that even hunters could put up a fierce fight if pushed. After their mistreatment at the Eirdkilrs’ hands, he had a feeling they’d be willing to strike back at their captors.
“Worth the risk to find out,” Aravon signed back.
Nodding, Belthar unlimbered his huge crossbow and set about
cocking it as quickly and quietly as he could.
Aravon turned to Lingram. The Legionnaire didn’t know the Secret Keeper hand language, but he understood the silent signal to “go left” clearly. Aravon had no doubt Lingram would make the smart tactical choice and go for the pen that held the strongest-looking of the captives.
That left Aravon going down the middle. Straight toward the largest cluster of Eirdkilrs, who stood gathered close to the dung fire for warmth. He’d have to punch through them to reach the centermost pens, but hopefully Colborn’s distraction would pull enough away to give them a chance.
Tension tightened Aravon’s chest. His gloved fingers locked around his spear and his muscles coiled tight as a watchmaker’s spring, ready to leap into action. The beating of his heart rose to a furious crescendo as he waited. Waited and watched, his eyes locked on the western edge of the open square. To the darkness where Colborn, Noll, and Skathi prepared to unleash their distraction.
Aravon prayed a silent prayer. Swordsman, give us strength. He reached up, touched the pendant at his neck. Twin crossed swords made of crude iron hung from a leather thong—Belthar’s gift to him, a replacement for the jewelry he’d left on Draian’s funeral pyre. The smooth, hard metal comforted him. Or, perhaps it was the knowledge that the Swordsman had always fought at his side. Through countless battles, against impossible odds, the Legionnaire’s deity had been there to fortify him, shield him from the enemy, and bring victory. Not for the glory of one Captain Aravon, but to defend the innocent. To protect those who could not protect themselves.
He drew in a deep breath, forced his mind and body to calm. Pushed aside the anxieties that whirled in his stomach. So many things could go wrong, but he couldn’t worry about that. The plan had been set, his Grim Reavers each with their part to play. All that remained now was to execute.
As if on cue, a brilliant pillar of fire suddenly burst to life on the far side of the open square. BOOM! Flames of startling green billowed forty feet into the sky, roaring and crackling with such violence the nearest Eirdkilrs fell back with a cry of alarm and panic. They spun, away from the dung fire and the pens, to face the sudden attack from behind.
Something dark hurtled through the air and landed at the edge of the dung fire, not five steps from the largest cluster of giants. Glass shattered with a loud crash and bright red-orange flames burst upward in a ball of fire. Aravon imagined he could hear Noll’s sob at the sight—his Nyslian brandy, gone in a heartbeat.
Yet his sacrifice was not in vain. Tongues of fire licked along the droplets of potent alcohol, racing toward the nearest Eirdkilrs. The flames seemed to leap into the air, latched onto the brandy that had splashed their leggings, and set their furs ablaze.
The ferocity of the attack confused the Eirdkilrs. The burning green fires—the last of Zaharis’ alchemical fireweed and Dragon Thorngrass—on the western edge of the square blazed with a brilliant intensity. Noll’s brandy-fueled blaze from behind brought them spinning around again, off-balance. Reeling from the shock, the Eirdkilrs roared their fury into the empty square and raced through the streets of Praellboer, a flood of furs and howling fury hunting an enemy they could not see.
Hope surged within Aravon. Half of the Eirdkilrs in the square took up the cry and the search for their invisible foes, leaving fewer than three dozen guarding the pens. Not the best of odds, but the best they could hope for.
He set his jaw, grim resolve hardening in his gut. For the Princelands, and for Fehl!
Leaping from the shadows, Aravon and his company of two charged the enemy.
Chapter Sixty
The thwump of Belthar’s massive crossbow echoed behind Aravon, and a huge, dark shape whistled past his head. The three-foot bolt sped across the distance to the nearest Eirdkilr and punched into his chest. Tore through armor, flesh, bone, and furs, driving out the giant’s back and slamming into the Eirdkilr behind him. The force of the impact sent the two staggering backward and they fell, screaming and gagging on blood, into the dung fire. Long, braided hair and beards caught quickly alight, and their shrieks of pain brought their nearest comrades whirling toward them.
Away from the charging Aravon. The screams of the burning men and the shouts of those shocked by the blaze drowned out the pounding of his boots. With their backs turned, the giants clustered in front of the centermost pens never saw him coming.
Aravon brought his spear whipping around, a slashing strike that severed an Eirdkilr’s spine and buried sharp steel into the side of another’s neck. Blood misted in the night air as he tore the spear free, spun, and lashed out at another. Crimson droplets sprayed the side of the Eirdkilr’s head the moment before Aravon’s spear sliced through his vocal cords, throat, and jugular vein.
The nearest Eirdkilr turned, more out of shock than instinct, just in time to take Aravon’s thrust to the chest. Odarian steel punched through studded leather, snapped ribs, and tore a gaping hole in his heart and lungs. The giant stared dumbly down at the weapon buried to the crossbar in his chest, his mouth working soundlessly. Blood gushed from his gaping lips. Slowly, like a mighty oak felled by a woodsman, he toppled backward into the fire.
In the heartbeat before Aravon tore his spear free, the momentum of the giant’s fall dragged Aravon forward. Just a half-step, but enough to knock him slightly off-balance. He had no time to recover, turn, and meet the wild slashing attack of the Eirdkilr to his left.
Desperate, he threw himself to one side. Right into another Eirdkilr. His shoulder struck the giant’s stomach, and it felt as if he crashed into a wall. He staggered backward, his feet slipping on the muck, and fell hard. Splashed into the mud, spraying droplets of filthy water.
An Eirdkilr loomed over him, boot upraised to stamp down on his leg. Aravon thrust out with his spear and caught the giant in his planted leg. Sheared muscle and tendon snapped and rolled up. Screaming, the Eirdkilr fell backward.
Another giant filled Aravon’s vision. Thrust a spear down at him, aiming for his chest. Aravon rolled to one side, then frantically to the other. The Eirdkilr’s driving spear punched deep into the mud, clinked off stones buried deep in the earth, then caught between two rocks. Lashing out with a vicious kick, Aravon shattered the Eirdkilr’s knee. As the giant fell, Aravon threw himself into a backward roll and rose to his feet, lashing out with his spear. The wild strike caught a charging Eirdkilr in the face. Blood gushed from a gaping tear across his nose and he screamed, dropped his weapon, and clapped a hand to his face. Leaving his torso exposed for a lightning thrust to the chest.
Something slammed into Aravon’s back with jarring force, hurling him forward. He landed hard, mere inches from the edge of the burning dung fire, so close the heat stung his face and threatened to set his cloak alight. Aravon scrabbled backward, pain flaring through his spine. He had only a heartbeat to glance backward, to see the Eirdkilr swinging a club at his head. Throwing himself to the side, Aravon rolled to his feet, scooped up the spear that had fallen from his fingers, and drove it into the Eirdkilr’s back. Not hard enough to punch through armor, but the strike propelled the giant into the fire. The stink of burned hair and charred meat pierced the pungent, cloying odor of burning dried dung, and the Eirdkilr’s shrieks echoed loud and long.
Aravon spun to face the next Eirdkilr. Raised his spear to defend himself or lash out. He staggered, off-balance, his boots sliding and slipping in the muck. His eyes flew wide. There were no more. To his right, Belthar crushed the last Eirdkilr’s head against the iron bars of the pen. Half a dozen bodies lay scattered at his feet.
The clash of steel on steel echoed to Aravon’s left. He spun, eyes darting toward the pen. There, Captain Lingram battled two enormous Eirdkilrs wielding axes larger than his wooden shield. Aravon almost went to help, but stopped as Lingram ducked a vicious axe swing, darted inside the Eirdkilr’s guard, and drove his longsword into the giant’s groin. His attack carried him out of reach of the other barbarian. Even as the Eirdkilr gave chase, Captain Lingram sp
un, tore his blade free of the slumping giant, and hurled himself at his last enemy with such speed and ferocity the Eirdkilr never had time to raise his axe. Lingram’s sword slipped in and out of the giant’s throat smoothly. The Eirdkilr died before his huge knees splashed into the muck.
Satisfied, Aravon spun toward the pen. Colborn’s distraction would buy them a few seconds, no more. He brought his spear whipping around once and slashed the ropes that held the pen shut. With one hand, he hauled at the huge locking bolt, struggling to pull it free. He threw every shred of strength against the crude metal bar until the bolt slid out of its bracket with a grinding, rusty squeal. Seizing the door, Aravon hauled it open.
“Go!” he shouted in Fehlan. “You are free!”
The Tauld hunters within the pen hesitated, their huge frames filling the opening. They stared down at him with naked suspicion. Could they not understand him?
Aravon tried again. “Run! Before they return.”
It seemed an eternity before the Tauld moved. They lumbered out of the pen, raced toward the nearest Eirdkilr corpses, and stripped off the heavy ice bear pelts. One paused only long enough to give Aravon a nod of thanks before racing off into the darkness, heading east—back the way they’d come, toward Highcliff Motte.
To Aravon’s horror, the rest of the prisoners had made no move to escape. The men and women stood huddled together for warmth and protection, fear etched into every line of their faces. Cold, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and, most of all, terror of the Eirdkilrs rooted them in place.
Aravon had just opened his mouth to exhort them to run, but a howling war cry from behind him brought him spinning around. Four Eirdkilrs raced up the muddy street toward him, their huge boots splashing through muck and the blood of their comrades. The steel heads of axes and spears shone in the light of the dung fire as they charged. Straight toward Aravon.
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