Aravon had just lifted his foot to his stirrup when something prickled at the back of his mind. A sense of something wrong, perhaps. An instinct.
No, a sound. The scrape of boots on stone, a clank of a jangling weapon. A cough or a low growling. Harsh whispers that carried on the wind and echoed through the canyon.
Dread set Aravon’s mind racing, his nerves twanging. There could only be one explanation for the noise.
The Rakki had caught up with them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
With the speed of a wound-up spring suddenly released, Aravon leapt into his saddle and spun toward the soldiers. “Enemies!” he hissed in a voice barely above a whisper.
Those Legionnaires not yet seated scrambled onto their mounts and took off after Colborn, Noll, and Captain Lingram. Within seconds, their entire nineteen-soldier column was charging up the trail, darting around the bends in the rocky canyons and between cliffs.
A ululating shrieking echoed off the high stone walls and sent a chill down Aravon’s spine. The Rakki would never miss the metallic thunder of steel-shod hooves ringing on the stony trail, or the clank and clatter of the riders and their gear. They had heard their prey, and eager delight echoed in their howling war cries.
Aravon’s gut clenched. Now there’s no way we’ll lose them! The Rakki had only to follow the sound of the racing horses through the silent, empty mountains. Nothing short of a miracle would get Aravon and his soldiers to safety before their pursuers caught up.
Gritting his teeth, Aravon gripped his reins tighter and locked his legs on his horse’s sides. Behind him, the Legionnaires struggled to remain in their saddles, swaying dangerously side to side as their mounts darted around the sinuous trail at a breakneck speed. All the while, the howls of the Eirdkilrs pursued them, the cries of battle and death ringing off the stone walls around them.
But soon the hard-packed earth of the trail turned rocky and uneven. Time and the elements had worn away at the cliff walls. Stone had crumbled and now lay strewn across the path, rubble that could prove deadly at their frantic pace.
Before he could shout the order to slow, a horrifying, bone-chilling shriek echoed behind him. High and ringing with agony, it was followed a heartbeat later by a man’s cry of pain, fear, and shock. The cries cut off in meaty thumps, and a clatter of shouts and screams, human and animal, resounded off the stone walls.
Aravon risked a glance backward, and horror twisted in his gut. One of the Legionnaires—the Malandrian, Tandel—had gone down, and his falling horse had fallen across the trail. Three more soldiers and their horses had crashed into the downed rider and mount, flinging men free of their seats to slam into the cliff walls and stony floor. The three riders at the rear—Belthar, Skathi, and Zadan—had barely managed to halt before plowing over their fallen comrades.
Keeper’s teeth! Aravon reined in his horse, and the soldiers around him did likewise. By the time he got his mount’s head turned around, Belthar had already leapt down from his saddle and was struggling to extricate the downed soldier from beneath his thrashing, shrieking mount. The horse’s every movement elicited new cries of pain from the man, whose legs lay trapped beneath the huge charger. Aravon had a sick feeling—he’d seen the sorts of injuries cavalrymen could sustain in a fall like that, and few walked away.
Agonizingly long seconds passed before Belthar managed to extricate the fallen Legionnaires from atop their comrade. None of the others had sustained more than bruises, but one of the horses moved with a pronounced limp.
Tandel and his mount, however, were in a bad way. The horse’s right foreleg had snapped, the bone twisted at a terrible angle with one long, sharp bone piercing its thick skin. Its left rear leg had been trampled and crushed. Its squeals and shrieks of pain reverberated from the canyon walls, the agony in its cries chilling Aravon to the core of his being.
Sorrow twisted in Aravon’s chest as he turned to Belthar. “Put the horse down.” Horses rarely recovered from broken legs; worse, its screams would only make it easier for the Rakki to find them.
Belthar wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck and, with a grunt of effort, lifted it just far enough off the ground for Nacil and Tark to drag Tandel out from beneath. Gently, speaking soothing words to the horse, he lowered it back to the ground and stroked its head to calm it.
Zaharis bustled over to the horse, a pouch of dried and crushed herbs in his hand. “A sleeping draught,” he signed one-handed. “To numb its pain.”
He emptied half his waterskin into the horse’s mouth, adding a handful of the herbs. Within seconds, the horse’s cries of pain diminished and it lay calm, snuffling and snorting gently.
Zaharis knelt at the mount’s side and stroked its long, black mane. “Do it,” he signed to Belthar without looking up.
Sorrow darkened Belthar’s eyes as he drew his axe and raised it over his head. Aravon almost imagined he heard the big man whisper “I’m sorry” before bringing the weapon down. Once, a single blow backed by his massive muscles. The axe slammed into the horse’s skull with bone-crushing force, pulverizing the brain in an instant. The horse never felt a thing.
Acid twisting in his stomach, Aravon turned away from the horse and sought out Tandel. The Malandrian lay on the rocky path, with Zadan and Tark crouched at his side. His right leg lay at an unnatural angle, his left knee crushed beneath his leather armor. Pain burned bright in his eyes, but he managed to stifle his cries of pain enough to protest through gritted teeth, “I can go on, Captain.” Even the simple act of speaking seemed to send another wave of torment through his leg. “I won’t be running too far,” he gasped, “but I can ride.”
Aravon knew better—Tandel wouldn’t get far with his legs like that.
Before he could respond, a loud creak and twang echoed from the rear of the column, followed by a howling shriek of pain. He spun toward the path behind him in time to see a Rakki slumping to the ground, an arrow embedded in his chest.
A moment later, another black-faced Rakki raced around the corner. Skathi’s second arrow took him in his right eye. But even as Skathi drew her third arrow and nocked it to her string, Aravon knew they’d run out of time. Running had been a desperate hope already; with these few minutes of delay and Tandel’s injury, they could run no longer.
“We fight!” Even as he shouted the words, his eyes scanned the cliff walls around them and the trail ahead. The narrow path through the rocks provided ample cover from enemy archers, but their position wasn’t defensible. The Rakki could come straight on in twos and threes, and the rocky, uneven ground would do little more than slow them down.
But fifty yards farther up, the steep incline, narrow cliffs, and a particularly rubble-strewn section of trail would offer a far better place to make a stand.
“There!” Aravon pointed to the spot. “That’s where we fight.” Nineteen of them—eighteen now, given Tandel’s condition—had a decent chance of holding that position. Though for how long? He pushed the thought aside. He couldn’t think about that now. One problem at a time—fight first, then figure out our next move after.
The Legionnaires scrambled to re-mount, save for the two at Tandel’s side.
“Go!” Belthar waved them away. “Get out of here. I’ve got him!” Before Tark and Zadan could protest, Belthar scooped the wounded Tandel up in his massive arms. The jolting motion set Tandel screaming, but his cry was drowned out a moment later by the howling scream of a Rakki dying to another of Skathi’s arrows.
That sound and the sight of yet another fur-clad barbarian racing around the bend in the trail was enough to snap Tark and Zadan into action. They, too, scrambled into their saddles and took off in pursuit of Colborn, Captain Lingram, Corporal Rold, and the others that had raced ahead.
Belthar set off at a run, doing his best to cover ground quickly without jostling Tandel too much and causing more pain. He’d barely run five steps before Tandel passed mercifully into unconsciousness. That freed Belthar up to break into a dash,
and he raced the fifty yards up the trail toward the spot Aravon had chosen.
Finally, only Aravon and Skathi remained. “Skathi, break off!”
Another twang and a Rakki cry, followed by a second, a third, and more as the Agrotora’s arms moved with impossible speed. Yet every thundering beat of Aravon’s heart brought more Rakki around the bend. Ten, fifteen, twenty, too many for Skathi to bring down alone.
“Break off, damn it!” Aravon shouted.
Before the words left his mouth, Skathi loosed one last arrow, sending it into a Rakki’s exposed throat, and whirled to leap into her saddle. Aravon clapped his heels to his mount’s ribs and took off up the rocky trail as fast as he dared. The clatter of hoofbeats and the furious howls of the Eirdkilrs told him Skathi had fallen in behind him.
The horses raced up the fifty yards in a matter of seconds. Colborn was already calling orders to the soldiers, shouting them into the shield wall they’d practiced so many times over the last days of travel. The Legionnaires, though still not fully accustomed to their new weaponry, formed the line with surprising speed. Two ranks deep, five men across, shields interlocked and weapons held at the ready. By the time Aravon and Skathi reached them, a bristling wall of wood, steel, and masked faces greeted him. The Legionnaires parted just long enough to make way for the two riders before they closed the gap behind them, with Legion-trained efficiency.
Reining in behind his men, Aravon leapt from his saddle. He spared a glance for Tandel, who sat unconscious, propped up against the cliff face a few paces back from the battle line, round shield resting atop his shattered leg and leaning against his chest to protect his torso. Horror twisted in Aravon’s stomach at the sight of the man’s shattered and crushed legs—until Rangvaldr could heal Tandel, better he remain unconscious than suffer that pain. Turning away from the injured Legionnaire, he snatched up his spear and strode toward the battle line.
Skathi joined Noll and Zadan, and the three of them loosed a steady stream of arrows at the oncoming Rakki from behind the formed-up Legionnaires. The barbarians tried to hide behind their round wooden shields, but the steel-tipped missiles punched through their legs and knees, slowing them down further.
Yet one look at the Rakki surging up the path, and Aravon knew arrows wouldn’t suffice to stop the enemy. More than thirty of the rangy barbarians remained—twenty-nine, as Skathi’s arrow blossomed from one’s eye—and they’d reach the Legionnaires’ shield wall in a matter of seconds.
In those seconds, an icy calm descended over Aravon. His vision narrowed, everything around him swimming into crystal clarity. Sounds—the harsh, barked orders from Colborn on his right, the twang and hiss of Noll, Skathi, and Zadan at the rear of their battle line, the howls of the Eirdkilrs—filtered through his ears without registering in his mind. He sensed more than saw movement from Captain Lingram at his left with the hulking Endyn beyond or Rangvaldr and Zaharis in the Legion shield wall in front of him.
The world seemed to fade—gone were the sheer cliffs of dark grey stone, the rock-strewn path beneath his feet, the slivers of sunlight shining through gaps in the high walls—until only the enemy remained. Those towering figures with corded ropes of muscle, clad in their cast-off leather armor and filthy grizzly bear pelts. Faces stained dark, not with blue Eirdkilr war paint, but a tint far darker, a black so deep it could only have come from ghoulstone. Eyes blazing with a wild, insane light. Swords, shields, axes, and spears held in strong hands scarred by battle.
This was his enemy. They had come to kill him, to kill the men under his command—the twelve Legionnaires. It fell to him to make damned sure they failed.
Aravon gripped his spear tighter, gripped Rangvaldr’s shoulder and braced for the charge. His eyes locked on the foremost of the Rakki, a lean, hungry-eyed man with a hand axe and spear. A snarl of rage twisted the barbarian’s lips as he hurled himself onto the center of the Legion shield wall.
The thunderous crash of Rakki slamming their line echoed through the canyon. The Legionnaire at the front—Aravon couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see anything but the back of his helmeted head—staggered beneath the impact, stumbling backward into Rangvaldr. A jolt ran down Aravon’s arm and set his shoulder twinging as he braced the Seiomenn. Held him upright long enough to regain his balance, then pushed him back into the fray.
He drove his spear forward, straight into the Rakki’s snarling face. Blood gushed from the man’s wide-open mouth as steel sliced his cheek and nose and tore out his left eye. A blow from a Legionnaire’s shield knocked the Rakki backward, sending him stumbling into the man behind him. The two fell to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs, furs, and fury, and were engulfed by the Rakki charging behind them.
Another came, slamming into the same Legionnaire. Aravon’s spear was waiting for him. Sharp steel tore open the savage’s throat, and blood gushed over the Legionnaire’s face, splashing his mask, neck, and chest. Screaming, the Legionnaire frantically pawed at his eyes. Aravon thrust out, bringing down the Rakki attempting to hack down the momentarily-distracted soldier. The Legionnaire’s helmeted head suddenly snapped to the side with a loud crack. He went down, taking with him the axe a Rakki had buried in his skull.
Aravon stabbed over Rangvaldr’s shoulder, again and again, thrusting with the long blade of his spear. No time to think, no thought of strategy or counterattack. Simply holding his place in line. Fighting to cut down the enemy before they cut him down.
The Odarian steel head of his spear punched through leather armor, furs, wood, and flesh. Blood sprayed in the air, soaked Aravon’s gloved right hand, and slicked the stones beneath his feet. One Rakki after another charged the center of the line. Rangvaldr stepped into the gap and met them shield to shield, weapon to weapon. Aravon at his back, supporting him, fighting for balance, hitting back at the enemy that slammed into his place in the shield wall.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Aravon felt as if he moved through mud—everything had gone numb, save for the fire in his spear arm, the thundering of his pulse in his ears. His arm drove forward, pulled back, drove forward again, again, again. His eyes never left the Rakki before him; steel swords, wooden clubs, bloodstained shields, and filthy furs. All that mattered was keeping them from cutting down Rangvaldr. He was all that stood between his friend and certain death.
His gaze locked with a charging spear-wielding Rakki. A wild light shone in the man’s eyes—the gleam of insanity, inherent or fueled by some intoxicating substance. The barbarian bared his teeth in a vicious snarl and raised his weapon to strike. Rangvaldr’s sword punched through his chin and up into his brain, then withdrew so suddenly the man staggered, brain already dead but his body slow to realize. Crimson gore gushed from the wound and then the Rakki was gone from his sight.
So suddenly it seemed almost from one moment to the next, the battle was over. Aravon thrust his spear forward out of reflex, only to strike empty air. The last of the Rakki fell to a Legionnaire’s blade, and the cliff walls around them fell silent. After the clash and chaos of the skirmish, the quiet felt oddly eerie. Almost unnatural.
Aravon blinked, and the world swam back into focus. The metallic tang of fresh-spilled blood hung thick around him, and beneath it the stench of bowels loosened in death. Aravon’s fingers squelched around the haft of his spear—crimson stained his arm to the elbow, turned his gloves sodden. His hand refused to release its grip on his weapon, his forearms locked up and the muscles of his arms burning. Every nerve and muscle in his body seemed to blaze with the rush of battle.
Adrenaline retreated and the thundering of Aravon’s heartbeat slowed. Reality washed over him in a sickening wave of pain—in his face where Rangvaldr’s head had struck him, in his spear arm, and in his knee, though from what, he didn’t know. He sucked in a shuddering breath, and found his world consumed with the groans, cries, and gasps of his soldiers.
Again, Aravon blinked and this time managed to turn his head. To take in the bloodstained masks and armor of the so
ldiers around him—Captain Lingram to his left and the hulking Endyn beyond, who bore a cut on his massive spear hand; Zaharis, his spiked mace dripping gore and crimson-tinged hair; the masked Legionnaires, men he had only known a few short days, staggering with exhaustion and the pain of their wounds.
Reality slammed into Aravon, and suddenly his mind seemed to function once more. A shout to his left drew his attention to Skathi. The leather mask muffled her voice, but after a moment, his brain registered her words. “One of them got away!”
Ice flooded Aravon’s veins. “What?” The sudden chill pushed back the last of the fire of battle coursing through his vein.
Skathi’s eyes were grim behind her blood-spattered mask. “One of the Rakki hung back while the others did battle. I looked away for two seconds, then he was gone.”
“A scout,” Rangvaldr said. “All of these were.”
Aravon turned toward the Seiomenn. Rangvaldr’s shield, mask, helmet, and legs were spattered with blood, and a thick coating of crimson stained his sword and right arm. Yet he seemed to have survived the battle without serious injury—a shallow gash to his leg and a blow that had knocked his helmet askew.
“These were the fastest among them, their advanced skirmishers sent to find our location and report back.” Rangvaldr’s tone was heavy with worry, his eyes dark. “The main force will be close on their heels.”
Aravon’s jaw clenched—the muscles ached, as if he’d gritted his teeth the entire battle. “How far behind?”
Rangvaldr’s green eyes darkened. “Not far enough. Minutes, at best.”
Damn it! Aravon snarled a silent curse. They’d have no time to rest and treat their wounds here. They’d need to hurry if they were to find someplace to hide—or, if the Swordsman smiled on them, disappear into Captain Lingram’s hidden way under the mountains.
Courage to Sacrifice Page 20
