Zaharis bent over Belthar, eyes narrowing as he stared down at the big man’s face. “What did they do to him?” he signed without looking up.
“Gengibar called it Widow’s Spite,” Aravon replied.
Zaharis’ head snapped around, his pale face going even whiter. “Keeper’s teeth!” The name seemed to rock him back on his heels and his expression grew grim. “You sure?”
“The one-eyed bastard gloated about it.” Aravon fixed the Secret Keeper with a stern gaze. “But you can mix something up, right? Something to counteract the poison?”
The dark, solemn look on Zaharis’ face spoke volumes. “Rangvaldr’s healing stones—”
“Aren’t here!” Skathi shouted from where she knelt beside the bed. “And there’s no time to find him. If you don’t do something now, Zaharis, Belthar’s going to die.”
At that moment, Belthar’s moans of pain changed to coughing. He turned onto his side, hacking and choking. When the fit finally died off long seconds later, flecks of blood spattered the woolen pillow and ragged blankets.
The sight had an immediate effect on Zaharis. The worry never left his eyes, but every trace of hesitation fled his face, replaced by grim determination.
“There’s one thing that might work.” He whirled toward his wooden alchemical chest. “But it’s a bloody thin hope.”
“Do it!” Aravon shouted—he’d recovered his breath enough to stand and move to Belthar’s side. “Anything is better than nothing.” He gripped the wooden post of the bed in white knuckles, his eyes locked on the big man. High-pitched cries punctuated Belthar’s moans, with sporadic coughing fits that brought up more blood. His face had gone pale, his skin tinged a ghastly yellow and his cheeks a red so deep it almost appeared purple.
“Hold on, Belthar,” Skathi growled. She clutched the big man’s hand, squeezing so tight her knuckles and Belthar’s fingers went white. She looked away only once to growl at Zaharis. “Hurry, damn it!”
The Secret Keeper pawed through the pouches, glass equipment, stones, and packets in his alchemist chest with almost frantic movements, shoving aside one item, discarding another, dropping a third onto the floor beside him, and diving back in for more.
“Ska…thi?” Belthar’s eyelids fluttered open. The whites of his eyes were steadily filling with crimson, and every breath grew increasingly labored. Yet as his gaze fell on her, a smile tugged at the corners of his blood-tinged lips.
“Don’t you go dying on us, you big idiot.” Skathi glared down at him, fire blazing bright in her eyes. “Zaharis’ll give you something to fix you right up. Just hang on, like the thick-headed, ass-stubborn lummox you are.”
“I-I…” Belthar’s words cut off in a fit of coughing, but he managed a weak nod.
“Here.” From within his pouch, Aravon drew out the braided leather thong and handed it to Skathi.
Skathi snatched the wristlet. “Look what I found, Belthar.” She pressed it into the big man’s fingers. “Is it Inaia’s? Your sister’s? She make it for you?”
Belthar struggled to lift his hand to stare at the braided leather. “Said…it’d keep…me safe.” His breaths came in wheezing, rasping pants, gurgling with every inhalation. “Bring me…the Mistress’ fortune.”
“Then you hang on to that lucky charm and pray she was right, you hear?” Skathi whirled on Zaharis. “What the bloody hell is taking so long?”
Zaharis spared her only a single withering glance, but his hands were too busy with his alchemical work—mixing powders, herbs, odd-colored liquids, and ground-up stones in his mortar—to spare a moment for a signed retort.
“Belthar?” A panicked note crept into Skathi’s voice. “Belthar, don’t you go to sleep on us! Stay awake!”
“So…tired.” Belthar’s voice was faint, a rumble as distant as thunder a hundred miles out to sea. “Cold…”
Aravon’s gut tightened. “Hold on, Belthar!” He knelt beside Skathi, gripped the big man’s shoulder. “Just hold on a little longer.”
“Cap…tain.” Belthar’s eyes fixed on Aravon’s face, and his smile grew. “You came…for me.”
“Stop talking. Save your strength, Belthar.” A lump rose in Aravon’s throat. “Just a few more seconds, and we’ll have you fighting fit.” He shot a glance at Zaharis. The Secret Keeper’s movements hadn’t slowed, his arms a blur of motion as he ground, measured, and adjusted his alchemical concoction. Yet the look on his face was grim.
“Noll?” Belthar spoke barely above a rasping whisper.
“I’m here, you big ox.” Noll pushed himself off the bed and came to stand over Belthar’s massive head. “But don’t waste your breath on me.” A grin broadened his narrow features, belying the darkness shadowing his eyes. “I know I’m your hero. The one you look up to for wisdom and guid…” His voice cracked. He swallowed, blinked hard, and gave the big man a weak punch on the shoulder. “Save your speech of how much you love and admire me for after you get better, yeah?”
Belthar coughed, blood tingeing his lips, but managed a weak shake of his head. “Fuck…you.”
Noll laughed, a sound torn by pain and accompanied by a flicker of moisture sliding down his cheek. “Fuck you, too, Belthar.”
Belthar turned to Skathi. “Skathi, I…” A spasm of pain gripped Belthar’s face, and his jaw muscles clenched. For long moments, he drowned within that torment, crying out in the agony ripping his innards to shreds, his discolored face streaming sweat. His huge hands tightened in a crushing grip around Skathi’s hands, yet the archer seemed not to notice.
“Don’t you say anything, you fool!” Skathi shouted over his cries. The light in her eyes blazed brighter, and her gaze fixed on his face. “Just keep holding on, keep fighting. Keep being that stubborn son of a bitch that’s been such a pain in my arse since the day we met at Camp Marshal.” She clung to his hand like a drowning man grasped at flotsam. “You do that for me, for all of us, you hear?”
Belthar’s pain seemed to subside somewhat and his cries of pain dimmed. Tears—of pain and sorrow—filled his eyes, but he managed a weak smile. “I…can…do that.”
That last spasm, however, seemed to have sapped the last of his energy. Though his eyelids remained open, his eyes glazed over and went dull, unfocused. His breathing grew so faint Aravon feared the big man’s heart had given out from the agony.
Skathi pressed two fingers to Belthar’s neck. “His pulse is getting weak.”
Aravon rounded on Zaharis. “We need it now, Zaharis! He’s running out of time.”
“One second!” The fingers of Zaharis’ left hand formed the words while his right reached into his cloak and drew out a glass vial filled with a liquid as blue as a cloudless summer sky.
Aravon’s eyebrows rose. The Elixir of Creation! The strange, Serenii-made potion, crafted with ingredients that Zaharis had dedicated his life to discovering. Had given up his life to find, in defiance of his Secret Keeper priesthood. The bottle was barely three-quarters full, and Aravon knew that until Zaharis found the ice saffron he hunted across Fehl, there could be no more.
Yet, Zaharis only hesitated a heartbeat before uncorking the vial and tipping it up over the stone mortar in which he’d combined his alchemical ingredients. His movements were cautious, tilting carefully to add only a single drop into the mixture.
“He’s barely breathing!” Skathi’s shout pierced the tense silence gripping the room. Zaharis flinched, and the drop of Elixir flew to the side, splashing onto the chunk of ghoulstone Zaharis had been studying. For a single instant, Aravon thought he caught a hint of blue light rising from the stone. He dismissed it as nothing more than the trick of the light of the Icespire playing off the water droplet trapped within the stone’s heart.
Yet, when Zaharis poured another drop of the Elixir of Creation into his stone mortar, the ingredients within began to glow with a soft, blue-white light.
Hope sparkled in Zaharis’ eyes. Scooping up the mortar one-handed, he raced the few steps to Belthar’s s
ide. “Open his mouth!” he signed with his free hand.
Skathi and Noll wrenched the big man’s jaw apart, and Zaharis poured the contents into Belthar’s open mouth. Gently, Zaharis massaged the muscles on either side of Belthar’s windpipe, until the glow in Belthar’s mouth dissipated as the liquid slid down his throat.
Aravon’s eyes flew wide at the gleaming light that seemed to shine through Belthar’s skin. In the dim light of the room, he could actually see the glowing alchemical liquid sliding down Belthar’s throat. The same blue gleam flooded into Belthar’s veins, spreading through his face, down his neck, disappearing beneath his ragged tunic.
A heartbeat passed. The light faded, leaving Belthar once more lying pale and silent on the bed. A second heartbeat, then a third. Nothing happened. Belthar’s eyelids remained unmoving, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Not even the sound of his breathing pierced the tense silence hanging over the room.
Four heartbeats. Five.
Aravon’s fists curled tight. Come on, damn it! Belthar had to fight, had to hold on long enough for Zaharis’ potion to—
Then he heard it: a weak gasp of air being pulled into Belthar’s lungs. A second, a third, and more. Color seeped into his cheeks and the tension drained from the big man’s face. He lay still, yet his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
“Yes!” Skathi pressed two fingers to Belthar’s neck, and hope gleamed bright in her tear-filled eyes. “He’s coming back.”
Aravon let out a shuddering breath. He sat back, hard, falling against the wall. The room seemed to spin around him, so violently he nearly emptied his stomach. Yet the sound of Belthar’s steady breathing anchored him to reality. He hadn’t lost another of the men under his command. Another of his friends and comrades. The big man had lived. Would live. The relief bathing Aravon was like a cool breeze on the hottest summer night.
“Damn, Zaharis.” Noll shook his head. “Cutting it close there.”
Zaharis shot back a flat look. “Delicate alchemy can’t be rushed. Rushing is the fastest way to wind up a few fingers short!”
Noll’s barb lacked any real teeth, and everyone in the room knew it. Despite his words, the scout couldn’t keep the beaming smile from his lips. He and Belthar had become as close as brothers, Aravon knew. Their competitive rivalry proved that, as did their incessant insults, their easy camaraderie, and the way the usually-apathetic Noll had nearly wept at the prospect of losing Belthar. In his own way, the big man had grown on all of them. Aravon couldn’t have imagined the Grim Reavers without Belthar’s solid strength—thanks to Zaharis, he wouldn’t have to.
“Well done, Zaharis.” Aravon rested a hand on the Secret Keeper’s shoulder. “You saved him.”
Zaharis bent over Belthar, prying open the big man’s eyelids and checking his pulse. “He’s still not out of danger.” His expression grew grim and deep lines furrowed his brow. “Widow’s Spite is nasty stuff. The sort of poison you give your worst enemy when you want him dying in agony.”
“Way Gengibar was talking, sounds about right.” Noll shot a sidelong glance at the sleeping Belthar. “Think it’s really true, what he said about Belthar refusing to let the Bright Lady’s healers treat his sister?” He grimaced. “That he let her die?”
“Maybe.” Skathi spoke without looking away from Belthar. Even though he slept easy, she hadn’t released her death grip on his huge hand. “But can you say you’d have done any different in his situation?”
Noll’s expression grew pensive.
Skathi’s face tightened, a shadow flashing behind her emerald green eyes. “Sometimes, when life’s throwing nothing but shite choices at you, all you can do is try and choose the lesser of all the evils. Right and wrong doesn’t always apply—only survival, living to fight another day.” Now she looked up at Noll. “No matter the cost or the scars it leaves on your soul.”
As ever, the archer’s words held a hidden depth of meaning. The night after leaving Steinnbraka Delve, she’d spoken of her sister, and of the sacrifice she’d made. Aravon could only guess at what she’d done, yet her words to Belthar had left no doubt that it had left deep scars.
Aravon turned to Zaharis. “What should we do?” he asked. “Is there anything more you can give him?”
The Secret Keeper shook his head. “The Elixir’s rendered the poison inert, but the Widow’s Spite had done some serious damage to his internal organs. How much damage, I can’t say for sure, not without cutting him open for a closer look.” He shook his head. “But unless we get Rangvaldr here soon, he doesn’t have long.”
Aravon whirled on Noll. “Go get to the Outwards and find Rangvaldr! Get him back here now.”
Noll leapt to his feet, but hesitated a heartbeat, shooting a glance down at the sleeping Belthar. “Get better, you ugly bastard.” His brow furrowed and his lips pulled into a tight line, but he said no more, simply dashed out of their room.
“I’ll give him something to keep him sleeping for now,” Zaharis signed. “But until Rangvaldr works his magic…” He trailed off with a shrug.
Aravon nodded. “Thank you.”
As Zaharis bent over his alchemical supplies, Aravon turned back to Belthar. Skathi hadn’t moved, but sat beside the big man’s bed, her eyes locked on his heavy face.
“Skathi,” Aravon said quietly. “You’ve had a long few days. Maybe you should—”
“I’m fine right where I am, Captain.” Skathi didn’t look up, but her voice was as hard as Odarian steel. “Never been more comfortable.”
Aravon almost considered sending her back to Lord Virinus’ mansion, but decided against it. He recognized that tone of unshakable adamancy from his years married to Mylena. He’d have better luck emptying the Frozen Sea with a leaking bucket than moving Skathi from her perch. Belthar was fighting for his life, his body dying even with the poison gone. At that moment, he needed the strength of her presence there.
So be it. In silence, Aravon sat on the room’s other bed—cluttered by rumpled blankets and Zaharis’ scattered herbs and pouches. There was nothing else he could do but sit and offer Belthar his silent support. The Steel Company knew his face, and they’d be hunting him in Portside, perhaps even in Eastway. He had to keep out of sight and away from the mercenaries.
That gave him time to think, to ponder what he’d learned from Gengibar Twist. The look on the Broker’s face had confirmed that they were, in fact, working with Lord Aleron Virinus. It wasn’t an admission of guilt, certainly nothing they could bring to the Prince, but it proved that he’d been thinking in the right direction. There was something going on in the shadows, and Lord Virinus was in on it. He’d betrayed Prince Toran by embezzling the gold mined by the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve—was it really such a stretch to imagine the nobleman could also be the traitor working with the Eirdkilrs? After all, only a few hundred miners, most of them Fehlan, had been harmed by the information he’d sold. The murder of one Rivergate tavernkeeper, Duke Dyrund’s agent, wouldn’t do much to darken the already midnight-black stain on his soul.
So we need to keep digging, Aravon determined. Keep finding out more about whatever Lord Virinus is planning.
But short of confronting the man directly, he had no idea how to do that. He was a soldier, a Captain in the Legion who made decisions based on intelligence gathered by others, not responsible for gathering the information himself. He could scout an enemy’s position, estimate the strategic value of any terrain, and plan for troop movements across vast distances. He could envision a battle in his mind and try to outthink his opponent, prepare for whatever they’d throw at him. Give him a shield wall and a howling horde of Eirdkilrs any day.
Yet when it came to the back-stabbing and deceptive politeness of Icespire high society, he was as out of place as a golden imperial in a pigsty. He had studied the art of war, military history, and the culture of his allies and enemies in detail, yet never had he learned the courteous thrust and parry of court politics. This battle, he felt ill-suited to fi
ght.
So we need to turn to the people who know how to fight the battle the way it’s meant to be fought. Aravon’s jaw clenched. Men like the Prince, or Lord Eidan.
He opened his mouth and called Snarl to come. The Enfield padded toward him, eyes bright and eager. One short message was all it would take to bring the Duke’s aide in on their search. Duke Dyrund had called Lord Eidan bright and cunning. The nobleman had dedicated his life to this sort of thinking. The Prince’s spymaster could point them in the right direction.
But he hesitated, writing stick pressed to the parchment. No, not yet. Not until we’re certain we can’t do anything else.
Duke Dyrund had chosen all of them for the Prince’s special company because he trusted they had the skills to see any mission through. This mission wasn’t like hunting down Eirdkilrs or repelling an attack on a Fehlan village, but it was something the Duke would have expected them to complete. Had he been here, Duke Dyrund would want Aravon to use every tool at his disposal, to leave no stone unturned in his efforts to bring the traitor to justice.
Lord Eidan was one such tool, but Aravon couldn’t jeopardize the secrecy of their hunt. He wouldn’t risk anything leaking—if the traitor knew they were searching, he could take steps to mask his treachery.
Yet he still penned a note to send with Snarl. “Ursus injured. Waiting until recovered.” Simple and sweet, it would satisfy Lord Eidan’s curiosity as to their location and purpose without revealing too much. The spymaster wouldn’t need to send Skyclaw to search for them. They could continue operating in Icespire a little while longer before needing to call on Lord Eidan for help.
Not much longer, though. Only until that evening, when they paid a visit to the Hidden Circle alchemist and obtained the information Zaharis had intimidated Essedus into gathering for them. The wax seal with the carbuncle insignia would point them to the traitor, and the Hidden Circle’s intelligence would confirm Lord Virinus’ guilt. Then, and only then, would they have the proof they could take to Lord Eidan and the Prince. There would be no escape for Lord Virinus. His treachery would be put to rest once and for all.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 56
