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

by Andy Peloquin

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Aravon’s chest clutched, a fist of iron squeezing his hammering heart. The run through the Glimmer had left him exhausted, but he had no time to rest or recover. He had to get to the Southbridge, had to help form some line of defense to protect the people fleeing to refuge. The defenders holding the Prince’s Gate were a heartbeat away from being overwhelmed by the giant Eirdkilrs. With the Soldier’s Gate already fallen and the barbarians flooding the city from the north and east, it was only a matter of time before they would have to abandon the Mains and collapse the bridges. They had no other way of ensuring the safety of every man, woman, and child on Azure Island and Palace Isle.

  So be it. Aravon gritted his teeth against the grim thought. But first, we get as many people across as we can.

  Despite his fatigue, the fire in his lungs and the ache in his legs and spine, he forced himself to break into a run. Slow, shaky, tottering at first, but picking up the pace with every step of leaden feet. Gasps, grunts, and groans echoed behind him as the Grim Reavers matched his pace. A glance back, and Aravon found all his soldiers—even the tireless Colborn—struggling to keep moving. They’d traveled, fought, and run hard. They needed a break, yet until the battle was over and the city saved, they would have no rest.

  The crowds thickened as they approached the main marketplace and the entrance to Southbridge. Soon, Aravon could run no more, but was forced to shove his way through the jostling, stamping, shouting, and screaming people thronging toward the bridge. Though the Southbridge was broad—fully twenty feet wide and sixty feet long—it was impossible for so many people to cross quickly. The wooden structure creaked and groaned beneath the weight of the hundreds clamoring toward Azure Island. By the time he reached the bridge itself, nearly a thousand civilians still pressed toward the bottleneck.

  At that moment, the Eirdkilrs’ howled war cries redoubled, grew louder. Aravon’s head snapped toward the south and his heart sank. The last of the Icewatchers atop the wall battled for their lives, yet more and more fell every second. Towering figures, silhouetted by the crimson-and-gold glare of the inferno raging through the Outwards, pulled themselves onto the wall and surged down the stairs into the darkness near the Prince’s Gate. A flood of Eirdkilrs that would soon be here, baying for the blood of the terrified men and women clamoring for safety.

  Desperation tightened in Aravon’s gut, and he turned back to the Southbridge. A company of fifty Icewatchers stood holding the gate, panic filling their eyes and turning their faces pale. Most seemed more intent on simply getting out of the way of the flood of people than doing anything to help or protect the civilians.

  But they didn’t stand alone. Relief and hope flooded Aravon at the sight of a familiar figure clad in Legion armor calling orders to a company of thirty Legionnaires and any Icewatchers with the presence of mind to obey. Captain Lingram, with the hulking Endyn as his shadow, and the survivors of Onyx Battalion’s Ninth Company. At their side came the retired, wounded, and disabled Legionnaires of Icespire, nearly two hundred men and women clad in rusted and dented armor, carrying notched short swords and weather-beaten rectangular shields. An army of the soldiers no longer in active service to the Legion of Heroes, yet who had now chosen to fight in defense of their homes and families.

  “Captain Lingram!” Aravon shouted above the din of the crowd. “Captain Lingram!”

  Lingram’s head snapped around and his eyes locked on Aravon. He gave a nod and, turning to the man at his side, thrust a finger toward Aravon.

  Aravon shoved his way through the throng, his Grim Reavers at his back, and burst free of the crush of people to join Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires that stood just beyond the eastern side of the gate.

  “Captain Snarl, Commander Lerring, formerly of Jade Battalion.” Lingram introduced the grizzled, stern-faced soldier at his side.

  “Commander.” Aravon gave the man a respectful salute; his father had had nothing but praise for Lerring, one of the best Battalion Commanders during his years of service. He, like General Traighan, had been retired from the Legion once the years took their toll on his mind and body. Yet here he stood, determined to fight, age be damned.

  “Captain Snarl, I hear you’re the man in charge.” Commander Lerring mirrored the salute. “What are your orders, sir?”

  It felt strange to hear the question once more from the mouth of a man like Lerring, a Battalion Commander, thirty-year veteran. Yet if Legionnaires knew one thing, it was how to follow the chain of authority in times of crisis. And, as Duke Dyrund had said so many times before, he’d chosen Aravon to lead in such crises. Now definitely qualified, so it fell to him to make the decisions.

  “We’ve got to get these people hurrying across,” Aravon said.

  “That might be a problem,” Captain Lingram said. “From what I hear, someone island-side is slowing things down.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  Commander Lerring shrugged. “That’s all we know, Captain. Until we get across, we won’t know the full situation. But with them—” He gestured toward the south, to the Eirdkilrs streaming over the city wall. “—on the way, we’ve got bigger problems.”

  Aravon nodded. “All we can do is buy the people time to cross.” The crush of civilians had slowly advanced, and the number of people still on the land-side of the bridge had dwindled to no more than a few hundred. “How many men can we count on?”

  “Counting your men?” Captain Lingram glanced at the Legionnaires formed up around him and Commander Lerring. “I’d say two-fifty. If the Icewatch can pitch in, we might have a full three hundred.”

  “Good.” Aravon’s eyebrows knitted together in thought. “Then we form up just south of the last civilians, a shield wall wide enough to cover the Eastmarch and as many ranks deep as we can get. We’re last across the bridge and bring it down behind us.”

  Captain Lingram’s expression grew grim. “A fighting retreat’s going to be brutal, especially without spears or Agrotorae to back us up.”

  “You’ve got one of us.” Skathi stepped forward and raised her longbow. “That’s worth at least twenty of you knuckle-draggers.”

  Captain Lingram and Commander Lerring both grinned. “Spoken like a proper stick-thrower,” the old Commander said with a chuckle. “Always overestimating your value. Almost as bad as the donkey wallopers.”

  Aravon couldn’t help grinning beneath his mask—he hadn’t heard that particular slang for Legion cavalrymen used in far too long.

  “You know the drill,” he told Lingram. “Strongest shields in the front, the rest for support. Anyone not fully mobile, on rear guard duty to protect the civilians.”

  “Yes, Captain!” Lingram saluted and turned to relay the orders to the rest of the Legionnaires.

  Aravon studied the men now under his command. Ten had the young, fresh faces of raw recruits—including Duvain and Endyn—and another two score were men and women like Corporal Rold, veterans of battle still in their third or fourth decade of life. Most, however, had grey or white hair, bones and joints stiff from injuries and age, and, in far too many cases, missed eyes, ears, noses, fingers, hands, arms, or even legs. Soldiers wounded in battle or weakened by their advancing years, washed out of the Legion. A fine force, proud citizens of Icespire, not a single one of them wavering or cowering at the prospect of the enemy that raged up the Eastmarch toward them. They would meet battle here as they had met so many before: heads held high, swords and shields gripped in firm hands, and faces toward the enemy.

  Aravon waved his spear high. “Form up!” he roared. “On me!” He circled the crowd pushing onto the Southbridge—now a few score, no more than two hundred—and planted his feet in the middle of the Eastmarch, grounded the butt of his spear between his boots. This was where they held the Eirdkilrs, for as long as necessary.

  The clank and clatter of armor, a cacophony of thumping boots, and the shouted orders of Legion officers echoed loud in the night. A swarm of hel
meted, steel-clad soldiers surged past him to form ranks. Men and women, old and young, strong and maimed, all joining the wall of flesh, bone, and metal that barred the way to the Southbridge. In less than a minute, all two hundred and fifty Legionnaires had taken their position in twelve ranks of twenty soldiers facing the enemy, shields at the ready.

  Aravon stood in the seventh rank, far enough from the front that he wouldn’t be in the direct line of danger, yet close at hand to shout orders and encouragement to his men. Colborn held his right side, Captain Lingram to his left, with Endyn taking up position beyond his commanding officer. Belthar, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr joined the command line, and Commander Lerring took his place at Aravon’s back—to watch the civilians’ progress and call out the retreat. Somewhere behind them, in the shadows of the Southbridge gates, Skathi and Noll would be lurking, arrows at the ready.

  All through the ranks of Legionnaires, men and women shifted, coughed, adjusted armor unworn for many years, tightened their grips on their swords, or spoke in low mutters to their comrades. A palpable air of tension descended over the soldiers—they all knew what came for them. It was only a matter of when.

  Time passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Aravon’s eyes fixed on the Eastmarch, scanning the main avenue ahead for any sign of the Eirdkilrs. They were there, he knew, rampaging through the city near the Prince’s Gate, clawing their way north, east, and west. More would be coming from the Glimmer and Eastway sooner or later. The only question was which of the two enemy forces would hit them first, and in what numbers.

  Too many, that much he knew. If they tried to hold the bridge, the Eirdkilrs would cut them down. Two hundred and fifty Legionnaires couldn’t hope to hold out against twenty times their number. But they just needed to stand firm for a few minutes. Just long enough for the people to clear the Southbridge. They could do that. They could give their fellow Princelanders a chance at survival. That was what Legionnaires did.

  Legionnaires faced death every day; they chose that life of service, of being the shield between danger and the innocent. Every man and woman in the line had taken the oaths to the Legion of Heroes, the Swordsman, and Prince Toran. The fact that they’d lived this long just meant they could fight another day. And, if so needed, die in service to their fellow man, their kingdom, and their god.

  “We hold them here!” Aravon called to the soldiers around him. “For the Prince!”

  “For the Prince!” shouted Captain Lingram, and the call was echoed by a handful of Legionnaires.

  “For the Swordsman!” Aravon thrust his spear high.

  “For the Swordsman!” This time, the call was taken up by hundreds of soldiers.

  “For Icespire!”

  “For Icespire!” Two hundred and fifty throats thundered out the cry, and the Legionnaires clashed swords and shields once. A rumbling, roaring crash of defiance that reverberated through the darkened buildings of the People’s Markets.

  The Eirdkilrs answered with war cries of their own. “Death to the half-men!” came the call, howled in the guttural tongue of the Tauld. And, on the heels of that shout, came the Eirdkilrs themselves. Seven feet tall, brandishing crimson-stained weapons too large for any normal Princelander to wield, clad in shaggy white pelts that made them appear as ursine and monstrous as Wasteland ice bears. A flood of fury and bloodlust that surged up the Eastmarch toward the formed-up Legionnaires. Hundreds strong, their blue-stained faces twisted with hatred, like a tidal wave rearing up to crash onto the shore.

  “For Icespire!” Aravon roared once more.

  “For Icespire!” the Legionnaires echoed. As one, the company of soldiers crouched behind their shields, gripped their swords, and prepared to meet the charge.

  Chapter Ninety

  The Eirdkilrs slammed into the Legion shield wall with a thunderous crash. Deafening, a solid barrier of sound that rippled through the ranks as the Legionnaires staggered beneath the assault. Soldiers fell, screaming, crushed beneath Eirdkilr boots or struck down by heavy weapons. Stunned, hurled off-balance, the soldiers fought to regain their footing. Desperate to stay upright in the face of the howling fury battering at their shields.

  Shields locked, shoulders braced, the Legionnaires pushed against the enemy. Shouting, cursing, grunting with the effort. They shoved, hard, sending the Eirdkilrs stumbling a half-step. Just enough for the embattled soldiers to catch a breath, plant their feet, and thrust their short swords through gaps in the shields. Savage howls and war cries cut off in gurgling, guttural gasps, Legion steel punching into armor, flesh, and finding hearts, guts, and groins. Giants fell, knees shattered and tendons severed. Fell to be kicked and trampled by the stamping, sweating, snarling Legionnaires.

  The Eirdkilrs far outnumbered the soldiers holding the bridge, but their lack of cohesion proved the Legionnaires’ saving grace. The seven-foot barbarians hadn’t yet flooded the city en masse—the Prince’s Gate remained sealed—only those that could scale the wall. They charged the Legion shield wall in staggered groups of five, ten, twenty, even fifty at a time. Yet each fresh assault broke against the solid barrier of Princelander steel, flesh, and determination like the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs of Palace Isle. The Eirdkilrs charged, howling and shrieking their war cries, and died at the end of Legion short swords.

  Yet with every wave of barbarians, more Legionnaires fell. The second rank stepped forward as the first rank crumbled beneath the onslaught, and the ranks behind them flowed into the gap. From his position in the seventh rank, Aravon could do nothing but brace his shoulder against the man in front of him and grip his spear tighter. The world narrowed around him, until all he could see was the shining helmet and the rear of the shield of the Legionnaire in the next rank. His heart hammered a furious beat in his chest, setting fire crackling through the core of his being.

  Adrenaline coursed in his veins, pushing back any trace of exhaustion. The bitter taste of blood and fear mingled in his mouth, and the stink of sweat, steel armor, and sword oil flooded his nostrils. He stood too far back to strike at the Eirdkilrs, but it wasn’t his job to hit the enemy. It fell to him to watch the battle, to call orders that would keep as many Legionnaires alive as possible.

  With effort, he blinked away the tunneling vision, forcing his eyes to lift from the Legionnaire’s armored back and his head to turn to the soldiers beside him. Colborn on his right. Captain Lingram on his left. His Grim Reavers, Endyn, Duvain, Corporal Rold. Commander Lerring at his back, his hand firm on Aravon’s shoulder. The men who awaited his orders.

  His gaze snapped back to the Eirdkilrs charging up the street. Giants, fierce and savage, bearing down on the shield wall with murderous rage etched into every line of their blue-stained faces. Axes, clubs, and spears stained with the blood of the Icewatchers slain at the city wall. Boots caked with the muck of the marketplace, faces, hands, and arms wet with crimson. Butchers, murderers, reavers, demons. Living nightmares that had come to Icespire to slaughter civilians. The cruel savagery of Tyr Farbjodr compounded by Lord Eidan’s treachery. Because of them, these soldiers fought, bled, and died.

  He opened his mouth to call an order, found the cry to “Push back!” already bursting from his lips. His throat was hoarse and his voice ragged from shouting commands. Though his mind had gone numb in that cold, echoing void that he sometimes retreated to during battle, instinct and years of command experience had kept him calling encouragement and orders to his soldiers.

  “Captain!” The shout in his ear sounded so faint, distant, nearly inaudible beneath the cacophony of clanking, banging, thumping, thudding, and shrieking. “Captain, it’s clear!”

  A tiny part of Aravon’s mind recognized the voice: Commander Lerring’s. Recognized the words, their meaning. Sucking in a shuddering breath, he tore his eyes from the furious, blurring, blood-soaked combat not five paces in front of him and glanced backward.

  The Southbridge had cleared. Not fully, for there were still hundreds of fleeing civilians clustered on the island
-side, pushing and shoving against their fellow men and women in the desperate hope of reaching safety. Yet there was twenty yards of empty space between the land-side of the bridge and the rearmost Princelander. The fifty Icewatchers had at least had the presence of mind to form a rear guard, joining the worst-injured and maimed of the Legionnaires.

  Hope surged within Aravon. “Back!” he roared. “Back!”

  Captain Lingram, Commander Lerring, and the others around him took up the call. The order rippled through the ranks of Legionnaires in the space of a few seconds, as former soldiers that had once served as Captains, Lieutenants, and Sergeants repeated the shout.

  Straight to the embattled first and second ranks, where the Legionnaires were locked in fierce, brutal combat with the Eirdkilrs. Scratching, clawing, biting, kicking, stamping, hacking with axes and swords, stabbing spears, swinging massive clubs. Helmets crumpled, skulls shattered like eggs, gushing blood and brains instead of yolk, and limbs snapped beneath the impact. Flesh tore, chain mail links snapped, crimson spraying from throats, wrists, poured from gaping chest wounds. The stink of spilled intestines and emptying bowels and bladders thickened the air, beneath it all the reeking smoke pouring into the city from the Outwards, scorching Aravon’s throat.

  “Back!” Aravon called. His voice sounded so faint, swallowed instantly by the din of combat. Yet somehow, the officers in the ranks ahead of him heard and passed on the order once more.

  The front three lines of embattled Legionnaires reacted, as they’d trained to do for so many years, with discipline that could never truly be forgotten even after so much time away from combat. Crouching behind their shields, bracing their shoulders, they shoved hard against the Eirdkilrs. Sent the barbarians stumbling back, opened gaps in the shields, and struck out with their swords. Vicious stabbing blows, chopping at knees and thighs, tearing holes in Eirdkilr chain mail and guts.