Horror twisted in his gut. If a thousand warriors hadn’t been able to kill the thing, what could he possibly do?
No! He clenched his jaw, balled his hands into fists. Tiny movements, too small for the towering giant to notice, and even they sent waves of pain through his aching face and up his forearms. Yet they hardened his determination, turned his resolve to steel. I won’t accept that! There has to be a way to kill him!
The legend said Gunnarsdottir had dropped a mountain atop him. The nearest mountain was hundreds of miles away, but they stood at the base of a massive pit mine. We’ve got to bring the cliffs down on top of him, crush him in the rubble!
Hope flickered to life in his chest, faint, barely a thread in the enveloping darkness. Yet hope, nonetheless.
Aravon lifted his head, forced his eyes to focus on the cliff in the distance. Sheer vertical walls of stone, rising hundreds of feet to the level of the tundra, enough to bury the monstrous Farbjodr—at least long enough for Aravon and his comrades to find another way to deal with him.
His hope died a moment later. They had nothing to bring down the cliffs. Zaharis had used up the last of his alchemical marvels in the attack on Praellboer and collapsing the stone bridge behind them. All he had left was his last Earthshaker, intended to shatter the pillars and prevent Tyr Farbjodr from using his blood magic.
Aravon’s gaze went to the Secret Keeper. Zaharis lay on his side, blood soaking the mud around him. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as groaned.
Tears rose to Aravon’s eyes, turning his friend’s body into a hazy blur of sorrow. Yet he fought back the anguish and grief that washed over him. He couldn’t let Zaharis’ sacrifice be in vain. The Secret Keeper would complete his mission, even from the arms of the Long Keeper. Aravon would make certain of that. Somehow, he’d find a way to lure Tyr Farbjodr close enough to the cliffs and, like Gunnarsdottir of old, would bring the stone crashing down atop the bastard’s head. Even if it claimed his life in the process, he’d make damned sure the monstrous Eirdkilr didn’t get back up!
All this flashed through his mind in the space of three heartbeats. Yet he’d barely begun moving his fingers to sign instructions to Colborn when Tyr Farbjodr moved. The giant dropped to one knee in front of the slot in the heart of the stone circle and, with triumph shining on his bloodstained face, inserted his strange dagger into the aperture.
A loud thunk echoed through the stone beneath Aravon. The power that had hummed quietly within rose to a murmur, throbbing louder and louder, reverberating to the marrow of Aravon’s bones. His eyes widened as the blood running through the grooves etched into the stone circle seemed to disappear. Soaked into the stone, consumed by a thirst as inhuman as the giant Eirdkilr kneeling at his side.
The thrum of the stone rose to an ear-splitting droning and the world trembled under Aravon. He tried to rise, to leap to his feet, but the stone bucked and writhed with such force it sent him sprawling on his face again.
Brilliant light bathed the air within the circle of monoliths. The pillars, once a black darker than night, now shone with a sickening crimson glow so bright Aravon had to shield his eyes. And still that strange humming reverberated around him, setting the ground quaking.
Fiery hell! The Eirdkilr had activated his foul magic. With that ancient dagger—its gemstone now shining a crimson as bloody and dark as the red-tinted heavens high above—and the blood of Eirdkilrs, Fehlans, and Princelanders alike, Tyr Farbjodr would have his power.
Aravon moved then. He could afford delay no longer. He threw himself to his feet, tore the dagger from his belt, and leapt toward the kneeling Tyr Farbjodr. Blade outthrust, a left-handed strike aimed straight for the giant’s throat. A vicious slash to open his jugular vein, two quick slashes to sever the tendons in his arms, render them useless. Anything to put the Eirdkilr down before the magic made him too strong to—
The giant’s hand snapped out, impossibly fast for his massive size, snatched Aravon’s wrist. Stopped the strike cold three inches from his throat.
Vicious glee shone in Tyr Farbjodr’s midnight black eyes. “Well done, half-man!” His voice took on a low, guttural growl, growing more inhuman and bestial as the words rumbled from his chest with a resonance impossible for any human. “You will make a fine feast when this is—GRAAGHH!”
The giant stumbled forward, falling to one knee, as two arrows sprouted from his back. Behind the giant, thirty yards away, Skathi raced toward them, her arms pumping as she drew, nocked, and loosed her missiles with blurring speed.
Three more arrows slammed into Tyr Farbjodr’s back. One struck his spine and he sagged to one knee, wobbling. Yet his grip on Aravon’s wrist never slackened.
He opened his mouth and shouted a single word. A word in no language Aravon had heard, yet one that rang with power, terrible to hear. The humming of the black stones rose to a deafening crescendo and a wave of invisible power blasted outward from the monoliths. Smashed into the charging Skathi and hurled her backward with the force of a giant’s fist. Caught the dazed, rising Belthar full in the face and slammed him into one of the twin pillars forming the archway. The big Grim Reaver struck stone with bone-jarring force and collapsed, stunned.
But the archway itself held Aravon’s attention rapt. No longer were the pillars black, but shining with the same threads of red light as the monoliths, a sickly color so at odds the brilliant azure of Rangvaldr’s holy stones. The air between the stone circle and the archway seemed to suck in the red light shining down from the angry crimson-stained heavens. Reality twisted, buckled, shimmered like smoke rising from an arid landscape.
Pain exploded in Aravon’s left wrist and he screamed. Tyr Farbjodr’s crushing grip pulverized the bone, and Aravon’s dagger fell from nerveless fingers, clattering onto the now-blue-glowing stone circle between the monoliths. The Eirdkilr struck so fast Aravon never saw the blows coming. Blinding pain exploded in his face, his chest, his side, his legs. When the agony receded and his vision cleared, he lay on his back, discarded like a broken doll.
Tyr Farbjodr stood alone in the circle of brilliantly gleaming stone. Four pillars of blinding crimson shone around him, the ground under his massive feet shining the same dark red. Words poured from his mouth, words of power spoken in a horrible language far more bestial and guttural than anything Aravon could imagine. His mind recoiled from those sounds, like a whipped hound fleeing from a ravenous bloodbear.
The air between the pillars coalesced, the red light of the heavens solidifying, growing thick, viscous. Reality itself appeared to bend and twist, pulling light from the stones to form a blinding line of white within the archway. The line writhed, contorted, then tore apart, forming a gaping hole.
Aravon’s jaw dropped. Beyond the opening, a land of unbroken white stretched to the horizon. A world of snow and blizzards that sent glassy shards of ice whipping through the opening with the force of a hurricane. A chill washed over him, impossibly cold, so biting and piercing it threatened to freeze his very marrow, slice the flesh from his bones.
A blinding flash of light, and a creature of nightmare appeared through the opening in reality. Twice his height, with arms impossibly heavy with muscle hanging to its knees. Skin that seemed made of living stone stretched across its enormous, powerful body, and its spike-studded back thrust out into a serpentine tail that gave a terrible rattle as it whipped about the creature’s head. Razor-sharp claws studded its too-many-jointed fingers. In place of feet, it stood on pawed hind legs thicker than Aravon’s chest.
The monstrosity’s eyes, darker than night, locked on Tyr Farbjodr, and its lips curled into a rictus grin, revealing hundreds of razor-sharp teeth. A forked tongue flicked between its fangs, and words in that horrible, guttural language rumbled on the wind.
“Come, my brothers!” Tyr Farbjodr roared into the icy wind. “Come, Abiarazi, to the world we will make our own!”
The creature stepped forward, reaching a hand, then an arm, through the opening in reality. Fear, ra
w and primal, held Aravon frozen as he watched the enormous beast clawing its way into their world. Into their world!
This had been the Eirdkilr’s plan all along.
Yet, despite the panic digging icy claws into his mind, Aravon forced himself to stand. Though pain flared through every muscle, bone, and joint, though exhaustion threatened to bring him down, he stood. Rose to his feet, one agonizing movement at a time. First to one knee, then to one foot, his legs trembling and his knees buckling. Gritting his teeth, he leaned on the humming, glowing monolith behind him, ignored the torment crackling through his skin as he touched the strange crimson power. Up, with every shred of strength, until he stood.
He couldn’t let Tyr Farbjodr win. Not after he had come so far, given up so much. Lost so many friends, companions, and loved ones. Sacrificed his family, his wife and sons, all for the sake of completing the mission. He’d crossed the entire continent of Fehl, the Sawtooth Mountains, the icy Wastelands to reach this point.
I can’t fail now!
His sword and spear lay too far out of reach, so he scooped up his dagger. Though it nearly toppled him, he bent low, closed the fingers of his right hand around the hilt of his belt knife, and lifted it. The weight was immense, the simple act of gripping it sending shivers of pain along his arms. But he refused to release it. Refused to consider the impossibility of his actions as he lurched toward Tyr Farbjodr and raised his dagger to strike.
Tyr Farbjodr roared as Aravon drove the knife into his upper back, between his vertebrae. The dagger severed the spinal nerves and the Eirdkilr commander flopped on limp legs. Aravon collapsed atop the giant , tore his knife free, and struck. Again and again and again, driving the tip of the blade as deep as he could, punching it through the Eirdkilr’s armor, furs, and flesh. Seeking organs, blood vessels, the spinal column, anything he could hit to slow the bastard down.
An answering roar echoed from the creature pushing its way into their world. Aravon drove his dagger into the base of Tyr Farbjodr’s spine, up into the Eirdkilr’s brain. Risked a glance upward and found the massive monster recoiling. Skathi stood, bloodied and bruised, yet her arms moved in a steady rhythm. Nocking, drawing, and loosing her arrows in a blinding blur. One missile burrowed into the creature’s eye, eliciting another howl. Skathi buried another arrow into its open mouth, and a third followed it before the monster’s jaws snapped shut.
“No!” The scream burst from Tyr Farbjodr’s mouth, garbled and guttural, wet with blood. The Eirdkilr exploded into motion beneath Aravon. Lurched upright, throwing Aravon off his back. The movement tore the dagger from Aravon’s hand and sent him staggering backward. He tensed in expectation of an assault—the final blow that would kill him—but no attack came.
Tyr Farbjodr hurled himself toward the archways, a blur of motion far too fast for any human. Yet even his speed failed him.
Time slowed to a crawl as Aravon’s eyes fell on the figure curled up next to one of the two pillars supporting the archway and the opening into the world of ice. Blood stained the front of Zaharis’ robes and trickled from beneath his mask, yet a grim light of defiant triumph shone in his eyes as he held up the cord he’d ripped free of the Earthshaker.
“…three,” the Secret Keeper managed to sign.
BOOM!
Chapter Seventy
The world exploded in a flash of light and deafening sound, and a cloud of fire, dust, and stone billowed outward from where Zaharis lay beside the pillar.
The Earthshaker’s concussive blast caught Tyr Farbjodr full in the face, hurled him backward like a leaf caught up in a hurricane. Even Aravon staggered as an invisible shock wave collided with him. Ears ringing, world spinning violently around him, he stumbled and barely managed to catch himself on the gleaming monolith.
A horrible, shrieking wail rent the morning. Tyr Farbjodr staggered upright, clutching at his face, a keening cry bursting from his throat. A cry of sorrow, rage, pain, and frustration.
“Nooooo!” The guttural scream echoed off the walls of the pit mine, rising in crescendo as the Eirdkilr howled his fury into the red sky.
Through the cloud of dust, Aravon caught sight of the archway. One of the two pillars had been blown to shards by Zaharis’ Earthshaker, the other reduced to a crumbling mass of collapsing stone. Where there had once been a gaping hole into the world of ice, only buckling, twisting, writhing light remained. Half of the monster—the half that had clawed through the opening—lay in pieces. Black blood stained its severed arm, shoulder, and the bits of skull that survived the explosion. The rest had been blown to pieces or shattered like stone.
The humming, too, faded. The deafening rumble of the glowing monoliths quietened so suddenly Aravon feared the explosion had shattered his ears. Colborn lay in the heart of the circle, and in his upraised left hand, he held the strange glowing dagger pulled free of the black stone. The light gleaming within the depths of the monoliths had begun to fade, their usual midnight hue returning.
Guttural, growling snarls echoed from where Tyr Farbjodr had fallen. The giant leapt to his feet with a wordless scream of rage and hatred. When the Eirdkilr whirled toward them, acid rose to Aravon’s throat.
Keeper’s teeth!
The Eirdkilr’s nose, mouth, cheeks, and right eye had been ripped to shreds, his beard burned away by the explosive blast. Chunks of metal studded his mangled skull and the chunks of muscle that had once been his face, pierced his throat, arms, and hands. His leather armor hung in tattered shreds, more bits of darkly gleaming metal visible embedded deep in his shoulders, and chest.
Yet in that instant, horror gave way to hope. Tyr Farbjodr had healed from terrible wounds to his chest, his throat, even the dagger strike to the brain. His flesh re-knit almost as fast as Aravon’s Odarian steel weapons could cut it.
But now, his flesh refused to heal. Indeed, it seemed to be rotting away. Threads of black slithering through his veins, turning his blood viscous, and pain shone bright in his one good eye. His movements were slow, uncoordinated, and he actually wavered on his feet, his legs trembling.
Aravon sucked in a breath. Fiery hell, it’s the metal!
Zaharis’ Earthshaker was made of iron. Iron, the Swordsman’s metal, revered by the Adepts as a metal of purity.
Can it be?
An eternity passed in the space between heartbeats. Aravon’s eyes locked on the Eirdkilr’s mangled face. Watched for even the slightest hint of healing, of the flesh re-knitting as it had so many times before.
Nothing.
Blessed Swordsman!
“Iron!” Aravon screamed. “Iron will slow him down!” Perhaps, though he dared not give voice to the hope for fear it would prove false, perhaps even kill the Eirdkilr.
Growling through mangled lips and shattered teeth, Tyr Farbjodr dove for his huge axe, scooped it up, and charged. So fast Aravon had only time to throw himself to the side before the massive weapon crashed down onto the stone where he’d been standing. Molten fire blazed along his back and he screamed as his shattered left hand struck the ground.
He came up in a roll, whirled to face the giant. Just in time to leap out of the path of the whirling axe. Too slow. His breastplate, weakened by the gulon saliva, cracked and the heavy axe head carved a deep gouge from his chest. The impact hurled him back and to the side. He flew from the stone circle, landing in the clinging, bloodstained mud. Again, his left hand struck the ground, sending blinding agony up his forearm.
Aravon’s breath came in harsh, ragged gasps. He didn’t need to look down to know Tyr Farbjodr’s axe had torn a gaping hole in his chest. Shattered ribs, punctured a lung, perhaps even driven a shard of bone into his heart. He could feel the blood pumping through the wound. Warm and wet, it slithered down his stomach, his chest, mingling in the muck.
But he wasn’t dead yet. He could still stand, could still fight. Until his heart’s last beat, he would fight. All that mattered now was putting Tyr Farbjodr into the ground first.
He dug his right
hand into the mud to push himself upward. Felt something solid and thick against his fingers. Turning his head, he found his spear where Tyr Farbjodr had thrown it.
Hope surged within him. Summoning the last of his strength, he rolled onto his side, struggled up to his feet. He clamped the fingers of his left hand closed around the metal band near the butt-end of his spear. Blinding agony raced through the shattered bone, and a scream burst from his lips. Yet he refused to relinquish his grip.
His eyes locked on the figures battling in the stone circle. Belthar, his hands grasping Tyr Farbjodr’s upraised arms, his huge muscles corded. Colborn, clutching his shattered right arm to his chest, the strange magical dagger held in his left as he threw his shoulder into the giant. The impact sent the three of them toppling backward into the muck.
Wounds or no, Tyr Farbjodr proved the fastest of the three. He rolled with the fall, hurled Belthar off him, and tore the dagger from Colborn’s hand. A vicious light shone in his one good eye as he raised the blade high above the prone Grim Reaver.
Aravon moved. His feet dug into the mud, his legs propelling him toward Tyr Farbjodr with all the speed he could muster.
Too slow, he knew. Time slowed to a crawl as the dagger descended toward Colborn’s chest. Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat and a cry burst from his lips. Yet it would do no good. He couldn’t hope to reach Colborn in time to—
A colorful shape whizzed through the air, a blur of motion too fast for his eyes to follow. Tyr Farbjodr’s right hand flew to one side as if yanked by an invisible string. Brightly-colored fletching secured to a wooden shaft protruded from his forearm. The muscles, severed by the broad-head arrow, quivered and released the grip on his dagger.
Before the Eirdkilr giant could move, another arrow hissed toward him. Slammed into his huge neck. Tyr Farbjodr’s head snapped back as the missile punched deep into his throat. No ordinary arrow, this, but a hunting arrow, given to Skathi by Colborn the night they spent in the Deid Hefjakumbl.
Courage to Sacrifice Page 63
