Courage to Sacrifice Read online

  Prince Toran slowly set his goblet down on the table bordering the western wall of a chamber that bore a striking similarity to the War Room at Camp Marshal. The room was lined with shelves filled with scrolls, leather-bound volumes, and charts, and even had the table—or an exact replica—bearing the carved topographical map of Fehl. For long seconds, the Prince stared in silence at the various pieces and figurines arranged across the map table, each depicting the garrisons on the Eastmarch and Westmarch and the Legion Battalions stationed at each.

  “We have Onyx Battalion here on the borders of the Fjall lands.” Prince Toran swept a finger toward the area just north of Eirik Throrsson’s territory, east of Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark. “Surely they could be spared—”

  Aravon shook his head. “The Deid need the Legion’s help to repel the Eirdkilrs that survived the Battle of Hangman’s Hill.” He gestured to the two southernmost Westmarch garrisons. “And though we suspect most of the Eirdkilr forces in southwestern Fehl are scattered and leaderless, there’s no way we can be certain of it.” He raised an eyebrow in question.

  Prince Toran scowled and nodded.

  “Then there’s the matter of the scores of Eirdkilrs that went after the miners of Lastcliff.”

  “Both Duke Leddan of Oldcrest and Duke Turlor of the Violet Fens have been notified, and they are sending forces to help hunt them down.” The Prince nodded. “It seems the men of the Black Xiphos succeeded in burning their boats and cutting off their retreat. It’s only a matter of time before the Eirdkilrs are found.”

  Aravon smiled. “Good.” Scathan, Barcus, and the other Black Xiphos mercenaries had risked their lives to repel the attack on Lastcliff. He didn’t know what had happened to the sellswords, but the fact that the Eirdkilrs had been forced to flee inland proved that they had succeeded in preventing the capture and abduction of the miners. “Which leaves the two or three thousand Eirdkilrs still sailing somewhere north of the Princelands.” He gestured to the Frozen Sea that separated Fehl from the mainland of Einan. “They sailed off east, and the lands of the Vidr, Eyrr, and Jarnleikr aren’t exactly well-defended against sea assault.”

  The easternmost Fehlan clans had no ships larger than fishing and whaling vessels—they’d stand no chance against Jokull-built, Eirdkilr-crewed warships. “Which means General Tinian’s going to have his hands full trying to keep the east protected while Duke Olivarr’s ships go hunting.”

  Prince Toran picked up one of the carved wooden boats used to depict the Westhaven fleet and toyed with it. “Those longships are damned fast,” he said, almost as if to himself. “And if the Eirdkilrs are looking to get back to friendly territory, they’ve got a long way to travel.”

  “But we can’t assume that’s what they’re thinking.” Aravon tapped on the broad stretch of the Eastfall coastline. “Last I spoke to Duke Dyrund—” He swallowed the lump that rose to his throat; it had grown smaller in the last day or two, but mention of the Duke still brought a flicker of grief and sorrow. “—he said his forces were stretched thin. It’s going to take every Eastfall regular from Wolfden Castle to Eastbay to keep an eye on the coast and make sure the Eirdkilrs don’t take advantage of our weakened eastern defenses.”

  Prince Toran growled low in his throat. “You’re a damned ray of sunshine, you know that?”

  “You honor me, My Prince.” Aravon bowed low, a harsh chuckle escaping his lips. “But the real reason that my plan’s the only option we’ve got is because of this.” He tapped a finger on Snowpass Keep, the Legion-built fortress guarding the western pass through the Sawtooth Mountains. “No way we’re getting any kind of army through there. Frozen hell, I doubt even two full Battalions could take that pass with the Eirdkilrs so dug in.”

  Prince Toran’s scowl deepened as he stared at the wooden figurine depicting Snowpass Keep. The stronghold had been built more than two hundred and fifty years earlier to guard the larger of the two Sawtooth Mountain passes. When the Eirdkilr War had begun nearly a century and a half later, it had been the first target of the barbarians’ assault. Five long years had passed before the Eirdkilrs managed to overrun the defenders, and the Legion hadn’t managed to wrest it from the Eirdkilrs’ control. With the fall of Highcliff Motte fifteen years earlier, the Eirdkilrs now controlled the only way to get through the Sawtooth Mountains.

  “And you think you and your Grim Reavers have a better chance of getting through?” Prince Toran raised an eyebrow. “While the big one—Ursus, you call him?—certainly looks the part of an Eirdkilr beneath his mask, the rest of you don’t exactly fit in.”

  “True.” Aravon inclined his head. “That’s why we were planning on slipping through the Snowpass unseen.”

  “Is that so?” Prince Toran’s second eyebrow rose to match the first. “And how, exactly, did you plan to do that?”

  Aravon grimaced beneath his mask; he’d hoped the Prince wouldn’t ask that question. “I don’t know.” He held up a gauntleted finger. “Yet. That’s the sort of thing we figure out when we get there.” Between Zaharis’ alchemical tricks and Colborn and Rangvaldr’s Fehlan-bred woodcraft skills, he’d hoped they would find a way to make it work.

  The Prince’s eyes darkened. “So not only do you intend something almost certainly suicidal, but you’re doing it with barely a ghost of a plan.”

  Aravon shrugged. “We’ve done more with less.” He tried to sound more confident than he felt. No doubt remained in his mind: he had to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr. No one else on Fehl could do it. No other fighting force had the skill and capability to have even a hope of success. Even if he had no idea how they’d get through the Sawtooth Mountains—or how he’d find Tyr Farbjodr once they did—he knew he had to try.

  Prince Toran studied him for long seconds. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “And what about Mylena?”

  The words tore at Aravon’s heart. He’d wrestled with the question ever since he’d conceived his plan. If he went after Tyr Farbjodr, he had little chance of returning alive. The icy Wastelands were a cruel, forbidding place even under the best circumstances, and he’d be heading directly into the heart of Eirdkilr-held territory. One misstep, one mistake, and the seven of them would end up dead. Or, worse.

  Going through with the mission all but guaranteed that his wife would truly be a widow.

  But what sort of man would he be if he didn’t risk himself for the sake of his home, his kingdom, and his family? If he turned away from this mission—suicidal or not—he’d never be able to look Mylena or his sons in the eyes. He would be the worst sort of man: a coward.

  “You have already given me your word that you will take care of them, Your Majesty.” Aravon locked gazes with the Prince. “If it happens that I don’t return, I will be at peace knowing that they are looked after.”

  Sorrow darkened the Prince’s eyes. “You’re willing to risk death, Aravon?” Though they stood alone in the War Room, Prince Toran spoke the name in a quiet voice. Not only to maintain the secrecy of Aravon’s existence—concealed beneath the armor and mask of an Ebonguard—but out of respect for the monumental burden Aravon was taking on.

  Aravon nodded his head. “Yes, My Prince. I accepted the possibility of death long ago, when I swore to serve in the Legion and protect the Princelands from the enemy. Every day I’ve had since then, I can count it as the Swordsman’s blessing.” He drew in a deep breath. “But I will risk death if it means putting an end to this war and protecting my family.”

  Long seconds passed in silence, Prince Toran’s eyes fixed on Aravon. “He was right, you know?” he finally said. A hint of a smile—sad but filled with admiration—touched the Prince’s lips. “Sammael. Duke Dyrund. He said you were the man for this job, and you’ve proven him right time and time again.”

  Aravon bowed, as much out of respect for the Prince as to hide the hint of moisture pricking at his eyes.

  “You’re certain of this?” Prince Toran asked. “You’re certain you and your Grim Reavers will do this, even i
f it means you don’t come back alive?”

  “I am certain, Your Majesty.” Aravon’s shoulders tensed. “But I won’t force any of my soldiers to go with me. It’s a choice they’ll have to make for themselves.”

  “And if they say no?” Prince Toran cocked his head. “You will go alone?”

  Aravon hesitated. He didn’t know how to answer that question. He couldn’t hope to make it through the Sawtooth Mountains alone, but if his Grim Reavers chose to stay, he still had to go, had to try to eliminate Tyr Farbjodr.

  After a long second, he shook his head. “I don’t know, My Prince. One way or another, I’m going south. Today. Alone or not, I’m going. But I owe my Grim Reavers the respect to give them a choice. Even if it means they stay behind.”

  Prince Toran studied him, then slowly nodded. “You are a good man, Captain Aravon. A good man, a fine officer, and a Princelander that puts his Prince to shame.” He rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder and stared him full in the masked face. “You honor me with your courage to sacrifice.”

  “I have been blessed to know many men who served as great examples of that courage.” Aravon smiled—an expression lost beneath his steel mask. “General Traighan. Duke Dyrund. Even the late General Rodalus and every other soldier who gave their lives to defend the city. They gave their all. How could I do any less?”

  A proud smile brightened the Prince’s face, though it didn’t fully drive the shadows from his eyes. “Indeed.” He squeezed Aravon’s shoulder once, the firm grip of a soldier acknowledging another soldier, a ruler recognizing his subject. “You intend to leave at once?”

  “As soon as I talk to my Grim Reavers, yes.” Aravon nodded. He’d sent Noll to fetch the Kostarasar chargers from where they’d left the horses at the head of the smugglers’ trail. Though he hadn’t revealed his true plan to any other than Colborn, he had little doubt they all expected word of their next mission. And that they all knew it would be something big.

  “Promise me you won’t depart until the sun has set.” Prince Toran fixed him with a stern gaze. “If you are determined to go through with this plan, I have some last-minute preparations to make.”

  Aravon cocked his head, but when the Prince made no effort to elaborate, he nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. We will ride out after dark.”

  “Good.” The Prince removed his hand from Aravon’s shoulder. “Good.” Without another word, he whirled and stalked from the room.

  Aravon couldn’t help the curiosity burning in his chest. He had no idea what Prince Toran intended, but he recognized that gleam of determination in the Prince’s eyes. He’d seen it often enough reflected in Duke Dyrund’s stubborn expression.

  The door clicked shut behind the Prince, leaving Aravon alone in the spacious War Room. Alone with the silence, the smell of the dust that covered the shelved books and scrolls, and the soft blue glow of the Icespire. Alone with his thoughts and the knowledge of what came next.

  He had no illusions as to his chances of coming back from his mission alive. Just getting through the Sawtooth Mountains would be damned-near impossible, and that was the easy part. He’d have to locate Tyr Farbjodr in the vast expanse of the icy Wastelands and find a way to kill the Eirdkilr commander in the middle of his chieftains, advisors, and armies. Keeper knew how many other threats he’d face between leaving Icespire and locking blades with Farbjodr.

  But after the attack on Icespire, after nearly losing his family to Lord Eidan’s treachery and Tyr Farbjodr’s ruthless cunning, he knew he had to go anyway. If he didn’t, the Princelands would never truly be safe. The Fehlans south of the Chain—Rangvaldr’s Eyrr, Colborn’s Deid, Eirik Throrsson’s Fjall, and all the other clans—would always face the threat of annihilation. The Eirdkilrs had deemed them traitors to their heritage and killed them as freely as they slaughtered the “half-men” of the Princelands.

  No, the only way he could know his family and his people were safe would be to put an end to the Eirdkilr War. At the moment, that meant ridding the world of Tyr Farbjodr.

  His fingers curled into a fist. Even if I have to go alone, I will.

  His life meant far less than the future of the Princelands, so he would give it, freely and without hesitation. As he had sworn to the day he took the Legionnaires’ oath.

  I have to put an end to this, at any cost.

  Chapter Three

  Aravon’s steps faltered as he approached the small chamber where the Prince had quartered the Grim Reavers in the northwestern corner of the Palace. Though the ornately furnished, lamp-lit corridors stood empty, no servants in sight, he couldn’t help glancing around and searching the shadows for threats. After what they’d faced—enemies in the Fehlan forests and Lord Eidan’s treachery here in the Palace—he wouldn’t take any chances with his safety or that of his men.

  However, his hesitation had only a little to do with fear of discovery. Though he wouldn’t jeopardize the Grim Reavers by letting the wrong person see their faces—hence the Ebonguard mask he’d worn since the previous day—the real cause for concern lay in the knowledge of what he prepared to ask of his soldiers. The high price they would likely pay if they joined him on his hunt for Tyr Farbjodr.

  Yet it was only a moment’s pause, then he gripped the door handle and pushed it open. Six faces turned toward him as he entered the room. Without the leather greatwolf masks or the borrowed Ebonguard steel face coverings, he could see the exhaustion, fatigue, and pain etched clearly into the features of the five men and one woman seated around the chamber.

  Noll lounged in a plush couch, a wine goblet in one hand and a chunk of sausage-and-cheese stuffed bread in the other. Despite his relaxed appearance, sweat still plastered his hair to his forehead—the ten-mile trek to retrieve their horses and the ride back had taken him the better part of the morning. He’d left under the cover of darkness, ridden through the Soldier’s Gate before dawn, and skirted the entire outer circumference of Icespire’s wall before heading northwest toward the clifftop with the hidden path down to the smuggler’s beach.

  Belthar hadn’t fully recovered from the wounds sustained in battle—even with Rangvaldr’s healing stones to speed up the process, he’d done little more than eat, rest, and drink for the past day. On the Seiomenn’s orders, of course, and much to Noll’s irritation. The scout had spent the last day needling Belthar for being a “no-good layabout”. None of the Grim Reavers had complained when Aravon finally dispatched Noll to fetch the horses.

  Colborn hadn’t spoken much since the previous day, though he’d been a shadow at Aravon’s back any time he left the room to speak with the Prince, or to attend the mass funeral at Sanctuary Court. Rangvaldr hadn’t yet recovered enough strength to tend to his wounds, but Colborn had simply waved the Seiomenn away. “They’re nothing much,” he’d insisted, stoic as ever. The lines of pain tightening his face with every step and the slight limp in his left foot belied his words.

  Zaharis’ right arm hung cradled in a simple sling, though thankfully the blow to his upper arm hadn’t cracked the bone, only damaged muscle. Rangvaldr had put off healing the Secret Keeper, too—he’d had more serious concerns to deal with.

  No one, not even Skathi, had noticed the wound in the archer’s side until she collapsed in the middle of the Glimmer. Exhaustion and blood loss, Rangvaldr had discovered. The laceration to her kidney would have killed her without the Seiomenn’s healing magic. He’d given the last of his strength to close the wound enough to slow the bleeding. Even then, the journey back to the Palace had drained her. Rangvaldr, with the aid of Zaharis, Belthar, Colborn, and finally a direct command from Aravon himself, had finally gotten her to rest.

  And Rangvaldr…the Seiomenn looked worst-off of all. He’d ridden and fought as hard as any of them, sustained wounds in the battle for Icespire alongside the rest of the Grim Reavers. But rather than giving in to the pain or healing himself, he’d healed the others until he’d nearly collapsed. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but at least he was sitti
ng up and joining the others in their meal and quiet conversation.

  Conversation that fell silent the moment Aravon closed the door. Six pairs of eyes locked on his masked face. Six faces tensed in expectation of his words.

  Aravon removed the steel Ebonguard mask and dropped it onto a side table beside a tray of roast fowl, spiced sausages, herbed cheese, bread, and fruits. A part of him knew he should eat—he hadn’t touched food since the early morning meal—but he had little appetite. The weight of what he prepared to ask his soldiers had smothered any hunger.

  He wanted to turn around and walk out of the room without saying a word. The Grim Reavers had served to their utmost, giving every shred of strength and skill to protect the Princelands and Fehl. They deserved far better than this.

  But he didn’t move. After all they’d endured, they deserved his respect—respect enough to offer them the chance to make their own choices.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he turned to look at those six faces staring back at him. The six soldiers who had marched, fought, killed, and bled at his side for so many weeks. Weeks that felt like a lifetime. In that lifetime, these people had become his family.

  And now he had to ask his family to march to certain death. How could he possibly find the words?

  “Keeper’s teeth, Captain!” Noll broke the silence. “Suspense like this is going to give me a heart attack, and if it’s all the same to you, I’ve nearly died enough for one week!”

  “Noll.” Colborn’s voice echoed with steel, and a shadow darkened his ice-blue eyes. He alone among them knew what Aravon prepared to ask—knew the cost of their choice. “Give the Captain a mo—”

  Aravon held up a hand to stop the Lieutenant. “No, he’s right.” He let out his breath. “We need to get on with it.”

  Five faces tightened at his words, at the tone of his voice—only Colborn’s remained a carefully expressionless mask, neutrality marred barely by the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth.