“Should I have Rangvaldr talk to her when he returns?” Aravon asked when Colborn finally managed to tear his eyes away from the old woman. “The Seiomenn can be awfully convincing.”
Colborn hesitated, and a strange look entered his eyes. Aravon had seen the same look mirrored in Zaharis’ eyes when he ran into Darrak, his former Secret Keeper comrade, at Rivergate. Doubtless, he’d had it as well when first he recognized Captain Lingram. A burning desire to reveal himself to someone important, yet barred by the mission’s demand for secrecy.
This was the price they all paid for accepting the Duke’s offer. To the world at large, Aravon and his companions were dead. The Colborn who stood staring at Eira wasn’t her grandson. Couldn’t be her grandson as long as he wore the mask and served in the Prince’s special company.
Pain darkened Colborn’s eyes as he turned back and gave a little nod. “Yes.” He seemed unable to say more, even though his hands formed the words in place of his lips. His arms fell by his sides as he shot one last glance at his grandmother. As if bidding her farewell…for now, and for who knew how long?
“You ungrateful cunt!” A furious roar pierced Aravon’s thoughts. He whirled around in time to see one of the Legionnaires shoving Lord Virinus backward. “You were there beside us! You saw what the Eirdkilrs did to those who stayed behind. And your answer is to try and turn us against the Captain that saved your pampered arse along with the rest of ours?”
“Don’t be hasty!” A white-faced Lord Virinus held up his hands like a shield against the enraged Legionnaire. “I merely suggested that your Captain made a mistake by—”
“The only mistake he made, you pompous air-thief, was to keep you alive!” The Legionnaire’s short sword whispered from his sheath. “A mistake I’ll be rectifying right bloody quick.” With a scowl on his face, he advanced on the nobleman.
Aravon’s blood ran cold. He didn’t know precisely what had happened at Saerheim, but one look at the Legionnaires told him none of them would stop their fellow from murdering Lord Virinus then and there. The man was in pain, reeling from the loss of his comrades, and he had found a target upon which to unleash it.
He moved without hesitation, whirling toward the Legionnaire and racing up the earthen steps. If none of the man’s fellow soldiers would stop him, it was up to Aravon to prevent bloodshed. Stop the man from making a mistake from which there was no return.
Yet he hadn’t taken three steps before another voice echoed through the earthen dome. “Haze!” Captain Lingram appeared from among the Deid, far closer to the Legionnaire, and crossed the distance to the man in two long steps. “That is enough!”
The soldier, Haze, never took his eyes off Lord Virinus. “Captain, I—”
“That’s an order, Soldier!” Captain Lingram’s voice thundered with an authority that no one in the cavern could ignore.
Haze stopped advancing on Lord Virinus, yet his sword remained upraised. “You know what he was saying, Captain?” Now he turned his furious gaze on Lingram. “He was trying to offer us coin to turn on you, to say that it was your incompetence that got Sergeant Toril and the rest killed at Saerheim. Not the damned Eirdkilrs. You!”
Captain Lingram’s face went hard, and he rounded on Lord Virinus. “Is this true, Myron?”
“Of course not!” Lord Virinus seemed to have recovered a modicum of his composure—enough to look offended, at least. “I merely asked your soldiers their thoughts on the battle and its outcome.”
“He’s lying through his pointy teeth, Captain!” Haze snarled and leveled his sword at Lord Virinus. “Our men died to give this prick a chance to live, and this is how he repays them?”
“Our men died not for him.” Captain Lingram met the soldier’s fury with calm. “They gave themselves to save us. You and me. Our comrades.” He gestured toward the twelve Legionnaires sitting around their fire. “The people of Saerheim we were sent to protect.”
“But, sir—” Haze began.
“No, Soldier.” Captain Lingram pushed down the man’s arm, lowering the sword, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Sergeant Brash. Sergeant Toril. Corporal Awr.” That last name seemed to strike a chord deep within him, and sorrow darkened his face. “They stood firm to the end. They gave their all. Never wavering, never failing in their commission. They stood and faced the enemy to give us time to save these people. We must honor their sacrifice. It is what they would have wanted. For us to carry on the duty that they died to fulfill.”
His eyes locked with Haze’s. “We march on in memory of them, Soldier. Until the Swordsman calls us to join them and stand watch at his side, we march.”
Slowly, like a glacier melting beneath a summer sun, the anger in Haze’s eyes dimmed, replaced by sorrow. “Y-Yes, Captain.” His face drooped and his shoulders slumped. “I-I just…I can’t…”
“I know.” Captain Lingram held the man’s gaze. “And there will be a time to grieve. But let us not besmirch the memory of their sacrifice. No more blood.”
“Yes, sir.” Haze seemed to collapse inward on himself, and he would have fallen if not for Captain Lingram holding him upright. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.
“Rest, Soldier.” At Captain Lingram’s nod, two Legionnaires hurried toward Haze and helped the man stumble back to their camp and his seat by the fire.
Lord Virinus cleared his throat. “Lingram, I—”
“Don’t!” Captain Lingram whirled on the nobleman so quickly he could have slit Lord Virinus’ throat before the man knew what was happening. And, by the look on his face—the red-hot fury that had burned in Haze’s eyes a moment before—only a supreme effort of will kept his sword in its sheath. He spoke in a furious hiss, pitched too low for his men to hear but audible to Aravon and Colborn, who had closed the distance. “You’ve done enough, Myron.” His voice cracked like a whip.
Outrage flickered in Lord Virinus’ eyes and he opened his mouth to speak.
“Not. A. Word.” Aravon growled in his Captain Snarl voice. “Sit down, and shut the bloody hell up, my lord.” He snapped the last words as an insult. “Before I have Ghoststriker make you.”
Colborn cracked his knuckles, his ice-blue eyes flat and cold as the Frozen Sea.
Lord Virinus did, indeed, sit down and shut up. In a huff, his face a bright red mixture of embarrassment, fury, and indignity, but one look from Aravon and he clamped his jaw firmly closed.
Captain Lingram turned to Aravon and gave him a nod of thanks. Though Lingram’s face was a mask of forced calm, Aravon recognized the barely-controlled fury burning beneath the surface. Had he been in the Captain’s position, he might not have stopped his man from killing Lord Virinus. It took a big man to bite down on the rage clearly bubbling beneath the surface.
But that’s Lingram for you. Aravon stifled a sad smile beneath the mask. A good man to the core, even in the worst of trials.
And, by the look in the eyes of the Legionnaires, the trial they’d faced at Saerheim had been far worse than any of them ever expected.
Chapter Fifteen
Aravon’s meager meal of dried beef, sodden trail biscuits, and sun-roasted tomatoes offered up by one of the Deid was interrupted by a sudden commotion at the entrance to the cave. The Legionnaires guarding the opening leapt to their feet, reaching for weapons and forming a hasty line facing the darkness.
“Easy, there!” came a familiar voice. “I’ve dreamed of being the popular belle of the ball, but your attention’s enough to make this young lady blush.”
Relief surged within him—he’d recognize Noll’s flippant tone anywhere. Yet his delight turned to worry as the four figures in mottled-pattern leather armor shuffled through the opening and entered the underground dome. Noll and Zaharis had Rangvaldr’s arms slung across their shoulders, and the Seiomenn half-hung between them. He, Colborn, and Belthar leapt to their feet in a heartbeat and raced up the steps toward the Grim Reavers.
“What the bloody hell happened?” Aravon signed to Skathi.
&nb
sp; The archer, at the front of their small group, spoke in the silent hand language. “Stonekeeper took a tumble from his saddle. He said it’s just fatigue from using his holy stones on the Hilmir’s daughter, but…” Skathi trailed off with a tilt of her head. “Thankfully, nothing’s broken, just banged up good. A few more bruises than he had this morning, but it’ll heal.”
Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Can’t he speed up the process and use his magic on himself?”
Skathi shook her head. “Too tired to use it, he said.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. Their little company needed its healer in fighting shape—Keeper alone knew what they’d face tomorrow on their way to Sentry Garrison. But Rangvaldr wasn’t just their healer; he was their brother-at-arms, their comrade, a paternal figure—at the very least, the grey-bearded uncle who thought himself wise in the ways of the world. Their company wasn’t complete without him.
The Seiomenn had pushed hard since joining their company. Never a word of complaint, always a solid constant, a quiet bulwark of strength and sincerity that had bolstered the rest of them. The sight of the man slumped, exhausted, his limbs dragging drove home the harsh truth: for all the magical power in his stones and the force of his words and wisdom, Rangvaldr was as human and destructible as the rest of them.
“Thanks for sending Snarl, by the way,” Skathi continued. “We’d never have found this place otherwise.”
Aravon nodded. “Not even Colborn knew it was here. Good spot to hide out and get a few hours of rest.” His gaze slid past Skathi, toward the darkness outside the cavern, and a pang of worry coursed through him.
“Don’t worry about him, Captain,” Skathi signed. “He’s skulking around in the shadows outside. Last I saw him, he’d brought down a plump grouse and was getting ready for a nice dinner. Lucky bastard!”
Aravon chuckled. “Almost makes me wish Zaharis would break out the cookpot and spices again.”
“Indeed!” Skathi sighed. “Looks like more cold smoked meat and stale biscuits.”
“Soggy, actually,” Belthar put in. “They went for a swim.”
At Skathi’s groan, Aravon chuckled. “Better than leaves and herbs, right?”
The archer’s shoulders twitched. “Barely.” Despite her protests, she accepted the meager scraps of food Belthar offered her without hesitation and wolfed them down. None of their company had eaten for nearly a day, and no one that hungry would refuse anything as tasty as over-salted dried strips of beef, mutton, and pork served with trail bread that had been stale long before Aravon was born.
Aravon left Skathi to her meal and instead went to where Noll and Zaharis had helped Rangvaldr take a seat against one earthen wall, a short distance apart from where the Deid huddled together.
“Captain,” the Seiomenn signed. At the movement, a hiss escaped his lips and he hunched over his left side. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“That’s because you’ve been chewing willow bark for the last hour.” Zaharis snorted. “Come morning, you’re going to hurt worse than a brothel carpet put out for a spring beating.”
Aravon glanced at Zaharis. “How bad is it really?”
The Secret Keeper’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “Thick-skull here got off with nothing broken, but barely. Had I known he was so exhausted, I’d never have let Noll talk us into taking a look at Saerheim.”
Aravon’s eyes widened. “What?” He rounded on the scout. “You went back into Eirdkilr-held territory?”
Noll nodded. “Not much choice, Captain.” His shoulders squared, a defensive look in his eyes. “The bastards hounded us hard all the way to the Standelfr, and I figured the best way to lose them was to cut south. Do the unexpected and all.”
“Is that why it’s taken you so long to return?” Aravon’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t imagine how riding closer to the enemy’s position at Saerheim would be the smart play—then again, he’d done something similar after freeing the Hilmir from the Blood Queen’s clutches.
“Yes,” Noll signed, “but we didn’t come back empty-handed.”
Aravon cocked his head. “Oh?”
Noll exchanged glances with Zaharis, who gave him a “go ahead” gesture. When the scout turned back to Aravon, a puzzled look had entered his eyes. “They’ve pulled out of Saerheim. Burned it to the ground first, palisade wall and all, but there’s only a handful still holding the place.” His eyes narrowed. “And this is where it gets confusing. They’re hauling away lots of what looks like burned wood and crushed stone.”
Aravon sucked in a breath. “Ghoulstone?”
Noll shrugged. “We were too far away to get a clear look, but I’d wager even odds that it was.”
Aravon stood and strode toward the nearest Legionnaire—the gaunt Duvain, it turned out, with his giant of a brother beside him. “Soldier,” Aravon said in his deep, growling Captain Snarl voice, “tell me, was the main square at Saerheim made of black stone?”
Duvain seemed taken aback by the question. “Yes.” Surprise and confusion flashed through his deep-set eyes. "Why?”
Aravon didn’t answer the question; his mind was too busy working at the problem as he moved back toward his companions. The Eirdkilrs and ghoulstone. There was a connection he couldn’t hope to understand, but that existed nonetheless.
The Eirdkilrs had never bothered with gold and silver before—they’d always raided for food, supplies, or in their single-minded desire to eradicate the mainlanders that invaded their continent. But from the destruction of the main square at the Eyrr town of Oldrsjot to Silver Break Mine to the heavily-laden wagons at Rivergate, the Eirdkilrs had played against type. They’d not only dragged hundreds of Fehlan and Princelander miners into captivity, but they’d taken the stockpiles of gold and silver.
And, along with them, the ghoulstone.
Captain Lemaire, the Nyslian officer in charge of Topaz Battalion’s Second and Third Companies at Rivergate, had called it “gangue”, the cast-off mineral mixed in with the valuable metals. Aravon had simply believed it to be a small part of their plan—deprive the Princelands of all potentially useful commodities, thereby preventing the Prince from hiring more Legionnaires from the mainland. But this discovery, and the one made at Storbjarg, made him reconsider.
The Eirdkilrs didn’t just set Storbjarg to the torch. Aravon recalled the words spoken by Grimar, the traitorous Fjall that had thrown open the gates to the Hilmir’s capital. The warrior had said the Eirdkilrs had torn down the Blotahorgr, the stone temple of the Fjall. A temple built from the same deeper-than-black stone that had been used to pave the main squares of Storbjarg. And Oldrsjot, Bjornstadt, and Saerheim.
Aravon’s thoughts raced. Are the Eirdkilrs really after the ghoulstone? He had no idea why; the stone was said to be worthless, barely useful for decorations. Yet if they had invested so much effort into collecting it—going hundreds of miles out of their way, attacking deep into allied Fehlan and Legion-held territory—it had to be of some value to them.
Another thought struck him. What if the slaughter at Gold Burrows Mine wasn’t just a tactic to scare the Deid away from battle? The Blood Queen had been cunning enough to crush two birds with one boulder. What if she actually wanted the ghoulstone, and found a way to use that to turn the Deid against the Hilmir?
The realization left him gasping, his mouth agape. Yet those answers—little more than guesswork and supposition—only brought more questions. Question, singular: why?
He rounded on Zaharis. “That stone you’re always playing with, let me see it!”
Zaharis cocked his head. “Captain?”
“The chunk of ghoulstone!” Aravon held out a hand. “Let me see it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Zaharis produced it from within his pouch and placed it on Aravon’s palm. Aravon turned it over and over. To his eyes, it appeared as inert and mundane as any chunk of onyx or obsidian. Save for its color, somehow darker than black, it was nothing more than a chunk of stone, smoothed by Zaharis’ incessan
t fiddling.
But that can’t be all it is! Aravon studied the chunk of ghoulstone closer. According to Rangvaldr, the Eirdkilrs at Rivergate had worn them around their necks like the Seiomenn’s holy stone pendant. Yet the holy stones had magic, and this chunk of ghoulstone…there was nothing remotely magical about it.
Long moments passed before he could tear his eyes away. Confusion set his thoughts whirling—what was it about this bit of stone that the Eirdkilrs wanted so desperately? The longer he stared at it, the more his puzzlement grew.
His head snapped up. “Zaharis,” he signed one-handed, “I need you to study this stone, find out everything you can about it.”
The Secret Keeper’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “Can I ask why?”
With quick, sharp gestures, Aravon explained his train of thought in the silent Secret Keeper hand language. “If they want it, we need to know why. I’ve been trying to figure out the motivation behind their battle strategies. All the attacks—on the mines, on Oldrsjot and Bjornstadt, and now on Saerheim—seemed too random for Hrolf Hrungnir and the Blodsvarri.” He held up the stone between thumb and forefinger. “But if, for some incomprehensible reason, this stone is somehow the bedrock of their campaign, I’ve got to understand what the hell they want it for. It’s the only way I can figure out how to counteract their plans and turn their desires and strategies against them.”
“Understood, Captain.” Zaharis snatched the stone from Aravon’s hand. “Minerals were never my area of expertise—I was always about plants—but I’ve got at least a basic understanding. Not a whole lot of time available these days, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you!” Aravon clapped the Secret Keeper on the shoulder. “If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”
Zaharis gave a little nod and settled back into his seat beside Rangvaldr, his eyes fixed on the stone he turned over and over in his fingers.
Aravon turned back to Rangvaldr, only to find the Seiomenn had fallen asleep. Good. He smiled behind his mask. The sooner he’s strong enough to heal himself, the better. Tomorrow would come all too soon—fewer than three hours remained until daybreak—and they’d need to be well-rested for the arduous journey ahead. First trying to slip the Deid and Legion survivors past any Eirdkilr pursuers, then the long trek back to Icespire.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 12
