Behind the embattled soldiers, Captain Lingram of Onyx Battalion’s Ninth Company shouted orders to Icewatchers and Legionnaires alike. He led a fighting retreat—barely a heartbeat away from full-scale rout, with only his commanding presence to keep the men under his command from crumbling. At his side, the giant Endyn wielded a massive door like a shield to protect his Captain. Duvain, Corporal Rold, and the other survivors of Ninth Company anchored the rearmost rank. A solid wall of Legion steel and courage to bolster the Icewatchers fighting to protect the city.
Yet even their courage could never stand in the face of such overwhelming odds. Hundreds of Eirdkilrs had gained the walls—Aravon could see their hulking figures silhouetted by the smoke and flames of the burning Legion encampment as they scaled ladders and climbing poles, flooding over the Soldier’s Gate en masse. Even now, four massive Eirdkilrs labored at the capstan, and the huge gate rumbled slowly open. In a matter of minutes, the full force of the Eirdkilrs besieging the eastern side of Icespire would flood the city.
Only the lust for blood, death, and destruction kept them from engulfing the meager defenders. But that would change at any second. The Icewatch—inexperienced men unaccustomed to war, much less against such impossible odds—were a heartbeat away from crumbling. The Legionnaires bolstering their ranks couldn’t turn the tide of that battle if the Icewatchers broke.
Aravon paused only long enough to bark an order at the Icewatchers. “You hold this long enough for us to get them back here, then you run like the demons of the fiery hell are on your heels!”
He’d just taken his first step onto solid ground when Zaharis raced ahead of him. The Secret Keeper rushed toward the embattled soldiers, hand dipping into his pouch as he ran. Ten yards from the rearmost rank, he whipped his arm back and forward, hurling something Aravon couldn’t see into the Eirdkilrs assaulting the Icewatchers. The object sailed high over the Icewatchers’ conical helmets and disappeared into the mass of barbarians. Within seconds, a thick, choking smoke of hideous acidic green rose from amidst the enemy ranks. The Eirdkilrs’ howls turned to cries of dismay, cut off in choking, gasping coughs and vomiting.
“Tell them not to breathe,” Zaharis signed one-handed as he dipped his hand into his pouch a second time.
“Hold your breaths!” Aravon roared. “Don’t inhale the smoke!”
The Icewatchers didn’t need to be told twice. With the Eirdkilrs distracted by gagging, hacking, and retching, the embattled guards and soldiers were free to break off the attack. They turned, all cohesion and unity abandoned, and sprinted toward the Eastbridge.
“Get across!” Belthar’s powerful voice boomed above the chaos of battle. “Run, you miserable bastards!”
Though the Legion held the rear of the ragged shield wall, the Icewatchers’ panic lent wings to their feet. The blue-cloaked city guards reached the Eastbridge and thundered across, even while the Legionnaires under Captain Lingram’s command maintained disciplined order on their hasty retreat. They formed up before the Eastbridge, fifty soldiers holding the retreat as the Icewatch and the slower Legionnaires retreated to safety.
Aravon slipped into place beside Captain Lingram. “How in the fiery hell did you get mixed up in this?”
Lingram’s eyebrows rose in surprise, which turned to relief a moment later as he recognized Aravon. “Right place, right time.” He shrugged and gave a wry grin. “You know my luck.” The smile didn’t drive the shadows from his eyes.
“When this is over, remind me to take your story straight to the Prince.” Aravon threw his arm around a Legionnaire with a braced knee and helped hasten the man’s flight to the Eastbridge. “He’ll make sure all is set to right.”
“Just doing my duty, Captain Snarl.” Only a hint of bitterness echoed in Lingram’s voice. “Like a good Legionnaire. Even a disgraced one.”
“Which is exactly why I’m going to make sure that pisspot Virinus doesn’t get his way.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “After the Prince hears of old Lord Virinus’ treachery, he’ll think twice about anything Myron says.”
“Treachery?” Confusion flitted across Captain Lingram’s handsome face. “But—”
The words died unspoken on his lips as the Eirdkilrs came stumbling from the wall of foul green smoke. Tears streamed from their red, bleary eyes, vomit stained their filthy clothing and rusted mail, and they coughed with every lumbering step. Yet they closed the distance to the fleeing soldiers with howls of fury and hatred twisting their heavy, blunt features.
At that moment, screams of panic echoed from the south. Aravon tore his gaze from the oncoming Eirdkilrs for a heartbeat—long enough to spot a force of thirty barbarians surging through the houses of Portside. Men, women, and children that hadn’t managed to cross the bridges in time now fled from the wrath of the Eirdkilrs. Howling, shrieking barbarians with blue-stained faces and blood-soaked furs rampaged among the narrow lanes and back streets. Hacking, stabbing, or clubbing down any civilian they caught.
Aravon had a single heartbeat to make a decision. He could cross the Eastbridge with the Icewatchers and Legionnaires, but there was no way they could all get to safety in time. Not with the Eirdkilrs surging west along the Legion’s Path toward them. And if they pulled back now, the innocent people that hadn’t gotten to safety would find themselves at the mercy of the Eirdkilrs.
It was no choice at all.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
“Go!” Aravon shouted to the Legionnaires holding the Eastbridge. “Lock the gate and drop the bridge!”
The soldiers never questioned his orders. They threw themselves against the winch, and the spike-tipped gate slowly rumbled upward.
Aravon spun toward Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires that hadn’t yet gotten across—thirty soldiers, all of whom bore swords and shields, some rusty and dented, yet held in the experienced grip of men accustomed to war.
“Save those civilians!” He took off at a dead run, racing away from the Legion’s Path, heading south toward the streets where he’d seen the Eirdkilrs slaughtering the citizens of Portside. A blitz attack from the rear could catch the blood-raging barbarians by surprise, put the bastards down quickly enough to keep heading south toward the Southbridge. As long as the Eirdkilrs hadn’t yet gotten over the Prince’s Gate, the soldiers around him had a chance of getting to safety. If not…he refused to think about that.
The sound of booted feet and clanking armor thundered behind him. The Legionnaires followed his command without question. Even Captain Lingram raced along at Aravon’s side, joining the Grim Reavers as they sprinted away from the Eastbridge. Both in pursuit of the Eirdkilrs ahead and fleeing those howling toward the bridge.
Just before rounding the corner, Aravon risked a glance back. A split second, no more, but that was all he needed to see the Eirdkilrs clawing, hammering, and hauling at the gate. The spike-tipped lattice no longer rose—the Legionnaires that had been working the winch now lay dead, Eirdkilr arrows in their throats. The giant barbarians fought to wrench the steel gate out of their path, and it groaned and bent beneath the strain. Against those massive muscles, even that mighty barrier could only stand for so long.
Yet the gate’s resistance bought Aravon and the men around him precious seconds. The Eirdkilrs, so consumed by their attempts to get through the gate and pursue the Legionnaires and Icewatchers fleeing across the Eastbridge, paid little attention to the soldiers fleeing south into the streets of Portside.
Hope flooded Aravon. We’re not out of the fight yet! The houses, shops, and buildings along Leeward Way remained dark—save for a few sporadic fires set by panicking civilians knocking over lanterns and candles in their haste to flee—the streets nearly empty of enemies. As far as he could see, only one small force of Eirdkilrs had turned their attention southward. He had to hope the Prince’s Gate still held, at least long enough for him to get the soldiers around him across the Southbridge.
A colossal whoomph echoed behind him, accompanied by a thunderous splash. The
Eirdkilrs’ howls turned from triumph and bloodthirsty glee to dismay. The Legionnaires had fulfilled their duty and dropped the Eastbridge. Hopefully drowning scores of Eirdkilrs in the process.
He could spare that no thought; he could only focus on the Eirdkilrs he hunted, and the battle ahead. The desperate flight through Icespire toward the Southbridge.
Through the streets of Portside he ran, following the rampaging Eirdkilrs. It wasn’t difficult. Broken bodies of men and women, bloodstained cobblestones, and shattered doors and windows marked their passage. The corpses of dozens of Portsiders lay strewn around the muddy alleys and stone-paved streets. Limbs snapped, chests crushed, skulls caved in, throats torn, organs spilling from gaping wounds. The stink of death—urine, vomit, ordure, and the metallic reek of blood—hung thick in the narrow streets, borne aloft on the haze of smoke billowing from the burning Legion encampment, the houses north of the Legion’s Path, and the Outwards to the south.
They caught up to the first group of Eirdkilrs around the next corner. Five of the towering barbarians, monstrous brutes howling in delight as they advanced on a Portsider family. The mother and father shielded their five wailing children with their bodies, yet they stood weaponless, unarmored. No hope of survival in the face of such wanton bloodlust.
Aravon roared a wordless cry of fury, and the Eirdkilrs’ heads snapped around. Their eyes locked on him and the soldiers racing toward them. Too late. Even as they turned to face the threat from behind, Aravon, Captain Lingram, and Colborn hit the barbarians hard.
Aravon’s spear thrust took the nearest in the chest, driving him back a half-step, slamming him into the Eirdkilr behind him. Blood gushed from the barbarian’s lips, staining his filthy blond beard a grisly crimson. Even as the Eirdkilr sagged, Aravon tore the sharp spearhead free, swatted aside a wild axe strike, and brought the iron-shod butt up between the next enemy’s legs. The barbarian gave a mewling cry of agony. His axe fell from nerveless fingers and he clutched his crushed groin. A spear thrust to the chest ended the Eirdkilr’s misery a heartbeat later.
The clash ended as quickly as it had begun. Colborn’s Odarian steel sword had made quick work of two Eirdkilrs, Captain Lingram’s short Legion-issue blade opening the last barbarian’s gut, right leg, and throat.
But Aravon had no time to gloat. Screams of panic, shouts, and the howled war cries of “Death to the half-men!” echoed from the street ahead. They still had more Eirdkilrs to hunt.
He raced on, but stopped at the next intersection. The narrow back lane bisected into two lanes that ran southeast and southwest, and Eirdkilrs were visible down both. Shrieking, laughing, gloating as they chopped down fleeing civilians, burst into darkened homes, and set fire to any building that would catch alight.
Aravon rounded on Captain Lingram. “Lead your Legionnaires left, we’ll take right.”
“Aye, Captain!” Lingram obeyed without hesitation, rounding on his men. “You heard the order!”
Aravon took off down the southwestern alley and raced toward the Eirdkilrs carving their way through Portside. Ten steps before he reached the first barbarian, an arrow whistled past his head. The missile hurled the Eirdkilr from his feet and sent him crashing to the ground. He didn’t rise—the red-fletched Agrotorae arrow protruded from the side of his head, just beneath the rim of his skullcap, driven deep into his brain and spine.
The second Eirdkilr never saw Colborn coming. The Lieutenant outraced Aravon, hitting the barbarian from behind. A single slashing stroke buried the Odarian steel longsword into the back of the Eirdkilr’s spine. The barbarian flopped on limp legs and lay unmoving, howling his fury and impotence into the muddy ground. Colborn paused only long enough to stomp the barbarian’s face into the muck—he’d suffocate in the blood-thickened mire soon enough.
Aravon’s spear made quick work of the third Eirdkilr, slashing across the backs of both legs to sever the barbarian’s hamstrings. He raced on even as the towering giant fell—a loud, wet crunch echoed from behind him a moment later as Zaharis’ spiked mace finished the job.
A pair of Eirdkilrs burst out of a nearby wooden building, dragging a pair of kicking, screaming women between them. Blood stained the women’s faces and their dresses were torn, yet they fought, bit, and clawed at the massive hands encircling their throats. The Eirdkilrs looked up from their struggling prisoners in time to meet Aravon’s rush—the glimmer of steel was the last thing they’d ever see as his slashing strike carved deep furrows across their faces, shredding their eyes and noses.
Again, Aravon raced on without pause. It was ever the way of the Legion—the front ranks held the shield wall and pushed forward, while the rear ranks finished off the wounded enemies engulfed by the Legion advance. Belthar’s axe, Zaharis’ mace, and Rangvaldr’s sword would put an end to the Eirdkilrs. He needed to remain focused on the enemy ahead.
Another arrow zipped past him, hitting an Eirdkilr busy setting fire to a wooden building. Noll’s this time. The steel-tipped shaft punched into the side of the barbarian’s thick neck and snapped his head to the side. Blood gushed from the wound, spraying the air with a fine crimson mist that hissed and spat as the droplets struck the flame of the torch. That flame quickly guttered as the torch fell from the dying Eirdkilr’s hand and plopped into the muck beside his toppling corpse.
One of the remaining Eirdkilrs noticed their advance and managed to put up a fight. His vicious club blow staggered Colborn backward and set his metal-rimmed shield ringing. Before he could wind up for a second strike, however, Aravon’s spear cut the Eirdkilr’s legs out from beneath him. Colborn buried his longsword in the downed barbarian’s throat.
The last two died where they stood. Skathi and Noll’s arrows sped toward the enemy in near-unison, striking the barbarians with twin thwacks. The first staggered back, screaming and clutching at the red-fletched shaft buried in his eye. The second gurgled and struggled to draw breath, staring stupidly down at the arrow protruding from his chest. He fell to weakened knees and fell face-first into the bloodstained muck.
A part of Aravon wanted to gloat, wanted to raise his voice in furious triumph over the slain Eirdkilrs. But these were just a handful of the thousands that even now streamed into the city. Their howling filled the streets of Portside, and the light of burning homes and shops brightened the night sky. The haze of smoke grew thicker with every hammering beat of Aravon’s heart.
They had a busy night ahead.
The Grim Reavers raced down the alley, but at the next intersection, Aravon turned sharply to his left. East, toward the place where Captain Lingram and his thirty Legionnaires had their own Eirdkilr problem to sort out.
Fire blazed in the streets ahead. The harsh orange brilliance cast the towering figures of the rampaging Eirdkilrs in a terrible silhouette. For a moment, they appeared like creatures from the fiery hell. Monstrous, bloodthirsty, with weapons of wood and sharp steel instead of claws and fangs. Yet no less hellish for their savagery.
“Push!” A familiar cry echoed down the street as Aravon reached the corner. “Close that gap, damn it!” Captain Lingram, thundering orders to his men.
Aravon burst out of the alley and found himself in the middle of a desperate battle. The Legionnaires had locked shields and closed ranks, four ranks seven men across, with Captain Lingram in the back and the hulking Endyn at his side. Twenty Eirdkilrs howled, screamed, and battered at their shield wall. Massive axes chopped over the shields’ metal rims, trying to crush heads and snap Legionnaire limbs. The towering barbarians thrust their spears from up high, forcing the Legionnaires to tilt their shields upward to meet the overhead assault. Heavy wooden clubs hammered again and again into the ranks of soldiers with staggering, bone-shattering force. The cacophony of ringing steel and wood, screaming men, howling barbarians, and crackling flames nearly shattered Aravon’s ear drums.
Brute force would carry the day, Aravon saw in an instant. The Legionnaires—raw recruits barely out of their first battle at Saerheim and sold
iers long ago retired from active service—couldn’t hope to hold back the furious tide of Eirdkilrs. Those few veterans, men like Corporal Rold and Captain Lingram, had no chance of holding the ranks together by sheer force of will alone.
But the Grim Reavers had arrived, and not a moment too soon.
Aravon raised his spear and charged the Eirdkilrs, hitting their left flank with every shred of fury, skill, and strength blazing through him. His spear carved a blurring path of blood and death through the Eirdkilrs locked in combat with the Legionnaires. Barbarians who never saw him coming, had no time to turn from the battle in front of them, died with sharp steel thrust through their sides. Knees shattered, elbows crunched, and ribs snapped beneath the whirling blows of his spear’s iron-shod butt.
Colborn’s wordless roar echoed beside him, and the Lieutenant’s shield slammed into one of the Eirdkilrs on Aravon’s right. The charge bore the barbarian to the ground, Colborn with him. The Lieutenant found his feet first. A thrust of his longsword finished the downed Eirdkilr, just in time to deflect another blow aimed at his head.
Aravon had no time to watch Colborn’s battle, to look for the Grim Reavers spilling out into the street around him. He had eyes only for the Eirdkilrs ahead—the broad, leather and chain-mail covered backs facing him. Hacking, thrusting, slashing, and spinning his spear like a quarterstaff, he cut down every Eirdkilr that stood between him and the Legion shield wall.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 70
