Across the sharply-inclining archway they rode, the horses’ steel-shod hooves ringing sparks on the stone surface. Even in the darkness, Aravon was struck by the solid, timeless endurance of the construction—one that had withstood the ravages of the Wastelands’ storms and ice for centuries.
A figure moved out of the shadows of the bridge and greeted them as they reined in on the southern shore.
“Good to see you,” Rangvaldr said in a low voice. “For a minute, we feared you hadn’t…” His words trailed off as he caught sight of the eighth horse with its empty saddle. The faint starlight cast a shadow over his eyes. “Lingram?”
“Buying us time.” The words proved difficult to speak. The lump returned to Aravon’s throat, and he could say no more.
Rangvaldr bowed his head. “Nuius grant him strength,” he said quietly.
Aravon had no answer—dared not speak for the sorrow swirling within him. Without a word, he dismounted and slid down the riverbank toward the underside of the bridge. He needed the distraction of the mission, the battle ahead, to take his mind off the pain of what lay behind.
“How long?” he called to the Secret Keeper.
Zaharis answered with a wordless grunt. He stood wedged beneath the nearest pillar, his toes dug into crevices between stone, working one-handed at shoving bundles of plants into cracks in the column while hanging on with his free hand. The two glass globes of his alchemical lamps hung suspended from his belt—he needed both hands to work.
Long seconds passed before he finished stuffing the bundled fireweed into the crack and could free up a hand to sign. “At least ten minutes, if you want it done right.”
“Good.” Aravon nodded. “The sooner we get this done, the better.” He glanced at the sky. Though it hadn’t yet begun to brighten, he could all but feel the sun climbing toward the eastern horizon. At any moment, the first threads of blue would light up the sky, and the Feast of Death would be upon them. They would be too late to stop Tyr Farbjodr.
Aravon clambered up the incline, rejoining the others on the southern side of the bridge. All of the Grim Reavers stared solemnly at Praellboer in the distance. At the column of bright green smoke that had already begun to thin out, the dung fire burning low and the Rankblossom exhausted. Somewhere in that haze, Captain Lingram and his small army of Fehlan and Princelander captives might still be alive. Might. Perhaps they’d remain alive long enough for—
What’s that? Fear clutched at Aravon’s chest. Is that…movement?
For a moment, he feared it would be nothing but his imagination. His grief-stricken mind playing tricks on him, distorting his vision. Yet as his companions gasped or sucked in sharp breaths, he knew he hadn’t been the only one seeing it.
It was movement. Within the streets of southern Praellboer, dark shadows lumbered into view. One, two, five, ten, more. The hulking figures blended into a formless mass, yet they towered so tall Aravon knew they could only be one thing. Eirdkilrs, racing south.
Sorrow twisted the dagger in his heart. They’d only be returning to their master at Illtgrund if they had dealt with the prisoners. Either killed them all, even the children, or locked them up in their pens. Knowing Captain Lingram, it would be the former.
Aravon bowed his head and closed his eyes. May you know peace forever more at the Swordsman’s side. A final farewell to the brave Legionnaire.
Yet a moment was all he could spare. His heart hammered as he opened his eyes and found the hulking figures racing toward them. Eirdkilrs could cover eight miles in an hour; to reach the bridge, less than a mile south of Praellboer, would take them less than ten minutes.
Less than ten minutes! The thought sent icy feet dancing down his spine.
He whirled toward the Grim Reavers. “Get ready for a fight!”
Not waiting to see their response, he spun back toward the river bank and scrambled down toward the edge. Zaharis had moved only a few inches from the last place Aravon had seen him and was working on stuffing another bundle of fireweed into a crevice.
“Zaharis, you’ve got to hurry!” Aravon shouted. “They’ll be here in five minutes!”
The Secret Keeper stiffened, his muscles going rigid. Shooting a furious glare over his shoulder, he signed, “I’m going as fast as I can!”
“Then go faster!” Aravon didn’t wait to see Zaharis’ signed retort—he’d already turned and raced back up the hill.
Reaching the bridge, he found the Grim Reavers preparing for battle. Skathi had shifted her re-filled quiver to her hip, within easy reach for fast movements. Noll, too, had dismounted and taken up position on the opposite side of the bridge. He and Skathi could loose arrows in a cross-fire to hit the Eirdkilrs from both right and left.
Belthar stood with his huge crossbow reloaded and ready to loose. He had only two of the three-foot bolts left; one sat nocked in the crossbow’s cradle, the other strapped to his back. He’d have time for just one shot before the Eirdkilrs hit them.
Colborn and Rangvaldr anchored the center of their meager battle line. Aravon took up position behind the two men, in the shelter of their shields. His long spear gave him added reach that their swords did not.
He had no intention of fighting—Zaharis had to bring down that damned bridge! But if the Eirdkilrs reached them before the Secret Keeper set off his alchemical explosion, they would be ready.
His eyes locked on the dark figures racing through the darkness toward the bridge. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t spotted them, cloaked in night as they were, but that would change soon. The moment the giants drew within sight of the bridge, of the little glow emanating from Zaharis’ alchemical lamps, they would know something was amiss.
Closer and closer the giants lumbered, their hulking figures growing larger in the light emanating from Praellboer. Aravon’s heart hammered a nervous beat as he watched the nearing barbarians. He tightened his grip on his spear, braced his legs, stiffened his spine. Every second brought the giants nearer—and sunrise with it.
He glanced at the sky, and acid writhed like worms in his gut. The first threads of light had begun to brighten the heavens. But this was no gentle blue, no soft light of the typical sunrise. The glimmer had an angry red hue, like rivers of blood threading through the starlit darkness.
A shiver ran down Aravon’s spine. The Feast of Death is upon us. When the sun rose—and rise it would, no matter how much he wished it otherwise—Tyr Farbjodr’s plan would be unleashed. Thousands of captives would die, slaughtered in his foul blood ritual.
Aravon broke away from the battle line, raced along the river’s edge until he caught sight of the Secret Keeper. “Zaharis?”
Zaharis spared only a second to flash a frantic sign. “Working!”
Heart in his throat, Aravon sprinted back to Colborn and Rangvaldr. The Secret Keeper had to hurry up before—
The howl of the Eirdkilr war cries pierced the darkness, ringing with deafening volume across the windswept tundra. With the brightening of the sky, the Eirdkilrs had spotted them.
Come on, Zaharis! Sweat trickled down Aravon’s spine. The giants—more than eighty by Aravon’s quick count—were just two hundred yards from the northern edge of the bridge. The foremost of the Eirdkilrs would reach them in under a minute. Come on, damn it! Their plan hinged entirely on blowing the bridge with the Eirdkilrs on the wrong side. As he’d intended at the Fornbryggja, hopefully killing a handful of the giants in the process.
Seconds passed in a blur, the Eirdkilrs drew closer—a hundred yards, seventy-five, fifty—and still no explosion.
“Hurry, Zaharis!” Aravon roared, his eyes never leaving the fast-moving giants.
Thirty yards to the bridge. Twenty. Ten.
Keeper’s teeth, he’s cutting it close!
Desperation flared bright and hot within Aravon’s chest. “We’re running out of time!”
The moment the words left his mouth, the first Eirdkilr boot touched the bridge. With a howl of rage, the giants raced up the archway and threw th
emselves at the Grim Reavers.
Chapter Sixty-Three
The first Eirdkilr never made it to Colborn and Rangvaldr. An arrow hissed from the left side of the bridge, sliding over the rim of the giant’s heavy shield and punching into the giant’s throat. Blood misted in the brightening darkness and the Eirdkilr stumbled, slammed into the stone side of the bridge, and toppled over.
Another arrow, this time from the right. An Eirdkilr stumbled, tripped, and fell. Right into the path of the closely-packed giants behind him. Five went down in a tangle of limbs, flying furs, and clattering weapons. More arrows zipped into their midst. Screams burst from the pile of Eirdkilrs, high and ringing with pain. One rose to his feet, shoving off the corpses of his companions. Just in time to trip up the giants lumbering up behind him. Three more fell, huge feet stumbling over the limp arms and legs of their comrades or tripping over torsos.
A loud whomph echoed from Aravon’s right. Belthar’s crossbow bolt sliced through the air and slammed into an Eirdkilr that had managed to evade the pile-up. Shards of wood exploded outward as the bolt punched through his shield, drove through flesh and furs. The impact knocked the Eirdkilr off his feet and he fell, hard. Never to rise again.
But the bridge was wide, the Eirdkilrs dangerously nimble for their hulking size. They dodged their piled-up comrades, charged past the first corpses, splashed through the blood of their fallen companions. Racing toward Aravon, Colborn, and Rangvaldr.
“Brace!” Aravon shouted. Colborn and Rangvaldr threw their shoulders into their shields, dug their heels into the ground. The impact of the charging Eirdkilrs hurled them backward. Colborn flew past Aravon, a grunt of pain bursting from beneath his mask. Rangvaldr, the heavier of the two, managed to keep his feet, but his shield wasn’t so fortunate. The upper third splintered beneath the force of the Eirdkilrs’ charge, and the steel boss of the giant’s shield slammed into his face. His head snapped back so hard Aravon feared his neck would break.
But he had no time for fear. With a roar, he threw himself at the Eirdkilr standing over the sagging Rangvaldr. His spear thrust took the giant in the side of the neck, just beneath the rim of his conical helm. In and out, so quickly the Eirdkilr never saw the blow that opened his jugular vein.
Aravon spun, turning his face away from the spray of blood, and brought his heavy spear whipping around. The slashing stroke cut low, slicing through an Eirdkilr’s thigh muscle and burying to the bone. The racing giant stumbled, tripped, and fell with a shriek as his femur cracked beneath his weight.
Then another Eirdkilr attacked, two more giants at his side. Aravon had no time to think, only to move. He ducked an axe strike, deflected a spear thrust, twisted out of the path of a crushing club. Lashed out with a desperate slash that opened an Eirdkilr’s arm to the elbow. Spinning, he brought the heavy iron-shod butt of the spear whipping across. Metal crunched into an Eirdkilr’s nose with shattering force, but Aravon kept swinging, putting all the force of his sorrow and fury into the blow. The flying metal-capped end shattered an Eirdkilr’s wooden shield and slammed into the side of his neck. Bone snapped audibly and the Eirdkilr’s head twisted at a terrible angle.
But still the Eirdkilrs came on. Racing over the bridge, splashing through the mud and their comrades’ blood, heavy boots thundering on the stone.
Aravon stumbled backward, slipped on a patch of ice-slick mud. Fell hard, his back and shoulders slamming into the road. Rolling to one side, he lashed out with a desperate kick at an Eirdkilr’s leg. His boot connected with a shin bone, but the Eirdkilr only howled louder—pain mingled with his rage—and brought his axe down in a crushing blow aimed at Aravon’s head.
Only to slam into the steel boss of Rangvaldr’s shield. The Seiomenn had managed to throw himself into the path of the attack, just in time to deflect the blow. The axe splashed into the mud a finger’s breadth from Aravon’s leg. Before the Eirdkilr could pull it free, Rangvaldr’s sword thrust into his throat.
A hand grabbed Aravon’s arm, hauled him upright. Colborn, shield strong, pain bright in his ice-blue eyes. “Get behind me!” he roared and leapt in front of Aravon.
An Eirdkilr charged, only to find his legs hacked out by a vicious sweep of Colborn’s sword. Another giant ran full onto Aravon’s outthrust spear. Too slow to stop, the giant impaled himself on the razor-sharp steel head, pushing it so deep the crossbar slammed into the front of his neck.
With a savage wrench, Aravon twisted the spear free and the Eirdkilr slumped. Blood dripping from the tip of his spear, Aravon crouched behind Colborn’s shield, bracing for the next attack.
For two hammering heartbeats, there were no more. Skathi and Noll’s arrows flew as fast as the archers could loose them. Their arms were a blur as they drew, nocked, and loosed. The Eirdkilrs slowed by the pile-up of their comrades’ bodies found themselves wading through a storm of shafts that cut them down.
Yet all too soon, Skathi reached for an arrow and found her quiver all but empty. Only two shafts remained—her last red-fletched Agrotorae arrow, and the bright-feathered iron arrow they’d found in the Deid Hefjakumbl. Her lucky arrows.
Aravon glanced at Noll. He, too, was nearly out. They’d have no time to reload their quivers—already, the first of the Eirdkilr arrows had begun to fall around them as the rearmost giants unlimbered their heavy longbows.
Belthar stood just beside Skathi, a wooden shield in one hand and his axe—blood dripping from its two massive heads—in the other. His shield, ripped from a dead Eirdkilr’s hand, was feathered with arrows. Two more had punched through the meat of his massive biceps, slowing his movements.
Keeper take this! Aravon’s gut clenched as Noll loosed his last arrow, bringing down one more Eirdkilr, and still more came on. Fewer than half, but still more than enough to kill them all if Zaharis didn’t—
BOOM!
The explosion nearly deafened Aravon. Brilliant light burst up from the stone bridge, searing into his brain. A blaze of heat washed over him and a concussive blast knocked him from his feet. Hurled him backward to land hard in the mud.
Ears ringing, sparks whirling in his vision, Aravon groaned—a sound so faint he couldn’t be certain he actually gave voice to his pain—and lifted his head. The sudden burst of light had blinded his night vision. He could see nothing but the smoke rising from the bridge.
From where the bridge had once stood. The southern half of the bridge had simply ceased to be, nothing but empty air spanning the gap between the riverbank and the column that supported the middle of the arch. The Eirdkilrs that had stood on that section of bridge had disappeared as well, dragged to a freezing, watery grave in the fast-flowing river below.
Aravon staggered to his feet. Something slammed into his left shoulder, spinning him around. Pain flared through the wounded joint, another line of fire joining the first. An Eirdkilr arrow pierced the weakened leather of his pauldron. The armor had stopped it from punching to bone, but the pain was as bad.
Another arrow splashed into the mud beside his leg, and another thumped into something hard and wooden on his left. Rolling over, he found Colborn’s shield, knocked from his hand by the explosion. Scooping it up, he struggled to his feet, blinking to clear the bright spots from his eyes.
Instinct shrieked at him to flee south, to run until he was out of arrow’s range. But he couldn’t, not without his comrades.
Yet, as arrows whistled around him, logic reasserted itself. The Eirdkilrs had to be as night-blind as him. They were loosing blindly into the darkness, hoping to hit their enemies.
Aravon nearly stumbled over a prone figure. Catching himself, he knelt, found Colborn lying on his side in the mud. Raising the shield to protect the Lieutenant, Aravon reached down and gripped the man’s shoulder. “You good?” he shouted through the ringing in his ears.
“Urrgghh.” The weak groan was all Colborn could manage, along with a weak nod. He clasped Aravon’s hand and rose, ducking behind the shield as the arrows continued to fall around the
m.
“Get the others and get to the horses!” Aravon shouted. “I’m going for Zaharis!” He hadn’t seen the Secret Keeper—hadn’t seen much of anything beyond stars and dark spots since the explosion. He had to make certain Zaharis escaped the arrow storm.
He paused only long enough to scoop up an Eirdkilr shield, grunting at its weight, and leaned his shoulder into it as he raced toward the bridge. Down the riverbank he slipped and scrambled, his light-seared eyes searching the darkness for any sign of Zaharis, or the faint gleam of his alchemical lanterns.
A dark shape lay face-down, motionless, on the steep incline. Horror thrummed within Aravon. Wisps of steam rose from Zaharis’ back, and where his cloak and the backplate of his leather armor had been, only raw, singed flesh showed. Blisters had already formed on his back.
Aravon bit back a cry—he couldn’t risk drawing the Eirdkilrs’ attention—as he fell to one knee beside Zaharis. Passing his spear to his shield hand, he slid an arm under the Secret Keeper and hauled him up. Zaharis made no sound, but lay limp in Aravon’s grasp.
No! Fear twisted in Aravon’s gut. Zaharis had been too near the explosion—if it had knocked Aravon and the others backward, how much damage had it done to the Secret Keeper from up close? He had no time to find out, not until he got out of arrow range.
Grunting, he struggled to hoist the Secret Keeper onto his shoulder. Though not a tall man, Zaharis’ solid musculature made him a far heavier burden than Aravon expected. Added to the weight of the Eirdkilr shield and his spear, and the Secret Keeper proved almost more than he could carry.
Almost. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, legs, face, and shoulder, Aravon leaned into the climb and stumbled back up the incline. Arrows whistled around him, thumping into his shield, one slicing along the side of his trousers. He bit back a grunt of pain and forced himself to move. One exhausted, overburdened step after another. Forward, always forward, through the storm of arrows whistling toward him, out of range of the powerful Eirdkilr crossbows.
Courage to Sacrifice Page 58
