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

by Andy Peloquin

  Colborn was on his feet before Aravon completed his turn. In an instant, the Fehlan Lieutenant snatched up his weapons and charged the enemy.

  Time slowed to a crawl around Aravon. His body seemed to move in slow motion as he reached for his spear from where he’d left it leaning against the tunnel wall and raced in pursuit of Colborn. Lead dragged on every muscle, weighed down every fiber of his being. The air seemed to cling to his legs like a bog quagmire. Try as he might, though he poured all his strength and will into moving, he could not cross the distance in time.

  An Eirdkilr axe crashed into black armor, and the Indomitable screamed as the massive weapon crushed his breastplate, snapped ribs, and hurled him against the stone wall. That shriek and the sound of steel clattering on rock snapped Aravon back to reality. The world sped up to a blistering pace and suddenly he could move freely, the rush of adrenaline pushing away his fatigue. His heart hammered a furious beat and his boots pounded on the stone floor as he sprinted up the inclined slope, a step behind Colborn.

  Desperation fueled Aravon’s haste. The aches and pains of a day spent fighting diminished to a dull ache far in the back of his consciousness, all traces of fatigue scoured by the fire of rage kindled in his belly. Roaring a wordless cry, he leapt over the first corpse barricade and hurled himself at the Eirdkilr scrambling over the second.

  Colborn clashed with another Eirdkilr a heartbeat before Aravon’s spear punched through studded leather armor and filthy flesh beneath. The huge barbarian coughed, spraying blood across Aravon’s crimson-encrusted mask, and fell with a gurgling cry. Tearing his spear free of the Eirdkilr’s chest, Aravon whipped the butt end around and slammed it into another barbarian’s face. A savage twist of his wrist drove the iron spike through the Eirdkilr’s face and into his brain. Dark blood and brains gushed from the wound and the Eirdkilr flopped like a gutted fish.

  Another roar, louder this time, echoed from Aravon’s left. A massive figure crashed into the Eirdkilrs, driving them backward and hurling them to the ground. Even as Aravon knocked aside a wild spear thrust aimed at his face, he had a glimpse of Belthar standing beside him, pick axe in hand. The big man tore the sharp steel pick from the head of his Eirdkilr enemy, spraying grey matter across the side of Aravon’s face.

  A rushing Eirdkilr consumed Aravon’s world, shoving aside his comrades to scramble over the wall and strike at the defenders. Aravon cut the towering barbarian down with a savage slash, hauled a downed Indomitable upright and sent him staggering away from the combat, and turned aside a spear thrust aimed at his chest. The metal-weighted butt of his own spear shattered the Eirdkilr’s massive arm. A lightning-quick stab opened the barbarian’s throat and choked off the howls of pain and fury in a torrent of blood.

  For long seconds, the desperate thrust, cut, and stab of battle consumed Aravon’s world. He had no time to think, only to react. Ducking, dodging, deflecting blows powerful enough to shatter his spear and every bone in his body. He lashed out at the enemy, his spear a blur in the flickering light of the lanterns burning behind him. Not an instant to spare a glance for the Indomitables that had held the wall—they were either dead, wounded, or staggered by the sudden onslaught.

  In the narrow tunnel, he, Colborn, and Belthar held the mine’s entrance, a solid wall of steel, armor, and determination unyielding before the rage of the Eirdkilrs. Those who clambered over the piled corpses joined their slain comrades—Colborn’s sword chopping at their limbs or opening their throats, Belthar’s pick axe crushing through armor and helms alike, Aravon’s spear driving deep into their flesh.

  Another figure materialized at Aravon’s side. No, not one, but two soldiers clad in heavy, spiked plate mail and helms bearing the snarling features of a mountain lion. Two enormous flame-shaped blades drove through the Eirdkilrs’ guards, chopping flesh, hacking limbs, and severing heads. The Keeper’s Blades had joined the fight.

  “Back!” shouted one of the Blades—Aravon recognized the calm, resolute voice of Archateros Killian. “Pull back, and form ranks!”

  Between cutting down one enemy and blocking the next’s thrust, Aravon heard the clanking of armor, the thunder of booted feet. Something brushed against his leg—an Indomitable caught in the Eirdkilrs’ sudden rush, wounded, yet crawling on the blood-soaked ground to obey the shouted order.

  Two more black-armored Indomitables surged up from the ground on the left-hand side of the tunnel. Though they had fallen in the initial onslaught, their wounds proved less than fatal. Now, they struck at the Eirdkilrs with their heavy khopeshes, fighting to drive the enemy back with powerful chopping blows. Trying to buy themselves a heartbeat to fall back and join the forming ranks of their comrades.

  In vain. The giant barbarians swarmed over the wall and surged around them, once again bringing them down with savage blows of their clubs, axes, and spears. Aravon couldn’t spare a moment to aid them—he was too busy fending off the Eirdkilrs trying to overwhelm the wall guarding the tunnel’s right side. It was all they could do to hold their ground and survive the onslaught. The Indomitables’ heavy half-plate armor and seven-sided shields saved them from being killed outright, yet knew they had only seconds before the Eirdkilrs’ steel weapons, backed by the terrible force of their muscles, overwhelmed even Shalandran steel.

  “Ghoststriker, Ursus!” Aravon shouted over the sound of combat. “Push the bastards back!”

  Roaring, Belthar waded into the enemy, his pick axe whirling and spraying blood as he crushed skulls, shattered bones, and drove his fist into Eirdkilr faces. Colborn leaned into his shield and threw his shoulder against the Eirdkilr trying to climb over the wall of corpses, hurling him backward.

  One step at a time, Aravon and his Grim Reavers thrust forward, his two comrades and the Keeper’s Blades at his side. The five of them not only held the tunnel—they fought to give the Indomitables a chance at survival.

  Two stuttering half-steps, three. Now they stood against the wall of corpses, hacking at the enemy that tried to clamber over, cutting down any who drew within range.

  “Pull back!” Killian called.

  The first Indomitable stumbled toward them, breaking off just in time to avoid a wild club swing. Killian gripped the man’s armor and hauled him bodily over the corpse barricade. The second soldier staggered beneath a vicious axe blow and collapsed just beyond the pile. Aravon leapt over the waist-high wall and dragged the soldier to his feet and over the wall, throwing himself out of harm’s way a moment later. Colborn and Belthar closed in to fill the gap he’d vacated, with the two Keeper’s Blades holding the flanks.

  Aravon struggled to his feet—it felt like moving through mud, his limbs on fire and his lungs burning. Yet he could not stop, could not rest, not with his Grim Reavers in peril. The Eirdkilrs came on in a steady stream, hurdling the outermost barricade and racing toward the defenders holding the second. Belthar barely managed to deflect one savage club strike before it crushed Colborn’s skull. Colborn thrust his shield in the way of another Eirdkilr’s follow-up, buying Belthar time to grip the barbarian’s beard. With a savage yank, the big man snapped the Eirdkilr’s neck. The sagging body blocked the way for a heartbeat—long enough for Aravon to rise and hurl himself back into the fray.

  Yet with every heartbeat, more Eirdkilrs joined the assault. The giants waded over piles of their dead comrades to launch themselves at Aravon, Colborn, Belthar, and the two Keeper’s Blades. So forceful was their onslaught that the defenders couldn’t hold their position—the towering Eirdkilrs came on faster than the Grim Reavers and Shalandrans could cut them down.

  The crush of bodies grew so tight Aravon could no longer swing his spear freely. It was all he could do to keep the charging Eirdkilrs at bay—thrusting, driving his Odarian steel spearhead into Eirdkilr chests, faces, arms, legs, anything he could reach. No attempt at precision or form, but a mindless, chaotic mess of wood, steel, fur, and leather. Every fiber of his being burned with the instinct to keep the enemy away at any cost, to
bring the Eirdkilrs down before they did likewise to him.

  Pain exploded through Aravon’s torso as an Eirdkilr club slammed into his upper chest, just beneath his shoulder. The force of the impact hurled him backward, sending him staggering. His feet slipped on blood-slick stone and he toppled backward, but a strong hand seized his arm. Held him upright and pushed him back to his feet. A solid wall of steel formed at his back. A wall that seemed to open and swallow him up. He was dragged backward, away from the battle line.

  Aravon whirled and was surprised to find Colborn dragging him. “Come on, Captain!” Colborn roared. “We’ll do the shield wall no good out front.”

  Blinking back the fog covering his eyes and numbing his mind, Aravon turned back toward the battle. To his surprise, the Indomitables had managed to form solid ranks. Somehow, five rows of black-armored soldiers stood between him and the Eirdkilrs scrambling over the wall of dead. Heavy khopeshes chopped and hacked, the rearmost ranks stabbing swordstaves at any enemy within range.

  “Forward!” came Killian’s shout.

  With a roar of “Shalandra!”, the two front ranks leaned against their shields and shoved. Another cry of “Shalandra!”, and the Indomitables drove the Eirdkilrs back. One step, then a second. Regained control of the middle barricade, holding the enemy at bay. To Aravon’s right, he caught a glimpse of the two Keeper’s Blades hauling Belthar backward through the ranks of Indomitables, still snarling and spitting curses at the Eirdkilrs.

  The Eirdkilrs’ howls grew furious at the realization that their surprise attack had failed. Instead of catching the exhausted defenders off-guard, they now found themselves facing a solid wall of steel. The shouted “Shalandra!” issued from the throat of every Indomitable holding that shield wall and drowned out the Eirdkilrs’ war cries. Blood flowed thick along the floor and stained the walls. Screams of agony echoed loud along the tunnel, and steel groaned beneath the impact of Eirdkilr weapons.

  But, try as they might, the enemy could not break through. Exhausted or not, the Shalandrans refused to yield even an inch of the ground they had fought now for three days to hold.

  The battle ended as abruptly as it had begun. From one moment to the next, the Eirdkilrs seemed to melt back into the darkness outside the mine. The last barbarian fell to a hacking khopesh, leaving only the empty tunnel.

  Empty, save for the bodies. So many bodies. Corpses clad in heavy black armor lay among the fur-clad savages, fingers locked around throats, gauntlets stained with blood clawed from eyes, mouths, and faces. Sickle-shaped khopeshes and seven-sided shields discarded beside bloodstained axes, clubs, and spears. Barbarian and mainlander, Eirdkilr and Shalandran, intertwined in death.

  The sudden absence of sound left Aravon staggering. What little strength he’d regained from the moments of rest and meager refreshment now fled, leaving him drained. It took every shred of effort to remain upright when his muscles threatened to collapse where he stood. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep for a year.

  He wasn’t alone in that desire. The Indomitables that had stood so firm and unyielding a moment before seemed to have been replaced by staggering, exhausted husks of men and women. Some slumped against the wall or simply collapsed where they stood. Others, those who had joined the fight fresher than their comrades on guard, had strength enough to haul away the wounded and rebuild the barricades with fresh Eirdkilr corpses.

  The stink of death flooded Aravon’s nostrils, sinking putrid fingers into his brain. His pulse pounded in his ears with such ferocity he feared his head would explode. Lungs on fire, he leaned against the wall—without the stone to hold himself up, he felt ready to crumble.

  A hand on Aravon’s shoulder brought him spinning around. Too quickly. The world spun in wild circles around him, and three Belthars danced in his vision.

  “Captain?” Belthar’s voice sounded faint, as if it came from a mile away.

  Aravon tried to draw in breath, but the pain in his chest made even gasping for air painful.

  “Easy, Captain.” Colborn appeared at his side, a strong arm to support him. “Take a breath.”

  Aravon leaned on the Lieutenant, struggling to breathe without passing out. The massive Eirdkilr club had struck his chest with full force. The bruises sustained in the last battles he’d fought had yet to heal, and he feared one more such blow would cave in his sternum and crush his organs.

  Yet, as Colborn and Belthar helped him to stumble down the passage and away from the mine’s entrance, Aravon managed to suck in enough air to feed his screaming lungs. Slowly, the pounding in his skull faded and he could stand upright on his own.

  “Better.” He gave the two a reassuring nod. “Turns out days of fighting and not enough food or water can take a bit of a toll on you.”

  “Aye.” Belthar grunted. “But by the Swordsman’s grace, we ought to be out of here by daybreak.” Excitement sparkled in his eyes. “That’s what Lord Morshan sent me to find you for. The back way out has been opened!”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Had Aravon not been so exhausted and in so much pain, he might have danced a delighted jig at the sight of the opening in the stone wall. Darkness beckoned from beyond, and a gust of cool, fresh air wafted across his face. As it was, he managed a beaming smile—lost beneath his mask, yet it made him feel better. The sight of that exit numbered among the most beautiful things he’d seen in a long time.

  “Thank you all.” Lord Morshan’s voice drifted into Aravon’s thoughts. “Truly, we all owe you a debt of gratitude for your efforts.”

  The Proxenos moved among the dusty, gaunt-faced miners, pressing their filthy hands in his own and speaking words of appreciation. They had labored night and day for the better part of two days. Thanks to them, the plan to get out of the mine alive had a chance of success.

  Lord Morshan turned as Aravon, Belthar, and Colborn picked their way through the rubble and rock shards littering the freshly dug tunnel. “Ahh, Captain Snarl.” The Proxenos’ face brightened. “You’re just in time to lend your voice to our deliberations.”

  “I’m honored to be consulted.” Aravon bowed, a movement that earned a grimace as pain lanced his breastbone and side.

  “Given what your men know about the surrounding land and their skills at woodcraft,” Lord Morshan said, “I’d recommend that you accompany the Invictus and his troops in the rear assault.”

  Aravon stifled a groan; he was too tired to travel all that distance, much less fight at the end of that long journey. But if it was the best choice for the battle and their chances at survival, he would find the strength somehow. “How many soldiers will you be sending with the Invictus?”

  “Fifty.” Lord Morshan’s face hardened. “Add to that you seven, Invictus Nytano, Ypertatos Aleema, Killian, Elmessam, and the Indomitables hiding in the woods, you have a sizeable force.”

  Sizeable enough to defeat more than three times their number of Eirdkilrs? The unspoken question hung in Aravon’s mind. They’d whittled down the enemy in the last days of battling, yet in open combat—even among the tents and buildings of Steinnbraka Delve—it would take a miracle to defeat such a large force.

  “The Eirdkilrs’ assault tonight inflicted heavier losses than in previous attacks.” Lord Morshan cast a glance toward Killian, who had accompanied Aravon, Colborn, and Belthar. “What is the final count?”

  “Nine slain outright or succumbed to their wounds, with an additional six in critical condition.”

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Lord Morshan’s expression grew grave. “That bodes ill for tomorrow’s counterattack.”

  “My Grim Reavers may be able to tip the scales in our favor.” Aravon looked at Zaharis in particular. “If there is anything they can turn to our advantage, they’ll find it.”

  “If I can find anything useful,” Zaharis signed.

  Aravon didn’t translate his words—the Shalandrans didn’t need anything else to reinforce the dire nature of their situation.

  Re
inforcement! The words of Head Ganger Emvil, spoken two days earlier, flashed through his mind. Maybe they didn’t need a miracle.

  “What if there was a way we didn’t need to leave any soldiers here to hold the mine, sir?” His mind raced. “What if we could send all eighty-some with you?”

  Lord Morshan’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

  Aravon turned toward Zaharis. “You’ve been helping with the digging for last two days. In all that time, you’ve gotten a pretty good look at the supports and beams holding up the mine, correct?”

  Zaharis nodded.

  “Is there any way to bring down the entrance tunnel without the whole mine coming down?” Aravon asked.

  The Secret Keeper’s eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits behind his mask. He remained silent a long time before finally shaking his head. “The Head Ganger was right to say that any collapse near the entrance will bring down the whole mine.”

  Aravon translated the words. “So if we did anything, it could bring the mine crashing down on our heads.”

  Again, Zaharis nodded.

  “Or, the heads of the Eirdkilrs?”

  Zaharis’ eyes widened. “A trap?”

  “A trap?” Lord Morshan’s question echoed off the walls. “Lure them into the mine, then collapse it atop them?”

  Aravon nodded. “We could kill half or more of them in a single crushing stroke.” He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist. “With all of your soldiers hitting them from the rear, in the chaos of the mountain’s collapse, you’d have a real chance of finishing them off once and for all.”

  “And what of the Kabili?” Killian asked. “The women and children?”

  “We get them out first.” Aravon glanced at the Keeper’s Blade, then back at Lord Morshan. “Not to flee into the wilds in hopes of outrunning the Eirdkilrs, but to escape from the mine and out of the collapse.”

  Lord Morshan’s eyes narrowed. “The plan has merits.”