Courage to Sacrifice Read online

  Aravon inclined his head. He, too, knew the wounds such events could inflict on the soul, the scars that remained long after.

  “I thought about taking the out, you know?” Lingram continued. “After Myron and the court-martial, I actually gave it a thought.” A bitter grin twisted his lips. “I’ve never done anything else, though. I don’t know if I ever could. And something like this is far better than spending the rest of my life punching ghosts.”

  “Indeed.” Aravon had met his fair share of retired soldiers who had carried the war in their minds and hearts. Men and women that had laid down swords and shields, yet ever sought someone to fight.

  “When this is all over, maybe you take the out, Aravon.” Lingram’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “You’ve got Mylena and your boys. Me, all I’ve got is this.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Them.”

  Aravon glanced at their simple camp, at the Legionnaires sitting beside the Grim Reavers. Battle, hardship, and loss had a way of binding men together with ties far stronger than family.

  “Tell me truthfully, Lingram. Are they up for this?” Aravon studied the man. “After everything they endured at Saerheim and Icespire…” He trailed off; he had no need to put his question into words.

  Lingram’s eyes narrowed in thought. “They’ll do their best, that much I can tell you.” He lifted his gaze to Aravon. “You should have seen the way they fought at Saerheim. Raw recruits standing up to the Eirdkilrs like veterans. Even with the city burning around them, they kept their heads. They do the Legion proud.”

  Aravon nodded. “It’s up to us—to me and my Grim Reavers—to get them ready for what we’re going to face, then.”

  “Aye.” Lingram’s jaw clenched, and lines of worry appeared at the corners of his eyes. “Icespire gave them back a bit of what they’d lost in Saerheim, put some of those old ghosts to bed. Maybe this is how they move forward.” He leaned forward, wrapping an arm around his knees. “It’s how I did.”

  “Me, too.” Aravon’s missions with the Grim Reavers had helped him cope with his remorse and guilt over the loss of Sixth Company. “Best we can do is our best and hope we get them through it in one piece.”

  Lingram nodded. “True, that.”

  Another long silence descended. Less tense, this time, simply the absence of words. No more needed saying between them at that moment.

  Finally, Captain Lingram spoke. “Well, I’m off to my bedroll.” He rose and, with a scratch of Snarl’s scruff, turned to go. “See if you can stop your brooding long enough to get some sleep tonight, yeah?”

  “Brooding, me?” Aravon pretended outrage.

  “Nobody better at it.” Lingram grinned. Again, it made him far too damned handsome for his own good. “It shows in all the little lines of your face. Or perhaps it’s just that you’re getting old. And that scar isn’t doing your face any favors.”

  Aravon ran a finger along the scar on his right eyebrow and cheek. “This just means I’ve been fighting harder than you, rather than sitting in taverns drinking my days away.”

  “Sure it does.” Lingram rolled his eyes. “It’s definitely not that you’re getting too slow to dodge when an Eirdkilr swings at you.”

  Aravon hurled a halfhearted curse at the retreating Legionnaire, eliciting a laugh. After their conversation, it felt good to indulge in a bit of lighthearted banter.

  Yet the sound of Captain Lingram’s fading laughter returned the solemnity to Aravon’s mind, the burden to his heart. Soon enough, they would be riding into enemy territory, off on what amounted to a suicide mission.

  They’d have little to laugh about then.

  Chapter Eight

  Relief flooded Aravon as the palisade walls of Camp Marshal finally hove into view amidst the boggy marshland that concealed their secret base. They had risen before the sun and ridden hard all day, taking breaks only when the Legionnaires appeared ready to collapse. Sunset had found them riding past Wolfden Castle, but it had taken another three hours of riding through the settling gloom of evening to reach the hidden camp.

  As the wooden gates of Camp Marshal swung open, Aravon felt that strange sense of homecoming that had washed over him the last time he returned. For weeks, the secret training camp had been a home of sorts. He’d recovered from his injuries here, had pieced together the man he’d been before the ambush on the Eastmarch. He had found his new company—soldiers that had become his family—and built the bonds that only grew stronger with every passing day.

  He couldn’t help smiling as he caught sight of familiar surroundings: the training yard where he and the Grim Reavers had run the obstacle course over and over, the practice ground that had witnessed hundreds of mock sword battles, the archery range where they had tried—and failed—to match Skathi’s skill with a bow, and the stone building with its barracks, smithy, stable, and storage sheds.

  “Welcome, Captain!” Clem, the white-haired, one-eyed guardsmen waved as Aravon rode through the open gates. “We’ve been expecting you. Polus has the forge fired up, and I’ve had Lenna send over a batch of her finest butter cookies.” The man grinned, revealing three teeth—two fewer than on Aravon’s last visit. “Might be there’s a few that survived my taste-test, if you catch my meaning.”

  Aravon removed his mask and smiled down at the man. “If they’re half as good as the Duke proclaimed, I’m certain they’ll make a feast fit for the Prince himself.”

  The Grim Reavers dismounted, with the Legionnaires following suit, albeit much more gingerly and with a chorus of groans. Only Captain Lingram seemed at ease on horseback, as expected from an officer. He, too, removed his mask and prepared to bark orders to his soldiers, but seemed to catch himself, glancing at Aravon.

  Aravon gave the man an appreciative nod—one more reminder to the Legionnaires that they need to get accustomed to taking orders from me—and issued his commands.

  “Noll, take two Deadheads to help you stable the horses. Belthar, Skathi, and Colborn, take our gear to Polus for a once-over, and find out when he’ll have the armor and weapons ready for our companions.”

  The three named acted without hesitation—Noll summoned two Legionnaires, Praamians named Tassus and Annur, to help him with the horses, while Belthar and Skathi unstrapped the canvas-bundled leather Grim Reaver armor and Colborn collected Aravon’s spear, Belthar’s axe and crossbow, Zaharis’ spiked mace, and Rangvaldr’s shield and longsword.

  Aravon turned to the others. “Rangvaldr, inside and get some rest. I’ll have food brought as soon as it’s ready.”

  A stubborn look flashed across the Seiomenn’s face. “Captain, I—”

  “That’s an order, Stonekeeper.” Aravon shook his head. “We’ll need you fresh when we ride out in the morning. And there are those in need of your magic.”

  Rangvaldr’s eyes darted toward Endyn. The huge Legionnaire stood stiffly at attention, his jaw clenched so tight Aravon could almost hear the muscles and joints creaking. Even from this distance, the inflamed red cracks between the dark grey scales appeared painful. Aravon had no doubt Endyn endured terrible suffering, yet he bore it in silence.

  “Yes, Captain.” The Seiomenn gave a quick nod and set about unstrapping his pack from behind his saddle.

  Aravon sought out Zaharis. The Secret Keeper was busy unloading the wooden chest containing his alchemical supplies, piling his pack and bedroll atop it. “Zaharis, see if Polus needs your help with the armor, then take the night to rest and replenish.”

  Too loaded to spare a hand to sign a reply, the Secret Keeper strode into the barracks carrying his gear.

  “Duvain, get Endyn to the fourth room down the hall, and see about getting him out of that armor.” Aravon had no doubt the weight of the heavy Shalandran steel lamellar had to be terribly uncomfortable on his dragonskin, the metal rubbing his already inflamed skin raw. “I’ll see if the Magicmaker can prepare more of that unguent to ease your brother’s discomfort until the Seiomenn’s rested enough to attempt the he
aling.”

  Duvain nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

  Endyn, however, appeared unwilling to obey the command. “I don’t…need to rest,” he rumbled through clenched teeth. “I’m…fine!” That last came out in a gasp, belying the words. Shame burned in his eyes and turned his face a deep red.

  Aravon strode toward the giant Legionnaire, stopping just within his shadow. Though he’d grown accustomed to Belthar’s height, Endyn towered above even the big Grim Reaver. His shoulders were broader, too, his hands large enough to encompass Aravon’s head. And judging by the thickness of his arms and legs, there was real power in that massive frame.

  “Listen to me, Soldier.” Aravon beckoned for the big man to stoop.

  Endyn bent halfway until his huge face hovered in front of Aravon. Big, blunt features, a thick nose and massive jaw, but in his eyes shone the humiliation and nervous uncertainty of a young man anxious to impress his commanding officer. And young he was—he couldn’t be far into his second decade of life—still fresh with inexperience. Despite everything he’d endured, he still had a hint of the innocence Aravon had come to envy in so many civilians. Life and war hadn’t yet hardened him the way it had so many others. As it had Aravon himself. Too much of what he’d seen could never be unseen, never forgotten.

  Aravon spoke for the big man’s ears only. “Do you know why I, a Legion Captain, carry a spear instead of a sword and shield?”

  “No, sir,” the big man rumbled in a voice like rolling thunder.

  Aravon gestured to his left arm. “In the Eirdkilr ambush that killed Sixth Company, my left arm was shattered. I can never carry a shield again.”

  Endyn’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Some soldiers would consider that an ailment or impairment.” Aravon looked the young man full in the face. “Far too many Legionnaires have been retired from service with injuries far less grave. But what if I told you that this injury saved my life?”

  The surprise spread from Endyn’s eyes to his rising eyebrows. “How?”

  “So many times, had I stood in the shield wall, I would have been cut down by enemies,” Aravon said. “Had I faced every battle as I did as a Legionnaire, I and everyone with me would have died. But because of this—” He gestured to his arm again. “—I found a new way to fight, a new approach to my battles. Everything we’ve managed to do, the Grim Reavers and I, it’s thanks to this injury.”

  Endyn’s huge lips rounded into an “O”, though the word never formed on his lips.

  “Sometimes, what appears as a weakness or infirmity to one person can actually be a salvation to another.” Aravon’s eyes went to the dark grey scales, thick and crusted, with the patches of cracked, red skin between. “The fact that you’ve borne the pain and discomfort without a word of complaint proves your grit to everyone. And I saw you fight, remember? Never once did you let it slow you down. So now, when you’ve got a chance to ease the misery, don’t fear that it will make you appear weak. Instead, consider it an acknowledgement of the strength required to bear that burden. Is that understood?”

  A new flush rose to Endyn’s huge cheeks, but it held no shame or embarrassment. Instead, a hint of pride shone in his skin, a match for the bright glow in his eyes. “Yes, Captain,” he rumbled.

  “Good.” Aravon nodded. “Now get inside and get that armor off. As soon as Rangvaldr is recovered, I’ll make sure he does what he can for the dragonskin.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Endyn straightened, once more looming over Aravon, and strode with a steady, determined gait toward the barracks. The stiffness of his spine and the fists clenched at his sides spoke of the torment he endured, but his silence spoke even louder of his fortitude. Aravon had known many men who would have crumbled in the face of such misery—he doubted even he could bear it. The fact that Endyn still stood, marched, and fought beside his Legionnaire brothers paid testament to his iron will.

  Tears of gratitude sparkled in Duvain’s eyes. “Thank you, sir.” He gave a quick bow and hurried after his brother.

  Only once the two had entered the stone building did Aravon turn to the remaining soldiers. “Captain Lingram, Colborn, with me to the War Room. The rest of you, get to the kitchens and get some dinner going, then find someplace to sleep tonight. We depart at dawn.”

  The Legionnaires departed without a word, accompanied only by the clatter of armor, gear, and weapons. Captain Lingram made to stride away, but Aravon caught his arm to stop him. He waited in silence until they stood alone in the darkness at the entrance to Camp Marshal.

  “Did you know?” Aravon asked quietly.

  “About his dragonskin?” Lingram nodded. “I found out about it after we reached Saerheim.”

  Aravon’s brows knitted together in thought. Despite what he’d told the giant Legionnaire, he wasn’t certain what to do with Endyn. Unless Rangvaldr could heal the dragonskin, the man would likely slow them down.

  “He’s never let it stop him, Aravon.” Lingram locked eyes with him. “But it’s more than that: it saved his life.”

  Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “On the road to Saerheim. A woodcutter viper tried to take a bite out of his leg.” Lingram’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “The dragonskin shrugged it off like a feather hitting a Legionnaire’s shield.”

  Aravon’s expression grew musing. He’d said what he said to Endyn not only to lift the soldier’s spirits—he truly believed it, though he’d never put that belief into words or given it much thought before tonight.

  But belief or not, he couldn’t afford anything that slowed them down. Zaharis had already said he could do nothing for the dragonskin without the Elixir of Creation—more of it than he had left. And the chances of their finding the final ingredient, ice saffron, were far beyond slim. Which meant Rangvaldr was the big man’s only hope.

  Thoughts of the ice saffron brought back memories of Zaharis and his confrontations with Darrak, his former Secret Keeper comrade. The man had led the priests that tried to kill Zaharis; they’d come damned close in Icespire. That wound doubtless cut deep, leaving a scar on the Secret Keeper’s heart. Aravon owed it to Zaharis to check on him.

  But first, we need to figure out the best plan of attack. He had never traveled farther south than the Fjall clan lands, and had no idea what to expect on their journey to Kaldrborg and Cliffpass. Hopefully, Colborn and Captain Lingram could fill in the gaps.

  “If you say Endyn’s up for it, then I trust you.” Aravon fixed Lingram with a solemn gaze. “I’ll have Rangvaldr see to him before we leave. But if we’re going to be ready to ride out at first light, I need to know what we’re going to face south of Anvil Garrison.” He gestured toward the barracks. “Come and show me what’s waiting for us deep in enemy territory.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Damn!” Captain Lingram whistled as he followed Aravon and Colborn into the War Room. “The Prince spared no expense here.”

  A plethora of maps, charts, scrolls, and reports sat upon the heavy shelves that lined every wall of the room. Wooden chairs sat along one side, next to a table furnished with a pitcher of what Aravon hoped was wine and a stack of buttered, sugar-and-cinnamon dusted flatbreads. But it was the oaken table occupying the center of the chamber that held Captain Lingram’s gaze. Into the surface, an artist had carved a detailed topographic map of the continent of Fehl from Icespire in the north to the Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains. Lingram ran a hand over the peaks and valleys etched with breathtaking detail into the smooth, lacquered wood.

  Aravon settled into place at the end of the table depicting the south of Fehl and the Sawtooth Mountains. “Tell me everything you know about Kaldrborg and Cliffpass.”

  Colborn’s brow furrowed in thought. “That’ll take all of five seconds,” he grunted. “I know it’s the largest settlement in Myrr lands, within spitting distance of what used to be the southern end of the Eastmarch before the Eirdkilrs came and tore it up.” He shrugged. “And that’s it.”

>   “Kaldrborg used to be a hub of trade for the entire south of Fehl.” Captain Lingram’s voice held far more confidence. He tapped a small square marker a few dozen miles away from the Sawtooth Mountains. “The goods flowing through the town kept Highcliff Motte stocked with supplies, and the gold and iron ore mined near the stronghold kept the Fehlans pacified. Until the Eirdkilrs overran the fortress and Cliffpass was closed.” The shadows returned to his eyes, and his brows furrowed at the painful memories.

  With effort, he smoothed out his expression. “Once the Eirdkilrs pushed the Legion back north, the Myrr threw their lot in with the southerners. Anything to keep them safe from the Bein flesh-eaters.”

  Disgust twisted in Aravon’s stomach. “So that’s not just a story told to scare young children?” All his life, he’d heard tales of cannibalism among the southern clans but never truly believed it.

  “When I was at Highcliff Motte, only a few of the oldest clans still kept up the practice, and always in secret.” Captain Lingram gave a disdainful grimace. “But the Eirdkilrs actually encourage that sort of thing. Now, all but one or two of the smaller families have returned to their savage ways. From what I’ve heard, the entire Bein clan structure has devolved to nothing more than warring families and settlements raiding each other, like the Haugr and Hafr.”

  Aravon grimaced. “Which means we want to stay as far from Bein lands as possible.”

  “Precisely.” Captain Lingram nodded. “Thankfully, our route should keep us mostly in Myrr lands.” He hesitated. “Unless we decide to head east, which means we’ll end up cutting through Fjall territory.”

  Aravon traced the mostly-straight path that had once been the Eastmarch carving its way through the lands of the Jarnleikr, Fjall, and Myrr. The Eirdkilrs had taken special pains to destroy the Princelanders’ roads, severing their easy access to southern Fehl. Once they passed Anvil Garrison, they’d spend most of the journey cutting through forests, marshlands, grassy plains, and hilly lands that grew ever more mountainous the closer they drew to the Sawtooth Mountains.