Even from behind the lines, Aravon found himself drawn into the sensations of the battle. The screams of wounded echoing in time with the howling cries of the Eirdkilrs, the orders shouted by Lord Morshan and the Indomitable officers. Blood sprayed on both sides of the shields. Men slipped on ground soaked to mud and slick with gore. The rank, metallic odor of death hung in the air as bowels loosened in agony. A cacophony of striking wood, steel, and flesh resounded in Aravon’s ears.
His fingers twitched on the haft of his spear as an Eirdkilr club crushed the helmeted head of an Indomitable too busy cutting down another barbarian to see the danger. His left fist closed as if around the grip of the shield torn from the hands of a Shalandran in the front ranks. Pain ran through his wounded face in the same instant an Indomitable swordstaff laid open an Eirdkilr cheek to the bone. He felt that throbbing ache in his chest as an Eirdkilr club slammed into the breastplate of an Indomitable too exhausted and wounded to raise his shield.
The world blurred around Aravon and he found himself pulled into the battle. Into the chaos of soldiers and warriors punching, clawing, snarling, and hacking at each other. No heroic combat or beautiful swordsmanship. No death-defying feats of valor or unyielding defense as sung about in the songs of the bards. Just chaos, bloody chaos of Eirdkilrs and Indomitables fighting with every last shred of strength and viciousness. Men too terrified, stubborn, enraged, and driven by bloodlust to die, but determined to kill the man or woman before them. A heaving mess of flesh, bone, and armor interlocked in a struggle from which only one would emerge victorious.
A hand on his shoulder snapped Aravon back to reality. Callista said something he couldn’t hear over the din of battle, but he understood her meaning and followed her deeper into the mine. Away from the carnage and turmoil mere yards from where he stood. He was in the way, and he could do nothing to help the Indomitables bleeding and dying to protect their people.
He remained in the mine opening as long as he could—watching the battling Indomitables, trying to get a count of the Eirdkilrs—but all too soon, the rearmost of the retreating Shalandrans reached him. He had no choice but to pull back into the long stone tunnel to make way for Lord Morshan, his Keeper’s Blades, and the Indomitables giving ground. The clash of wood and steel echoed so loud within the narrow tunnel that it threatened to shatter his ears, drive a spike into his brain. Every sensation and emotion was amplified by the knowledge that he could do nothing but stand back and play silent observer to the deaths of the Shalandrans.
Finally, he could watch the carnage no longer. He was not needed here—Lord Morshan was in command, and he had the situation as close to under control as it could be. And Aravon couldn’t stand in the shield wall beside the Indomitables, even if his injured left arm could hold one of the heavy steel shields. His energies and attentions were better used elsewhere. His people needed him.
Though it went against every instinct, Aravon turned his back on the desperate battle and hurried into the underground mine.
The stone tunnel stood barely a foot higher than his head and ten feet wide, made narrower by the wooden supports set at two-yard intervals all along the length of the passage. Twenty feet from the entrance, the tunnel curved sharply to the right, then again to the left, heading directly east into the heart of the mountain.
Around the second corner, Aravon found himself in a long, straight tunnel lit by hundreds of oil lanterns and lamps hanging from the wooden support beams. Smaller passages branched off to the north and south at irregular intervals, but the main tunnel was far larger—ten feet high and nearly thirty from wall to wall. And in that main tunnel huddled the hundreds of Shalandran miners and their families. Nearly four hundred, by Aravon’s count, their copper-dark faces etched with worry and fear.
The miners were predominantly men, though a few of the women among the seated, wide-eyed civilians had the broad shoulders and callused hands of workers. All wore clothing stained by dirt, mud, and the dark stone dust from within the mine, yet their tunics and trousers were far from ragged. Work had made them lean and strong, yet none appeared deprived of food or basic necessities.
Seems the Shalandrans treat their workers better even than many Princelander nobles. Aravon’s respect for Lord Morshan rose a fraction.
Off to one side, a handful of slope-shouldered men—thugs, judging by their blunt, heavy features and the cudgels on their belts—stood in hushed conversation. The shortest among them, a man with thick eyebrows and a crooked nose broken and re-set far too many times to count, cast an angry scowl on the others, who seemed to wither beneath his displeasure. Even though the din of battle resounding through the tunnels, there was no mistaking the fury in his wild gesticulations.
“Do it now!” A shout rang from behind Aravon. “Now, Emvil!”
Aravon turned in time to see Killian, the Keeper’s Blade that had fought beside him on the wall, racing down the mine tunnel toward the gathered thugs.
“Archateros, sir!” The man with the crooked nose pushed through his men. “It won’t work.”
“What?” Killian slid to a halt just in front of the small group. “What do you mean, won’t work?”
The man, Emvil, gestured toward the wooden supports. “We can bring the mine entrance down sure enough, but if we do, there’s a risk the whole mine will collapse. There’s a nasty fault running through the ceiling. We reinforced it well enough, but if we bring it down—”
Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. He hurried toward Killian. “Wait, you want to collapse the mine entrance?”
Emvil seemed surprised to see Aravon, much less find him addressing the Keeper’s Blade. Killian, however, turned toward him. “Best way to keep them out.”
“And keep us in!” Aravon loomed over the black-armored warrior.
“It’ll buy us time.” Killian met his gaze without hesitation. “Time to dig another way out.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Such a solution had never occurred to him—then again, he had no experience with mining, and thus no understanding of what went into such a task.
“We’ve stocked the mine against similar eventualities, Captain Snarl. Cave-in or collapse, we’re ready for it.” Killian’s voice was grim, yet rang with a warrior’s confidence. “We’ve got food enough down here to last three days, and water for a week.”
“For five hundred people?” Aravon sucked in a breath. That level of foresight took him by surprise.
Killian hesitated a long moment, his eyes roaming the men, women, and children huddled in the tunnel. “For the miners,” he said in a quiet voice.
Aravon did quick calculations. He estimated no more than two hundred of the civilians were miners; the rest were the workers’ families and the Indomitables fighting to keep the enemy at bay.
“Either way, Archateros,” Emvil put in, “there’s no way we can bring the entrance down. Not without risking the rest of the mine collapsing with it.”
“Keeper have mercy!” Killian’s eyes darkened.
Cold dread settled onto Aravon’s shoulders. He knew what the man was thinking: the Indomitables could only hold the mine against the Eirdkilrs for so long. Against so many…the situation was grim, indeed.
Yet they had no choice. If they didn’t hold, everyone in the mine died.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Well, if it isn’t the great Captain Snarl himself, still alive and breathing!” Noll’s voice held a sardonic note, but beneath the layer of blood staining his armor and the reek of smoke that hung like a pall around him, delight gleamed in his eyes.
Aravon chuckled. “I’d almost say I was glad to see you, too, Noll,” he signed in the Secret Keeper hand language, “but a few hours is nowhere near enough time to miss your ugly mug.”
“Ugly?” Noll rapped his knuckles on Aravon’s helmet. “You must have taken a proper hard hit on the head and gone blind. I have it on good authority from the fine ladies of the Bulgeman’s Rest that I’m a proper looker.”
Belthar gr
unted and signed behind the scout’s back. “And that’s definitely got nothing to do with him paying them triple their asking rate.”
Aravon couldn’t help a smile. After the ordeal they’d just endured, it was good to know his men hadn’t damaged their sense of humor.
“I ought to order Colborn to give you a proper beating for doing something so stupid and reckless.” Aravon drew in a breath. “Not exactly savvy battle tactics, you racing in with those burning wagons.”
“I leave the tactics to you.” Noll gave a dismissive wave. “Besides, after all these weeks, I’ve learned Zaharis is at his best when playing with fire.”
Mirth sparkled in the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “A few Sparkweed shoots and four beautiful wagons all made of wood—how could I not?”
Aravon grinned beneath his mask. Their dramatic rear attack hadn’t just gotten them into the mining camp—it had bought the Indomitables precious time to retreat. That “stupid and reckless” behavior had very likely saved the Shalandrans.
“Shame you couldn’t have set that battering ram on fire before it reached the gate,” Skathi put in.
Belthar’s eyes darkened. “Not for lack of trying,” he replied in the silent hand language.
“The Eirdkilrs sent three groups to make those damned rams,” Zaharis added. “We got to two of them in time.”
“Thanks to that, we had enough time to pull back.” Aravon couldn’t help but feel proud of his soldiers—they’d accomplished something impossible and given the Indomitables a fighting chance.
He turned to Belthar. “And the Indomitables we rescued?”
“Hiding.” Belthar’s huge shoulders tightened. “Without horses, they couldn’t keep up, and there was no way they’d make it through the Eirdkilrs on foot.”
“And,” Rangvaldr put in, “we figured a few of them outside the town might come in handy down the line. Just in case we need a force to hit the Eirdkilrs from behind.” He glanced around. “I’ll admit I didn’t expect us to end up in a mine, though.”
Aravon shrugged. “We’ll find a way out.” His mind had already begun working at the problem of figuring out their next move. They couldn’t hold the mine entrance indefinitely, not against so many Eirdkilrs. “For now, we hunker down and make the best of our situation. Which means we all pitch in and help keep the Eirdkilrs out.”
“Aye, Captain.” Belthar gave a salute, and the rest echoed his response with nods.
“Good.” Aravon turned to the big man. “You and Skathi take stock of our supplies and look into getting whatever food and water you can from the Shalandrans.” He hadn’t had anything to eat since the previous night, and the hours of riding and fighting had sapped his strength.
“Yes, Captain,” Skathi signed.
Belthar nodded and, together, the two of them hurried off down the tunnel. Aravon was relieved to find that Belthar was more at ease around the archer, less protective of her, and Skathi seemed to have accepted his presence without the wary reservation and hostility she’d had when first riding out of Camp Marshal. They, like the rest of the Grim Reavers, had become companions, comrades-at-arms. Everything else took second place in a situation like the one in which they now found themselves.
“Zaharis, Rangvaldr, see what you can do to help the wounded.” Aravon turned to the Seiomenn. “Think you’re rested enough to use those holy stones of yours?”
The lines of exhaustion around Rangvaldr’s eyes had only deepened since the last time Aravon saw him, but the man nodded. “I will do what I can.”
“Good.” Aravon’s aches and pains had only grown more numerous since the day began, but he was far from the worst off. The Seiomenn’s energy would be better spent dealing with the gravest injuries among the Shalandrans.
“I found a patch of feverfew growing near the Sparkweed,” Zaharis put in. “With a bit of water, I can brew a tea that’ll help with the pain.”
“I’ll make sure you get it, then.” Aravon had no doubt Lord Morshan would be willing to part with at least a fraction of his water reserves if it kept his soldiers on their feet.
With a nod, Zaharis turned back to his horse and set about untying the ropes holding his wooden alchemical chest in place behind his saddle.
Aravon gestured to the two remaining men. “Noll, Colborn, with me.”
They fell into step beside him as he strode up the gentle incline toward the mine’s entrance.
“What can you tell me about these Eirdkilrs?” he asked Noll. “Are these the same that attacked Saerheim?”
“As far as I can tell, yes.” Noll nodded. “Then again, not too many things distinguishing one ugly barbarian from another.”
Aravon inclined his head. “If they are the ones from Saerheim, it gives us a better chance that they’ll be exhausted from the last week or more of traveling and fighting.” The Eirdkilrs had covered the better part of three hundred miles on their journey from the Bulwark to Hangman’s Hill, through the Deid lands, and now here. Just traveling that distance on horseback left Aravon exhausted. “They might not press quite as hard.”
“Especially now that they know we’re trapped in here.” Colborn’s eyes grew grim, as hard as ice. “They can take their time and wear us down.”
“They know they’ve only got a few score Indomitables to kill before—” Noll began.
“Captain Snarl!” Lord Morshan’s voice echoed through the broad tunnel. Aravon’s head snapped around in time to see the Proxenos marching toward him. Blood stained his black armor, war mask, helmet, and the hilt and cross guard of his huge sword. The two Keeper’s Blades at his side—Callista and Elmessam—were no cleaner. “A word.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. “Yes, Proxenos?” That growling tone in Lord Morshan’s voice couldn’t bode well.
Lord Morshan came to stand before him, feet planted in a determined stance, dark, kohl-rimmed eyes flinty behind the stern face on his steel mask. Elmessam and Callista took up an equally oppositional stance behind and on either side of the Proxenos, squaring off in front of Colborn and Noll.
The Proxenos removed his bloodstained war mask. His face was grim, the lines of his jaw as hard as the mine’s stone walls. “Callista tells me you have a suspicion as to why the Eirdkilrs came to Steinnbraka Delve.” His eyes narrowed. “What could they possibly want with the ghoulstone?”
“I have no idea.” Aravon shook his head. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
Lord Morshan’s lips twitched into a frown. He remained silent a long moment before speaking. “If you don’t know why they want the stone, what makes you believe they do?”
“Because of everything they’ve done to get their hands on it.” Aravon recounted the various events that had led to his belief: the destruction of Oldrsjot, the attacks on Bjornstadt, Rivergate, Saerheim, and Storbjarg; the disappearance of the miners from Silver Break and Gold Burrows Mines. “Even a blind man could see that there’s more than just a series of random coincidences. The Eirdkilrs not only want the ghoulstone—they want the miners working to extract it from the gold and silver.”
“My people.” Lord Morshan’s eyes darkened and he pursed his lips. “You believe they’ve come for prisoners as well as the stone?”
“I do.” Aravon nodded. “Which is why they’re not going to give up on the attack just because we’ve pulled back into the mine. They’ve got us cut off, with no way out and no chance of reinforcements.” He tilted his head. “Unless you’ve got people on their way here now?”
The Proxenos shook his head.
“Then the Eirdkilrs know they can keep us bottled up in here,” Aravon replied, “wear your soldiers down until they’re too weak from exhaustion, hunger, and thirst to fight. They might not expect you to have supplies, but all it means is that it’ll take them a few more days.” He thrust a finger toward the mine entrance, where the sounds of the still-raging battle echoed through the tunnel with deafening force. “But they will get in, eventually. Unless we hit back at them.”
/> Lord Morshan raised one slim eyebrow. “And let me guess, you’ve a plan to do precisely that?”
“I do.” Aravon spoke without hesitation. Since he’d heard Emvil and Killian talking, his mind had begun working at a solution to their problem. “But first, I need answers from you in return, Proxenos.”
The Blade’s face hardened, his expression going flat. “Answers about what?” he said in a tone utterly devoid of inflection.
“Matters better discussed away from listening ears.” Aravon gestured to the miners around them. “In private.”
Lord Morshan studied him a long moment, his face an inscrutable mask. Finally, he nodded and gestured toward a smaller shaft that branched northward off the main passage. “This way.”
Signaling for Colborn and Noll to hold their position at the intersection, Aravon followed the Proxenos twenty yards down the tunnel. Lord Morshan must have given a similar silent order for his bodyguards, for Callista and Elmessam waited beside the two Grim Reavers.
The smaller passage had no lanterns or lamps to provide light, and the darkness of the underground tunnel felt as stifling as the stale, unmoving air. Yet Aravon forced himself not to think about the mountain collapsing atop him. Instead, he focused on the mission at hand—at finding out why the Eirdkilrs wanted the ghoulstone, and why that mattered to the Shalandrans.
Once he had put enough distance between himself and the main tunnel, Aravon reached up and loosened straps holding his mask in place. He had no need to fear recognition here—he’d never met the Shalandrans before today. And Lord Morshan would be more likely to speak freely face to face, without masks to conceal the truth.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 21