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

by Andy Peloquin

  He glanced back, toward the Indomitables waiting around the first corner in the mine tunnel. Those, the soldiers too wounded to accompany Lord Morshan, would only join the battle if the situation grew too dire. The moment the signal to break off was given—either by Callista or, on the Proxenos’ orders, Aravon himself—they would retreat into the mine and hurry toward the back way out. The slowest-moving soldiers, the ones recovering from shattered legs or severe leg wounds, were already helping Emvil herd the miners through the opening and out into safety.

  Safety. Aravon snorted. What a cruel jest. Until the Eirdkilrs are destroyed, there will be no safety for anyone.

  The Eirdkilrs were a plague on Fehl—they brought only death, destruction, and chaos. Even the hard-headed Fjall had realized that, which was why Eirik Throrsson had aligned himself with the Princelands and taken up arms against his southern cousins. But even with the Hilmir’s warband, the armies facing the Eirdkilrs were too small, the enemy too numerous. To truly be rid of the Eirdkilrs, they needed a decisive victory on a far larger scale than anything to date. They needed to strike the enemy with such devastating force they could no longer mount an offensive.

  But all that would come later. First, Aravon had to survive. Had to get out of here and back to the Princelands. Once he unmasked the traitor in Icespire, they would have a chance to plan a truly effective counterstroke to take advantage of the Eirdkilr’s unstable position on Fehl. With the Blood Queen gone and Asger Einnauga unseen in weeks, the Eirdkilrs operated without a cohesive plan, their tactics at once chaotic and haphazard. That gave the Princelanders an advantage—one they’d make full use of as soon as Aravon culled the turncoat in their ranks.

  A soldier in the rank ahead of him coughed nervously, another shifted in place, setting his armor rattling. In the pre-dawn quiet, the scuff of boots on stone, the clank of steel against steel, and the anxiety-quickened breathing of the Shalandrans echoed loud. The Indomitables had spent the night scattering the Eirdkilr corpses like caltrops of death-stiff flesh and bone across the floor, leaving only the rearmost pile to serve as a final obstacle. All that remained now was to wait for the enemy to make their move.

  “Steady!” Callista’s low voice echoed through the eerie silence. “You know the Proxenos’ orders. One clash, hold them for a few seconds, then break off.”

  “Don’t forget the ‘run like bloody hell’ part, eh?” Killian chuckled. “That’s the really important bit here.”

  Laughter rippled through the ranks, snapping the tangible tension that hung like a thick blanket over the soldiers. Aravon shot a nod to the two Blades—settling the Indomitables’ nerves was the best way to push away the inevitable fear that gripped the heart and mind in the moments of waiting before battle.

  Letting out a slow breath, Aravon turned his attention to the mouth of the tunnel. Outside, the first glimmers of morning light brightened the darkness. The west-facing mine would remain cast in night for a while longer, buying them a few more minutes. For the last two days, the Eirdkilrs had only attacked once the sun had fully risen over the inselberg’s sharp-tipped peak. The barbarians had no need to hurry. Their enemy was trapped, outnumbered, and dying.

  Silence gripped the interior of the mine, a quiet so all-pervasive that Aravon felt he could cut it with his sword. Slowly, the patch of shadow outside the mouth of the mine grew brighter, revealing the grey of morning mist, yet still no attack came.

  Aravon’s eyes narrowed. They should have made their move by now. Yet five minutes became ten, then twenty, and still no sign of the fur-clad barbarians. No howling war cries, no thundering of heavy booted feet. Silence. Tense, breathless silence, with only the fog outside the mine visible. Tendrils of mist crept along the floor, seeping down the tunnel toward them.

  Aravon was instantly on the alert. That’s not mist! One breath, and he smelled the unmistakable odor of burning green wood.

  “Smoke!” Callista shouted from beside him.

  Killian snarled a curse. “The bastards are trying to burn us out!”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Keeper’s teeth! Icy dread slithered down Aravon’s spine. Like smoking rabbits out of their warrens. It seemed the Eirdkilrs had grown tired of trying to break their defenses.

  The tendrils of smoke reached them, swirling around their ankles and up their legs, followed by a wall of thick, dark grey that choked their lungs. In less than a minute, the Indomitables were coughing, gasping for breath.

  “Back!” Aravon called. “Pull back into the mine.”

  Callista rounded on him. “What about the Eirdkilrs?”

  “They won’t be coming.” Realization settled like a lead weight in his gut. “They don’t have to. They just wait until the smoke either kills us or drives us all out into their waiting arms.”

  The Archateros’ eyes widened. “Keeper’s teeth!”

  Dread sent a chill down Aravon’s spine. The Eirdkilrs wouldn’t be storming the mine. Aravon’s trap would never be sprung. Now, when Lord Morshan hit the enemy from the rear, they’d face the entire force of Eirdkilrs. Worse, he would never know that Aravon’s plan had failed until it was too late to turn back.

  Yet at that moment, Aravon had to think about survival first and foremost. If they held the mine entrance, the thick, choking smoke would kill them. Their only hope was to pull back.

  The three Keeper’s Blades seemed to reach the same conclusion. “You heard the command!” Killian shouted. “Fall back.”

  Slowly, the Indomitables retreated, holding to their ranks despite their hurry to escape the acrid, suffocating smoke that grew thicker with every heartbeat.

  Aravon and Belthar kept pace with the Keeper’s Blades, joining the hurried withdrawal. Yet every step backward only drove the dagger of worry deeper into Aravon’s gut. His mind raced. He had to find another option, another plan of attack that didn’t leave Lord Morshan’s small army facing the full Eirdkilr force alone. The Proxenos had counted on the chaos of the mine’s collapse to give his men a fighting chance. If he hit the enemy as they were, he and his soldiers would die.

  But what the hell can we do? We can’t lure them in, and there’s no way we can fight our way out with just the few soldiers we have. Twenty-three Indomitables, only ten strong enough to stand in the shield wall, couldn’t hope to survive against the Eirdkilrs outside, even with Aravon, Belthar, and the Keeper’s Blades at their backs.

  Their only choice was to go out the rear entrance and hurry to reinforce Lord Morshan. Fifteen soldiers arriving at the crucial point in battle could turn the tide in their favor. Odds be damned—it was their best hope of survival.

  He quickly relayed his plan to the Keeper’s Blades. “We’re going to have to hurry, but if we move fast, we may be able to join Lord Morshan in time to make a difference.”

  Though the war masks hid their faces, Aravon could see the tension in the nervous glances that passed between Callista, Killian, and Elmessam.

  “And the Kabili?” Elmessam asked. “You’d leave them to fend for themselves? Isn’t that why you were against this plan in the first place?”

  “I hate it as much as you do,” Aravon growled. “The thought of sending those miners, women, and children out into the Deid forests unarmed and unaccompanied makes me sick. But if we stay here, we’re going to die. If we somehow survive the smoke, starvation and thirst will kill us. So we’ve got to run. Us to help your Proxenos, and them toward whatever safety they can find.”

  Again, the three Blades exchanged questioning looks.

  Callista spoke first. “He’s right, Elmessam. It’s their best chance of survival, and our best hope of getting Lord Morshan out of that battle alive. We can’t win this fight. But we can deprive the Eirdkilrs of their prize: our miners and the ghoulstone they’ve come to claim. That’s got to be good enough for us.”

  Elmessam growled in frustration.

  “Elmessam.” Killian’s voice was calm, measured, and he placed a hand on his fellow Blade’s shoulder. �
��We will find a way to make them pay for every Indomitable life claimed here. But our first duty is to the Kabili. Our Pharus has charged us to protect them, and so we must.”

  Another frustrated rumble, but this time Elmessam nodded. “So be it.” He reached up and placed a hand over Killian’s. “We fight side by side, together until the end.”

  “I could ask for no more.” Killian’s eyes brightened, and he held Elmessam’s gaze for long moments. Something passed between them in those quiet heartbeats, something that needed no words.

  Aravon turned away—best to give the two Blades a moment of privacy—and sought out Belthar. The big man was busy helping the wounded Indomitables back down the tunnel, away from the wall of smoke billowing through the mine.

  “Ursus!” Aravon called.

  Belthar shot a glance over his shoulder.

  “Find Stonekeeper and get him ready to move.” Aravon switched to the silent hand language. “Even if you have to drag him away from whoever he’s healing.”

  “Yes, Captain!” Belthar handed the wounded Indomitable to another soldier, then took off at a sprint toward the side passage that led to Rangvaldr’s makeshift healer’s camp. There, the Seiomenn would be helping the last of the worst-injured prepare to depart the mine.

  All around Aravon, the Indomitables hurried through the tunnels, helping their wounded comrades to limp, hop, and stagger down the passage that led toward the opening in the southeastern side of the inselberg. The journey seemed to drag on—at their shuffling, limping pace, even that half-mile distance felt eternal.

  Finally, Aravon could stand the languid speed no longer. He passed off the soldier he’d been helping to another Indomitable and turned to the Keeper’s Blades. “I’ll go make sure the evacuation is proceeding as planned.”

  “Good.” Callista nodded. “We need to make certain all of the Kabili are out of the mine before the smoke floods the tunnels.” She glanced over her shoulder—though they’d left the thick, choking wall of grey behind in the lamplit shadows of the tunnel, it would catch up to them far too soon. Green wood tended to produce a smoke far heavier and thicker than that generated by dry fuel. It would seep along the floors, creeping downhill in steady, inexorable pursuit of its fleeing prey.

  Aravon broke into a run. Every muscle, bone, and joint felt heavy, stiff, and aching. Even his feet pained him as his boots pounded down the tunnel. Yet he pushed through the exhaustion and discomfort. If he didn’t see to the safety of the miners and get around the inselberg in time to reinforce Lord Morshan, the attack on the Eirdkilrs would fail and the Shalandrans would be slaughtered. Colborn, Noll, Skathi, and Zaharis would never turn their back on their allies.

  Heart in his throat, Aravon forced his legs to move faster. He dashed through the tunnel, his lungs on fire and sweat streaming down his face. The sound of the shuffling, limping soldiers behind him and the knowledge that the smoke even now came for them drove him to greater speeds. Soon, he ran at a full sprint. The wind of his passing set the lanterns on the wall fluttering and the shadows dancing, but he paid them no heed.

  He had to get out of the mine before it was too late. For the people trapped within and the soldiers marching without.

  With every thundering step, he half-expected to feel the wispy breeze that drifted from the exit opened by the Shalandran miners. Yet no threads of air drifted across his face. The lanterns lining the passage ahead of him didn’t so much as flicker until he blew past.

  Something’s wrong.

  The thought slammed into his mind with near-physical force. Gritting his teeth against the exhaustion, he raced on, raced toward the crudely carved tunnel that led to freedom beyond the confines of this mountain.

  Hope surged within him as he finally—finally!—drew within sight of the escape tunnel. Yet that hint of wrongness returned when he recognized the men, women, and children clustered along both walls of the passage. There were too many of them still inside the mountain. They should already be slipping out of the exit and into the forests surrounding the inselberg.

  So why the bloody hell haven’t they?

  The sound of clinking picks and shovels only heightened the dread settling within him. Dust hung thick around him, and instead of the fresh air he should smell so close to the opening, only the stink of urine, body odor, and unwashed flesh filled his nostrils.

  No!

  Where a man-high-and-broad tunnel had once led to freedom, only stones remained piled. Glimmers of light pierced the rocks covering the escape passage, but only the barest wisps of air drifted through openings too small for a man’s finger. Though the miners worked to move aside the rubble—driven on by the barked orders and cracking whips of Emvil and his Gangers—every attempt to clear the way only brought more stones crumbling from the stone walls and ceiling.

  Dread sank icy fingers into Aravon’s spine. “What the bloody hell happened?” he demanded of Emvil.

  The Head Ganger spun toward him. “The tunnel collapsed, taking down the supports with it. We are working to dig it out, but until we are certain the mine is stable, we can’t risk it.”

  “We’ve got to!” Aravon’s shout echoed above the metallic sound of picks and shovels striking rock. Filthy, ragged men and women shot worried glances at him. He lowered his voice—best to find out the full situation without causing a mass panic. “The Eirdkilrs are trying to smoke us out. We’ve got hours before that smoke seeps into every corner of this mine. Hours, Emvil. So we need that way out open!”

  “We’ll work as fast as we can, sir.” Emvil rubbed a thick hand along the bridge of his crooked nose, leaving behind a smudge of dust. “But if there’s any chance that it’ll collapse on us, we’ve got to—”

  As if on cue, the passage around them gave an ominous rumble, the earth trembling as if some enormous sleeping giant arose from slumber and shook itself. Men and women shouted to their families, children screamed, and the miners cried out in panic.

  A loud crack echoed from immediately above Aravon’s head. His eyes snapped up in time to see a massive chunk of rock crumbling from the ceiling and plummeting straight toward him and the Head Ganger.

  Aravon had only a split second to react. He threw himself at the Head Ganger, wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, and hurled them both out of the way of the falling rock. The boulder crashed to the stony floor behind him, shattering into a hundred pieces and spraying shards over his back. A chunk of stone slammed into his back, just beside his spine, and he grunted with the pain. A thick, choking cloud of dust billowed through the cavern as the mountain continued its trembling for long seconds. Slowly, the rumbling faded to silence, leaving only the sound of coughing miners and panicking men and women.

  Wiping the dust from his eyes, Aravon rose to his feet. “Is anyone hurt?” The collapse had blown out every lantern and lamp for fifty feet, plunging the tunnel in darkness.

  “Over here!” came a man’s panicked cry.

  Aravon felt his way along the wall toward the sound. “Call out!”

  “Here!” The man grunted, his voice strained. “I’m trapped!”

  “Get me some light in here!” Aravon shouted. He caught a faint glimmer of light far up the passage, back the way he’d come. “Someone grab those lanterns and bring them this way.”

  Sandals slapped loudly on the stone floor as a trio of ragged-clothed men raced off.

  “Help, please.” The voice of the trapped man had grown fainter, tinged with pain. “Get this…damned boulder…off me!”

  Aravon’s questing fingers found something warm and yielding—an arm! He followed it up the elbow toward the shoulder until his hand encountered the edge of the boulder crushing the man to the ground. But as he felt his way around the stone, he found it far too large for him to lift.

  Flickering light brightened the tunnel around him as the Shalandrans returned bearing the oil lanterns. In the dim glow, Aravon could see the chunk of stone trapping the man to the ground. As large around as he was tall, it had to weig
h close to thrice as much as his warhorse.

  Keeper’s teeth!

  Aravon studied the stone, searching for any way he could get a lever under the boulder to lift it off the man. “Hand me that pick!” he called to one of the nearby miners. The man, covered in dust and bleeding from a gouge above his eye, fumbled for the pick axe dropped in his haste to flee. Aravon snatched it from the Shalandran’s hand, inserted the handle into the space between the boulder and another chunk of stone beneath the man, and threw his weight against it.

  For a heartbeat, it felt as if the huge rock budged. A fraction of an inch, no more, but enough to give Aravon hope. Yet, try as he might, he could move it no more.

  He rounded on four miners who stood dazed and bleeding nearby. “Help me!” he called. “Grab those picks and get them in here. We’re going to lift the boulder off him, and you—” He thrust a finger at another miner, a woman with broad shoulders and hands strong from wielding mining tools. “—are going to drag him out. Got it?”

  The miners fell to the task without hesitation or question. Those not engaged in helping free the trapped man aided their comrades in stumbling to their feet, staggering up the passage, or clearing the rubble around the boulder. Within seconds, the four workers had collected their picks and made ready to lift.

  “Now!” Aravon roared and threw his weight against the head of his pick, pulling as hard as he could. The miners groaned and rubble clattered, but slowly the huge boulder shifted with the ponderous sound of rock grating on rock.

  “Higher!” called the woman. She had knelt beside the trapped man, arms wrapped around his shoulders to drag him out. “Lift it higher, Keeper take it!”