Aravon nodded silent approval at Captain Lingram’s arrangement of their little encampment. The Legionnaires and mercenaries not on duty—a feeble force of twenty swords, plus the Captain himself—had set up their meager campfire and laid out their cloaks in place of bedrolls. Should the Eirdkilrs stumble across their hiding place, the Legionnaires would be the first into battle.
Again, Aravon was struck by how young these soldiers were. Corporal Rold numbered among the oldest—the rest were in their second decade, like Duvain and his brother Endyn. Any veterans in Ninth Company would have stayed behind to cover the retreat. Only the rawest of the recruits had survived.
And it showed in their eyes, the haunted, distant look Aravon had seen so many times after battle, blood, and death. Some sat staring into the fire, brows furrowed, faces dark and grim even in the light of the flickering flames. No warmth could drive away the bone-deep chill that came from watching comrades die. No gentle glow could soothe the pain that filled their hearts, or drive away the murky thoughts clouding their brains.
A handful lay curled in their cloaks, eyes wide and staring up at the earthen ceiling. Aravon knew what they would see if they tried to sleep; he’d been haunted by those images of death, heard the screams of his men and the howling of the enemy, smelled the stench of blood, urine, mud, and offal that hung thick on every battlefield. There were some things that sleep could not dispel—if anything, the dreams that filled those snatched moments of rest would only make things worse.
One man knelt on his cloak, trapped halfway between sleep and wakefulness. A young man, his jaw barely showing a man’s scruff, he seemed unable to move. Tears streamed down his cheeks yet he made not a sound, moved not a muscle. Simply sat, imprisoned by the horrors of what he had just survived.
Fear and memories of terror were far from the greatest burden those soldiers had to wrestle with. In the eyes of those few who glanced up at him, beneath the numbness, the empty absence of conscious thought, he saw the same deep-rooted torment that had consumed him after Sixth Company’s massacre on the Eastmarch.
Guilt. The guilt that could only come from the knowledge that they somehow lived—impossibly, against all odds—while their comrades had died.
There was a sense of hopelessness, of helplessness that settled in after battles like those Ninth Company had just endured. They had been unable to stop the enemy from killing their companions. They had failed their fellow Legionnaires, but those fellows had been the ones to pay the price for their failure. And nothing they’d done had stopped it. Nothing they’d done could have stopped it.
So why had they deserved to live while others lay dead? Aravon had asked himself that same question a thousand times as he lay in his bed at Camp Marshal. Lieutenant Naif, Sergeant Bytin, Corporal Older, and the rest of Sixth Company—what had they done to deserve death, and how had he escaped it? The Swordsman’s grace, the Mistress’ fortune, or sheer chaotic happenstance? There was no explanation, no rationalization for it. And that filled men with a feeling of impotence that struck at the core of their beings.
Those men faced hard days ahead. Some would recover—given time, given a chance to come to terms with what they’d just survived. Others…well, some men couldn’t bear up under that emotional and mental burden. Aravon had seen even the strongest men, the most experienced veterans, crack beneath the strain. He could only hope Captain Lingram saw to their needs, helped them navigate their way out of the labyrinth of darkness, self-recrimination, and horror to which they had been condemned.
Colborn broke off to locate Captain Lingram, but Aravon continued down the steps toward the heart of the underground dome. He gave the Black Xiphos mercenaries a nod as he passed. Barcus, Torin, and Urniss returned the greeting in silence—they, too, appeared burdened by what had happened. Not just the battle at Saerheim or the deaths of their comrades that had succumbed to Wraithfever, but the knowledge that one of their own had proven to be a traitor.
Lord Virinus huddled alone, apart from the mercenaries, the Legionnaires, and the Deid villagers. He needed no fire—his lush brown bear furs offered ample warmth. Buried in the heavy cloak, he appeared far more isolated than his proximity to the others would suggest. The Black Xiphos mercenaries had set up camp nearer the Legionnaires, leaving him on his own with only the cold, hard earth for comfort.
The nobleman looked up from his bear furs as Aravon approached, and his thin lips twisted into a half-sneer, half-snarl.
Aravon ignored the young man—he’d humiliated Lord Virinus, but had no regrets. He could endure the man’s withering scorn and enmity; nothing would stop him from doing what was necessary to find the Duke’s murderer.
Or whoever hired Otton to do it.
No way anyone on a mercenary’s pay could afford the poison, which Zaharis had made clear cost a small fortune. If the gold hadn’t come from young Lord Virinus, it meant someone else with a hefty purse had purchased the toxin and Otton’s treachery. Almost certainly someone from Icespire. Zaharis maintained that the poison was only produced by the Secret Keepers in the Princelands’ capital city.
The question is who?
Duke Dyrund had political opponents aplenty—anyone as powerful and wealthy as the Prince’s counselor and the Duke of Eastfall, the wealthiest duchy on Fehl, certainly would—yet how many people wanted to murder him? Not only to murder him, but to conceal his death in the guise of Wraithfever?
I’m bloody well going to find out!
Escorting the Duke’s body home for burial served as a cover for his true mission: to unmask the traitor that had hired Otton to murder Duke Dyrund. Very likely the same person who had ordered the death of the Duke’s agent in Rivergate, and possibly even the one who revealed the location of Silver Break Mine. If all three actions could be linked to the same person, the list of suspects would grow far shorter.
But first, we’ve got to get these people out of harm’s way.
The Deid survivors hadn’t spread out across the amphitheater’s stairs. Instead, they huddled together, women clutching sleeping children tight to their breasts, elders consoling their younger fellows. Fear etched deep lines into faces still stained with soot. They had just watched their homes put to the torch, their lives burned to the ground by an enemy that bayed for their blood. They’d barely escaped with their lives. That fear would be a long time in leaving.
Aravon scanned the Deid until he found the white-haired woman and the man she’d called Asmund. If Rangvaldr had spoken to them, it indicated they were figures of importance in Saerheim.
He picked his way through the huddled Deid villagers toward Asmund, who knelt beside a child, wrapping a dirty strip of wool around a blistered burn.
“Heil, Asmund,” Aravon addressed the man in Fehlan. “A word, if I may?”
The white-haired man looked up. “Of course,” he replied in his native tongue. “Yrsa here was just showing me what it truly means to be brave.”
The little girl’s eyes were wet with tears, yet she never cried out as Asmund tightened the bandage around the wound.
“There.” Asmund winked down at the child. “Now help your mother get some rest, yes?”
“Yes, Elder Asmund.” The little girl snuggled deeper into the blankets, curling up against her mother. The woman gave the old man a grateful nod and wrapped her arms around the child.
Standing, Asmund accompanied Aravon a short distance away from the clustered Deid.
“My condolences on your losses,” Aravon said in a quiet voice. “We mourn the sacrifice and laud the courage of those who died the glorious death." The words were not his own—they had been sung by Rangvaldr as he laid the slain Eyrr warriors to rest after the battle at Bjornstadt.
“Peace for time beyond breath.” Elder Asmund bowed his head, sorrow deepening the wrinkles on his face. “They sit to feast at Olfossa’s table now.”
Aravon remained silent a long moment—the man deserved a brief chance to grieve before he had to face what came next. Finally, he sp
oke. “The Legionnaires will escort you as far as our nearest garrison. But after we reach safety, do you and your people have any place you can go?”
Worry darkened the Elder’s face. “Some, yes, Others…” He shook his head. “If Saerheim fell, the Eirdkilrs have doubtless torched Godahus, Lidheima, and the other villages east of Cold Lake. Chief Hafgrimsson and his warband will give answer, but against so many?” The old man drew in a long breath, his expression drooping. “War will ravage many more villages and towns. Too many more will be without homes, and there will be nowhere for us to go.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed in contemplation. What could he say, what words of comfort would relieve the man’s pain? Asmund had just watched his home burned, his people slaughtered. Anything Aravon said would sound empty, platitudes as hollow and useless as gold to a man adrift on the Frozen Sea. Worse, he could offer no safe haven outside the walls of Sentry Garrison. He was no Duke to offer the Fehlans sanctuary north of the Chain, even if they wanted it.
“Do not trouble yourself, Princelander.” Asmund gave him a fatherly smile. “Once we reach your garrison, we will find shelter among our own people to the east. Your Legionnaires have more than fulfilled their duties to protect us. Thanks to them, we still live. For today, that must be enough.”
Aravon marveled at the man’s serenity. He’d lost so much, yet somehow managed to cling to hope despite the hopelessness of his situation.
“However,” Asmund continued, “I expect Eira will insist on accompanying the Hilmir’s daughter.” The man turned and glanced over at the white-haired woman, who knelt over Branda. “Your Seiomenn may have cured her fever, but even with Eira’s healing skills, the girl will need time to rest and replenish her strength. Days, perhaps even weeks.”
Aravon studied the old woman. “Eira is a healer?”
The Elder nodded. “One of the greatest not only among our clan, but on all of Fehl. Her remedies and cures have saved the people of Saerheim far too many times to count. If anyone can bring her back from the brink of death, it is Eira.”
“Then I will make certain Captain Lingram knows to allow her to travel with Branda,” Aravon said. “And I know the Hilmir will be grateful for the Deid’s honorable treatment of his daughter. Already, he and Chief Hafgrimsson have stood shoulder to shoulder in battle against the Tauld at Banamadrhaed. Yet I have little doubt that this will secure a true peace between Deid and Fjall.”
Elder Asmund bowed. “Your words do us honor, man of the Legion.” When he straightened, a ghost of a smile flashed across his lips. “And your grasp of our tongue. Few men of the north ever bother to learn.”
Aravon placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “The land of Fehl is ours to share. We are allies, and only when we stand together can we stand at all. Only a fool turns his back on his neighbor in their hour of need.”
“Well said.” Though age had sapped the breadth from Elder Asmund’s shoulders, he possessed a quiet strength, a dignity to match the serenity in his voice. Sorrow darkened his eyes—like all the others of his village, he had lost much, perhaps more than most—yet he emanated a soothing calm. “May you find Olfossa’s peace as you rest, Captain.”
Aravon gave the white-haired Fehlan a bow. “And you, Elder Asmund.”
The Elder returned his obeisance with a nod, then turned and shuffled back toward his people, moving among them with quiet words of comfort and reassurance.
Aravon’s gaze moved from the elderly Deid man to where the woman, Eira, sat beside Branda. The white-haired healer was pouring a trickle of water into the girl’s mouth. Branda appeared too weak to swallow more than a few drops at a time, but her cheeks had lost a great deal of their pallor. Asmund had sounded fully confident in the healer’s skills—Aravon could only hope the man was right. Eirik Throrsson had already lost his wife, his city, and most of his warband. Even the strongest men broke beneath such a great burden of loss.
The thought of the Hilmir’s grief brought back Aravon’s own. His eyes strayed to the cloth-wrapped corpse laid off to one side of the Legionnaires’ makeshift camp. Someone had laid it gently atop a bed of pine boughs, careful to keep it off the damp ground.
Sorrow surged within him, but he pushed back against the rising tide. No. He swallowed hard. I will have time to grieve once the mission is complete. He’d see the Deid and surviving Legionnaires to safety, escort the Duke’s body to Icespire, and hunt down the traitor. Only then would he allow himself a chance to mourn.
Clenching his fists, Aravon strode through the Deid survivors toward Eira. The white-haired healer hadn’t left Branda’s side, pressing cool cloths or a warm hand to her forehead, forcing water down her throat, and doing what she could for the fever.
Aravon needed to get a better look at the Hilmir’s daughter, to assess her condition. Come dawn, they would resume their journey to Sentry Garrison, but if she was too weak to continue traveling after they reached the fort, he’d have to guard her there until the Duke’s messenger arrived with the Wraithfever cure. That could take a day or two, at least—time he’d rather be spending riding toward Icespire to hunt down the traitor. Yet he’d made a promise to Eirik Throrsson. He’d see that Branda was restored to health enough to return to her father’s side at Ornntadr. When the time came that she was healthy enough to travel south, he would consider how best to fulfill his oath while finding the Duke’s murderer.
“Captain.” Colborn’s voice sounded at his elbow. Aravon turned to find the Lieutenant striding toward him. “I filled Captain Lingram in on the result of our diversionary attack on the Eirdkilrs,” he signed in the Secret Keeper hand language. “He’s determined to move out an hour before dawn and push hard to reach Sentry Garrison as soon as possible.”
“Good.” Aravon nodded. “The sooner we get the Deid to safety, the sooner we can return to Icespire and find out who’s behind the Duke’s murder.” He’d filled in Colborn and Belthar on what he’d learned about Otton, as well as his discovery of the wax seal stamped with that strange carbuncle insignia. “But first I need to find out how soon we can return Throrsson’s daughter to him at Ornntadr. He’ll be anxious to have her safe under his watchful eye. Asmund insists that Eira will have her back…”
Aravon’s fingers fell silent as Colborn suddenly went rigid. Every muscle in his body seemed to lock up, freezing him in place. The mask concealed his face, but his ice-blue eyes had gone wide, as if seeing a phantasm.
“Colborn?” Aravon gripped the man’s shoulders; every muscle was knotted, tense. Colborn never gave answer to Aravon’s questioning hand signal. Instead, his head slowly turned, his gaze moving among the huddled Deid until it settled on the white-haired woman tending to Branda.
He recoiled, his breath coming in a sharp gasp, and his hand flashed to the mouth of his mask. Reeling like a drunken man, he staggered and would have fallen if Aravon hadn’t caught him.
Colborn’s shocked surprise left Aravon stunned. He’d never seen the Lieutenant react so strongly to anything. He gripped Colborn’s shoulder and shook it once, roughly. The movement snapped Colborn out of his stupor, but when he turned to Aravon, his eyes were hooded, filled with the shadow of memories long ago left to the past.
Only one thing could elicit such a visceral response from Colborn.
“Eira,” Aravon signed. “Is she…?”
Colborn slowly nodded. “My grandmother.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aravon’s breath caught in his lungs. Colborn’s Fehlan relatives hadn’t all died in the fire that burned Saerheim.
He studied the Lieutenant. Colborn had told him the stories of the treatment he’d received at the hands of his mother’s people—the rejection, the outright hostility of people that should have been his kin. They’d treated him as a stain on their family, just as his father had.
Yet the only emotions visible behind Colborn’s mask were joy and relief. A hint of moisture glimmered in the Lieutenant’s eyes.
“She alone was kind to me.” Colborn�
��s fingers formed the silent words slowly. “When the rest of my mother’s family shunned me, only Eira accepted me. She saw not the bastard son of a Princelander, but the child of her beloved daughter.” He drew in and let out a long, slow breath. “It was her kindness that kept me alive.”
He turned to Aravon, and twin tears disappeared beneath his mask. “When I saw Saerheim burned, it was her I saw lying dead at the Eirdkilrs’ hands. And that nearly killed me…” He trailed off, turning away from Aravon to hide his sentiment.
Aravon gripped the Lieutenant’s shoulder. He said nothing, simply offered the comfort of his presence, the support of silent camaraderie. In the face of Colborn’s turmoil, he could do no better. And no worse. As he’d learned long ago, the Lieutenant needed space to come to terms with his own feelings, yet not so much space he felt alone. He’d spent far too much of his life as an outcast, neither Princelander nor Fehlan. What he needed most was family—Aravon and the Grim Reavers were the family he’d never had.
When Colborn turned back, he gave Aravon a grateful nod. His tears had stopped, yet a storm of emotion still brewed in his eyes.
“She’s alive,” Aravon signed. “And safe. Asmund told me she’ll insist on staying with Branda to nurse her back to health.”
Grim determination hardened the lines around Colborn’s eyes. “You have to send her north of the Chain, Captain. With Saerheim gone, she has nowhere else to go.” He shook his head. “She’ll kick up a mighty fuss—I’ve never met anyone as Keeper-damned stubborn as my mother’s mother—but she’ll give in if it means she can stay by Branda. No one cares more for those under her charge.” Slowly, he turned to Eira. There was a hesitance to his posture, and he seemed torn by the desire to go to her and to put as much distance between them as possible.
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