Courage to Sacrifice Read online

“Do you want to tell them, or should I?” Aravon had given the question a great deal of thought—he wanted there to be no uncertainty as to the plan moving forward, but perhaps hearing the news from the Captain they’d followed for weeks would make it easier to swallow than if he was the one to share it.

  “It should come from me,” Lingram said in a heavy voice.

  “So be it.” Aravon inclined his head. “Before we ride out in the morning, you’ll break it to them.”

  “As you say, Captain.”

  Aravon turned to march back to the campfire.

  “Aravon.”

  Lingram’s quiet call stopped him short, and he turned to glance over his shoulder at his friend.

  “The mask.” Lingram pointed to his face.

  For the first time, Aravon realized he hadn’t yet removed the snarling greatwolf mask. The mask had been a part of his life for so long, he’d forgotten he still wore it.

  “You’ve got to wear the mask of Captain,” Lingram said, “but you don’t need to wear the mask, Captain.” A smile tugged at his lips at the turn of phrase. “It’ll do everyone good to see you for you. The man beneath the façade.”

  The quiet words pierced to the core of Aravon’s being. As Lingram said, being Captain meant wearing a figurative mask—of calm confidence, remaining composed and alert at all times, cool through even the most difficult situations. But his leather Grim Reavers mask was intended as a barrier to keep people out, to conceal the truth of who he was from the world around him.

  If he kept that barrier up, these Legionnaires would never truly come to know and trust him as his own men had. Captain Lingram and his soldiers weren’t just traveling alongside them—as had been the case with Jade Battalion at Broken Canyon, Captain Lemaire and his soldiers at Rivergate, Eirik Throrsson and his Fjall warband, the Shalandrans at Steinnbraka Delve, and everyone who’d fought to save Icespire—but, united in purpose, had become part of them.

  To lead them to victory, he had to pull down any obstacles that prevented them from seeing him as their Captain.

  With a nod, he reached up and removed his mask. It was a strange sensation, removing the protective shield in the presence of these men—men who were all but strangers. But at the sight of the smile on the face of Captain Lingram, the friend he’d known for most of his life as a Legionnaire, the unease faded, replaced by a sense of rightness.

  Turning, Aravon strode back toward the camp, past the resting Skyclaw and frolicking Snarl, to join the men—his men now—around the fire.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A tense silence hung over the nineteen soldiers crouching in the forest bordering the Eastmarch. None spoke or moved; all eyes fixed on the fifty armed clansmen marching north along the highway. Heavy boots tromped on solid stone, accompanied by the clank of armor and the clatter of axes, swords, and shields. Just being so close—barely thirty yards of forest and cleared ground separated their company from the enemy—set Aravon’s gut twisting. He fought his instincts, keeping his breath slow and quiet, his jaw muscles working as knots tightened in his shoulders.

  Please, keep them silent! He prayed the silent prayer to the Swordsman.

  The soldiers around him remained frozen, yet they’d stood immobile far too long, and Aravon could see them getting twitchy. They lacked the Grim Reavers’ woodcraft, and it was only by the Swordsman’s grace they hadn’t made a sound. Yet at any moment, one of them could move, cough, or do something else to draw attention.

  Long minutes passed before the Deid warriors disappeared around the bend in the Eastmarch. Tension slowly drained from Aravon’s muscles as he relaxed and let out a long breath.

  He opened his mouth to commend the Legionnaires, but Colborn’s voice cut through the underbrush first.

  “Right!” The Lieutenant’s tone was gruff, his words harsh. “Who wants to tell me what was done wrong there?”

  Corporal Rold snorted. “You mean aside from Arrow-magnet here nearly knocking down that birch tree when he hit it face-first?”

  Aravon glanced at Endyn; the huge Legionnaire ducked his head, embarrassment sparkling in his eyes. He’d likely feel that impact for a day or two, perhaps even sport a bruise. The thump of Endyn’s masked face striking the tree had been loud enough for the approaching Fehlan warriors to hear.

  “Yes,” Colborn growled, “aside from that.”

  The Legionnaires looked at one another, and a bewildered silence answered the Lieutenant’s question.

  “Uhh…” Duvain ventured. “We moved too slowly?”

  Aravon stifled a chuckle. That’s always a good answer. And accurate in this case. From the moment Noll had galloped toward them with news of the oncoming soldiers, it had taken nearly three full minutes for the Legionnaires to scramble off the paved Eastmarch and take cover under a thicket of alder trees.

  “Damned right!” Colborn gave a disgusted shake of his head. “Had they been Eirdkilrs instead of friendlies, you lot would be squaring up in front of the Long Keeper himself right now.” He studied the nervous-looking Legionnaires around him. “What else?”

  Again, the exchange of puzzled glances, but none of the Legionnaires could summon an answer.

  “The horses.” Colborn thrust a finger toward the massive Kostarasar chargers, who stood beside the Legionnaires, less than two paces from the edge of the forest. As if to illustrate his point, a pair of the chargers snorted loudly, one gave a soft nicker, and three more shuffled in place. The crack of twigs and the rustling of leaves echoed loud in the silence, eliciting winces from the soldiers.

  “Always keep the horses as far from the enemy as possible.” Colborn moved toward the mounts. “The minute you take cover, you get your horse out of sight and somewhere it’ll keep quiet. The last thing you need is movement and sound to catch the enemy’s attention when you’re trying to stay unnoticed. Understood?”

  A chorus of “Yes, Lieutenant!” echoed among the Legionnaires.

  “Good!” Colborn snapped. “Now saddle up and let’s move out.”

  That was met with more than a few groans. Even now, four days after riding out of Camp Marshal, the Legionnaires were far from a fine cavalry force. Though they could all sit a saddle and match the fast pace set by the Grim Reavers, they still had a long way to go before they’d keep up with Aravon or Captain Lingram, much less an experienced scout like Noll.

  Colborn hadn’t taken it easy on the soldiers in those four days. Since receiving the Prince’s message, a new urgency had gripped their entire company, but the Lieutenant more than most. Battle would come far sooner than he’d like, so it fell to him to ensure that the soldiers were ready for whatever their mission would throw at them.

  That meant at least an hour spent training with their unfamiliar longswords, working together to form a solid wall with the circular Fehlan wooden shields instead of the heavy, man-high rectangular shields they’d grown accustomed to carrying in the Legion. Though he didn’t take them on overnight runs as he had with Aravon and the others at Camp Marshal, he and Rangvaldr had spent time teaching the eleven soldiers—and Captain Lingram with them—the basics of Fehlan survival, woodcraft, and tracking skills.

  Aravon studied the eleven soldiers struggling into their saddles. They’re a long way off from being Grim Reavers, but the best we can do is prepare them for what’s to come. That had been his command to all his soldiers, one they’d each taken seriously.

  Skathi’s three chosen archers spent every night loosing arrows until their fingers bled. Belthar, with Endyn’s help, played the role of giant Eirdkilrs attacking the shield wall with their huge axes, teaching the Legionnaires how to defend against the hulking barbarians with their new weaponry and armor. Aravon and Zaharis joined in, using spear and mace to illustrate the battle tactics used by the Eirdkilrs.

  After Heap had proven himself a marginally competent horseman, Noll had taken the Voramian under his wing and taught him the rudiments of scouting, including the secret symbols used to chart directions and mark paths
.

  To their credit, the Legionnaires endured the training, hours of hard riding, insufficient sleep, and nights spent in the cold and darkness with only minimal complaining—the sort expected from soldiers. All officers knew that their grunts needed to moan about something; it was when the infantrymen went quiet that there was a real problem. Though the last four days had proven grueling, they were showing signs of improvement. Even the slim Duvain had found his place: as Zaharis’ assistant.

  The Secret Keeper spent every night first cooking the evening meal, then cooking up alchemical surprises for the enemy. According to Zaharis, Duvain’s knowledge of plants and herbology bordered on “less than utter idiocy”—high praise from the alchemically ingenious Secret Keeper.

  Only Rangvaldr remained apart from the rest. The days of travel had been hard on his exhausted body, and he recovered his strength slowly. He spent most nights shrouded in his furs, eyes locked on their campfire or closed in sleep. The lines on his face had grown deeper, the shadows in his eyes darker. Whatever bothered him wasn’t going away with time.

  Aravon had grown more concerned about the Seiomenn, but every attempt to draw the man out had proven fruitless. Rangvaldr had waved him away, claiming fatigue, but Aravon knew the Seiomenn well enough to recognize that something else was going on beneath the surface. What exactly that was, he couldn’t be certain, and he’d been so busy with the training of the Legionnaires and planning their route south he hadn’t had a chance to dig deeper.

  He resolved to do so the first chance he got. Tonight, for sure. He needed to make certain his healer and friend was up to facing what lay ahead.

  But for now, they had to keep riding, keep pushing the pace to cover the distance south as quickly as possible. The last Eastmarch mile-marker they’d passed told him they’d traveled nearly two hundred and fifty miles south of the Chain. By noon, they would pass Anvil Garrison—still in the process of being rebuilt after the Eirdkilrs captured it weeks earlier.

  At Colborn’s command, their little company of soldiers moved out. Noll and Heap rode ahead, scouting the Eastmarch south. With Colborn and Corporal Rold at the head of their column, they set off down the stone-paved highway at a steady pace. With the Kostarasar chargers’ rapid, rolling gaits, Aravon expected they’d cover close to eighty miles more before they had to call a halt for the night.

  Less than a mile down the road, Aravon was struck with a strange sense of déjà vu. Something about this stretch of the Eastmarch was terribly familiar. That stand of pine trees growing far too close to the highway—close enough to be the perfect spot for an ambush. The little dip in the flat, grassy land east of the highway, shallow enough to slow down a charging enemy without offering cover from arrow fire.

  A shiver ran down his spine. I’ve been here before. He suddenly knew why the land felt familiar. This is where it happened.

  Aravon’s gut tightened into painful knots and every muscle in his body went suddenly rigid. His eyes roamed the forest, half-expecting to hear the howling war cries of Eirdkilrs, the hissing of black-shafted arrows darkening the skies, the panicked cries of dying men and terrified horses. His hand tightened around the shaft of his spear in anticipation of the enemy ambush.

  None came. The forest remained quiet, nothing but the cries of the woodland birds and the thundering of hooves to break the silence that hung over the Eastmarch. No Eirdkilrs charged from the forest to hack down his men.

  Memories washed over Aravon. Painful ones. Blood spraying from the mouth of a Legionnaire just in front of him, an arrow punched through the soldier’s back. Another crushed beneath an iron-studded club far too heavy for any Legionnaire to wield. A two-foot spearhead jutting out the front of Lieutenant Naif’s neck. Sergeant Bytin, Corporal Older, Strom, Hortin, Enthos, and Dreault—so many of Sixth Company lying dead on the stone. Crimson staining the ground, soaking into the grass, crusting on Aravon’s hands, face, and armor. The stink of death, the crush of bodies suffocating him.

  It had all begun in this very spot. That fateful day when the men of Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company died at the hands of Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr. This very spot, where Aravon had believed himself dead, only to awaken amidst a mountain of blood, cold flesh, and silence. He’d clawed free of the mountain of his slain soldiers and staggered away into the darkness. Dying, drowning in sorrow.

  Remorse and grief twisted like twin knives in his gut. He’d come to terms with their deaths, but being back here, seeing where it happened again, brought back all the pain. Darkness settled into his mind and heart, clouding his thoughts until it threatened to drag him into the murky depths of despair.

  He wrestled with those memories, with the faces of men who had died following him. Joining them were others that had fallen at his side: Draian the Mender, Duke Dyrund, Lord Morshan, Myron Virinus, and so many more. So many, many more—Shalandrans, Voramians, Praamians, Princelanders, and Fehlans. Too many dead, slain in this senseless war.

  The burden weighed on him far heavier than it had in a long time. He tried to lift his shoulders, to straighten his spine, but he could not. It was all he could do to grip his reins and keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Never seeing the bright sunlight and the colorful forest around them, his vision too full with the faces of the dead.

  His mind barely registered Colborn and Corporal Rold turning off the Eastmarch and heading east, into the forest opposite Anvil Garrison. He turned his head, his eyes falling onto the figures going through the motions of rebuilding the stronghold, but as he rode past, he had no memory of what had been done to repair the high stone walls and solid gate.

  The ghosts of his past haunted him all through the day and into the night. Even Snarl’s warmth and playful enthusiasm couldn’t fully comfort him, couldn’t dispel the gloom that filled his mind. He fell asleep quickly, his body exhausted from the day’s exertions and his mind seeking rest, yet none came. His dreams were plagued by painful memories of blood and death. Men and women—Legionnaires, Indomitables, Keeper’s Blades, Fjall warriors, and civilians died a thousand deaths that night.

  The following morning dawned as grey and bleak as his mood. A thick bank of fog hung over the forest, painting the world with a colorless palette and muffling even the sounds of the Legionnaires talking and gearing up to ride.

  His melancholy deepened as they rode down the Eastmarch—or the swath of rubble-strewn, weed-covered ground where the highway had once stood—and approached the destroyed Spear Garrison. The fortress had once rivaled the Bulwark, a massive stronghold with a heavy iron-banded wooden gate set into forty-foot stone walls. Now, nothing but crumbled stone remained of the walls—the Eirdkilrs had torn them apart. The gate lay twisted, bent, and burned, the iron long ago gone to rust, the rotting wood crawling with earthworms and woodlice.

  Anger burned within Aravon’s gut, pushing back a hint of the numbness that had settled over him the previous day. The decaying ruins of Spear Garrison remained as a testament to the Eirdkilrs’ cruelty; of the twenty-three hundred Princelanders—Legionnaires, civilians, men and women, children and elders—that died in the slaughter after the garrison fell. No one who saw those torn-down walls and rotting wooden homes within the fortress could ever forget the threat that faced the Princelands.

  The eyes of the Legionnaires around him darkened as well—they had all heard stories of Spear Garrison, but how many of them had seen it in person? Too few alive today remembered the horrors of that battle, yet none of them could ignore the sight of that once-powerful stronghold torn down out of sheer spite and wanton bloodlust.

  Grim determination hardened in the eyes of those soldiers. Leather creaked as jaws clenched, hands gripped reins tighter, and men leaned forward in their saddles.

  The sound of thundering hooves snapped Aravon’s head forward, just in time to see Noll and Heap racing back up the Eastmarch toward them at breakneck speed.

  “Eirdkilrs!” Noll signed. “A mile back and closing fast!”

  Chapter Six
teen

  Every shred of gloom fled from Aravon’s mind, and in an instant his senses went on full alert. Gone were the despair, anguish, and grief, replaced by the bowstring-taut tension that settled over him when faced with a threat.

  Before Noll and Heap reached them, Aravon spun toward the Legionnaires. “Into the forest, now!” he hissed. Fear spurred the soldiers to obey with alacrity—this was no drill, but a real enemy, one that wouldn’t hesitate to kill them. Within seconds, the seventeen soldiers had turned their horses east off the road and set off at a mad gallop toward the edge of the nearby forest. The two returning scouts followed as they raced through the thick undergrowth, dodging low-hanging branches and darting between thick-trunked firs and hazels.

  Colborn, in the lead, reined his horse in fifty yards into the forest. “You four, horses!” His voice was a hoarse whisper, his finger darting quickly between Draturr, Tassus, Annur, and Tark. “The rest of you, stay!”

  Without hesitation, he leapt from his horse and, handing the reins off to one of the Legionnaires, darted into the forest. He disappeared without a sound, heading back the way they’d come.

  Aravon and the Grim Reavers dismounted, passed off their horses, and turned to follow. Captain Lingram made to join them, but Aravon shook his head. “Keep them calm and quiet,” he murmured to the Legion officer.

  Captain Lingram’s mask hid his expression, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Instead of protesting, however, he nodded and turned back to his men.

  The Grim Reavers fell into position around Aravon as he slithered through the forest toward the edge of the tree line. Noll and Skathi brought up the front, Zaharis and Rangvaldr at Aravon’s side, and Belthar at his back. Only the two archers drew weapons—their wooden bows wouldn’t stand out in the forest, and they left their arrows quivered—but every one of the Grim Reavers kept their hands hovering near their belts. They’d be ready if it came to battle.