“Take Ghoststriker.” Aravon gestured to Colborn. “And Magicmaker. They are the experts on the matter.”
“Expert?” Colborn signed. “I know less about stone than Noll does about women.”
“But Zaharis will need someone to speak for him,” Aravon signed before Noll’s fingers could form a retort. “And I’ll need Noll to give me a lay of the land beyond the walls of Steinnbraka Delve.”
Nodding, Colborn turned to Callista. “Lead the way, Archateros.”
Aravon didn’t watch them go—he trusted Colborn would collect Zaharis and get as much information from the Shalandran scholars as the Secret Keeper needed—but instead turned to Noll. “Tell me everything you can about the terrain around the mountain.”
“Not a lot about it.” Noll shrugged. “Forest, trees, bushes, and a whole lot more forest. Most interesting thing nearby is the Standelfr River three miles west of us.”
Aravon chewed on his bottom lip, his mind working. “Did you get a chance to see the southern or eastern slope of the inselberg?”
“Southern, yeah,” Noll said with a little nod. “Steep as all hell. Mostly rock and scree slopes. Never got far enough east to see the other side.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed as he called to mind the western slope of the mountain—as steep and rocky as Noll had said.
“How long would it take to get around the mountain?” he asked. “On foot and on horse. From the far east side, if necessary.”
Noll scrunched up his forehead. He’d made slow progress on his letters under Zaharis’ tutelage, but he had a scout’s uncanny ability to gauge distances with near-flawless accuracy. He’d been the best of the scouts serving under Aravon in Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company.
“Our horses could make it in less than an hour.” He tugged at his leather mask, shifting it the way they all did when it got sweaty, sticky with blood, or simply uncomfortable after long hours of use. “Legion horses, closer to two. On foot, in heavy Indomitable armor—” His eyes darted toward the bloodied and battered soldiers stumbling down the tunnel. “—more like four hours if they want to move quietly.”
Aravon blew out a breath. “Damn.” With limited food and water and far too many mouths to feed, they could end up cutting it bloody close. “Good tree cover on the south slopes?”
Noll nodded. “Around the base of the inselberg, the forest’s denser than Belthar.”
Aravon absorbed that information, adding it as one more piece to a plan that was, admittedly, in the infant stages. He’d never been trapped in a mine—it would take more than a few minutes to come up with a strategy to get out of what appeared an impossible situation.
“But, yeah.” Again, Noll tugged at his mask. “As long as the Eirdkilrs are focused on us here, there’s a pretty good chance of sneaking up on them from behind and giving them a proper bite in the arse.”
“So that’s what they taught you at Bulgeman’s Rest?” Skathi’s voice drifted up the tunnel toward them. “At least you took away more than just crotch lice after all that coin you spent there.”
Noll turned and shot the Agrotora a withering glare. “Not my fault that everyone and everything loves my crotch.”
Aravon tensed on instinct—Noll’s history with Skathi was far from friendly, and the archer had shown her displeasure at his disrespectful treatment of her on more than one occasion, rarely with words alone.
But, to his relief, Skathi only chuckled. “Maybe be a bit choosier, next time. Watcher knows there’s enough disease running rampant through the Princelands without adding Noll-tainted insects to the mix.”
The tension drained from Aravon’s shoulders. Noll’s tone hadn’t echoed with the lecherous irreverence he’d used when first they met. Instead, it echoed with the cutting tone of soldiers mocking each other—a means of not only banishing their dire circumstances from their minds, but showing the familiar ease of what seemed to be mostly peaceful coexistence. They had all come a long way since that first day at Camp Marshal, indeed.
The arrival of Belthar gave him an excuse to cut off Noll’s retort. “What do we have, Ursus?”
“Not much, Captain.” The big man’s voice was grim as he held up one canvas sack barely larger than the ham-sized fist holding it. “Enough for a couple of days on restricted rations, but if we’re in here longer than that, we’re going to be going hungry.”
“To be fair, you’re always hungry.” Skathi snorted. “You’d out-eat a full Legion company on your own.”
Again, Aravon tensed in expectation of Belthar’s answer—the big man could be prickly, and he’d proven more sensitive when the barbs came from Skathi.
But Belthar only shrugged. “There’s a lot more of me to feed than the rest of you.” Humor brightened his eyes and he thumped his free hand against his barrel chest. “Gold-pure, distilled awesome in such a large package, I am.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.” Noll elbowed the big man in the ribs. “Not about your pa—”
“Lord Morshan promised us a bit of watered Nyslian rum,” Aravon interjected. “Foxclaw, see about getting your hands on that for us. And finding us a quiet place to keep the horses out of the way and set up our bedrolls.”
Noll brightened at the mention of liquor. Rum, ale, ayrag, or even Fjall mjod, he hadn’t yet met a drink he didn’t like. “Aye, Captain!” He gave a vigorous salute and hurried off down the tunnel, toward Emvil and his slope-shouldered companions, who stood clustered apart from the miners huddling together for warmth and comfort.
Skathi glanced around, then leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Captain, you’ll want to hear what Ursus has to say.”
Aravon turned a questioning look on Belthar.
“It’s about the mercenary,” Belthar rumbled. “Otton.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Instantly, Aravon was on the alert. Otton, the Black Xiphos mercenary believed responsible for poisoning Duke Dyrund.
“Scathan said he thought Otton was from northern Eastfall, right?” Belthar asked.
Aravon nodded. “Beggar’s Hole or Eastborne.”
“Right.” Frown lines formed at the corners of Belthar’s eyes. “Thing is, not a lot of mercenary companies go hiring in villages like that. They mostly come from places like that, but to actually get hired, they’ve got to go to places like Wolfden Castle or Icespire. Big cities where hired swords are recruited in large batches at a time.”
Curiosity panged within Aravon. Despite his frank, friendly demeanor, Belthar had proven himself a man of many secrets. He had surprising skills—picking locks, sneaking into forts and strongholds, planning their paths of infiltration—not to mention his past with the Brokers, the smuggling ring that operated in the shadows of the Princelands. And though he’d served among Duke Dyrund’s regulars at Hightower, he hadn’t revealed where he was originally from.
“Go on.” Aravon nodded encouragement. Hearing the way Belthar spoke about the mercenary process, Aravon had little doubt the big man had, at some point, either joined a company of sellswords or at least considered it.
The big man hesitated, shooting a glance at Skathi.
“Tell him,” she prompted. “It’s the best lead we’ve got.”
Aravon hid his surprise. Had Belthar confided in Skathi before coming to him? Surprising, given his reticence at letting his comrades learn anything that could shake their faith in him. Despite his size and prowess, Belthar had proven himself far more prone to feelings of insufficiency than any of them. That had more to do with the fact that he was, as the Legionnaires considered him and he likely considered himself, “nothing but an Eastfall regular”.
And yet, the fact that Belthar had confided in Skathi meant that he, too, had taken great strides toward treating her as part of their company. That was exactly what she had wanted—what she’d demanded from all of them—and what Aravon had tried to encourage all along.
“There’s a tavern in Icespire, sir.” Nervous tension echoed in Belthar’s voice. “The Sh
attered Shield, it’s called. The sort of place where regular citizens are discouraged from visiting.”
Aravon’s eyes narrowed. Such taverns only existed to serve two types of clientele: criminals and soldiers. Or, in this case, mercenaries.
Belthar continued, his words coming slowly. “Lots of Legionnaires hang around the Shattered Shield, drinking and telling stories. It attracts young men dreaming of glory and gold, which attracts mercenary companies looking for meat too fresh to join the Legion.” For a moment, his eyes took on a faraway look and he seemed lost in distant memories. Memories that seemed less than pleasant, given the dark shadow that passed over him.
Skathi prodded him gently with two fingers to his ribs. “And you think we’ll find word of Otton there?”
“Yeah.” Belthar seemed to emerge from his memories, though the storm cloud was slow in dissipating. “If he’s as fresh to the Black Xiphos as Scathan and the others said, it means he probably got hired out of Icespire. It’s closer to northern Eastfall than Hightower or Wolfden Castle.”
Aravon sucked in a breath. “Ursus, you’re a bloody genius!” He clapped Belthar on one massive shoulder. “We’ve finally got something to go on.”
Belthar ducked his head. “Thank you, sir.” Genuine, almost youthful delight echoed in his deep, rumbling voice.
Skathi punched Belthar’s other shoulder. “See? Told you you’re not totally useless!”
Aravon didn’t hear Belthar’s muttered response, for Noll’s voice echoed up the tunnel toward him.
“Captain!” The scout hurried toward them. “Found a side shaft, back that way. Nice little niche to tuck ourselves away, with space to keep the horses, too.”
“Perfect.” For the first time in what felt an eternity, Aravon found himself letting out a long breath, the knots in his spine relaxing. Travel and bloody battle compounded by too few hours of rest and insufficient food left him far more exhausted than he cared to admit. “Ursus, Redwing, get over there and set up camp with Foxclaw. Get some rest. We’re going to be pitching in to help the Indomitables hold the entrance, and we’ll take it in shifts.”
The mouth of the mine was barely ten feet across, small enough that the Indomitables could only stand five or six abreast with their shields interlocked. Doubtless Lord Morshan would rotate his soldiers, keeping only as many as were needed to hold the narrow opening while letting the others rest. They had no other way to keep out the Eirdkilrs for what appeared to be turning into a protracted battle.
“Yes, sir!” Belthar gave a salute—he was getting better, his movements almost Legion-precise—and hurried off down the tunnel after Noll.
Skathi hesitated a moment longer. “You good, Captain?”
The quiet question caught him off-guard. “W-Why do you ask?”
“Just checking, sir.” Skathi met his gaze without hesitation, and real concern filled her eyes. “Not an easy thing, the Duke’s death. For you more than most.”
Aravon swallowed, surprisingly difficult due to his parched throat and the ball of emotion that proved far too quick to return at every mention of the Duke. He hadn’t yet had time to grieve.
“The way you’re handling it,” Skathi said, “keeping on despite the pain you’ve got to be dealing with, it’s damned impressive. But don’t push so hard you get yourself killed.”
Her words caught him by surprise.
“Taking stupid risks to save others isn’t going to make up for not being there with him at the end.” She placed a strong hand on his shoulder. “You were where he wanted you to be. Where he needed you to be. It’s important you know that. For your sake, sir.”
For once, Aravon could find no words. What could he say to that quiet, gentle concern from Skathi? The warmth in her words and her empathy toward him only made the lump in his throat larger.
After a moment, the archer removed her hand. “Just remember you’re not alone. As a Captain I know and respect once told me, ‘Shared burdens grow lighter’.” With a wry smile, she nodded and turned to follow Belthar and Noll down the tunnel.
Aravon’s eyes stung, and his chest expanded, his heart feeling full. He’d told her that the night they found Duke Dyrund unconscious on the banks of the Hardrfoss River. Now, to hear them coming back at him, it filled him with gratitude for her concern and care—that of a true comrade and friend.
The death of Duke Dyrund had hit him hard—harder than he could have expected. But that was ever the way with death. No matter when it happened or who it happened to, there was no preparing for it. Or for how it messed with whatever fragile sense of stability and security a man could find in this turbulent, violent life. Everyone emerged from the other side changed in more ways than they could have ever imagined.
He hadn’t had time to process the Duke’s death, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t left him with scars. All he could do was ensure that those scars didn’t stop him from being the man he needed to be—for Mylena and his sons, for the Princelands, and for his Grim Reavers. They were counting on him as much as he relied on each of them for survival.
Yet Skathi's words had given him a surprising measure of peace. Since discovering that the Duke had been poisoned, he’d charged headlong in a mad rush to hunt down the man responsible. All without any real clue of how to go about doing that. The discovery of Otton’s identity had been sheer good fortune. Even after learning who the man had been, he’d hadn’t formulated a concrete plan to track down whoever had employed him. He couldn’t fully write it off as “being too busy fighting for his life”—he’d rushed into battle with the Eirdkilrs not only to protect the Indomitables. Unconsciously, it had been a way to distract himself from the helplessness of his situation.
But he was helpless no longer. He gripped his spear tighter until his leather gloves creaked. Thanks to Belthar, he had a way to start searching for information on the traitorous mercenary. Scathan and the others that had ridden beside him had to be able to offer some insights. Where he’d come from. Who he’d been before joining their mercenary company. What he might have been offered to poison the Duke—cold, hard coin or something else, something more appealing to a man willing to sell out someone as beloved as Duke Dyrund.
It wasn’t much to go on, but for Aravon, it was like a rope thrown to a drowning man. If he didn’t stop fighting to keep his head above water, he might sink beneath the torrent of emotions over the Duke’s death. Yet, as everyone who’d learned to swim in Icespire Bay knew, splashing frantically would just waste energy. The only way to get where one wanted to go was to paddle with controlled, directed movements.
And for him, that direction was the Shattered Shield, and Icespire. He’d cling to the hope this new discovery offered.
Now, all we’ve got to do is figure out how the bloody hell to get out of this mine alive!
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The din of combat grew louder as Aravon strode toward the mine entrance, echoing through the tunnel and setting the stone walls around him rumbling. The shrieks of the wounded, the thump of heavy swords, axes, and clubs striking flesh, and the crash of steel on steel. Beneath it all, the howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs, that inhuman, keening call that resonated with their disdain and hatred of the invaders. “Death to the half-men!” they howled. Shalandran, Voramian, or Princelander, they cared not. The barbarians only wanted the interlopers gone, and they wouldn’t stop until they cleansed their lands of the “Eird’s” presence.
The battle at the mine’s entrance had raged for the better part of two hours. Though the Indomitables held their ground, the Eirdkilrs were relentless, hammering at the black-armored soldiers in wave after wave of steel and fury. Only the narrowness of the aperture and the low ceiling had saved the Indomitables from certain defeat. The Eirdkilrs could only come at them a few at a time, and the soldiers packed in rows eight-deep could hold them back.
But for how long?
The Indomitables had sustained casualties during the assault on the palisade wall, and still more as they fou
ght to retreat into the mine. And how many more had fallen in the lamplit tunnel guarding the way in? Eventually, the Eirdkilrs would triumph through sheer attrition and weight of numbers.
Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.
Aravon hurried through the Indomitables slumped against the wall, gasping for breath, nursing wounds in silence, or helping injured comrades out of the way. The black-armored soldiers were covered in the blood of friend and foe alike, most too exhausted from the furious combat to remain upright. Yet in each face shone a grim defiance, upon their shoulders the burden of knowing their turn to join the shield wall would come all too soon. In the eyes of every man Aravon passed burned the determination to fight to their last breath.
He scanned the rows of soldiers until he spotted Lord Morshan, kneeling over a wounded, bleeding soldier. Unmasked, his marvelous sword now sheathed on his back, the Proxenos fumbled with the straps of the soldier’s armor. At his side knelt another Keeper’s Blade, the one called Killian. Without his mask, Aravon finally saw the man’s face—he appeared around Aravon’s age, though a hint of grey had begun to lighten his close-trimmed beard. His face was intent, yet he seemed calm despite struggling to stop the blood gushing from the two flaps of skin torn from the man’s side by an Eirdkilr axe.
The Indomitable’s screams were drowned out by the sounds of battle, but there was no mistaking his agony in his pale, sweat-stained face and wild eyes. By the time the Proxenos managed to remove his breastplate and Killian pressed a cloth to the gaping wound, the soldier had passed out from the pain and blood loss.
Lord Morshan’s face was grim as he stood and motioned for two more soldiers to carry the man away toward a rocky chamber set off one of the side tunnels. There, the worst of the wounded were being tended. Those still able to fight remained close at hand—all would be needed to hold the mine entrance.
“Proxenos,” Aravon called out. “A moment of your time?”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 23
