Belthar loomed over the fallen Eirdkilr. His axe flashed down to crash into the man's spine. The Eirdkilr gave a weak groan, jerked, and lay still.
“You'll fight better on your feet, Captain,” Belthar signed.
Aravon took the big man's outstretched hand and pulled himself upright. “Thank you,” he gasped. His chest throbbed where the club had struck him, and breathing proved difficult.
Belthar turned back to the wall, his axe cutting down an Eirdkilr leaping over the wall mid-air. Colborn spared him a glance.
“Can you hold?” Aravon signed.
For answer, Colborn knocked aside an Eirdkilr spear and thrust his short sword into the man's gut.
“Come!” Aravon shouted at Rangvaldr. “Show me where I'm needed.”
The shaman raced along the line of defenders, Aravon on his heels. The men holding the wall wore the chain mail shirts of clan warriors. Their swords bore no rust, their iron shield rims glinting in the midday sunlight. They did not flinch from the enemy, but held their ground with the determination of fighting men. The Eyrr warband had arrived and now stood in defense of Bjornstadt.
But even as he followed Rangvaldr, he could see the Fehlans were taking heavy losses. Corpses, Fehlan and Eirdkilr alike, littered the road into Bjornstadt. The Eyrr shield wall slowly gave ground before a knot of Eirdkilrs that had managed to clamber over the low wall. The southern flank held, barely. The southeast, however, was a heartbeat from collapse.
“There!” Aravon shouted and raced past Rangvaldr. A savage war cry burst from his lips as he drove his spear into the first Eirdkilr he reached.
The attack caught the Eirdkilrs by surprise. Aravon cut down two before they could react. When one turned to meet him, Rangvaldr crashed into him with his shield. The Seiomenn was a burly man, strong enough to send the seven-foot-tall Eirdkilr stumbling. Aravon swept the barbarian's legs from beneath him and finished him with a thrust to the throat.
He and Rangvaldr fought side by side. The shaman's shield guarded his right flank, while his long spear darted in and out to strike at the massed Eirdkilrs. Together, they cut down a trio of barbarians standing over a fallen Fehlan warrior.
“Up!” Aravon shouted in Fehlan as Rangvaldr helped the man to stand. “Push them back!”
The Eyrr warrior bled from wounds in his side, shield arm, and left leg, but he stooped to retrieve his sword and joined their little line. Another Fehlan raced from behind them to form up, then another. Within seconds, they had a wall of flesh and armor ten yards long. Spears, shields, and swords met the weapons of the Eirdkilr head on. Aravon pressed forward.
The attack bought the beleaguered Fehlans holding the road a moment to recover. They, too, threw themselves onto the line of enemy. Assailed on both sides, the Eirdkilrs fell. One by one, the barbarians were cut down or thrown back over the low stone wall.
The advance took a toll on the Fehlan ranks. Five of the ten Fehlans in Aravon's improvised battle line fell to enemy weapons. When he finally stepped back to let the Eyrr warriors hold the wall, fewer than twenty remained standing.
All up and down the line, Aravon saw the Fehlan defenses buckling beneath the Eirdkilr onslaught. Warriors died on both sides. The ground ran red and thick with crimson mud—the thirsty earth knew no difference between Fehlan and Eirdkilr blood. A group of Eirdkilrs howled in triumph as they broke through a cluster of defenders. Their cries echoed agony a moment later as Belthar and Zaharis waded into them, axe flashing and mace crushing.
He scanned the ranks of defenders in search of familiar faces. He caught a glimpse of Syvup fighting an Eirdkilr wielding a massive club and wooden shield. Farrell lay on the ground, a ragged tear in his throat, eyes wide and staring at the sky.
But no Duke Dyrund.
“Where's the Duke?” he shouted at Rangvaldr. The din of battle drowned out his voice, so he repeated the question in Zaharis' hand language.
“In the square,” Rangvaldr replied. “They are the final line of defense.”
“How many?” Aravon asked.
“Twenty.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “The warriors too old to stand the shield wall but too proud to hang up their swords.”
Damn! Aravon cursed. They needed to hold the line, but the Eirdkilrs were too many and the defenders too few. If we stand, we die. If we retreat, we die.
He risked a glance downhill. The corpses of fallen Eirdkilrs littered the slope, familiar red-feathered shafts protruding from their backs. But Noll and Skathi had their own problems. A group of ten barbarians charged into the forest. The stream of arrows had fallen silent.
Fifty or more Eirdkilrs remained standing, facing fewer than seventy defenders. Amidst the clustered savages, Aravon caught a glimpse of the massive broadsword and the long, blond hair and grey-flecked beard of Hrolf Hrungnir. The Blodhundr chieftain's eyes locked on him and Rangvaldr. His brutish, blue-dyed face creased into a snarl, and he pointed his sword at Aravon with a wild howl in his savage tongue. The Eirdkilrs on the flanks broke off their attack, retreated, then surged toward the center of the line.
Aravon's jaw clenched. The Blodhundr came for him.
“Sound the retreat,” he signaled to Rangvaldr.
“What?”
“Do it!” He insisted. “Pull them back.”
The shaman's brow wrinkled. “But—”
Aravon's hands flashed. “If you want to keep your men alive, sound the retreat.”
Rangvaldr hesitated a heartbeat before nodding. He turned and sprinted up the road, toward the town's center.
Aravon's gut tightened. This had better work.
The sound of a Fehlan hunting horn rang out across the battlefield. Two blasts, followed by a long, wailing note.
It had an immediate effect. The Fehlans fell back, turned, and raced toward the road leading into the town. Belthar, Colborn, and Zaharis gave ground as well, fighting with every step. Finally, a heartbeat from being overwhelmed, the three broke into a dead run.
The Eirdkilrs howled in triumph at seeing their enemy retreat. They stalked their prey, in no hurry to cut down the fleeing men. They had their enemy cornered and they knew it. The Eyrr would never give up their largest town, their center of government and commerce, without a fight.
Aravon was the last to retreat. He caught a glimpse of Hrolf Hrungnir as the Blodhundr leader stepped onto the wall. His hands flexed on the shaft of his spear, and he wished for a bow. One arrow could turn the tide of the battle. One death would bring vengeance for the Sixth Company.
Hrolf Hrungnir's face creased into a mocking grin. “Run, little half-man!” he shouted in thickly accented Fehlan. “You will not escape me.”
Growling his rage, Aravon turned and raced down the street after the retreating Fehlans. He found Rangvaldr and his men joining the shield wall formed on the raised platform in the center of the town square. Duke Dyrund stood at the rear of the line. Chief Ailmaer was nowhere in sight.
Relief filled the Duke's eyes at the sight of him. “Aravon!” He pushed through the ranks of men to clasp Aravon's arm. “I got your message yesterday, but what are you—”
“No time.” Aravon cut him off. “We've got seconds before the Eirdkilrs reach us. You remember the Battle of Stormcrow Pass?”
The Duke raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Your father and I—” His eyes went wide. “You can't be serious!”
Aravon nodded. “It's our only hope.”
Duke Dyrund shook his head. “It nearly got us killed, you know.”
“Let's hope it works again, then!” Aravon pointed to Belthar, Colborn, and Zaharis. “They're yours to command, Your Grace.”
“I'll need at least twenty to pull it off.”
Aravon winced. They had sixty men to hold the shield wall. “Fifteen is all I can spare.”
“It'll do.” Duke Dyrund nodded. He gripped Aravon's hand. “Swordsman smile on you, Captain.”
“And you, Your Grace.”
Duke Dyrund barked an order in Fehlan, and twelve Eyrr war
riors—most wounded, all stained with the blood of friend and foe alike—followed him away from the main square. Colborn shot Aravon a questioning glance.
“Go,” Aravon signed. “We're counting on you.” His gut clenched as he watched his men go.
Bloody hell. He let out a long slow breath. Please, he begged the Swordsman, smile on us this day.
He turned to Rangvaldr. “Join the shield wall,” he instructed. “We need to buy them time.”
The healer raised an eyebrow, but nodded. He turned and addressed the fifty remaining men. “Warriors of the Eyrr, we hold this line at any cost.” He thrust a finger behind them. “You are all that stands between the Eirdkilrs and your families. But you fight for more than just Bjornstadt; you fight for the very survival of your clan. They would seek to kill us all. We will make them pay with our very last breaths!”
As one, the Fehlans raised their weapons and shouted, “For the Eyrr!” The air filled with the cacophony of fifty swords and spears clashed against shields.
The first Eirdkilr appeared up the road. Then came a second, a third and fourth, then more. Dozens turned to scores. The massive, shaggy-haired barbarians with their eerie bloodstained ice bear pelts swarmed between the longhouses to converge on the main square.
They moved at a slow, steady pace—the absence of their war cries seemed somehow more eerie. Hrolf Hrungnir strode in their midst, a confident smirk twisting his heavy, brutish features.
The men of Eyrr fell quiet at sight of the Eirdkilrs. A grim silence descended over the main square, broken only by rattle of weapons, the clanking armor of men shifting nervously, and the wet squelching of Eirdkilr boots in mud.
“Ailmaer!” Hrolf Hrungnir's voice boomed out across the square. He grounded the tip of his enormous sword and settled his hands on its hilt. “Come out and face me, Chief of the Eyrr!”
Aravon removed his mask. “You'll deal with me.” He spoke in Fehlan, but made his Princelander accent plain—the perfect taunt for the Eirdkilr.
Hrolf Hrungnir narrowed his eyes. “You? A half-man?” His laughter rang out, echoing off the longhouses. “I would sooner deal with a diseased sow than speak with one of your kind.”
Aravon rested the metal butt of his spear on the black stone ringing the square and raised an eyebrow. “I'm certain we could arrange that.” His words held a great deal more confidence than he felt.
The Blodhundr chieftain's face twisted into a growl. “You half-men hide behind clever words,” he spat. “But your forked tongues are no match for Eirdkilr steel.” He rapped his knuckles against his huge sword, setting the metal singing.
“Perhaps you'd like to put that to the test?” Aravon asked. “Your Eirdkilr steel against my forked tongue.” He took a step forward and lowered his spear as he pulled his mask back on. “Though, you'd do well to watch out for my fangs. As so many of your comrades out there have learned the hard way.”
Hrolf Hrungnir made a little tsking sound. “There is no honor in killing a half-man. You will not goad me into a foolish battle when the victory is clearly ours.”
“Perhaps,” Aravon said, inclining his head, “but have you never heard the old saying about facing a mother bear in her den?” He motioned around him. “You have invaded the home of the Eyrr, threatened their families. Even if you do manage to cut us all down, how many will you lose?”
“It matters not!” Hrolf Hrungnir shouted. “Even now, my army is marching north on your precious road, destroying every wall shielding you from our wrath.”
“The army?” Aravon wrinkled his brow. “Oh, didn't you hear? Your army lies dead, buried beneath the stones of Broken Canyon. The Legion you sought to kill is preparing a warm welcome for the men marching north. There are no reinforcements coming, not with Anvil Garrison to stand in their way.”
The Blodhundr's eyes widened a fraction. “Your lies will not save you here,” he said, his voice cold, flat. “They will only speed the death of the traitors who have chosen to align with your kind. As for you,” he gripped his sword hilt and thrust the blade toward Aravon, “your death will be slow and painful.”
“Oh, huzzah!” Aravon smiled behind his mask, a delighted note in his voice. “And here was me worried about dying of old age.”
Hrolf Hrungnir growled a curse in Fehlan.
Aravon grinned. “Any last words, you bow-legged bastard son of a long-dead sow?” Colborn had taught him the Fehlan insult on his first day of lessons. Not quite as poetic as the flowery gibes and veiled snubs of Icespire, but it had the desired effect.
With a snarl of rage, Hrolf Hrungnir raised his sword and shouted. “Kill them all!”
Chapter Forty-One
Aravon tensed as the seventy Eirdkilrs charged toward them. “Brace yourselves!” he shouted in Fehlan. To his right and left, the Fehlans crouched behind their circular shields and raised swords and spears to meet the onrushing barbarians.
The Eirdkilrs crashed into the line like a tidal wave of steel, leather, fur, and sinew. The line of fifty Eyrr warriors staggered backward. More and more enemies surged toward them, plowing into the front and spreading outward to engulf the flanks.
“Form a circle!” Rangvaldr cried. “Don't let them get behind us.”
The right and left flanks collapsed inward, the Eyrr warriors retreating from the Eirdkilrs. With a speed any Legion company would envy, the Fehlans formed a defensive ring.
Aravon and Rangvaldr stood in the center of the ring. Aravon's spear flashed out, the blade whirling as he struck at the Eirdkilrs attacking from all sides. Rangvaldr's shield filled the ragged gaps that appeared in their line. His sword struck in and out with a speed and grace Aravon found surprising from a shaman. He'd always thought the Seiomenn observed the more spiritual and theistic aspects of Fehlan life; Rangvaldr seemed perfectly at home in the shield wall.
Within seconds, the Eirdkilrs' superior might and number turned the battle in their favor. Aravon ducked a swinging axe, knocked a stabbing spear up over his head, and answered with a thrust of his own that opened an Eirdkilr throat. He deflected a blow aimed at a Fehlan warrior only to have the man beside him fall beneath the barbarians' savagery. The Fehlan’s scream pierced his ears and sent a shiver down his spine, but he forced himself to strike back at the Eirdkilrs. If he stopped fighting, everyone around him died.
The ring of Fehlans tightened around him as one Eyrr warrior after another fell. Blood turned the black stones beneath his feet slick, and he struggled to maintain his balance. As the formation shrank, he found it harder to wield his spear without striking Rangvaldr or one of his Fehlan allies.
With a strength born of his fury, he drove the spear through the studded leather armor of an Eirdkilr. The man fell back with a cry, tearing the spear from Aravon’s hand. Drawing his short sword, Aravon gripped the leather-bound hilt and gritted his teeth. Now this was the sort of weapon he could wield in the tight conditions. He'd stood in his share of shield walls—even though he stood beside Fehlans, it was the same thing. Protect the men beside you. Stand strong. Show the enemy no mercy.
He stabbed out with the short blade, attacking over the heads of the Fehlans before him. The sword's tip opened throats, severed tendons, and punched through armor. The heavy edge of the blade, backed by the force of the rage burning within him, sheared limbs. Blood misted in the air, spattering his mask, soaking his clothes. The ache of exhaustion seeped into his arms and legs.
Yet still he fought on, Rangvaldr beside him. While the Fehlans held the shield wall and tried their best to stay alive, Aravon and the Seiomenn bit back at the enemies. They had to take as many down as they could—their only hope of survival lay in holding the Eirdkilrs here.
A Fehlan fell, his head crushed by an Eirdkilr club. Another staggered backward, nearly knocking Aravon off-balance, cries of pain splitting the air as he stared at the stump where his forearm had been. Two more fell, then a third. All around, the Fehlan line grew ragged and thin as the Eirdkilrs cut them down.
The falli
ng bodies opened a path for two massive fur-clad figures to shoulder through the press of men. Aravon threw himself at the first, striking low with his sword. The blade clanged off chain mail, and the Eirdkilr answered with a vicious blow of his club. The impact knocked the breath from Aravon's lungs and sent him staggering into the man behind him.
He recovered, barely in time to avoid the swing that would have crushed his head. Deflecting the back stroke, he dropped to a crouch and thrust upward with his blade. The tip of the short sword punched through the man's leather breeches with ease. Blood gouted from between the Eirdkilr's legs. The barbarian dropped to the ground with a muted squeal of pain. Aravon finished him with a savage hacking blow that chopped through his neck, only stopping at the spine.
Whirling, he found Rangvaldr on the floor, the second Eirdkilr atop him. The red-cloaked barbarian had one huge hand around Rangvaldr's throat, his fingers squeezing tight. His other hand gripped the ocean-blue gemstone of the shaman's pendant.
Aravon's lips creased into a snarl, and he brought his sword down on the back of the Eirdkilr's neck. Again, and again. The huge head fell atop Rangvaldr in a spray of crimson. The shaman rolled out from beneath the slumping corpse and accepted Aravon's help to his feet.
The wild howling of the Eirdkilrs brought them spinning around. Fewer than thirty of the Fehlans remained standing, desperately fighting to hold back more than forty barbarians. Before Aravon could raise his sword, three more Fehlans fell to Eirdkilr clubs and axes.
The ring of warriors collapsed as a warrior on his left was felled by a spear thrust to the gut. With a howl of triumph, an Eirdkilr leapt through the gap to hurl himself at Aravon. Aravon braced himself for the blow and brought his sword up for a desperate block. Even as he did, he knew it would be useless. The Eirdkilr's axe weighed far more than he could turn aside with two feet of steel.
The blow never fell. The Eirdkilr stumbled backward as if an invisible hand punched him in the chest. He gave a weak cough. Blood stained his lips, and he slumped. Aravon caught a glimpse of an arrow shaft protruding from the man's chest before he collapsed onto his face.
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