Lord Morshan turned to Aravon. “A soldier like you must have experience with wounds.”
Aravon nodded. “I’m no Mender, but I know enough.”
“Then we work and talk.” He knelt beside the next bleeding Indomitable. “Help me with him.”
Aravon crouched at the man’s side, his eyes locked on the shard of upper arm bone protruding from the soldier’s shattered elbow. He gripped the soldier’s shoulder and held on tight as Lord Morshan held his arm.
“Bite down hard.” Killian slipped a strip of leather into the soldier’s mouth.
The soldier obeyed, but his screams echoed loud and piercing through the leather as Lord Morshan and Aravon hauled on the bone to set the upper arm. Even once the bone was set, tears of agony streamed down the soldier’s face.
Aravon watched the two Indomitables helping the soldier with the broken arm to stagger away from the battle. He’d taken a similar wound in the Eirdkilr ambush on the Eastmarch. The same attack that had killed Sixth Company had left him unable to carry a shield. Useless as a Legionnaire, useless as a soldier had Duke Dyrund not given him the chance to lead the Grim Reavers. Would this Indomitable find similar redemption and hope? Would he, too, have a second chance at life and service as Aravon had?
Lord Morshan knelt over the next man, who sat dazed, his eyes unfocused. Blood leaked from a gash in his head, but the bruising around the wound spoke of a far more serious injury. “Speak, Captain Snarl.” Lord Morshan’s voice was quiet, almost drowned out beneath the din of clashing steel and howling barbarians.
“If we try to hold this position, you know the eventual outcome.” Aravon handed the Proxenos bandages to wrap around the wound.
“The Eirdkilrs will carve through us like a stonemason through sandstone.” Lord Morshan spoke without looking up from his work of tending the man’s wound, snapping his fingers before the soldier’s eyes to test the extent of the damage to his skull and brain. “Which is why Invictus Nytano is looking into the possibility of digging a tunnel out.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. Looks like we’re of a mind on that one. He couldn’t help admiring the Proxenos. Even with his men dying and the enemy hurling themselves at his far outnumbered troops, Lord Morshan still had the presence of mind to think beyond the immediate threat.
“Head Ganger Emvil and his Gangers are looking for the fastest way out,” Lord Morshan continued. “They are confident that they can manage within two days. Three at most. As soon as there is an opening, we will send the Kabili and their family out, and only then do we pull back the Indomitables and collapse the mine entrance.”
“You plan to flee?” Aravon narrowed his eyes.
“For the sake of my people, yes.” Lord Morshan met his gaze. Determination etched deep lines into his face. “The Kabili have sworn themselves to serve the Pharus in his mines, and in doing so, placed their lives in my hands. It is our duty as Alqati warrior caste and Dhukari, chosen of the Long Keeper himself, to ensure their safety.”
Aravon knew little of the Shalandran system of castes, but he recognized the concern in the man’s voice—not for his own welfare, but for that of his soldiers and the civilians under his charge.
“Respectfully, Lord Morshan, I must disagree.” Knots tightened his shoulders as he spoke the words. Even when addressed with deference and courtesy, some commanders reacted poorly—sometimes violently—to disagreement.
Lord Morshan turned back from his patient and narrowed his eyes at Aravon. “You have a better idea?”
“Better? No.” Aravon shook his head. “But one that doesn’t put all of your people at risk.” He drew in a breath, pausing to give Lord Morshan a moment to let the words sink in. “As your Head Ganger said, collapsing the mine’s entrance risks bringing down the entire mine. The Indomitables left to defend against the Eirdkilrs while your people flee could find themselves crushed in the cave-in. How many men would you condemn to death by commanding them to stay?”
The tight lines of Lord Morshan’s face spoke volumes. Aravon had only known the man a few hours, but he’d been right in his assessment of the Shalandran commander. Though the Proxenos would join battle without hesitation, he wouldn’t risk his men unnecessarily.
“But even if you could pull them back without burying them beneath the rubble,” Aravon pressed, “you would find yourselves isolated, in the middle of Deid forests, with less than a hundred soldiers to protect more than four times that many miners and their families.” He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “The Eirdkilrs have come for your miners as well as your ghoulstone. Do you believe they would not at least consider such an eventuality?”
Snapping his fingers before the dazed Indomitable’s eyes one last time, Lord Morshan gestured to another soldier to help the wounded man stumble away. When he stood and faced Aravon, his eyes had darkened, a familiar burden—that of command, of knowing his decisions put his soldiers’ lives in jeopardy—weighed on his shoulders.
“Then what do you suggest, Captain Snarl?” The Proxenos’ voice was tight—his anger not directed at Aravon, but the impossible position in which he found himself.
“Your plan is sound,” Aravon replied without hesitation. “That tunnel out is precisely what is needed to give us a chance. But not to flee.” He raised a clenched fist. “To hit back!”
A calculating look flashed across Lord Morshan’s dark, aristocratic features. “Send a force of soldiers to attack from the rear?” He raised a hand to stroke his braided beard, seeming not to notice the blood reddening his fingers.
“Precisely.” Aravon nodded. “Twenty-eight of your Indomitables are hidden in the forest outside the wall. By the Swordsman’s grace, they can remain hidden until we call on them.”
“Fools do not survive long in the Pharus’ army.” Lord Morshan spoke in a solemn tone. “And Dictator Quillan is the farthest thing from a fool I could ask for. He is one of my best of his rank—the equivalent of your Legion Sergeants—which is why he was sent with Callista to escort the wagons.”
He strode down the tunnel, away from the battle, and motioned for Aravon to follow. When they were away from the wounded soldiers, he turned back to Aravon. “You have a purpose in mind for them?”
“They are reinforcements waiting for us outside, positioned behind the Eirdkilrs.” Aravon met the Shalandran’s gaze steadily. “Enough fresh troops that we’ve got a real shot at taking the enemy down. With the right plan of attack, we could not only survive the assault on Steinnbraka Delve—we could destroy an entire force of Eirdkilrs. Such a victory would certainly earn the Prince’s gratitude. And, perhaps, give Shalandra a more favorable position when next they sit at the negotiation table.”
A half-grin, half-grimace twisted Lord Morshan’s lips. “I give you fair warning, Captain Snarl, I am Proxenos first and foremost. Matters of politics are better left to the Keeper’s Council and my Pharus.” The tension faded, leaving only the understanding smile. “But I’ll admit that we could use some leverage when next Shalandra sits across the negotiation table from your Prince. And your plan has merit. We dig our way out, then send half our forces to rendezvous with Dictator Quillan and his men.”
Aravon inclined his head in agreement. “And, with your men, I will send the best of mine. Archers, scouts, and a man capable of turning simple plants into the most marvelous weapons of destruction. As you saw with those fire wagons.”
“Handy fellow to have around,” Lord Morshan said with a chuckle.
“A fact he’s proven to us time and again, and never permits us to forget.” Aravon’s lips tugged upward. “But my people will march beside you, and they will make a difference when it comes time to join battle.”
Lord Morshan cocked his head. “With my Blades to fight at their side, and the Long Keeper’s blessing to strengthen their arms.” His expression grew pensive. “Yet, even after the losses we inflicted today, the Eirdkilrs still number close to four hundred. Not the most ideal odds.”
“Your predecessor, L
ord Rantur, faced far worse at the battle for Dalmisa’s Peak.” Aravon’s military history lessons with Lectern Kayless had included stories from all the kingdoms and city-states of Einan as well as the Princelands and clans of Fehl. Two hundred-fifty years earlier, eighty Shalandran Indomitables led by then-Proxenos Lord Rantur had held the peak of Dalmisa, one of the four mountains of the Yawmani Mountains, for five days against ten times their number of Zahirani raiders. “With the courage of the Indomitables and the strength of the Keeper’s Blades, we have a real shot at getting out of this alive.”
Lord Morshan gave no response, but a hint of pride glowed in his eyes. Pride in his men, in the recognition from one career soldier to another.
“All that matters is that we fight, Lord Morshan.” Aravon raised a clenched fist. “We hit back as hard as we can, and pray that our gods smile on us.”
“With the Face of Justice and Mercy smiling upon us, we will carry the day.” Lord Morshan clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, Captain Snarl. Let us relay your plan to Nytano, Aleema, and the others. If we are to make this work, all must be in readiness the moment our miners breach the surface.”
“Yes, Proxenos.” Aravon inclined his head. “Though I fear we are in for tribulations between now and then, we will weather them together.”
* * *
Silence thickened the stale air of the mine shaft. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the battle at the mine entrance had fallen silent. The Eirdkilrs had pulled back with the setting sun, leaving the Shalandrans to lick their wounds and gather their dead.
By the Swordsman’s grace, the death toll was far lower than Aravon had expected. Just twelve had gone to the Long Keeper’s arms. The number of wounded, however, nearly tripled the casualties. Men with shattered arms, crushed legs, dented helmets, and battered breastplates sat or lay along the stone walls of the tunnel, heedless of the blood staining their black armor. At their sides, their khopeshes were chipped and notched, their shields spattered with crimson, chunks of flesh, locks of bloody hair torn from enemies, and chips of bone and teeth. So much killing, so much death, and it had only paused for now. Come dawn—or sooner, perhaps, if the Eirdkilrs planned to force the entrance—the carnage would begin anew.
The shrieks, groans, and whimpers of the wounded echoed from the side passage where they were being tended. The sounds set the young children of the miners crying, and more than one Shalandran cast wide-eyed, nauseated glances toward the blood-soaked passage down which the injured had been taken. The reek of blood, vomit, urine, and feces hung thick in the stale, close air of the mine, settling like a malodorous blanket upon every Shalandran and Princelander.
None of them would sleep well this night.
But at the moment, Aravon had no intention of rest. Tired as he was, he couldn’t close his eyes until he had completed his efforts to help Lord Morshan organize the defense of the mine and execute their escape strategy. To that end, he had just finished sharing with the rest of the Keeper’s Blades the plan he’d crafted with the Proxenos
“Ballsy, I’ll give you that,” Nytano said. The Invictus had followed his Proxenos’ lead and removed his war mask, revealing a strong-featured face with solid cheekbones, a square jaw, and eyes filled with the same conviction that echoed in his booming voice. “One that, I admit, holds greater appeal than fleeing with our tails tucked between our legs.”
Aleema, the Ypertatos, snorted beside him. “Always thinking about what’s between your legs, aren’t you?” Humor sparkled in her almond-colored eyes. Like Nytano, she appeared in her fourth or fifth decade of life, yet neither age nor the toll of battle had diminished her beauty. “But yes, I agree with Nytano.” She shot a glance at the Invictus. “What is it you always love to hear yourself say?”
“Strike first, strike true.” Nytano spoke in a solemn voice, ignoring her mocking tone.
Aravon nodded. “Well said.” The element of surprise and the force of first impact could set an army reeling, often to the extent that they never fully recovered. “And that’s precisely what we’re hoping for with this plan.”
“We hit them hard enough from the rear,” Colborn spoke up, “we throw them off-balance, turn them around to face us.” On Aravon’s insistence, he’d joined their discussion. The Lieutenant had proven himself competent in matters of strategy and tactics, a skill Aravon fostered at every opportunity. And, given Colborn’s skills at woodcraft, he was the one best-suited to lead the Shalandrans slipping around behind the enemy. “That’s when you hit them from within the mine.”
“According to my scout, it’ll take no more than four hours to circumnavigate the base of the inselberg and get into position to strike.” Aravon gestured toward the miners huddling in the tunnel. “Less, depending on where the exit comes out. But the sooner we can get in place for the strike, the better.”
“Emvil and his Gangers will work the Kabili hard.” Lord Morshan thrust a chin toward the slope-shouldered brutes—the Gangers that served as the mine’s foremen and overseers. “One way or another, they will find us a path to freedom.”
“Good.” Invictus Nytano nodded. “Because we’ll run out of food and supplies within two days.” His expression grew grim, his solemn features creasing into a frown. “And hungry soldiers cannot fight, just as parched miners cannot dig.”
“So we work,” Aravon said. “And we fight. Together.”
“Together.” Lord Morshan inclined his head. “Until our last shred of strength and our final breath.”
Chapter Thirty
Aravon sagged to his bedroll with a groan—half-relieved, half-exhausted, in far more pain than he’d realized. His chest ached from the blow he’d taken at Hangman’s Hill, the bruise not yet fully faded before another Eirdkilr club struck the same spot. The oak branch had split his lip and nearly broken his nose, and the back of his skull had taken two too many impacts today. Added to the twinge in his strained shoulder and the bruise on his leg, he was reaching the limits of his endurance.
Their little camp had been set up in a stone chamber down one of the side tunnels, seventy feet from the main passage. Though they’d left the smell of the wounded and the stink of too many unwashed bodies packed together in too small a space, the proximity of their horses—hobbled out of the way of their movement—meant the open space reeked of horse urine, dung, and sweat.
But Aravon didn’t mind. He simply basked in the near-silence of their camp, in the wondrous feeling of not having to stand, run, fight, or ride. The day had been far too long. Most glorious of all, he could finally pull off his leather mask and breathe freely.
A part of him was glad Colborn had used the threat of Belthar sitting on his chest to strong-arm him into taking a few hours of rest. Threat notwithstanding, he had needed it far more than he’d been willing to admit.
Yet, as he lay back on his bedroll, he found sleep refused to come. Perhaps that had to do with the veins of gold twinkling amidst the sea of black surrounding him. In the dim light of the single oil lantern hanging on a nearby support beam, the massive vein of gold—more than Aravon had seen in his entire life—seemed dazzlingly bright against the onyx darkness of the ghoulstone.
Or, it could have to do with the fact he was trapped underground, with only one way out and an enemy waiting for him like wolves prowling around a rabbit’s warren. Even if they managed to dig their way free and spring a surprise rear attack on the Eirdkilrs, the odds were still stacked heavily against them. He wasn’t gambling with his own life as he’d done so many times before. This time, he’d be sending Colborn, Skathi, Noll, and Zaharis off into danger with no way to know they were safe. Trapped here, inside the mine, he couldn’t relay messages back and forth via Snarl.
Aravon found himself keenly missing the warmth of Snarl’s furry body, the Enfield’s buoyant exuberance. It was at times like this, in the quiet moments of rest and thought, that the little fox-creature’s presence brought comfort. With Snarl curled up against his chest or around his feet, he could almost p
ush past the worries for the future and trust, like the Enfield did, even for just a few moments, that everything would work out in the end.
He had no need to worry for Snarl’s safety. The Enfield was cunning and stealthy. He’d remain hidden from the enemy, feed himself on pigeons, mice, squirrels, and whatever else he could catch in the Deid forests. With the open skies above, the cover of the tree canopy, and access to food and water, his situation was far better than Aravon’s.
But, as always, they would keep trying, keep fighting until they cut their way through to freedom. And we’ve been in worse binds before, right?
At Broken Canyon, the ingenuity and courage of his Grim Reavers had turned the tide of battle in their favor. At Rivergate, they’d defeated three thousand Jokull and Eirdkilr enemies with a small force of two hundred soldiers. The Battle at Hangman’s Hill had seemed impossible—and that was before the Blood Queen unleashed her traitorous Fjall within the Hilmir’s shield wall—yet they’d carried the day. Together, with the skill, courage, and ingenuity of his Grim Reavers, they would live to fight another battle.
Closing his eyes, he struggled to push aside his anxieties for the ordeal ahead. Worrying would do nothing to help their current predicament. If he was to make a difference—to the miners digging their way out or the Indomitables holding the mine entrance—he needed a sharp mind and rested body. Sleeping was the best thing he could do for his men and the Shalandrans.
The sound of a stealthy footfall snapped him awake and alert in an instant. His eyes popped open and he was halfway to his feet, spear in hand, before he recognized the man in mottled-pattern armor slipping through the darkened tunnel toward him.
“Glad to see our last few days haven’t dulled your edge, Captain.” Zaharis had removed his mask, and a smile broadened his angular face.
Aravon blew out a breath. “And here I was having such a pleasant dream.”
Zaharis’ smile broadened. “I’m flattered, Captain, but you’re not my type.”
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