“Aye.” Colborn gave a slow nod, his heavy Fehlan features pensive, yet somehow lighter than they’d been earlier. “And for that, I’ll always be thankful.” He let out a long breath. “As for the matter of Saerheim, I can’t say it’ll be easy, but I can promise that if it gets to be too much, I’ll let you know.”
“Best I could ask for.” Aravon nodded and removed his hand from the Lieutenant’s shoulder. “You need anything, you find Rangvaldr or me. Even if it’s just a listening ear or a sparring partner.” He chuckled. “On second thought, maybe not that last one. Swordsman knows I’ve taken enough beatings for one week.”
Colborn grinned. “Damn, and here I was just about to take you up on that offer.”
“Try Zaharis. He might be up for punching something.”
“Yeah, no.” Colborn shook his head. “I’ll settle for a cold dinner and a few hours of sleep in a stinking grave.”
Aravon chuckled. “Fair enough.”
With a nod, Colborn strode up the tunnel and back into the cavern, his step noticeably lighter, the tension gone from his shoulders.
Aravon’s smile faded as he turned back to the Duke’s corpse. He knelt beside the cloak-wrapped bundle and rested a hand on the unmoving chest. Tears welled in Aravon’s eyes, and he let them flow. He needed a moment of silence, of unspoken grief for the man he’d loved.
I’ll keep trying, Your Grace, he vowed silently. To keep doing what you asked, to live up to your expectations.
He’d push on until he reached Saerheim and questioned Lord Virinus and the mercenaries. He would make certain the Duke’s promise to heal Eirik Throrsson’s daughter and deliver the Wraithfever cure was fulfilled. And, if the Swordsman was merciful, he’d be present when the Duke’s body was finally laid to rest in Icespire Memorial Gardens.
Yet if not, if his mission kept him away from not only his family but the entombment of the Duke, he would honor the Duke’s life by doing as he’d requested. He would see the Duke’s dream of ending the Eirdkilr War come to reality. Somehow, impossibly, he’d make it happen. Even if it cost him every drop of blood and consumed every shred of strength.
Duke Dyrund’s words flashed through Aravon’s mind. “Let him think, let him feel,” the Duke had said when Colborn was wrestling with his own emotional turmoil. “But not too long, and not alone.”
With a sad smile, Aravon opened his eyes and climbed to his feet. You always knew best, Your Grace. He wouldn’t avoid the pain of sorrow and grief, but he wouldn’t wallow in it, either. His men needed him, and the mission demanded his focus. He would have time to mourn properly once they were safe and their task had been completed.
Turning, Aravon strode deeper into the Hefjakumbl, to where his soldiers had prepared to sleep among the dead.
Chapter Four
“You might need a few of these.”
Aravon looked up from his meager breakfast—little more than trail biscuits with the last of the Fjall-made dried beef—to see Colborn standing over Skathi. The Lieutenant held out a half-full quiver of arrows fletched with what appeared to be hawk feathers.
Skathi plucked a shaft and studied it, raising an eyebrow at the dark, near-black metal of the broad-headed arrows. “Iron?”
Colborn shrugged. “You don’t need much more for hunting. Besides, Princelander steel’s expensive, but there’s plenty of iron ore found in Deid lands.”
Skathi rolled the arrow between her fingers, checking the straightness and rigidity of the shaft.
“They might not have the punch of a steel-tipped Agrotorae arrow,” Colborn said, “but they’ll work in a pinch.”
“As long as they fly true, they’ll be fine.” Skathi nodded her thanks and accepted the quiver. “No such thing as too many arrows, right?”
“Better to run out of enemies first, I always say!” Noll called from where he sat leaning against one of the black stone pillars.
“I’ve never heard you say that,” Belthar rumbled.
Noll’s face creased into a dark scowl. “Well, I’m saying it now, then.”
Aravon chuckled as he shouldered his pack and hurried toward their horses. Zaharis and Rangvaldr were already there, gear saddled and ready to ride. The soft light of Rangvaldr’s pendant filled the tunnel with a gentle blue glow, the light seeming to push back the gloom of death that hung over the tunnel. It seemed to Aravon the smell had faded since the previous night—likely the effect of being immersed in it for hours. The horses shied away from the brilliant stones at first, but ceased their nervous shuffling as their Eirdkilr-inflicted wounds closed. Zaharis busied himself applying a dark brown poultice to their wounds. Anything to speed up the healing process would hasten their travel and shorten the journey to Saerheim.
Aravon couldn’t help smiling. Secret Keeper science and Fehlan magic, come together. In a way, that was the perfect example for their entire company. Each of them was so different from the other—in everything from temperament to upbringing to skill abilities—yet when they worked together, the whole of their team far exceeded the sum of their individual parts. The seven of them had defeated armies in the thousands.
And Duke Dyrund had done that. The Duke had found them in their own corners of Fehl, recruited them, and brought them together. He’d given them a common mission, a goal to unite them as one. And, in doing so, had encouraged a bond that transcended anything as mundane as ancestry, rank, or faith.
Rangvaldr, a Fehlan, fought beside Princelanders. Zaharis, a priest of the Mistress, and Belthar, one of the Duke’s regulars, marched with men who had served in the Legion of Heroes their entire lives. Agrotora and scout, officer and soldier, all of them stood united by a single desire. No matter their disparate origins, there was no mistaking that their futures were tightly intertwined. A company, in deed and spirit, strengthened by bonds that extended far deeper than simple camaraderie.
At that moment, the one thing that drove them was a desire for vengeance. Vengeance against the traitor that had poisoned Duke Dyrund. Aravon saw it written on their unmasked faces, in the fire that burned in their eyes as they glanced at the Duke’s cloak-wrapped corpse. Fifty miles to the north, Lord Virinus and the mercenaries took shelter in Saerheim. Yet the Deid village couldn’t hope to protect the guilty against the storm of fury that Aravon and his companions would unleash.
They rode out less than half an hour later, a silent, grim company with their minds bent to a single purpose. Even hours after they had left the hidden Hefjakumbl far behind, Aravon still felt the cavern clinging to him. No, not the cold that had hung inside the gemstone-lit cave. The air of death that had permeated every stone and bone within.
He rode away from death at Hangman’s Hill, carried death strapped behind his saddle, and traveled toward the death of the traitor that had betrayed and murdered Duke Dyrund. No sacrifice to any bloodthirsty gods, yet no less final a fate for the guilty.
It wasn’t until well after noon that he managed to shake the ominous feeling that had settled into his bones. With the sun high, the air was warm, the forest around them bathed in a golden glow that drove away the shadows beneath the trees and in Aravon’s mind. The anxiety remained—there was a chance the Eirdkilrs had gotten this far north during the hours they’d spent resting—yet a night of rest, fitful as it was, diminished the nervousness. Though he and his companions remained wary, the air of dread that had hung over them the previous day seemed dispelled.
By the time they caught their first glimpse of Cold Lake through the trees, Aravon’s mind had cleared of dreary thoughts enough to appreciate the beauty of that vast expanse of crystal-blue water. Sunlight sparkled on the wind-tossed surface, the ripples glimmering like a million diamonds within the lake’s depth. Even the forest around him seemed to have grown greener, the deep browns, whites, and reds of the trees more vibrant.
But it was the silence he welcomed above all. No Eirdkilr howls echoed across the lake. Clouds of fluffy white dotted the blue sky, undarkened by plumes of dark grey smoke of burn
ing villages. Even the birds and forest dwelling animals seemed to move with their usual serenity. Deer glanced up at Aravon and his companions as they rode down the hunting trail, yet made no attempt to bound away. Rabbits and plump pheasants waddled across the narrow path with no apparent hurry. Even the geese swimming on the lake seemed not to mind when Snarl swooped down to chase them.
At such odds with the previous day, the lands of the Deid seemed not to be holding their breaths, but to be at peace. A sense of calm settled over Aravon as he rode. For a few hours, he could almost forget the Duke’s body strapped behind his saddle, stop hunting in the forest for any sight of the Eirdkilrs, and simply…be.
The southern walls of Saerheim appeared on Cold Lake’s north shore a few hours after noon. The village appeared peaceful from this distance, the slopes of the grassy hill bordering the settlement dotted by moving men, women, and grazing cattle. Even as the sun dropped toward the western horizon and splashed the surface of the lake with a vivid spray of oranges, reds, golds, and pinks, Aravon felt only a hint of the urgency that had driven them the previous day.
An hour before sunset, the path they traveled turned east, out of sight of Cold Lake. By the time darkness settled like a blanket over the land, turning the sky a deep blue-black and lengthening the shadows cast by the dense pines, oaks, and birch trees that hugged both sides of the hunting trail, Aravon’s anxiety returned.
They were a few hours away from Saerheim, yet something about the night felt…wrong.
A loud bark from Snarl, circling high overhead, set Aravon on full alert. He reined his horse in sharply and raised a clenched fist, but the others had heard the warning and drew up as well. In the second it took Aravon to draw his spear, Noll and Skathi nocked arrows, Belthar raised his axe, and Colborn and Rangvaldr unslung shields. Zaharis’ mace gleamed in the fading twilight.
Aravon’s eyes narrowed as he listened, his ears straining to hear anything that could alert them to the presence of enemies. Yet, as long seconds passed and he heard nothing but the pounding of his heart, the anxiety grew within him. Snarl wouldn’t raise false alarm, so what had the Enfield’s warning meant?
Then he heard it. Faint, distant, yet unmistakable: the piercing howls and bestial war cries of the Eirdkilrs.
Aravon sucked in a breath. It came from the northwest! He glanced in the direction; nothing but dense, dark forest met his eyes. Yet, there was no doubt in his mind. He had heard those shrieking screams, accompanied by the clash of steel.
“This way!” Colborn turned his horse’s head into the woods and clapped his heels to its ribs. The Kostarasar charger leapt off the hunting path and crashed through the underbrush.
Aravon took off after Colborn, with the rest of their small company racing in pursuit. Hard to the west they rode, pushing through dense bushes, ducking under low-hanging branches heavy with dark leaves, and crushing dried leaves and fallen pine needles in their haste.
Dread settled in Aravon’s gut, and his shoulders tightened with every step. There’s only once place nearby the Eirdkilrs could be attacking. The sense of foreboding grew as their horses raced toward a clearing in the trees.
Then, through the forest, he caught a glimpse of light—the brilliant, flickering glow of a fire. Yet not some pitiful campfire or a torch shining in the distance. It was a towering inferno, a pillar of red, orange, and golden flames so bright they lit up the night for miles.
The reek of smoke stung Aravon’s nostrils even from this distance. Howling, keening war cries echoed in time with the crackling of the fire.
A fire that consumed every corner of the village of Saerheim.
Chapter Five
Aravon sucked in a breath and reined in his horse. Keeper’s teeth!
The wooden palisade walls of Saerheim remained untouched by flames, but fire blazed in every longhouse and wooden building within the village. In the flickering light, hundreds of towering Eirdkilrs were visible moving through the Deid town, tearing down buildings or setting burning brands to the thatched roofs of the huts not yet ablaze.
From their vantage directly west of Saerheim, Aravon had a clear view of the entire town. The southern gates hung askew, one fully torn off its hinges, the other twisted beneath the Eirdkilr assault. The gates in the northeastern corner of Saerheim stood open, but a burning wagon had been dragged in front of the opening—doubtless to buy time for the people to escape.
No, Aravon realized, not people. Legionnaires.
Even from two miles away, there was no mistaking the rectangular shields and the heavy armor worn by the corpses that lay scattered before the southern gate. Legionnaires had made a stand there, fighting to hold the gates of Saerheim against an enemy that far outnumbered them. Aravon counted fewer than a hundred—less than a Company at full strength—with at least a thousand Eirdkilrs he could see, perhaps more around Cold Lake or pursuing the Deid fleeing Saerheim.
A gasp from Colborn brought Aravon spinning around. The Lieutenant had stiffened, his spine rigid, his wide eyes fixed on the burning town. That look, utter horror mingled with stunned disbelief, from a man like the Lieutenant was terrible to behold. Colborn wasn’t just watching any Deid town destroyed—this had been a home of sorts for him. The home of his people, his mother’s family.
And the Eirdkilrs had burned it to the ground.
Aravon couldn’t tell if any of the Deid in Saerheim had survived; no way to know, not from this distance. There were no screams of people burned alive or being tortured to death, but with those flames, anyone caught in the longhouses or huts would have died long ago.
Yet, Aravon’s eyes were once again drawn to the burning wagon dragged in front of the northeastern gate. Legionnaire corpses were visible around the wagon, yet only a few. Too few to be the rest of the Legion Company.
A hint of hope blossomed within Aravon. Could they still be alive?
The Legion’s presence in Saerheim was surprising—what business do they have in one small Deid town?—yet despite his sorrow at seeing his fellow Legionnaires slain, the sight of those bodies pushed back his despair.
If the Legion had held Saerheim, there was a chance that some of the Deid and Princelanders here had survived.
No Legion Captain worth his post would fight to the last man, not if they had a chance to escape and save their Fehlan allies—innocent men, women, children, and the elderly—in the process. Those Legionnaires slain at the southern gate would have fallen to defend the town, but not in vain.
Admiration pierced Aravon’s sorrow. They died to buy time for their comrades to flee. Brave soldiers, sacrificing their lives so the villagers and the rest of their Company could escape.
And with them, perhaps Lord Virinus and the mercenaries!
It was a faint hope—little more than a desperate rationalization of something that should have been impossible—but it was better than imagining the Duke’s attempt to send Branda to safety had failed. That would be too much for Aravon to bear. He had to believe that the Duke had succeeded, that Lord Virinus had reached the shelter of Saerheim with the Hilmir’s daughter. By the Swordsman’s grace, before she succumbed to the Wraithfever.
If Lord Virinus reached Saerheim, no way he’d stick around once the battle started. Despite the sword he’d worn at his belt, the Icespire nobleman hadn’t had a warrior’s spirit about him—more a politician or pampered fop. Which means there’s a chance he got out of there in time to get Branda to safety.
His mind raced, and he tried to recall the Duke’s canvas map of the Fehlan-held territory south of the Chain. Saerheim was located near the heart of Deid lands, roughly eighty miles east of the Westmarch. If Legionnaires had been present in the town when the Eirdkilrs attacked, they’d be headed toward the nearest stronghold, Sentry Garrison. Lord Virinus would certainly accompany them—better to shelter behind Legion shields than risk the Deid forests on his own.
“Colborn.” Aravon whirled toward the Lieutenant. “I need you to get us toward the road that connects Saer
heim to the Westmarch.”
“You think anyone survived that, Captain?” Noll asked.
Aravon quickly explained his reasoning—the number of Legion bodies, the burning cart blocking the northeastern gate, the belief that Lord Virinus would flee with any survivors. Yet he spoke without taking his eyes off Colborn. The half-Fehlan Lieutenant seemed unable to tear his gaze away from the burning town. The same town where he’d once been shunned by his mother’s family.
He could only imagine Colborn’s pain. To hate something so passionately he’d sworn never to return, only to see it destroyed beneath the Eirdkilrs’ savagery, and to know he’d never be able to return now even if he wanted to.
A part of Aravon wanted to bark an order, to snap Colborn out of his stupor and give him a task that would take his mind off the torrent of emotions roiling through him. Yet the truth of what had just happened could shatter even the most resilient spirit. Colborn was strong, but this pain would be as long-lasting as Aravon’s grief over Duke Dyrund’s death. Only Colborn wouldn’t have a chance to heal. That scar, a deep, painful wound on his mind left by the rejection of his people, would never truly mend. There could be no closure for him.
“Worth a try,” Noll’s response brought Aravon back to the moment. “Want we should swing west and backtrack, or cut straight to where we hope they’ll be?”
Aravon thought for a moment. He couldn’t be certain how much ground the fleeing Deid and Legionnaires had covered simply because he had no idea how long ago they’d escaped. Or how many Eirdkilrs had chosen to give chase rather than revel in the destruction of Saerheim. Yet, if he wanted to have any chance of finding them alive, their best option was the most direct route.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 4
