Courage to Sacrifice Read online

  “Captain—” Duvain began, but at sight of Rangvaldr and the glowing stone in his hands, snapped his mouth shut and moved aside for the Seiomenn.

  Zaharis whirled on Rangvaldr. “Do it!”

  Rangvaldr knelt beside the sleeping Endyn. His eyes went wide at the sight of the dragonskin. “Where do I even begin?” he breathed. “There’s so much of it.”

  Zaharis caught Aravon’s eyes. “Ask him where the dragonskin first appeared,” he signed, indicating Duvain with a thrust of his chin.

  Aravon repeated the Secret Keeper’s question to the soldier. Duvain seemed taken aback by the question but managed to stammer, “H-His chest. Right over his heart. That’s where it first appeared when he was young.”

  Zaharis’ face hardened, his eyes going dark with worry and concern. Yet he seemed to have no better idea. Fingers twitching nervously, he turned to Rangvaldr. “Test the stone, Seiomenn. See if it will do what I believe it will.”

  With slow, almost hesitant movements, Rangvaldr lifted the stone to his lips and muttered the words to bring it to life. A soft blue glow filled the room, bathing Endyn’s huge body with a glimmer that felt somehow soothing, warm even from where Aravon stood in the doorway. A strange sense of peace washed over him in the face of that azure radiance. He couldn’t tear his eyes away…didn’t want to. The brilliance beckoned him, drew him into its calming depths.

  Rangvaldr lowered the stone to Endyn’s huge chest. Instantly, every muscle in the Seiomenn’s body went rigid and a gasp escaped his lips. He recoiled, dropping the stone onto the Legionnaire’s scaled skin. The moment the stone left his hands, the light diminished to a dull glow.

  “What happened?” Zaharis demanded.

  A strange darkness burned in Rangvaldr’s eyes. “Nothing.”

  “What?” Zaharis’ eyebrows shot up. “But it glowed like—”

  “That’s what I meant.” Rangvaldr spoke in a slow voice, his words heavy. “It felt exactly like what happened when I use my holy stone.” He drew out the pendant that bore the blue gemstone, the sacred artifact of the Eyrr, and held it up next to Zaharis’ glowing chunk of ghoulstone. “Nothing was different between the two. Nothing at all.”

  Zaharis sucked in a sharp breath. “Truly?” An eager, delighted light gleamed in his eyes. “That’s wonderful!” His fingers twitched faster, the sign his mind was working frantically at some new problem.

  “Captain?” Endyn’s rumbling voice broke the momentary silence.

  Aravon glanced down, found the Legionnaire had awoken and was now staring up at them with confusion written on his huge face.

  “At ease, Soldier.” Aravon spoke in a calm, firm tone. “Stonekeeper’s going to try and heal your dragonskin.”

  Endyn’s eyes went wide, and his gaze darted to Rangvaldr. His puzzlement deepened at the sight of the two glowing stones, but rather than protesting or asking questions, he lay back and closed his eyes. “Okay.”

  The young soldier’s tone took Aravon by surprise. Was that reluctance he heard? He’d seen Rangvaldr heal Branda of the Wraithfever, and he’d been present when Skathi collapsed from the serious wound in her side. He shouldn’t have doubts as to the holy stone’s efficacy after all that. So why the uncertainty?

  “Try again,” Zaharis pressed Rangvaldr. “But this time use both stones together.”

  Rangvaldr’s white eyebrows climbed upward, surprise piercing the gloom in his eyes. “Both?”

  “Why not?” A smile broadened Zaharis’ face, his teeth gleaming brilliant white in the light of the glowing stones. “If it works, it means you get double the healing power!” His dark eyes twinkled. “And don’t tell me you wouldn’t want that.”

  Rangvaldr’s expression wavered, and doubt etched the deep lines of the Seiomenn’s face. Yet, after only a heartbeat’s pause, he lifted both stones to his lips and spoke the words of power again. This time, Aravon could feel the power filling the room as the two gemstones sprang to life. Blue light washed over the five of them, the peaceful sensation humming to the core of Aravon’s being.

  Slowly, with visible hesitance, Rangvaldr touched the stones to Endyn’s scale-covered chest. For an agonizing heartbeat, nothing happened. One second became two, and still nothing. The dark grey scales remained as thick as ever, the reddened flesh still painfully inflamed and raw.

  A gasp escaped Endyn’s lips and his eyelids flew open. His left hand went to his cheek, and when he pulled it away, the scaled skin had retreated. Dark grey seemed to recede, thinning out and disappearing beneath skin that turned red, then pink, the blemishes fading. Flesh long ago lost to disease reclaimed ground like a wave washing across the sand. Cracks of bloody, raw skin knit together, leaving only healthy muscle and tissue where dry, dead disease had once ruled. One heartbeat at a time, yet so quickly it seemed almost instantaneous, the patches of dragonskin dwindled, faded, and simply disappeared altogether.

  By the Swordsman! Aravon could find no words. He could do nothing but stare down in stunned surprise at the Legionnaire’s chest—once covered with thick, crusted scales, now perfectly smooth and free of inflammation. It’s…gone!

  A shocked silence descended over the room. Duvain’s jaw dropped to his chest and incredulity filled his eyes. Triumph shone on Zaharis’ face, and the twitching of his fingers had stilled. Even Endyn seemed too stunned to react, to move. His hand rested on his neck, feeling smooth skin for what had to be the first time in only he knew how long.

  Rangvaldr’s grunt broke the quiet. He gave a half-groan and slumped, would have fallen if Zaharis hadn’t caught him. The sight of the collapsing Seiomenn snapped Aravon from his stupor and he darted to the Seiomenn’s side, helping Zaharis support his broad shoulders and powerful frame.

  “Too…much!” Rangvaldr’s voice sounded strangled, barely above a whisper. “Too…much…strength.” His eyelids fluttered closed and his head lolled to the side.

  But not even the sight of the collapsing Rangvaldr could diminish the brilliant fire of Zaharis’ excitement. Aravon caught the gleam in the Secret Keeper’s eyes as he stooped to help. Together, they slung the Seiomenn’s arms over their shoulders and lifted Rangvaldr to his feet.

  Duvain threw himself to the floor beside his brother and cradled the weeping giant’s head in his arms. He seemed at a loss for words, but the gratitude in his eyes spoke volumes.

  “Captain!” A strangled half-sob, half-shout rumbled through the room. Aravon glanced back, found a teary-eyed Endyn staring up at the three of them. The Legionnaire’s huge hands played across the now-smooth flesh of his chest, a mixture of disbelief and awe etched into the lines of his healed face. “Thank you. All of you.” He swallowed. “I’d never dared to hope…” His voice cut off, drowned beneath a torrent of choking sobs that burst from his chest.

  Aravon understood. Hope could prove maddening—there one moment, snatched away the next. With a nod, he turned and, with Zaharis’ help, carried the slumped, sagging Rangvaldr from the room. The Seiomenn was a big man, but in that moment, he seemed far too light. Though Aravon wanted to write it off as simply the lack of armor and weaponry to weigh him down, he couldn’t be certain. Only Rangvaldr knew how the magic affected his body, soul, or whatever else it drew on to heal.

  But heal it did. Impossibly, what had once been a chunk of inert stone had just saved Endyn’s life. The implications of that staggered Aravon. It had to mean something…something not only to Rangvaldr, but to the Eirdkilrs that had gone out of their way to hunt it. But what? His mind struggled to comprehend what he’d just seen; he’d need time to figure out how it played into the enemy’s plan.

  It was a short walk to Rangvaldr’s room. Gently, Zaharis and Aravon lowered the Seiomenn to his bed. As they released his arms, Rangvaldr managed to open his eyes, lock his gaze on Zaharis. His lips moved but his voice was so quiet Aravon nearly missed the whispered words. “Not twice…the power. Twice…the drain.” His strong fingers closed around the dimly glowing stones.

  Aravon’s bro
w furrowed at the words, and concern hummed within him as he followed the Secret Keeper out into the hall and closed Rangvaldr’s door.

  Zaharis rounded on Aravon, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Don’t you see what this means? The potential implications are—”

  “Implications?” Aravon’s eyes narrowed. “Using both healing stones might heal faster, but it’ll also drain his strength faster. It’s useful in case of a potentially fatal wound, but otherwise, it’s just a risk to Rangvaldr.”

  “Of course.” Zaharis nodded, but the exultation in his gaze never wavered. Concern for Rangvaldr seemed to take second place to his excitement. “But you saw what happened!” His fingers were a blur as they formed the signs. “I found a chunk of useless rock and turned it into something as powerful as the Eyrr healing stones! That’s not just some random accident of chance. I mean, maybe there was that accident, dropping the stone into the salt water, but that’s how some of the greatest alchemical discoveries have been made. But the power…” He trailed off with a shake of his head. “Don’t you see, Captain?”

  Aravon grimaced at the repeated question. “Enlighten me, Zaharis.”

  “The Elixir of Creation!” The Secret Keeper dug into his robes and produced the vial containing the bright blue liquid. “It’s exactly what I believed it was. A marvel of magic, used by the ancient Serenii to shape this world as they saw fit.” He jabbed a finger at Rangvaldr’s door. “I gave up my life in the Temple of Whispers because I believed that it was real, and that there was a chance I could be the one to find it. That stone is the proof that I’m right! I’m right in believing that the Elixir is powerful, which means that my search for ice saffron isn’t just a fool’s errand, but a task that, if I succeed, could change the course of mankind’s future!”

  The intensity of Zaharis’ words surprised Aravon—until he remembered the conversation they’d had mere minutes earlier. About Darrak, and the Secret Keepers trying to kill Zaharis.

  This discovery gave meaning to Zaharis’ life, the choices he’d made, the things he’d sacrificed. With that stone, he had all the proof he needed to know beyond a shadow of doubt that he was on the right path. Despite everything—being forced to leave the man he loved, being evicted from his priestly order, even hunted down by his fellow Secret Keepers—he now had a sign that filled him with certainty he’d made the right decision.

  And for a man like Zaharis, a man of tangible evidence and facts, that was the greatest gift. Peace replaced his earlier turmoil. To Aravon’s surprise, he actually smiled and gave a little laugh. “Rest well, Captain!” he clapped Aravon on the shoulder. “Morning will come all too soon.” He fairly floated down the hall and into his room.

  The Secret Keeper’s door closed with an audible click, leaving Aravon alone in the near-silence of the hallway. Save for Corporal Rold’s thunderous snoring, all had gone quiet. The sound of Noll, Belthar, and Skathi’s conversation had faded. No movement echoed from within the dining chamber. It seemed Zaharis’ pounding on Rangvaldr’s door and the commotion of healing Endyn hadn’t bothered the sleeping Legionnaires exhausted from their long ride.

  Again, the weight of fatigue tugged at Aravon’s limbs. This time, he made no attempt to fight it. Zaharis had spoken the truth—dawn was just a few hours off, and he needed all the rest he could get.

  Snatching up his bedroll from where he’d left it at the entrance to the War Room, he strode out of the barracks and crossed the open ground toward the archery range. He’d given his room to Endyn and Duvain, but he’d spent enough nights sleeping on hard ground to welcome the soft comfort of the hay bales erected around the edges of the archery field. Though the hay had long ago gone dry, it hadn’t yet rotted. A more-than-suitable bed for a few hours of sleep, once he spread out his bedroll.

  Snarl scampered up to him as he settled onto one of the hay bales, leaping up beside him and curling up at his side. He’d spent a day flying and running through Eastfall, and the last hour or so racing around his favorite spots at Camp Marshal—the obstacle course, the southeastern corner where a family of robins had made a nest, a short stretch of the western wall that had large holes dug by marshland rodents. Now, however, he appeared content to rest his legs and wings.

  Even after the Enfield settled in, however, Aravon could not find sleep. He lay on his back, his limbs glad for the rest, but chaos whirled in his mind. So much had happened in the last few days—too much for his mind to process. Captain Lingram’s deception. The strange change that had come over Rangvaldr. Zaharis’ discovery of the ghoulstone. The attack on Icespire. Lord Eidan’s cryptic words.

  Thoughts of Icespire brought back the image he’d been trying to push away the last two days: Mylena sitting in the Palace garden, watching Rolyn and Adilon laughing and playing in the brilliant sunlight.

  The memory brought a lump to his throat. It would likely be the last time he’d see them. He hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. Hadn’t had the strength to even try it. One word to Mylena, one look at his sons from up close, and his resolve would have crumbled. Though it had taken every shred of his willpower, he’d forced himself to leave once more.

  And now, all he had was that memory. That, and all the others he’d accumulated over the years. They would have to carry him through the journey south, on his mission to find and kill Tyr Farbjodr.

  Even if he never saw his sons again, never held his wife in his arms, that image of their happy, smiling faces would be enough. It had to be. He did this for them. He would risk his life—and those of his Grim Reavers—for their sakes, and the sake of everyone else in the Princelands.

  Chapter Eleven

  “…telling me you had two of those Keeper-damned Earthshakers left?” Noll’s voice drifted in through the open door of the smithy, followed a moment later by Zaharis and the scout himself. “It’s not like we could have bloody used them in Icespire or anything when facing a horde of pissing Eirdkilrs!”

  Zaharis shot Noll a bland look. “Last I checked, a populated city isn’t exactly the best place to let one of these loose,” he signed. “Besides, I’ve only so much space in my chest for supplies.”

  “Oh, if that’s the problem, I’m more than happy to take them off your hands.” The little scout’s eyes gleamed like a child unwrapping a nameday gift. “I’ve got plenty of space in my pack to carry them.”

  “I’d rather charge into an Eirdkilr horde stark naked.” Zaharis rolled his eyes. “I’d have a better chance of surviving them than you playing with an Earthshaker.” He held up a finger. “And don’t even pretend you wouldn’t fiddle with them every chance you get. Treat those iron weapons like a bloody toy, you will, and we both know it.”

  Polus’ arrival saved Noll from having to answer. “Here ye go, Captain.” The smith bustled into the front of the smithy, Aravon’s spear held in his hands. “Good to see ye heeded m’warning to keep this in good condition. Nary a dent or ding. Almost as if ye knew a thing or two about caring fer weapons proper-like.”

  Aravon accepted his spear with a nod. “Love what you’ve done with it.” From the spear’s crossbar hung a collection of bones, feathers, and beads strung on leather strands, and the smith had covered the Odarian steel head with soot and dust, making it appear crude and primitive. Ideal for passing among the Fehlans and Eirdkilrs to the south, but definitely not the work of art it had been the previous night.

  “Aye, and a bloody travesty ‘tis to mar such a beautiful masterpiece.” The blacksmith’s heavy eyebrows pulled together, and he wagged a sausage-thick finger at Aravon. “That don’t mean ye’ve the right to mistreat it, y’hear? Ye treat it like yer own precious bairns, or Swordsman be my witness, I’ll box yer ears right good!”

  Turning away to hide a smile, Aravon twisted the metal band two feet from the spear’s iron-shod butt, nodding as the spike slid smoothly in and out of its casing. “I will do my utmost to return it in pristine condition.”

  The blacksmith snorted in derision, muttering something about “la
ckwit soldiers treat m’fine works like sticks and stones” as he turned toward Noll and Zaharis. He produced Zaharis’ mace—the spikes freshly sharpened and the head cleaned of blood—with a similar lecture. Noll escaped the harangue by sheer virtue of his size; he kept out of sight behind Zaharis, busying himself collecting three leather-bound sheaves of arrows for his longbow.

  Aravon met Belthar on his way out of the forge. “Best hope you’ve kept your weapons in good shape. Polus is in a mood.”

  Belthar groaned. “I forgot to scrape the Eirdkilr blood off my crossbow butt.” He grimaced as he stepped into the smithy, shoulders squared for the anticipated confrontation with the finicky blacksmith.

  Outside the forge, the pre-dawn air was free of the thick reek of smoke, burned charcoal, red-hot metal, and singed hair that hung heavy within. The familiar slightly sweet scent of rotting vegetation drifting off the marshlands came as a welcome relief, a reminder of where he was. It felt good to be here at Camp Marshal—a place that felt oddly like home—once more.

  Aravon’s eyes went to the eastern sky; the sun had yet to make an appearance, but the first hints of blue already brightened the heavens. But instead of hurrying, Aravon allowed himself a moment to take a few long, deep breaths of the morning air. The moment he donned his armor and rode out of Camp Marshal, any shred of ease or peace would disappear, replaced by the single-minded focus on the mission. Though he’d only had a few hours of rest, he’d slept well in the knowledge that he was safe in the secret training camp. Beyond the palisade walls surrounding him, that feeling would evaporate.

  The sound of delighted, rumbling laughter and heavy boots thudding on the ground shattered the moment of calm. Opening his eyes, he found the strangest sight he’d ever witnessed.

  A giant was dancing, a strange jig Aravon recognized from the soirees he’d attended in Icespire. It was a Voramian shuffle-step, but the man dancing wore leather armor in place of costly silks, and his huge feet set the ground rumbling in a way no coterie of perfumed lords and ladies ever could.