The clash ended in the space of half a minute. With the Legionnaires’ shields ahead and the Grim Reavers behind, the twenty Eirdkilrs stood no chance at all.
As the last barbarian fell, Aravon found himself facing a solid wall of bloodstained shields and grim-faced soldiers. Soldiers who seemed stunned to see him—stunned, and grateful.
Before he could bark out an order, scores of Eirdkilrs flooded the streets of Portside less than a hundred yards north of the formed-up Legionnaires. The barbarians’ eyes fixed on the soldiers and their devilish howls of fury tore through the night.
“Run!” Aravon called. The twenty-odd remaining Legionnaires had no hope of standing against the hundreds of enemies now surging toward them. Not even with the Grim Reavers to support them. Flight, escape to the Southbridge, was their best chance of survival.
Yet there were too many enemies, and far too close. The lumbering barbarians appeared slow-moving, but at full speed, they could match a horse’s pace. Legionnaires burdened by heavy shields, swords, and armor couldn’t hope to outrun the barbarians. In a desperate race through the broad streets of Portside and Eastway, the Eirdkilrs would catch up long before the soldiers reached the Southbridge.
There was only one way out.
“To the Glimmer!”
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires fell in behind Aravon and the Grim Reavers as they raced south and west through the streets of Portside. Less than a quarter-mile separated them from the tortuous alleys, the muck and filth, and the ramshackle huts, shacks, and shanties of the Glimmer. A quarter-mile, each step hounded by the screams and howls of the Eirdkilrs, the desperate, panicked shrieks of the civilians they couldn’t help.
Every one of those cries fanned the fire of Aravon’s anger. He ached to help those people, to be the shield that protected them from the Eirdkilrs. But if he stopped, if he hesitated, he, the Grim Reavers, and the Legionnaires would die. They would fall to the Eirdkilrs’ fury and the tens of thousands on Azure Island would have no one to defend them. No one would remain alive to stop Lord Eidan from lowering the Deepshackle, no one to bring the traitorous spymaster to the Prince’s justice.
Though it tore at his heart, Aravon had no choice but to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the grim plight of the civilians that hadn’t escaped to safety in time. He had never agreed with the notion of sacrificing a few lives to save many—other than his own, of course—but now he understood. Understood, and hated it. Hated himself for not being able to do something. For not seeing the treachery and the Eirdkilrs’ plan in time to stop it. And hated the Eirdkilrs for their savagery.
Rage simmered like the undersea volcano that hissed violent fury and spat lava off the coast of Eastfall. Aravon harnessed that rage, used it to fuel his muscles as he raced toward the Glimmer. Toward the only hope they had of evading Eirdkilr pursuit long enough to get the Legionnaires to safety. That had to be his only priority at the moment. He had to get back onto Azure Island and make certain the bridges were brought down, and that the Deepshackle remained in place. Everything else had to take second place.
The crumbling structures of the Glimmer loomed in the night ahead, just around the next corner. Hope surged within Aravon as he sprinted into the twisting, turning alleys of Icespire’s slums. Darkness and silence met his gaze—the houses were empty, the streets bare of people, and no candles or lanterns shone in the windows. Doubtless, Gengibar Twist had sent his Brokers here first to evacuate his people before spreading through the rest of the city.
Aravon slowed once the pitiful slum shelters hid the streets of Portside from view. The Legionnaires clattered to a stop around him, gasping for breath, exhausted by the battle and flight. Some sagged to the muck, too tired to remain standing. Even Captain Lingram struggled to remain upright. They couldn’t keep moving, not at that furious pace and not for long. They needed a few minutes to rest. Minutes that would give the Eirdkilrs a chance to catch up, flood the Glimmer.
The barbarians had little chance of tracking them through the maze of narrow, covered, and hidden back streets. However, if they flooded the slums in the hundreds, they were bound to stumble across the exhausted Legionnaires.
He wouldn’t take any chances.
“Foxclaw, Redwing, cover our asses!” Aravon called. “Give us a few seconds’ warning when they’re coming.”
“Aye, Captain!” Skathi saluted with her longbow and, whirling, hurried back up the streets, Noll by her side.
Captain Lingram managed to catch his breath enough to stand straight. “Tell me you’ve a plan, Captain! There’s nothing defensible about this place. The Eirdkilrs’ll tear through these shanties like a cavalry charge through straw dummies.”
“I know.” Aravon nodded. “But they’ll have a bloody hard time finding us, and keeping pace while we head south toward the bridge. They’ll waste time and energy burning and looting the empty buildings. That’s our best—”
“You!” A harsh voice echoed behind them.
Aravon spun toward the sound. Down the alley, less than thirty yards from where he and the gasping Legionnaires stood, a man stepped from the shadows. A man with long, dark hair, a lean face, and an eyepatch covering his scar-twisted right eye and cheek.
“Some bloody use you lot are!” Gengibar Twist snarled. “Couldn’t even get my people across the Eastbridge before you bastards abandoned it to the Eirdkilrs!”
The words “my people” caught Aravon by surprise. His gaze slid past the Brokers’ leader, toward the shadows of a crumbling wooden house. There, he found dozens of figures crouching in the darkness. Women, children, the elderly, infirm, and those too weak to flee, guarded by half a dozen bone-thumpers.
Aravon’s mind raced. No way they can get to the Southbridge before the Eirdkilrs catch up. He had to stall the enemy, had to buy these people time to flee.
“Captain Lingram.” Aravon whirled on the Legion officer. “You and your men see to getting these people to safety across the Southbridge.”
Surprise flashed across Lingram’s handsome face. “All due respect—”
“That’s an order, Captain.” Aravon’s tone brooked no argument. “We’re going to hold the Eirdkilrs’ interest long enough for you to get away.”
A stubborn look entered Captain Lingram’s eye, and for a moment, Aravon thought he’d argue. Yet he simply straightened and saluted. “Yes, Captain Snarl.”
Aravon turned to Gengibar Twist. “You know these streets better than anyone. The faster you get your people to the Southbridge—”
“And here was me just twiddling my thumbs and planning a tea party!” Anger blazed in the Broker’s one good eye.
Aravon stifled a growl. “Then get the bloody hell out of here. The Legionnaires will guard your back and help your people move. But hurry! We can’t hold the enemy off for long.” Not just the seven of them against hundreds of Eirdkilrs.
Whatever stinging barb had been forming on Gengibar Twist’s lips went unloosed. He simply nodded and turned back to his people, no word of thanks or acknowledgement. Aravon took the lack of insult as his form of gratitude.
He’d just turned toward Captain Lingram when a shout echoed down the alley. “Captain!” Skathi appeared around a corner at a dead sprint. “They’re coming!”
The hint of panic tingeing her voice sent a shiver down Aravon’s spine. He’d never seen the unflappable Agrotorae show even the slightest fear, yet the turmoil raging through the streets of Icespire could shake even the strongest will.
“Half a minute out,” Noll called from a few steps behind Skathi, “Fifty of the bastards!”
Aravon rounded on Captain Lingram. “Go! We’ll buy you time.”
He broke into a run, thundering up the muddy alley toward Skathi and Noll, who skidded to a halt and whirled to follow him back onto the broadest of the slum lanes. Colborn, Belthar, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr raced on his heels, keeping pace as he led them away from the Brokers, Legionnaires, and civilians. Captain
Lingram and Gengibar Twist would need every second he could buy them.
The seven of them formed a ragged line across the street—Aravon in the center, flanked by Colborn and Rangvaldr, with Belthar anchoring the right and Zaharis the left. Noll and Skathi’s bows creaked as they drew arrows and took aim down the alley. Nothing moved in the smoky haze drifting through the muddy lane; only the brilliance of the burning city and the howling, shrieking cries of the approaching Eirdkilrs filled the night.
Aravon glanced at his small company. Seven of us against all those Eirdkilrs. A grim smile twisted his lips. This ought to be fun.
They didn’t have to hold long—if the Grim Reavers could just tie up the enemy here for a few minutes, it would be enough. Every minute spent standing still increased the odds the Eirdkilrs would surround them, cut off any hope of escape. They had to fight, but if they did, their chances of survival plummeted.
A sharp intake of breath echoed from Aravon’s right.
“Captain!” Belthar jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get their attention, draw them close, then lead them through that alley.” Without explanation, he broke from their line, whirled, and sprinted back the way they’d come, disappearing around a corner into a tiny back street that led east, away from the Legionnaires, Brokers, and fleeing civilians they protected.
Aravon had no idea what the big man intended, but if Belthar truly had a plan, he’d give it a shot. Not like the situation could get much worse for us, he thought with a harsh chuckle.
“You heard him!” Aravon turned to his five companions. “We just need to keep their eyes on us. We stand until the last second, and on my order, break right and head straight for that alley!” He tightened his grip on his spear. “Let’s just hope Belthar’s got a nice surprise ready for the bastards.”
“He’d bloody well better!” Noll growled from his place beside Skathi. “Because if he don’t, we’re going to have words, even if I spend my eternity in the Sleepless Lands hunting the bastard down.”
“No way Belthar fails us,” Skathi shot back. “Just make sure your feet run as fast as your tongue, and we’ll be kicking back and celebrating a victory by daybreak.” The moon had already dipped low toward the northwestern horizon—dawn lay just two or three hours off.
Aravon returned his gaze to the street ahead—to the wisps of smoke creeping along the ground toward them, and the wall of hazy grey descending onto the Glimmer as the houses of Portside burned. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down Aravon’s spine, and his palms grew damp, slick around the haft of his spear. He tightened his grip and clenched his jaw, forcing himself to draw in slow, deep breaths. With every furiously hammering beat of his heart, with every thump, thump of his pulse in his ears, the Eirdkilrs’ howls drew closer.
Closer, and still no sign of them. Just the dark grey wall of swirling, shifting soot and ash. Dimly lit by the crimson, orange, and red glow of the inferno raging north and east of them. Closer, louder now, accompanied by the thunder of heavy-booted feet splashing through the muck and mire of the Glimmer.
The dark clouds shivered and churned, and a hulking figure burst from the haze, trailing wisps of dark grey-white as filthy as the icebear pelt clinging to his massive shoulders. The steel head of a hewing spear glimmered in the light of the Icespire, the horned skullcap helmet gleaming angry red beneath the glow of the burning buildings. Eyes as blue as the war paint staining the Eirdkilr’s face locked on the six soldiers barring his path and a whooping, ululating battle cry tore from the barbarian’s lips.
A second Eirdkilr appeared close on the first’s heels. Then a third, fourth and fifth, three more, until the number grew to a dozen. Fifteen, twenty, thirty. In the space of five heartbeats, fifty Eirdkilrs lumbered from the smoke and boiled down the alleyway toward them.
“Hold!” Aravon growled.
The Eirdkilrs moved fast…so terribly fast, their hulking forms and massive feet setting the ground rumbling like some massive earthquake. Long legs ate up the ground with the speed of a charging horse. Brandishing weapons, splattering muck at every step, screaming their bloodlust and hatred into the Icespire night.
“Hold!” Aravon called. His stomach twisted in knots and his heart beat faster, but he forced himself to stand still. To stand and face that charging horde. To wait until the right moment.
Seventy yards, sixty, fifty.
Aravon swallowed, tightened his grip on his spear. “Hold!”
Forty yards dropped to thirty, and still the Eirdkilrs didn’t slow their charge. They had found their prey, and only empty air stood between them and the half-men they’d come to kill.
Twenty yards, Aravon counted. Fifteen. Ten. Five.
He could wait no longer.
“Now!” Aravon spun to his right and dashed toward the alley. The Grim Reavers were already moving before the word fell silent, racing alongside him in the direction Belthar had indicated. Around the corner in two seconds and out of sight of the pursuing Eirdkilrs.
Screams and roars of rage echoed behind them, and the thundering of heavy booted feet grew louder as the Eirdkilrs gave chase. Wood splintered and cracked, and crumbling walls groaned as the hulking barbarians flooded the narrow alley.
Aravon gritted his teeth and ran on, desperate, darting through the shadows of the alley. Where, he didn’t know. All he had was Belthar’s word to go on.
So where in the bloody hell is he?
He’d barely formed the thought when the big man burst from the shadows of a nearby building and charged across his path, not five steps in front of the racing Grim Reavers. Straight into a wooden beam that supported a building of brick, stone, and wood. The massive beam, as thick as Aravon’s thigh, snapped beneath the impact of Belthar’s shoulder and the structure gave a loud rumble.
Keeper’s teeth! Aravon threw himself into a full sprint. He had to get out of the way of the building before—
CRASH! A deafening cacophony of falling brick, snapping wood, and clattering stone blew through the alley, carrying a thick, choking cloud of dust. The Eirdkilrs’ war cries turned into howls of dismay, silenced a heartbeat later beneath the crumbling building.
Only then did Aravon slow and risk a glance back. Through the wall of billowing dirt and soot, he caught sight of the alley they’d just passed. An alley no longer—simply a massive pile of rubble, and empty sky where there had been three-story buildings seconds earlier. The Eirdkilrs caught beneath those collapsing structures couldn’t possibly have survived. Those not caught in the cave-in shouted their rage and fury, but the sound of more rumbling rock and splintering wood echoed from beyond the wreckage. More Glimmer buildings succumbed to age, weight, and neglect, crushing the rest of the Eirdkilrs beneath mountainous heaps of debris.
A dust-covered but broadly grinning Belthar emerged from one of the few buildings that hadn’t yet collapsed. “Glad to see the Brokers kept their contingency plans in good shape. Though I doubt they ever thought they’d use this Icewatch trap on the Eirdkilrs.”
That explained why Icewatchers tended to go missing during raids of the Glimmer—no one would suspect anything should the dilapidated buildings collapse. Cleverly planned murder that could never be traced back to the Brokers.
Yet at that moment, Aravon could only be grateful for the homicidal criminals. That trap had saved their hides and bought the fleeing civilians a few more minutes.
He rounded on Belthar. “Lead us out of here, and get us to the Southbridge, now!”
“Yes, Captain!” With a salute, the big man took off at a run down the west-leading alley, turning right to head south at the first intersection they reached. He seemed to know his way around the twisting labyrinth of narrow lanes, bolt-holes, and concealed openings in the structures around them. He never once looked up at the stars to guide his way—years of running around these very streets had taught him well.
Aravon trusted the big man to lead them down the right path and keep them ahead of the Eirdkilrs. In the narrow confines of the slum streets,
the sounds of battle, panic, and destruction seemed to grow oddly muted. As if the wood, brick, and stone walls around them somehow blocked out the world until nothing else remained but the tiny microcosm of the Glimmer. Even the light of the burning city and the towering Icespire failed to seep into these nooks, crannies, and niches. Only mud, filth, and the reek of things long ago gone to rot and decay.
At least the Glimmer seems to be empty. In the last quarter-hour they’d spent racing through the maze of alleys, they hadn’t yet run across any civilians. Gengibar Twist’s people had done their job well, emptying out the Glimmer and getting their fellow slum-dwellers to the refuge of Azure Island or their hidden tunnels. Though countless others from the rest of the city would fall—too slow, infirm, or simply too far from the bridges to reach safety—Aravon was glad to know that the Glimmer-folk, at least, had a chance of survival, not just the wealthy and powerful sheltered in their noble mansions.
The streets flew by in a blur of darkness, looming buildings, and muddy alleys. When Aravon next glanced up, he found nearly half an hour had passed since first they stepped foot in the Glimmer. At their pace, even with the convoluted path they were forced to take through the close-packed structures, they should reach the southwestern edge of the Glimmer in the space of a few minutes.
Not a moment too soon. Even as Aravon and the Grim Reavers burst out of the narrow back streets of the Glimmer onto the broader, cleaner avenues of the People’s Markets, the howling of the Eirdkilrs to the south grew louder. When he glanced toward the Prince’s Gate, he caught sight of the battle raging atop the city wall.
The light of the burning Outwards cast the entire tableau in a grim, almost maddening silhouette. Soldiers in flowing cloaks and conical helms struggled to repel the giant barbarians scrambling onto the ramparts. A losing fight, for more Eirdkilrs flooded over the wall with every heartbeat. The cries of the Icewatchers fighting for their lives were drowned beneath the shouts and screams of the civilians surging toward Southbridge. Though the men and women flooding the People’s Markets never looked back, the enemy had breached the city and now came howling, shrieking for their blood.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 71