One glance at the miner lying crushed beneath the boulder, and Aravon knew the man didn’t have long. His face had gone ashen, his eyes wide as he gasped for breath. With the weight crushing his chest, he couldn’t draw in enough air. He would suffocate even as the stone pulverized his ribs, spine, and organs.
Where’s Belthar when you need him? The thought fled as quickly as it came. He couldn’t wait for Belthar to come with Rangvaldr and the last of the wounded. He needed to free the man now.
“Get over here!” Aravon called to the other miners nearby. A few were still too dazed by the cave-in to do more than sit, stunned and staring into space, but a dozen workers heeded his call. More picks and shovels were wedged into the space and the men and women threw their backs to the effort at his command.
“Keeper…take…it!” The words burst from Aravon’s chest as he strained against the boulder with every shred of strength.
A scream of pain echoed in the cavern, but the sound filled Aravon with hope. Even as the cry faded, the scraping of boots over stone signaled that the woman had dragged the trapped miner free. His hollers meant he could once more draw breath.
The handle of the pick axe in his hands snapped, the wood splintering beneath the weight of the massive boulder. The ground rumbled once more as gravity tore the stone from the grips of those supporting it. He leapt back, just in time to avoid the boulder settling into place with a booming crash.
Aravon fell against the wall, gasping for breath, every muscle in his body ablaze. He’d gotten the miner free, but that boulder had sealed all their doom. It lay atop the rest of the rubble that had fallen and blocked the way out.
They would never leave the mine this way now.
Chapter Forty
Despair threatened to overwhelm Aravon. Their way out had been sealed, and the wall of smoke was growing steadily closer. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he told the Head Ganger that they had only a matter of hours before they would suffocate.
The effort of lifting the stone had sapped the last of Aravon’s strength. He’d been fighting or traveling for days, with far too little food, water, and rest. He was tired. So bloody tired!
Exhaustion blurred his vision and tugged at his eyelids. Even the simple act of levering himself upright seemed impossible. Yet he clenched his fists and forced his mind to work, to push past the numbness and think. He had to figure another way out, had to—
An angry shout echoed through the tunnel. “You greedy bastard!”
Aravon’s head snapped toward the sound. Not five feet away, a Kabili miner stood glaring over the still-prone Head Ganger. The Shalandran’s dark eyes locked on the small cloth bundle that lay open on the floor behind Emvil, its leather thong broken in the man’s fall and its contents strewn across the stone. Small chunks of yellow grain cake gleamed brighter than gold in the lamplight.
Emvil’s swarthy face turned ashen and he scrabbled backward, as if from a striking serpent. “I-I don’t know where that came from.” Panic filled his eyes and he shook his head violently. “That’s not mine!”
“Lies!” Another miner, a fellow as tall as Aravon but far broader in the shoulder, stepped forward and knelt to scoop up the food. “For a day now, you’ve told us that the food and water ran out. But you promised that if we dug our way out, we would be saved. And so we dug to save ourselves, working our fingers raw and our hands bloody. This after months of hunger and thirst, yet here we find that you’re keeping this for yourself?” He shook a fist at the Head Ganger. “I will tear your filthy, lying tongue from your mouth, you bastard!”
One of Emvil’s slope-shouldered Gangers made to move toward the man, only to find himself surrounded by angry miners. Men with eyes as hard as they were dark fingered picks and shovels. Within seconds, the rest of the Kabili encircled all of the Gangers. They glanced from the hesitant faces of the brutes to the clubs hanging at their belt, as if daring their overseers to make a move.
None of the Gangers did more than protest or hurl curses as the miners searched them roughly. From within their clothing, more pouches, purses, bundles, and waterskins were produced. Fury glittered hard and bright in hundreds of eyes. The Kabili advanced on the brutes with menace and the promise of death written clear on their exhausted, dust-covered faces.
Aravon’s blood ran cold. The miners were exhausted, terrified, and fighting for their lives. Now to add this atop it all…
If the situation escalated, if the miners unleashed their fury on the brutes that had worked them to the bone, it would turn into a bloodbath.
“Wait!” Aravon threw himself between the Head Ganger and the glaring miner. “Now’s not the time to—”
“To what?” The Shalandran rounded on him with a snarl. “To stand up for ourselves? For years, we’ve held our tongues through all the torment they’ve inflicted on us, the beatings, punishments, the disdain, all for the sake of feeding our families!” His eyes darted past Aravon toward the people huddled farther up the tunnel. “But all this time, they’ve been stealing our Keeper-damned food and water.” His broad hands tightened around the haft of his pick axe. “We’re just giving them a taste of what they’ve done to us.”
“Damned right!” echoed a dozen miners. “Punish the bastards!”
“They deserve it!”
“They absolutely do!” Aravon turned to meet the gazes of the furious miners. “But think about what that means for you and your families.”
The big Shalandran’s eyes narrowed to hard points. “Freedom from their clubs and whips.” He turned a snarl on Emvil. “In Shalandra, thieves have their hands cut off. This is no less than justice!”
“You speak of freedom,” Aravon said, “but what will you do with it when you have it?” He thrust a finger toward the boulder blocking the escape tunnel. “There’s no way out of here, and the Eirdkilrs are waiting for us at the far end. Even if you do take out your anger and hatred on them, what will that accomplish? All you’ll do is kill the very people that could help you get through this alive.”
The big miner’s head snapped back, surprise flitting across his dark, scarred face. “What?”
An image flashed through Aravon’s mind: forty-odd Fjall, traitors to their Hilmir and clan, charged down Hangman’s Hill toward the heart of the Eirdkilr army. Toward the Blood Queen. Even after their treachery, Eirik Throrsson had given them a chance to regain their honor. To fight for their people one last time, and to die as true warriors of the Fjall.
“We’ve got no way out but through the smoke and the Eirdkilrs waiting outside.” He raised his voice so all in the tunnel could hear. “And if we’re going to get out alive, it’s going to take every one of us. Not just the Indomitables and Keeper’s Blades, but you. Emvil and his Gangers.” He jabbed a finger at the Head Ganger, then turned to the miners. “And you and your pick axes. Every one of you must fight, to protect your families, your friends. We only survive if we fight together.”
“We don’t fight!” the big Shalandran snarled. “That falls to the Dhukari and Alqati. We’re just Kabili.”
“It doesn’t matter what caste you are!” Aravon fixed a solemn gaze on every man, woman, and child in the mine. “Not when the people you love are in danger. We have only two choices: sit here and wait for the smoke to kill us, or go out and fight.” He scooped up his spear from where it had fallen during the cave-in. “I know which choice I will make.”
All around him, the miners glanced at each other, growling, muttering among themselves. More than a few, however, nodded assent and support of Aravon’s words.
“As for you,” Aravon rounded on Emvil, his voice a deep, gravelly growl, “do not think this earns you a reprieve. In your greed, you could have killed us all.”
“My men work the hardest driving the miners to—” Emvil began.
“Then they will fight the hardest!” Aravon cut him off with a slash of his hand. He stepped forward and loomed over the Head Ganger. “Or, by the Long Keeper you serve, I will see to it that Lord M
orshan strings each and every one of you up by the cullions.”
“And you know he will!” Callista’s voice echoed down the passage.
Emvil whirled toward the sound, his face going pale at the sight of the Archateros marching toward them. “Honored Blade, I—”
“Be silent, Emvil!” Callista snapped. “Captain Snarl speaks the truth. You and your Gangers have one hope of earning redemption for your action. To fight beside us, and the Kabili you intended to defraud.”
Emvil exchanged a nervous glance with one of his brutish thugs, swallowed hard, and nodded. “Of course, Archateros.” Shame burned in his eyes. “It will be our honor to join the battle.”
“And what of you, Torol?” Callista turned to the broad-shouldered miner. “Will the Kabili stand beside us, as Enwan stood beside the Indomitables at Fortune’s Pass?”
Aravon recognized the name—among his military history lessons with Lectern Kayless, he’d heard the story of Enwan, a miner that had sacrificed his life to save the Shalandran army from being overrun by Zahirani raiders. His actions hadn’t just prevented the slaughter of the Indomitables guarding the mining operation; the Kabili had rallied to fight, and their timely intervention had enabled the soldiers to hold Fortune’s Pass until reinforcements arrived.
“It is our only way out.” Callista’s voice rang out strong and confident in the tunnel, and she turned to fix the miners with a gaze as stern as the solemn visage on her war mask. “For the Blades and Indomitables, and for you and your families.” She stepped up beside Aravon and drew her huge two-handed sword with a ring of metal on leather. “I, too, choose to fight! We will live up to our name. We will be indomitable, in courage and in strength.”
Her words set the miners muttering among themselves.
“For the Pharus!” Steel sang as Callista raised her massive flammard over her head. “And for Shalandra!”
“For Shalandra!” came Killian’s cry, echoed a moment later by Elmessam and the Indomitables behind them.
The miners took up the call, and the shout rang through the stone tunnels with force enough to set the ground trembling underfoot. Even Emvil’s Gangers added their voices—though the Head Ganger appeared more sullen and enraged than galvanized by Callista’s speech—raising their clubs high to join the pick axes and shovels of the miners, the swords of the Indomitables and the Keeper’s Blades.
Even Aravon couldn’t help joining in. “For Shalandra!” he roared as he shook his spear overhead. It didn’t matter that he cheered for a kingdom he’d never visited and to which he didn’t belong; he only cared that the men and women around him would fight.
Their way out was sealed, so they had no choice but to go forward. Forward, through an army of Eirdkilrs. He might only have a score of trained soldiers at his back—most wounded—but with a hundred miners and Emvil’s twenty Gangers, there was hope. Faint, barely more than a glimmer of light amidst the darkest night, yet there it was nonetheless.
By the Swordsman, we might actually have a chance of pulling this off!
Chapter Forty-One
Aravon glanced at the Shalandrans formed up around him. Callista, Killian, and Elmessam stood at the front, the tip of the wedge-shaped formation intended to punch through the Eirdkilrs doubtless waiting outside the mine’s entrance. The ten Indomitables formed up at their backs, with Aravon and Belthar joining the solid wall of steel in the rearmost rank—if the Indomitables’ forward charge stalled, it would be their job to push, keep up the momentum.
The food and drink hoarded by the Gangers had been distributed among the soldiers and miners. Even that morsel of grain cake and the sip of rum had refreshed Aravon. His thirst and hunger hadn’t gone, but diminished, pushed to the back of his mind. Gone, too, was the fatigue and pain slowing his movement. Rangvaldr had insisted on using the last of his strength to heal Aravon.
“We need you fresh for the battle,” the Seiomenn had said before collapsing, his last reserves drained.
A few twinges, throbs, and aches remained, but he could move easier, could draw breath without feeling as if his chest would collapse.
I’d say that’s a marked improvement over this morning.
But that wasn’t the only improvement. Behind him, Emvil and his Gangers stood waiting for the order to attack. The twenty-two thugs no longer wielded iron-studded clubs—at Callista’s command, they had donned the armor of the fallen Indomitables and picked up their heavy khopeshes and seven-sided shields. Though they lacked in skill to wield them, their strength would bolster the true soldiers leading the charge. And given the enemy they faced, every able-bodied man would be needed to survive the day.
The low-caste Kabili miners brought up the rear. Not only to keep angry eyes locked on Emvil and his Gangers, but to ensure they didn’t choose the coward’s way out. With their pick axes, the Gangers’ clubs, and the few khopeshes remaining, they represented the biggest threat to the Eirdkilrs—and Aravon’s best weapon in the battle to come. The enemy expected only the black-armored soldiers to march out at them; the sight of one hundred and thirty-five miners and brutes would throw them off-balance.
The element of surprise was their only hope of victory.
Against so many enemies, Aravon’s force—fewer than one hundred and eighty men, many wounded and barely able to stand—was pitifully weak. Even had they been fully trained soldiers, they would have fought a near-impossible battle against the three hundred or more Eirdkilrs outside.
But what choice did they have? With the back exit sealed by a cave-in and the thick smoke flooding the tunnels, survival required a desperate toss of the gambler’s dice.
Aravon shot one last glance over his shoulder—far behind the last rank of miners, Rangvaldr leaned against one stone wall of the tunnel. The Seiomenn raised a hand in farewell. Exhaustion slowed his movements and darkened his eyes, yet he still held his sword and wore his shield slung over his back. He would stay behind with the worst of the wounded, a rear guard to protect the women and children should anything go wrong.
Aravon hated the idea of leaving his Seiomenn; the smoke would only grow thicker with every passing minute, threatening Rangvaldr along with the injured Indomitables and the Shalandran civilians. Even if—and a massive “if” loomed clear in Aravon’s mind—they somehow managed to carry the day, they’d have to finish off the Eirdkilrs before the smoke suffocated the people trapped within the mountain. He’d instructed the rearmost miners to try and deal with the burning green wood, but there was no guarantee they’d pull it off in time.
We’ll damn well try! No more sitting and waiting; the time had come to throw himself on the Swordsman’s mercy and pray that the Mistress’ fortune smiled on them.
His lungs burned from the smoke, and all around him, the Indomitables, miners, and Gangers coughed. The wall of dark, choking grey had advanced deep into the mine, surging down the main passage and flooding the side corridors it reached. A slow, steady advance of a force immaterial yet no less deadly than the Eirdkilrs awaiting them. Only the maze of tunnels carved into the heart of the mountain had saved them; the smoke seeped into every corner of the mine, and there was enough clean—if terribly stale air—to keep them breathing for a few more minutes.
But if they didn’t move now, they would be out of time. Already, they’d have to run nearly four hundred yards through the wall of dark, ashy grey to reach the mine’s front entrance—and the fire burning there.
Aravon drew in as deep a breath as he dared and turned to Belthar on his left. “Ready?” he signed one-handed.
“Aye.” The big man’s eyes were calm and hard, behind the snarling greatwolf of his mask. “Fighting beats mining any day, Captain.” He tightened his grip on his huge axe and rolled his massive shoulders.
Aravon raised his voice. “May the Faces of Mercy and Justice smile on us all.” He repeated the words Lord Morshan had spoken as he departed.
“And the Face of Vengeance spit on our enemies!” Callista lifted her sword high. “Indomit
ables, advance!”
Her shout galvanized the ten black-armored soldiers into motion. Forward, they marched, slowly at first, yet picking up the pace to a double-quick job. Straight into the thick wall of dark, choking smoke, their boots pounding on stone, their armor clanking with every step. Aravon gripped his spear in one hand and jogged along beside the Keeper’s Blades and Belthar, limbering up his tired muscles. He drew in shallow gasps, fighting to ignore the burning in his lungs.
Twenty yards. Forty. Sixty. The clattering of armor grew louder as the Indomitables sped up, breaking into a slow run that ate up the ground. They couldn’t waste their strength before the battle, but every breath of smoke would do far more damage.
Aravon’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for the Swordsman pendant that once hung around his neck. He’d left the trinket with Draian, a burial gift to guide him to the afterlife, but the pendant’s absence didn’t mean the god of war himself had abandoned them.
Please, Aravon prayed in silence. Watch over us, mighty Swordsman. He did not pray to get through the battle alive—every Legionnaire knew the Swordsman called his own when their time came—but for the strength to fight until his last breath.
The coughing started. Soldiers, Gangers, and miners alike, hacking and choking as the smoke flooded their nostrils, throats, and singed their lungs. Aravon, too, felt the pain, but forced himself to focus on moving forward. The moment he gave in to the pain, discomfort, or fatigue was the moment he started down the path to losing the battle.
Lanterns and lamps flickered in the dark grey haze, tongues of flame like golden pinpricks amidst the dense darkness. The mine grew hotter with every step, the temperature rising as the hot smoke poured into the tunnels. Aravon’s eyes stung, his throat ached, and his mouth felt parched, yet he gritted his teeth and kept his gaze fixed ahead.
Then he saw it: daylight, faint behind the wall of smoke, barely a glimmer of blue. Though the heat set sweat streaming down his face, gasps echoed all around him—not the gasps of men desperate to breathe, but the sound of hope. Triumph surged within him, a burning that had nothing to do with the ferocity of the fire raging at the mouth of the mine.
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