Zaharis' face fell. “I'm all out of Flaming Tansy,” he signed. “Unless I can get some more oil equally as flammable as Watcher's Bloom, there's not a whole lot I can do against an army.”
“Then we'll have to make do with our original plan.” He turned back to Belthar and Colborn. “How much of the ambush did you get set up?”
Belthar's brow furrowed. “We had a few surprises ready, but we were counting on the Legion for help.”
“If I get you a few extra pairs of hands, think you can manage to pull it off?”
Belthar and Colborn exchanged glances. “Aye,” the big man replied, “I think we'll get it done. It'll be a long night, but a score or so of Legionnaires should do just fine.”
“Good. Find a Captain by the name of Elodon Phonnis. He'll be expecting you and will give you what you need.”
The two men stood and, replacing their masks, rushed off toward the Legion camp.
“Captain, there's one more thing.” Zaharis gave him a little grin. “I'm afraid we'll need to ask the Legion quartermaster for more rations.”
Aravon's eyebrows rose. “Did Belthar eat it all already?”
Zaharis shook his head, and his grin widened. “It was all I had, so I had no choice but to throw it at the Eirdkilrs.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
A hand shook Aravon's shoulder. “It's time, Captain.”
Aravon jerked upright and blinked as he took in his surroundings. Last thing he remembered, he'd sat down for a moment before resuming his preparations for battle. By the wool in his head, he guessed he'd fallen asleep.
“You good, Captain?” Colborn's eyes, visible behind his mask, held concern.
Aravon nodded. “What time is it?” He glanced up—the walls of the canyon hid the eastern horizon from view, and no light broke the darkness of night.
“Dawn's less than an hour off,” Colborn replied. “The Eirdkilrs will be making their move soon.”
“I know.” Aravon cast off the cloak—someone must have draped it over him—and rose. “I-I didn't mean to sleep…”
Colborn shrugged. “You needed your rest. The others understood. You've got the most important role to play today.”
The familiar burden of command descended on his shoulders as he straightened his armor and set off toward the Legion’s camp, Colborn at his side. Eight hundred Legionnaires counted on them to do the impossible.
“Everything is ready?” he asked.
Colborn studied the Legionnaires moving through the pre-dawn darkness. “As ready as it can be.” He met Aravon's eyes. “Your plan's our best chance, Captain.”
The confidence hidden in Colborn's casual words sent a bloom of warmth through Aravon. “It's up to them.” He gestured toward the Legionnaires. “It's their strength and suffering that will get us through the day.”
He strode through the camp, Colborn at his back. The eyes of the Legionnaires turned to regard him. They nodded, a simple gesture that spoke more than any Voramian orator ever could. He returned their nods and said a silent prayer to the Swordsman that he wouldn't let them down.
Commander Oderus stood waiting for him beside his tent, flanked by Captains Phonnis and Perthan. The Commander made no attempt to hide a scowl as Aravon strode toward them.
“Commander,” Aravon said, and nodded to the two Captains. “Do you intend to address the men before battle?”
Oderus shook his head. “I find grandiloquent speeches an absurd waste of time. Jade Battalion knows its duties—their commanding officer's orders are motivation enough to get the job done.”
Aravon bit back a retort. “As you say.” He turned to the two Captains. “Your companies know what to do?”
“Aye, sir.” Captain Phonnis exchanged a glance with Perthan. “I've had Fourth and Fifth Companies at it all night long, and Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth will hold the front ranks.”
“Good.” He turned toward the mouth of the canyon. Somewhere out in the darkness, an army of Eirdkilrs waited to kill them all. “Let's give those barbarians a fight they won't forget.”
And may the Swordsman have mercy on us all.
* * *
The first rays of morning sunlight filtering over the treetops found a solid line of Legionnaires standing at the mouth of Broken Canyon. Mist crept along the ground, and a damp chill hung in the air. Aravon pulled his cloak tighter—the Legionnaires in the front line had to be miserable. Waiting often felt like the worst part of battle. Yet they held their lines, shields firm, eyes fixed on the enemy they knew would come for them at any moment.
“I hope you know what you're doing,” Commander Oderus muttered from beside Aravon. “These men's blood is on your hands.”
I hope so, too. Aravon was glad for the mask—he didn't want the men beside him to see the anxiety that no doubt twisted his face. He hadn't had the stomach to choke down even the meager trail rations Colborn scrounged from somewhere. All he could do was hold his spear, grip the hilt of his sword, and stand firm at his position fifty yards back from the mouth of the canyon.
He wanted to feel confident, to trust in what he’d learned at Camp Marshal and years spent as an officer. But Hrolf Hrungnir had changed the nature of their battle in that field. He’d defied every expectation and adopted viciously effective new tactics—tactics that had turned the Legion’s strengths into their weakness. Aravon would do his damnedest to try and anticipate whatever the Blodhundr leader planned to throw at him, but when it came down to it, he could do nothing more than prepare for battle beforehand and be ready to adapt once the armies clashed.
Drawing in a breath, he looked out over the men under his command. Not Oderus’ command any longer, but his. His battle to plan—to win or lose. Soldiers depending on him to keep them alive.
Swordsman, he prayed silently, guide my sword and direct my thoughts. Shield us with your strong arms, and bring us through this day victorious.
The Legionnaires of Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth Companies formed the front line—three hundred men in a solid shield wall that arced outward in the middle. When the Eirdkilrs hit them, they could bow inward and retreat without losing the protection of the cliff faces. The Legionnaires that had survived yesterday's battle would provide support and reinforcements as needed.
That number had grown dangerously small. Without shelters or wood for a fire, many of the most grievously injured had fallen prey to the chill and their wounds. Fewer than five hundred Legionnaires remained to hold the shield wall. Skathi and the one hundred Agrotorae stationed at the rear of the line would do their best to repel the Eirdkilrs.
No one spoke, but Aravon knew they all had the same thought. Nine hundred Eirdkilrs were too many. Too damned many.
Yet despite their hesitance, none of them—from Commander Oderus down to the lowest infantryman—voiced complaint. The men took their places in the shield wall and stood firm without a word. They were Legionnaires, and they had jobs to do.
Aravon's gut clenched as the first Eirdkilrs appeared through the morning mists. Here they come. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on his spear and watched the enemy close on the mouth of the canyon.
Clad in ragged furs, unnaturally tall, they appeared as hideous specters of death, rabid ghouls come to claim the souls of the living. But there was nothing unearthly about their hate-filled eyes or the steel of their weapons. When they raised their voices in a keening howl, no doubt remained. Their enemy was very real.
The Eirdkilrs made no move to attack—a ploy, Aravon knew. A few moments of waiting would cost them nothing. We’re right where they want us. Trapped, with our backs against a wall. The longer the Eirdkilrs delayed, threatening the assault yet never moving to commit, the more fearful their enemy became.
A clever ploy, one they'd used to their advantage on many battlefields. Aravon’s nerves thrummed like the strings of a lute. The sight of the massive, fur-clad figures sent a wave of anxiety coursing through him. As the sun rose and drove back the early morning mists, he went over the battl
e plan for the hundredth time.
It has to work. The Legion has to hold.
He scanned the enemy ranks for any sign of Hrolf Hrungnir or his Blodhundr, but the heavy fog hid all but the foremost Eirdkilrs from view. When the time came, the Eirdkilrs' leader would throw himself into the thick of the fight. Contrary to Legion regulations, the commanders of the ragtag bands of Eirdkilrs led from the front.
Aravon's gloved fingers toyed with the shaft of his spear. The minute you show your face, I’m coming for you, you bastard!
The harsh Eirdkilr horn sounded the call to battle. A wild howl rose from the enemy ranks. Dozens of throats echoed the cry, then hundreds. The ululating sound echoed off the canyon walls, setting the ground rumbling, the grating sound rattling in Aravon’s bones. The Legionnaires shifted nervously as the howling continued.
“Death to the half-men!” For what seemed an eternity, the war chant continued unbroken.
Then the foremost Eirdkilr advanced, and the men around him shuffled into motion as well. Faster they came, from walk to jog to full rush. They wasted no time firing arrows into the Legion ranks. They knew the Legion's shield formations too well to know it would have any effect—more than that, they knew they had the numbers to simply smash through the Legion ranks.
“Agrotorae!” the blond-haired woman Commander shouted. “Give 'em hell!”
A hundred archers raised their bows toward the sky, and a hundred bowstrings touched cheeks. The Agrotorae line stretched across the canyon, twenty women wide and five rows deep. Their quivers rested against the short wooden staves they had driven into the ground.
At the Commander’s shout, the canyon filled with the deep thrum of a hundred bowstrings released. A cloud of shafts filled the lightening sky. Arrows sliced through the mist to scythe down the Eirdkilrs. Barbarian cries filled the air as dozens fell. The thunk of arrows striking wooden shields joined the meaty thump of the missiles that found their marks in flesh and muscle.
“Loose!” came the cry again, and a second volley of arrows sped toward the charging Eirdkilrs. More fell, but still the enemy came on, their long legs eating up the ground at an inhuman speed. A third wave, and a fourth. The arrows felled Eirdkilrs by the scores. Screaming, growling guttural curses, or falling in silence. Tramped beneath the booted feet of their comrades, their blood staining the ground.
And still the enemy advanced.
The fifth volley of arrows fell just fifty yards ahead of the shield wall. At their commander's shout, the Agrotorae bows fell silent. They had done what they could.
“Brace yourselves!” came the shout from one of the company's Sergeants.
Aravon held his breath as the Eirdkilrs crossed the last forty yards to the shield wall. Thirty-five. Thirty. Twenty-five. Instinctively, he braced himself for the inevitable crash of massive bodies slamming into Legion shields. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten.
He whirled toward the trumpeter. “Now!”
The man clapped his horn to his lips and blew. The trumpet bellowed a signal that rang throughout the canyon. Instantly, the Legion’s shield wall seemed to collapse in on itself, the front ranks retreating before the charging Eirdkilrs. The barbarians, mere feet from their enemies, raised their voices in a howl of triumph and pushed onward.
Their cries of delight turned to shrieks of pain as they ran onto the Legion's trap. Sharpened spikes, the same used by the Agrotorae, had been driven into the ground in a ring around the mouth of the canyon. The Legionnaires' shields had concealed the spikes until the last moment. The Eirdkilrs, charging at full speed, could not avoid collision.
Triumph surged within Aravon. Take that, you bastards! Hrolf Hrungnir wasn’t the only one to spring traps on his enemy.
Dozens of Eirdkilrs fell, only to be trampled by their comrades racing a step behind. Those lucky few who managed to evade the spikes found themselves facing a re-formed shield wall. Legion spears and swords bit back at their enemy. The Agrotorae sent volley after volley toward the barbarians bogged down by the bodies of their fallen comrades. Eirdkilr blood ran thick in the dried-up riverbed of Broken Canyon, turning the ground to crimson mud. Screams of pain, agonized shrieks, and the clash of steel on wood rang out in a deafening tumult.
Yet still the Eirdkilrs came on. Though more than a hundred had fallen in less than a minute, they would not stop. They clambered over their dead and dying to charge the shield wall. Their huge axes, clubs, and spears hammered at the Legionnaires. The first Legionnaire fell to a blow that crushed helmet and skull. A second fell to the thrust of an Eirdkilr spear. More joined the ranks of Legion fallen as the Eirdkilrs pressed against the shield wall.
Aravon scanned the battle line. Three hundred Legionnaires held the mouth of the canyon, standing in rows fifty men across and six deep. The sheer cliff faces guarded their flanks, but the Eirdkilrs came on from the front. Their size and strength made them more than a match for the Legionnaire discipline.
“Hit them hard!” Aravon shouted. “Make them pay for every life they’ve taken!”
The Captains of Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth company shouted encouragement at their men. The Agrotorae sent arrows hurtling over the heads of the enemy to strike at the rearmost Eirdkilrs. Legionnaires met the barbarians with shield, sword, and spear. None had any doubt what would happen if they gave ground.
Yet give ground they did. A single step back. Aravon ground his teeth. Slowly. For a moment, the line buckled and threatened to give way. Aravon tensed, ready to leap into the gap. Yet the shield wall held, barely.
The Eirdkilrs hurled themselves into the solid lines of Legionnaires, trusting their studded armor and ice bear fur pelts to protect them. They struck over the rims of the shields, crushing Princelander heads, snapping necks, and slicing flesh and bone. Legionnaires fell by the dozens, the ranks pushed backward, a second step.
“Hold!” Aravon shouted.
The Legionnaires struck back. Short swords thrust between gaps in the shields or drove up from underneath. Bright steel biting at flesh, tearing through leather armor and breeches, slicing flesh, disemboweling the towering giants. The spears of the third and fourth ranks gave answer with bright steel.
Yet still the Eirdkilrs shoved against the wall. Howling, screaming their insults and war cries. Enormous axes biting deep into flesh and crushing armor and helmets. Shoving at the enemies crushed up against them. Scratching, biting, stabbing. A frenzy of battle and bloodlust in the face of Legion discipline.
Another step back.
Not too fast! Aravon had to stop himself from leaping down and joining the battle. He needed the men to retreat, to pull back deeper into the canyon. But if they broke and turned into a headlong retreat, the battle would be lost.
“Snarl,” Oderus growled. “This is madness. You must send in the reserves!”
Aravon didn't meet the Commander’s eyes. His gaze was fixed on the battle raging just thirty yards in front of him. He couldn't use the reserves, not yet. They would be needed if the tide of battle turned against them.
This was the hardest part of command, having to stand by and watch men fight and die. He would give anything to take his place in the shield wall. But he couldn't. His weakened shield arm would put him and everyone around him at risk. He had to remain in the rear to command. Oderus couldn't win this battle. Aravon wasn't certain he could, but he had to try.
A sinking feeling rose in the pit of his stomach as a fresh howl rose from the Eirdkilr ranks. Suddenly, twenty dark, fur-clad figures seemed to fly through the mists, over the head of the shield wall, and landed with a crash behind the rearmost ranks.
With a triumphant cry, they raised their enormous weapons and charged. Right toward Aravon.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Fiery hell!
For an instant, Aravon was frozen by his surprise. He’d never seen the Eirdkilrs vault the battle line like that. Suicidal madness, even for them.
Then his blood turned to ice as the Eirdkilr eyes fixed on him. This wasn’t madness—they
were coming for him!
Belthar cut down the first one before he'd taken two steps. A second followed a moment later, head spinning away. Yet the attack had caught Aravon off-guard—he barely recovered from his shock in time to throw himself out of the way of a hurled Eirdkilr spear. The weapon whistled past his head, scraping along his pauldron.
In the instant the Eirdkilr fumbled for his weapon, Skathi leapt into the gap. The archer had exchanged her bow for a short sword, which she buried into the Eirdkilr’s gut. The man died, howling, blood gushing from his mouth, spattering Skathi’s wolf mask.
But the Agrotorae at the rear of the line weren’t so lucky. Their screams snapped Aravon from his stupor, and he spun to find the Eirdkilrs hacking their way through the ranks of lightly armed and armored archers.
“Take them down!” he roared. “Protect the Agrotorae!”
All traces of surprise and hesitation faded, and Aravon raced the ten steps toward the embattled archers. Aravon leapt forward with a snarl. His spear took an Eirdkilr in the gut, the Odarian steel tip slicing through the barbarian's studded leather vest and the flesh beneath. He ripped his spear free and whirled the butt end to crack across another Eirdkilr's blue-stained face. Colborn's short sword opened the barbarian's throat as the Lieutenant raced past to confront another.
“Fall back!” he shouted to the Agrotorae’s Commander.
“Not a bloody chance!” she roared back.
What the women of the Agrotorae lacked in armor and heavy weaponry, they made up for in courage. Rallying under their blond-haired Commander, they drew their short swords and waded into the fight beside Belthar and Skathi. Though they took heavy casualties from the massive barbarians, they would not retreat. One by one, the Eirdkilr berserkers fell.
Aravon drove his spear through the back of the final berserker. The Eirdkilr fell, but he took the Captain of Sixth Company with him.
Keeper’s teeth! Ice slithered through Aravon’s veins as he realized the true purpose of the attack. Not just to kill him, but all the Legion officers. The Seventh's Captain lay at Aravon's feet, his head twenty yards away. Only the Eighth Company's Captain had survived. Judging by the blood leaking from the gaping wound in his shoulder, he wouldn't last the day.
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