Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  He met their charge with a sudden dash forward, so quick the foremost had no time to raise his shield. Aravon’s spear tore a gash in his throat, sending crimson spraying over the giant beside him. The Eirdkilr cried out as blood washed over his face and stung his eyes. He faltered, a heartbeat, no more. Just long enough to give Aravon a chance to cut him down with a slash across the front of both knees.

  Even as the giant fell, shrieking, on ruined legs, Aravon whirled to face the next two Eirdkilrs. Giants with huge shields held in firm grips, and weapons half his own weight. An axe whistled toward his head, and he barely managed to avoid the strike by backpedaling furiously. Boots skidding and slipping, he nearly lost his balance. Caught himself, deflected another axe strike, but had no time to avoid the third. The huge axe slashed through his pauldron, cracking the alchemical treatment hardening the armor and slicing the flesh beneath.

  Fire lanced through Aravon’s left shoulder, but he had no time for pain or weakness. It was all he could do to keep his footing as he slipped and slid through the bloody mud. The two Eirdkilrs gave chase, their axes whirling with terrifying speed. One lowered his shoulder into a shield charge and slammed into Aravon’s chest.

  Though his breastplate held, the impact hurled Aravon from his feet and knocked the wind from his lungs. He landed hard, his helmeted head squelching in ankle-deep muck. His lungs refused to draw air no matter how much he tried. Even as he struggled to haul himself upright, the Eirdkilrs raced toward him. Desperate and out of breath, he lashed out with a wild thrust of his spear. The nearest Eirdkilr batted it aside with a snarl of contempt and raised his axe high to strike. The thick mud clung to Aravon’s arms, shoulders, head, and legs. He couldn’t move, not fast enough to avoid that crushing blow.

  Suddenly, the Eirdkilr stumbled backward. Something dark sprouted from his throat. The fletching of an arrow, Aravon realized. Another punched into the giant’s chest a moment later, sending him staggering. The second Eirdkilr’s head snapped back and he fell, blood trickling from his ruined eye, seeping around the dark fletching of yet another arrow.

  Bowstrings twanged from the western edge of the square. Aravon tore himself free of the mud in time to see Skathi and Noll racing into the plaza. Colborn ran at their heels, sword and shield stained red with blood. Skathi’s next missile took down the Eirdkilr Aravon had crippled. The giant’s screams died as the arrow sliced through his open mouth and punched out the back of his head.

  Even as Aravon struggled to his feet and found he could draw breath again, his three companions reached the dung fire. Skathi and Noll circled the fire at a sprint, but Colborn paused long enough to drop something into the blaze before following the others. A loud hissing, crackling, popping echoed from whatever he’d dropped, and great billowing clouds of green smoke rose from the blaze. Even from thirty yards away, the stink of the burning Rankblossom twisted Aravon’s gut.

  Zaharis’ instructions flashed through his mind. “The oil in the Rankblossom makes a bloody thick and awful smoke when burned, but it can be noxious if you get too much of it.”

  The smoke would slow down any Eirdkilrs charging into the square, perhaps even conceal their movements. They just had to get the prisoners free before—

  More war cries echoed from another side street, this one beyond Belthar. The huge Grim Reaver spun to meet the charge just as ten Eirdkilrs boiled from the shadows.

  Keeper take it! Aravon raced toward Belthar as fast as his mud-heavy limbs could carry him. Too slowly, he feared. The Eirdkilrs moved with the speed of a charging horse, their long legs propelling them through the muck at a terrifying pace. Far faster than he could slog through the muck on legs exhausted from seemingly endless hours of marching and riding.

  Skathi reached Belthar first. Or, her arrows did. Three missiles, little more than dark blurs in the night, slammed into the two fastest Eirdkilrs. The impact sent them staggering, crashing into their comrades. The stampeding giants behind them slowed, for only a second or two, as they picked their way around their fallen companions.

  But those seconds gave Aravon time to reach Belthar.

  He braced his feet against the charge and met the Eirdkilrs head-on. Not shield to shield—he had no shield of his own, and without ranks of Legionnaires to back him up, he couldn’t hope to withstand a full-speed rush—but with speed they couldn’t hope to match. At the last second, he leapt forward, dropped into a crouch, and thrust up with his spear. The sharp steel head punched into an Eirdkilr’s belly, and the giant’s forward momentum drove the iron-shod butt down into the mud. Aravon crouched lower, evading the wild, desperate swing of the Eirdkilr’s club, and let the giant’s weight do the work. The spear drove so deep the crossbars clinked against the iron studs hardening the Eirdkilr’s armor. His movements slowed, faltered, and he collapsed forward, pinioned on the spear.

  Aravon had no time to wrestle his spear free. Instead, he ripped his sword from its sheath and launched himself at the next Eirdkilr. He twisted out of the way of the thrusting spear, deflected the follow-up strike, and slashed his sword’s edge along the giant’s forearms. Blood gushed from the wounds and the Eirdkilr’s grip on his weapon weakened. The tip of Aravon’s sword opened his throat.

  Another twang of a bowstring, a hum of a flying arrow, and the Eirdkilr directly in front of Aravon fell with Skathi’s shaft driven deep into his eye. The last Eirdkilr died, his head chopped free of his shoulders by a savage stroke of Belthar’s axe.

  Fire coursed through Aravon’s wounded shoulder and his lungs begged for air, but he had no time to stop, to rest, to dress his wounds. The howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs echoed loud through the streets of Praellboer.

  Keeper’s teeth! Ice slithered down his spine. They’re coming back!

  He crossed the three steps to his spear, kicked its butt end free of the mud, and yanked hard to pull it out of the Eirdkilr’s chest. It slid free of flesh and bone with a wet, sucking shlick, and the Eirdkilr toppled face-first into the muck.

  Whirling, Aravon raced back toward the pen. The gate remained open, the way free for the prisoners to escape. Horror thrummed within him as he approached. Save for the Tauld hunters, none of the captives within had moved. They stood huddled together, terror and panic wide in their eyes.

  “Come on!” Aravon shouted in Fehlan, and again in the tongue of the Princelanders imprisoned within. “You’ve got to get out of here!” The stink of the Rankblossom smoke would only give them cover for so long, and the smoke could sicken the already-weak captives.

  Yet the prisoners made no move to flee.

  “What are you waiting for?” He stalked into the pen, and the prisoners flinched back with cries of terror “You need to go before they come back.”

  “And go where?” The voice, a Princelander’s, echoed from within the darkness. “You know where we are, right?”

  “We’ve nowhere to run!” Another voice, this one speaking the Fehlan tongue, joined in. “There is nothing but endless ice south of the mountains. If we run, we die!”

  “Then don’t run.” Aravon thrust his spear into the air. “Fight!”

  Gasps echoed from the crowd of prisoners, and all eyes went wide with surprise and fear.

  “Fight for your lives, for your families!” Aravon roared. “There are hundreds of you against dozens of them. Don’t let them—”

  A howling war cry echoed within the pen, and an Eirdkilr loomed large in the opening. His eyes locked on Aravon and he raised his club to strike. Aravon attacked first, lunging into a thrust that drove the tip of his spear into the giant’s throat. The Eirdkilr’s eyes crossed, staring down at the weapon that killed him, and he fell to one knee.

  Aravon tore the spear free, then ripped the club from the dying Eirdkilr’s hand. It weighed far too much for him to wield easily, yet he held it in one hand and spun back toward the prisoners.

  “Don’t let your fear of them cow you into submission, but fight!” He threw the club at their feet. “You have no armor, clothi
ng, or weapons. Take it from them, and turn their own armaments against them! If you stay here, you die, your bodies tortured and sacrificed on the Eirdkilrs’ altar. If you fight, you might die, but there is a chance you live. And if not you, then your families, your friends, your fellows.” He spoke in the Fehlan tongue, for most of the prisoners within the pen had the look of Eyrr, Deid, and Fjall. Yet it seemed the Princelanders had no trouble understanding the intent and spirit of his words. “Better to die fighting for something that matters than live a while longer in fear!”

  War cries echoed beyond the pen; more Eirdkilrs had come, and their fury at finding the pens open and attackers within their midst resounded through Praellboer. Aravon cast one last meaningful glance at the captives and at the Eirdkilr club he’d dropped at their feet, then turned and raced out of the pen.

  Right into an Eirdkilr’s back. The giant, locked in battle with Captain Lingram, slammed into him, sending him sprawling. A massive heel crashed into Aravon’s side with bone-jarring force. The Eirdkilr toppled, crashed atop Aravon, legs and knees thrashing. Another painful crack to Aravon’s ribs sent lightning coursing through his side. Agony rippled through his muscles and bones, but Aravon forced himself to move. Clawed at the mud, dragging himself free of the thrashing Eirdkilr.

  A shadow loomed over him. Two huge feet planted in the mud at his side. Looking up, he found an Eirdkilr towering high above, spear poised for a thrust that would drive through his spine. A wild light of glee shone in the giant’s eyes as his muscles bunched, coiled, and prepared to strike.

  The side of the giant’s head exploded in a spray of blood, bone, and brains. Stumbling, staggering, the Eirdkilr dropped to one knee. Another savage blow crushed his right arm. With a shriek of pain, the Eirdkilr toppled into the mud. A rush of bare feet trampled the giant’s corpse until his thrashing weakened, slowed, and fell still.

  A hand thrust down toward Aravon. He took it, accepted the help to haul himself upright. The man who stood before him appeared gaunt, his protruding ribs visible beneath his torn shirt, yet a fire of defiance blazed in his eyes. The Fehlan hefted the huge war club with a nod. “We fight for our people,” he said in his tongue.

  Aravon grinned beneath his mask. We have our army!

  All around him, Princelanders and Fehlans boiled from the pen he’d opened. Behind them, more emerged from the remaining cages. Men, women, and children that had been beaten, dragged hundreds of miles across harsh terrain, starved, and abused. Now freed, they scrabbled in the mud to retrieve the weapons of the fallen Eirdkilrs. Tore free ice bear pelts, helmets, leather vests, even boots. Found crude daggers or hefted spears, axes, and clubs far too large to wield. Defiance blazed in every eye and roars of rage burst from every throat. Cries to the gods of Fehl—to Olfossa, to Striith, to Nuius, Megin, and others Aravon didn’t recognize—accompanied shouts of “For the Princelands!”

  The Eirdkilrs racing into the square found themselves confronted by a wall of fury and hatred. Ragged men, women clutching children in one hand and knives in the other, and youths with hungry eyes and lips cracked from thirst leapt onto the barbarians. Weapons flashed in the light of the dung fire, and empty-handed captives bared teeth and clawed fingers as they threw themselves into the fray. Now they had a chance to repay all the mistreatment, abuse, and deprivation they’d endured since the day the Eirdkilrs dragged them from their homes.

  Aravon stood alone, an island of calm amidst a sea of chaos. All around the open square, the captives and Eirdkilrs locked in a desperate struggle. Captives surged up the muddy lanes and down side alleys, hammered at the doors of the longhouses. A part of Aravon couldn’t help a pang of sorrow—how many people of Praellboer would die before the night was over, torn apart by the furious prisoners?

  He had no more time to worry. The thunder of pounding hooves echoed loud in the open square, drawing closer at a furious speed. Aravon whirled, found Noll galloping toward him. A wild light shone in the scout’s eyes as he charged through the square, barreling through Eirdkilrs and trying desperately to dodge the furious captives.

  His shout reached Aravon from thirty yards away.

  “More on the way, closing fast!”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Aravon’s gut tightened as Noll reined his horse to a skidding, sliding halt not three feet away.

  “They took the bait!” Noll shouted. “We’ve got maybe ten, fifteen minutes before they reach us.”

  Keeper’s teeth! This was the part of the plan Aravon had been dreading.

  “Any sign of—”

  Noll shook his head. “Too dark to know for sure, or to tell how many.” He glanced at the night sky. “But at least we know half of Zaharis’ tricks worked.”

  Aravon followed the scout’s gaze. The plume of smoke rising from the dung fire glowed an eerie green in the darkness. The Rankblossom wasn’t just noxious, but it seemed to shine with a light all its own. Zaharis had given a complex explanation, but it amounted to something about the Rankblossom oil particles gleaming bright and refracting the light of the fire. Whatever the case, it brightened up the darkness above Praellboer with a billowing, acidic green.

  A signal Tyr Farbjodr couldn’t possibly ignore.

  If, as Aravon suspected, he intended to sacrifice all these captives on the Feast of Death—to use the magic of the ghoulstone to drain their strength—he’d see the attack on Praellboer as a direct threat to his plans. He’d have to deal with it. Hopefully in person, though it was a faint hope. At the very least, however, he would be forced to divide his forces and send some of his Eirdkilrs back to the village to get the situation in hand.

  And that was exactly what Aravon was counting on. Their entire plan hinged on that force of Eirdkilrs racing from the mine.

  “Go!” Aravon shouted to the scout. “Get the horses, but keep an eye on the road until you can get a full count of the enemy. We need to know what we’re up against!”

  With a nod, Noll whirled his horse and rode off—first to collect Colborn and Skathi’s mounts to the west, then to circle around and scoop up Aravon, Captain Lingram, and Belthar’s horses. Another part of the plan they’d agreed on before the battle.

  “Captain!” Skathi’s voice pierced the howling of the Eirdkilrs, the shouts and cries of the embattled prisoners, and the grim sounds of wood and steel tearing through flesh, cloth, furs, and bone. Aravon whirled to find the archer sprinting toward him. “That the signal?”

  Aravon nodded. “Get the others ready!”

  Skathi placed two fingers into her mouth and loosed a long, piercing whistle. Within seconds, the Grim Reavers appeared from the thick smoke and the chaos of battle. Blood stained their armor, weapons, and cloaks, yet none appeared too badly wounded. Belthar’s unarmored right arm bore two deep gashes, but someone—likely Skathi—had bandaged it.

  Captain Lingram, Colborn, Skathi, and Belthar formed up around Aravon. “Noll’s brought word the enemy’s on the way.”

  “Hah!” Triumph echoed in Belthar’s voice. “Farbjodr’s taken the bait.”

  “Aye, but that doesn’t mean we’re out of the shite yet.” Aravon studied the muddy square, the hundreds of figures locked in desperate battle. The Eirdkilrs were badly outnumbered by the captives, but they were armed and armored, facing men and women starved, beaten, and left to suffer in the cold. The scales of the battle could tilt in their favor the moment their reinforcements arrived. “We need to figure out some kind of defense, something to slow down the Eirdkilrs coming up from the south.”

  “Got it!” Belthar took off at a run, heading toward the road that led out of Praellboer. Skathi followed the big man, tearing a new sheaf of arrows from her pack and refilling her near-empty quiver.

  “And we need to find a way to get the captives fighting together,” Aravon continued. “Colborn, see if you can get the Fehlans under control. Lingram, it’s up to you get—”

  “Aravon.” Lingram’s voice cut him off mid-sentence. The Legionnaire’s eyes narrowed, his gaze
locked on something behind Aravon. His grip on his sword tightened but he made no move to attack.

  Aravon whirled to face the threat. Stopped, froze in place, his eyes widening a fraction as he caught sight of the giants slipping through the crowd. These carried no weapons, and their faces were bare of war paint. Though they wore the heavy ice bear pelts of Eirdkilrs, there was mud and blood staining them.

  The Tauld hunters had returned.

  Aravon’s heart stopped, his muscles going rigid. The Tauld slid through the swirling chaos of battle with purpose, their long legs eating up the ground in great strides as they moved toward him in a half-march, half-loping run.

  Confusion twisted in Aravon’s gut. What are they doing here? He’d expected them to flee Praellboer, to return to their homes and simple, peaceful lives in Highcliff Motte. So what could have brought them back?

  The sounds of battle seemed to fade into the background, an almost eerie calm descending over the heart of the square as the foremost Tauld opened his mouth.

  “We owe you our lives.” His language bore a strong resemblance to Fehlan, similar enough Aravon could understand it, and the accent proved less harsh and guttural then the Eirdkilr tongue. “We have returned to pay the skuld, the debt of blood and honor.”

  Aravon cocked his head. “You’ve come to fight with us?” he asked in Fehlan.

  “No.” The speaker gave a slow shake of his long-haired head. “But we bring warning. Enemies approach from the north, east, and west. Ten and ten from each direction. The light and clash of battle summon them home.”

  Aravon’s heart sank. Sixty more Eirdkilrs were on their way here. Doubtless the ones Tyr Farbjodr had sent earlier to hunt down the Grim Reavers, a response to the message the Tauld had delivered of northerners in the Wastelands. Add that to however many Tyr Farbjodr had sent from the mine, and that was a small army—one that could very well be too strong to defeat before the sun rose.