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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon snorted, yet he couldn’t help the grin that broadened his lips. It felt good to crack jokes—it meant they still lived, still held hope.

  “Colborn finally got you to rest, eh?” Zaharis cocked an eyebrow. “And here I thought he’d have to sic Belthar on you.”

  “He certainly threatened.” Aravon shrugged. “I guess even a hard-headed Captain has to follow orders sometimes. Even when they’re under threat of fatal crushing.”

  Belthar’s bedroll was empty, as was Skathi’s. The two Grim Reavers had gone to stand guard at the mine’s entrance. They’d watch for a night attack by the Eirdkilrs, give the Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades a chance to rest.

  Noll, however, lay curled within his blankets, his snoring louder than the occasional farts from the nearby horses. The sleeping scout seemed unbothered by the sounds or the accompanying smells.

  Aravon settled back onto his bedroll and placed his spear by his side. “What did you learn from the Shalandrans studying the ghoulstone? Anything to explain why the Eirdkilrs want it so badly?”

  Zaharis grimaced. “Nothing useful.” He gestured toward the thick layers of black ghoulstone making up most of the stone wall behind Aravon. “It’s too soft and flakes too easily to be used for much, even decoration. Which is a shame, given its color.”

  Ghoulstone was a darker black than onyx, darker even than obsidian, yet its surface seemed almost liquid.

  “Basically,” Zaharis signed, “it’s not good for much of anything other than making it harder to get at the gold and silver.” He shook his head. “When they tried to mix it with iron and carbon like they do with shalanite to make Shalandran steel, the resulting metal was far too brittle and weak to serve any real purpose.”

  “And the glow?” Aravon’s mind flashed back to his conversation with Lord Morshan and the strange words scrawled in the journal they’d found at Silver Break Mine. “Is that real or just the mind playing tricks in the darkness?”

  “Could be real.” Zaharis turned and studied the wall. “Look.” He drew his knife and used it to extract a small chunk of ghoulstone from the wall. It required little effort—he barely inserted the tip before a knuckle-sized piece fell away. Retrieving the stone, Zaharis held it up in his knife-hand and signed with his free hand. “Watch.”

  He twisted it about until a faint sparkle caught Aravon’s eye.

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

  Zaharis chuckled. “Sort of.” He passed the rock to his free hand and tapped the sharp tip of his knife against the spot that had glowed. “Sometimes,” he signed around the bit of rock, “water seeps inside forming crystals or stones and ends up getting trapped. It’s called an enhydro.” Passing the ghoulstone back to his knife-hand, he spelled out the unfamiliar word one letter-sign at a time. “It’s fairly rare with most minerals, but it seems the density and formation of ghoulstone makes it more common.”

  “So that glow is really just torchlight reflecting off the water trapped inside the stone?” Aravon asked.

  “That’s what the Shalandrans think.” The Secret Keeper shrugged. “The miners, however, disagree. They always describe a glow brighter than that little glint you just saw.” He turned the stone over and over in his fingers. “Curious. I will run a few alchemical tests on its composition, but until I get access to the supplies I left at Camp Marshal, I’ll be limited in what more I can find out about it.”

  Aravon nodded. “Do what you can while you’re still here.”

  Zaharis cocked an eyebrow. “Am I going somewhere, then?”

  “You’ll be free of the mine soon enough.” Aravon leaned back. “I’ll need you to go with Colborn, Noll, and Skathi out the back way.”

  “They’re tunneling out?” Zaharis cocked an eyebrow.

  Aravon nodded. Even the slight movement brought on a throbbing ache in his head—courtesy of too many wounds in too short a time, and nowhere near enough rest. “And sending a detachment to hit the Eirdkilrs from the rear. I’m sending you with them to lend a hand.”

  Zaharis’ brows knitted together as he frowned. “I’ll see what I can forage for, but from what I saw while we were biding our time with those burning wagons, there’s not a whole lot I’ll find out there to make into a proper offensive weapon.”

  “Do what you can.” Aravon let out a long breath, allowing the tiredness to wash over him. “If anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

  A smile quirked Zaharis’ lips. “No pressure, right?”

  “None at all.” Aravon twisted his tired shoulders into a shrug. “Not like we’ll all be dead if you can’t pull this off.”

  Zaharis snorted. “Thanks, Captain. That’ll make it easier to sleep!”

  “Always happy to lighten your load, Zaharis.” Aravon gave him a wry smile. “Goodnight!”

  He didn’t see Zaharis’ silent hand signals, but had no doubt the Secret Keeper formed an appropriate retort. Yet, for all the jest in his words, the statement rang with truth. Flesh and steel alone wouldn’t get them out of this situation—it would take something far more miraculous to see them through alive.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Hold the line!” Aravon’s shout was swallowed by the shriek of steel on steel and the howling of the Eirdkilrs, but it was echoed a moment later by Invictus Nytano.

  “Keeper take you bastards, hold the bloody damned line!” The Blade caught a stumbling Indomitable, steadied the soldier, and shoved him back into place. The eight ranks of black-armored Shalandrans shuddered beneath the impact of heavy Eirdkilr clubs as the barbarians pressed the attack. Howling, shrieking their savage war cries, they slammed bodies and weapons into the seven-sided steel shields again and again. Hacked, chopped, and stabbed at the enemies pressed face to face in the crush of melee.

  An Eirdkilr crushed a Shalandran’s head with a vicious club strike, only to himself fall a moment later, a swordstaff driven into his throat. The next three barbarians, stooping beneath the low ceiling, had little room to wield their massive axes—they died to the thrusting, stabbing swordstaves of the third and fourth ranks of Indomitables.

  For all their savage fury, the Eirdkilrs could not break the Shalandrans’ determination. The Indomitables lived up to their name, holding the mine entrance against what was now the fifth attack of the day—and this before noon. Exhausted, bruised and battered, every one of them bleeding and nursing wounds, the dark-skinned soldiers in their strange black armor stood a solid bulwark against the howling barbarians.

  They fought and killed. Killed Eirdkilrs by the scores. Pushed back first one step, then two, struggling to hold the towering giants back. Chopping with their heavy hook-shaped khopeshes. Shattering shields, crushing Eirdkilr limbs, lopping off arms and legs. The fifth, sixth, and seventh rows thrust swordstaves at the enemy, pushing them back or cutting them down. As solid and indomitable as their names, the soldiers killed without hesitation.

  Killed and died. The axes, spears, and clubs of the Eirdkilrs failed to punch through Shalandran steel shields, but the metal was only as strong as the flesh and bone beneath. Clubs crunched down onto spike-rimmed helms, and Shalandran skulls gave way like shattering eggshells. Outstretched arms snapped beneath the savage blows of heavy axes—axes that failed to cut through black armor yet pulverized the limbs encased within. Shalandrans screamed and died as they fought to hold the mine entrance. To hold their ground against the unrelenting fury of the Eirdkilrs.

  In vain. The Eirdkilrs were too many, too strong, too savage in their assault. They’d thrown scores down the tunnel—the bodies piled high along the length of the passage paid testament to the heavy toll they’d paid. Crimson stained the ground and turned the stone slippery underfoot. With every fresh wave, the Indomitables forced their enemy to pay a heavy toll for every inch of ground they gained.

  But gain they did. The Eirdkilrs’ impossible strength and fierce savagery drove the Indomitables back. One step, then a second. In the five hours since the Eirdkilr attack at dawn, the Shal
andrans had been pushed five yards back into the mine. Always taking a toll in barbarians, yet paying a heavy price of their own.

  The stink of death hung thick in the stale air—the stench of loosening bowels and the cold sweat of fear, layered thickly by the metallic tang of blood.

  There was so much blood. More than Aravon had seen in his entire life. Splashed across the stone walls and ceiling, drops and splatter bright against the black armor, shields, and solemn masks of the Indomitables. Crimson ran in dark, thick rivulets down the sides of the passage, mingling with the dust of the mine to form a foul mire that clung to boots, cloaks, and armor alike.

  The Eirdkilrs’ screams and war cries resounded within the tunnel so loud it set Aravon’s head aching, threatened to shatter his eardrums. With every cry of pain, every shriek of agony, the barbarians’ ferocity only increased, their attacks coming wilder and with greater abandon.

  Yet through it all, the Indomitables fought on. Valiant, stubborn as the stone walls beside them, determined to hold on until the Eirdkilrs’ fury waned and they pulled back. Just long enough for both sides to collect their dead and wounded, to clear the way for a renewed charge.

  The strength of their armaments and the narrowness of the tunnel was the Indomitables’ only salvation. Black-armored soldiers stood four abreast, shields interlocked, solid stone guarding their right and left flanks. The Eirdkilrs, towering head and shoulders above their enemy, could only come at them in twos and threes. An unending torrent of rage, flesh, and bloodlust that broke time and again against the steadfast resolve of the Shalandrans.

  But for how much longer? The question echoed through Aravon’s mind even as he lent his shoulder to the shield wall and shoved back hard against the Eirdkilrs. He was too far in the rear to strike at the enemy; all he could do was lend his strength to the soldiers shoving forward to support their comrades in the front ranks. His body ached from being slammed about by Indomitables stumbling before the Eirdkilrs, flying elbows and knees, and the men and women pressing all about him. Will fatigue and attrition take us down before we can dig our way to freedom?

  Beside him, Invictus Nytano roared encouragement to his men, hurled curses at the enemy, and called the order, “Hold the Keeper-damned line!” There was no maneuvering, no strategy to carry the day. Only strength and determination in the face of relentless, bloodthirsty savagery.

  With a roar, the Indomitables at the front pushed hard, throwing the Eirdkilrs back a half-step. Khopeshes flashed, blood sprayed, and two more Eirdkilrs fell.

  “Forward!” Invictus Nytano roared. Aravon lent his voice to the cry, and a dozen Indomitable throats took up the shout. In the instant before the next Eirdkilrs could advance, the three front ranks of Indomitables reclaimed that half-step of blood-slicked ground. Trampling the bodies of Eirdkilrs and comrades alike, shields held firm, swords dripping crimson and gore. They crashed into the oncoming Eirdkilrs with a thunderous cacophony of steel on wood, fur, iron, and flesh. The front ranks on both sides of the shield wall descended into a vicious match of shoving, stabbing, biting, and scratching. Soldiers gouging out eyes, ripping at throats, and doing everything in their power to tear the life from the men trying to kill them first. Chaos and carnage at its purest.

  The helmet of the Indomitable before him slammed into Aravon’s face, setting his cheek, nose, and split lips aching. The man staggered backward, rebounding off Aravon’s still-healing chest. Yet Aravon could only steady the soldier and shove him into line once more. There was no time for pain—there was only battle and death.

  A part of Aravon wanted to give in to the pain, to sit down and let the sleep of exhaustion soothe his aches. His night of rest had only made it worse, had brought the myriad of pounding, stabbing torments to the forefront of his consciousness. He’d been a heartbeat from asking Rangvaldr to use his holy stones, but the shrieks and whimpers of the wounded Indomitables had stopped him. There were too many far worse off than him—his bruises and throbbing face were nothing compared to shattered limbs, crushed skulls, and gaping wounds that gushed blood faster than any stitching thread could slow. The Seiomenn needed every shred of strength to keep the Indomitables alive. Only the black-armored soldiers stood between the Eirdkilrs and the death of every man, woman, and child in the mine.

  And so Aravon fought. Against the pain and aches of his injuries, against the fire that flooded his limbs and slowed his movements. Against the exhaustion that weighed on every muscle in his body, turned every bone brittle. Against the enemy that howled for his blood and the blood of the Shalandrans beside him. Without conscious thought, lost in the instinctive repetition of the shield wall, Aravon gritted his teeth and stood firm.

  Then, so suddenly it left Aravon staggering, the clash was over. The Eirdkilrs pulled back, dragging away their wounded and dead. Sunlight appeared at the mouth of the tunnel, searing bright and piercing the haze of battle covering Aravon’s mind. The wild animal instincts that had kept him alive in combat gave way to rational thought.

  All around him, the Indomitables staggered, sagged, or simply collapsed where they stood. Dropping into puddles of dark crimson or piles of gore. One man fell face-down in long coils of intestines—Eirdkilr or Shalandran, Aravon didn’t know—and didn’t rise when his comrades tried to rouse him. Blood pumped weakly from a long, ragged tear in his neck and stained his armor. He had been dead on his feet, his body fighting out of rote, only succumbing to the inevitable when battle stopped.

  Yet Invictus Nytano would not give the weary soldiers a moment’s rest. “Back on your feet!” he roared. “The bastards’ll be back any second. And when they come, they’ll find us ready to shove our swords down their throats!”

  Aravon recognized Nytano’s intentions. If they sat and rested, the pain, exhaustion, and emotions of battle would overwhelm them. Some would give in to despair and abandon the fight. Others would be too tired to defend themselves when the next attack came. By giving them no time to think beyond the actions of battle and survival, the Invictus kept the truth of their dire situation from sinking vicious claws into their minds and hearts.

  To their credit, the Indomitables heeded his orders and rose to their feet. Limbs leaden with exhaustion, faces twisted by grief, nausea, or the numbness of battle, they fell to hauling away the wounded and piling up the corpses of the slain as a grisly barricade against the enemy.

  Gasping for breath, fire coursing through his veins, Aravon seized a slain Indomitable, stripped his armor, and added the body to the growing mound. Despite the ghastly, ghoulish nature of the task, it was their only hope of mounting any sort of effective defense.

  The bodies they could clear, but nothing could be done for the blood that soaked the tunnel’s stone floor. The viscous stream of reeking crimson-brown slithered along the walls, seeping downhill toward the miners and their families huddled for shelter deeper in the mines, joined by the urine and vomit of the dead and dying. Even though those seeking safety could not escape the grim truth of battle.

  As Aravon turned to the next corpse—an Eirdkilr with his face crushed by a khopesh—a strong hand gripped his shoulder. Turning, he looked up into the masked face of Lord Morshan.

  “Go,” the Proxenos said. His eyes were dark, as solemn as the stern face on his mask, and steel edged his voice. “Food, water, and an hour of rest.”

  “All due respect,” Aravon managed to gasp, “I’ll—”

  “Obey my order, Captain Snarl.” Lord Morshan’s tone brooked no argument. His words rang with a note of authority that reminded Aravon a great deal of General Traighan. Or Duke Dyrund as he convinced Eirik Throrsson to accept an alliance with the Princelands. “You placed yourself and your men at my service. Which means you follow my commands as you would your own General’s.”

  Aravon hesitated only a moment—he was too exhausted to argue. “Yes, Proxenos.” Slinging the arm of a wounded Indomitable over his shoulder, he and the soldier struggled back down the tunnel on legs that had long ago passed exhausted.
His knees felt as if they would give out, his muscles filled with water. Lord Morshan was right; he truly did need rest if he was to be of any help to the soldiers.

  “Tell me you saved a few for me,” Colborn signed one-handed as he passed, heading up the tunnel toward the battle line. He had donned his mask and carried his sword still sheathed, his round Fehlan shield on his back. His longbow and quiver had been left beside his bedroll—his ten remaining arrows would be needed for their rear attack.

  Aravon snorted. “One or two,” he signed back one-handed. “Hundred.”

  Colborn nodded. “See you on the other side.”

  “Swordsman strengthen your arm,” Aravon signed the ritual words, but Colborn had already passed.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Worry for his Lieutenant thrummed deep in Aravon’s chest as he marched through the mine, but he pushed it away. Colborn was too damned stubborn to die here. His sword, shield, and strength would bolster the shield wall far more effectively than Aravon’s spear ever could.

  Down the tunnel he stumbled, supporting the wounded Indomitable, and turned into a tunnel that ran southeast away from the main horizontal shaft. With every step, the screams and cries of the wounded grew louder. The heavy reek of blood, viscera, and other bodily fluids thickened the air with their nauseating stench.

  Rounding the corner, he came upon a truly horrifying sight. Indomitables once proud and tall lay on the ground, their armor and tunics stained deep crimson. Strong men and women, screaming, cursing, groaning, or whimpering like whipped dogs. Some called out to the Long Keeper for mercy, others for the mercy of death. Some lay still, their minds numbed by pain, or too far gone to raise a cry.

  The sight brought the acid surging into Aravon’s throat. He’d been in battle before, had seen the droves of wounded hauled to the Mender tents. Yet the carnage in this stone chamber—the gaping wounds, crushed limbs and skulls, the missing eyes, ears, noses, fingers, and hands, and the thick layer of bloody mud covering everything—was far worse than he could have imagined.