“Captain Snarl,” Aravon replied, drawing out the Prince’s insignia. “And that’s all you need to know about us.”
The Corporal’s gaze flashed to the silver pendant, which bore the sword-and-torch-wielding griffin of Prince Toran of Icespire. His lips pursed, as if torn between deep thought and a burning desire to hurl a curse at him. He managed to restrain himself long enough to say, “Heard of you, so I have. Special company and all. Grim Reavers, they call you.”
“The name’s as good as any.” Aravon shrugged.
Behind Corporal Rold, the smaller Legionnaire groaned and struggled to rise.
“On your feet, Meat!” Rold snapped at the man. “Just because you’ve played hero for fifteen minutes, that doesn’t mean you get a break. We’ve still got to hoof it hard to join the rest of Ninth Company.”
Aravon cocked his head. “How many survivors?”
Scathan’s expression grew grim. “Too few.”
“Twenty-two Legionnaires, including our Captain.” Rold’s eyes darkened. “The rest fell at Saerheim, buying us time to get a hundred or so women, children, and elders out alive.”
Colborn sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes wide behind his mask. A hint of something akin to hope pierced the darkness that had descended over him the moment he saw Saerheim ablaze.
“And Lord Virinus,” Scathan put in. “Along with Barcus, Torin, and Urniss. The others…” He shook his head. “Between the Eirdkilrs and the Wraithfever, they never made it to safety.”
Aravon’s gut clenched. Five out of the nine mercenaries had died and Lord Virinus. What were the odds that the traitor had survived?
“Meat here managed to actually be useful.” Corporal Rold jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the one he’d called Duvain. “Lured the Eirdkilrs into a nest of Woodcutters and pissed the serpents off something good.” He grinned. “Beautiful chorus, that was, hearing the bastards scream.”
Duvain ducked his head, as if embarrassed by the infinitesimal dose of praise.
“It was our job to lure the bastards away from the road,” Corporal Rold continued, “get them off the trail of the Deid women and children.” He shook his head, his expression grim. “Best we can hope is that we bought the Captain and the rest time to retreat.”
“And where are you to rendezvous with your company?” Aravon asked.
“Dunno.” The Corporal shrugged. “Scathan here was just taking us on a little stroll through the forest on our way to meet up with them. Expects we’ll catch up around midday, yeah?”
Scathan nodded. “We were to lead the Eirdkilrs far to the east, then head north and hopefully catch up before the road leads them too far out of the way.”
Aravon glanced back at the Corporal. “Your Company’s making for Sentry Garrison?”
“Aye, sir.” Rold nodded.
“Good.” Aravon turned to his four companions. “Then we’ll meet them on the way.”
At that moment, Noll and Rangvaldr rode into view.
Corporal Rold’s hand tightened—on empty air, as Belthar had taken his sword—as he spotted the two newcomers. “A whole army of you lot out here, eh? A few more swords could have come in handy back at Saerheim.”
Aravon grimaced. He recognized the blaze in the man’s eyes—anger, pain, and grief over the loss of his companions. He’d seen the same anger in Noll’s eyes after the Sixth Company massacre. Soldiers tended to lash out as a means of coping with their grief and sorrow.
“Get us to your Captain,” Aravon said, “and we’ll see what we can do about getting the rest of you back home safely.” It was all he could do now. They had arrived too late to save Saerheim, but he’d do everything in his power to help the surviving Legionnaires and Deid.
“Any chance we can get a ride on one of those bloody big horses?” Corporal Rold asked. “I’d never be caught dead in a cavalryman’s dress boots, but I wouldn’t say no to a few hours off my feet.”
Aravon shot a questioning glance at his companions. Corporal Rold and Scathan were heavy men, and their weight would slow down the horses. Yet, if there truly were Eirdkilrs behind them, they’d cover more ground at a slow ride than a fast walk. And one look at Duvain told Aravon the Legionnaire was a few steps away from collapse.
He nodded. “We’ll trade off running, give you a chance to ride.”
Corporal Rold’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re serious?”
Aravon shrugged. “If the fighting at Saerheim was half as vicious as it appeared, you’ve put in a hard day already, Soldier.”
Rold’s surprise turned to appreciation. Straightening, he gave Aravon a crisp Legion salute. “Swordsman bless you, sir.” His martial posture collapsed and he staggered, visibly exhausted. He’d have fallen if not for Duvain catching him. Clearly the three of them had been running on fear and adrenaline, but that could only sustain them for so long. Now, at the sight of friendly faces, the extent of their fatigue finally settled in on them.
Aravon turned to his companions. “Who’s running with me?” he signed.
Rangvaldr was the first to offer, Zaharis a heartbeat behind.
Scathan’s eyes narrowed as Aravon held out the reins to his horse. “Lord Virinus,” he said in a voice too low for Corporal Rold and Duvain to hear, “you really think it’s him?” Anger sparkled in his dark brown eyes.
“I don’t know.” Aravon shook his head. “But I’m damned well going to find out.”
“I might not be one of your soldiers, Captain Snarl, but every Eastfallian loved the Duke. And he more than earned our respect on this journey.” His brown-bearded face creased into a grimace as he glanced at the cloak-wrapped corpse strapped behind Aravon’s saddle. “If Barcus, Torin, Urniss, or that damned Lord Virinus is responsible…” He shook a clenched fist. “You have my sword at your back.”
Aravon nodded. “Thank you.” He’d gotten a decent sense of the mercenary during their travels, and the man had struck him as competent, reliable, and as trustworthy as a sellsword could be. The idea that he’d been so wrong unsettled him, so he couldn’t help feeling relieved at the thought that Scathan wasn’t the Duke’s murderer.
Yet if Scathan was innocent, who was the guilty party? Was it Lord Virinus, or one of the other Black Xiphos mercenaries? He’d find out, soon enough. One way or another, he would have the identity of the traitor, no matter what he had to do to get it.
Chapter Seven
The sight of the pitiful column on the wagon road threatened to break Aravon’s heart. Close to two hundred Deid villagers rode in creaking wagons, walked beside pack animals burdened to the breaking point, or bent low beneath the weight of their meager belongings. Everything they’d managed to save from the destruction of their town, and it was so little.
Fehlan women clad in ragged, singed, and torn robes clung to children with wide eyes and tear tracks through their soot-stained cheeks. The only men among them had grey hair, limbs gnarled and twisted by age, or backs stooped from hard years of labor. Grandfathers, revered elders, and the infirm, but not a single fighting-aged man among them. Those not marching in Chief Svein Hafgrimsson’s warband had died alongside the Legionnaires defending Saerheim.
But not all the Legionnaires had fallen. The armor-clad corpses strewn among the wreckage of the Fehlan village had numbered fewer than one hundred. Fourteen soldiers carrying Legion-issue shields and swords marched behind the fleeing Deid, a desperate rear guard against the inevitable Eirdkilr pursuit. One, a towering behemoth of a man, had lost his shield and now carried only a hewing spear in one hand, a blanket-wrapped bundle tucked into the crook of his other arm.
Counting the two soldiers they’d found with Scathan in the woods, that left sixteen out of the original one hundred and eleven Legionnaire officers, noncoms, and infantrymen of Ninth Company. The Princelanders had paid a heavy toll to buy the Deid time to flee.
Yet Aravon had eyes only for the slim figure in the center of the column. Lord Virinus still wore his brown bear pelt, albeit far muddier and stai
ned by soot, and that foolishly light Voramian-style fencing blade. Three leather-clad men wearing the black-handled xiphoses of their mercenary company flanked him—Aravon recognized Barcus, Torin, and Urniss from their journey south to Storbjarg.
Anger blazed hot and bright in his chest. It took every shred of self-control not to charge the Icespire nobleman. Lord Virinus was the most likely suspect—he had the coin to afford the poison, not to mention a position of power to capitalize on the Duke’s death. If the nobleman was guilty of murdering Duke Dyrund, Aravon wasn’t certain he could stop himself from executing the treacherous bastard on the spot.
Yet he forced himself to remain in place. He had to know for sure before he acted. He could restrain himself long enough to capture the nobleman and his mercenaries and put them to the question.
With effort, he drew in one slow breath, then a second. It did little to calm the rage filling him. He turned to the six soldiers under his command. “You know what to do,” he signed in the Secret Keeper hand language. “Wait until all eyes are on me, then make your move.”
“Aye, Captain,” Colborn signed back. The other five nodded and pushed their horses deeper into the woods, heading northward parallel to the wagon road.
Aravon shot a glance down at the mercenary standing beside his horse, and Scathan nodded up at him before slipping off into the forest after Colborn and the others. There had been no doubt or hesitation in the man’s eyes—he, too, was invested in finding the traitor that had poisoned the Duke.
Aravon turned to Corporal Rold, who marched alongside his horse. “Lead the way, Corporal.”
The Corporal saluted. “Aye, Captain.” Pushing through the dense dwarf juniper bushes, he strode across the ditch bordering the wagon trail. “Well, if you lot ain’t the sorriest sight I’ve seen since that Lochton bawdy house that nearly collapsed on top of us!”
The fourteen Legionnaires whirled at the sound, shields and swords held at the ready. Even exhausted, their discipline and wariness never wavered.
“Oh take it easy, lads!” Corporal Rold called. “Greeting like that, I’d almost say you hedge-born twats were disappointed to see us back from the dead.”
The Legionnaires relaxed as they recognized Rold and Duvain.
“Aww, bugger it!” grumbled one. “And here was me hoping you’d gone and made some Eirdkilr a fine fishwife.”
“He was saving himself for you, Prayan,” the Corporal snapped back. “One look at Meat here,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Duvain, “and he insisted he’d rather a fat fucker with soft lips and weak knees.”
Duvain paid the Corporal little heed; instead, he was hurrying toward the giant Legionnaire. The huge man’s face broadened into a relieved grin and he rumbled a delighted greeting to Duvain.
Aravon chose that moment to ride out of the woods. He moved slowly, one hand on his reins, the other held out, far enough from his weapons that he posed no visible threat. His appearance still sparked the same wary reaction as Corporal Rold’s; the soldiers closed ranks, presented shields, and gripped their Legion-issue short swords tighter, a wary anxiety burning in their eyes.
“Keeper’s teeth!” Rold snorted and shook his head. “It’s like the lot of you ain’t never seen a horse before.”
“I’m fairly certain they’re more concerned with the rider atop that horse.” A new voice broke into the conversation: a strong voice that rang with a note of command. It belonged to a tall Legionnaire who bore the insignia of a Company Captain. Handsome even beneath the blood and soot staining his face, with the confident posture of a career officer and the upright bearing of mainland nobility, yet with none of the arrogance.
Aravon drew in a sharp breath. Lingram?
Every Princelander had heard the story of Captain Lingram, Hero of Garrow’s Canyon, who had led his company of fewer than a hundred Legionnaires to victory against more than four times that number. That victory had earned him the moniker “Blacksword” and commendations from both Prince Toran and the King of Voramis.
But to Aravon, Lingram wasn’t just a war hero. They had served together during Aravon’s days marching in the shield walls of Garnet Battalion, and had undergone officer training in Icespire together. Lingram’s rise to fame hadn’t prevented him from remaining one of Aravon’s few true friends in the Legion of Heroes.
Aravon’s mind raced. What the bloody hell is he doing here? Perhaps he’d been hand-picked by the Duke to cover his flight from Storbjarg or to ensure smooth delivery of the Wraithfever cure. Whatever the case, his presence complicated things. Aravon couldn’t risk being discovered, and Lingram would surely recognize him if he spoke.
Captain Lingram stared up at him, eyes narrowed, hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. “Who are you, Soldier? And how do you come to be in the company of my men?”
For answer, Aravon slowly reached up and drew out the pendant bearing the Prince’s insignia. Removing it, he tossed it to Lingram, who caught it deftly and studied it for a long moment.
“It’s the bloody Grim Reavers, Captain Lingram!” Rold’s voice held a note of what could be mistaken for admiration had Aravon not spent more than five seconds around the coarse Legionnaire. “They missed the fun, but it seems they had a party of their own down at Hangman’s Hill.”
Captain Lingram’s eyes lifted from the pendant to Aravon’s masked face. “And the masks?”
Aravon shrugged. “Some secrets are best kept just that.” He spoke in the deep, gravelly voice he adopted for the Captain Snarl disguise. Yet he knew that every word out of his mouth posed a risk; even just being around Captain Lingram increased the chances he was discovered.
After a long moment, Captain Lingram nodded and tossed the pendant back to Aravon. “So be it. Welcome to Ninth Company…?”
“Captain Snarl.”
“Captain Snarl.” Lingram’s right eyebrow rose a fraction as he tested the name, but he made no comment. Instead, he turned to his men and said, “At ease, soldiers. They’re friendlies.”
At his command, the Legionnaires lowered their shields and swords, the tension draining from their weary faces.
Colborn chose that moment to strike. Six mounted figures burst from the forest, charging the five paces from the forest, across the ditch, and straight toward Lord Virinus. Colborn, Noll, Skathi, and Zaharis leapt from horseback in flying tackles that brought down the Icespire nobleman and his three mercenary companions. Belthar and Rangvaldr charged toward the gap between the mercenaries and the Legionnaires formed up around Captain Lingram, dismounting in an instant and forming a solid wall of steel and muscle facing the soldiers. Scathan was only a heartbeat behind, albeit slower on foot as he dashed from the forest and threw himself into place on Rangvaldr’s right.
All this happened in the space of two seconds, so quickly Lord Virinus and his mercenaries had no time to react. Captain Lingram was the only Legionnaire to respond; he spun to face the threat, tore his sword free, and lowered his shield. Confusion twisted his handsome, soot-stained face, and he whirled on Aravon.
“What is the meaning of this, Captain Snarl?” he demanded.
“The Prince’s business.” Aravon met the Captain’s eyes, his fake voice calm. “Duke Dyrund is dead.”
“We know.” Captain Lingram thrust his chin at the nobleman pinned beneath Skathi. “Lord Virinus shared the grave news.” Sorrow darkened his face. “Truly a great man, and he will be sorely missed.”
Those words twisted the knife of grief buried deep within the core of Aravon’s being. He struggled to keep the sorrow from his eyes, to maintain a voice of calm dispassion as he spoke. “The Duke was poisoned.”
He let the words hang in the air as he dismounted and strode empty-handed to where Lord Virinus lay, pinioned to the ground by Skathi’s knee, a dagger pressed against the side of his neck.
Belthar, Rangvaldr, and Scathan never took their eyes off the Legionnaires as Aravon passed—they held their weapons at the ready, their stances defensive, ready to prote
ct themselves if Captain Lingram gave the order to attack. But Aravon trusted that Lingram wouldn’t give that order. He was a man of principles, one who trusted in his Commanders and Generals, followed the chain of command. The Prince’s insignia would be all it took to convince him not to move against Aravon and his men. He’d have questions, certainly, but those would wait until after Aravon sorted out his business.
Aravon touched Skathi on the shoulder to get her attention. “Let him up,” he signed.
With a nod, the Agrotora stood, releasing the pressure on Lord Virinus’ back and removing the dagger from his throat.
Before Lord Virinus could move, Aravon seized his wrist, rolled him roughly onto his back, and seized his throat. “One chance,” he growled. “One chance to tell the truth or die where you lay.”
Lord Virinus’ eyes flew wide in recognition. “Captain…Snarl?” he choked out. “What…are…”
“Duke Dyrund.” Aravon tightened his grip, applying pressure to blood vessels running up the side of the nobleman’s neck. “Did you poison him?”
Lord Virinus thrashed and kicked, his hands batting at Aravon’s arm and wrist, struggling to break the grip on his neck. Aravon squeezed tighter until the man’s face grew red and his eyes began to roll up, then released just enough to let the blood flow once more. Lord Virinus drew in a gasping breath and tried to shake his head.
“No!” the nobleman managed to croak.
“The truth.” Aravon fixed the struggling Lord Virinus with a piercing gaze. “Or I will send you to the Long Keeper here and now.”
Chapter Eight
“I…swear!” Panic, fear, and horror filled the young Lord Virinus’ eyes, yet there was no trace of deceit or duplicity, only abject terror at the prospect of death.
Aravon couldn’t know for certain that Lord Virinus was innocent—Swordsman knew some men were born to be professional liars, nearly impossible to distinguish their lies from the truth—but in lieu of proof, he had only his gut to go on. The instincts that had kept him alive through countless battles, that had helped him triumph against impossible odds. Those instincts told him that Lord Virinus was innocent of the Duke’s death.
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