Courage to Sacrifice Page 11

  Rangvaldr’s brow furrowed, heightening the aged, exhausted appearance of his face. “I gave it everything I had.” No lie there—he’d all but fallen unconscious after the strain. “I didn’t see it on his skin or feel it on his body.” A grimace tugged at his lips but he gave an unconvincing shrug. “If it comes back, we’ll just have to have another go at it.”

  Zaharis smiled. “Good.” He held out a palm. “Now, if you don’t mind…”

  Rangvaldr stared down at the Secret Keeper’s outstretched hand, curious.

  “You’ve already got a holy stone of your own, Stonekeeper,” Zaharis signed with his other hand. “I’d like mine back so I can keep studying it. I might not know your holy words, but there’s got to be more I can learn about whatever’s powering it or what it can truly do.”

  Rangvaldr hesitated a long moment before producing the stone. His eyes locked on the dimly glowing rock, uncertainty on his face. Slowly, he held it out to the Secret Keeper.

  “Thank you.” Zaharis plucked the stone from the Seiomenn’s hands and made it disappear into his pouch. His eyes darted to the side, and his jaw clenched. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to stop an annoying jack-ass from doing something stupid that gets us all killed.”

  He half-sprinted away, racing toward Noll, who had crept over to Zaharis’ alchemical chest and peered into it, eyes sparkling like an excited child.

  A little cough from Rangvaldr brought Aravon’s attention back to the Seiomenn. His eyes held a slightly vacant look, as if his mind struggled to remain awake and cognizant of his surroundings. His hair, already stark white, seemed to have thinned, a few strands fallen out of his long, braided beard. The wagon-rut lines on his face worried Aravon—the man had pushed himself too hard last night.

  Rangvaldr seemed to notice his concerned look and waved it away. “I’ll be fine, Captain. Just tired, is all.” The strange look in his eyes belied his words. Something else had to be going on, something more than simple fatigue.

  Or maybe it’s just my imagination, Aravon tried to tell himself. The exhaustion of battle could never rival the bone-deep weariness that settled over Rangvaldr after he gave his strength to heal. But beneath the fatigue, Aravon sensed something else bubbling beneath the serene façade the Seiomenn wore. He wanted to ask, wanted to press, but if Rangvaldr insisted he was fine, Aravon owed him the respect of giving him space. At least a little bit, until the Seiomenn came to terms with whatever inner turmoil plagued him.

  With an inward sigh, Aravon nodded. “So be it. You need help getting your gear?”

  “No.” The Seiomenn managed a small smile—it made his face appear even more tired, deepening the lines around his mouth and eyes. “I’d like to say a few last words to Polus.”

  Something about the Seiomenn’s tone felt terribly ominous. Realization struck Aravon like a blow to the gut: this would likely be their last time in Camp Marshal. The weight of that knowledge settled over him like a leaden blanket.

  A sudden homesickness gripped him. Even as the rest of his small company mounted up, he could not bring himself to move toward his horse. Instead, he stared around the camp one last time. At the smoking, stinking smithy, the squat barracks of stone, the wooden palisade wall with its single watchtower, the obstacle course, archery range, and training ground. The place where the Grim Reavers had been born—where Captain Snarl had emerged from the wreckage of Captain Aravon’s life.

  When he rode through the gates, he would be departing Camp Marshal one last time. Leaving behind the relative safety of the Princelands—and with it, his family.

  Somewhere, deep down inside, a part of him knew he would never return. He’d accepted his fate before riding out of Icespire, yet now, staring it in the face, he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. It felt so…final.

  Gritting his teeth against the sudden chill, Aravon forced his feet to move. To walk toward his mount, climb into the saddle, and set his horse into motion.

  The rest of the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires fell into place around him as he rode through the gates of Camp Marshal—almost certainly for the last time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aravon’s mood improved with the rising sun. Well, perhaps not improved…who could smile at the thought of riding away from home and family off to face near-certain death? Yet with every passing mile, he grew more at peace with his chosen fate. He had made the decision to travel south, to sacrifice his life for the sake of the Princelands. Acceptance brought a measure of serenity, and that serenity assuaged the burden on his soul.

  The lands of Eastfall passed in a dusty blur; the Eastmarch cut through hill lands, mile after mile of crops ripening in the sun, forests, and grassy plains. Colborn and Noll rode in the lead, keeping their pace steady, and the Kostarasar chargers ate up the miles with their loping, rolling gait.

  Despite their inexperience, the Legionnaires managed to sustain a half-decent pace. By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon and darkness reached shadowy fingers across the eastern sky, they had put close to a hundred and forty miles between them and Camp Marshal. Aravon couldn’t help feeling satisfied—at this rate, they’d cross through Hightower the following morning.

  He called a halt half an hour before full dark, following Colborn and Noll to the campsite they’d ridden ahead to scout out. A thicket of spikeberry hedges sheltered them from the wind and travelers passing on the Eastmarch, offering cover enough to light a fire without drawing unwanted attention. Though they were still within the borders of Eastfall—and unlikely to run into trouble—he needed Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires to start thinking less like soldiers and more like Grim Reavers, secretive and stealthy. The sooner they developed that mindset, the better their chances of survival in the south of Fehl and beyond the Sawtooth Mountains.

  The exhausted, heavily-sweating Legionnaires hadn’t even finished dismounting, unmasking, and brushing off the road dust before Colborn started barking orders. Within minutes of arriving at their designated campsite, Zaharis had a fire going and a simple stew cooking, Belthar had led Endyn, Duvain, and a broad-shouldered Legionnaire named Draturr off to collect wood, and Colborn led the rest of the soldiers—Captain Lingram included—on a circuit of the forest around the camp to teach them the basics of standing guard the “right way”.

  “Out here, there’s none of this ‘Halt’ or ‘Who goes?’ shite!” Colborn’s barked words echoed through the trees. “Anyone coming up on your camp’s going to want you dead. So you make damned sure you see them first, put them down, and ask questions once they’re bleeding out on the ground. Is that understood?”

  Aravon didn’t hear the soldiers’ answers, but they must have been lackluster, because Colborn roared, “Is that understood?!” once more.

  That elicited the desired enthusiasm. “Yes, Lieutenant!”

  When Colborn returned ten minutes later, he was four Legionnaires short. Corporal Rold, Tassus, Annur, and another whose name Aravon hadn’t yet learned had been chosen to stand the first watch.

  “Any man caught sleeping will stand a second and third watch!” Colborn shouted over his shoulder into the darkness. “And for the Swordsman’s sake, keep your eyes away from the fire! A night-blind scout’s about as useful as a flaccid prick at an orgy.”

  “Speaking from experience, Lieutenant?” Noll muttered. The scout opened his mouth to bark something sarcastic to Colborn, but Aravon caught Noll’s gaze and gave a firm shake of his head.

  “Respect first, jokes later,” Aravon signed.

  Noll’s mask covered his expression, but he gave a curt nod and turned back to the task Aravon had assigned him: helping Skathi train the three Legionnaires—Nacil, Tark, and Zadan, Praamians judging by the sound of their rolling vowels and harsh consonants—that had claimed to have aptitude with a bow.

  “Let’s see what you can do, then.” Skathi gestured toward her target, thirty yards away. “Any of you that can hit that fallen log by your third try gets to skip watch tonight.” With her
other hand, she signed, “Noll will stand it for them.”

  The little scout snorted. “Not bloody likely!”

  That earned him scowls and glares from the three Legionnaires. Zadan and Tark hit the log on their first shot, though Tark’s arrow more grazed the bark on the log than struck it squarely. The five arrows Skathi handed Nacil to shoot all flew wide—too short, too high, then too far to the left. Nacil, a rangy man barely into his twenties with a sparse beard to match, reddened beneath the laughter of his comrades. But instead of cussing the young man out, Skathi sent the two Legionnaires off to retrieve their arrows and stepped up to his side.

  “Watch,” she whispered.

  Snatching the bow from Nacil’s hand, she drew and loosed five arrows in quick succession. The missiles hissed through the darkness, slicing the air mere inches from Zadan and Tark—one whistling between Zadan’s legs—to thump into her target. It was over so quickly the arrows were already quivering in the fallen log before the two soldiers had a chance to yelp in panic and shock.

  Mischief twinkled in Skathi’s eyes as she turned back to Nacil. “Your problem’s a simple one to fix. Stop using the arrowhead to guide your aim. String, shaft, bowstaff—those are your guide points. Sight your shot, and only loose when your arrow’s aimed at the bullseye. Got it?”

  When Nacil’s next arrow hit the log surprisingly close to one of Skathi’s arrows, the Legionnaire flushed with pride, a massive grin on his face. Skathi clapped him on the back and instructed him to repeat the shot three more times before taking a break.

  Aravon nodded approval. Between her and Noll, we’ve got a chance of turning them into half-competent archers. They might never match Colborn or Noll at archery, much less an Agrotora as skilled as Skathi, but as long as they could shoot straight and hit an Eirdkilr, they’d serve a purpose.

  The fact that Skathi had thought to bring four extra bows—nowhere near as fine as her Agrotorae longbow, but reliable Fehlan-style hunting bows—surprised and impressed Aravon. Again, he’d been so focused on the big picture and accustomed to trusting his Grim Reavers to prepare for every eventuality they could that he’d forgotten this critical detail. Now, with those additional bows and two sheaves of arrows distributed among each of the three archers, they had a half-decent force of archers. The fourth bow would go to Rangvaldr, who’d proven his skill at the battle at the Fornbryggja.

  Aravon sought out the man himself; the Seiomenn had removed his mask and helmet and now lay against his pack with his eyes closed, furs pulled tight around him. Healing Endyn the previous night had drained him, and the few hours of rest he’d managed before their early-morning departure had barely given him time to recover strength enough to endure a day in the saddle. Aravon had ordered him to rest every chance he could—they had plenty of hands to take up the various tasks.

  Worry thrummed in the back of his mind. Throughout the day of riding, Rangvaldr’s eyes had once again been shadowed—the same look he’d had on the road north from Saerheim. At the time, he’d been feeling his age, his body slow to recover after overexerting himself healing the Fehlans after the Battle of Hangman’s Hill, Belthar’s serious head wound, and the survivors of Saerheim. It could simply be the fatigue catching up to him and dampening his mood, but Aravon couldn’t be certain until he spoke to the Seiomenn. After Rangvaldr rested and recovered, of course. The farther south they traveled, the more likely his healing magic would be called upon.

  Aravon returned to his own task: studying the map of southeastern Fehl. He’d found the Legion-made oilcloth map within Camp Marshal’s War Room. It was a crude thing, sparse on detail, with only a few of the largest Bein, Myrr, Jarnleikr, and Fjall settlements marked. Doubtless the land had changed since its creation, but at least the depiction gave him a rough idea of the route to take.

  Anvil Garrison in the Eyrr-held lands was the southernmost Legion-occupied fortress. Once, Spear Garrison had stood on the borders between Fjall, Jarnleikr, and Eyrr clan lands, established to provide a base of trade with the allied Jarnleikr and keep an eye on the fractious Fjall. More than forty years earlier, the garrison had been destroyed in a wildfire—natural or Eirdkilr-incited, no one knew—and the Fjall under Thror Arvidsson, Eirik Throrsson’s father, had fiercely resisted any Princelander attempts to rebuild it.

  South of Spear Garrison, the Eastmarch had cut deep into the western edge of Fjall lands before curving sharply southeast toward the Myrr domain and the Sawtooth Mountains. Before the southern stretch of Eastmarch had been destroyed—in the year following the assault on Highcliff Motte—the Princelands had paid heavy tolls to the Fjall to permit the passage of their caravans and Legionnaires.

  Aravon had little doubt they could pass through Fjall lands unimpeded. Even if the Fjall had had enough warriors to guard the entire breadth of their territory, they would prove no true threat. He and the Grim Reavers had more than earned the Hilmir’s favor in the battle for Storbjarg and the Battle of Hangman’s Hill. Eirik Throrsson had thrown his lot in with the Princelands against the Eirdkilrs—one word of their real mission and the Hilmir would grant them safe passage.

  But Aravon needed to ensure no word of their presence in the south reached the wrong ears. Eirik Throrsson’s own second-in-command had betrayed him in service of the Eirdkilrs. Better to remain out of sight and pass through southeastern Fehl undetected than risk discovery. He’d take no chances that the Eirdkilrs got word back to Tyr Farbjodr that the half-men were in southern Fehl—if they wanted any hope of killing the commander in the middle of his army south of the Sawtooth Mountains, it had to be a total surprise.

  That’s going to be easier said than done! Aravon gritted his teeth. According to the crude map, southeastern Fehl was mostly hill country and mountains. No peaks as sharp and forbidding as the Sawtooth Mountains, but ridges and elevation enough that the journey to Kaldrborg could take longer than he’d hoped. That strange sense of urgency still thrummed deep within him. He couldn’t explain it, but he simply knew he had to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr before the Eirdkilr unleashed whatever “true strength” Lord Eidan had claimed he was summoning.

  Long minutes passed as Aravon stared at the map, puzzling over the best route to take. Though the Eastmarch had been destroyed, the cobbled stones of the Legion-built highway torn up and scattered, it had run through terrain far more conducive to speedy travel. But the more direct route through Jarnleikr and Myrr territory, though more mountainous, would offer better concealment and less chance of discovery.

  Something soft brushed across his legs, and amber eyes gleamed up at him. Snarl, as quiet and stealthy as ever, had slipped up to Aravon without his noticing. Then again, perhaps he’d simply been too engrossed in his thoughts to be paying attention to anything. All of the Legionnaires moving around the camp stared at the little Enfield with mingled wonder and surprise.

  Sighing inwardly, Aravon set down his map—he wouldn’t figure the problem out tonight, certainly not without consulting Colborn and Captain Lingram—and picked up the Enfield. At close to three months of age, the Enfield had grown to the size of a small hound, his fur a radiant orange shot through with white at the belly. His wingspan was roughly as long as Aravon’s arms—more than broad enough to carry his furry body through the air at terrifyingly fast speeds.

  Snarl had grown, just as the rest of them had. The little Enfield’s changes were more noticeable—his size and strength, as well as his instincts—but no less pronounced than the changes in the rest of the Grim Reavers. Each of them had endured much, and their lives as the Princelands’ silent champions had left indelible marks on them.

  Aravon pulled Snarl into his lap and absentmindedly scratched the Enfield’s neck, half-listening to Colborn drilling the Legionnaires in shield and weapon work.

  Most of the soldiers had chosen Fehlan-style swords—longer, slimmer, and heavier than the Legion-issue short swords, but highly effective when paired with the round wooden shields. Endyn had chosen a hewing spear, an excellent choice for a m
an of his height, arm’s length, and power. The two remaining Legionnaires under Captain Lingram’s command—a Malandrian named Tandel and a Voramian who answered to the name of Heap—had chosen single-bladed Fehlan war axes. They had surrendered their weapons when Belthar led the soldiers off to collect firewood, but now joined in the shield wall Colborn directed.

  Legionnaires trained to crouch behind their body-length shields, but the Fehlan round shields only covered the face, torso, and groin, leaving the legs and helmeted head exposed. The shields also couldn’t take the same direct assault as the rectangular shields carried by the Legion of Heroes. Though the Fehlan warriors interlocked their shields in the same way Legionnaires did, they relied far more on strength to push and strike back at the enemy. Fighting in the Fehlan shield wall required more in the way of ferocity than discipline—a style the Legionnaires would now have to adopt in a few short days.

  The training was going as well as could be expected. The Deadheads were mostly young—all but Corporal Rold, in fact, appeared to be mostly raw recruits and men with little experience in battle—and thus had few habits to unlearn before they could master the new fighting style. Then again, that inexperience also made them less-than-effective at maintaining the ranks, keeping their shields interlocked, and hitting back at the enemy without exposing gaps in their defenses.

  The grimace on Colborn’s face had grown steadily larger over the last half-hour. Aravon knew exactly what the man was thinking: It’s going to be bloody hard to get them ready in time for the inevitable.

  No matter how stealthy they were or how much they tried to avoid battle, the truth was that they rode toward hostile territory. The Myrr and Bein had joined forces with the Eirdkilrs and wouldn’t take kindly to the Princelanders’ presence in their lands. Even if they got through the Sawtooth Mountains unhindered, they still faced an army of Eirdkilrs beyond. Battle would come—it fell to Aravon, Colborn, and his Grim Reavers to make certain the Deadheads were ready.