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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Yes, Proxenos!” The taller of the two, a man with dark hair and an oiled beard cropped close to his cheeks, saluted and raced inside, his shorter, broader companion hot on his heels. Within seconds, the first man appeared on the roof of the stone building, clapped a horn to his lips, and blew. The ringing blast echoed across the camp, and instantly the soldiers at the gate and along the street burst into motion. The clattering of armor and the shouts of officers rang out in the silence left by the fading din of the horn.

  The Proxenos turned back to Aravon. “I thank you for your intervention with my soldiers, and for your timely warning.” He held out a hand. “I am Morshan, Lord of Blades.”

  “An honor, Lord Morshan.” Aravon gripped the man’s forearm. “By your leave, my men and I will take our leave. Our message delivered, we have our own mission to return to.”

  “Of course, Captain Snarl.” Lord Morshan’s lips quirked at the name. “Shalandra’s gratitude to the Prince’s Grim Reavers will not go unacknowledged.”

  Aravon gave the Proxenos a salute and turned back to his horse.

  “But I give you warning, Captain.” Lord Morshan’s voice rang out behind Aravon, his words edged with steel. “This place is a secret that even your Prince wishes kept from his own people. I trust that your lips will remain sealed.”

  Aravon turned back to the man and gave him a solemn nod. “We were never here.”

  A small smile tugged on Lord Morshan’s dark, handsome face. “And we never saw you and your companions.”

  Inclining his head, Aravon turned and leapt back into the saddle.

  “Captain.”

  Aravon glanced down to find Callista standing beside his horse’s head, the reins of Belthar’s charger held out to him.

  “Thank your man Ursus for me.” Genuine warmth shone in the woman’s eyes. “My people and I owe him our gratitude.”

  “I’m certain he’ll be pleased to know he made a difference.” Aravon accepted the reins and, with a tug, set his and Belthar’s horse into motion. Skathi and Colborn fell in silently beside him as he galloped toward the gate.

  A flurry of activity gripped the camp around them. Armor clattered as the black-clad soldiers charged past, hurrying to man the walls, seal the gates, and herd the miners not on duty away from the western edge of the camp. Aravon counted fewer than two hundred soldiers—closer to one hundred and fifty—with six of the Keeper’s Blades in their spiked armor and snarling lion helms to command them. A sizeable force, but would they suffice to deter the Eirdkilrs? By the Swordsman’s grace, they won’t have to—

  He never finished the thought. Even as he approached the now-sealed gates, the bone-chilling sound of howling war cries echoed from beyond the palisade wall.

  The Eirdkilrs had come. He, Colborn, and Skathi were trapped.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aravon hauled on the reins, pulling his horse to a juddering halt just inside the sealed gate. No way we’re getting out now!

  Worry thrummed within him. Noll, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr were somewhere outside the walls, and Belthar was on his way with Callista’s Indomitables at that very moment. They’d find themselves cut off and forced to hide in the forest to keep out of sight of the Eirdkilrs. He couldn’t risk summoning Snarl to deliver a message to his companions—in the open skies between the forest and the palisade wall, the Enfield would make too visible a target for Eirdkilr arrows.

  But the real worry was for Captain Lingram and the Deid. The Eirdkilrs’ presence here could indicate they’d found a more suitable target for their fury, but there was a chance those chasing Captain Lingram hadn’t yet given up their hunt. Branda could still be in danger. And, if the Eirdkilrs did catch up to the survivors of Saerheim, they would capture the Duke’s body with it.

  “Captain!” Colborn’s voice pierced Aravon’s whirling thoughts. “We’ve got to help hold the walls!”

  Aravon pushed back his worry to focus on the task at hand. Noll hadn’t mentioned any pursuit of the fleeing Deid and Legionnaires, so Aravon would have to take the gamble that the Eirdkilrs had turned their eyes elsewhere.

  His concerns for the Duke’s body and Branda would have to wait—one life-threatening problem at a time!

  Colborn had informed Captain Lingram they were escorting the body back to Icespire, and that the Duke’s agent was headed to Sentry Garrison to deliver the Wraithfever cure to the Hilmir’s daughter. He’d have to trust in the Legion officer’s competence—the man had earned his nickname, “Blacksword”, through trials as grim as the destruction of Saerheim. If anyone could see the two missions through to completion in Aravon’s absence, Swordsman knew it would be Lingram.

  Aravon twisted in his saddle to face the Lieutenant. “Go!” he thrust a finger toward the wooden ramparts behind the palisade walls. “Get up there and assess the situation. I’ll let the Proxenos know we’re pitching in.”

  With a crisp salute, Colborn leapt from his saddle and dashed toward the nearest set of stairs. He took them two at a time and in three steps had reached the wooden platform upon which the Shalandran soldiers stood.

  Aravon turned to Skathi. “With me, Redwing.” He used her code name; even under cover of the loud clanking of the black-armored Indomitables rushing about, he wouldn’t risk her identity being discovered. “Let’s see what sort of defenses these Shalandrans have come up with.”

  Skathi wheeled her horse around and fell in beside him as he raced back up the muddy main avenue leading to Lord Morshan’s command office. They didn’t have far to go. The Proxenos was already mounted on a horse of his own and galloping toward the gate. Beast and rider wore heavy segmented plate mail made of that same black steel, and covering the horse’s face was a mask identical to the snarling mountain lion concealing Lord Morshan’s dark features.

  The Proxenos reined in as Aravon and Skathi closed the distance. “Too late to leave?”

  Aravon nodded. “The three of us will gladly fight beside you and your soldiers.” His eyes slid past Lord Morshan toward Callista, who stood in the main avenue calling orders to the soldiers herding the miners and fortifying the city. “What sort of defenses are we working with, Proxenos?”

  Lord Morshan’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. “Too few, I fear.” He shook his head. “Our walls and gate are strong. With the mountain to shelter us and little chance of battle, our efforts have been primarily focused on guarding the miners and escorting the wagons to safety beyond the Chain.”

  Aravon growled an inward curse. “How many men?” he asked.

  “One hundred and fifty, myself included.”

  “Make that one hundred fifty-three,” Skathi piped up from beside Aravon.

  “But of those, Callista had taken forty with her.” The Proxenos’ eyes darkened. “That leaves just over a hundred to guard the miners and hold the walls.”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. Damn! A hundred Indomitables—even with a handful of the elite Keeper’s Blades among them—had little hope of holding off six hundred Eirdkilrs. Strong gates and high walls would only survive assault for so long against that many.

  Yet there was no mistaking the look of panic that twisted the faces of the Shalandra men, women, and children rushing past. What choice do we have?

  “Any archers?” Aravon demanded.

  “Thirty crossbows and a little over four hundred bolts.” Lord Morshan leaned forward in his saddle. “You have experience commanding men in battle?”

  “Yes.” No boast or exaggeration—with the enemies howling outside the gates, they had no time for aggrandizement. “The Prince has given me explicit authority to assume control of any Legion company. I would hesitate to command you and yours, Lord Morshan, but at the very least allow me to offer what experience and knowledge I have to aid you in defense of your town.”

  The Proxenos hesitated, his eyes as hard and dark as his steel armor. After a long moment, he nodded. “Thank you, Captain Snarl.” The tension in his shoulders loosened. “Your expertise is welcomed, as lo
ng as it remains clear in your mind that I am in command of my people.”

  “Understood, Proxenos.” Aravon gave the man a Legion salute—a sign of respect to the highest-ranked officer in the Shalandran military. “With your permission, my two companions will aid your crossbowmen in repelling the Eirdkilrs assaulting the wall. I will take my place on the ramparts beside them.”

  “Permission granted.” Without turning, he gestured to Callista. “Archateros, stay with our Captain, and see that any orders he deems necessary are carried out.”

  “Yes, Proxenos.” Callista gave him a crisp salute—right fist to left shoulder, near-identical to that of the Legion of Heroes.

  Aravon inclined his head to Lord Morshan before turning and wheeling his horse back toward the gate. The Shalandran was clearly pragmatic, intelligent enough to recognize the value Aravon and his companions had to offer. That put him head and shoulders above men like Commander Oderus, soldiers too entrenched in their ways of operating and allured by their own authority to accept outside help.

  He raced the fifty yards back to the sealed gate, Skathi and Callista close on his heels. Already, the black-armored Indomitables had dropped two enormous logs into their iron cradles, locking bars to reinforce the wooden gate.

  The Eirdkilrs won’t be getting through that any time soon!

  Reining in just before the ramparts, Aravon leapt from his saddle and dashed toward the raised wooden platform. The aches in his chest, shoulder, and face intensified with each pounding step, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. Now wasn’t the time for weakness, not with battle at hand.

  As he raced up the broad steps built into the six-foot-high rampart, the howls of the Eirdkilrs grew louder outside the wall. They hadn’t yet attacked, but one look over the sharpened log-tips of the palisade wall explained why.

  Keeper’s teeth!

  Scores of fur-clad barbarians surged from the forest south of the inselberg’s steep sides, spilling onto the stretch of cleared ground before the palisade wall. The Eirdkilrs already in view numbered well over five hundred, and still more came with no sign of slowing. Their war cries rang off the inselberg’s rocky slopes, echoed through the Shalandran mining camp, growing louder as the barbarians formed up in a broad, ragged line facing the wooden wall. They wouldn’t attack until their full force had arrived—there was no need to commit to the assault in a hurry. The nearest Legion garrison was more than thirty miles away—much too far to arrive in time to save the Shalandrans trapped within their little stronghold.

  He glanced to his right as a solid, armored figure jostled for position beside him.

  “This is going to be fun,” Colborn signed in the Secret Keeper hand language. His ice-blue eyes had gone dark with worry, anxiety. “I always wondered what it’d be like, holding a wall like this.”

  “A real dream come true for me, too.” Aravon gave a bitter chuckle. “Then again, wooden walls are much better at deflecting arrows than Fehlan shields.”

  Colborn inclined his head. “Shalandran shields’ll do the trick.” He gestured toward the nearest soldier, who carried a seven-sided shield five feet tall and made of the same black metal of the armor, khopeshes, and flame-bladed swords. “Strange steel, that. Tougher than anything I’ve seen before. Is this the Shalandran steel I’ve heard so much about?”

  Aravon shrugged. “Seems like. Either that, or every blacksmith in the Shalandran army burned all the metal in their forges.” He studied the metal, its dark-as-midnight color nearly a rival for onyx. Or ghoulstone. Shalandran steel was rumored to be the best-quality steel on Einan or Fehl—a claim heavily disputed by Odarians, who had their own high-grade, Secret Keeper-made steel. “Let’s just hope they live up to their reputations.”

  “The soldiers or their shields?”

  “Both.” Aravon had never fought beside the Indomitables or Keeper’s Blades, but he’d heard the tales from fellow Legionnaires that had. The Shalandran army rivaled the Legion of Heroes in discipline, tactics, and valor. Aravon had even heard Duke Dyrund speak of Shalandran metal and mettle with envy.

  “With just over a hundred of us against so many of them—” He glanced back toward the enemy and found the Eirdkilrs now numbered closer to seven hundred, with more still surging from the forest in a ragged tide of flesh, steel, and fury. “—we’ve got a bloody ferocious fight on our hands.”

  “And to think the others are missing out on the party.” Cold humor sparkled in Colborn’s eyes. “Probably too busy napping in the woods to be bothered.”

  Aravon chuckled—he and Colborn both knew that none of their companions would be sitting idle, not with so many Eirdkilrs nearby. Only the Swordsman knew precisely what they’d cook up, but knowing his Grim Reavers the way he did, they’d already have something in the works. Noll might have gone off to Sentry Garrison for help, or Zaharis would be mixing together some alchemical marvel to drive off the Eirdkilrs.

  “Whatever they’ve got planned,” Aravon signed, “it’s up to us to hold the walls as long as it takes.”

  “As long as it takes.” Colborn repeated the words with a solemn nod. He checked the arrows in his quiver—fifteen, far too few to deal with so many Eirdkilrs—and turned back to Aravon, his ice-blue eyes gone flat, grim. “Swordsman strengthen your arm, Captain.”

  “And guide your aim.” Aravon finished the solemn words. “See what you can do about stopping them all from reaching the wall, yes? Five hundred shouldn’t be too much to ask.”

  “Just because you asked so nicely, Captain.” With a wry chuckle, Colborn slipped away, heading toward the group of Indomitables passing crossbows to their comrades atop the wooden rampart.

  Aravon shot a glance up and down the length of the wooden wall. More crossbowmen stood on the ramparts opposite the gate, and Skathi had joined them, her half-full quiver of arrows clipped onto her belt for easy reach.

  Two hundred yards of wall with only a hundred men to hold it. His gut tightened. At least there’s no way they’re getting through the gate. With the two enormous sawn walnut logs to reinforce the heavy wooden gate, the Eirdkilrs would have better luck overwhelming the defenders and climbing over the walls. All we’ve got to do is hold.

  The Keeper’s Blade, Callista, stood to his right, her eyes fixed on the Eirdkilrs thronging onto the cleared ground before them. Though the black steel mask hid her face, Aravon recognized the raggedness of her shallow breath, the tightness of her stance, the way her gaze locked on the enemy.

  “First battle?” Aravon pitched his voice low for her ears only.

  Callista rounded on him, a fire blazing in her eyes. “No!”

  Aravon met her gaze steadily, his eyes searching hers.

  After a moment, the anger retreated. “I’ve faced enemies before,” she said, her voice as quiet as his had been. “Just never like this.” She turned back to look over the sharpened tops of the palisade wall. “Not against so many.”

  “It never really gets easier.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice. “The roiling in your stomach, the way your spine knots up, the little quaver in your hands.” He pretended not to notice the way Callista’s gauntleted fists clamped tighter on to the wall. “I’ve been doing this a long time, and I still feel the same before every battle.”

  Callista remained silent—the silence of a trained soldier unwilling to admit they were truly terrified. Aravon had been in that situation far too many times to count. As he’d said, the fear never fully dissipated, no matter how many battles one fought. It simply grew easier to silence in the quiet moments before the clash of combat.

  Finally, Callista spoke. “What do you do? To silence the unease?”

  “I remember who I’m fighting for.” Aravon turned to face her now. “Friends, family, people back home, my fellow Legionnaires.” He gave a little chuckle. “Or, in this case, Shalandrans.”

  Callista shot a sidelong glance at him. “Just that simple, is it?”

  “Not really.” Aravon shrugged. “But as long as I’m worrying
about keeping my fellow man alive, I stop worrying about whether or not I’ll die. Keep my mind too busy to remember that I’m terrified.”

  Callista snorted. “An officer, admitting he’s afraid?” She turned toward him, her gaze piercing. “Not many men—or women—capable of that kind of self-awareness.”

  “I had a good example.” Sorrow panged in Aravon’s chest at memory of Duke Dyrund. “Someone who taught me that a real soldier isn’t afraid to feel. And that fear isn’t a sign of weakness, simply something to conquer to prove that we are strong.”

  Again, a long pause, then Callista nodded. “A wise man.”

  “Indeed.” Aravon turned back to the wall, a burden settling on his shoulders. It had been the Duke who showed him the truth of being not only a good officer and soldier, but being a good man. A far better role model than he’d ever had in General Traighan. And now the Duke was gone. He could put it out of his mind for a time—until the threat of death passed—but the truth would be waiting for him when it all ended. That cold, hard truth that the man he’d loved and admired was gone.

  With effort, he pushed the maudlin thoughts away. He had enough to worry about without bearing the weight of loss.

  A tense, deafening silence gripped the Shalandran camp and the Eirdkilrs formed up outside. Not a howl, not a clank of steel or the creak of bowstrings. Simply utter stillness, unbroken by even the wind. Nervous sweat rolled down Aravon’s spine, slithered down the side of his masked face. That was the eerie moment of calm before the bloody thunderstorm of an Eirdkilr charge.

  Then it came: a single howling note, the piercing battle cry of the Eirdkilrs.

  “Death to the half-men!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A second voice took up the cry. “Death to the half-men!”

  More joined in, dozens, scores, then hundreds as the Eirdkilrs clashed spears, axes, and clubs against their shields. The cacophony rose in pitch and intensity until it seemed to set the very ground trembling. A deafening wave of shouts and banging weapons rolled over Aravon, setting his heart hammering and twisting his stomach into knots. The silence shattered, the moment of stillness gone forever. Now came blood and death.