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

by Andy Peloquin

  The Eirdkilrs charged.

  Slowly at first, lumbering, massive booted feet trampling the grass into mud. Faster, breaking into a jog, then into a run. Howling, shrieking, shouting “Death to the half-men!”, an inexorable tide of fury that surged toward the Shalandrans’ meager defenses. Toward Aravon. There was no escape, no retreat. If the wall fell, they all died.

  The Eirdkilrs raced closer, closer, surging toward the farthest of the range markers driven into the ground outside the wall.

  “Loose!” came the cry from Aravon’s left.

  Bowstrings twanged and fifteen crossbow bolts hurtled toward the oncoming Eirdkilrs. The missiles slammed into the barbarians with the force of a charging icebear, punching through flesh, furs, leather armor, even hide-covered shields. Five Eirdkilrs went down, a sixth felled a heartbeat later by a longbow arrow driving into his eye.

  “Loose!” This time, the shout came from his right.

  Skathi’s red-shafted arrow took down the lead Eirdkilr an instant before fifteen Indomitable crossbow bolts scythed through the air toward the charging barbarians. Ten fell this time, screaming, shrieking, or simply collapsing in silence.

  Yet, even as the crossbowmen bent to reload, the tide of Eirdkilrs rolled on toward the palisade wall, charge unchecked. One moment they were twenty yards away; the next, the giant figures were hurling themselves against the only thing that stood between Aravon and certain death.

  BOOM!

  The wooden wall and ramparts shuddered beneath the impact of nearly eight hundred massive bodies. Aravon staggered backward, barely managing to keep his feet and steady the reeling Callista. Indomitables were knocked to the ground or fell off the rampart platform. A ponderous groaning of wood snapped Aravon’s head to the right in time to see the gate shuddering and bowing inward.

  Boom! Another impact, weaker this time, the force of the Eirdkilr charge sapped.

  A dark blur whistled toward Aravon’s head, and instinct shrieked at him to duck. Just in time to avoid an Eirdkilr arrow. The missile sliced the air just above the sharpened tips of the palisade wall and disappeared into the clear blue sky. Screams of pain echoed all along the wall as archers at the rear of the packed mass of Eirdkilrs drew and loosed.

  “Down!” Lord Morshan’s shout thundered along the wall, the cry taken up by Callista and the officers commanding the Indomitables. The black-armored soldiers ducked behind the wall as more arrows whistled past. The attack took only one casualty—an Indomitable too slow to heed his commander’s orders took an arrow to the throat and fell, bleeding and gurgling blood, to the mud below—but the rest of the arrows buried in the wooden wall, flew over the soldiers’ heads, or thumped into the muddy ground like a steel-tipped hailstorm.

  “Stay low!” Aravon shouted. “Don’t give their archers a target!”

  At that moment, a massive hand clamped on to the wall not five inches from where he crouched. Time slowed to a crawl as a blue-stained, blond-bearded face hove into view and spat a curse in the guttural tongue of the Eirdkilrs.

  Again, Aravon acted on instinct. He drove the tip of his spear into the barbarian’s snarling face. Steel shattered teeth, sliced flesh, and punched out the back of the Eirdkilr’s head. Blood gushed over his hands as the barbarian’s curses cut off in a wet gurgle. For a moment, the Eirdkilr’s blazing eyes locked on him. Hatred and revulsion gave way to terror, agony, and horrified realization as the barbarian died.

  Blood sprayed as Aravon tore his spear free, staining the ramparts. Anxiety tightened in his gut as he crouched, waiting for the next enemy to appear. And appear they would. The Eirdkilr archers would pick off anyone who poked their head over the wall, providing cover fire for their comrades attempting to scale the walls. The seven-foot giants had no need for ladders—their long arms and powerful muscles made quick work of the palisade wall.

  The Eirdkilrs came, scaling the wall in droves of fur, fury, and bloodlust. Snarling faces stained blue appeared over the sharpened tips of the palisade wall, and no matter how many Aravon cut down, still more appeared.

  Blood slicked the wooden ramparts beneath Aravon’s boots, soaked his arms, spattered his mask and armor. His arms burned from the steady, incessant stabbing, hacking, and slashing of battle. The screams, clashing steel, and shouts of the soldiers faded and the world narrowed in around him until all he could see was his two-yard stretch of wall. Wood, the sky beyond, and the Eirdkilrs in between.

  Stab. An Eirdkilr fell, screaming, face slashed to the bone. A spinning attack and another enemy plummeted from view, helmet dented and skull crushed by the heavy iron-shod butt of Aravon’s spear. Blocking a strike, turning aside a slashing axe strike, he delivered an answering thrust that drove his spear tip deep into an enemy’s throat. He shoved until the Eirdkilr fell back, bringing down another of his comrades.

  He killed without pause and still they came on. In twos, threes, and fives, struggling to haul their huge bodies over the sharpened tips of the rampart without tearing flesh and leather armor. Some died, impaled by the wall, blocking their comrades from crossing behind them. Still more pulled themselves upward, hacking and chopping with wooden clubs, spears, and axes heavy enough to crush Aravon where he stood.

  Aravon never stopped moving, never stopped his frantic dance of death. A dance with no rhythm, no time for coordination and grace. He simply struck, struck, and struck again, his Odarian steel spearhead punching through studded leather armor, slashing furs, and cutting flesh. He couldn’t think about the fire flooding his lungs, slowing his limbs—he could only kill.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, his small slice of battle fell silent. Too many Eirdkilr bodies lay slumped over the palisade wall for their comrades to find purchase. Aravon found himself with a moment to breathe—to draw a shuddering, gasping breath into lungs that screamed for air. An inferno coursed through his arms and legs, and a tremor shuddered down his spine. Staggering, he caught himself on the wall…on the blood-soaked fur of an Eirdkilr not yet gone cold in death.

  The world swam back into focus. The howling of the Eirdkilrs. Screams, shouts, curses, and wails of men fighting and dying. Steel crashing on steel or thumping against wood. The meaty thunk of heavy khopeshes biting into flesh. The metallic tang of blood that hung so thick he could smell nothing else. The bright, golden sunlight drying the sticky crimson into a muddy crust that clung to his boots, his armor, his weapons, and the wooden ramparts.

  All along the length of the wall, Indomitables fought to repel the Eirdkilrs. Bloody work, which the Shalandrans fell to with military discipline any Legion company would envy. Seven-sided shields deflected Eirdkilr axes, spears, and clubs, turning them aside to make room for the khopeshes to do their grim work. The front-heavy, sickle-shaped swords could chop like axes, crack limbs and shatter helmets like clubs. A brutal weapon, wielded with brutal efficiency by trained soldiers. Eirdkilrs by the hundreds died before they could surmount the wall.

  But they didn’t die alone. The Eirdkilrs’ superior numbers took a heavy toll on the Shalandrans. Blue-faced barbarians clambered over the walls faster than the Indomitables could bring them down. Massive figures wielding heavy weapons backed by powerful muscles. Those that managed to scale the wall and gain footing wreaked bloody havoc among the Shalandrans until they could be repelled or brought down. Always at a heavy cost.

  An Eirdkilr heaved himself over the wall not three yards from where Aravon stood. Even as Aravon turned toward the threat, the snarling barbarian brought down an Indomitable with a vicious stroke of his axe, spraying Shalandran blood across the wooden ramparts. He raised his enormous weapon to cut down the next soldier, who was too busy locked in a desperate struggle with two more Eirdkilrs to realize the danger behind him.

  Aravon’s spear punched into the barbarian’s back a heartbeat before the axe descended. The Eirdkilr flopped to the wooden ramparts, spine severed, and Aravon brought the butt end of his spear down onto the back of the barbarian’s head. Bone crunched audibly and the Eird
kilr’s howls of pain and fury fell silent.

  Yet in the seconds it took Aravon to bring down the Eirdkilr, two more had clambered over the wall in the space he’d abandoned. One turned to face Aravon, the second raising his sword to strike down the embattled Callista.

  “Look out!” Aravon shouted even as he struck. His spear knocked aside the Eirdkilr’s club and carved a long slash across the side of the barbarian’s neck. Blood fountained dark crimson against the clear blue sky. The Eirdkilr dropped his club and toppled off the rampart, clutching at the gushing wound.

  Aravon leapt past the falling man, charging the second Eirdkilr. Only to find Callista tearing her massive flame-bladed sword free of the barbarian’s stomach. Droplets of gore sprayed from her blade as she spun and hacked the head off another Eirdkilr climbing over the palisade wall. The huge weapon gleamed wetly in the sunlight, the spatter of crimson bright against her dark armor.

  Damn! Aravon couldn’t help an instant of grudging respect for the Keeper’s Blade. A part of him wanted to watch, mesmerized by the beautiful lethality of her movements, which seemed somehow faster than should be possible for any mortal.

  But he could spare no more than an instant to appreciate the warrior’s prowess. He’d barely slid to a halt, skidding on the bloodstained wood, before more barbarian faces appeared over the parapet. Aravon spun and drove his spear into one’s face, whirled the weapon once, and brought the iron-shod end crashing down atop another’s skullcap. The steel helmet crushed into bone and blood soaked the pale face and flax-colored beard in the instant before the brained Eirdkilr dropped from Aravon’s view.

  Again, Aravon found himself lost within the rhythm of battle—the incessant thumping of his heart, the whirling of his spear, the spray of blood dark against the bright blue sky, the ice-cold eyes of the Eirdkilrs, the shrieks of pain on both sides of the wall. He fought, his body moving to the beat of his instincts and training, a weapon as keen as the razor-sharp edge of his spear. A weapon trained to kill the barbarians that howled for his blood.

  And then, seemingly from one instant to the next, there were no more. No Eirdkilr faces appeared to block out the sky, no massive hands clamped on the wooden walls. The enraged howls of the Eirdkilrs grew fainter.

  Gasping for breath, his muscles ablaze, Aravon forced his vision back into focus long enough to glance over the wall. Hope surged within him. They’re running! Not retreating, but breaking off the engagement. Their initial assault repelled, no sign of the wall giving way, the Eirdkilrs had chosen to fall back and regroup.

  A ringing cheer rose from the Indomitables guarding the wall. Shouts and jeers echoed along the wooden ramparts, insults pursuing the Eirdkilrs alongside the short, square-tipped bolts loosed from thirty crossbows. Colborn and Skathi’s arrows brought down retreating barbarians. By the time the Eirdkilrs fled the range of the two longbows, nearly forty of their number joined the corpses strewn around the cleared ground.

  Yet as the enemy regrouped at the edge of the forest, Aravon’s faint hopes diminished. The Eirdkilrs had lost a fraction of their number—fewer than three hundred wounded and slain in the initial assault—and more than five hundred remained standing.

  And the Shalandrans hadn’t escaped the clash unscathed. Screams of agony echoed all along the length of the wall, echoing with whimpers and sobs of bleeding, wounded men. Some clutched shattered arms to their chests or tried to stand on legs crushed by enormous axes. Far too many, however, lay still and silent, skulls crushed, throats torn, unseeing eyes wide and fixed on the sky above. As Aravon drew in a breath, the stench of urine and bowels loosened in death pierced the metallic tang of blood.

  At a glance, Aravon guessed at least twenty of the one hundred and ten Shalandrans had fallen to the Eirdkilr assault. Either dead or wounded too grievously to return to the fight. Of the remaining eighty-odd soldiers, far too many bore injuries ranging from minor cuts to gaping wounds leaking blood onto the now-crimson mud.

  Even Aravon hadn’t escaped unscathed. A new pain had joined his myriad of aches and pains—a throbbing, stabbing sensation raced up and down his side. An Eirdkilr weapon he hadn’t seen until it slipped past his guard. Axe, club, or spear, he didn’t know, but it left the pain all the same. Only his armor had kept the weapon from rending flesh.

  Biting back on his exhaustion, he gritted his teeth and clutched his spear tighter. We’ll hold this as damned long as it takes! His eyes searched the forest behind the Eirdkilrs, yet he doubted he’d see any sign of Belthar, Noll, Zaharis, or Rangvaldr unless they wanted him to. They wouldn’t reveal themselves to the Eirdkilrs unless they had a damned good reason to. Or until they found a way to bite back at the enemy.

  “Captain Snarl, you hurt?” Callista’s voice snapped Aravon back to the ramparts. He turned to find the Keeper’s Blade wiping blood from her flame-bladed sword on the filthy icebear pelt of the Eirdkilr she’d taken down.

  “No, you?” Aravon asked.

  Callista swiped a hand across her mask, wiping away blood. “Nothing worse than I’ve taken on the training field.” Her voice had lost all trace of nervousness; now, only grim determination remained. “You fight almost like a Keeper’s Blade.”

  Aravon swept a sardonic bow. “And you, Callista, fight almost like a Legionnaire.” He was almost certain the Archateros smiled behind her stern steel mask.

  Turning, Aravon studied the Shalandrans formed up along the rampart. A handful had dropped to the muddy lane below to haul away the bodies and those too wounded to fight. Most, however, remained at their posts, dark eyes fixed on the enemy outside the wall.

  Beyond the gate, a blood-soaked Lord Morshan called encouragement to his soldiers. The Proxenos stalked up and down the wall, his huge two-handed sword held in a one-handed grip, its blade oddly free of blood.

  Aravon found his eyes drawn to the weapon—a flammard, he’d heard the swords called, with their specially-shaped blades designed to stymie attempts at a disarming glissade. It was longer and wider than the flame-bladed swords wielded by the other Keeper’s Blades, yet it seemed not to weigh on the man. Though it lacked adornment, its simplicity made it all the more beautiful. A practical weapon, crafted by a master for the singular purpose of dealing death. Its only embellishment was the crystal-clear gemstone set into its cross guard.

  Two more masked and helmeted Keeper’s Blades moved a step behind the Proxenos, hovering at his back like bodyguards. Their naked swords, however, dripped blood, and their armor was as spattered and crimson-stained as every other Shalandran on the rampart.

  Skathi alone seemed to have escaped the bloodletting. Her leather armor seemed utterly free of gore, though the near-empty quiver of arrows served as testament to her skill. She caught him glancing her way and shot the “All’s well” signal in the silent hand language.

  “What are the odds they’ll decide to call it a day and head home?” Callista asked.

  Aravon turned to find the Keeper’s Blade staring out over the wall, eyes fixed on the mass of Eirdkilrs. “I’d say about on par with a drunkard’s chance of marching a straight line.” The knots in his shoulders tightened. “This isn’t the first mine they’ve hit.”

  Callista shot a questioning glance at him. “They’re after the gold?”

  Aravon tucked that nugget of information away—he’d recognized a mining town the moment he rode through the gates, but until that moment, he hadn’t known what they’d been mining for. Yet a part of him suspected that the gold itself meant little.

  He opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated. A part of him wanted to keep his suspicions to himself, as they were little more than suppositions and half-formed guesses. Yet if he was to find out more about what had brought the Eirdkilrs here, he needed to exchange information with the Shalandrans. Exchange, which meant giving up some of what he knew to find out what they did.

  “They’ll want to ensure the gold doesn’t reach the Princelands, yes.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words with caution. “Depriving Prince
Toran of the means to bring more Legionnaires across from the mainland.”

  Callista narrowed her eyes at him. “I hear a ‘but’ in your voice.”

  Aravon smiled behind his mask. She’s perceptive, I’ll give her that much.

  “But something about their actions in the last few weeks leads me to suspect they’re after the ghoulstone as well.”

  Even with the solemn-visaged steel mask covering her face, her reaction was easily visible. Her eyes flew wide and she actually took a half-step back. That sort of surprise was hard to conceal.

  But before Callista could respond or Aravon could pry for more information, Colborn’s shout echoed from behind him. “They’re coming back!” The Eirdkilrs’ howling drowned out his words.

  Aravon glanced over the wall, and nervous anxiety fluttered in his stomach at sight of the charging enemy. The seven-foot giants lumbered toward them at a pace that was quickly gaining in speed. Hatred twisted their blue-stained faces and blazed in their ice-cold eyes, eyes now locked on Aravon and the defenders atop the ramparts. Like a tidal wave of fury and steel, the Eirdkilrs surged toward them, inexorable, their long legs eating up the ground in massive strides.

  “Crossbows, loose!” Lord Morshan roared from his position beside the gate.

  Thirty crossbows twanged in near-unison, and thirty bolts sliced through the air to hammer into the ranks of charging Eirdkilrs. Barbarians fell, bolts driven deep into their chests, faces, arms, and legs. Colborn and Skathi got off three shots each, felling six more Eirdkilrs.

  “Keeper take the bastards!” Lord Morshan’s shout rang along the ramparts, and he leveled his huge sword at the oncoming barbarians. “They want us? Make them pay in blood!”

  “For Shalandra!” roared the soldiers. Eighty-odd men gripped shields and swords, braced themselves for the impact.