Courage to Sacrifice Read online

  Smiling, Aravon sought out Belthar and waved to catch the big man’s eye. “Help the Corporal down, will you? But try not to embarrass him.”

  Belthar gave a quick nod and, setting down his pack, strode toward his horse, which stood just beyond Corporal Rold’s. A few steps away from the saddled Legionnaire, he made a show of tripping over his feet—believable to anyone who didn’t know how nimble and agile he truly was. As he “fell”, he grabbed on to Corporal Rold’s saddle to steady himself, half-dragging the man from his seat. Before the Legionnaire knew what was happening, Belthar had pulled him down, caught him, and steadied the man on his shaky legs, all while pretending to struggle with his own balance.

  “Watch what you’re doing, shite-for-brains!” roared Corporal Rold when he managed to recover enough to find his strident, grating voice.

  “Sorry about that.” Belthar’s tone held not a trace of remorse or apology.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” The Corporal shook his head. “And here I thought they’d sent me the dreck of the Legion with Meat and Arrow-magnet over there!” His derisive gesture encompassed Duvain and Endyn. “How you’ve survived this long is a miracle of the Swordsman’s—”

  “Enough, Corporal.” Captain Lingram’s voice cut into the man’s tirade.

  Corporal Rold rounded on the Captain, eyes blazing. “Cap—”

  “I said enough.” Lingram cut him off with an upraised hand. “We joined them, remember?”

  “If this one’s any indication,” Rold said, jerking a thumb at Belthar, “we’re heading up a shite creek in a leaky boat and a twig paddle! Mouths wide open, too.”

  “Then keep your mouth shut and maybe less shite will get in than you tend to spew out.” Captain Lingram’s voice held no anger, but an unmistakable edge of steel.

  The fire in Corporal Rold’s eyes didn’t dim, but at least he remained silent.

  “Well done,” Aravon signed to Belthar.

  “Was saving his damned pride really worth all that?” The big man’s shoulders had gone tense, his hand signals stiff with anger.

  Aravon shrugged. “For some men, that sense of pride is all they have. No one who knows you has any doubt.”

  Belthar glanced around at the other Grim Reavers in the camp. Noll’s eyes sparkled and his fingers twitched, as if aching to sign something to mock the big man. Skathi simply rolled her eyes and turned back to her duties. Rangvaldr was too exhausted to do more than give a dismissive wave.

  Zaharis, however, had a few words. “He’ll be thanking you soon enough. Just had to save face in front of his men.”

  Understanding dawned in Belthar’s eyes and he nodded. “Right.” With one last halfhearted apology to the Corporal—who still hadn’t moved as his legs recovered sensation and blood flow—he strode toward his horse and lifted his huge axe and crossbow from where he’d secured them behind his saddle. The sight of those massive weapons did wonders to keep Corporal Rold’s lips sealed.

  “Captain, a word?” Colborn’s voice sounded at his elbow.

  Aravon turned to the Lieutenant. “Speak.”

  Colborn switched to the Secret Keeper hand language. “We need to talk about the command structure.”

  Aravon couldn’t help his surprise. Since joining the Grim Reavers, it had been eminently clear that he led, Colborn served as his second-in-command, but every one of the soldiers working with them were valued for their input and contributions. They’d had only the loosest command structure since Bjornstadt, and had grown so accustomed to each other that there was virtually no need for one.

  Again, Colborn proved insightful. The Legionnaires had been trained to follow Captain Lingram, but now they found themselves following another officer—one they’d met briefly on the road out of Saerheim and fought beside in Icespire. While he had little doubt the Legionnaires respected him and his Grim Reavers, he needed to ensure their absolute obedience when he gave a command. Even the slightest hesitation or delay could be their undoing once they got deep into enemy territory.

  “You’re right.” Aravon signed to the Lieutenant. “Better we address it now than wait for it to be a problem down the road.”

  Colborn nodded and stepped back—his job as Lieutenant was to bring the matter to Aravon’s attention, then let the Captain handle it.

  “Legionnaires, Grim Reavers, listen up!” Aravon strode toward the middle of the camp, where he had a clear view of the eighteen soldiers accompanying him. “Where we’re going, there’s no room for error. Even a single mistake or misstep could very well prove fatal, for one or all of us. So I want things to be perfectly clear in your minds: I am in charge. Captain Lingram takes orders from me, and you all take orders from him and my Grim Reavers.”

  That elicited the expected response from Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires: a sudden stiffening of the spine, a slight bristling, wary tension in eyes that narrowed behind steel Ebonguard masks. There might have been a tacit understanding that Aravon commanded his Grim Reavers, a company that they’d joined, but they still marched under their Captain and answered to Lingram’s orders. The time had come to make certain all in the camp knew the proper order of things.

  Aravon turned to Captain Lingram. “Will that be a problem, Captain?”

  “Not at all, Captain Snarl.” Lingram had removed his mask, and a smile tugged at his lips. “The Deadheads are yours to command.”

  Aravon glanced at Corporal Rold. “Will that be a problem, Corporal?”

  Rold hesitated a moment, his eyes darting toward Captain Lingram, then shook his head. “No, Captain Snarl.”

  Aravon looked to the rest of the Legionnaires. “Will that be a problem?”

  The soldiers responded with an assortment of mutters, halfhearted “No’s”, and shaking heads.

  “I want this burned into your minds.” He fixed the Legionnaires with a stern, piercing stare. “When I give an order, you obey it instantly. There will be time for debate and deliberation, and I expect that all of you will have the courage to speak up if there is something important to be said. But my commands are to be followed without question, is that understood?”

  The Legionnaires assented—as soldiers accustomed to following rank and saluting the uniform would—but Aravon saw the hesitation written in their eyes. By following Captain Lingram, they had left behind anything resembling solid ground. The Legionnaires now operated outside the familiar military structure. At the moment, their Captain was the only thing keeping them together.

  Aravon was an unknown quantity, a man in a mask. They had seen him fight, had seen him risk his life to protect them on the road from Saerheim and during the Battle of Icespire. But they had no idea what manner of man he was, what manner of commander they had now pledged to follow. They trusted Captain Lingram because they knew him.

  And if they were to trust Aravon enough to place their lives in his hands—truly and fully, without hesitation—they needed to know him, too.

  Slowly, Aravon reached up and removed the steel mask. Skathi, Belthar, and Noll gasped, and even Colborn appeared surprised by his actions. Yet he did it anyway—it was necessary if they were to succeed at this mission.

  Lowering the mask, Aravon removed his Ebonguard helmet and stood straight. “I am Aravon, son of General Traighan of Icespire. For fifteen years, I have served in the Legion of Heroes, first in the infantry, then rising to become Captain of Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company. Now, by the Swordsman’s grace, I lead the Grim Reavers—and you with us—to victory over the Eirdkilrs and bring peace to the Princelands.”

  Chapter Seven

  Long seconds passed in stunned silence—the Grim Reavers shocked that Aravon had revealed his identity, and the Legionnaires contemplative as they studied his face.

  Aravon saw the surprise in Skathi and Belthar’s wide eyes, the tension in Noll’s shoulders, the question written in Colborn’s gaze. This was something the rank-and-file soldiers never truly understood: the burden and responsibility of command.

  In Camp Marshal, h
e’d fought and trained as hard as the rest of them to prove he was worthy to lead. He’d faced Colborn and Zaharis in bare-handed combat, all to show what manner of man they would be following. Every decision he’d made, every time he’d owned up to his mistakes and failings, it had cemented that respect in their minds.

  He had no time to do that with these Legionnaires—their mission south didn’t permit the luxury of weeks spent training together and bonding as a cohesive unit. At that moment, he had to use the tools at hand: his father’s reputation, his rank as Captain in the Legion of Heroes, and the Legionnaires’ memories of his actions over the last few weeks. He’d saved them and fought beside them as a masked, faceless warrior. Now he stood before them as the man beneath. A man who deserved their respect due to his rank as Captain.

  “I’ve known Aravon since my first days in the Legion.” Captain Lingram spoke in a voice at once quiet and firm. “I’ve spoken to his Commanders, and to the men who marched under his command. And all of them agree that he’s an officer worth following. Which is why I convinced the Prince to let me accompany him on this mission.”

  Those words surprised Aravon—not only to hear his friend’s ringing endorsement, but the fact that he’d been the one to suggest joining the Grim Reavers in their attempt to kill Tyr Farbjodr.

  Captain Lingram fixed his men with a solemn gaze. “So trust me when I say Captain Aravon is the right man to lead us.” He turned to Aravon and, straightening, clapped his right hand to his left shoulder in the Legion’s salute. “I follow your orders, Captain.”

  Aravon’s surprise doubled as another man’s voice echoed through the camp. “I am Colborn Alsvartar of Whitevale.” Colborn removed his mask, revealing his broad, heavy Fehlan features. “For ten years, I have served in the Legion of Heroes, rising to become Lieutenant of Pearl Battalion’s Third Company.” He turned to Aravon and mirrored Captain Lingram’s salute. “And I follow your orders, Captain.”

  The rest of the Grim Reavers followed suit.

  “Belthar of Icespire, formerly of the Eastfall’s Hightower guard.”

  “Skathi of Rockfort, formerly of the Agrotorae attached to Garnet Battalion's Fourth Company.”

  “Noll of Lochton, scout in Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company.” The little man glared daggers at the Legionnaires. “Four years I served under Captain Aravon. A better officer you won’t meet.” He gave Aravon a solemn nod. “I follow your orders, sir.”

  “Rangvaldr of Bjornstadt, Seiomenn of the Eyrr.” Those words and the sight of Rangvaldr’s heavy Fehlan features and white, braided beard and hair elicited surprised gasps from the Legionnaires. The Seiomenn didn’t rise, but winked at Aravon from where he lay. “I follow Captain Aravon’s orders, gladly.”

  Zaharis removed his mask, revealing his face. “I follow your orders, Captain,” he signed. “Even if they’re bloody suicidal and bound to get us killed.”

  Aravon struggled to conceal his smile—it would ruin the solemn moment. Instead, he turned to the Legionnaires. “I swear by the Swordsman and my eternity in the Sleepless Lands that I will lead you to the best of my ability. You have my pledge that I will not throw away your lives, and that I will always be the first into any danger we will face, together. In return, I expect obedience and loyalty without question. Not blind or deaf, but trusting that I will do my utmost to bring every one of you home.”

  For long seconds, no one spoke. All the Legionnaires knew the dangers they faced ahead, the battles to come. Aravon had made no fool’s promise to keep them alive, but he’d given them the best oath he could. That, coupled with everything else they knew of him and had seen with their own eyes, had to be enough.

  Corporal Rold spoke first. “I follow your orders, Captain.” His fist clanked against his Ebonguard armor.

  “Us, too.” Duvain stood, helping an exhausted Endyn to rise. “To the end, Captain.”

  The rest of the men followed suit, rising to their feet and offering the Legionnaire’s salute. Pride glowed within Aravon at the sight of the brave soldiers standing around him. Captain Lingram was the only Princelander among them, the rest Voramians, Malandrians, Praamians, and others from across the Frozen Sea. Yet in that moment, they stood united in purpose, two companies joined into one fighting force. A force that, by the Swordsman’s grace, would drive a dagger into the heart of Tyr Farbjodr and put an end to the war once and for all.

  * * *

  “That was well done.”

  Aravon looked up from where he sat stroking Snarl’s furry scruff—the Enfield had been eager to see him after a long day shadowing their progress—and glanced over his shoulder, careful not to look at the figure silhouetted against the light of the fire. He’d heard the heavy boots crunching on the leaves, and now the quiet voice told him it was Captain Lingram approaching.

  “You think?”

  “It worked pretty damned well, so I’d say yes.” With a chuckle, Lingram took a seat on the fallen log beside Aravon’s perch. He’d taken the first watch—he needed time alone to think before the day’s exertions settled on his mind, fatigue clouding his thoughts.

  Snarl gave a happy barking yip, nuzzling his wet nose deeper into Aravon’s hand.

  Lingram’s eyes fell on the little creature seated in Aravon’s lap. “Who’s this?” he asked, crouching down to get a closer look.

  “Snarl.” Aravon lifted the Enfield from his legs and held him up to Captain Lingram. Snarl sniffed at the air for a moment, then shook himself and yipped, flapping his wings in eager greeting to Lingram.

  Captain Lingram gave an incredulous shake of his head. “I still can’t believe it. When I saw him up on the Palace roof, I could have sworn my eyes were playing tricks on me. I’ve heard the folk tales about Enfields, but thought they were nothing more than legends.”

  “He’s a legend, all right.” Aravon scratched Snarl’s scruff. “He’s saved us more times than I can count. Fiery hell, I’d say he’s probably the most useful of all us Grim Reavers.” Happiness glowed in his chest; he’d missed Snarl over the last few days, and he shared the Enfield’s delight at being reunited.

  “Can I...?” Captain Lingram reached out a hesitant hand and, at Aravon’s nod, rested his fingers lightly on Snarl’s furry neck. Snarl rubbed his head against the Captain’s hand, eager to get acquainted with the man that would be one more source of food, water, warmth, and, most important of all, scruff scratches. He gave a happy bark and wagged his furry tail.

  “He likes you.” Aravon smiled. “I’d call that a ringing endorsement.”

  Lingram’s eyes went wide in wonder and delight.

  “How did you know?” Aravon asked.

  “Know?” The Legionnaire looked up from the Enfield.

  “That it was me beneath the mask.” Aravon studied the man. “That I was Captain Snarl.”

  “Oh, that.” Lingram gave him a crooked smile—it just made his face all the more handsome. He’d always had a way with women, and looked every inch the hero. Truth be told, Aravon had been envious of the man during their days as young Legionnaires.

  “I thought I recognized your voice back on the road from Saerheim, despite that ridiculous growling.” Lingram rolled his eyes. “But it wasn’t until after the battle at the Palace I knew for sure. The only other person who would say ‘Lingram’ like that is my mother, and I was fairly certain she hadn’t started swinging around a spear that day.”

  Aravon chucked. “Damn, and here was me thinking I had you fooled.”

  “You mostly did.” Lingram grinned and settled into a seat against a tree in front of Aravon. “But I’ve been called ‘Captain’ for so long that I take notice when someone calls me by just my name.”

  Aravon grimaced. “I’ll have to work on that.” He dropped his voice to the deep, growling Captain Snarl tone. “I can’t have anyone else uncovering my true identity. After all, I’m dead.”

  The humor faded from Captain Lingram’s eyes, replaced by a solemn frown. “Yeah, I heard.” His brow furrowed. �
�Not a good day, getting that news.”

  Silence descended between the two of them. Aravon looked between Snarl and the trees concealing them from the Eastfallian plains and the nearby Eastmarch. Though they had little fear of ambush or threat in Eastfall, old habits died hard.

  “Does she know?” Lingram asked in a quiet voice. “That you’re alive?”

  A lump rose to Aravon’s throat. “No.” He had no need to ask who she was. “It was supposed to keep her safe, so no one came looking for her to get back at me. Now, given where we’re going…” He let out a long breath. “It just felt cruel to come back to life only to go off and die again.”

  “Aravon.” The earnest tone in Lingram’s voice brought Aravon’s head around. The Captain’s eyes fixed on him, his gaze piercing. “She’d have understood. You know it as well as I do. She’d have wanted to know, if only to say goodbye.”

  Aravon’s chest clutched, a fist of iron squeezing at his heart. “I…I know.” His voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “But I don’t think I could have left.”

  Lingram nodded understanding, and again the silence descended between them. Not as tense, perhaps, yet no less thick. Two men burdened by their pasts, the decisions they’d made, and the responsibilities they now carried.

  This time, Aravon spoke first. “You never said anything about Highcliff Motte.”

  Captain Lingram stiffened, just slightly, but enough that Aravon noticed. “Not exactly something we talk about.”

  Aravon glanced at the man, found shadows darkening his eyes. “You were Ninth Company?”

  Lingram shook his head. “Too young. Sixteen, not old enough to join the Legion. Not even a proper man yet.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow in surprise. He’d known Lingram was younger than he, but not that much younger. He had been in his second decade of life when the Eirdkilrs destroyed Highcliff Motte.

  “But I was after.” A grim note edged Lingram’s voice. “We had to fight. Not just the Legionnaires. Everyone. I was lucky—I’d hung around the Legion enough that they taught me to swing a sword. But what I saw there…” He trailed off, and the gloom of the trees seemed to settle around him, a burden that weighed on his mind and heart. “Those memories never really dissipate, even with time.”