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

by Andy Peloquin

  Yet the Princelanders’ cheers died a moment later. Two ships remained, one untouched by ballista bolt or flame, the other with a smoldering sail, both propelled forward by the incessant sweeping, splashing oars. Oars pulled by the powerful muscles of nearly a hundred and fifty Eirdkilrs. Another sixty or seventy even now rowed toward the tower that held the Deepshackle mechanisms. The enemy still came for them, the specter of terrible, bloody battle looming large.

  The hail of Eirdkilr arrows never slackened as the two ships pulled closer to the shore. A hundred yards, eighty, seventy, fifty. At thirty yards, a shout from the prow of the rear ship rang out loud, and the oars rose. Scores of Eirdkilrs rose from their places at the sweeps, seized weapons, and prepared to leap overboard. All the while, the twenty archers in each ship drew, nocked, and loosed black-fletched shafts as fast as their massive arms could bend the enormous longbows.

  Aravon’s gut twisted as the wolf’s head prow of the lead ship rose, rocky sand crunching beneath the shallow-bottomed hull. A howl of “Death to the half-men!” rang out, the curse loosed from the lips of the tall, blond-bearded Eirdkilr standing at the front of his longship. Clad in shining chain mail, carrying a heavy iron-studded club and shield, his lips twisted in a bitter, hateful snarl. The soft blue glow of the Icespire illuminated a heavy, ursine face, and an empty socket where his right eye had once been.

  The sight sent a chill down Aravon’s spine. Asger Einnauga. The Eirdkilr that had come up with the siege at Rivergate, Dagger Garrison, and the Bulwark—all to pull the Legion southward and deplete Westhaven’s navy, clearing the way for this assault.

  With a howl, the Eirdkilr leader leapt over the gunwale, splashing into the shallow water of the shore. Dozens of barbarians followed at his back, howling, shrieking, waving their massive weapons, and growling curses in their guttural tongue. Like sea monsters from a sailor’s nightmare, the blue-faced giants surged up out of the ocean, sand and seashells crunching under their heavy boots as they raced up the beach toward the Ebonguard.

  The battle for Palace Isle began in earnest.

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  More than a hundred Eirdkilrs surged up the sandy incline, a grim tidal wave of flesh, blood, and fury howling toward the formed-up Ebonguards. Against such terrible odds—still two to one in the Eirdkilrs’ favor—many soldiers would crack, their courage wavering. But not the Ebonguards under the grizzled Torban. They stood fast, awaiting their Commander’s order.

  It came a heartbeat later. “Loose!”

  With marvelous synchronicity, the Ebonguards lowered their shields, raised their crossbows one-handed, and fired from the hip. No time to aim, nor any need, given the close range. Thirty metal-tipped bolts sliced the air, crossing the twenty feet to the Eirdkilrs in the space between heartbeats and slamming into the giants. Fifteen fell as if cut down by the hand of the Swordsman himself. Bolts punched through shields, driven into chain mail, or buried in exposed throats, faces, eyes, and legs. Howling, screaming cries of agony flooded up the beach. Echoed louder a moment later as the crossbowmen atop the cliff rose and loosed. Drove their bolts straight down into the close-packed mass of barbarians.

  But one volley was all the Ebonguards holding the beach would get. No time to reload before the Eirdkilrs hit them. Instead, they hurled the heavy wooden bows at the onrushing enemy, drew axes, and tightened grips on their shields.

  The Princelanders had no caltrops, but their discarded crossbows tripped up a handful of Eirdkilrs. Those died beneath the flashing, chopping axes of the Ebonguard. Skulls, ribs, and limbs crunched and blood sprayed across the front rank. The Prince’s soldiers stepped back, closed ranks once more, and braced to meet the charge.

  The noise of the impact was deafening, a cacophony of clanking and banging. Shields collided with shields, backed by powerful, driving muscles. Spears slammed into armor or spanged off helmets. Clubs crunched skulls or shattered limbs, and axes tore flesh and crushed bone, a sound like a hundred butchers slaughtering oxen. But these were no beasts of the field—men and women, Princelander and Eirdkilr, fought, bled, and died.

  The Eirdkilrs collided with the Princelander line, throwing the five ranks back a step. Aravon threw his shoulder against the man before him, bracing him against the charge. The guard’s helmet slammed into the top of his head, hard enough to set stars whirling in his vision. Gritting his teeth, Aravon dug his feet into the sand and shoved back. Pushed the man forward, using his weight and the strength of his fury to keep the shield wall firm.

  All around him, the shrieks and howls of the Eirdkilrs echoed in time with the thudding, clattering, and thumping of heavy weapons crashing into flesh, armor, and shields of wood and steel. The Ebonguards in the front ranks had abandoned their heavy axes. Leaned into their shields, struggled to repel the Eirdkilrs attacking them, or drew their short swords and stabbed at guts, groins, legs, and blue-stained faces. The giant barbarians clawed, spat, kicked, shoved, punched, and bit at their heavier-armored enemy, the shield walls pressed too tightly together for them to swing their huge weapons. A momentary disadvantage, but in a battle of brawn, the Eirdkilrs would always win.

  Snarling, Aravon lifted his head, raised his spear, and stabbed over the heads of the soldiers in front of him. Too far back to hit the Eirdkilrs. Lowering his shoulder, he pushed back, digging in his heels and trying to keep the barbarians from shoving the Princelanders back a step.

  In vain. The Eirdkilrs were too strong, too many. They threw themselves against the wall of embattled Ebonguards, shoulders driving into Princelander shields. Soldiers cried out as they were borne to the ground, trampled beneath the onslaught. Those in the front rank could do little more than crouch and cling to their shields for dear life as the second and third ranks tried to bite back at the enemy howling fury in their faces.

  Back, one step. Aravon nearly stumbled, the helmet of the man before him slamming into his face again. He gritted his jaw against the pain flaring through his split lip and nose and, regaining his balance, pressed himself against the soldier. Another step. Struggling, stabbing, grunting and shouting with the effort, the Princelanders were slowly pushed back. Away from the beach, up the incline.

  Aravon’s heart hammered a panicked beat. If the enemy pushed them too far back, they would lose the protection of the cliff walls guarding their flanks. The Eirdkilrs could spill around the right and left side and encircle the Ebonguard. When that happened, the battle would turn far uglier.

  Sucking in a ragged breath, Aravon broke free of the rear of the Ebonguard’s line and sprinted left. Five long steps led him toward the left flank—the flank hit hardest by the Eirdkilrs’ most ferocious warriors, a heartbeat away from crumbling. Even as Aravon reached the end of the soldiers’ line, an Ebonguard fell, skull crushed by a heavy Eirdkilr club.

  Aravon threw himself into the gap the instant before the barbarian rushed in. His spear took the Eirdkilr in the stomach, punching through chain mail, tunic, and flesh. A savage twist and he wrenched the spearhead free. Coils of intestines spilled from the gaping wound in the Eirdkilr’s gut and the barbarian sagged, screaming, clawing at his organs in a vain attempt to stop them from seeping onto the ground.

  Another Eirdkilr charged the gap, swinging a huge double-headed axe at Aravon’s head. Aravon ducked, but a loud clang and crunch echoed from beside him. Warm, hot blood spattered his right hand, seeped down the collar of his armor. Aravon had no time to glance at the Ebonguard dying beside him—he simply slashed upward, opening the Eirdkilr’s neck and hacking through the barbarian’s blunt, square jaw bone. The barbarian gurgled a wet cry and clamped a filthy hand over his gushing throat. Reversing his grip on the spear, Aravon drove the iron-shod butt straight into the Eirdkilr’s chest, hard enough to send him stumbling backward.

  A hand clamped on Aravon’s collar, hauled him backward. Just in time to avoid an arrow flying toward his head. The missile clinked on the stone cliff and spun into darkness. A dark-armored figure shoved into the gap, locked s
hields with the Ebonguard beside him, and brought his axe around in a vicious overhand chop that crushed an Eirdkilr’s huge skull.

  Aravon glanced over his shoulder, found Zaharis dragging him back. Five more Ebonguards shouldered past the Grim Reavers and joined the battle. Axes and shields in place of crossbows, the high ground abandoned in the desperate need to repel the Eirdkilrs assaulting the beach.

  Zaharis loosed his grip on Aravon’s armor and hurled himself into the rank behind the Ebonguards. His spiked mace crunched into an Eirdkilr’s arm, shattering bone and tearing flesh. The barbarian’s screams of agony dissipated in a wet, gurgling gasp as an Ebonguard drove a short sword over the rim of his shield into the Eirdkilr’s throat. Blood sprayed in the Princelander’s face, blinding him. He never saw the club that crushed his helmeted skull into his breastbone.

  Aravon had a heartbeat to draw breath, glance around at the battlefield. Over the heads of the towering Eirdkilrs locked in a crush of flesh, steel, and fury with the Ebonguard, he caught sight of Skathi and Noll atop the cliffs, loosing a steady stream of arrows down at the Eirdkilrs. Only three crossbowmen remained on the eastern bluff—the rest had joined Belthar in a mad charge down the slope to bolster the shield wall. Rangvaldr and Colborn fought to hold the cliff from the Eirdkilrs that were even now trying to scale the rocky step-path.

  Yet one look at the embattled Ebonguards sent a stab of desperation flaring within Aravon. Nearly two-thirds of the Eirdkilrs’ assault force remained, now locked in grim melee with the forty-five Princelanders that had survived the initial clash. Even with the Grim Reavers to reinforce them, the tide of combat had already turned against the Ebonguard. They were being pushed back step by step by the heavier, stronger, taller Eirdkilrs. Retreating from the crushing blows and mighty muscles of the barbarians. Forced to give ground or die where they stood.

  Every step backward opened a broader gap between the shield wall and the cliff’s edge. Two more steps, and the Eirdkilrs would spill around the sides of the Princelander’s line and engulf them. Try as they might, the Ebonguards couldn’t hold the position. Couldn’t stop the inexorable, unrelenting savagery of the Eirdkilrs.

  Aravon’s mind raced. Zaharis’ presence in the battle line meant the Secret Keeper had no alchemical tricks up his sleeve, no more powders or potions to even the odds. Colborn and Rangvaldr could hold that clifftop, but what good would that do if the Eirdkilrs broke the battle line? Even with Noll and Skathi loosing as fast as they could draw, they would run out of arrows before running out of enemies. With every furious beat of his heart, more Ebonguards fell to the Eirdkilrs. Too few remained to stem the tide of barbarians flooding the beach.

  Yet they had to hold. Had to repel the Eirdkilrs, stop them here before they broke through the Ebonguards and thronged the Palace. The lives of every man, woman, and child on Palace Isle depended on it.

  Aravon had only one choice. A desperate, suicidal choice, but the only thing he could think of to stop the battle from turning against them.

  “Magicmaker!” he roared and clapped a hand on Zaharis’ shoulder. “With me.”

  The Secret Keeper completed the vicious swing of his mace, splintering an Eirdkilr’s shield and opening a gap for an Ebonguard to drive his sword into the barbarian’s blue-stained face, and pulled back from the battle line. His helmet hung askew and pain darkened his eyes, but he followed Aravon without question. Up the beach a few steps, then to the left toward the incline leading to the clifftop.

  Aravon turned to the Secret Keeper. “Watch my back!”

  Zaharis’ eyes flew wide, but before he could sign a question, Aravon raced the three steps toward the cliff’s edge and leapt off. He hung in the air for a moment, five feet above the metal-helmeted heads of the Eirdkilrs pressing against the Ebonguards. Then he plummeted like a dropped stone. Straight onto the densely clustered mass of barbarians.

  He hit the Eirdkilrs near the rear of their line, where the last few barbarians were splashing up from the ocean to join the battle against the Princelanders. Aravon landed atop six towering giants, lashing out with a desperate attack as he fell. Blood sprayed as his spear carved deep furrows in two Eirdkilrs faces, throats, and hands. He and the four remaining Eirdkilrs went down in a tangled heap of limbs, armor, furs, and steel.

  Something hard slammed into Aravon’s gut, driving the wind from his lungs. Another blow to the face, an elbow, knee, or boot. Hands closed around his right arm, legs, and throat, iron grips that held him fast and threatened to squeeze the life from his body. Panic flared in the back of his head and he struck out with his left hand. Wild, frantic punches, hitting blind into the pile of flailing enemies. Hitting armor, faces, arms, shields, anything he could. Anything to break the hold on him, to break free.

  Pain exploded in the back of Aravon’s head. Darkness closed in around him, blurring his vision. Yet he didn’t need to see to strike out. To struggle against the Eirdkilrs gripping his limbs and neck. Choking the air from his lungs and crushing his windpipe. Fear, fury, and desperation burned in his arms and legs he thrashed, clawed, and fought.

  A loud crunch from beside his ear, and the fingers around his throat loosened. Just enough to draw breath and for Aravon to tear free of the iron grip. Another breath, another gruesome crunch of shattering bone and pulped flesh, and Aravon struggled upright. The blue-stained face and skull of the Eirdkilr beneath him exploded beneath the spiked head of a mace. Blood splashed Aravon’s masked face, seeping into his eyes, and soaked his hands.

  But he was free of the pile of Eirdkilrs, free of their grasping hands. Somehow, he’d retained his grip on his spear. He struck out, a wild, swinging blow, no finesse or precision, simply raw strength fueled by the adrenaline burning through his muscles. The wooden shaft of the spear swept out an Eirdkilr’s legs and slammed into another’s knees with bone-crushing force. Zaharis’ mace shattered the barbarian’s face even as he fell.

  A hand hauled Aravon to his feet—Zaharis, fury blazing in his eyes, crimson staining his armor, mask, and helmet. Aravon had barely regained his balance when another Eirdkilr charged, howling, axe raised to strike. No time to think, just attack. He whipped his spearhead upward, slashing the barbarian’s throat. Spinning to cut down another attacking from the left. Slamming the iron-shod butt into a massive chest. With a savage twist, Aravon snapped out the long metal spike and drove it through an Eirdkilr’s face. He tore it free in a spray of blood and whirled the spear to slam into an upraised shield. Steel clanged off wood, chopping splinters free, but Aravon finished off with a low strike that cut the Eirdkilr’s leg off at the knee. A quick thrust of the iron spike and dark crimson bubbled from between the barbarians’ ribs.

  The world disintegrated into a howling, screaming mass of barbarians. Blue-stained faces twisted by hate as they hacked, chopped, and thrust. An unending assault of axes, spears, clubs, and shields striking at him from all sides. Aravon couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop attacking. The moment he slowed his movements and let the spinning, blurring steel head of his spear fall still, the Princelanders would die.

  He never saw Zaharis, only felt the blood spattering the sides of his neck, heard the screams and the wet, pulpy crunches of the Secret Keeper’s mace striking the Eirdkilrs. Aravon had eyes only for the enemy around him—the giant, monstrous creatures howling for his blood. He ducked, dodged, twisted aside from blows powerful enough to pulverize his skull and shatter every bone in his body. His muscles acted on instinct honed over years of training as he deflected or evaded the massive weapons seeking to tear his flesh. A swirling sea of chaos, with he and Zaharis as a single island in its midst.

  Fire raced through Aravon’s lungs. Throbbing aches pounded in his face, head, gut, ribs, and…Swordsman, every muscle and bone in his body. He could feel his attacks slowing—slowing with each hammering beat of his heart, each blow that crashed against his spear and sent jarring ripples along his arms and through his shoulders. No matter how fast he moved, he could only keep out those mass
ive axes, clubs, and spears for so long. His strength would give out, a weapon would slip through his guard. The alchemical treatment couldn’t repel a direct thrust or chop of an Eirdkilr axe. One wrong move, one mistake, and he would die.

  Yet on he fought. Desperate yet refusing to give in to despair. Digging deep to find his last reserves of energy. One more spinning attack. One more hasty swing of his spear to turn aside a descending axe or swinging club at the last second. His boots heavy with blood-soaked sand, tripping and stumbling over the bodies piling around him, yet somehow, impossibly, remaining upright. Never stopping, never slowing.

  He never saw the attack coming. One moment he was on his feet, cutting down an Eirdkilr with a savage upward slash. Then darkness, an explosion of agony, and the world blurred around him. Something slammed into his side and back. More pain, a stabbing lance that raced up his left side. Joined the throbbing that coursed along his right side. The right side of his head, too. His neck twisted as he was struck twice.

  An icy shock snapped him from the momentary stupor. Chill fingers slithered down his collar, flooding into his armor. Water. Salty water seeped beneath his mask, filled his nose and mouth. Aravon rose, spitting, and through blurry eyes stared down at delicate white foam sinking into the sand under his hands.

  Sand, water. Aravon’s pain-numbed mind struggled to form cohesive thoughts. A bestial roar echoed from his left. He lifted his head. In time to see a boot swinging at his face. Threw himself backward. Too late to dodge. The heavy foot connected with his cheek, a glancing blow that snapped his head around and set the world spinning once more.

  Agony raced up and down Aravon’s spine as he struggled to his feet. Something heavy slammed into his chest and stomach. Breath exploded from his lungs and he was hurled backward. Splashed into water now half a foot deep.