“And do you swear, as commander of the Keeper’s chosen servants, to give of yourself to protect those who march at your side and serve at your order? To set aside your own desires and thoughts of personal gain for the sake of all Shalandra? To fight and, if so needed, to die in service of its people?”
Callista squared her shoulders, a light of determination filling her eyes. “I swear!”
“So be it.” Invictus Nytano’s voice echoed across the muddy lane. “Beneath the all-seeing gaze of the Long Keeper, before witnesses noble and just, the oaths have been sworn and Archateros Callista has been found worthy.” He addressed Ypertatos Aleema and the nearby Indomitables. “Do any have cause to doubt or raise voice against Hallar’s chosen?”
None spoke—the soldiers were too exhausted to do more than stare, eyes numb and bloodstained faces twisted by pain, fatigue, and grief. Aleema simply shook her head.
Nytano nodded and turned back to face Callista. “Then, from this day until the day you die, I declare you to be Proxenos of the Keeper’s Blades, chosen of Hallar himself, beloved of the Long Keeper.” He saluted once more. “Hail, Proxenos!”
Ypertatos Aleema mirrored his salute. “Hail, Proxenos!” Her voice rang out strong and clear.
Aravon found himself joining in, saluting alongside the few Indomitables that mustered the strength. It was the strangest ceremony Aravon had ever seen—in the muck and blood, surrounded by the corpses of friend and foe alike, amidst their camp ravaged by fire and the fury of their enemies. Yet, in that moment, it seemed utterly fitting.
Callista said nothing; she appeared too stunned by the realization of what had just happened, mingled with the grief over Lord Morshan’s death, to do more than stare down at the Blade of Hallar. Wonder and awe filled her eyes, a sharp contrast to the blood and gore staining her helmet, armor, and hands.
Ypertatos Aleema moved to kneel beside the fallen Proxenos. “Go into infinity, Morshan Achadaus, secure in the knowledge that the world was a better place for your presence. May you find the peace you deserve.” Leaning forward, she placed a reverent kiss on his bloodstained war mask.
Invictus Nytano knelt opposite Aleema and bowed his head. He said nothing, his silence as stoic as the black steel face concealing his features, yet placed a hand on the slain Lord Morshan’s shoulder.
Aravon turned away; the Keeper’s Blades deserved a few moments to grieve in private.
They did not grieve alone. All around the camp, Indomitables staggered toward the bodies of fallen comrades, slumped beside corpses fast cooling under the bright morning sun. Quiet sobs, crimson-spattered faces empty of expression, eyes numb and insensate, or loud wails of heartbreak—each soldier on the battlefield mourned in their own fashion.
A keening cry of pain echoed from far behind Aravon. The sound rang with a bone-deep misery, anguish, and loss, piercing the cries and groans of the wounded, the shrieks of men bleeding their lives onto the muddy streets.
Aravon spun toward the wail. Amidst the bodies of miners and Gangers littering the ground before the mine, he found the source of that terrible lament. Elmessam lay on the ground amidst a pile of Eirdkilr corpses, clutching at the blood-soaked, dented armor of his fellow Keeper’s Blade. Killian lay silent and still, his wide eyes fixed on the cloudless sky above. He, too, had joined Lord Morshan in the Long Keeper’s arms.
Sorrow welled within Aravon’s chest. Killian had been a good man—an honorable, valiant soldier, a servant of his people and his god. He had fought to his last breath. He had upheld his oaths as a Keeper’s Blade.
But that was ever the way of battle. Good men always died, always fell in service to those who could not protect themselves. And with them, the cowards, the greedy, the fearful, the just, and the noble. Death did not discriminate—man or woman, miner or Ganger, Indomitable or Keeper’s Blade, in the end, all felt the cold hand of the Long Keeper claiming their souls.
Aravon’s heart wrenched as his eyes roamed the carnage around him. More than three hundred Eirdkilrs had fallen here, but nearly two hundred Shalandrans joined them in death. Gore flowed thick among the deep muck, staining the streets a gruesome muddy crimson. The stink of death—voided bowels and bladders, vomit, bile, the reek of burned hair and charred flesh, overlaid by that ever-present smell of fresh-spilled blood—thickened the air. Aravon had smelled that foul reek before, far too many times over his fifteen years as a Legionnaire. It never grew easier to endure. The cloying, sickening odors pressed in around him, twisting his gut into knots and threatening to empty his stomach.
Empty eyes stared sightless from faces stained blue with Eirdkilr war paint and etched with lines of black kohl. Dead Shalandrans lay intertwined with their barbarian foes—swords, spears, and axes still embedded in flesh or caught on bone. Dark red sprayed across filthy white icebear pelts, iron-studded leather armor, ragged tunics, and black Shalandran steel plate mail.
And the cries—those cries always chilled Aravon to the core. The shrieks of men with shattered arms and legs, or simply missing those limbs altogether. The piercing wails of warriors with guts spilling from slashed stomachs, or weeping at the agony of gaping wounds. Gurgling, gasping grunts as soldiers with crushed ribs and pierced lungs drowned in their own fluid or bled from deep wounds in their throats. The harsh rattling of men and women taking their final breaths.
Soon, the wails of weeping men, women, and children would join those cries. When the Shalandrans emerged from within the mines, they would find their husbands and wives slain, their fathers and mothers gone to the Long Keeper.
The mines! Horror raced through Aravon’s mind Though they’d cleared a path through the burning green bushes, the smoke would still be thick and choking within the mine. And Rangvaldr was there, among the miners’ families and the wounded Indomitables left as a rear guard.
If they didn’t get out of the mine soon, the smoke would kill them.
Chapter Forty-Four
Aravon spun toward Belthar. “Get into the mine and get everyone out!”
The big man took off, a half-stagger, half-run. Aravon didn’t know how Belthar found the stamina—it was all he could do to stand upright. Even the simple motion of turning to Belthar left him dizzy. He reeled, the world spinning around him. His knees buckled and legs burning with the fire of fatigue gave way.
“Easy, Captain.” Colborn’s strong voice echoed at his side, quiet and soothing, and strong arms held him up. Helped him stumble on numb, leaden feet toward the wooden wall of a nearby shelter and lowered him to a seat.
Aravon nodded, grateful. “Th-Thank you.” He struggled to form the words, his throat parched and his tongue thick as leather. The battle had sapped every last shred of strength. He couldn’t lift his arms—they felt made of stone, his right hand locked in a death grip around the hilt of his sword. With effort, he used his left hand to pry his fingers open, grimacing at the torment of muscles battered by the repeated hammering of Eirdkilr weapons. Even just lifting his head to look at Colborn took a supreme effort of will. “Everyone made it in one piece?”
“By the Swordsman’s grace.” Colborn crouched at his side; somehow he’d had the presence of mind to retrieve Aravon’s spear, and now leaned it against the wall within easy reach. “Foxclaw and Redwing are hanging back, keeping an eye on the forests in case any more Eirdkilrs are out there. The gate’s too damaged to close, but we’ll have ample warning before an attack.”
Aravon’s gut clenched. If the Eirdkilrs did attack, the Shalandrans would be ill-prepared to face them.
The mining camp had been ransacked, nine out of ten structures put to the torch, torn down by the rampaging Eirdkilrs, or looted for their valuables. Of the buildings that had once stood in neat rows, only blackened, crumbling ribs remained. A thick layer of ash covered those few shelters still standing. The Shalandrans would find little refuge from the elements this night.
Lord Morshan’s headquarters had escaped much of the carnage. Or, at least the Eirdkilrs hadn’t bothered tea
ring down the stone walls. The door hung open, revealing a mess of shattered crockery, splintered furniture, and clothing and parchment scattered within. Yet, the sight of that building—a single, two-story fortress amidst the chaos and carnage of Steinnbraka Delve—brought a flutter of hope.
The Proxenos had said all his correspondence with Prince Toran—or with the traitorous Lord Aleron Virinus in the Prince’s stead—would be found in his office. There was a chance, however small, that those parchments had escaped the Eirdkilr rampage. A chance he had to take.
He tried to push himself to his feet, but found his arms and legs refused to cooperate.
“Up we go.” Colborn gripped his arm and pulled him upright.
“The last few days have taken more out of me than I expected.” The words felt like a hollow justification, an excuse for his weakness. Colborn had fought just as hard, and traveled far more. Yet the events of recent days had left Aravon drained—his spirit as well as his body. The aches and pains seemed to have settled to his bones, the bruises on his mind and heart as well as his muscles. Everything they’d endured—from the battle near the Waeggbjod to the assault on Storbjarg to Hangman’s Hill to Duke Dyrund’s death to the events here—had left him empty, devoid of strength
“We’ve all seen you pushing yourself, Captain.” Colborn’s quiet voice echoing reassurance. “You’ve earned the right to be exhausted and sore.” He didn’t release Aravon’s arm, but kept a firm grip in case Aravon’s legs gave way once more.
“Let’s hope a bit of sleep can cure one and Rangvaldr the other.” Aravon cast a worried glance toward the mine. Already, the first of the Kabili had begun to emerge. The men, women, and children coughed through the thick wall of smoke, yet the sight of the carnage, their slain comrades and kin, pushed aside everything else. The cries of mourning, the weeping of children and spouses, and the panicked shouts of people searching for loved ones among the wounded, dead, and dying.
Relief flooded Aravon as he caught sight of Rangvaldr, stumbling out of the mine. Belthar half-carried the Seiomenn, who seemed barely able to stumble along beside the big man. Both appeared exhausted, but Belthar was the stubborner of the two—he wouldn’t stop moving until he knew Rangvaldr was safe and someplace he could rest.
With the knowledge that his Grim Reavers were safe, Aravon could turn his attention back to their mission. The true mission, the one that had set them on the road north and led them into the path of the Shalandrans. His eyes slid over the destroyed camp, the corpses and the staggering wounded, the muddy streets, and returned to the stone building that had served as Lord Morshan’s command post.
“Come on.” Aravon shot a glance at the stone building, then turned toward two Blades still kneeling over Lord Morshan’s corpse. Ypertatos Aleema had moved away and was even now calling orders to the soldiers still standing, coordinating the treatment of the wounded and the burial of the dead. Invictus Nytano and Callista, however, hadn’t moved. They remained silent, heads bowed, their masks removed to bare solemn faces.
Aravon’s gaze went to that marvelous sword in Callista’s hand. The Blade of Hallar, a weapon said to be thousands of years old, once wielded by the man that had founded the city of Shalandra. An artifact of marvelous power, some whispered. Until that day, Aravon would have placed little stock in such rumors. Yet he had seen that eerie crimson light emanating from the gemstone—a stone that had now returned to its colorless clarity. And the way Lord Morshan moved, the power in his attacks, the speed of his strikes, his near-impossible endurance. Perhaps that weapon held powers he didn’t understand. After witnessing the abilities of Rangvaldr’s holy stones, could he truly remain skeptical?
According to Lord Morshan, the Blade of Hallar bestowed upon its wielder the right of command—not only of the Keeper’s Blades, but of all the Indomitables. The title of Lord of Blades equated to “General” among the Princelands, perhaps even on par with the true military leader, Prince Toran himself. That meant Callista now gave the orders.
The question is: how much does she know of Lord Morshan’s business? And how clearly will she be able to think while grieving the loss of her Proxenos?
After a moment’s consideration, Aravon decided his best choice would be to speak with the Invictus. The older man, Lord Morshan’s second-in-command, was better-suited to give him access to the documents and information he needed.
“Invictus, a moment?” Aravon stopped a respectful distance from the body of the fallen Lord of Blades. He had no desire to intrude on their mourning, but the sooner he found out if the information had survived, the sooner he’d be able to formulate his next steps.
Nytano looked up at his words, and tears shone in the man’s dark eyes, smudging the dark lines of kohl on his face. Pain deepened the lines of his face. The pain of loss—one Aravon recognized all too well. He stood slowly, as if a great weight had settled onto his shoulders, and moved toward Aravon at a pace far too sluggish to be the result of battle fatigue alone
“There is no better way to put this, so I will simply be direct.” Aravon met the Invictus’ gaze. “I need access to Lord Morshan’s documents.”
Invictus Nytano stiffened, surprise and wariness darkening his face.
Aravon didn’t wait for the Blade to respond. “Specifically, any and all correspondence between him and Prince Toran’s representative. Anything that will point me in the direction of the traitor in Icespire. One who I believe is working with the Eirdkilrs, and who is responsible for the attack on your people.”
Suspicion pierced the sorrow in Invictus Nytano’s eyes. “The Proxenos agreed with your assessment.” Glancing over his shoulder, he stared a long moment at the body of his commander before turning back. “I believe he would have wanted you to see the documents.”
Relief flooded Aravon; he’d been prepared for resistance, even outright refusal.
“But there is much in there that cannot be known by those not of Shalandra.” Nytano’s jaw set in a stubborn cast and he folded strong arms across his chest. “Information that I cannot permit you to see.”
Aravon narrowed his eyes. “But you will bring us the documents I requested?”
Another look back at the Proxenos, and Nytano straightened. “Remain here.” He thrust a finger at the muddy street. “I will collect what you want and bring them back.”
“Respectfully, Invictus, there could be documents of great import, their significance only apparent once I lay eyes on them. Information that, should it be missed, could seriously endanger the Princelands.” Aravon took a step closer, his legs shaking. “If you would permit me to search the papers with you—”
“I will not.” Invictus Nytano’s face hardened. “The safety of our people has already been threatened enough; our secrets will remain such. I have made my offer out of gratitude for all you and your people have done.” His voice dropped to a stern rumble. “Do not test the limits of that gratitude.”
Aravon met the man’s gaze. He’d encountered iron more yielding and pliable. The Invictus had a will of steel, the obstinacy as stony as the mountain behind him. There’d be no budging him from his decision. Forcing the matter would only antagonize the Shalandrans and make it less likely they’d turn over the important documents.
Aravon nodded. “So be it.” He let out a long breath. “We will wait for you.”
With a stiff half-bow, the Keeper’s Blade turned and strode up the muddy, blood-soaked avenue toward Lord Morshan’s command post.
Movement from beside Aravon brought his gaze around. Callista had risen to her feet, Lord Morshan’s body cradled in her arms. Tears stained her face as she followed Invictus Nytano up the road, the Blade of Hallar sheathed on her back and the weight of sorrow burdening her shoulders.
Aravon and Colborn moved aside as Indomitables and miners able to move joined Callista in her solemn funeral procession. Limping, shuffling, leaning on their comrades for support, or marching with the martial precision that made them such fierce warriors, the Shalandrans
formed a long, silent column toward Lord Morshan’s office.
Aravon’s eyes followed Callista until she disappeared into the office with the Proxenos’ body. Lord Morshan was just one of many casualties. Soldiers, warriors, and laborers slain on both sides of the battlefield.
Already, the pile of corpses had begun to grow. Eirdkilr weapons and furs heaped high in one pile, the massive bodies of the barbarians tossed onto two more, soon to be three. On the northern side of the main road, the bodies of the Shalandrans fallen in battle were laid in neat rows. Stripped of armor, their faces and heads uncovered, arrayed for their final journey to the Long Keeper’s arms and the Sleepless Lands.
The casualties here were less than half of those sustained at Hangman’s Hill, or in the battle of Rivergate. Fewer than eight hundred Eirdkilrs, and barely more than four hundred Shalandrans—miners, Indomitables, Keeper’s Blades, and Gangers—had died during the initial siege, the hasty retreat, the fight to hold the mine, and their desperate break-out.
But for some reason he could not fathom, these losses weighed heavier on Aravon’s heart than those sustained in previous battles. Perhaps the fact that so many of the slain were civilians, men and women who wanted nothing more than to earn their living through common labor. Or, perhaps being in such close proximity with Lord Morshan, Killian, and the others fallen in battle made their deaths feel more personal. Like the men he’d lost at the ambush on the Eastmarch, or Draian, the Mender, killed at Bjornstadt.
Good men had died here, as they did at every battle. Died to save the rest of them, to give them a chance to live through impossible odds. For men like the Keeper’s Blades and Indomitables—soldiers to the end—it was a fitting legacy.
Chapter Forty-Five
“Captain.” Rangvaldr’s eyes brightened as Aravon limped toward him. The Seiomenn tried to stand, but relented as Aravon pushed him back down to the seat where Belthar had propped him against the wall of a half-burned hut. “I’m not one to complain, but maybe next time, don’t cut it quite so close, yeah?”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 35
