At their rear, the Hilmir and the last of his retreating warriors. A black-haired young man raced at his side. Aravon let out a slow breath at the sight. Bjarni, Throrsson’s son, had survived the clash in Storbjarg.
But not all of the Fjall warriors had been so fortunate. Aravon’s quick count estimated closer to nine hundred remaining of the original thousand that entered the Fjall capital at the Hilmir’s side. Even with their surprise assault, Throrsson’s warband hadn’t escaped without casualties.
The Fjall appeared to be fleeing in a disorganized rout, gripped in the chaos of defeat. Yet as they reached their formed-up comrades, they swirled around and to the sides, joining the shield wall in fives and tens. Wider and thicker the wall grew as one hundred, then two hundred, then five hundred of the Fjall warband locked shields with their fellows. Within the space of a few minutes, all nine hundred of the Hilmir’s warriors joined the shield wall, with Throrsson, Bjarni, and Sigbrand holding front and center.
Then came the Eirdkilrs. They were a haphazard, howling mass of warriors streaming up the road hot in pursuit of their fleeing foe. Their charge faltered a heartbeat as they caught sight of the Fjall shield wall. Yet there were barely more than a thousand Fjall, and Aravon estimated this first wave of Eirdkilrs—those closest to the escaping warriors—numbered at a thousand. More joined them with every passing second.
The Eirdkilr charge stalled only for a few seconds, little more than a stutter in their headlong pursuit of the fleeing Fjall. Howling war cries split the air, the fury and volume redoubled as they saw their enemy close at hand. With a cry of “Death to the traitors!”, they charged.
In Aravon’s experience, the Eirdkilrs typically opened a battle with a flurry of arrows. Their powerful longbows could punch a steel arrowhead deep into Legion shields. Yet, here, with the abrupt sneak attack and flight, those gathered hadn’t managed to form cohesive ranks or any real battle strategy. A few unlimbered their bows and sent shafts hurtling toward the Fjall shield wall, but most simply bulled headlong into melee. Within seconds, the foremost Eirdkilrs had drawn so close that the archers couldn’t loose shafts for fear of hitting their own.
That was precisely what Aravon and Throrsson had counted on. The round Fehlan shields were sturdier then Legionnaire shields, but they only covered half a man’s body. Eirdkilr arrows would do serious damage to the Fjall’s ranks, so they’d needed a plan that suckered the enemy into a head-on charge.
The Eirdkilr charge ate up the ground at a breathtaking speed. Two hundred yards closed to a hundred and fifty seemingly within the space of a heartbeat. A hundred. Eighty. Seventy. Sixty. Fifty. Aravon drew in a breath and braced himself for the impending crash.
Then another horn sounded. Two long, sharp blasts. A savage grin split Aravon’s lips at the glorious sound for which he’d waited.
The Eirdkilrs never saw the ambush coming.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Before the sound of the horn faded into the horizon, ten arrows streaked from the forest west of the Eirdkilrs’ position. Red-fletched shafts plunged into the mass of enemies. Skathi’s unerring accuracy wasn’t necessary; the enemy stood so tightly-packed that she couldn’t miss.
A moment later, a single crossbow bolt three feet long and as thick as Aravon’s spear slammed into the center of the Eirdkilr’s force. The missile slammed into one barbarian, punched through his side, and hurled him into the enemies marching beside him. The flapping, flailing Eirdkilr took four of his comrades to the ground with bone-jarring force, and the five were drowned and crushed beneath the stampeding feet of their comrades.
Loud hissing filled the air, and the sky west of the Eirdkilrs darkened. A savage grin split Aravon’s lips at the sight of a hundred darts hurtling toward the enemy. Unlike their southern cousins, the Fjall used no ranged weapons in their attacks. Due to the darts’ short range—as far as a strong man could hurl them—they were used primarily from the defensive vantage point of a tall city wall.
But not today. The Fjall had collected every dart they could scrounge up—just two hundred, scavenged from the town of Ingolfsfell to the northwest—and distributed among the warband. Now, half of those missiles rained down on the unsuspecting Eirdkilrs from their right. Caught by surprise, the barbarians had no time to raise their massive circular shields before the forearm-length darts plunged toward them. Barbed metal tips punched through chain mail, leather armor, furs, and flesh. Scores of Eirdkilrs fell beneath the hail of sharpened iron.
Then came the Fjall warband. Four hundred warriors crested the narrow rise to the west with a cry of “For Striith!” and charged down the short, shallow hill toward the clustered enemy.
A furious howl rose from the force of Eirdkilrs, and a third of their number wheeled toward the new attackers.
The horn sounded again, double clarion calls that echoed across the grasslands. From the forests east of the Eirdkilrs, a hundred more darts—the last of the Fjall missiles—darkened the sky. Arrows loosed by Colborn and Noll joined the swarm of death that rained down on the enemy’s backs. More Eirdkilrs fell, hammered to the earth by an invisible hand. Screams, cries, and howls of rage echoed loud as the remaining four hundred of Throrsson’s warband marched into view.
Anger curled tight and hot in Aravon’s stomach. Got you, you bastards!
The suddenness of the simultaneous attacks from both sides threw the Eirdkilrs into disarray. Any sense of cohesion they might have maintained during their headlong pursuit of the Fjall warband shattered. When the Hilmir sounded the charge a heartbeat later, he and his warriors hammered a staggered, confused enemy, little better than a rabble.
Throrsson’s shield wall struck first. A thunderous crash of steel and wood striking flesh set the ground trembling, and the Fjall cries of rage and vengeance echoed loud. At their head, the Hilmir fought beside his son, Bjarni, with his trusted Sigbrand at his left and the proud warriors of Fjall surrounding him. Throrsson battled like a man possessed. His sword hacked, bit, thrust, and chopped, spraying crimson and felling Eirdkilrs beneath the force of his rage. He fought for his people, avenging the deaths of those within Storbjarg. And the Eirdkilrs paid a heavy price in blood.
Yet, in the seconds it took the remaining eight hundred Fjall to reach the enemy, the Eirdkilrs had managed to form a semblance of a shield wall. Massive, heavily-muscled figures clad in icebear pelts locked shields and waved enormous axes, clubs, and spears at the enemy. When the four hundred from the west and four hundred from the east slammed into the Eirdkilrs, they inflicted far lighter casualties. Barely a few score fell beneath the charge. The Fjall flank attacks were stalled nearly instantly, crashing against a solid force of prepared and organized enemies.
From his seat in the saddle, Aravon took in the battle scene at a glance. Throrsson’s twelve hundred hammered the Eirdkilrs hard, and the enemy fell back beneath the superior numbers. But the four hundred attacking from the east was having a hard time of it. Their shield wall was too long, their ranks too thin. Whoever commanded that force had overestimated the impact their charge would have. Facing a line of formed-up Eirdkilrs, the Fjall were so focused on trying to surround the enemy from the south and east that they failed to anticipate the failure of their charge.
The center of their shield wall buckled beneath the Eirdkilrs’ ferocity. The southernmost warriors, in particular, struggled to corral the Eirdkilrs. Their attempts to encircle the enemy was failing and they took heavy losses. Worse, they found themselves beset from the south by a steady trickle of enemies streaming from Storbjarg.
Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. They’re going to break!
Without hesitation, Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s ribs and spurred to a gallop. The sound of battle faded around him as his eyes fixed on the too-thin battle line. His heart hammered terribly loud in his ears and he gripped his spear tighter. Hold on, damn it!
A heartbeat before he arrived, the shield wall broke. The right flank, beset from the south and too thin to hold b
ack the Eirdkilrs, crumbled. Five towering giants pushed through the gap in the line, trampling fallen Fjall, and fell upon the shield wall from the side and rear. The gap widened one dying Fehlan at a time, until the Eirdkilrs threatened to stream through.
With a roar, Aravon drove his spear into the first Eirdkilr’s chest. The force of his thrust, backed by the weight of the charging horse, punched the steel head through armor, leather, and flesh and hurled the Eirdkilr backward. The dying barbarian stumbled, arms flying wild, and his huge club smashed into the face of another Eirdkilr behind him. The two went down and for a the space of a single heartbeat, their enormous bodies blocked the gap.
In that instant, Aravon leapt from his horse and threw himself into the breach. Spear whirling, steel flashing in the sunlight, he slammed the iron-shod butt into one Eirdkilr’s forehead and sliced another’s throat with a single spinning motion. Took down another with a thrust to the chest. Ducked a high axe slash, knocked aside a club, and drove his spear up into the fork of the barbarian’s legs. The Eirdkilr fell with a groan, and Aravon finished him off with a slash to the face.
An Eirdkilr club smashed into him from the side. Pain flared through his right shoulder and he was hurled backward, off-balance. He would have fallen had he not crashed into a Fjall warrior beside him. The man went down but Aravon regained his balance in time to dodge the crushing club blow. The metal-capped butt of his spear crushed the enemy’s knee. Sagging, screaming, the Eirdkilr swiped at Aravon. The wild blow struck with rib-shattering force, and only the alchemically-treated surface of Aravon’s armor kept him alive. More pain in his side, dull and aching. Breath burst from his lungs and he gasped for air.
An arrow slammed into the Eirdkilr’s face, knocking him onto his back. The next instant, Colborn was beside Aravon, his Fehlan-style longsword flashing, his shield batting aside enemy strikes. With a roar, Colborn threw himself into the Eirdkilrs surging through the gap. Blood sprayed as Odarian steel slashed throats, sheared heavy limbs, or punched through chain mail.
Aravon drew in one ragged breath, then another. Pain faded beneath the rush of battle. Pushing off his spear, he rose to his feet and hurled himself into the gap beside Colborn. Together with the Fjall warriors, they threw back the Eirdkilrs and, one bloody step at a time, closed the gap in the shield wall.
A hand gripped Aravon’s shoulder and dragged him backward, away from the re-forming Fjall warriors.
“Trying to get yourself killed?” Colborn shouted over the din of battle.
Aravon was too winded to do more than shake his head. He’d acted on instinct, throwing himself into the gap to repel the enemy. If the Eirdkilrs had managed to break out, they could have done far worse damage. With the forces arrayed against them, the Fjall warband couldn’t afford heavy casualties, not yet. The time would come to slug it out with the Eirdkilrs, but for now, they had to rely on lightning attacks, ambushes, and surprises to carry the day.
From his vantage a few yards behind the shield wall, Aravon could see the Fjall’s plan to encircle the Eirdkilrs to the south had worked. Mostly. A few dozen of the Hilmir’s warband had turned to face the steady stream of Eirdkilrs racing to join their comrades. Already, those warriors were beset by a near-equal number of enemies—a number that grew with every passing heartbeat.
Aravon stifled a grunt of pain as he clambered into his saddle. He needed to get up high, to see the battle more clearly.
Hope surged within him as he caught sight of the Hilmir locked with the Eirdkilrs. The initial charge had winnowed the enemy’s forces, and the ferocity of Throrsson’s assault whittled the number to less than half of the original thousand. The remaining four hundred fought with the bloodthirsty ferocity for which the Eirdkilrs were feared, yet against so many, beset from all sides, they had little chance.
Keeper’s teeth, we might actually pull this off! Eliminating so many of the Blood Queen’s men in this initial assault would go a long way toward evening the odds when it came time to battle. All we’ve got to do is finish them off before—
His hopes died in that moment. A short, lithe figure in mottled armor galloped toward him, bent low over his charger’s neck.
No! Aravon’s breath clutched in his chest. It’s too soon!
Yet Noll’s presence could only mean one thing.
Reinforcements are coming.
Aravon rounded on Colborn. “Go! Find the bugler and sound the retreat!”
Colborn hesitated, anger blazing bright and hot in his eyes. Aravon knew exactly what he was thinking—he felt the same. We were so close! So close to wiping out this force here and now.
Yet if they delayed, if they continued fighting in an attempt to eradicate the remaining four hundred Eirdkilrs, they would find themselves surrounded by the Eirdkilrs who had marched from Storbjarg.
“Now, Colborn!” Aravon roared.
The Lieutenant snapped to action, digging his heels into his horse’s ribs and wheeling it toward the eastern forest, where the Fjall bugler and the fifty warriors remaining in reserve hid among the trees.
Aravon’s heart sank as he caught sight of the approaching Eirdkilr force. By his count, nearly eleven hundred Eirdkilrs had streamed from Storbjarg in pursuit of the fleeing Hilmir. A thousand had been caught in their ambush, and the remaining hundred had come upon the Fjall from the rear in twos and threes.
Yet the force that surged up the road toward them numbered more than three thousand. Either the Eirdkilrs had abandoned Storbjarg in their desire to bring down the Hilmir, or…
Icy feet danced down Aravon’s back at the sight of the figure leading the enemy. A tall, brown-haired woman with a bloodstained face clad in a filthy icebear pelt dyed rusty crimson by the dried blood of her victims. The Blood Queen herself, come to finish what she’d started near the Waeggbjod three days ago. At her back marched two thousand Eirdkilrs, shaggy-haired giants that filled the air with their howling war cries. Sunlight glinted off the steel swords, chain mail coats, and skullcaps, and the ground trembled beneath the force of their feet.
Added to the Eirdkilrs still within Storbjarg, that set more than four thousand enemies arrayed against them. If they joined battle here, the Hilmir and his Fjall warriors died. Their only hope of survival now was to pull back.
The horn rang, three high, sharp blasts that pierced the din of battle. Yet even with the retreat sounded, combat continued unabated. A few of the Fjall warriors broke off from the rear of the shield walls, but the bulk remained committed.
This was the most dangerous part of their desperate plan. Disengagements always took a bloody toll on those trying to break off battle. Whether they turned to flee or simply retreated, that moment when warriors stopped fighting gave the enemy an opening to exploit. For a few heartbeats, the Fjall took heavy losses as the shield walls struggled to disentangle themselves from the enemy.
It was only by the Swordsman’s grace that the Eirdkilrs were too few to take advantage of the disengagement. The Hilmir’s ambush had whittled their numbers to fewer than two hundred, and most of the Eirdkilrs were too occupied fighting for their lives to do more than stagger forward, stunned at the sudden cessation of battle. The gap between the retreating Fjall and the off-balance Eirdkilrs grew wider with every passing heartbeat, the casualties dwindling.
“Captain!” Noll’s shout snapped Aravon’s attention to the south. “They’ve got archers!”
Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. The Eirdkilrs beside the Blodsvarri had slung bows and nocked arrows. Even from nearly three hundred yards away, their heavy longbows could punch arrows through Fjall armor, shields, and flesh. In the precious seconds it would take for the Hilmir to get out of range, the Eirdkilrs could inflict bloody punishment on the fleeing Fehlans.
In horror, Aravon realized he and Noll were within bowshot. Sawing at his horse’s reins, he spun the beast to the north. “Ride!” he shouted.
The two horses broke into a gallop, racing away from the approaching Eirdkilrs. Yet, as Aravon glanced over h
is shoulder, he saw the enemy drawing back their bows to fire.
If they loosed, they wouldn’t just strike the retreating Fjall; she’d cut down the two hundred warriors still clustered around the site of battle.
Aravon sucked in a breath. She wouldn’t!
She did.
At the Blodsvarri’s snarled command, a thousand Eirdkilr longbows twanged in unison. The sky darkened behind a hail of black-shafted arrows. Sharp steel arrowheads gleamed in the morning light, singing a song of death as they arced through the air and plummeted toward the slowest of the Fjall. And the two hundred remaining Eirdkilrs.
Arrows clanked and banged off the raised Fehlan shields or slipped through the narrow gaps between, a symphony of death that scythed down Fjall by the scores. The Eirdkilrs, backs turned to their approaching reinforcements, never saw the hail of missiles speeding toward them. Three-quarters fell beneath the first volley. The heavy steel-tipped arrows of their comrades punched through icebear pelts, chain mail, and flesh. The screams of dying Fjall and Eirdkilrs mingled, the battlefield turning red with Fehlan and barbarian blood alike.
A few arrows whipped past Aravon, one close enough to glance off his leather pauldron. Yet they were at the extreme end of the longbows’ range, too far for the enemy to loose with any semblance of accuracy. Within a few heart-pounding seconds, the last of the missiles wobbled past or fell short as Aravon, Noll, and Colborn rode out of bowshot.
Only then did Aravon risk a glance back, and acid surged to his throat. Too many of the Fjall had joined the Eirdkilrs pinned to the earth by the black-shafted arrows. A hundred, perhaps more; Fehlans too slow to retreat or helping the wounded flee.
Anger mingled with the sorrow and worry burning in Aravon’s gut. He’d always known they’d take losses—heavy losses, given the enemy’s superior numbers. Yet this many, so early in the battle? They could ill-afford the casualties.
Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 50