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

by Andy Peloquin

  He had no time to look for his Grim Reavers; he had eyes only for the enemy ahead and to either side. Howling, screaming their cries, swinging massive weapons at him and his horse. Axes and spears clanged off steel barding, but it only served to enrage the warhorse. The beast lowered its head as it charged, driving its horned helmet through Eirdkilrs like the unicorns of myth. Aravon’s spear wove a blurring wall of steel as he swung, slashed, hacked, and stabbed at the Eirdkilrs.

  The city wall suddenly loomed large in front of him, a solid mass of stone dark against the thick haze of smoke. The fires blazing in the empty Legion encampment outside the city shone through the open city gates. Outlined the towering figures of the Eirdkilrs clustered around the massive capstan that lowered and raised the Soldier’s Gate.

  With a roar, Aravon turned his horse toward this new enemy and lowered his spear. An image flashed through his mind: racing along a dusty wagon road, charging the howling, shrieking Eirdkilrs that pursued the Deid and Legionnaires fleeing the destruction of Saerheim. Only this time, it wasn’t just seven Grim Reavers thundering toward the enemy. At their back rode those same Legionnaires, and behind them, came an army tens of thousands strong.

  A battle cry burst from his lips. “For Saerheim, and the Legion!”

  The Eirdkilrs turned at the sound of his voice. Too late. His warhorse barreled into their loose ranks, bowling over a trio of Eirdkilrs, crushing the massive barbarians beneath its iron-shod hooves. Aravon’s spear took another in the throat, tore out an ice-blue eye, and hacked off an arm at the elbow. He whirled the long-bladed weapon about his head, slamming it onto his enemies’ heads, slicing flesh, and driving them back.

  Howling, the barbarians surged toward him, hefting their massive weapons and baying for his head. But Aravon didn’t fight alone. Even as he thundered past and barreled through the open gate, dozens more horsemen charged at his back. The Grim Reavers, with their Odarian steel weapons flashing, filling the air with spraying mud and the blood of their enemies. Captain Lingram, the Blacksword, hacking about him with his Legion-issue short sword. The Legionnaires, clinging to their mounts and shields for dear life, letting the beasts trample the enemy that barred their way.

  Aravon slowed his charge and brought the horse whirling about. The beast reared its head and stamped its iron-shod hooves on the cobblestone street, striking sparks. His and Captain Lingram’s men came about—far too slowly, in the case of the Legionnaires, infantrymen one and all—and raced back into the city. Crushing or cutting down the last of the Eirdkilrs surrounding the gate mechanism.

  Just in time to meet the tide of Princelanders spilling across the Eastbridge and flooding Portside.

  Aravon caught sight of Commander Lerring racing at the head of the Legionnaires he’d led in the defense of Southbridge, flanked by a contingent of Icewatchers.

  “Get that gate closed!” Aravon swept his blood-soaked spear toward the Soldier’s Gate. “And hold it at any cost!”

  “Aye, sir!” Commander Lerring saluted and turned to bark orders to the men around him.

  Aravon dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and the mount broke into a run. No thundering charge now—there was no need, nor the space. Thousands of Princelanders had already crossed the Eastbridge, more crossing with every heartbeat, and now flooded north, south, and east through Portside. Hunting the Eirdkilrs that burned their homes and slaughtered their fellow citizens of Icespire.

  Hundreds of battles raged throughout Portside. Howling Eirdkilrs in twos and threes found themselves surrounded by dozens of men and women. Steel clashed, wood thumped against flesh, and the screams of the wounded and dying echoed loud among the crackling of the burning buildings. Beneath the waves of heat that washed over Aravon, blazing currents of fury and vengeance simmered through the narrow back streets and alleys of northeastern Icespire. Like fingers of molten metal flooding into a blacksmith’s mold, the tide of Princelanders surged into every corner of Portside, or turned south toward Eastway and the Glimmer.

  Aravon drove his charge down Leeward Way, hacking down Eirdkilrs who stood in his path or letting his warhorse trample the enemy. His spear flashed in the light of the burning city and the glow of the Icespire, like a frost-and-fire edged blade that brought death to the barbarians that dared to invade his home. The Grim Reavers rode at his back, Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires at the rear of their force of cavalry. An inexorable tide of death and fury that the scattered Eirdkilrs could never withstand.

  In every street, alley, and avenue, Princelanders hurled themselves on the barbarians destroying their city. In pairs, bands of five or ten, or groups scores or hundreds strong. To the southeast, Aravon caught sight of the Steel Company scouring the broad lane that ran within the circumference of the city wall. Their sharp swords and steel masks shone in the firelight as they carved their way through the enemy. Farther south, a nobleman and his household guards baited a twenty-strong group of Eirdkilrs, while a company of Icewatchers sprang a surprise rear assault. A company of civilians armed with makeshift clubs, stones, bricks, and tent staves joined in the frenzy, and the Eirdkilrs fell beneath the furious onslaught.

  The Eirdkilrs had made two fatal mistakes tonight. They had invaded Icespire, the largest city on Fehl, with fewer than ten thousand men—two thousand of whom remained at sea, waiting in vain for the Deepshackle to come down. But the second mistake, the far worse of the two, was believing they had captured the city.

  Battles on open fields and the dense woodlands of Fehl could never prepare an army for an assault on any settlement as vast as Icespire. Though the Eirdkilrs had set hundreds of homes to the torch and slaughtered Princelanders by the thousands, they couldn’t hope to understand the magnitude of the task of capturing and holding the city. Not only because of Icespire’s size—nearly one hundred and fifty square miles—but because of the threat it now faced. Tens of thousands of men and women of Icespire determined to defend their homes. Even an army of twenty or thirty thousand Eirdkilrs might not suffice, especially not now that the citizens had taken up arms to drive the barbarians from their homes.

  And so they crumbled, like a sand castle beneath a tidal wave. Scattered throughout the city, too busy burning, looting, and slaughtering to mount a proper defense. Caught alone or in small groups, the Eirdkilrs could not withstand the torrent of Princelanders flooding the city.

  Yet even as Aravon charged down Leeward Way, trampling or cutting down Eirdkilrs, he found the bodies of Princelanders littering the streets in dozens, scores. Men with throats torn open, chests caved in, and skulls crushed. Women with shattered limbs, flesh rent by axes and spears. Guts spilled onto the cobblestone street, blood gushing from gaping wounds. Icewatchers in their shining steel armor lay beside old, grizzled Legionnaires and mercenaries clad in colorful tunics bearing the marks of their companies.

  The screams of the wounded and dying pierced the crackling of the burning homes, drowned out the howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs. Yet many more lay in silence, eyes vacant and unseeing, fixed on the smoke-filled heavens or the crimson-stained stone beneath them. Princelanders and Eirdkilrs, armed and unarmored, they would never rise again.

  And still the battles raged. In every street they charged past, all along Leeward Way, and inside countless homes, workshops, and storefronts. Eirdkilrs wielding massive weapons locked in furious combat with Princelanders by the dozens. Like hounds nipping at the heels of Wasteland ice bears, the men and women of Icespire fought to cleanse their city of the enemy.

  Fire burned in the muscles of Aravon’s legs, back, and shoulders, and lead dragged at his spear arm. No matter how many he cut down, far too many remained. Howling, swinging at his armored horse, his legs, or his head, or simply moving too slowly to evade the charging warhorses. He barreled through them, trampled them beneath his horse’s hooves, or cut them down. Yet with every thundering step southward, more surged from among the alleys and back lanes of Eastway. To the west, fires raged within the Glimmer, with more to the
south at the People’s Markets. The massive city wall loomed in the distance, the blazing inferno of the Outwards visible through the open Prince’s Gate.

  Suddenly, a horde of horsemen burst from the smoke and galloped straight toward Aravon. At their head rode a tall, broad-shouldered figure in gold-and-silver-edged armor of black steel lamellar. Prince Toran, his face stained with the blood that dripped from the blade of his longsword. At his back, the Ebonguard, and the horde of mercenaries, Icewatchers, and civilians that had traveled east.

  Aravon drew his horse to a shuddering halt—had they already traveled that far? The last minutes—or was it hours—were a blur of blood, smoke, howling blue-stained faces, and fire. Yet there was no mistaking the Prince’s regal features or the black-armored guards surrounding him. This wasn’t some battle mirage or the imaginings of his exhausted mind.

  Prince Toran raised his bloodstained sword in salute, and Aravon returned it with his spear. The effort seemed near-impossible. His fingers had cramped up and locked around his spear’s wooden haft. He nearly dropped the weapon as he lowered it—it had grown strangely heavy, like a bar of iron, its weight too much for him to hold. His right arm refused to heed his command to move, forcing him to use his left hand to pull his numbed arm across his lap.

  Yet, without hesitation, he whirled his horse and led his small force of horsed soldiers back up Leeward Way. Back into the battle—the countless clashes and furious struggles that filled every corner of Icespire.

  The main avenue had been cleared of Eirdkilrs, their corpses strewn across the cobblestone streets, filthy ice bear pelts and shaggy hair and beards stained with blood. Their blood, and that of the Princelanders that lay dead, wounded, or dying beside them.

  Aravon tore his gaze from the shattered, crumpled, and gutted bodies littering Leeward Way. He had no time for triumph at his enemy’s defeat or sorrow over the death of his fellow Princelanders. All that mattered at that moment was the fight. Fighting until the Eirdkilrs had been killed or driven from the city.

  Ice slithered down his spine as a figure leapt out into the street ten yards ahead of him. He struggled to lift his spear from across his lap, but his exhausted right arm responded too slowly. His left hand scrabbled for the sword hanging on his left hip. He’d never draw it in time, he knew. His only hope was for his warhorse to trample the man or for one of his Grim Reavers to—

  His eyes flew wide and he sawed at the reins, pulling the horse to a juddering halt. The man who stood before him was no Eirdkilr. Far too short, his clothing too ragged.

  Fire blazed in Gengibar Twist’s lone eye as he raced toward Aravon. “Eirdkilrs in the Glimmer!” he shouted. “Fifty or sixty of the bastards, and they’re giving my people a bloody hard time rooting them out!”

  “Where?” Belthar’s voice rumbled from behind Aravon. The big man pushed his horse forward, stopping just in front of Gengibar Twist. “Where are they?”

  The Broker’s face went hard. “In Matron Lyera’s.”

  Belthar stiffened, his massive shoulders pulling tight. A tense heartbeat passed before he nodded. “I understand.” He turned to Aravon, and a shadow darkened his eyes. “If they’re dug in there, we won’t get them out easy. Our best play’s to split up. Captain Lingram and his men keep them busy while we hit them from behind.”

  Aravon glanced at the Legion officer, and the Legionnaires behind him. A part of his mind dimly registered the four empty saddles, the one Legionnaire—Aravon didn’t know his name—clutching a tear in his side. Haze had lost his shield, Corporal Rold his sword, and Endyn had somehow gotten his hands on an Eirdkilr’s axe. Blood spattered the faces, armor, and shields of the Legionnaires, now just twelve, the last survivors of Onyx Battalion’s Ninth Company. Yet they met his gaze without hesitation.

  Captain Lingram inclined his head. “Your call, Captain.”

  Aravon turned back to Gengibar Twist. “You’ll lead the Legionnaires where they need to go?”

  The Broker nodded. “They’ll have to go on foot, but—”

  “Thank the Swordsman!” The outburst echoed from Corporal Rold’s lips, followed by a groan of mingled pain, relief, and delight as the Legionnaire slid off his horse. “About bloody damned time!”

  Captain Lingram and the rest of the Legionnaires dismounted, some with far less grace than their Corporal. Endyn managed to clamber down without mishap, but Duvain’s foot caught in the stirrup and he would have fallen if his brother hadn’t caught him. A few seconds of clattering armor and clanking shields, and the Legionnaires stood ready to march.

  “Keep them busy for three minutes,” Belthar told Captain Lingram. “We’ll hit them from behind as hard as we can.”

  “I’ll have a few lads handy to help, too,” Gengibar Twist spoke up. At Aravon’s surprised look, he held up his hands. “Hey, it’s my home they’re pissing in.”

  “Then help Captain Lingram hold the front.” Belthar’s voice was hard, edged with steel. “We’ll hit them up the arse so hard they won’t recover.”

  “Lingram, eh?” Gengibar Twist turned toward the Legion officer. “So you’re the Blacksword.” He studied Lingram up and down. “I expected a bit more of the man who…”

  Aravon didn’t hear the rest—he was already spurring his horse to a run, riding after Belthar. The big Grim Reaver led them north along Leeward Way, then cut to the west a few hundred yards from where they’d left the Legionnaires. Three streets stood between them and the Glimmer, and Belthar drew them up just at the edge of the slums.

  “We go on foot,” he rumbled, dropping from his saddle with a splashing thump of heavy boots on mud-covered stone. “It’ll be tight, and keep an eye on the windows and roofs. There’s a whole maze up there that the Eirdkilrs might have found. That high ground will give their archers a good place to pick us off if they see us before we see them.”

  Noll nodded. “Eyes sharp and high, got it.” He unhooked his quiver from its place next to his saddle and slung it over his shoulder. Only five arrows remained—two more than rested in Skathi’s quiver.

  “Here.” Colborn drew a bundle of arrows from his own quiver. He hadn’t used his longbow in the battle, trusting to his sword and shield. “Make the most of them, yeah?”

  Skathi took the arrows and turned to Noll, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “Fewest kills buys the winner a barrel of ale?”

  “You know it!” Noll refilled his quiver with a grateful nod to Colborn.

  “Shields out front,” Aravon called. “Ursus and Magicmaker on me. Foxclaw and Redwing, call your shots. We don’t have arrows to spare.”

  The Grim Reavers fell into position in seconds, Zaharis on Aravon’s right and Belthar’s huge form on his left.

  “Get us where we need to go,” Aravon muttered to Belthar.

  At Belthar’s quiet order, Colborn and Rangvaldr began the slow, steady advance into the shadows and shanties of the Glimmer. The back alleys were narrow, a maze of bolt-holes, hidden openings, and crumbling buildings constructed far too close together. Canvas fluttered in the morning breeze, cloth flapped on the smoke-heavy wind, and the grey haze pressed in around them. Aravon’s heart hammered a thundering beat in his ears as he crept forward. Barely a rattle of weapons and the scuff of boots on stone, his ears pricked up for any sign of danger.

  “Rooftop,” Skathi called. Wood creaked, a string twanged, and the hiss of a flying arrow, all in the space of a heartbeat. A meaty thump echoed, followed by the crash of a heavy body splintering wooden walls.

  “Window on the left.” Noll drew and fired a second behind Skathi. The wind of his loosed missile tugged at Aravon’s ear. The gurgling, gasping cry of an Eirdkilr marked his shot as good.

  Through the maze of streets they went, Belthar calling out quiet directions to “turn right, straight on, duck in here”. When an Eirdkilr appeared through the haze of smoke ahead, Skathi’s call of “Mine!” echoed a second before Noll could claim the target. Again when an Eirdkilr staggered, reeling and bleeding, down an alley to t
he left. A third fell around the next corner, an arrow buried in his eye.

  “No fair!” Noll muttered from behind Aravon’s left shoulder. “You’re hogging all the good ones.”

  “Call faster, then!” Skathi retorted. “Doorway right.” Her arrow zipped toward an Eirdkilr staggering out of a nearby building, punching through the barbarian’s throat.

  “More!” Noll called. He fired a moment later, and Skathi sent another arrow hurtling toward the enemy as a third, fourth, and fifth Eirdkilr surged from within the building. The barbarians appeared surprised to see the Grim Reavers moving so quietly through the smoke and mess of slums. Before they could raise a cry or lift their weapons, Zaharis crossed the distance to them, mace swinging. Shattered one’s skull and crushed the other’s windpipe with two viciously fast blows. Blood and brains dripped from the Secret Keeper’s weapon as he returned to his place at Aravon’s side.

  “Good looking out, Foxclaw,” Aravon called over his shoulder.

  “That doesn’t mean they count as yours,” Skathi muttered to Noll. “Points to the Magicmaker.”

  “Hush!” Belthar hissed. “Matron Lyera’s is just around the next corner.”

  Silence descended over the Grim Reavers. Aravon tapped Colborn’s shoulder, and the two shield-bearers advanced toward the intersection five yards southeast of their position. Colborn and Rangvaldr stopped just before reaching the adjoining lane, making way for Aravon to get through and peer around the corner.

  “Big stone building,” Belthar rumbled from behind him. “One of the few in the Glimmer.”

  Aravon had no trouble making out which building the big man meant—aside from the solid stone walls, which stood a stark contrast to the sagging, crumbling wooden shanties around it, the presence of the Eirdkilrs marked their destination clearly.