“Hold fast, men!” Suddenly, Captain Phonnis was beside Aravon, shouting encouragement to the Sixth and Seventh Companies.
A hand gripped Aravon's shoulder, and he spun to see Colborn.
“We need to go back.” Colborn chose the silent hand language rather than trying to shout over the clashing of steel. “You need to command, not stand in the shield wall!”
Aravon struggled to pull his mind out of the fog of battle, to think clearly beyond the life-and-death of facing enemies. Blinking, he nodded and followed Colborn back toward the command post.
Behind him, Captain Phonnis’ voice rang out, and Captain Perthan had taken up a place behind the Eighth Company. By the time Aravon managed to recover, to regain his cold, analytical calm, the two Captains had the situation under control. They held the line.
Barely.
Aravon found Commander Oderus stalking across the ground like a caged tiger. “Snarl, you must call forward the reserves,” the Commander insisted, thrusting a finger toward the embattled Legionnaires. “They can't hold much longer.”
Studying the line, Aravon found the Commander’s assessment accurate. In the few minutes it had taken to deal with the berserkers, the Legion's shield wall had sustained heavy losses. The line was dangerously thin at places, with the third and fourth ranks stepping forward to take the places of their fallen comrades.
Aravon nodded. “Do it.” He breathed deep, pushed back the battle rush. “Signal for First and Second Companies to join the shield wall.” He had to think clearly, maintain a tight grip on the battle.
Commander Oderus snapped off an order and the trumpeter sounded the signal horn. Fifty men—all that remained of the decimated First and Second Companies—rushed to reinforce the Legion line.
“That's it?” Oderus growled. “Fifty men will not suffice to—”
Aravon glared at him. “It is all we can spare.” Fewer than a hundred Legionnaires remained in reserve. They'd need every one of them to survive the day.
He estimated the enemy losses. Too damned few! At the current rate of attrition, the Eirdkilrs would have more than three hundred left by the time the last Legionnaire and Agrotora fell. More than enough to wreak havoc on the Fehlan countryside. Perhaps even enough to take Scythe Garrison. If they fell today, war would consume northeastern Fehl.
He climbed onto a boulder for a better glimpse at the Eirdkilr armies. Keeper take it! The barbarians pushed, shoved, and jostled each other to get at the Legionnaires holding the mouth of the canyon. There had to be at least five hundred left, every one of them out for blood. There was no retreat, no chance at parley.
“Sound the retreat,” he told Oderus.
The Commander’s eyes narrowed, and he hesitated for a moment.
“Sound the retreat,” Aravon insisted.
With a shake of his head, Oderus nodded to the trumpeter. “Do it.”
The single mournful note of the horn echoed in the canyon. Captains Phonnis and Perthan shot a glance over their shoulders. Aravon nodded. The time had come to fall back.
The shield wall retreated a single step, the Legionnaires moving in lock-step precision. The Eirdkilrs staggered in the gap, then renewed their attack with their wild, howling war cry. “Death to the half-men!” rang off the stone walls.
Another step, then another. The Agrotorae rushed toward the rear of the Legion camp, giving the solid line of defenders a clear path to retreat. With every step the Legion retreated, more Eirdkilrs crowded into the canyon. Hundreds of the enormous barbarians pushed toward their enemy. They bayed for blood, their wild howls setting the stone cliffs trembling.
The shield wall buckled on the left flank. Soldiers pushed back, slipping on bloody mud and the guts of their comrades. Shouting, screaming, falling.
In desperation, Aravon committed the thirty men of Third Company. A moment later, Fourth and Fifth joined battle.
Despair sank in his gut as he watched the last two-dozen soldiers form in the shield wall. They had run out of reserves.
A heartbeat later, the right flank crumbled. Soldiers crushed beneath the sheer weight of the Eirdkilrs, screaming and dying. Legionnaires giving way to the towering giants hammering them, clawing at their eyes, driving daggers into their faces and throats. Legion shields shattered beneath the Eirdkilr weapons and a massive gap opened in the ranks.
Eirdkilrs spilled into the opening, dozens of them, howling their delight. Huge barbarians that hacked and slashed their way deeper into the ranks of Legionnaires. Widening the gap, opening the way for more to come through. Killing Legionnaires too embattled by the enemy ahead to turn and defend from the threat on their flanks.
Horror flooded Aravon as the entire right flank seemed to collapse in on itself, all cohesion shattered. Instantly, he was racing from the command position and hurling himself into the fray. The chaos of battle. The screams of men shrieking and dying, blood spraying. The reek of battle and the torment of that cacophony hammered against his ears with unrelenting force.
Aravon brought down one Eirdkilr, only to find himself pushed back by two more. Attacked from the side by a third. Knocked backward by the three, fighting for his life. Fighting desperately to hold the canyon and stop the Legionnaires from being overwhelmed.
“Hold!” he roared, over and over, like a priest’s chant. He roared until his voice was hoarse, his throat ragged. Hacking down an Eirdkilr with a vicious slashing strike, killing a second with a spear thrust to a chest. He backed away from a wild strike and fell hard, stumbled to his feet, dodged a descending club.
Suddenly, he was back on the Eastmarch, back fighting beside his men in a battle they had no hope of winning. Surrounded by Eirdkilrs howling for their blood. For his blood. Desperate, hopeless, gritting his teeth and fighting with every shred of skill. Kill or die. Fight to the last breath, then keep on fighting.
Pain exploded in his chest as an Eirdkilr club crashed into his armor. He crashed into the canyon wall, his back slamming into hard stone. His helmet saved his head. More pain, a dull ache in the back of his skull. Throbbing, needling into his brain.
The wash of battle, the din of swords clashing and shields banging, the roar of men, the screams of the dying—so many sounds crashed atop Aravon. A foul reek of blood, offal, urine, terror sweat, and mud hung thick in his nostrils, stifling his breath, filling his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, paralyzed by the memory of that grisly day when he’d lost the men under his command. A tremor ran down his spine, set his hand quivering.
No! He tightened his grip around his spear, gritted his teeth against the pain. This wouldn’t be like the Eastmarch. The solid heft of his weapon, the pain in his head, and the cacophony around him dragged his mind out of the depths of despair. His eyes went to the four men fighting in front of him: Colborn swinging his long sword at the enemy’s massive frames, covering his left side beneath his Fehlan shield. Belthar, a roaring giant that hurled himself at the enemy. Skathi darting into the gaps and lashing out with her short sword. Captain Phonnis, shouting, taking up Aravon’s cry for his men to “Hold!”
He’d failed Sixth Company, but he couldn’t fail these men. On the Eastmarch, there had been no hope of escape, no hope of survival. But here, right now, he had hope. Faint, grim, yet there. He just had to keep the line strong, keep pulling back. Just a few steps back!
“Hold the line!” he roared. His voice was drowned beneath the tumult of battle, yet it filled him with renewed determination. Shouting, crying for his soldiers to join him, he hurled himself back into the fray.
Thrust a spear into an Eirdkilr’s chest. Deflected a wild swing, ducked beneath Belthar’s decapitating strike, lashed out at an enemy attacking Skathi. His iron-shod spear shattered kneecaps, crushed throats, or punched dents in armor. Never stopping, never resting, a whirling blur of steel and wood. He fought until his muscles screamed in protest and his lungs begged for air. Until the stench of guts, loosened bowels, and blood was the only thing that existed in his world. The screams of his men,
the howls of Eirdkilrs, the deafening clangor of clashing weapons.
One step forward. Bring down an enemy, shoving another giant backward, sending him staggering into a comrade. Driving his spear through an Eirdkilr’s chest until the tip punched out his back. He tore the blade free, spraying blood, and spun to bring down another. Then a third. And a fourth. Ducking, deflecting, holding his ground.
A second step, roaring the command to “Hold!” Colborn on his right, Belthar at his left.
Suddenly, an Eirdkilr weapon clanged off a Legion shield. A strong hand gripped Aravon’s shoulder and dragged him away from the front ranks. A Legionnaire surged inward to fill the gap. Bleeding, staggering, barely able to hold up his shield, yet determined to fight nonetheless. A second Legionnaire, equally battered and bloodied, then a third. Captain Phonnis shouted orders, his voice roaring in Aravon’s ears.
Aravon staggered, panting for breath, and found himself suddenly behind the re-formed lines on the right flank. The line of Legionnaires was only two men deep, but more were coming with every hammering heartbeat. Coming from the center of the line, or recovering from their near-collapse.
“Captain Phonnis!” Aravon managed to gasp out. “Report!”
“Hold, damn it!” Captain Phonnis threw his weight against a staggering Legionnaire, propping up the man and sending him forward, back into the fragile line. A line that grew thicker with every moment. Three ranks became four. Twenty Legionnaires grew to thirty, then forty, then sixty. Slowly, the battle line hardened, the shield wall restored. Somehow. Impossibly.
“Captain Snarl.” Captain Phonnis gave Aravon a gentle push back toward the command post. “All due respect, sir, get your arse back to safety. It’s your job to keep an eye on things. Let us handle this!”
Aravon made no protest—the swirl of battle left him too exhausted to do more than stare at the Praamian Captain. Slowly, the tunnel vision retreated, and Aravon’s eyes wandered away from the officer toward the Legion’s line.
The shield wall had held. The retreat had continued, slowly drawing the Eirdkilrs into the canyon as Aravon had hoped. When he glanced back, he found Belthar, Skathi, and Colborn being dragged from the Legion lines on Captain Phonnis’ orders. The three shot him the one-handed signal for “all good”, and Colborn thrust his chin toward the command post.
Aravon gritted his teeth as he hurried back to his place beside Commander Oderus. His heart still hammered a staccato beat in his chest, and his muscles cried out with every step. Yet one glance at the canyon walls filled him with hope. The Legionnaires had retreated far enough. Though they’d paid in blood for every step, they had pulled the Eirdkilrs into the trap.
He turned toward the trumpeter. “Give the signal!” he shouted.
The man clapped his horn to his lips and blew a mighty blast. The piercing note thrummed through the canyon. The sound brought hope to Aravon's chest, lifted the burden from his shoulders. His eyes flashed upward.
A quiet hissing filled the canyon, followed a moment later by a tremendous boom. Smoke billowed from the canyon's eastern wall. A second concussive blast, and smoke and fire burst from the western wall. With an ominous grumble, massive sections of the canyon wall began to crumble. Enormous boulders broke free of the cliff face and plummeted toward the canyon floor—atop the Eirdkilrs' heads.
Barbarians screamed as tons of stone and earth crushed them. The falling rubble set the ground trembling beneath Aravon’s feet and kicked up massive clouds of dust. Even the Eirdkilrs in the foremost ranks whirled toward the sound. Their dismayed cries were drowned out by the cheers of the Legion as they watched hundreds of their enemies killed in a single glorious cacophony.
Faces appeared atop the cliffs: two men wearing the greatwolf masks of their company, with scores of women clad in Agrotorae armor. Aravon grinned and flashed a salute to Zaharis and Noll. Laughter burst from his throat as the Agrotorae stepped up to the edge and began pouring arrows into the massed Eirdkilrs below.
The Legionnaires seized their enemy's distraction and fell back five full paces. Regrouping, they prepared for the renewed Eirdkilr charge. With a howl of fury, the barbarians rushed the shield wall. All the while, the Agrotorae loosed a steady stream of arrows directly atop the Eirdkilrs. Even Zaharis, who had shown little aptitude with the bow, couldn't miss the packed masses of savages.
The screams of wounded and dying Eirdkilrs filled the air, echoing off the canyon walls. The rearmost barbarians struggled to clamber over the mound of stones now blocking their escape. Less than ten feet high, it slowed them enough that the Agrotorae perched atop the cliffs picked off the stragglers.
With the pressure off the shield wall, the Legionnaires' attack renewed. Short swords and spears flashed out to hack at Eirdkilr throats, faces, knees, and armor. At Captain Phonnis' order, the shield wall shoved against the press of enemies, throwing the barbarians backward. The Eirdkilrs stumbled over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Many fell beneath the hail of red-fletched arrows, pinned to the earth by the Agrotorae’s unerring accuracy.
Aravon turned to Commander Oderus. “Sound the advance, and let's get this over with. You have a garrison to retake.”
“With pleasure, sir.” Commander Oderus gave a salute, and nodded for the trumpeter.
* * *
“Keeper's teeth, I've never been so glad to be wrong!” Commander Oderus extended a hand to Aravon. “I should never have doubted Duke Dyrund. Or his envoy.”
Aravon grasped the Commander’s hand. “Trust me, Commander, I would have done the same in your position. But I trust you can take it from here?”
Oderus nodded. “Ninth Company should be reaching Anvil Garrison within the hour, and they'll mop up any stragglers who think to return to their safe haven.” He shook his head at Aravon. “A bold plan, sending them away last night on the gamble that we would win here today.”
Aravon glanced toward the pile of rubble at the canyon mouth. Truth be told, he hadn't expected results anywhere near as impressive. Perhaps a few boulders—set up by Belthar and Colborn two days earlier—to drop atop the barbarians. The high ground had given the Agrotorae a massive advantage.
But as usual, Zaharis had exceeded his wildest expectations. Whatever the Secret Keeper had brewed up had been far more effective than even he could have hoped for. With the Eirdkilrs penned in the canyon or crushed beneath the rubble, the Legion's victory was assured. As long as Ninth Company could hold Anvil Garrison, the Legion would maintain its shield against the Eirdkilrs on eastern Fehl.
“It was no gamble, Commander,” Aravon told him. “I had the men of Jade Battalion to count on. The battle was never in any doubt.”
The lie brought a satisfied smile to the Commander’s face. “You and your grim reavers are welcome to our company any time.” His expression grew wry, and he rubbed his bruised jaw. “We can dispense with the…formalities next time, eh?”
Aravon laughed. “As you say, Commander.” With a little bow, he turned and strode away from the Commander.
The sounds of battle still echoed through the canyon behind him. The Eirdkilrs fought to the last man. The Legion would have a tough fight, but they outnumbered the barbarians heavily. The Eirdkilrs wouldn’t last much longer.
Skathi and Belthar stood waiting for him a short distance from the Mender tents. Belthar had another bandage around his shoulder, and Skathi glared daggers at him. Aravon shook his head—he'd thought his speech to the big man had solved the problem. He'd have to try again. If Belthar kept this up much longer, he'd lose something important trying to protect Skathi.
Colborn came up behind them, his arms filled with bundles that looked suspiciously like food. Aravon's stomach growled a reminder that he hadn't eaten since the previous day. He took a handful of nuts and seeds, chasing it down with a swig of wine from a leather skin Colborn had procured.
“There he is!” Belthar cried out.
Aravon turned to see Zaharis approaching from the northwestern end of the canyon at the hea
d of the company of Agrotoraes.
Belthar stood and spread his arms wide. “There's the bloody genius who saved all our asses today.”
The Secret Keeper shrugged. “It was the Captain's plan.” His face held a trace of pride mingled with humble embarrassment.
“I'm pretty sure our good Captain had no idea you were going to bring the cliffs down on them,” Colborn said with an incredulous shake of his head.
“I wish I could take credit for that bright idea,” Aravon said, “but sadly, that's all Zaharis.” He gripped the man's arm. “We'd have been dead without you. Every man here owes you their lives.” He turned to the others. “To every one of you. You saved these men.”
The four glowed with pride, and they exchanged grins.
At that moment, Noll appeared at the rear of the Agrotorae column. The sight of the scout's hurried gait and tense posture drove the momentary elation from Aravon's mind.
Noll broke away from the archers and rushed toward them. “Captain,” he said, his tone grave, “we have a serious problem. The Blodhundr have disappeared!”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A fist of ice clutched Aravon's heart. “What do you mean disappeared?” he demanded
Noll threw up his hands. “I don't know! They weren't on the battlefield this morning. Trust me, I was looking for them, as per your orders.”
The Eirdkilrs weren't the only ones who thought to handicap the enemy by eliminating their leadership. Aravon had given Noll special instructions to pick off as many Blodhundr as possible.
Aravon's mind raced. He hadn't seen Hrolf Hrungnir in the battle line. Hadn't seen any red-cloaked barbarians, for that matter. The ebb and flow of battle had driven the thought from his mind, but now it came crashing back to him.
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