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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Get the others!” Aravon shouted. “We’re going to buy some time.”

  Skathi whirled and kicked her horse into a gallop, shouting for Rangvaldr, Zaharis, and Belthar by their codenames. Aravon raced after her, only slowing when he reached Lord Virinus and the mercenaries, a few paces ahead of Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires.

  “Get them out of here!” His tone brooked no argument, even from the infuriated nobleman. “We’ll do our best to draw them away, but there’s a chance some will get past us and come for you. If that happens, your best bet’s to get off the road and out of sight.”

  “Then we hold them,” Captain Lingram began. “We can’t let—”

  “No!” Aravon drew his horse to a stop in front of his friend. “You were right in that your duty is first and foremost to your men and the Fehlans you protect. So you’re going to keep moving until you reach Sentry Garrison. Or find somewhere to hide until the way is clear.” He leapt down from the saddle and untied the Duke’s body from his horse’s back. Gently lifting the cloak-wrapped corpse, he held it out to Captain Lingram. “And you’ll make sure the Duke’s body gets to Icespire.”

  Captain Lingram grunted beneath the weight of the corpse—the Duke had been a strong man, with the heavy muscles of a warrior—but nodded. “So be it.”

  “We’ll try and come back for you.” Aravon’s voice grew solemn. “But if not, the burden of delivering the Duke to his final resting place is now on your shoulders, Captain Lingram. That, and seeing to the safety of the Hilmir’s daughter until she is recovered enough to return to her father.”

  “Yes, Captain Snarl.” Captain Lingram couldn’t salute, but he straightened, head held high. “Swordsman guide your steps.”

  “And strengthen your arm.” Aravon saluted, right fist to left shoulder, then turned and clambered back into his saddle. Within seconds, he was galloping past the pathetic column of battered, bloodied, and soot-covered Legionnaires.

  “Mess the bloody bastards up, Grim Reavers!” Corporal Rold shouted after him. “For Sergeant Brash, Corporal Awr, and Ninth Company!”

  Aravon raised his spear in acknowledgement. The bright steel head glinted in the sunlight, dazzling bright and razor sharp. He might not have an army at his back, but with the strength of his arm and the courage of the Grim Reavers, they’d do their damnedest to keep the enemy at bay.

  The rest of his companions fell in beside him, spurring their horses to a gallop to match his speed. The seven of them bent low in the saddle, leaning into the pounding pace. When Aravon glanced back a minute later, the dust kicked by the flying hooves of their Kostarasar chargers hid Captain Lingram, the Legionnaires, and the Deid from view.

  On they raced for half a mile before Aravon reined in. They’d put enough distance between the fleeing survivors that they could afford to stop and cobble together a hurried strategy.

  “Ideas?” he asked, glancing at the masked faces around him.

  “Straight down the middle and up their arses?” Noll unslung his horsebow and nocked an arrow.

  “Too many of them, but I like your thinking.” From the moment he’d heard of the Eirdkilrs’ approach, his mind had already begun to formulate a plan. “We’re going to charge the bastards like a proper cavalry.”

  “Says the only man with a spear,” Skathi muttered.

  “Straight down the middle, right into their howling mouths.” Aravon chose not to use Noll’s colorful language. “Loose as many arrows as you can get off, then break to the right and left just before we hit them.”

  “Draw them into the woods.” Colborn nodded his understanding of Aravon’s thinking. “Lead them on a merry chase like at Anvil Garrison.” He, too, had unlimbered his bow—a far longer, heavier weapon than the shorter horsebows Noll and Skathi carried—and set an arrow into place. “Any idea where to lead them?”

  “I was hoping you’d have that all nicely figured out for us.” Aravon grinned; the effect was lost beneath his mask.

  Colborn’s eyes narrowed, and he remained silent for a long moment. “The southern arm of the Standelfr River’s to the east, but that’s a hell of a ride. To the west, a whole lot of forest until we reach the Westmarch twenty miles south of Sentry Garrison.”

  “Dense forest?” Aravon asked. “Dense enough to hide a few horses?”

  After a second’s thought, Colborn nodded. “I know a few spots that could work.”

  “Good.” Aravon turned to the rest of his comrades. “Who’s heading east?”

  Noll’s hand shot up. “Ooh, ooh, pick me! Always wondered what east of a howling pack of Eirdkilrs would look like.”

  “I’ll give the bastards a run for their money,” Skathi put in.

  Aravon half-turned to Belthar, expecting him to volunteer to go with Skathi. Yet, to his surprise, the big man made no move. His eyes were dark, narrowed in thought.

  “Belthar, you’re with Colborn and me.” He shot a glance at Colborn. “Shorter distance to travel, less chance the horses will tire.”

  “He’s saying you’re fat.” Noll snickered at the big man. “You know, because—”

  Aravon cut off the scout. “Zaharis, Rangvaldr, with Noll and Skathi.” The Seiomenn had Colborn’s skills at woodcraft, which made him a perfect pairing for Noll’s horsemanship skills. Zaharis, well, he was Zaharis. If push came to shove, he’d feel better knowing the Secret Keeper was with the other half of his team to lend an explosive hand.

  Rangvaldr and Zaharis both signaled acknowledgement, and kicked their horses to move to Aravon’s left side. With Belthar and Colborn on his right, Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s ribs. The charger set off at its smooth, rolling gait, no longer galloping but speeding toward the Eirdkilrs at that ground-devouring pace. The horses could maintain that pace for hours—had done so, since traveling through all the previous day and night. The closest they’d come to resting was during Aravon’s interrogations of Scathan, Lord Virinus, and the mercenaries.

  Within a minute, the first of the Eirdkilr howls reached Aravon. A brown pillar of dust rose a mile or so to the southwest, in the direction of Saerheim. Aravon had never learned the scout’s art of estimating army sizes by judging the amount of dust kicked up by marching or racing feet, but that dirty cloud looked far too large for his comfort.

  Yet he didn’t slow. His heart hammered a steady beat, adrenaline coursing through his veins and setting every muscle firing, every nerve pinging. A flash of orange in the dense underbrush of the forest caught his attention—Snarl, racing through the trees alongside them, matching their pace yet remaining out of sight of the enemy.

  Aravon focused his attention ahead, and his vision narrowed in on the dusty wagon road, his senses ablaze. The smell of his sweat mingling with that of his horse. The thick, heavy clouds of dust billowing around him, the scent of mud baked to hardened clay by the sun. The thump, thump of his pulse echoing in time with the thundering of his horse’s hooves. The suppleness of his leather gloves, the solid wooden shaft of his spear, and the whipping mane of his horse slapping his left hand. The sun gleamed brilliant overhead, the sky a perfect cloudless blue broken only by that pillar of dust that drew ever closer.

  Then the Eirdkilrs came into view. Half a mile away, down a long, straight stretch of the wagon road that cut through a dense patch of forest. Aravon felt the inevitable tightening of his stomach, the clenching of his shoulders that came before combat. Sweat pricked on his forehead and streamed down his back. His leg muscles burned, yet the thrill of the impending fight drove back his fatigue. Pushed away his concerns for the survivors of Saerheim and banished all thoughts of Duke Dyrund, the traitor in Icespire, and his grief.

  That glimpse of the enemy brought clarity of thought, a single-minded purpose. The world around him faded until only the promise of battle ahead remained.

  A howling cry rose from the mass of Eirdkilrs. Shaggy-haired giants, seven feet tall, with faces stained blue and blond beards—as filthy and matted as the white icebear pelts slung over
their backs—braided with colorful beads and fragments of bone. A forest of steel axes and spearheads glimmered in the daylight, and iron-studded wooden clubs clashed against shields in a deafening wave that rolled over Aravon and set his heart beating faster.

  But there was no fear. Aravon wasn’t standing in the shield wall facing a charge—now, he did the charging. A charge that would never drive home his spear into his enemy’s belly, yet backed by the weight and speed of his horse, he felt a raw, unbridled power such as he’d never experienced before. In that moment, he understood why men like Commander Oderus placed such value in their cavalry. There was no feeling in the world like bearing down on a foe at full speed, spear outthrust, a wall of steel and muscle, human and beast.

  The first arrows zipped toward the Eirdkilrs. Two came from Aravon’s left, the third from Aravon’s right. Skathi, Noll, and Colborn, firing from horseback.

  Skathi’s arrow took an Eirdkilr in the throat, and Colborn’s punched through another’s leather tunic, burying to the fletching in his knee. Noll’s, however, spanged off an upraised shield and spun into the forest. Yet a moment later, Noll’s second arrow brought down the man, burying into his eye, just beneath the rim of his steel skullcap.

  The mass of howling Eirdkilrs surged toward them, an inexorable tide of filthy flesh, fur, and steel. Against three mounted archers, they had little to fear. Their howls echoed with bloodthirsty delight, and they planted their feet, locked shields in preparation for the inevitable charge. A pitiful charge of seven suicidal fools with no hope of surviving the clash, much less triumphing against their horde.

  Closer, closer, closer. Two hundred yards became a hundred and fifty, then a hundred. Aravon never slowed. Heart in his throat, pulse pounding so loud it drowned out the howls of the enemy. A single bead of sweat rolled down Aravon’s spine as he fixed his gaze on the Eirdkilrs, sought the ranks for any archers. The enemy, disdainful of his pathetic attempt to counterattack, hadn’t even bothered to unlimber bows.

  Seventy yards. Fifty. Aravon counted in his mind, measuring the distance in hammering heartbeats and the thunder of his horse’s hooves.

  Raising his spear, he growled his defiance, fueling his cry with every shred of fury burning within him. His six comrades echoed his shout, until the seven of them roared in unison. A single voice, raised in a challenge to the enemy.

  Thirty. Twenty-five. Twenty.

  “Now!” Aravon roared.

  Colborn, riding on the far right, hauled on his reins first. His horse turned sharply to the right, charging through a gap in the trees and into the dense forest. Belthar was hot on the Lieutenant’s heels, Aravon an instant behind. Less than ten yards from the formed-up shield wall of the Eirdkilrs, their charging company broke off to the east and west.

  Aravon had no chance to look back, to ensure his four comrades had broken off in time—he was too consumed with the slapping, whipping branches of the trees that flew past in a blur of brown and green. Spear held low, crouched over the neck of his horse, his muscles flexed as he leaned right and left in time with the charger’s sudden movements. He couldn’t think, couldn’t do more than cling to his mount’s back and pray for the strength to remain seated.

  Then came the beautiful sound he’d hoped for: the howling of the Eirdkilrs. That bestial, shrieking sound echoed with fury and outrage at seeing the enemy that had been within their grasp suddenly escape into the forest. The Eirdkilr war cries echoed loud, followed a moment later by a cacophony of snapping branches and pounding feet.

  Aravon risked a single glance back. Yes! The Eirdkilrs, surprised by their sudden counterattack and even more sudden disengagement, had been too stunned to react. Now, the lumbering giants roared through the forest, trampling their way in pursuit of Aravon and his companions. Half had come east, chasing him, Colborn, and Belthar. The rest—he could only hope—had chosen to hunt down Skathi, Noll, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr.

  A fierce grin split Aravon’s face as he faced forward once more. Come and get us, you bastards!

  Through the forest they raced, giving the horses their heads as they fled the pursuing barbarians. Around thick trees, leaping over exposed roots, charging down steep hills, and crashing through the bushes with the force of a runaway wagon. The chargers needed no encouragement from Aravon—the howling of the Eirdkilrs behind them was all the motivation they needed to run.

  With every passing minute, it seemed the Eirdkilrs’ cries fell farther behind, their lead growing wider as the Kostarasar chargers thundered through the forest. Yet, Aravon knew they had nowhere near enough lead yet. They’d have to run for hours, put as much distance as possible between them and the enemy before circling back to the north to search for the survivors of Saerheim. And the farther they went, the greater the chance Captain Lingram, the Legionnaires, and the Deid would escape the Eirdkilrs. By the Keeper, we’ll ride all day if it means they’re sa—

  Belthar reined in so suddenly Aravon had only a heartbeat to pull his horse to a skittering, sliding stop. His mount’s hooves dug deep furrows into the earth, sending mud and moss spraying all around him. Aravon was about to growl a curse when he caught sight of Colborn…and the sheer drop-off behind the Lieutenant.

  “Bloody hell!” Colborn whirled toward Aravon. “This wasn’t here last time I came this way, I swear!”

  It was as if a giant finger had carved a deep furrow into the ground. The earth had simply given way, dropping five feet to a steep muddy slope that descended for twenty yards toward a fast-flowing river. Piles of earth, stones, and uprooted trees hinted at some tremendous mudslide. The Duke’s reports of Deid lands spoke of heavier-than-average rains for the last three years; it wasn’t impossible to imagine some underground creek or stream expanding to a full-blown river in the torrential downpour that hit the region annually.

  Either way, they had no time for recriminations; the howling war cries of the pursuing Eirdkilrs drew closer with every thundering heartbeat.

  “Which way?” Aravon demanded.

  Colborn’s head snapped right and left, his eyes darting. South of their position, the solid ground curved sharply to the east, heading back in the direction of the Eirdkilrs, and the cliffs formed by the mudslide were far too steep to jump off.

  But north was no better. Though the terrain hadn’t yet given way, already trees had begun to tip toward the canyon, exposed roots unable to cling to firm earth. The chances of the ground crumbling away beneath them were high.

  Colborn’s met Aravon’s gaze, and though he said nothing, the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

  They were trapped.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Colborn!” Aravon shouted. “What’s our way out?”

  The Lieutenant’s eyes widened. “I don’t know!” He swept a hand toward the cliff. “We can’t risk the horses jumping off the cliff, and back’s not a bloody option!”

  “Think, damn it!” Aravon roared. Something glanced off his left shoulder pauldron—an arrow that spun away into the air above the rushing river. “We’re out of time!”

  “I got this, Captain.” Belthar leapt down from his horse and raced toward a broad birch tree growing on the edge of the cliff. Unslinging his huge double-headed axe, he gripped it with both hands, planted his feet, and swung with every shred of his prodigious strength. Steel thunked deep into wood, and the roots of the tree crackled loudly as the force of the blow tilted the birch farther out over the edge. Belthar wound up and swung again, this time bringing the axe across in a downward chop that slammed into the swaying tree. With a loud groan, the already unsteady birch tore free of its perch on the cliff’s edge, roots snapping like a dozen rope-thick bowstrings.

  But before Belthar could leap back, the ground crumbled beneath his feet. Dirt, stone, grass, and tree fell into the ravine, taking the big man with it.

  “Belthar!” Aravon and Colborn shouted at the same time.

  Without hesitation, Aravon turned his horse’s head toward the spot where the big man had disappeared.
The collapsing section of the cliff had formed a ramp-like decline—a decline Aravon now spurred his horse down.

  Duke Dyrund’s specially-bred Kostarasar chargers were famous not only for their endurance, but for their fleetfootedness. The huge warhorse raced down the steep hill, hooves digging for purchase in the sliding mud, dirt, and scree. With a silent prayer to the Swordsman—for himself and for Belthar, who had disappeared amid the flying dust and the tree crashing down the hill—Aravon released the reins and clung to his saddlehorn for dear life. So steep was the decline that he had to lean back until he lay nearly flat against the horse’s haunch.

  Somehow, impossibly, the horse managed to retain its footing as it raced down the hill. Yet with the force of its descent and gravity working against it, the beast could not stop when the ground suddenly fell away.

  Aravon found himself flying, suspended in the air for a heartbeat. Then he fell, plummeting after his horse straight toward the river flowing below.

  He hit the water with a loud splash, and the icy shock froze him in place. For a heartbeat, he was too chilled to move, to think, to paddle for the surface. Then instinct kicked in and he fought to break free of the river’s grip. His head burst free of the water and he drew in a desperate breath. Warm air surged into his lungs, heat flooding his cold-numbed limbs. The weight of his armor and weapons dragged down on him, threatening to pull him to a watery grave, but he fought to keep his mouth and nose above water with the stubborn tenacity that had gotten him through so many battles alive.

  “Captain!” Colborn’s voice sounded faint, distant beneath the rush of the river’s current. Aravon struggled to glance back, twisting his head in time to see the half-Fehlan Lieutenant making the same careening charge down the slope, Belthar’s horse in tow. But instead of falling, he spurred his horse to leap into the water, and he hit the river still ahorse. He was far behind Aravon, but with the speed and strength of his horse to swim with the current, he made fast progress.