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

by Andy Peloquin

  They hadn’t lost yet. They still lived, still battled on.

  The realization renewed his hope. “Forward, Shalandrans!” He raised his voice in a roar of encouragement. “Drive them back!”

  With that, he threw himself directly into the mass of Eirdkilrs shoving against the Indomitable shield wall. His spear thrust between the ranks of black-armored soldiers, stabbing, punching through leather and fur, seeking flesh. He carried no shield, but he’d marched in the Legion for years, and the spear work was all too familiar. This was a battle he could fight. One attack at a time, one desperate strike backed by the force of his fury and determination. They’d fight until the enemy caved or cut them down. There was no other choice.

  Bodies surged around him, armored and unarmored, pushing back against the Eirdkilrs. Broad-shouldered Gangers and miners with arms strong from wielding picks and hauling stone. Pushing, screaming defiance in the face of the enemy, a bulwark behind the Indomitables. Killing and dying, yet tenacious to their last breaths. Fighting to protect their families huddled in the mines. Behind shields pried from fallen Indomitables, wielding khopeshes, axes, and clubs, the Shalandrans stood beside the soldiers, fighting to the last man.

  The next instant, a familiar rumbling growl roar echoed from his left. “Graaahh!” Belthar still lived—and where the big man went, Eirdkilrs died beneath his huge axe and the force of his fury. He alone stood of a height with the barbarians, his strength a match for theirs.

  The Eirdkilrs in front of the Indomitable shield wall buckled beneath the Shalandrans’ fury, cut down or staggering back a step. A second step, a third, and more. With each advance, the Eirdkilrs paid in blood. More barbarians fell beneath the renewed onslaught. Khopesh, spear, axe, and flammard took their toll.

  Until no more stood in their way. It was as if the tide of barbarian bodies had crashed onto the shore, the fury of the Eirdkilr attack seemed spent. As Aravon’s spear cut down the next Eirdkilr to charge the Indomitable line, he found himself staring at open ground. Ten clear yards between him and the next wave of Eirdkilrs. Yet even those seemed to move slowly. Confused, trapped between two forces, off-balance, the barbarians seemed at a loss.

  Hope surged within Aravon as he caught sight of the open gate. With the Eirdkilrs focused on the mine, Lord Morshan’s counterattack rolled over the handful of barbarians guarding the entrance to the camp. A wall of black-armored soldiers drove straight up the main avenue, crushing the scattered Eirdkilrs beneath their fury.

  Aravon pushed through the shield wall—the exhausted, battered Indomitables gave way without hesitation—and raised his spear high. “By the Swordsman, hit the bastards!” He broke into a sprint, charging straight toward the hastily-formed line of Eirdkilrs just beyond the edges of the cliff wall. Callista appeared to his right and Belthar raced at his left, the two Keeper’s Blades beyond him. Across that ten-yard gap, a wordless cry echoing from their lips and the army of Shalandrans at their backs.

  The Eirdkilrs in the front ranks simply dropped to their knees, revealing scores of barbarians with bows and arrows formed up behind them. Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine at the creaking sound of the massive Eirdkilr longbows being drawn. The glittering points of more than fifty arrows faced him and the soldiers rushing along behind him.

  “Down!” Even as he shouted, Aravon threw himself into a forward roll. Just in time. Fifty black-shafted missiles sliced the air where he’d been racing a moment earlier. Screams, shouts, and the clatter of steel arrowheads on shields and armor echoed loud from the Shalandran ranks.

  But Aravon was already on his feet and running. Sprinting, every muscle in his body burning with fury at the Eirdkilrs. He crossed the remaining yards in the space between heartbeats and lashed out with a sweeping, slashing blow. The sharp tip of his Odarian steel spearhead sliced through the neck of one kneeling Eirdkilr, snapped the bow shaft of another, and crashed into another kneeling Eirdkilr’s helmet with staggering force.

  Then Aravon was among the Eirdkilrs, hewing about him with a long, weighted spear. Those kneeling hadn’t had time to recover—they’d expected him to fall to the hail of arrows—and those fumbling to draw a second arrow could only defend themselves with the thick staves of their longbows.

  A roaring Belthar hit the Eirdkilrs a heartbeat behind him, and Aravon heard the sickening crunch of his huge axe chopping flesh and crushing bone. Aravon’s spear carved a whirling path around him, steel bright in the sunlight, spraying blood with every slash and thrust. He turned to deflect an Eirdkilr’s spear thrust, but struck only empty air as the barbarian’s right arm fell away. Blood sprayed from the stump of the Eirdkilr’s elbow and a hideous, blood-curdling scream bust from his lips. Silenced a moment later as a huge flammard severed his head.

  Aravon caught only the barest glimpse of Callista as he threw himself at the next Eirdkilr. He couldn’t risk glancing behind to see the toll the arrows had taken on his forces—he had eyes only for the enemy ahead.

  A cry rose from the Shalandrans behind him, and Aravon was suddenly shoved forward as the remaining miners and Gangers rushed the enemy. He staggered, slipped on a slick of Eirdkilr blood, and only his quick reflexes saved him from falling. A wild thrust of his spear took an Eirdkilr in the throat a heartbeat before the barbarian’s club crushed his skull.

  Again, hope bloomed in Aravon’s chest. The Eirdkilrs’ longbows would have made short work of the Indomitables and miners, had they managed to get off more than one volley. They hadn’t counted on Aravon, Belthar, and the Blades moving so quickly. That had been their undoing.

  Yet that momentary hope faded to ash in the next moment as he caught sight of Lord Morshan’s force. He understood why the forces arrayed against them seemed diminished—fully two-thirds of the remaining Eirdkilrs had broken off to join battle against the true threat.

  But they, too, hadn’t reckoned on the Shalandrans surviving that last attack. The Eirdkilrs left to face Aravon’s company died beneath the sudden onslaught, clearing the way for a rear assault against the enemy formed up against Lord Morshan. Though more than two hundred Eirdkilrs remained, they were caught between two forces. And the men they faced fought for their lives, their homes, and their families.

  For a moment, it appeared as if they were winning. The line of Lord Morshan’s Indomitables held firm, their shields and armor strong against the Eirdkilrs’ fury. Aravon left the task of finishing off the remaining Eirdkilrs in front of the mine to the Gangers and the slowest of the miners. With Belthar, Callista, the five Indomitables still alive, and half the force of miners—now armed with Eirdkilr shields and weapons as well as their own—they charged the rear of the barbarian line.

  Before Aravon could take three steps, the left flank of Lord Morshan’s line crumbled beneath the Eirdkilrs’ onslaught. Black-armored Indomitables fell and dozens of fur-clad barbarians spilled around the left side of Lord Morshan’s line, rolling up behind them. The Shalandrans now found themselves beset from three sides.

  Soldiers weak from hunger, thirst, travel and battle collapsed beneath the assault. Aravon couldn’t see his soldiers, Lord Morshan, or the Keeper’s Blades through the crush of giant Eirdkilr bodies, but he could hear the Proxenos’ call.

  “Fall back!” Lord Morshan shouted over the howls. “Pull back to the gate!”

  The Eirdkilr howls echoed with glee, and their line surged forward, doubtless pursuing the Shalandrans trying to break off. As Aravon cut down his next enemy, he found himself staring at a gap in the Eirdkilr line.

  The Indomitable shield wall had buckled in the center, and the Eirdkilrs were pushing the black-armored soldiers back and to both sides. Those in the middle of the Eirdkilr line surged into the gap.

  Straight toward Lord Morshan.

  The commander of the Keeper’s Blades stood, sword in hand, shouting orders to his soldiers. Yet as the shield wall crumbled away before him and the enemy charged, he didn’t flee. Instead, he leapt forward, throwing himself into the fray. He fought to giv
e his soldiers time to break off, to follow his orders to retreat. The Eirdkilrs closed in around him, yet he never slowed, never hesitated, his huge sword a whirling blur of black steel as he cut down the enemy.

  An eerie red light emanated from the gemstone set into his sword’s cross guard, painting the battlefield with a gruesome ruby light far deeper than the blood spraying from torn Eirdkilr throats, faces, chests, and arms. Lord Morshan seemed not to tire, but appeared to be growing stronger, moving faster, with every new enemy he killed. A fierce light shone in his eyes as he spun, hacked, slashed, chopped, and stabbed at the Eirdkilrs closing in around him.

  Yet the enemy was too numerous for one man to take on alone. The Indomitables, Keeper’s Blades, and Grim Reavers in the battle line were locked in combat with the Eirdkilrs, too busy fighting for their lives or trying to break off the engagement to see the danger to the Proxenos.

  It was up to Aravon. Without hesitation, he whipped his right arm up, back, and forward. The muscles of his injured shoulder screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain and hurled the spear with every shred of strength. It flew true, punching into the back of an Eirdkilr about to strike down Lord Morshan from behind. The Lord of Blades spun in time to deflect an Eirdkilr attack and pulled a step back, breaking off the fight.

  Aravon raised his voice in a wordless roar, and Belthar, the Keeper’s Blades, and the Shalandrans joined in. Tearing his longsword free of its sheath, he chopped down the next Eirdkilr, turned aside a blow of a club, and rushed past the Eirdkilrs. He had to reach that swirling mass of Eirdkilrs surging around Lord Morshan, had to buy Lord Morshan a few more seconds—

  The head of an Eirdkilr spear burst from Lord Morshan’s side. The Lord of Blades staggered, spraying a mouthful of blood. Even as he spun to cut down the barbarian that had stabbed him, another attacked from the side. His huge axe clanged off the Proxenos’ armor, but the arm beneath went limp. Lord Morshan’s decapitating blow sliced through his enemy’s neck just as another Eirdkilr brought a club crashing into the Blade’s chest.

  The impact hurled Lord Morshan backward. His huge blade flew from his hand as he slammed into the ground. More crimson sprayed from his mouth and dribbled from the wound in his side. He tried to lever himself upright in vain. Eirdkilrs surged around him, howling their triumph into the brilliant blue sky. The Lord of Blades disappeared beneath the frenzy of hacking, chopping, stabbing, and clubbing weapons.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “NOOOO!” The roar came from Aravon’s left. Archateros Callista raced past him in a blur of steel and fury, barreling into the ranks of Eirdkilrs around Lord Morshan. The Eirdkilrs, so focused on the prey before them, never saw the death coming from behind. Callista hacked through the ranks, carving a whirlwind of devastation through the enemy piled onto the Proxenos.

  A few turned to face her, only to be cut down. Yet two Eirdkilrs rushed at her from both sides, and she could only kill one before the other bore her to the ground—mere feet from where Lord Morshan had disappeared.

  No! Aravon felt the faint hope slipping from his grasp. He and his small force would never reach the Eirdkilrs before they rolled over the Indomitable battle line. The Shalandran effort to reach the gate would fail—the Eirdkilrs would encircle and crush them.

  As if summoned to reality by his mind, the gap in the Eirdkilr lines ahead closed. The barbarians rushed the Indomitables struggling to pull back toward the gates. A howling stampede of fury surged down the muddy lane in pursuit.

  Dread sank like a stone in Aravon’s gut. They were going to lose. With Lord Morshan and Callista down, the Indomitables retreating, they had no hope of—

  WHOOSH!

  One instant the road was empty mud; the next, a towering wall of flames burst to life. Right in the middle of the Eirdkilr ranks. The towering inferno of red-orange fire consumed Eirdkilrs by the score. The foremost were engulfed in the blink of an eye, and the ranks behind them rushed headlong into the blaze, too slow to save themselves. Howling shrieks of agony echoed loud. Eirdkilr pelts, beards, and braided locks of hair burned, the flames consuming flesh, leather, and cloth alike.

  That sight rekindled Aravon’s dying hopes. Yes! The attack—Zaharis’ alchemical ingenuity—hadn’t just halved the Eirdkilrs’ forces. Those few not consumed by the flames fell back, but were off-balance, too scattered and stunned to meet the charge from behind.

  Raising his sword high, Aravon leaned into his run and drove straight at the disoriented enemy. He and the Shalandrans beside him cut through the Eirdkilrs like hot steel through fresh-driven snow. His longsword sang a song of death, its Odarian steel blade slashing throats, shearing limbs, and punching through armor to find flesh, bone, and soft organs beneath.

  Blood soaked his arm to the elbow and his fingers ached from gripping the hilt of his sword, from blocking the powerful Eirdkilr blows. Yet he fought on, heedless of the pain. At his side, Belthar carved through the chaotic mass. The barbarians died, skulls crushed beneath their helms, limbs snapped like deadwood, chests caved in or torn to shreds by his axe.

  But they didn’t fight alone. From around the wall of flames, surged two companies of Indomitables, black-armor clattering and shields dark with blood. Invictus Nytano led the force on the left, Ypertatos Aleema the soldiers to the right. Like the jaws of a steel trap snapping shut, the Shalandrans slammed into the mass of burning, stumbling, disorganized Eirdkilrs and cut them down with furious shouts and flashing steel.

  A roar of rage burst from the spot where the Eirdkilrs had borne Callista to the ground. Barbarians stumbled backward, gushing blood or screaming in agony. The Archateros burst upward in a whirlwind of steel. In her hands, the huge black sword with its glowing red gemstone. She fought like a woman possessed. Straddling the prone form of her Proxenos, her feet set like stone. The Blade of Hallar cut down any Eirdkilr foolish enough to get within reach—the growing pile of corpses around her legs did little to dim the fury burning in her eyes.

  Arrows flew from within the ranks of Indomitables, striking down the reeling Eirdkilrs. Aravon caught a glimpse of Colborn, Noll, and Skathi perched on the rooftops of the few wooden structures that survived the Eirdkilr rampage. Their arms pumped as they nocked, drew, and loosed a steady stream of missiles into the Eirdkilr ranks.

  Zaharis moved among the Indomitables like a ghost slipping through shadows. He was nowhere and everywhere at once, his spiked mace crushing skulls, shattering knees, and bringing down Eirdkilrs with grace and savagery.

  The Indomitables, backed by the strength of Invictus Nytano and Ypertatos Aleema, plowed through the enemy ranks like a hurricane through a field of wheat.

  The Eirdkilrs died hard—they fought to the end, howling, screaming hatred at the Indomitables that now surrounded them, trapped them against the flames. Some chose to hurl themselves into the inferno. One final act of defiance.

  Then, so suddenly it left Aravon staggering, there were no more. The last howling cry fell still, the last Eirdkilr body hit the ground with a loud thump. After the deafening cacophony of battle—a tumult that seemed to have lasted an eternity—the quiet felt eerie. Nothing but the crackling of the alchemical flames, the hiss of burning air, and the gasping of men too exhausted to collapse where they stood.

  Callista’s scream shattered the silence. “Proxenos!”

  The Keeper’s Blade dropped to her knees beside Lord Morshan, shoving away the Eirdkilrs slumped atop the Shalandran commander. The pile of corpses around her paid testament to the Proxenos’ strength and valor. He had slain more than a dozen Eirdkilrs even as they hacked the life from him.

  Callista tore off her war mask, her face ashen. She said nothing, simply gripped the collar of Lord Morshan’s armor. But the Proxenos would not answer. He had gone to the Long Keeper.

  The Archateros’ head bowed, her eyes closed, and sorrow etched into every line of her strong face. Sorrow welled within Aravon’s chest, and he, too, bowed his head. Lord Morshan deserved that moment of silence—he had earne
d Aravon’s respect, proven himself a competent and honorable commander.

  Aravon’s eyes opened at the sound of clanking armor and he looked up in time to see Callista rising. Yet as she turned toward him, surprise mingled with the grief on her face. Aravon’s eyebrows rose as Invictus Nytano and Ypertatos Aleema dropped to one knee.

  “Hail, Proxenos,” Nytano said in a solemn voice as he stood.

  Callista said nothing, her mind too numbed by grief and shock

  The Invictus gestured to the sword in her hand. “Hallar has chosen you.”

  Callista’s eyes dropped to the two-handed flammard. To the gemstone set into the cross guard, still gleaming with faint threads of crimson light. She seemed to realize it for the first time and recoiled as if from the flames burning behind her. Yet, after a moment, her expression changed from stunned surprise to awe.

  Lord Morshan’s words flashed through Aravon’s mind. “In this stone, there is an ancient magic that dates back thousands of years to the days of Shalandra’s founding. The power will only quicken in the hands of one worthy of wielding the Blade of Hallar. And, only those chosen by the Blade are worthy of serving as Proxenos of the Keeper’s Blades.”

  The sword had chosen Callista; she was worthy to serve.

  Invictus Nytano straightened and saluted. “Let all who stand here know that you are beloved of our god, servant of death, chosen of Hallar. Do you, Callista, Archateros of the Keeper’s Blades, renew the vows sworn upon the day of your Anointing? To serve Shalandra, the Pharus, and the Long Keeper to your dying breath.”

  “This I swear.” Callista’s words came out in a hoarse rasp.

  “With the Blade of Hallar, do you swear to be the sword of justice, vengeance, and mercy?”

  “I swear.” Strength returned to the woman’s voice, and she stood straighter, gripped the huge sword firmly.