Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3)

by Andy Peloquin

  An Eirdkilr shrieked in panicked surprise as a dark-winged figure swooped from the pine branches and slashed raking claws across his face. Blood welled from the lacerations in his forehead, nose, and where his left eye had been. He struck out blindly, his axe thumping into the branch of a nearby tree, but Snarl was gone, winging away to disappear among the trees once more.

  Skathi’s arrow took down the one unwounded Eirdkilr, silencing his howling cry with an arrow to the throat. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he dropped, gurgling, gagging on blood. A moment later, the blinded Eirdkilr fell, an arrow buried in his undamaged eye. The Eirdkilr dropped without a sound. Skathi burst from the bushes on Aravon’s right, arms pumping as she drew back her short horsebow, loosed from her saddle, and tore yet another arrow from her quiver.

  Gritting his teeth against the aching in his skull, Aravon struggled to his feet. The world hadn’t stopped its whirling, though it had slowed enough that he no longer saw in triples. A bone-deep throbbing coursed through his chest and every breath sent pain radiating along his ribs, but he could stand. Stand, and fight.

  He drove his spear into the chest of one of the ten Eirdkilrs that had broken off the hilltop assault to pursue him. Even as the barbarian died, Skathi’s arrows whistled through the forest, scything down those still coming. The nine remaining Eirdkilrs fell in the space of five heartbeats—three to Aravon’s spear, six to Skathi’s unerring accuracy.

  Yet the last barbarian had barely fallen before Aravon was searching the forest for his horse. He spotted it a dozen yards to the north, where it had stood waiting after he fell from the saddle. Wincing at the new pains plaguing his body, he broke into a lurching run toward his mount. By the time he clambered into the saddle, Skathi had torn her arrows free of the enemy corpses, whirled, and charged back toward him.

  “And here I was worried you’d start the party without me!” Skathi’s eyes twinkled behind her mask. “Good thing you sent Snarl when you did.”

  Aravon nodded. “Rangvaldr went for Belthar, Noll, and Zaharis. Colborn’s off to the south of that hill, picking off the bastards from cover of the forest. These ten are just a fraction of what we’re up against.”

  “Just us?” Skathi cocked her head. “No sense fighting when we could just melt away—”

  “There are soldiers up there.” Aravon pointed toward the hilltop, which was barely visible through the dense trees around them. “Nowhere near enough to turn back the scores of Eirdkilrs still attacking them. They’ve got minutes before they’re overrun.”

  “Derelana’s icy tits!” Skathi swore. “If we’re not running, best we hurry up and pitch in, then!”

  “Aye.” Aravon hauled on his reins, turning his horse’s head westward. “Keep back and let your bow do the talking. I’m going to circle around behind them and see what I can do.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Skathi nodded and pulled her horse to the southeast. “Almost a pity Belthar and the others are going to miss out on all the fun.”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Let’s try and live long enough to rub it in their faces.” With a nod to the archer, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and took off at a gallop eastward through the forest. He rode low in the saddle, careful to keep his head well below the level of any more low-hanging branches. His face had learned that lesson well enough for one day.

  He did quick calculations as he rode. Rangvaldr had gone back to warn Captain Lingram less than a quarter-hour earlier—just enough time to cover the mile or so to the convoy, convey the message, and set off with Belthar to find Noll and Zaharis. It would take the four of them at least another half-hour to reach the hilltop battlefield; Aravon couldn’t be sure the black-armored soldiers had that much time.

  Through the forest, he caught a glimpse of the steep incline and the huge, fur-clad bodies clustered at its top. The throng of Eirdkilrs hid the defenders inside the wagon circle from Aravon’s view. One huge barbarian scrambled up onto a wagon bed and prepared to leap onto the soldiers fighting for their lives. His howl of triumph turned to a scream of agony and he toppled backward, blood streaming from the severed stump of his knee.

  A grim satisfaction flooded Aravon. At least someone’s still alive and fighting in there!

  The pounding gallop set his chest, face, and skull aching, and he gritted his teeth against the discomfort. He’d feel it once the battle rush wore off—for now, all he could do was keep fighting, keep pushing through the pain. He had no idea if those soldiers atop the hill had reinforcements or how far away his own companions were. All he knew was that the Eirdkilrs far outnumbered the men battling for their lives. It was up to him, Skathi, and Colborn to buy them a few more minutes to live.

  The forest grew thinner as Aravon drew closer to the hill. But instead of charging the barbarians holding the hill, he pushed his horse eastward, clinging to the tree cover as he circled the northern slope. The Eirdkilrs had surrounded the wagon train, yet their ranks were thinnest on the northeastern corner of the hill, where fewer than twenty of the barbarians battled the soldiers holding the gaps in the wagons. It was here that Aravon had the best chance of making a difference.

  Against every lesson he’d learned during his cavalry training, Aravon brought his horse around to the right hard and galloped straight up the knoll. It didn’t matter that his mount’s energy would be spent long before he reached the crest—he had no intention of pulling off a proper cavalry charge. He just needed to get within striking range of the enemy.

  Fingers locked around the ash shaft of his spear, jaw clenched against the pain, Aravon clung to his horse’s reins and leaned forward into the steep incline. He could feel his mount’s speed slowing within twenty feet, the tired beast laboring to climb the slope. Yet he refused to slow, to let the beast slow.

  Exhausted or not, his horse thundered the thirty feet up the hill in the space of five heartbeats. A heroic effort of will, powerful muscles straining with the effort. Three yards from the enemy, Aravon hurled himself from the saddle and thrust out with his spear. Steel punched straight into the spine of an Eirdkilr poised to strike down a black-armored soldier defending the wagon circle. Blood sprayed as Aravon tore the spear free and whirled to block a savage axe stroke aimed at his head. He ducked a whistling club, turned aside a thrusting spear, and drove the iron-shod butt end of his own spear into the fork of an Eirdkilr’s legs. A spinning slash opened the barbarian’s throat and knocked back another enemy that had turned to face him.

  Growling a curse, Aravon brought the butt end around into the side of the barbarian’s head. Bone crunched beneath iron and blood gushed from beneath the metal skullcap. The Eirdkilr fell, senseless, his bulk collapsing atop the fur-clad giant behind him. Before the second barbarian could struggle from beneath the weight of his comrade, Aravon’s spear punched through the flesh, gristle, and bones in his face and neck. Bright crimson gushed from the ragged wound, soiling his blond beard and turning the ground beneath him to a grisly ochre mud.

  A howling from behind Aravon brought him spinning around, barely in time to block a wild axe strike. The impact shuddered through his spear and down his arms. His elbows buckled and he staggered backward, tripped, and fell hard. Soft grass collided with his back as he rolled downhill. Somehow, impossibly, he managed to rise to his feet and dig the butt of his spear into the grass to arrest his fall. The Eirdkilr pursued him downhill, axe raised to strike. And ran right onto Aravon’s spear. The barbarian’s charge dug the butt deep into the earth and drove the steel head straight through his huge body. Gurgling, gasping, the Eirdkilr gave a weak cough and went limp, body suspended upright by the spear transfixing his chest.

  But Aravon had no time to wrest his weapon free. Two more Eirdkilrs charged down the hill, club and spear stained red with the blood of their black-armored victims. Aravon pawed at the hilt of his longsword and ripped it from its sheath. He deflected the club strike and twisted out of the spear thrust. Too slowly. The sharp head scraped along the alchemically-treated leather pro
tecting his side, and the impact send a spike of pain through his ribs.

  The steel tip of an arrow sprouted from the Eirdkilr’s throat and he fell back, a hand pressed to the blood gushing from the front and back of his neck. Aravon hacked down the club-wielding Eirdkilr and risked a glance downhill. Colborn had abandoned the cover of the woods and now circled around to the western slope, using his longbow to bring down Eirdkilrs too focused on the enemy before to notice the threat from behind.

  With a salute of his bloodstained sword, Aravon charged back up the hill, toward the three Eirdkilrs clustered around the nearest gap between the wagons. Yet, in the seconds it took him to struggle back up the incline, two of the barbarians fell to the tall, broad-shouldered figure that held the opening. His sword punched through the Eirdkilr’s back a heartbeat before the black-armored soldier’s sword sent the barbarian’s head spinning away from his neck.

  Aravon slowed to a halt just before the wagons, out of range of the enormous, two-handed sword the soldier wielded. “We’re here to help!” he shouted. “We hit them from the side, we can push them back!”

  The soldier’s features—man or woman, he couldn’t tell—were hidden beneath a mask depicting a stern, scowling face, made of steel as black as his armor. But after one look at Aravon, the soldier nodded and lowered his strange sword—made of a metal unfamiliar to him, its five-foot blade shaped like curving tongues of fire. Leaping over the wagon in a single bound, the soldier took up position on Aravon’s left. Neither of them spoke—no words were needed. Side by side, they raced the five yards to where the nearest Eirdkilrs were trying to scramble over the wooden sides of the wagon bed.

  Aravon’s spear lashed out, punching a deep hole into an Eirdkilr’s side and slicing organs. The soldier’s strange black sword brought down another barbarian, severing the leg supporting the Eirdkilr’s weight. As Aravon drove his spear into the downed enemy’s throat, the black-armored soldier deflected a blow aimed at Aravon’s head, turning the parry into a slash that took a huge chunk out of the Eirdkilr’s cheek.

  Step by step they pushed forward, stumbling over the bodies of fallen Eirdkilrs and slipping on grass turned slick with enemy blood. A desperate battle, driven by instinct alone. Slashing, hacking, thrusting, dodging, and twisting out of the path of heavy weapons wielded by arms far stronger than his.

  A new sound pierced the Eirdkilrs’ war cries: a deep-throated roaring, like an enraged bear, accompanied by the meaty crunch of steel carving through leather, furs, flesh, and bone. The Eirdkilr directly in front of Aravon went down in a spray of blood and entrails as the head of an enormous axe plowed devastation through his torso. Belthar’s meaty fist closed around the back of another barbarian’s neck and hurled the man backward with a snarled curse. The Eirdkilr flew five yards down the hill, struck hard, and rolled all the way down the incline. He lay still, neck twisted at a terrible angle, arms and legs shattered.

  A roar of “For Shalandra!” echoed from within the encircled wagons, and more black-armored figures burst through the now-freed gap nearest Aravon. Two, three, five, then ten, a tide of steel and fury that flowed over the Eirdkilrs still assaulting the wagons from the south and west.

  Aravon slowed his charge, giving in to the exhaustion flooding his muscles with fire. His legs ached as he strode toward Belthar, too tired to step over the bodies littering the grassy hilltop. He stumbled, caught himself on his spear, and levered himself back upright. By the time he regained his breath and the last of the burning fled his muscles, the ten remaining Eirdkilrs had fallen.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sucking in a deep gasp, Aravon turned to Belthar. “What…the bloody hell…took you so long?” Talking proved surprisingly painful. His split lips had grown thick and the metallic taste of blood—his own—filled his mouth. The collision with the tree branch hadn’t quite broken his nose, but the ache would be there for a while yet.

  “I’d say I made…” The big man grunted with the effort of tearing his axe head free of an Eirdkilr’s spine. It came loose with a meaty squelch, spraying droplets of blood, and he turned to Aravon, eyes twinkling. “…good time, Captain. Even after Stonekeeper warned me to get here double-time. He said something about a reckless fool ready to charge into danger without waiting for reinforcements, so it was up to me to pull you out of the fire.” He looked around at the Eirdkilr bodies littering the slope. “Seems he wasn’t far wrong, our Seiomenn.”

  Aravon scowled beneath his mask. “I’m nothing if not consistent.” Evidently Rangvaldr had predicted that he’d throw himself into battle, which meant the Seiomenn had a few choice words of chastisement prepared. As long as he scolds me while using those healing stones, I’ll put up with it.

  As the rush of battle diminished, the aches and pains asserted themselves with the force of a crashing tidal wave. Aravon’s whole face throbbed—that cursed oak branch had been too damned hard, and his mask had barely softened the blow—compounding the twinges in his spine, legs, and arms, the torment of the shoulder and chest wounds he’d sustained in the Battle of Hangman’s Hill.

  In a way, Rangvaldr would be right to scold him. Aravon’s actions here had bordered on recklessness—and considering the tasks for which they’d been trained, that spoke volumes. Yet he had also been right to intervene when he had. Between him, Colborn, and Skathi, they’d accounted for at least two dozen of the barbarians. Judging by the gutted, dismembered, and decapitated Eirdkilrs, Belthar had dealt with his fair share as well. But more than that; his arrival had pulled away enough of the Eirdkilrs to give the black-armored soldiers a fighting chance.

  Those on the hilltop had lived thanks to his incaution. Which made his actions a risk, a lucky toss of the dice, but not truly reckless. A distinction with little difference, but one that gave him a measure of confidence. Whatever lecture the Seiomenn had prepared, Aravon could at least know he’d made the correct choice.

  At that moment, the black-armored figure that had fought beside him returned. “Thank you, whoever you are.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows rose a fraction at the sight of her unmasked face. A woman’s face, with features at once beautiful and strong, as strong as her deep, booming voice. Her skin was a golden mahogany, her eyes far darker than his and rimmed by thick lines of kohl. Six black dots adorned her high cheekbones, and the forehead of her snarling lion helmet bore a band of solid gold.

  But her appearance wasn’t the only thing that surprised him. She held her enormous flame-bladed sword in a loose grip, resting it casually on her right shoulder. Though she stood only a few inches shorter than him, she was broader in the shoulders and carried herself with the confidence of a veteran. Her armor—segmented plate mail made of that strange black steel, with long spikes at the elbows, shoulders, and knees—was stained crimson, yet she seemed unbothered by the blood soaking her vambraces, breastplate, and the steel war mask she held in her left hand.

  “Your timing was fortunate, indeed.” The woman’s accent was unfamiliar to Aravon—mellifluous and rhythmic, with an emphasis on the harder syllables and a softening of the vowels. “Were it not for you three…” Her eyes narrowed as Skathi appeared from the forest at the base of the hill. “…four,” she corrected, “we might have actually broken a sweat dealing with these bastards.”

  Despite his exhaustion and the pain in his chest, Aravon couldn’t help chuckling. “Glad to make your day easier.” He held out a hand. “Captain Snarl, special envoy of Prince Toran of Icespire.”

  The woman gripped his forearm. “Callista Vinaus of Shalandra, Archateros of the Keeper’s Blades and commander of this company.”

  Aravon’s eyes widened at the name. The Keeper’s Blades were considered the most “elite” of the warriors from Shalandra, the southernmost city on the continent of Einan. Rumors held that they even possessed magical abilities—a rumor that few on this side of the Frozen Sea had ever corroborated. Yet their skill at arms was never in dispute. They, along with the Indomitables, the Shalandran counterpar
ts to the Legion of Heroes, had earned a reputation for being fierce warriors.

  A reputation, it seems, that is solidly grounded in fact, Aravon thought as he looked around.

  As he’d originally surmised, the ring of circled wagons was only large enough for a few dozen men—forty, by Aravon’s count. Twelve of the black-armored soldiers lay silent on the ground, skulls crushed, plate mail dented, their blood soaking into the ground. Another twenty bore wounds ranging from minor to life-threatening. Yet the fact that so many still lived against such a large force of Eirdkilrs stood testament to their courage and skill.

  “While I’m not one to look a gift ox in the mouth,” the Keeper’s Blade said, “but mind if I ask why the four of you are all the way out here?” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him up and down. “And what exactly you’re supposed to be?”

  Aravon chuckled; he knew their mottled-pattern armor looked a strange sight. Then again, to his eyes, the Shalandrans also appeared odd when contrasted to their Legion counterparts. They wore black-burnished half-plate armor, with spike-rimmed, flat-topped helmets emblazoned with a stripe of blue across the forehead rather than the gold on Callista’s snarling lion helm. And in place of the huge flame-shaped blade Callista wielded, they carried sickle-shaped khopeshes—heavy blades ideal for chopping over wooden shields and enemy helms.

  “I figured the ‘special envoy’ would explain the what.” Aravon met her eyes without hesitation. “As for the why, we were escorting a convoy of Legionnaires and Deid fleeing Saerheim when we heard the Eirdkilrs raising a ruckus out this way. Figured we’d join in the fun.”

  “Saerheim?” Callista’s body went rigid, and worry stained her dark face. “Saerheim was attacked?”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “You had people there?”

  “No.” Callista shook her head. “But nearby.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. “I suppose that makes it my turn to ask what a detachment of Shalandrans is doing out here. And how you have people near a Deid village.”