Courage to Sacrifice

by Andy Peloquin

  “The skuld is paid.” The Tauld bowed to Aravon. “You will die, but you will pass into Seggrholl knowing that Sigvald Vandilsson has paid the blood price and satisfied honor.”

  Aravon passed his spear to his left hand and held out his right. “Then go, Sigvald, son of Vandil, with the gratitude of Aravon, son of Icespire, and his Prince.”

  Sigvald stared down at Aravon’s outstretched hand for a long moment, his eyes narrowed—in thought, suspicion, or some other emotion, Aravon couldn’t be certain. The giant’s expression was inscrutable, as hard as ice. Finally, he reached out and clasped Aravon’s forearm in the traditional Fehlan manner. A silent exchange, a brief locking of their eyes—Princelander and Tauld—then Sigvald broke off the grip, turned, and marched out of the square.

  Aravon’s eyes followed the giant’s hulking frame until he disappeared into the shadows between longhouses. The moment he stepped out of sight, the moment seemed to snap. The din of battle rose in volume once more, the shouts, screams, and cries of men and women locked in a frenzied combat, a struggle to the death. The crunch of wooden clubs striking flesh, the crack of shattering bones, and the thump of steel carving flesh.

  Blinking, Aravon stared at the carnage around him. The last of the Eirdkilrs were even now falling beneath the savage fury of their former prisoners. Fehlans and Princelanders wielded massive weapons, hacking, stabbing, slashing, and bludgeoning their merciless captives to death. Scores of blond-haired giants lay scattered around the open square, mud and blood soaking into their filthy ice bear pelts, crimson seeping from grisly wounds, limbs and skulls crushed, flesh rent by their own weapons.

  Yet they hadn’t died without a fight. The bodies of dead Fehlans lay scattered around the giants that had slain them before succumbing to the frenzy. Princelanders screamed, bled, and died, their bellies torn open, throats savaged by Eirdkilr axes, or limbs and heads sheared clean through. Fully half of the captives that escaped the pens lay dead or dying.

  Keeper’s teeth! Horror flooded Aravon, driving back the momentary trance that had settled over him. He’d seen blood and death before, far, far too many times to count, and far worse than this. Yet the sight of so many corpses—the bodies of men, women, and children that had lived peaceful lives until the Eirdkilrs tore them from their homes—brought acid rising in his throat.

  “We can’t hold Praellboer.” Colborn’s voice echoed beside Aravon, a grim tone edging his words. “Not against sixty Eirdkilrs and however many more Farbjodr’s sending from the south.”

  Aravon didn’t argue; the Lieutenant had the right of it. Even armed with the Eirdkilrs’ weapons, furs, and armor, the four or five hundred captives couldn’t hope to repel so many. The moment the approaching Eirdkilrs realized there was battle to join, they’d form a shield wall and assault the defenders in a concerted blitz attack. No defenses Belthar could cobble together in the next few minutes would withstand such a rush. An Eirdkilr charge rivaled the strength and speed of a Princelander cavalry charge. The giants would roll over the defenders in a matter of seconds. Every one of the men, women, and children they’d just freed from the pens would die in the streets of Praellboer. Empty-handed or armed with stolen weapons, it would make no difference.

  Worse, if Tyr Farbjodr had remained at the mine, the Grim Reavers wouldn’t have a shot at putting him down. If Aravon had surmised his intentions correctly—somehow using the magic within the ghoulstone to drain his captives of strength to enhance his warriors—the Eirdkilr wouldn’t leave the site of his final triumph. To eliminate him, Aravon would have to go to the mine.

  But doing so would leave the captives leaderless, scattered, disorganized. They’d die within seconds. Aravon’s plan had considered the Eirdkilr reinforcements, but not so many. A part of his mind—the cold, calculating part of a strategist—screamed at him that the sacrifice of the captives would be worth it in the end. Leaving the Fehlans and Princelanders to fight the Eirdkilrs would buy him and his men enough time to reach Tyr Farbjodr and, hopefully, cut through his reduced force of warriors. The deaths of these men and women would give him that shot at taking down the Eirdkilr commander once and for all.

  Yet Aravon had never been cold or calculating. He had always valued the lives of his soldiers, often above his own, and every plan he’d conceived had been with the full intent of keeping as many of his men alive as possible. The idea of abandoning the captives here at the mercy of the Eirdkilrs was abhorrent. He couldn’t do it.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “Go.” Aravon rounded on Colborn. “Get the others, and get to the bridge as fast as you can. The moment you’re sure the enemy’s engaged, cut them off, then go for Tyr Farbjodr.”

  Colborn’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t even think about—”

  “I’m staying.” Aravon’s tone rang with a sharp note of command. He gestured around him. “You know what’s coming for them. I won’t let them fight alone.”

  “Captain—” Colborn began.

  “No.” Aravon set his jaw, determination hardening within him. “It’s going to take every one of you to kill Tyr Farbjodr and get out of this alive. My staying here, fighting with them, gives you that chance.”

  Lingram opened his mouth to protest. “Aravon—”

  “Go, Lingram.” Aravon gestured to Colborn. “They’re going to need a Captain—”

  “Damned right they will.” Captain Lingram’s voice cracked like a whip. “Their captain!”

  The ferocity in the man’s words and the light blazing in his eyes surprised Aravon.

  “You remember what I said back in Camp Marshal, about the reason I survived Icespire, Saerheim, and every other battle?” Captain Lingram fixed him with a piercing glare. “The Grim Reavers needed me to get through Cliffpass, to get you here. But now that we’re here, the world needs you. Needs you to make sure Tyr Farbjodr gets put down once and for all.” He tapped his chest. “He walked away from a crossbow bolt to the chest, so you’re going to make sure that he doesn’t get back up again.”

  Aravon’s eyes widened a fraction. “But after what he did to Highcliff Motte, to your friends and family, surely you deserve the chance to put things right.”

  “Things are put right.” Captain Lingram rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “Or they will be once you stop the Eirdkilr bastard responsible for so much death and suffering.”

  Aravon tried to protest, but Colborn cut in first. “Captain.” He stepped up beside Lingram and held out a hand. “It’s been an honor.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. No! Colborn was simply accepting this?

  Of course he was, a dim part of Aravon’s mind realized. He was an officer of the Legion of Heroes, a man trained to make the difficult decisions—just as Aravon and Captain Lingram were. He’d done the mental calculations, evaluated the outcome of the choice, and determined that it was the best hope of success. Though it pained him—pain that shone bright in his ice-blue eyes—he would bear that pain for the sake of the mission.

  Just as Aravon should. He wanted to argue, wanted to insist that Lingram was the better choice to go with the Grim Reavers. Lingram owed Tyr Farbjodr a painful death, vengeance for his fallen friends. For Koltun Blackhammer, for his family, for the Deadheads slaughtered at Saerheim and in the mines beneath the Sawtooth Mountains.

  Lingram had lost so much, suffered so much, all because of Tyr Farbjodr’s cruelty and bloodlust. His family and friends had died in the name of power and conquest.

  Yet Aravon knew Lingram well enough to know that vengeance mattered far less to the Legionnaire than doing what was right. That had always been Lingram’s greatest strength—and, in some cases, his weakness. Now, he’d made the decision to stay, to buy the Grim Reavers time to complete their mission. One look at the determination in Lingram’s eyes, and Aravon knew he’d never dissuade the man. He’d have to knock Lingram unconscious and have him bodily dragged off. He entertained that fleeting thought for a moment, then shoved it aside.

  Lingram w
as right. Though it drove a dagger of sorrow into the core of Aravon’s being, the Legionnaire was making the best choice. Not for himself or his chances of survival. But for the mission. Aravon was a Grim Reaver, and he had spent months training and fighting beside the others. Lingram was a Legionnaire, a man trained to war and battle and the shield wall, but he hadn’t developed the mentality that Duke Dyrund had fostered in Aravon. Like a true soldier and officer, he recognized his value to the Grim Reavers, where he could be best used.

  Here, holding the town against an enemy that would inevitably crush them. Sacrificing his life to buy Aravon and the others time to complete their mission. Just as his Deadheads had.

  A sob formed in Aravon’s throat, but he swallowed it, forced it down. “Forgive me.” Sorrow turned his voice hoarse, harsh.

  “There is nothing to forgive.” Peace shone in Lingram’s eyes. Passing his sword to his shield hand, he reached out to grip Aravon’s arm. “If the Swordsman wills it, we will see each other again. If not, I will save a place for you at his side.”

  Aravon pulled Lingram into a fierce hug, squeezing his eyelids tightly shut to ward off the flow of tears.

  “Captain.” Colborn’s voice was low and insistent. “We need to go, now.”

  Aravon broke off the embrace, clasping Lingram’s arm with his free hand. “Swordsman strengthen your arm, Brother!”

  “And guide your aim.” Lingram’s eyes held no hint of hesitation or fear. Acceptance, peace, and resolve shone there. “Take the bastard down!”

  “Aye.” The word was all Aravon could muster; if he tried to speak more, he feared his voice would crack.

  The sound of hoofbeats echoed loud in the open square, and Aravon turned away from Lingram in time to see Noll riding into the square. The scout galloped toward the two of them, five horses racing in his wake.

  “Captain,” Noll shouted as he reined in a few paces away, “the Eirdkilrs will be here any minute. A hundred of them. Time to make like the wind and get the bloody hell out of here!”

  Aravon said nothing—could find no words through the lump thickening his throat—but raced toward his horse and leapt into his saddle. He glanced back, found Captain Lingram staring at him. The Legionnaire had removed his mask, and a smile broadened his handsome face. Straightening, he gave a Legionnaire’s salute: right fist to left shoulder, his knuckles thumping against his breastplate.

  Aravon returned the salute. Then, though it took every shred of willpower he possessed, he forced himself to turn his horse and ride away.

  “People of the north!” Captain Lingram’s voice rang out, loud and clear, across the square. “Men and women of Fehl, of the Princelands. I am Captain Lingram, called Blacksword, Hero of Garrow’s Canyon.”

  All eyes in the square—all but Aravon’s—turned to regard the man. Though he spoke in Fehlan, all the Princelanders seemed to recognize his name.

  “The enemy comes from all directions, prepared for battle and blood. So let us give them one!” Confidence echoed in his words. “Let us show them what happens when they threaten our homes, our clans, our families.”

  A roar rose from the Fehlans, and those around Aravon raised bloodstained weapons. Battered, bruised, exhausted, and bedraggled men and women surged past, moving toward the square, toward the lone, heroic figure standing beside the fire and the now-empty pens.

  “The smoke is our ally!” Lingram shouted. “We fight from the shadows, striking at them where they do not expect. We have numbers on our side. Let us show what a terrible mistake they made when they thought we were weak!”

  Another roar rose from the Fehlans, accompanied by Princelander voices. The cheers and shouts reverberated through Praellboer, following Aravon and the Grim Reavers as they raced along the road leading south.

  They paused only long enough for Skathi and Belthar to mount up. The big man abandoned his construction of the barricade—little more than rubble torn down from nearby longhouses—without question, though he shot a curious glance at Lingram’s empty saddle. Yet he held his tongue, falling in beside the rest as they raced south, out of Praellboer.

  The instant they were out onto the plains and free of the chest-high ice wall surrounding Praellboer, Noll and Colborn led the way hard to the east. Away from the warriors that even now surged up the muddy track from the pit mine.

  Aravon’s gut clenched as he rode. Deeper into the night, into the shadows of the empty tundra, farther from the bright-shining pillar of green smoke rising up from the center of Praellboer. Farther from Captain Lingram, his friend, his brother.

  They rode far east, circling wide around the Eirdkilrs sent to join the battle at Praellboer. The lump in his throat thickened when they turned back southwest, riding around behind the fast-moving enemy. When the war cries and howls echoed from the hundred barbarians racing into the village, Aravon wished he could close his ears. Could shut off the images that flashed through his mind—images of death, carnage, of blood spilled and flesh ravaged by massive Eirdkilr weapons. Fehlans and Princelanders, cut down, their bodies torn to pieces. And among them, Captain Lingram, never wavering, never faltering. Courageous to his last breath.

  Tears streamed down his face, yet Aravon never looked back. He couldn’t, lest his resolve shatter. He owed it to Captain Lingram to keep riding. To make his sacrifice count.

  To fight until Tyr Farbjodr lay dead at his feet.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  All too soon, the sounds of battle faded into the night. The distance between the Grim Reavers and Praellboer widened, until nearly a mile separated them from the Eirdkilr village. From where Captain Lingram and the freed captives fought for their lives among the muddy streets, in the shadows between the longhouses. Long before they reached the bridge, the din and clash of combat diminished, until only the thunder of the horses’ hooves and the shrieking wind echoed in Aravon’s ears.

  None of the Grim Reavers spoke. The five soldiers rode with eyes locked firmly on the darkness ahead, each lost within their own private sorrow. Aravon, too, wrestled with the pain of loss. A pain that clutched tight in his chest, gripped his heart, and drove a dagger of ice into his gut. It seemed impossible to draw a full breath past the fist of iron constricting his lungs. With only featureless night and the empty tundra ahead, Aravon could find nothing to draw his eye, to give him something to look at. Anything that would push the image of Captain Lingram’s face from his mind.

  There had been no hesitation in Lingram’s words, only confidence, steely resolve, and peace. For years, he’d carried a heavy burden. Fear of being a coward, of fleeing and hiding as he had as a youth escaping the carnage at Highcliff Motte. The anguish over those he’d lost: his father and brothers, the Legionnaires stationed at the fortress, Koltun Blackhammer, the soldiers fallen over his years of battle, the Deadheads.

  Now, the burden would be lifted from his shoulders. He would find peace in one final act of courage and sacrifice. The Long Keeper’s arms would embrace him, wipe away the anguish, and he would spend an eternity of joy and triumph standing guard at the Swordsman’s side. A fitting end for a true hero.

  Yet that knowledge left no less pain in his wake. Aravon felt it keenest of all, he who had trained, studied, and marched with Captain Lingram during his younger days. But all the Grim Reavers, all the soldiers that had traveled with him since Icespire, would doubtless feel the sting of his death.

  Once, he might have questioned the Swordsman’s wisdom—after all, how could the god of heroism allow such a thing to happen to a man as good as Captain Lingram? He would have struggled with his faith, just as both Zaharis and Rangvaldr had.

  Yet years of battle and war had shown Aravon that it was rarely the gods to blame for the actions of men. The Swordsman hadn’t allowed Captain Lingram to die; it was no act of some unknowable deity, but the cruelty of humans—men like Tyr Farbjodr—that had led to the death of a brave man.

  Aravon’s fists clenched on his reins so tight his hands shook. By the Swordsman, Tyr Far
bjodr will pay! For the countless deaths, the endless suffering he’d unleashed upon Fehl, certainly. For all the friends, comrades, and loved ones taken too soon: the men of Sixth Company, Duke Dyrund, Lord Morshan, the Deadheads. And, most of all, Captain Lingram. Aravon would see the bastard Eirdkilr dead, one way or another.

  To pull that off, the Grim Reavers had had to risk everything. The attack on Praellboer had been just the first step, the opening gambit in the complex game of Nizaa that was war and battle. Tyr Farbjodr had acted precisely as he’d hoped. Had committed the bulk of his forces to defending Praellboer from the invisible threat of which the Tauld had warned him. He’d heard men of the Princelands had managed to cross into the Wastelands, and he couldn’t write it off as misinformation or deceit. Not so close to the culmination of his plans. Tyr Farbjodr had invested too much into his collection and mining of the ghoulstone. Now, on the eve of his triumph, he wouldn’t take any risks.

  That meant making certain his enemies didn’t abscond with his prisoners, the fodder he would sacrifice on his altar of ancient blood magic. He’d had no choice but to divide his forces to protect Praellboer.

  Now, Aravon would capitalize on that defensive action. The Eirdkilrs had only one way to travel from the village to the pit mine. One way across the river, unless they wanted to travel twenty or more miles out of their way. Once Zaharis brought down the bridge, the bulk of the Eirdkilrs would be trapped on the wrong side of the river, leaving only a handful to guard Tyr Farbjodr. Few enough for Aravon and the Grim Reavers to take down.

  A flicker of light in the distance caught Aravon’s eye. So faint, it was barely a flicker in the darkness, yet Aravon recognized the blue-and-red light of Zaharis’ alchemical lanterns. The soft glow shone from beneath the arching bridge, between the thick stone support pillars rising from the black ribbon that was the fast-flowing river.

  Yes! Despite the pain of his grief, a faint hope surged within Aravon. Zaharis and Rangvaldr had managed to stay unseen by the Eirdkilrs rushing past. He could only hope the Secret Keeper had had time enough to put whatever alchemical marvels he intended to use in place to bring the bridge down now.