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

by Andy Peloquin

  One of the two Keeper’s Blades at Lord Morshan’s back snapped a salute. “Yes, Proxenos!” Gesturing to another Blade farther down the wall, he leapt off the ramparts and raced toward the main avenue.

  Aravon scrambled to hold the section of wall they’d vacated—a stretch now five yards wide, far too much for any one man to hold.

  “Good to see you in one piece, Captain!” Skathi’s voice greeted him. The archer had abandoned her bow in favor of two daggers—one a Fehlan-style seax, the other a long, straight blade with a heavy pommel and cross guard. Blood coated both blades and ran down her arms to the elbows. Her movements were slower than usual, and she hunched over her left side, but that didn’t stop her from driving her straight dagger into an Eirdkilr’s eye.

  “You, too!” Aravon drove his spear into an Eirdkilr’s face and tore it free with a grunt. “And to think, the day started out so pleasant.”

  “I’d say it’s just getting better, sir!” Skathi brought her seax down onto a barbarian’s hand, severing fingers and shattering bones. “Just yesterday, I was telling the others I was tired of all the not having to fight for our lives.”

  Aravon chuckled—a foolish choice, given how little breath remained in his lungs—and bent his focus to holding the wall. The Eirdkilrs wouldn’t afford him a break, and he’d be damned if he let them take the wall from him. Aches and pains forgotten, jaw clenched so tight his bones creaked, Aravon raced along the wall, his spear never slowing.

  Three minutes seemed an eternity. He lost count of how many Eirdkilrs he killed, or how many nearly killed him. The world faded to a blur of blood, death, and snarling faces. Nothing mattered at that moment—nothing but holding the wall, pushing the Eirdkilrs back. If they got over and fell on the Shalandrans from behind, far too many would die.

  Then came the blessed sound: the blaring, booming note of the horn. Like rolling thunder, the horn blast echoed throughout the Shalandran camp. A sound ringing with hope and grim determination. A call to retreat, to live and fight another day.

  “Pull back!” Lord Morshan roared before the horn’s note had died out. “To the mine!”

  Aravon cut down one last Eirdkilr before following the Keeper’s Blades, Skathi, and the last Indomitables off the ramparts. It didn’t matter that barbarians had already begun streaming over the wall—the retreat had been sounded, and they’d need every last second to fight their way to safety.

  Racing up the street, Aravon and Skathi made a straight line for their horses and clambered into their saddles. Aravon’s arms and legs wobbled with the effort, and it took him a long moment to pull himself up. When he finally managed to find his seat and turn his horse away from the ramparts, the first Eirdkilrs had dropped to the blood-soaked street behind him.

  Aravon clapped his heels to his mount’s flanks, and the horse charged up the lane toward the main avenue. Toward the Indomitables already breaking away from the shuddering, cracking gate.

  To their credit, the Shalandrans never broke formation. They marched backward at a steady pace any Legion company would envy, their ranks tight and straight, seven-sided shields interlocked in a solid wall of shining black steel. Their strange polearms—swordstaves, Polus had called them—never quavered as they pulled back from the shuddering gates.

  Eirdkilrs by the scores poured over the wall. Without defenders to hold them off, the tide of fur-clad barbarians spilled into the Shalandran camp unchecked. Howling, shrieking, waving their massive weapons, they dropped from the crimson-stained ramparts and slogged through dirt and blood churned to muck.

  And still the Indomitables held their position. Ten yards from the gate, their pace slow, formation in lock-step. Fifteen. Twenty. The gap between them and the wall widened, the enemy too consumed with capturing the wall to realize their quarry was escaping.

  The howling grew louder as the Eirdkilrs flooded into the camp. Towering figures surged among the wooden shelters, shattering walls, tearing down canvas roofs, destroying everything in their wake. Crashing through the camp like a fur-clad tide of death. Rage echoed in their war cries as they found no victims upon which to unleash their wrath.

  Forty yards became fifty, then sixty. The Indomitables held their retreat, rock-steady in the face of the enemy surging around them. Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder. Lord Morshan’s command building stood just thirty yards behind him, and the dirt ramp leading up the mine entrance was just fifty yards beyond it. He caught sight of the miners—women, children, and men in ragged, dirt-stained clothing—disappearing into the dark cave mouth, and black-armored soldiers holding the opening.

  Just a few more seconds! Knots tightened in Aravon’s stomach. Just a little longer, and we’ll be—

  A loud groan of bending metal echoed from the gate, followed by the crack of splintering wood. The huge iron-banded door collapsed inward, twisted on its hinges.

  The wall had fallen. The way was open.

  With a roar, the Eirdkilrs spilled en masse into the Shalandran mining camp.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Aravon’s breath caught in his lungs as scores of Eirdkilrs surged up the muddy lane toward him and the retreating Indomitables. His legs tightened around his horse’s flanks, his gloved fingers gripping the smooth shaft of his spear. The Indomitables would never reach the mine entrance before the Eirdkilrs hit them.

  Then, through the gate, he caught sight of the strangest thing. Four wooden wagons rumbled across the cleared ground straight toward the palisade wall. Bright red-orange flames billowed from the wagons, smoke streaming like four dark grey tails behind them to stain the clear blue sky. Four figures in mottled-pattern armor rode in front of the wagons, thick ropes secured to the saddles of their huge horses to pull the burning vehicles.

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Bloody hell! He’d recognize those figures anywhere. The damned insane fools!

  Belthar, Noll, Rangvaldr, and Zaharis rode straight toward the gate, toward the Eirdkilrs massed around the opening. Though wide enough for two carts to pass through side by side, the gate was far too narrow for hundreds of Eirdkilrs to surge through at once. Packed so tightly together, they made the perfect target for Zaharis’ flaming four-wheeled vehicles.

  At the last moment, the four riders severed the ropes dragging the burning wagons and wheeled their mounts, Belthar and Zaharis to the right, Rangvaldr and Noll to the left. Yet the momentum of their mad dash kept the wagons barreling forward at breakneck speed.

  Too late, the barbarians turned toward the threat. The wooden wagons crashed into the rearmost ranks of Eirdkilrs, crushing fur-clad figures beneath their bulk and splashing tongues of flame all about. Those Eirdkilrs not borne to the ground by the weight of the wagons were caught alight, the fire licking at their heavy icebear pelts, leather armor, and woolen breeches. Screams of agony and terror echoed through the open gate, and the stink of charred flesh and burned hair—human and animal alike—thickened the air.

  Chaos reigned in the Eirdkilr ranks. Fire consumed the long, oily braids in the barbarians’ beards and hair, roasted them alive within their metal-reinforced armor. The towering giants caught in the blaze stumbled about, screaming, their wild, frantic movements setting more of their comrades alight. Those buried or crushed beneath the wagons lay shrieking in agony or silent in death.

  The Eirdkilrs surging through the gate seemed thrown off-balance by the change in battle. They whirled to find their rearmost ranks felled, burned, or crushed, and confusion reigned in the enemy ranks for long seconds. Only those rampaging through the side streets and wooden shelters seemed unaware of the pandemonium at the front gate.

  Yes! Hope sprang to life in Aravon’s mind. The momentary distraction gave the retreating Indomitables a few more seconds to pull back. Precious seconds that widened the gap between them and the Eirdkilrs howling for their blood.

  Through the wall of flames, smoke, and burning Eirdkilrs charged four figures atop enormous chargers. Like a spear thrust into the heart of their enemy, the Gr
im Reavers punched through the Eirdkilrs milling about in front of the gate, battling the blaze, or stumbling away to a fiery death. Hacking, slashing, chopping at the Eirdkilrs stumbling about in front of the gate, leaping burning corpses, and trampling huge bodies beneath the heavy hooves of Duke Dyrund’s specially bred warhorses.

  Belthar’s huge axe sheared through an upthrust spear and the hand that held it. Zaharis’ mace crushed a skull, shattered a face, and batted away a wild club swing aimed at his horse’s head. Rangvaldr slashed and chopped at the Eirdkilrs around his horse, his Fehlan longsword plowing destruction through any who stood in his way. Noll’s arms never stopped moving, his muscles pumping as he nocked, drew, and loosed a steady stream of arrows into the Eirdkilrs barring their path to the gate.

  With a roar, Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and spurred the horse to a gallop. He couldn’t hope to defeat the Eirdkilrs, but if he could keep them off-balance long enough for his men to break through the ranks and rejoin them, they had a fighting chance.

  His horse thundered up the muddy lane, straight toward the Eirdkilrs clustered around the gate. Caught by surprise from the sudden rear attack, the off-balance barbarians had no time to react. Aravon’s spear punched through one Eirdkilr’s armor and hurled the man from his feet. The force of his charge crushed another barbarian and trampled another into the bloody mud. The disordered ranks of Eirdkilrs were packed together too loosely to present a solid wall of flesh, their attention torn between the flames behind and the enemy ahead. Those in the lead never stood a chance against Aravon’s thrusting spear and massive warhorse.

  But every pounding step of his horse led him deeper into the enemy lines, where the ranks grew thicker and the Eirdkilrs clustered close together. The moment his charger slowed, he would get bogged down beneath the press of massive barbarian bodies. He’d made his point—he’d bought his Grim Reavers a chance to break through the enemy clustered around the gate.

  Yanking on his reins, Aravon whirled his horse to the north and took off through the neat rows of houses, away from the mass of confused Eirdkilrs. Howls of rage and war cries of “Death to the half-men!” pursued him through the rows of abandoned wooden shelters, dogged him as he raced along the narrow side streets. Booted feet pounded behind him, a thunder of roars and shouts that set his heart hammering.

  Yet, in the brief instant before he’d charged away from the Eirdkilrs, he’d seen his four Grim Reavers tear off to the south, riding through the shelters in the direction opposite his. With the speed of their chargers, they stood a fighting chance of evading the Eirdkilrs and rejoining the others.

  Just as he needed to now.

  Arrows whistled past Aravon’s head and thunked into the wooden structures around him. The Eirdkilrs loosed in rage, their aim erratic. Yet with every black-shafted missile loosed at him, their accuracy improved. In the heartbeat before he sent his horse charging down another side street, an arrow pinged off his helmet, a second slicing at the aventail protecting the back of his neck.

  Through the Shalandran mining camp he raced, his path leading east, deeper into the rows of houses. Only a few of the Eirdkilrs rampaging through the shelters had penetrated this far, and they seemed more intent on pillaging and destroying than paying attention to him.

  Yet not all the enemy were caught by surprise. Two Eirdkilrs leapt out from a wooden structure nearby, axes upraised to hack at his horse’s neck and legs. In desperation, Aravon brought his spear whirling around and across. His slashing attack opened one Eirdkilr’s throat and sent the second staggering backward to crash into a wooden structure. The wall collapsed in a spray of dust and shattering wood.

  Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat as three more Eirdkilrs appeared in the streets before him. These wielded spears, which they gripped in two hands, legs braced like pikemen against Aravon’s charge. He had an instant to decide his best course of action: rush the enemy and risk his horse, or find another way.

  He chose to go around. Straight through another makeshift wooden hut. Aravon braced himself as his massive Kostarasar charger barreled into the rickety walls. Splinters and arm-length shards of wood flew in every direction as man and mount thundered straight through one wall, then another. A moment later, they burst out onto a small side lane, one free of Eirdkilrs.

  Without hesitation, Aravon set his horse racing down the street, back toward the main avenue where the company of Indomitables marched in an orderly retreat.

  Though more than half a minute had elapsed since the burning wagon attack, the Eirdkilrs hadn’t yet managed to regain their balance. They milled about the gate in confusion, though a few managed to collect their wits enough to charge the formed-up Indomitables retreating toward the mine entrance. Those few died before they reached the Shalandrans—Colborn and Skathi’s arrows made quick work of them. Yet even as Aravon raced around behind the black-armored soldiers, he knew they only had a few more seconds until the enemy recovered.

  But in battle, seconds could mean the difference between life and death. Already, the Indomitables had passed the stone building that served as Lord Morshan’s command post. The entrance to the mine was just thirty yards from the rearmost rank of soldiers, but within ten yards, they would reach the shelter of the mountainside.

  The mine entrance was built into a section of the inselberg that appeared like a slice cut out of a pie. There, the mountain funneled to a narrow point at the mine entrance, providing a fully defensible position for the retreating soldiers. With solid stone to guard their flanks, the Shalandrans stood a chance of pulling back into the mine itself while still maintaining a strong shield wall to hold off the Eirdkilrs.

  Aravon charged up the road, racing toward the mouth of the mine. Lord Morshan stood at the rear of the soldiers’ ranks, shouting orders to hold, maintaining discipline. One of the black-armored bodyguards stood to his right, and two more Blades—Aravon recognized them as Callista and the one she’d called Killian—guarded his left. The remaining two elite warriors held the mine entrance, and the last of the civilians had disappeared within.

  At that moment, Belthar, Rangvaldr, Noll, and Zaharis burst into view down a side lane, Colborn and Skathi racing along in their wake. It seemed the Lieutenant and the Agrotora had had the same thought and joined in the desperate charge to buy their comrades a moment to escape. Now, the six of them galloped up the muddy alley toward the stony mountainside.

  Not a moment too soon. Seconds after the six Grim Reavers rode around behind the Indomitables, the rearmost rank reached the narrowing section of ground leading up to the mine. Steel shields and armor scraped against stone, and the line of Indomitables began to collapse inward on itself, like sands through an hourglass.

  Aravon had just leapt from his saddle outside the mine entrance when his six Grim Reavers reined in beside him. But he had no time for friendly greetings. “Get in!” he shouted. The rearmost Indomitables had already begun closing the distance to the opening in the mountainside.

  Handing off his horse’s reins to Noll, he herded the Grim Reavers and their mounts into the mine before following them. But instead of heading down the long, straight stone tunnel that led deeper into the mountain, he took up position a few yards back—out of the way of the retreating Indomitables, yet still with ample view of the action outside.

  He spared an instant to marvel at the Shalandran discipline—their cohesion and the precision of their movements spoke of training that might exceed even that of the Legion.

  Might. A lifelong Legionnaire, Aravon wouldn’t cede the ground of superiority to any army that easily. Even an army that had somehow managed to hold their order while retreating at double-quick pace from an enemy that outnumbered it six to one.

  But Aravon had no more than that brief flash of time. The howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs echoed loud off the stone around him as the barbarians charged up the main avenue toward the Indomitables. A tide of muscle, fur, and fury, edged with steel and driven by hatred of the invaders. Thei
r shrieks and screams of “Death to the half-men!” reverberated off the mountain, so loud and piercing they seemed to set the stone walls of the mine trembling. The thundering of their heavy, booted feet rattled in Aravon’s bones.

  Eirdkilr archers loosed arrows as they ran, their missiles pinging on the stone mountainside and slamming into the steel Indomitable shields. Aravon’s eyes widened as the arrows rebounded from the shields rather than punching through. Not even Legion shields could ward off the steel shafts driven by the powerful Eirdkilr longbows.

  Keeper’s teeth! The secret of Shalandran steel was well-guarded, and for good reason. If even one company of Legionnaires had those shields, we’d be unstoppable.

  As the Indomitables pulled deeper into the narrowing space before the mine entrance, the gap between them and the charging Eirdkilrs narrowed. Aravon’s heart hammered faster, his breath quickening as he watched the flood of barbarians streaming toward them.

  The Shalandrans wouldn’t make it into the mine in time.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hundreds of fur-clad barbarians collided with the black-armored Indomitables, and the thunderous BOOM of that clash nearly deafened Aravon. The front two ranks of Indomitables were hurled backward by the force of that charge, only stopped from falling by the strong arms and shields of the ranks behind them. All along the length of the line, the melee disintegrated into a mess of hacking, stabbing, and clubbing weapons. Steel flashed in the daylight as scores of axes chopped at shields too sturdy to crumble beneath their impact—not so the flesh and bone beneath. Indomitables screamed as their arms snapped, elbows shattered, and their faces were crushed by the rims of their shields and Eirdkilr clubs alike.

  Those Eirdkilrs that wielded spears lifted their weapons high and thrust down at their heavily-armored foes, stabbing over the rims of the black shields. Yet the fourth, fifth, and sixth ranks of Indomitables answered with their own swordstaves, weapons crafted for thrusting, slashing, and chopping. The foremost ranks couldn’t bring their khopeshes to bear on the enemy, but their task was simply to hold their shields and keep the Eirdkilrs at bay long enough for their comrades to bite back. Yet more than a few barbarians fell before the ranks of Indomitables, legs cut or hooked out from beneath them by the sickle-shaped blades.