Lord Eidan frowned down at the carbuncle stamped into the wax seal. “And you’re certain you have no idea what noble House this belongs to?” He fixed Aravon with a piercing stare. “You’ve never seen it before in all your years among high society? Or among the Duke’s private possessions?”
Aravon nodded. “Very certain.” He gave the nobleman a wry smile. “I was never one for Icespire high society. The simple soldier’s life always held more appeal to me.”
“Spoken like an honorable Legionnaire.” As if realizing what he’d said, Lord Eidan’s face darkened and he ducked his head. “You have my condolences on your recent loss. General Traighan was admired by all in the Princelands. A truly capable General and a valiant hero of the Princelands. I am sorry you missed his funeral. It was a grand spectacle, his body laid in state beside the Duke, as was his final wish.”
A lump rose in Aravon’s throat—he hadn’t yet had time to properly process his feelings over his father’s death, so close on the heel of Duke Dyrund’s murder. Truth be told, he wasn’t certain how to begin going about it. So much remained unsaid between him and General Traighan—he’d never get to say them now.
With effort, he forced a neutral tone and replied, “Thank you, my lord.”
Lord Eidan stepped closer and patted Aravon’s shoulder. “Go, Captain. Rejoin your men, and take what rest and refreshment you can. By tonight, you will be on your way to put an end to the vile traitor once and for all.”
* * *
Aravon snapped awake at the quiet knocking at the warehouse door. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, and had rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes as Lord Eidan strode into the warehouse.
“Captain, soldiers.” Lord Eidan fixed the seven of them with a solemn gaze. “I have found your target. Lord Virinus has fled to a secret mansion he had built overlooking his mine at Lastcliff. He is there now, and only took a handful of his household guards so as to avoid drawing unwanted attention.”
He held out a scroll tied with a black leather thong. “Here you will find the floor plan for his mansion, courtesy of the architect that built it.”
Aravon’s eyes widened and he snatched the rolled-up parchment from Lord Eidan’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Lord Eidan.” With a grateful nod, he knelt and spread the floor plan out across a patch of dry ground.
“But I urge you to hurry.” A somber insistence echoed in Lord Eidan’s oddly deep voice. “Lord Aleron Virinus’ fortunes are vast, and there is no telling when he might decide that the situation in the Princelands is too dangerous. If he even suspects that his treachery has been uncovered, he could flee to the mainland to escape the Prince’s wrath.”
“Not a bloody chance we’re letting that happen!” Noll snarled.
A dagger appeared in Skathi’s hand. “After everything he’s done, the bastard’s not getting off that easily.”
“Good.” A confident smile broadened Lord Eidan’s angular features. “Then go. I have prepared everything for you. Horses will be waiting for you outside the Soldier’s Gate.” He held out a second scroll, this one bearing a wax seal. “Find the man named Kogar south of the gate, and show him the seal of House Eidan. He will give you everything you need.”
Aravon glanced down at the insignia—the depiction of a sphinx, a creature with the body of a lion, birds’ wings, and the head and breasts of a woman.
With a nod, Aravon took the letter, relief bathing away the last of his worries. The Soldier’s Gate stood less than half a mile from the warehouse where they’d spent the last half-day hunkering down. They could get out and find Lord Eidan’s man, Kogar, with little fear of running into the Steel Company. Or the Brokers or Secret Keepers.
But it was more than that. They would be out of Icespire—away from all the painful memories from Aravon’s past, far enough away from Mylena and his sons that it would no longer hurt to be so near yet not go home to see them. There was little chance they’d be discovered riding south along the Eastmarch to Pinehollow, or west toward Lord Aleron Virinus’ mansion at Lastcliff.
No more confined spaces, tight alleyways, or threats hidden behind every corner. Once again, Aravon would ride free across open ground, the enemy ahead rather than surrounding him on every side. The part of him that had dreaded returning to the city of his birth and youth now exulted at the knowledge that they would be leaving once more. At least with a threat to face, Aravon would have an escape from the pain of loss, the grief and anguish that had gripped him nearly every moment he’d spent in Icespire.
Yet before he left, he had one more matter to see to. “A word, Lord Eidan?”
The nobleman cocked an eyebrow, but nodded and followed Aravon to one side. “Captain?” he asked when they stood apart from the others.
“My family,” Aravon said quietly. “My wife and sons. Duke Dyrund promised to look out for them, and that the Prince—”
“The Prince has entrusted me with seeing to it that your family is cared for.” Lord Eidan gave him a knowing smile. “They will want for nothing for as long as you remain in the Prince’s service.”
Relief flooded Aravon. “Thank you, Lord Eidan. Truly.”
“Of course, Captain. It is my duty.” Lord Eidan inclined his head. “It is also what the Duke would want.” He raised a clenched fist. “And he would want you to punish Lord Virinus for his treachery.”
Aravon’s jaw tightened. “Trust me, Lord Eidan. That is precisely what we intend to do.”
Chapter Seventy-Five
“West side is quieter than a Secret Keeper’s feast hall, Captain.”
Aravon glanced up as Noll slid into the bushes beside him. “Guards?”
“The one I saw looked better-suited to a feasting hall than marching a patrol.” Noll mimed a prodigious gut. “If there are any more, they’re holed up inside with Lord Virinus.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, Aravon turned back to studying the mansion. Noll’s report fit with what he’d seen. He, Belthar, Skathi, and Rangvaldr had held position on the hilltop south of the estate for the better part of an hour, and the only people they’d seen within the mansion were a pair of grey-haired servants emptying chamber pots and hauling out the remains of a meal. No sign of any guards, or of Lord Aleron Virinus himself.
But Lord Eidan’s intelligence placed the nobleman within the mansion. And, given its location, it seemed a likely retreat for someone fleeing an assassin—and perhaps the wrath of his Prince.
The mansion sat atop an east-facing cliff, with a single long, sharp hill on the estate’s northern side descending toward the rocky coast of the Frozen Sea. To the west and south, forested highlands offered seclusion, with only a winding carriage trail ascending from the mining town of Lastcliff to Lord Virinus’ manor.
Isolation and a clear line of sight toward Icespire ensured that Lord Virinus would see any Icewatchers or Legionnaires marching up the path toward his villa. With a solid outer wall twenty feet high and a closed-and-barred gate thick enough to keep out a battering ram, the property itself would prove difficult to breach.
The mansion itself, however, was far more of an opulent villa than a proper stronghold. Though the south-facing front door appeared solid enough, Aravon doubted the kitchens on the mansion’s western side would offer much in the way of resistance. On their ascent through the wooded hills south of the meandering carriage path, Aravon had caught sight of massive glass windows adorning the east side of the villa. Once they found a way over that wall unseen, they’d have little trouble getting to Lord Virinus himself.
“Come.” Aravon crawled backward on his elbows and knees until he was back under tree cover once more, then rose to his feet. “Colborn will be returning any minute now. Time to make our plan of attack.”
With Noll at his side, he pushed through the dense underbrush back the twenty yards to the clearing where the remaining Grim Reavers waited. Belthar, Skathi, and Zaharis knelt over the floor plan Lord Eidan had given them.
Snarl had finally calmed down
enough to lie quiet in the grass, and only after Skathi barked the command word to remain silent. After so many days within the city, the little Enfield was delighted to be back among the forests—so delighted, in fact, that his incessant frolicking and yipping had risked drawing attention. An eager light gleamed in Snarl’s amber eyes, and every muscle in his furry little body quivered with the eager desire to fly, run, and gambol about the forest. The only thing keeping Snarl from leaping about was Rangvaldr’s hand scratching the scruff of his neck.
Aravon shot a glance at Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn had expended a great deal of his strength healing Belthar of the last aftereffects of the Widow’s Spite. But after a half-day of rest, the droop had gone from his shoulders, the deep lines in his face softened. The few hours of sleep he’d managed to snatch back in the Portside warehouse had done him wonders.
“Noll reports all’s quiet on the west.” Aravon knelt beside Belthar. “And as far as I can see, any guards holding the front door, here—” He tapped on the main entrance on the southern side of the villa. “—will be inside.”
“Probably with the doors barred.” The snarling greatwolf mask once again hid Belthar’s face—all their faces—but there was no mistaking the tension around his eyes. “And with a clear line of sight of the front. No chance we go in that way, not if we want to catch Lord Virinus by surprise before he ducks into his safe room.”
Aravon’s brow furrowed as he studied the plans. According to the schematics of the mansion, Lord Virinus had built a metal-reinforced safe room into his office on the second floor, complete with accompanying escape tunnel—though the architect’s plans hadn’t included where it let out. If they didn’t take the nobleman by surprise, he could duck out of sight and escape their clutches. They’d never find him then.
“That leaves two ways in.” Aravon swept a finger toward the two other entrances into the villa—the western door that led from the refuse heap and outhouses into the kitchens, and the northern entrance from the estate’s gardens.
A low, rumbling chuckle emanated from beneath Belthar’s mask. “I’d bet a cask of the finest Voramian ale he won’t expect us coming up the mansion’s arsehole.” He tapped on the western entrance. “Unless he’s smart enough to post a guard there—which most nobleman aren’t, simply because they rarely expect anyone other than servants to use the servants’ entrances—we’ll have a clear approach, out of the line of sight of his men.” Mirth twinkled in his eyes. “Not a lot of men build big beautiful windows overlooking the dung and scrap heaps.”
“So be it.” Aravon nodded. “Now, we’ve just got to hope Colborn comes back with a way over that wall on the north side.” He shot a glance at Noll. “You sure there’s nothing on the west side? No postern gates or weak spots out of sight of the house?”
Noll shook his head. “Just solid stone overlooking the outhouses.”
Aravon ground his teeth. “The south side’s not going to work, either. And the east side of the house is all grand glass windows and balconies.”
Skathi nodded. “Lord Virinus likely wants a clear view of that.”
Through a gap in the trees, the town of Lastcliff spread out in a broad semi-circle at the base of the cliff upon which Lord Virinus’ mansion stood. A single towering mile-thick bluff separated the town from the ocean’s edge, and into that solid rocky face had been cut a mine unlike anything Aravon had seen before. While Steinnbraka Delve, Silver Break, and Gold Burrows had been tunnels running deep inside the mountain’s face, Lord Virinus’ mine here looked like a giant pit two miles wide, three miles long, and half a mile into the ground. Rocky paths wended up the steep rocky cliff, and thousands of men and women labored up those slopes, chipping away at the gold-rich wall of stone. The clinking of hundreds of pick axes echoed loud even from this distance—a testament to the vast fortunes mined by Lord Aleron Virinus.
“I didn’t get a good look at the north,” Noll was saying as Aravon turned his attention back to the task at hand, “but I’d bet there are more big picture windows.” The scout gave a wry shake of his head. “You’d have to be a fool to pass up that kind of view.”
To the north and far below their position, the Frozen Sea stretched out to the horizon, an unbroken swath of perfect blue-green as far as the eye could see. The golden light of the descending sun set the water’s surface twinkling, and already splashes of sunset pink, red, and purple painted the ocean in a brilliant array of colors. That view of sunset on the Frozen Sea had always been one of the things Aravon loved most about living in Icespire—and among the things he missed most when away from home.
“West side it is, then.” Aravon glanced at his men. “Everyone up for this?”
For answer, Skathi unlimbered her bow. Delight sparkled in her eyes, and she held her Agrotorae weapon with mingled reverence and relief at their reunion. Rangvaldr checked his Fehlan-style longsword in its sheath and adjusted the straps holding his shield onto his back.
Belthar hefted his huge axe with a grunt. “Solid as Odarian steel, Captain.”
Aravon studied the big man. The mask concealed Belthar’s features—concealed the fatigue that doubtless still dragged at his healing body. But Aravon didn’t press the issue. Belthar was bull-headed and tenacious as an old mule, but he wouldn’t do anything that endangered their company.
“Good.” Aravon nodded. “We move at dark.”
Standing, he reached for his spear and strode back through the bushes toward the forest’s edge, where he could keep an eye on Lord Virinus’ mansion. It felt good to have the weapon in his hand once more. He’d missed the spear’s solid heft, the added reach, and the perfect balance of the forearm-length spearhead and iron-shod butt. Though he’d carried a plain longsword into Icespire, the weight of his own Odarian steel sword felt right sitting on his belt. The mask covering his face brought an odd sense of comfort, of security. What had once felt alienating now brought him peace. With his features concealed, he could hide from a world that had grown terrifyingly dangerous in the last few weeks.
The feeling struck him as immensely odd. The life of a soldier was filled with all manner of dangers—from pestilence and plague to exhaustion, hunger, thirst and, of course, the ever-present threat of the enemy. Yet Aravon had always known that his role in the Legion carried its own shield of protection. As long as he kept his men in formation, kept his shield between himself and the enemy, he’d have a chance of going home.
No longer. Leaving Icespire earlier that day had felt so…final. He faced death if he returned. The Secret Keepers wanted him dead for his association with Zaharis. If he ever crossed paths with Gengibar Twist, he had little doubt the Broker would order his death. And the Steel Company weren’t the forgiving sort—they’d want him dead as much as the rest of his enemies.
The mask had kept the world at bay. He’d been able to hide behind its anonymity, behind the name of Captain Snarl. Yet now, too many people were hunting him. Perhaps not by name—to the world, Captain Aravon of the Sixth Company, son of the late General Traighan, was dead—yet his enemies had seen his face. He would never truly feel safe now.
That burden had grown heavier with every passing hour. He’d distracted himself with the half-day of travel—first to Pinehollow to recover their gear and armor, then the thirty-mile journey to Lastcliff—but now, with nothing to do but sit and wait, he could escape the weight of truth no longer. He could never return to Icespire. Could never return to the life he’d lived before becoming Captain Snarl. Never take off the mask. He was trapped in this existence—one of secrets, blood, and death.
The crackling of twigs and branches sounded from behind Aravon. Glancing back, he found Rangvaldr pushing through the underbrush to stand beside him.
“Captain.” Rangvaldr’s voice was quiet. “You look burdened.”
Aravon almost shrugged off the comment, but one look at the concern filling Rangvaldr’s eyes brought the words spilling from his mouth. “There’s no way out of this for me. No way back to who I once w
as or what I once had.” He gestured to the mask covering his face. “This is my life now.”
Rangvaldr grunted, nodding his head. “No small burden, then.”
A harsh chuckle burst from Aravon’s lips. “You know me, Rangvaldr. I don’t do small.”
“Save your boasts for the bedroom, Captain.” Mirth twinkled in the Seiomenn’s green eyes.
Despite the gloom filling his mind, Aravon couldn’t help smiling.
Rangvaldr leaned against a tree, facing Lord Virinus’ clifftop mansion. Long moments of silence passed before the Seiomenn shot Aravon a sidelong glance. “Mind if I tell you a story?”
“What are the odds that you’ll actually listen if I say no?”
Rangvaldr inclined his head. “The benefits of old age, being able to ignore young fools.” Again, humor sparkled in his eyes. “Once there was an Eyrr warrior, one of the finest that ever lived, or so said the most beautiful of the Fehlan women.”
“A mythical story, is it?” Aravon rolled his eyes.
Rangvaldr ignored him. “This warrior had been raised to the ways of battle. Trained every day of his youth and adult life to fight. And he was damned good at it, too, mind you.” He gave Aravon a meaningful look. “Yet for all his skill, he lacked the one thing that made all the heroes of Fehl truly great.”
“The ability to keep his stories short?” Aravon asked.
Again, Rangvaldr brushed off the retort. “The taste for battle. It’s well-known that all the greatest warriors of Fehl bathed in the blood of their enemies, like the Blodsvarri. But this young man, he didn’t live for blood and death like the others. He wanted more. For himself and his people.”
This time, Aravon held his tongue. Rangvaldr had told them the story of how he’d heard the voice of Nuius, god of the Eyrr, speaking in his heart and calling him to strive for peace on Fehl. Even if that meant fighting to achieve it.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 60
