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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Or pull on boots without your joints creaking.” Rangvaldr tried to sound bitter, but Aravon caught the glint of humor beneath. The Seiomenn’s spirits were lifting—he just had to give the man a little more, the final proof that no matter what, their company valued him.

  He fixed Rangvaldr with a solemn gaze. “The day will come when Nuius calls you to Seggrholl, but until that day, we’re honored to have you at our side. As our comrade, our brother-at-arms, and our friend. Because without you, Rangvaldr, we’d all be fucked.”

  The tension lifted from the Seiomenn’s shoulders, and he nodded. “Thank you, Captain. In my heart I know you’re right, but sometimes it’s good to hear—”

  Rangvaldr’s words cut off and his eyes narrowed, every muscle in his body tense.

  “What is it?” Aravon asked in the silent hand language.

  But even as his fingers formed the question, he heard what Rangvaldr had: the howling, piercing war cries of the Eirdkilrs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aravon spun toward the sound, anxiety twisting his gut into knots. The Eirdkilrs’ war cries came from at least a mile away, east through the woods bordering the wagon road. Judging by the timbre—the bestial shrieks of delight and bloodlust—they had found prey to hunt.

  Colborn! The Lieutenant had gone to scout east of the road, to watch out for Eirdkilrs in the vicinity. If he’d run into a pack of the giant barbarians, he could be in real trouble.

  Aravon turned toward Rangvaldr. “Go, get to Captain Lingram and the Deid. Warn them to take cover and get off the road, then take Belthar and find Noll and Zaharis.”

  Rangvaldr shook his head. “Not a damned chance I’m letting you ride into that alone, Captain!”

  “Colborn could be in trouble—”

  “Trouble we face together!” Rangvaldr insisted.

  “Or you go fetch the others and get back here as fast as you bloody can!” Aravon’s voice rose to a ringing shout. “I’ve no idea what’s going on, and I swear I won’t make a move until I get a clear picture of the situation. But if Colborn’s running or fighting for his life, every second counts. So quit wasting time and follow my damned orders!”

  Rangvaldr hesitated only a heartbeat before turning his horse’s head around and digging his heels into the charger’s ribs. The beast sprang into a gallop and tore off down the road, heading south, back the way they’d ridden.

  Aravon nearly tore the leather thong in his haste to draw out his bone whistle. A sharp blast brought Snarl swooping low toward him. Aravon had no time for Snarl’s enthusiastic greeting. He’d barely caught the Enfield in his arms before he held the cloth with Skathi’s scent up to Snarl’s nose.

  “Find her!” he barked the command word.

  Snarl gave a worried bark and leapt off Aravon’s saddle, sharp claws digging into the wooden horn as he bounded into the air. His eagle’s wings, three feet long and heavy with dark brown feathers, snapped out, carrying him upward into the clear blue sky. Aravon didn’t bother to watch Snarl go—instead, he yanked on his horse’s reins and spurred the charger into the woods east of the wagon road.

  Low-hanging branches and prickly thorn bushes clawed at Aravon’s helmet, armor, and legs as he crashed through the dense forest, his horse dodging between the trees with agility impressive for a mount so large. The sweet scent of berries hung thick around him, tinged by the freshness of flowering life. But it was the bitter taste of worry that clung to Aravon’s tongue, and sweat streamed down his back and face as he clung to the horse’s mane.

  He had to hurry, had to reach the Eirdkilrs and find out if Colborn was in danger. He couldn’t let his man fight the enemy alone.

  The howls of the Eirdkilrs grew louder as he approached, their screams of wild abandon and delighted bloodlust echoing through the forest. Yet that brought a glimmer of hope to life within Aravon. Given the volume of those howls, the Eirdkilrs had to number in the hundreds. Against so many, Colborn would have chosen flight over fight. The fact that the war cries continued unabated a full minute after he’d first heard them meant whoever they battled wasn’t going down easy.

  Hold on!

  The thickets grew denser, the drooping boughs so low he could barely see more than a few paces in any direction. Every shred of concentration went into dodging trees and branches, gripping his saddle with his legs, staying upright atop the mount that leapt, darted, and twisted like a storm-tossed coracle. And with each thundering hoofbeat, each jolting step, his horse charged toward danger. Toward an enemy that howled for his blood and the blood of every Princelander.

  But that was his duty, the mission he’d accepted from Duke Dyrund. The Duke’s death hadn’t put an end to his purpose—if anything, it only solidified the need for his company.

  So on he charged, heart in his throat, fists gripping the reins so tight his leather gloves creaked. Hunched in the saddle, leg muscles burning with the effort of staying in place. Racing toward the enemy, and whatever prey they had cornered.

  Then, through a gap in the dense pine trees, Aravon caught a glimpse of the Eirdkilrs. Towering, shaggy-haired giants clad in filthy pelts, surging up the steep slope of a grassy knoll not twenty yards from the forest’s edge. Screaming, shrieking, howling their bloodlust at the figures clustered atop the rise.

  Aravon reined his horse to a stop just within the tree cover and, leaping from the saddle, threw himself behind a tree. Heart hammering, he peered out at the battle raging less than a hundred yards away.

  More than a hundred Eirdkilrs struggled to ascend the sharp incline, which rose fifty feet to a flat circular peak. Atop the knoll sat four canvas-covered wooden wagons formed in a tight circle, and within that ring, a handful of men in pitch-black armor struggled against the Eirdkilrs that had already crested the rise. Though the wagons provided a solid barrier to keep the enemy at bay, the towering barbarians clambered over the heavily-laden wagon beds or hacked and thrust at the black-armored soldiers holding the gaps between the carts.

  From his position at the base of the knoll, Aravon had no idea how many men stood within that wagon ring, but judging by the size of the flat hilltop, there couldn’t be more than a few dozen. The embattled warriors seemed to be holding their own, but against so many Eirdkilrs, their chances of survival were limited.

  Aravon shot a glance over his shoulder and growled a silent curse. Snarl had likely already found Skathi, and the archer would be on her way at that very moment. Knowing Colborn, he was hiding among the thick forest, analyzing the battle just as Aravon was.

  Three of us against so many of them? Aravon gritted his teeth. Charging in without reinforcements is going to get us killed.

  Yet if he didn’t do something to help, the Eirdkilrs would overwhelm the warriors within the ring of wagons.

  So what the hell do I do?

  Colborn had his bow, and Skathi’s half-empty quiver of arrows could reduce the Eirdkilrs by at least a dozen. But Aravon had only the longsword at his belt and his spear.

  His spear, and his horse.

  Before he could change his mind, he leapt into his saddle and dug his heels into his mount’s side. The enormous Kostarasar charger, bred for battle and travel, burst free of the forest and raced toward the hill.

  Aravon had no illusions that his one-man charge would break the enemy—the horse would run out of energy long before it ascended the sharp, fifty-foot slope, and far too many Eirdkilrs stood between him and the wagon ring to punch through. Yet he could distract the barbarians. Perhaps pull enough of them away to give the black-armored warriors atop the hill a fighting chance.

  And so he charged, spear tucked under his right arm, left hand gripping his reins. Sweat trickled down his back and soaked the palms of his leather gloves. His heart thundered in time with the pounding hooves of his warhorse. Closer, closer, bursting free of the forest, charging straight toward the enemy. Fists clenched, spine muscles tight, Aravon opened his mouth and loosed a roaring cry of, “For the Princelands!”

  S
traight up the hill he rode. Five feet, ten feet, fifteen. Directly at the backs of the slowest Eirdkilrs. Just before he slammed into the towering barbarians, he jerked hard on the reins, sending his horse wheeling left. Bright Odarian steel punched through icebear pelts, iron-studded leather armor, and flesh. An Eirdkilr fell, borne to the ground by the force of Aravon’s charge.

  Twisting in his saddle, Aravon yanked the spear free of the dying Eirdkilr without slowing. But instead of bringing it back for another thrust, he whipped it around, slashing with the long spearhead. The razor-sharp tip carved through the backs of Eirdkilr necks, slicing furs and muscles. Little more than surface wounds, but enough to enrage the barbarians.

  His roar and the sudden attack brought a few of the Eirdkilrs whipping around. As he thundered past, they turned and lumbered down the hill in pursuit. Aravon galloped around the circumference of the knoll, racing behind the rearmost Eirdkilrs and whipping his spear about like a cavalryman’s sword. Pathetic attacks, yet they served their purpose. The Eirdkilrs’ infuriated howls echoed in his wake, and the barbarians turned to meet his charge.

  Then Aravon was free of the Eirdkilrs struggling up the knoll. He raced along the slope rather than try to ascend or descend, keeping the horse’s trajectory level. As he rode, he risked a glance up the hill. Only a handful of Eirdkilrs stood on the western slope, but with every passing second, more and more engulfed the circled wagons. In less than a minute, the enemy would surround the black-armored warriors. Eventually, numbers and the Eirdkilrs’ size would win out.

  Not if I’ve got a damned thing to say about it!

  Circling the hill took less than a minute at his horse’s impressive speed. For a moment, he contemplated drawing his longsword and fighting like a cavalryman, only to discard the idea. He’d have to close with the enemy, draw within sword range—within range of their longer, heavier weapons. Better to harry and distract rather than try to kill.

  As he rounded the western slope of the knoll, he caught the Eirdkilrs on the southern incline utterly unprepared. His slashing spear attacks drew their attention toward him. In twos and threes, they turned to pursue him.

  An Eirdkilr leapt in front of him, spear raised for a thrust. Only to drop a moment later with an arrow in his neck. Colborn’s next arrow took a second Eirdkilr in the side, punching through his armor. A scream from behind Aravon told him the Lieutenant’s third shot hadn’t missed.

  But Aravon had no time to pay attention to Colborn. He’d nearly done a full circle around the hill, and now the rearmost Eirdkilrs had turned, axes, spears, and clubs ready to strike him down. Yanking on the reins, Aravon charged off down the hill, and back onto the flat, grassy ground bordering the forest. In seconds, he was racing through the woodlands. Bushes crashing, leaves whipping at his face, his mouth full of saliva and dust. Heart hammering a staccato beat in his chest and his lungs burning. His fingers ached from gripping the reins and the shaft of his spear, his wrists ablaze from the effort of his attacks. Yet he was free. Free of the Eirdkilrs’ clutches and leading at least a handful away from the besieged hilltop.

  The Eirdkilrs’ war cries echoed behind him, accompanied by a great crashing of heavy bodies thundering through the trees and underbrush. Aravon turned hard to the right, heading north, deeper into the forest. He had to keep the Eirdkilrs away from the wagon road, away from Captain Lingram and the Deid.

  Suddenly, a heavy oak branch loomed in front of him, right in his path. He tried to duck. Too late.

  Pain exploded in his masked face as he was hurled backward, knocked free of his saddle. Blackness swam in his vision, the world a blur. Breath burst from his lungs as something impossibly hard and solid slammed into his back.

  Agony flared through every muscle in Aravon’s body. Drums rattled around his skull, down his spine, in his legs. He tried to draw breath, failed, and tried again. Barely a gasp of air. His eyes opened, only to find himself floating in a spinning, whirling kaleidoscope of colors. Greens, browns, and dazzling crystal blue, a vortex of brilliance that stung his eyes.

  Again he sucked in air, and this time his lungs cooperated. One breath, two, a third, each flooding him with life and restoring energy to his body. And pain. So much pain. In his face, the taste of blood thick in his mouth. All along his back, his shoulders, his ribs, his hips. The back of his skull ached, setting his head throbbing with such violence it nearly drove him to unconsciousness.

  Yet Aravon reached for the pain, used it to drag him back to reality. Pain meant he was alive. Alive, but in serious danger.

  Aravon blinked hard and, groaning in agony, rolled over. Spat a mouthful of blood into rustling dried leaves and soft forest grass. Shoved himself onto one elbow, then another. Lifted his head and tried to bring his blurred eyes back into focus. Another breath, another groan, and up he rose. One knee then the other, his head heavy and his body ablaze with throbbing, stabbing, piercing misery.

  With a superhuman effort, Aravon lifted his head and shook the ache from his skull. Teeth gritted against nausea and his lungs flooded with glorious air. He blinked, twice, and stared dully at the figure charging toward him. A huge, filthy figure with a face stained deep blue and a white-blond beard braided through with shards of bones and colorful beads.

  Everything slowed to a crawl as his pain-numbed mind struggled to form cohesive thoughts. To recognize that howling, shrieking figure charging at him. Metal glinted in the sun above the giant’s head. An axe, upraised for a downward chop.

  Realization brought crystal clarity to Aravon’s thoughts, pushed back his agony. Eirdkilr!

  Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Time seemed to stretch, snapping back to normal. Aravon could move again, and he threw himself to the side. Just ahead of the Eirdkilr’s downward chop. A huge axe head bit deep into the wood of an exposed root a hand’s breadth from where his head had been. Ignoring the blazing pain in his torso, Aravon rolled to one knee, spun, and thrust out his right hand on instinct. Found he still clutched his spear, and drove it into the massive target that was the Eirdkilr’s chest. Razor-sharp Odarian steel punched into leather armor, snapped ribs, and sliced muscle.

  Blood sprayed from the Eirdkilr’s mouth. The axe slipped from weakening fingers as the barbarian stumbled backward. Fell hard, his body thumping on the forest, crushing leaves and cracking twigs.

  Aravon staggered to his feet. Every muscle, bone, and joint ached. It felt as if a horse had kicked in his head, and sharp twinges ran down his back with every movement. The taste of blood was bitter in his mouth and his lips were growing thick. Sharp pain lanced his cheeks as he clenched his jaw. Yet somehow, despite the torment, Aravon managed to pull himself upright.

  Only to find another Eirdkilr racing toward him. The huge club swung for Aravon’s head. Aravon simply dropped to one knee, his body too weak to crouch, and iron-studded wood whooshed past inches from the tip of his helmet. In that instant, Aravon shoved off the ground with the butt of his spear and drove the head into the Eirdkilr’s neck. The barbarian’s howl cut off in a gurgling cry. Warm, hot crimson gushed from the gaping tear. Aravon barely managed to turn his head, to keep the blood out of his eyes.

  Aravon tore his spear free and clambered to his feet. His lungs burned, his head ached, and his body moved slowly—far, far too slowly. Pain flooded him with lethargy. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and let the agony overwhelm him, to pass into the relief of unconsciousness until the misery receded.

  But the sight of more Eirdkilrs charging through the forest kept him on his feet. Filled him with energy until he could battle through the torment flooding him. Fight or die, his mind screamed. And by the Swordsman, he’d fight!

  He knocked aside a thrusting spear and brought his own spear slashing across the Eirdkilr’s huge face. The barbarian howled as blood gushed into his eyes, blinding him. Aravon brought his spear low, sliced the large vein in the Eirdkilr’s thigh, and leapt back to avoid the next attack. Even that movement sent waves of pain racing up and down his spin
e. But he couldn’t let the pain win. He fought, teeth gritted and jaw muscles locked tight. One Eirdkilr down, a second weapon blocked, and a third enemy laid low with a crushing blow to the knee.

  Aravon gave way before the charging barbarians, the crush of huge Eirdkilr bodies, and flashing weapons. His mind couldn’t keep up with the attacks that came at him from all sides, so he gave in to instinct. Twist, dodge, thrust, block, chop, retreat, lunge. Spears, axes, and clubs, one after the other, as the Eirdkilrs surged through the trees. More and more. Two became three, two once more as he cut down a barbarian, then three more joined the battle. Retreating, one step at a time. Giving ground to buy himself a moment to breathe, to recover.

  But there were too many. A wild axe blow he barely deflected threw him off-balance, his arms flung wide, and a club smashed into his chest. Pain detonated in his breastbone with the force of Zaharis’ alchemical explosion as he was hurled from his feet. He flew through the air and crashed onto the ground. He barely managed to cling to his spear and keep his chin tucked to his chest, yet the back of his skull slammed into the grassy earth once more.

  The world spun wildly around him. Agony washed over him, rendered him immobile. He’d taken too much damage in too short a time. He could do nothing but lie on the ground, helpless, as the Eirdkilrs loomed over him and raised their weapons to strike.

  Chapter Eighteen

  One moment, death loomed over Aravon—a bearded, blue-stained face with hate-filled eyes fixed on him, club upraised to strike. The next, the Eirdkilr staggered backward, the red-fletched shaft of an arrow protruding from his eye. Dark crimson gushed down the barbarian’s cheeks and soaked into his long blond beard and filthy icebear pelt. Without a sound, the huge figure toppled backward.

  “Off your arse, Captain!” Skathi’s shout accompanied a second missile, followed by a third a heartbeat later. “You can nap later, yeah?”