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

by Andy Peloquin

  BOOM!

  Again, the wall quivered and the wooden platform shuddered as five hundred enormous Eirdkilr bodies slammed into them. The gate gave a ponderous groan, bowing inward and straining the logs. Arrows zipped over the spiked top of the wall and sliced through the air. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t changed their tactics—they once again hurled themselves against the Shalandrans, trusting their size, strength, and superior numbers to carry the day.

  The battle began anew, a fresh tide of enemies to kill. Aravon’s spear was a blur of whirling wood and steel. Blood sprayed in wide streams about him, spattering the wooden ramparts and the soldiers to his right and left. Thrust, stab, duck, and thrust. Crushing skulls, slashing throats, and driving the razor-sharp tip of the blade into any Eirdkilr flesh he could find.

  Time slowed to a crawl, the world sharpening into crystal-clear focus. He felt every staccato beat of his heart, and the interminable pauses between. Instinct sharpened over years of training and battle seized control of his mind and body. He had no time to think, no time to consider his next attack. All he could do was focus on taking down one enemy at a time. One, then another, and still more, until they stopped coming.

  But they never stopped coming. Even after the huge bodies of their slain comrades blocked the way, they simply tore the corpses down to open a gap. Though blood slicked the ramparts and stained the wooden walls a grisly crimson, still the Eirdkilrs came on, clambering atop their fallen fellows, in numbers seemingly endless.

  Suddenly, Aravon slipped on a patch of fresh blood, stumbled over an Eirdkilr corpse, and fell to the wooden platform. Two huge boots thumped to the ramparts in front of his head. In desperation, he threw himself to one side and rolled off the ramparts, dropping to land hard on the ground six feet below. An axe bit deep into the platform where he’d lain a heartbeat earlier, spraying shards of blood-soaked wood and chunks of flesh torn from an unmoving body.

  Off-balance, his body aching, Aravon managed an upward thrust of his spear. Steel punched through leather armor, flesh, and muscle of the Eirdkilr’s right side, but caught between his ribs. Screaming, howling his guttural war cries, the barbarian whirled toward him, tearing the spear from Aravon’s hands. With his left hand, he raised his huge spiked club to strike down at Aravon.

  Club, wrist, and forearm spun away and blood sprayed from the stump of the Eirdkilr’s arm. Callista’s heavy two-handed sword sheared through the man’s leg a moment later. The barbarian fell, crimson gushing from the massive artery in his thigh.

  An arrow whistled past three inches from her head and punched into the Eirdkilr that had clambered onto the wall behind her. The barbarian staggered backward, the shaft of Colborn’s arrow buried in his eye, and toppled off the rampart. His huge body thumped onto the dirt an arm’s length from where Aravon stood.

  Aravon scrambled back onto the ramparts, scrabbling at the blood-soaked wood for purchase. He regained his feet in time to draw his longsword and cut down another Eirdkilr clambering over the wall. And still another fumbling for a Shalandran’s throat, huge fingers tearing at the black steel armor. Aravon’s sword sheared through the Eirdkilr’s wrist and the barbarian fell back, shrieking in pain. The Shalandran staggered back, recovered, and threw himself forward at the next enemy.

  “Keeper take you bastards!” Colborn’s roar pierced the din of battle and the repeated thumping of Eirdkilr bodies and weapons colliding with the gate. “That’s how you’re going to play this?”

  Aravon tore his sword free of his enemy’s face and risked a glance over at Colborn. The Lieutenant was standing, bow in hand, an arrow aimed over the wall. His bowstring twanged and the missile disappeared into the mass of Eirdkilrs below.

  Yet, as Aravon turned back toward the next enemy climbing over the wall, his eyes caught sight of a cluster of Eirdkilrs racing from the forest. Between them, they carried an enormous tree trunk twenty feet long and thicker than two of Aravon’s legs.

  Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s heart paused mid-beat. The Eirdkilrs made themselves a Keeper-damned battering ram!

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Anxiety hummed deep within Aravon, an icy chill slithering like worms in his veins. That huge tree, borne in the strong hands of two dozen Eirdkilrs, would get through the gate. He couldn’t let that ram reach the gate!

  An arrow whistled toward him, forcing him to duck beneath the level of the wall once more. But not before seeing one of the ram-carrying Eirdkilrs fall with Colborn’s arrow in his chest. Whirling, Aravon sought out the crossbowmen struggling to reload along the length of the wall.

  “Bring down the battering ram!” he shouted.

  One crossbowman, a tall, lean fellow with a bright red birthmark covering the right side of his dark-skinned face, raised his weapon over the parapets and fired. His bowstring twanged and a missile sped off into the mass of Eirdkilrs.

  Aravon whirled, sheathed his sword, and tore his spear free of the Eirdkilr’s body in one smooth movement. Desperate, he scanned the wooden rampart for the familiar broad-shouldered figure of Skathi. The Agrotora held the wall forty yards away, on the far side of the gate, a few yards from where Lord Morshan and the other two black-armored Blades battled to repel the Eirdkilrs. The archer’s arms pumped as she nocked, drew, and loosed in a never-ending blur of motion.

  “Redwing!” Aravon roared to make himself heard over the din of battle. The cries of the Eirdkilrs, the clash of steel, and the screams and shouts of the soldiers drowned out his voice, so he tried again. “Red—”

  The appearance of an Eirdkilr face over the palisade wall cut him short. The barbarian gave a savage howl and hauled his torso over the spiked wooden tips. The iron-stubs in his leather armor protected his chest from the sharpened stakes, but his heavy belt caught and held him fast. Aravon whirled his spear around and brought the iron-shod end crashing down onto the Eirdkilr’s skullcap. Steel bent and bone buckled. Blood gushed from the man’s forehead as the helmet crushed through flesh and into his skull. The Eirdkilr’s howl cut off in a dull groan and ended a heartbeat later when Aravon’s spear tip sliced open his throat.

  Aravon leapt back from the blood gushing down the palisade wall and soaking the parapet. He drove his spear into the face of another Eirdkilr scaling the wall, knocked aside the reaching arms of a third, and slashed a deep gash across the barbarian’s face. The Eirdkilr’s hold on the wall loosened and he fell backward, howling in agony, and disappeared from view.

  In the space between heartbeats, Aravon risked a glance toward the Eirdkilrs hauling the battering ram. A few had fallen, their corpses bristling with crossbow bolts and arrows loosed from longbows. But far too few. And too many Eirdkilrs remained to take up the burden when their comrades fell.

  Worse, the stream of arrows had fallen silent. The Eirdkilr assault had forced Colborn, Skathi, and the crossbowmen to abandon their bows and draw blades. Hacking, slashing, chopping, and stabbing at the faces, hands, and arms of the Eirdkilrs clambering over the wall. All along the length of the parapet, the Indomitables fought to repel the barbarians.

  A losing battle. The thought drove a dagger of ice into Aravon’s spine. Already, too many black-armored Shalandrans had fallen. Against so many Eirdkilrs, their ranks so few, every Indomitable death meant a wider gap in their defenses. The palisade wall would only slow the Eirdkilrs for so long. The moment they brought that ram to bear on the gate—

  Boom!

  The iron-banded wood gate shuddered beneath the impact of the enormous tree, driven by the strength and fury of thirty towering Eirdkilrs.

  Boom!

  Another impact, and the gates bowed inward, setting the logs creaking.

  No! Dread sank like a stone in Aravon’s gut. They’d failed to stop the battering ram from reaching the gate. Now, the enemy would get through—it was only a question of how long, and how many Shalandrans would die atop the ramparts before the Eirdkilrs overwhelmed the defenses.

  “To the gate!” Lord Morshan’s voice rang out above the din o
f battle. “Hold the gates!”

  Aravon couldn’t spare a thought; he was too busy fighting to repel the four Eirdkilrs attempting to haul themselves over the wall in front of him. His long spear proved unwieldy in the close-quarters fighting, yet he couldn’t find even a heartbeat to draw his sword. By the time he finished them off and managed to take a breath, he stood nearly alone on the parapets. Of the fifty Indomitables that had once held the southern stretch of wall, only fifteen remained. Callista hadn’t left her post—if anything, her efforts had redoubled, her sword a blur of crimson-edged black steel in the bright daylight—but even with him and Colborn to join in the fight, there were simply too few bodies to repel the Eirdkilrs.

  Fear tightened his shoulders into knots as he leapt, spun, and raced along the wall, his spear never slowing as he fought to repel the Eirdkilrs. But there were too many. Too many to kill alone, too many to kill with the Keeper’s Blade fighting beside him. For every one he killed, three more appeared at the ramparts, struggling to haul their enormous bodies over the wall. And every heartbeat spent throwing an Eirdkilr back or opening a throat gave another enemy an opening to gain the ramparts.

  All the while, the steady booming of the battering ram echoed terribly loud, amplifying the howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs.

  As he cut down one enemy, he caught sight of two more clambering over the wall two yards away. He reached the first in time to slash the Eirdkilr’s face open, but in those precious seconds, the second enemy found his footing on the wall. With a howl of rage, the Eirdkilr charged, his enormous double-headed axe swinging around in a chopping blow aimed at Aravon’s head.

  Aravon gave ground beneath the furious onslaught, dodging the blow and backing off in a desperate attempt to find an opening. Yet his boot slipped on a patch of blood and slid out from beneath him mid-step. He fell hard, his head striking the rampart. The world blurred for an instant before he recovered, but in that time, the Eirdkilr had leapt toward him. There was no dodging that descending axe—the massive weapon, broader than Aravon’s shoulders, would chop him in half, and he had no time to scramble or throw himself out of the way.

  The Eirdkilr seemed to crumble into two pieces. A massive black, flame-shaped blade hacked through the barbarian’s midsection, shearing leather, flesh, and fur in a powerful stroke. The Eirdkilr’s torso crashed onto the rampart beside Aravon, his legs tottering and toppling off onto the bloodstained earth below.

  “Looks like you could use a hand.”

  Aravon found himself staring up into another stern-masked face. Another Keeper’s Blade, this one definitely a man. The Shalandran warrior drove his blood-soaked sword into the face of an Eirdkilr clambering over the wall, then reached down to offer Aravon a hand up. Nodding his thanks, Aravon pulled himself upright. A deep throbbing settled into his skull—he still hadn’t recovered from his battle near Loam Hill—but he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He couldn’t afford to slow now.

  “Good timing, Killian!” Callista’s shout rang out from behind Aravon. An Eirdkilr scream of agony accompanied her words. “These bastards seemed awfully determined to get up close and personal.”

  “Why do you think the Proxenos sent me?” His dark eyes sparkled, bright with a humor that seemed so at odds with his bloodstained armor and weapons. “Time we give them a feast of Shalandran steel!”

  The Keeper’s Blade whirled and raced off down the ramparts, charging the Eirdkilr clambering over the wall a few yards away. He swung his massive sword, a two-handed blow that sheared through the barbarian’s neck and buried the blade deep into the arm of another Eirdkilr nearby. His speed was no match for Callista’s, but he seemed tireless, his endurance far greater than his fellow Blade.

  Or Aravon himself. Even as he fought to hold his section of wall, he could feel the battle fatigue pressing in on him. Lead filling his limbs and slowing his attacks. His legs weakening, muscles burning with the effort of rushing nonstop back and forth. Lungs crying out for air, struggling to draw breath. His mouth had gone dry and filled with the metallic tang of blood tinged with acidic bile.

  He was beyond exhaustion; now, only sheer willpower drove him on. He fought without thought or conscious direction, simply acted and reacted as his instincts and muscles demanded. His spear was a blur of motion, whirling, stabbing, thrusting, slashing at the enemies scaling the wall. Blood dripped from the long, razor-sharp spearhead, splashing across the ramparts and the warriors battling beside him.

  Yet as his body went through the grisly motions of killing, chaos whirled in his thoughts. The words of Eirik Throrsson, Hilmir of the Fjall, flashed through his mind. “The Blood Queen was just one of those leading the Tauld’s attacks, and her death will only slow Farbjodr’s plans, not stymie them completely. There is one, in particular, you would do well to watch out for when bringing my daughter south. A bastard of a man named Asger Einnauga. One-Eye, they call him. He commands the Tauld that live among the Myrr and Bein. Though I have not heard rumors of his presence this far north for weeks, I have little doubt he will be the next arrow loosed from Farbjodr’s quiver.”

  Throrsson believed One-Eye had been the mind behind the siege of Rivergate, Dagger Garrison, and the Bulwark. Such a drastic change in Eirdkilr tactics heralded nothing good. He had no time to search the ranks of Eirdkilrs to look for a one-eyed warrior, but could Asger Einnauga be the one leading this pack of barbarians? Until recently, the Eirdkilrs wouldn’t have bothered besieging the stronghold—they’d have simply hid in the forest and waited for an opportune moment to attack when the defenses were down and the gates open.

  So what’s changed? Confusion whirled within Aravon. Why are they attacking now when they could have waited?

  The Eirdkilrs’ changes in battle strategy flooded him with worry. For the last hundred or more years, the Eirdkilr tactics had remained much the same: ambush the enemy from cover of the forest or high ground, charge en masse, and rely on their bulk and superior strength to carry the day. Until now. Their tactics had changed—ever so slightly, yet just enough to make them a serious threat even to a fortified position like this.

  In that instant, Aravon found himself with a moment to breathe, to lean on the wall and give his muscles a rest. The Eirdkilr bodies were piled high about him, the walls so slippery with blood that the barbarians could find no purchase. He used that space between heartbeats to search out his men. Colborn held the section of wall beyond Callista, his Fehlan-style longsword hacking, thrusting, and chopping at the enemy, his circular shield warding off blows. Opposite the gate, Skathi was a ferocious, snarling whirlwind of stabbing daggers. Lord Morshan and his two black-armored shadows fought to her right and left, repelling the Eirdkilrs. Never resting, never pausing in their ceaseless battle to hold the wall.

  And still the steady BOOM, BOOM of the Eirdkilr battering ram continued unchecked. With Skathi, Colborn, and the crossbowmen too busy defending the wall to loose arrows, the Eirdkilr assault on the gate continued unhindered.

  The gate groaned louder and buckled farther with every impact. The Shalandrans hurled themselves against the splintering wood, shouting encouragement and commands to “Hold it, by the Keeper!” Yet even with their bodies to reinforce the logs barring the gate, Aravon knew it was only a matter of time.

  The battle was fast approaching its culminating point. The soldiers holding the wall barely managed to keep the Eirdkilrs from getting over, but their strength was flagging, their muscles heavy from the endless movement and battle. They could fight to their last breath to hold the wall and still it wouldn’t be enough. Those gates would come down—it was only a matter of time. Instead of sacrificing themselves in a futile attempt to hold the wall, their best choice was to pull back.

  Aravon spun toward Callista. “I’ve got to talk to the Proxenos!” he roared over the din of battle.

  “Go!” Callista grunted and tore her flame-shaped blade free of an Eirdkilr skull, then turned and cut down another enemy who had pulled his head and shoulders ove
r the wall. “We’ll hold!”

  “Bring us back a nice skin of wine, yeah?” The Keeper’s Blade—Callista had called him Killian—barked a harsh laugh as he knocked aside a thrusting Eirdkilr spear and hewed the barbarian’s arm off at the elbow. “Thirsty work, this!”

  Aravon had no time to retort; he was already leaping off the wooden rampart. His legs ached from the six-foot drop but he took off in a sprint, knees protesting and muscles burning. He pounded past the Indomitables massed before the gate and rushed the thirty yards to where Lord Morshan battled to hold his section of wall.

  “Proxenos!” he shouted. “Proxenos, we’ve got to pull back!”

  “Pull back?” Lord Morshan’s black-masked face never turned away from battle, his sword never slowing as he hacked, chopped, and stabbed at the enemy.

  “Into the mine!” Aravon raced toward the Keeper’s Blade and slashed at the Eirdkilr that had dropped over the wall behind Lord Morshan. His spear blade sliced tendons and crushed knee bones, and the Eirdkilr fell, shrieking in pain and plummeted to the ground beside Aravon. A quick spin of his spear and a downward thrust to the barbarian’s throat, and the agonized cries fell silent.

  He spun back toward the Keeper’s Blade. “That gate’s coming down, no matter what we do. Our best choice is to hold the mine.”

  Lord Morshan gave no answer; he was too busy fending off two Eirdkilrs that had surmounted the wall. Without hesitation, Aravon dashed up the nearby wooden steps and hurled himself into the Eirdkilrs from behind. His spear punched through fur, studded leather armor, and flesh, slicing deep until it struck bone. The Eirdkilr flopped limply to the ground and was crushed a moment later by the heavy boot of his comrade. Lord Morshan finished off the staggering, stumbling barbarian with a precise, economical thrust to the chest. A precise attack with beautiful execution, a masterful stroke for any soldier or warrior.

  “Nytano!” Lord Morshan whirled toward the Keeper’s Blade battling a few yards farther up the wall. “Take Elmessam and make certain everything is in readiness. We sound the retreat in three minutes!”