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

by Andy Peloquin

“Hold them back, Keeper take it!” Belthar shoved through the mercenaries and threw his shoulder against the door. Not a moment too soon.

  BOOM! The wood shuddered and the locking bar rattled in its metal cradle.

  BOOM! Again, the Eirdkilrs hurled themselves at the door. Again, the door held.

  Then came a new sound: the dull thump of an axe biting into the wooden door. A second, a third, and still more, until a hailstorm of heavy blows thudded into the door. A loud crack and splinters of wood exploded outward. The curved head of an axe punched through the door not two inches from Belthar’s head, tore free a moment later with the groan of steel on wood. An Eirdkilr eye appeared in the hole.

  With a snarl, Aravon drove his spear into the gap. The Eirdkilr’s howled war cry turned to a scream of agony and he disappeared from view. When Aravon drew back his weapon, crimson stained the Odarian steel head.

  “We hold here!” he roared. “For the sake of the Princelands, we survive this night and live to fight another day!”

  “Damned right!” shouted back Belthar. The Black Xiphos mercenaries echoed the call and drew the heavy, black-handled short swords for which their company was named. Heavier than Legion-issue short swords, the xiphos had a leaf-shaped, double-edged blade perfect for cutting flesh and thrusting through leather armor. Their round steel bucklers might not turn aside savage blows of Eirdkilr weapons in a proper shield wall, but in this close-quarters combat, their shorter swords gave them an advantage over the towering barbarians.

  Again and again, the door shuddered beneath the onslaught of the Eirdkilr axes. The barbarians hacked and chopped at the wood, widening the hole and tearing more gaps in the solid door. Splinters rained down around Belthar and the mercenaries closest to the opening. A moment later, an Eirdkilr arrow whistled through the crumbling door. The black-shafted missile punched into the chest of the mercenary on Aravon’s right. With a wet, ragged gasp, the man staggered backward and slumped against the wall, dark heart’s blood pouring from the wound.

  “Archers!” Aravon threw himself out of the line of fire as more arrows whistled through the gap. The Eirdkilrs fired blind, and the hole was too narrow for any real accuracy. The stream of missiles slackened seconds later and the Eirdkilrs once more fell to assaulting the door.

  Aravon pushed his way through the mercenaries and thrust his spear through the widening gap. Once, twice, three times in quick succession. Each stab struck flesh, each attack accompanied by screams of pain. He, too, struck blind, yet the enemy stood clustered around the door—packed so tightly together that he couldn’t miss.

  Fingers closed around the shaft of Aravon’s spear and tugged hard. Nearly ripping the weapon from his hand. Aravon yanked, throwing his weight and every shred of strength into his arms. The spear ripped free of the Eirdkilr’s grip, and the barbarian screamed as his fingers fell away. The force of Aravon’s pull slammed the Eirdkilr against the door. A heavy xiphos punched through the hole in the door and took the barbarian in the gut.

  Yet as the Eirdkilr fell away, the assault on the door continued unabated. The Eirdkilrs whittled the door to pieces. Their massive axes, backed by the power of their huge muscles, sent splinters flying. In seconds, Aravon knew, they would cut through the heavy wooden door and have a clear view of the defenders crowded into the hall.

  Then the battle would begin in earnest.

  Screams echoed from behind Aravon, somewhere off in the kitchens. Colborn’s roared commands reverberated through the servants’ passage from where he fought to hold the rear entrance on the mansion’s southern side.

  “Push them back!” Scathan’s shout rang out in the main hall. The note of fear and panic edged the man’s voice. The battle in the front couldn’t be going well.

  Aravon’s gut clenched. He had seconds before the Eirdkilrs broke in here. The situation was growing desperate.

  “Where are those oil lanterns?” he roared. “Bring them, now!”

  One of the Black Xiphos mercenaries darted up the corridor, back toward the hall. He returned seconds later, carrying a pair of the shuttered oil lanterns they’d brought for their assault on the mansion. Without hesitation, Aravon snatched a lantern and hurled it through the gap in the battered door. The sound of shattering glass pierced the howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs. A moment later, light blazed bright outside. The stink of burning flesh accompanied agonized screams. Through the hole in their door, Aravon caught sight of Eirdkilrs staggering back, their hair, beards, and furs ablaze.

  But that would only hold them a few seconds, a minute at most. The wounded and dying would pull back, and the oil would burn out. All too soon, the enemy would renew the assault.

  In that moment, the sound of shattering wood echoed from the kitchens, followed by the clash of steel on steel. The volume of the Eirdkilrs’ war cries intensified, rang out through the mansion. Screams of pain told Aravon the barbarians had gotten through the southern entrance.

  Aravon whirled to Belthar. “Go! Help Colborn!”

  The big man darted away, thundering down the hall and into the lantern-lit servants’ passage. His wordless roar set the very walls of the mansion trembling. A tremendous crash, and Belthar joined battle with the Eirdkilrs flooding into the kitchens.

  Yet the big man could only help so much. Could only hold so long.

  Aravon hurled the second lantern through the gap, and the stink of burning lantern oil joined the smoke billowing into the mansion. He spared a heartbeat to glance back over his shoulder before returning his attention to the door he held. They had a few more seconds before the fire burned low and the Eirdkilrs attacked again, but if Zaharis and Rangvaldr didn’t find the passage out, they were in trouble.

  “Don’t let them through, Keeper take it!” Scathan’s roar echoed in the main chamber. “Make the bloody bastards bleed!”

  Aravon had a split second to decide: stay here, or go help. He made the decision in the space between heartbeats. The fire raging outside the door would keep the Eirdkilrs at bay for precious seconds. Seconds he would use to help Scathan and his mercenaries hold the front doors.

  “Hold!” Even as Aravon roared the command, he whirled and raced the ten paces up the corridor to the main chamber. There, Scathan and his force of mercenaries—now six—struggled to hold the shattered, splintered doors closed. They were no match for the Eirdkilrs’ massive strength and bulk. Aravon’s foot had just touched the grand hall’s marble-tiled floor when the door burst inward and Eirdkilrs flooded into the mansion.

  Aravon scooped up one of the oil lanterns sitting near the stairs and hurled it. Straight at the foremost of the Eirdkilrs. The lantern spun end over end, the flame guttering low as it whistled through the air. Crashed into the blunt, heavy face of an Eirdkilr. Glass shattered, oil sprayed, and flames sprang to life on the barbarian’s soaked head and chest. Hair and fur caught fire and the Eirdkilr’s howl of triumph turned to a shrill of agony.

  Another step, another lamp, and still more Eirdkilrs recoiled from the flames springing up in their mist. Everywhere the oil splashed—braided beards, filthy icebear pelts, chain mail shirts, and the door itself—orange tongues of fire consumed everything in its path.

  Including one unfortunate mercenary. The man, gripped in an Eirdkilr’s huge fist, struggled and stabbed at the giant strangling the life from him. Yet he couldn’t escape as the oil lantern shattered against his captor’s helmet. He, too, was consumed by the flames, and his screams of agony reverberated from the stone walls of the mansion.

  As Aravon hurled the third lantern, the Eirdkilrs pulled back. A half-step, barely opening a gap between them and the mercenaries holding the door, but enough to buy the embattled Princelanders a heartbeat to breathe. Fire sprang to life as the oil sprayed across the opening, pushing the barbarians back another step.

  Yet, as Aravon snatched up the fourth lantern, horror twisted in his gut. There were no more to throw. When the fire burned low enough for the Eirdkilrs to burst through, they had no other way to rep
el them. Strength and courage alone wouldn't save them, unless—

  “Captain!”

  Aravon’s heart leapt. The call came from above. He whirled, his gaze darting to the head of the stairs.

  Skathi stood on the balcony. “They found it!”

  Hope surged within Aravon. He had no need to ask what “it” was—they had a way out!

  He rounded on the battered, bleeding mercenaries gasping for breath before the burning door. “Fall back!” he roared. “Get upstairs, now!”

  Not waiting for them to answer, he dashed down the servants’ passage toward the back entrance. The sound of battle—steel clashing against steel, men grunting and screaming, howled Eirdkilr war cries, the meaty thunk of bladed weapons biting into flesh and crushing bone—echoed louder with every step.

  The small back door had shattered, and the Eirdkilrs flooded into the kitchens. Two terrified white-haired servants cowered near the stove, Lord Virinus’ three guards huddled beside them. The five Black Xiphos mercenaries still alive fought to hold the Eirdkilrs at bay. Belthar stood locked in desperate combat with two towering brutes, punching and clawing at the enemies trying to push past him. Colborn’s sword carved bloody swaths through the Eirdkilrs already in the kitchens.

  Aravon had no time to waste—a heartbeat longer, and the barbarians would break through the mercenaries’ ranks. He wound up and hurled the lantern without slowing his stride. Even as the glass shattered and sprayed the Eirdkilrs with flaming oil, Aravon’s spear took an Eirdkilr in the neck. A second later, another fell, spear buried six inches in his chest. Aravon stabbed with his spear over and over, no precision or perfect form, but the desperate, frantic attack of a man fighting for his life. He struck at faces, arms, throats, chests, legs, shields, anything he could reach. Anything that would push the Eirdkilrs back.

  Between the flames and his sudden onslaught, the Eirdkilrs seemed taken aback and stumbled backward, out the crumbled door.

  That was all the opening Aravon needed. He seized one of the Black Xiphos mercenary’s arms and dragged the man away. “Fall back!” he roared. “Up the stairs!”

  To their credit, the five mercenaries obeyed without hesitation. Fear and panic lent wings to their feet as they raced away from the burning kitchen door and back up the corridor.

  “Ghoststriker!” Aravon raised his voice to be heard over the clash of weapons. “Pull back.”

  “One…second!” Colborn growled, cutting down an Eirdkilr with a vicious slash.

  Aravon spun toward the servants and guards, but stopped, grinning as something caught his eye. He crossed the distance to the terrified men in three long steps and snatched up the small barrel. Spinning, he hurled it with every shred of strength.

  The barrel crashed against the stone wall and splintered, spraying wood and olive oil across the doorway. A second later, loud whooshing ripped through the kitchens as the oil caught fire.

  “Run!” Aravon gripped one of the servant’s arms, hauling the man upward and shoving him down the passage toward the main chamber. “Now!”

  Lord Virinus’ servants and guards stumbled to their feet and heeded Aravon’s command. Portly or not, the guards could run for their lives. Aravon half-carried, half-dragged the second white-haired servant toward the main hall, Colborn and Belthar guarding his back. The oil would take long minutes to burn down, he knew. Long enough for them to get to safety.

  Mercenaries raced up the corridor that led toward the gardens, heeding Scathan’s orders to fall back. The flames consuming the door and sitting room beyond were already guttering, and the Eirdkilrs’ assault would be renewed at any second.

  “Go!” Aravon roared. “To Lord Virinus’ office!”

  Already, smoke thickened the air of the grand chamber as the oil-fueled flames consumed the main door, the ornate wooden shelves and desks flanking the main corridor. Satisfaction settled in Aravon’s gut as he hauled the staggering, terrified servant up the stairs—the more the villa burned, the less likely the Eirdkilrs would come for them.

  The servant stumbled and fell with a cry, but Belthar was there on his opposite side to help him stand. Colborn was struggling with a wounded mercenary, helping the man stagger up the stairs despite the red, raw flesh left by the flames that consumed his face and head.

  Handing the servant off to Belthar, Aravon turned to scan the stairs behind him. Only two mercenaries were behind Colborn—Scathan, remaining behind to care for his men, and Urniss, wounded, bleeding from a gash in his side and chest.

  Aravon dashed back down the stairs, tearing a strip of cloth from his pouch. “Here.” He pressed the bandages against the man’s side. “I’ll hold, you climb!”

  Urniss hissed at the pain but managed a tight nod. “Aye,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

  Aravon applied pressure to the man’s wound while they climbed, one step at a time, far too slowly. The howls of the Eirdkilrs grew louder, ringing through the mansion’s halls as the barbarians burst through the flames. The first pelt-clad figures appeared as Aravon reached the top of the stairs and dragged Urniss down the corridor toward Lord Virinus’ office.

  There, he found Rangvaldr and Zaharis shoving the last of the mercenaries through an opening set in the southern wall—an opening that hadn’t been there before. Heavy steel bars reinforced the walls of the hidden room, and a hatch in the floor opened on a staircase that led downward into darkness.

  “Get in!” Rangvaldr shouted.

  Aravon didn’t need to be told twice. He and Scathan hauled Urniss into the safe room and down the narrow stairs, struggling to slow the bleeding while supporting the weakening mercenary. Behind him, the sound of heavy booted feet clattered up the staircase. The howls of the Eirdkilrs echoed through the office.

  Zaharis slammed Lord Virinus’ door shut, shoved Rangvaldr into the safe room, and threw himself inside as well. The last thing Aravon saw was the Secret Keeper pulling on some unseen lever in the wall, and the steel-reinforced door sliding closed behind him.

  Then, darkness.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Cool, silent darkness enveloped Aravon and his companions. The thick stone walls around them muffled the cries of the rampaging Eirdkilrs as he staggered down the stairs with Scathan and the wounded Urniss.

  Aravon groped his way through the darkness, feeling along the wall with his hands and using his feet to feel for the stairs below. A few seconds later, however, a soft glow of mingled blue and red light filled the staircase behind him. He spared a silent blessing for Zaharis’ alchemical lantern to light the way down into the earth.

  And how far down they went! Aravon lost count at fifty steps, and still the circular staircase descended. Fully five minutes passed before the stairs ended at a long, smooth tunnel carved into the stone of Lastcliff. Aravon guessed they were at least thirty or forty feet beneath the clifftop upon which Lord Virinus’ mansion perched.

  Skathi, Noll, Belthar, and Colborn stood waiting at the bottom, with thirteen of the surviving Black Xiphos mercenaries clustered around them. Lord Virinus’ inept guards and the two white-haired servants stood a short distance away, as surprised by the sight of the armed men as the Eirdkilr attack. Skathi shielded the candle she’d taken from Lord Virinus’ room—it and Zaharis’ lantern served as their only light source in the deep darkness of the underground.

  “Captain,” Noll signed, “what in the bloody hell is going on?” His eyes had gone wide behind his mask. “Eirdkilrs, here?”

  Aravon passed the wounded Urniss off to Scathan and faced the people crowded into the broad tunnel. “Here’s what I know. Lord Eidan sent you here with explicit orders to kill us, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that it happened just as the Eirdkilrs were about to attack. Almost as if he knew it was going to happen, and it would have eliminated you, us, and Lord Virinus, his accomplice in betraying the Princelands.”

  Stunned gasps echoed from the Black Xiphos mercenaries, and the faces of Lord Virinus’ servants and guards paled.
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  “I have no concrete proof, but after everything that’s happened, I have no doubt that Lord Eidan is the one working with the Eirdkilrs.” His face grew grim. “And it gets worse. This isn’t the main attack. The Eirdkilrs have come for the miners, just like they did at Gold Burrows.” He shot a meaningful glance at Scathan, Barcus, and Urniss—the three Black Xiphos mercenaries had all been present when he reported his findings to the Duke. “But their real target is Icespire.”

  Again, eyes went wide around him, surprise etched with horror and dread at the terrible truth.

  “Strike to the heart of the Princelands.” Colborn’s tone was grim, as cold as the icy Frozen Sea winds of winter. He had come to the same conclusion as Aravon—testament to his strategic mind, one of the things that made him so valuable as the Grim Reavers’ Lieutenant. “Take advantage of the lack of defenses.”

  Aravon nodded. “And they have the Jokull ships, which means thousands of Eirdkilrs are on their way to the city right now.” Or are already there, he thought, but didn’t say. Not until he was certain.

  The mercenaries exchanged glances, a look of dumbfounded amazement and bewilderment in their eyes. This was clearly not something they’d trained or prepared for. Fiery hell, likely something they couldn’t have ever imagined.

  “Well, then what the bloody hell are we waiting for?” The words burst from Skathi’s lips. “We’ve got to get back there and sound the alarm. Warn the families they’re in danger!” She shot a meaningful look at Aravon.

  The word “family” struck Aravon a blow to the core of his being. It was his family she spoke of. His wife and sons in danger.

  “But what of the miners here?” Rangvaldr’s solemn, deep voice echoed in the tunnel. “They are as much Princelanders as the people of Icespire. Even now, they are being herded to the Eirdkilr boats and taken as captives.”

  Acid writhed like worms in Aravon’s gut. He knew what he had to say, but it sickened him. The thought of leaving so many Princelanders at the mercy of the Eirdkilrs threatened to bring up vomit. He had no desire to see them hauled off into slavery, shipped away to whatever fate the Eirdkilrs had in store for them. Yet if he fought here, if he delayed, he could return to Icespire too late—too late to save his family, the Prince, and the city itself.