"Meat shield!" Rold called. "Get down to the gate, now."
Endyn shot a curious glance at Duvain, then at the corporal. "Sir?" he rumbled.
"Much as I'd love for the Eirdkilrs to send all their arrows at that pretty head of yours," Corporal Rold said, "a strong man like you'd come in handy keeping that gate closed in case the bastards decide to bring a battering ram."
Endyn nodded. "Yes, Corporal!"
Duvain gripped his forearm. "Be safe, Brother."
"You, too." With a nod, Endyn lumbered down the steps. He strode to the gate, where he stood waiting, shield and massive hewing spear gripped in his huge hand.
A tense silence descended on the ramparts. The camp behind them was abuzz with activity, but the only sound on the ramparts was the clanking of armor or the nervous coughing of the Legionnaires. All eyes fixed on the forest and lake. They knew what lay out there—all that remained was to wait.
Long minutes passed without movement. The wind no longer whispered across the lake, and it seemed the leaves had ceased their rustling. Utter stillness, an absence of sound that felt terrifying. Duvain's heart hammered against his ribs.
A light appeared across the lake. Little more than a pinprick, so small it had to be far away. Another appeared beside it, then another, and still more. Golden lights appeared in the darkness, skirting the lake, dancing through the forest like will-o-the-wisps, growing larger with every passing second. Duvain lost count after thirty, and still they continued to multiply. The lights outnumbered the stars twinkling in the sky.
They drew closer, growing until Duvain could make out the massive figures of men carrying torches. The shores of Cold Lake stood a mere three hundred paces from the east gate, and the huge barbarians covered the ground in loping strides. Their shaggy bears and fur coats gave them a bestial appearance, like monsters from the stories his father had told him and Endyn to terrify them.
But they were very real.
The call of a horn shattered the tense silence. Not the piercing note of a Legion's horn. No, this was a harsh, lugubrious sound that set the lake's surface rippling and sent the birds screaming from the trees. A second horn joined in, echoed by two, then three more. The clarion cry sent a shiver of fear down Duvain's spine.
The Eirdkilrs had arrived.
Chapter Eleven
The ground shuddered beneath the tramping feet of the barbarians. The darkness disgorged them like a swarm of enormous ants rushing toward Saerheim. But the general’s message had gotten it wrong: the Eirdkilrs numbered not in the hundreds, but the thousands.
Duvain clenched his fists, but found his hands shaking. He gripped his shield tighter and hoped no one noticed.
"Steady, lads." Corporal Rold spoke from nearby, his voice soft. His presence was solid, reliable at Duvain's back. Gone was the mockery, the disdain, the harshness from his voice. He spoke to keep them in line, stand strong against the enemy. "Pucker factor may be a ten out of ten, but that's no excuse to piss yourselves. Clench tight, and keep your eyes and steel forward."
Duvain almost found himself laughing in hysteric fear. Panic gripped him with a hand of ice, and only the solid feel of his weapons and the cold voice of the corporal kept him from emptying his bladder.
The barbarians' rush slowed, and they drew up in a ragged line a short distance from Saerheim.
"What're they doing?" Duvain whispered to Owen.
"Keeping out of bowshot," the private whispered back. His voice shook—he was as terrified as Duvain. "They know what our ballistae can do to them."
Duvain turned to Owen with a confused expression. "But we don't have ballistae."
Owen nodded. "I know. And the moment they realize that, we're doomed."
Long minutes passed, and the mass of Eirdkilrs thickened as more and more came around the lake to join the ranks, until they became a solid black mass brightened sporadically by torches. The Eirdkilrs' chant carried the short distance to the palisade wall. Duvain didn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear. They called for blood.
"Shite!" Rold cursed. Duvain followed his gaze. A small contingent of men had broken away from the mass, advancing toward the gate at a steady pace. They walked slowly, their steps hesitant. They no doubt expected to be scythed down by the massive ballistae bolts.
No bolts came. The Deadheads had no artillery.
The Eirdkilrs drew within forty paces of the gate and stopped at the base of the steep hill. They crouched behind a low farm wall, their gazes searching the ramparts. Duvain felt their gazes pause on him, and ice ran down his spine. From this distance, he imagined his death written in their eyes.
After a few moments, the Eirdkilrs stood and spread their arms wide. A few shouted in a derisive tone, and one dropped his leather breeches to expose his naked rear to the ramparts. This sent a ripple of laughter through the mass of waiting barbarians.
Still no response from Saerheim. With a shout, the throng of barbarians began to move forward, surging up the hill.
"Keeper have mercy," Rold muttered. "There's no stopping them now."
Duvain chest tightened at the grim tone in the corporal's voice. Rold's face had gone pale. Weasel's eyes were closed, and his lips formed silent words. Was he praying?
Duvain sought out Endyn near the gate. His brother was lucky. On the ground, he couldn't see the wall of barbarians approaching. He didn't have to see his death drawing closer one lumbering step at a time.
A lone howl rose from the mass of Eirdkilrs. Another voice added to the keening cry. More and more joined in, until thousands of throats shouted their rage into the darkness. The cry died slowly, the sound seeming to echo from all around them.
The Eirdkilrs charged.
"Brace yourselves!" Rold shouted. "Here they come!"
The barbarians raced toward them, leaping walls, their booted feet trampling the few plants remaining on the barren farmland. Up the hill the Eirdkilrs came, thousands of massive, fur-covered brutes wielding huge axes, heavy war clubs, and spears nearly twice the length of a man. Moonlight glinted off their helmets—not the horned decorative headpieces of legend, but skull caps that looked all the more ominous for the simplicity. Wooden shields rode on their backs, and long knives hung like wolves' teeth from their belts.
"Ware arrows!" a voice shouted. Rold's, Duvain realized in the back of his mind.
He blinked. The men around him had crouched, but his body refused to heed his commands.
"Get down, you idiot!" A strong hand seized his collar and dragged him to the wooden ramparts. Something whizzed past his ear, narrowly missing slicing a furrow across the side of his head. Arrows thunked into the walls, thumped into the soft earth behind them, and, in the case of one unlucky Legionnaire, carved through flesh with deadly precision. The man went down with a scream, arrow embedded in his thigh.
Wide-eyed, Duvain looked at the man that had dragged him down. "Th-Thank you, Corporal," he stammered.
"Brick-headed, mouth-breathing numpty!" Rold scowled. "You're going to get yourself killed unless you wake the bloody hell up."
"Y-Yes, Corporal." Duvain's mouth was suddenly dry, yet sweat poured down his back. His hands shook so hard he couldn't hold his shield.
Rold seized his collar and shook him. "Snap out of it, meat! Stay focused or get dead."
The jostling shook something loose in Duvain's brain, and he found his mind and body back in harmony. He crouched with the other Legionnaires as the arrows rained down around them or slammed into the palisade wall. The tremor in his hand lessened as he forced himself to take deep breaths.
The rain of arrows diminished, replaced by the cries of the onrushing Eirdkilrs.
"Now, up!" Rold roared. He stood, the rest of the Legionnaires moving with him. "Loose hand axes!"
Duvain fumbled to draw the Fehlan weapon. He'd never even hit the target during the hours of practice he’d gotten in since arriving at Saerheim, but that didn't matter here. He had a sea of targets to choose from. The Eirdkilrs racing u
p the narrow wagon path clustered so tightly together he was assured to hit something. Someone.
He hurled his axe with the rest of the Legionnaires. The steel head flashed once in the torchlight and disappeared in the darkness. The war cries of the Eirdkilrs mingled with shouts of pain.
The command came again. "Loose second axe!"
Duvain's muscles moved slowly. His arm seemed to take an age to come up, back, and forward. The haft of the throwing axe slipped from his sweat-slicked palms. He didn't know if it hit anything, but had no time to think about it. Someone shoved him aside, and an arrow sliced through the air where he'd been standing a moment before.
Rold slapped him hard. "Eyes open, meat! Get ready to repel them!"
Duvain turned back to the wall and found the barbarians had closed the distance to the palisade. The Eirdkilrs didn't bother to use their shields—they simply charged the walls heedless of the risk of death. Among the chaotic mess of men, a few of the huge figures bore crude ladders, which were brought forward and quickly thrown up.
"Push 'em back!" Corporal Rold screamed. "Don't let them get over the wall!"
A ladder slammed onto the wall just beside Duvain, and he reached forward to shove it away. The heavy wood refused to budge. Lowering his shield, he used both hands to push. Weasel seized the ladder's other rail, and together they hurled it away.
Another ladder clanked on the wall, this time on Duvain's opposite side. By the time he had turned toward it, a wild, bearded face appeared over the edge of the wall. Owen drove his spear into the man's open mouth. Blood sprayed over Duvain's face, and the barbarian fell backward. With a shove, Owen sent the ladder after him.
The clash of steel melded with the cries of men, the Eirdkilrs' maddened howls, and a deep thump, thump. Duvain spared a glance for Endyn. His brother was hurled backward by the gate creaking inward. Endyn recovered his balance and threw himself against the huge doors, only to be thrown back again as the barbarians drove a battering ram against the gate.
"Push them back!" Rold was calling over the din of battle. "Keep the Watcher-damned bastards off the wall!" He punctuated his words by thrusting his spear into a barbarian's throat. The Eirdkilr's howl was cut off with a gurgle, and he fell back. A moment later, another barbarian replaced him on the ladder. When Weasel hacked him down, another man came.
And so it went for an eternity. The Legionnaires cut down as many as they could, but still the Eirdkilrs came on. The blood-curdling war cries continued, a wailing that pierced the clash of steel on steel. The sound grated on Duvain's ears. He fought back the instinctive fear and tried to focus on the task at hand.
Suddenly, without warning, there were no more. Duvain stumbled and fell to one knee. He found himself gasping for air. Fire consumed his arms and shoulders, and his forearms ached from gripping his spear and shield. Blood covered his arms, ran down his clothing, stained his face, leaked into his nose and mouth. How many Eirdkilrs had he killed? Had he killed any? He couldn't know for certain; it all faded into a crimson blur.
"Meat, you wounded?" someone shouted at him.
Duvain blinked. Corporal Rold hovered over him, his face spattered with gore, his expression concerned.
"I…" He found himself at a loss for words. He wanted to say he was fine, he wasn't wounded.
"You're bleeding," Rold told him.
Duvain looked down, and his brow furrowed. A gash ran from his left elbow to his shoulder, but he felt no pain. He felt nothing but the bone-numbing terror of battle.
"Damn, meat!" Rold shook his head. "If you don't get that stitched up, you'll bleed out."
As the fog of battle retreated, the pain asserted itself. A throbbing ache ran to his shoulder. His left hand felt weak as he gripped his shield.
"Owen, get meat here to the healer, double time!" Rold shouted.
Owen sat on the parapet, his back against the wooden wall. He had his eyes closed, his lips pressed in a tight line, as if fighting to keep down his meal.
"Private!" Rold gripped Owen's collar and dragged the man to his feet. "Do you hear me, soldier?"
"Yes, Corporal," Owen managed to mutter. His eyes opened, and he paled at the sight of Rold's bloodstained face.
Rold shoved Owen toward Duvain. "Get him to the healer, now!"
Owen moved as if in a trance, reaching for Duvain and helping him to stand. Duvain winced at the pain in his arm; with the fog of battle retreating, he was fully aware of its presence now. He needed Owen's help to climb down the ladder from the parapet.
He shot a glance at Endyn. His brother had a cut on his forehead and a mud stain on his knees, but otherwise looked unharmed.
"Corporal Rold!" Captain Lingram's voice cut through the night. "Status report." The captain strode toward them, his face a mask of concern.
Rold leapt from the parapet, landing on the ground beside Duvain, and pushed through the Legionnaires to meet the captain a short distance away. "Situation's dire, sir." He spoke in a voice too low for the men on the wall to hear, but Duvain caught everything as he limped past. "We've no hope of holding. We can stall them, but…"
"Understood." The captain nodded. "How long do we have?"
Rold shrugged. "They took a beating in that first round, so they'll retreat for a few minutes to lick their wounds before trying again. But they'll be back on us in five, ten minutes at most."
Captain Lingram's face hardened. "Then we've got to make use of the time."
Rold's face went blank. "Orders, Captain?"
Duvain slowed further. The fate of the Deadheads rested on Captain Lingram's next words.
The captain drew in a deep breath. "We've got to get as many of the villagers out of here as we can. Lord Virinus and his entourage as well. I want your squad heading up the flight."
"My squad?" Rold asked. "With respect, sir, the big one's our best hope of holding the gate as long as possible. Squad Three may not be the Legion's finest, but—"
"Corporal, you have your orders." Captain Lingram's voice brooked no dissent. "Get your men to the wagons and get the people moving."
"And you, sir?" Rold asked.
"I'll be commanding the rear guard, buying the rest of you time to escape."
"Not a bloody chance." A new voice entered the discussion: Sergeant Brash's. "You can stuff that order up your arse, with all due respect, sir."
Duvain stopped, unable to help himself listening to the debate.
Captain Lingram's expression grew angry. "Sergeant, while I appreciate—"
"Appreciate nothing, sir." The sergeant spoke in his cold, quiet voice. "You know as well as I do that you're the best chance of any of us making it back to Icespire in one piece. You know the terrain better than any of us, and you're one of the few that speaks enough Fehlan to communicate with the villagers. That makes you the best man to head up the retreat party."
"He's right, Captain." Awr had joined the debate now. "And you know it. It's just your Keeper-damned pride and loyalty that's talking you into staying. We both know how that'd turn out.”
Captain Lingram's face hardened. "I thought my soldiers had more respect than this."
"We've all the respect in the world, Captain," Brash replied. "Which is why we're all going to tell you that we'll knock you out cold and tie you to the wagons before we let you command the rear guard."
Captain Lingram's eyes narrowed. "You speak of mutiny, Sergeant."
"Call it what you will, captain." Brash shrugged. "Whatever it takes to get you out of here in one piece."
"Damn it, Brash, I won't stand by and let you do this!" Captain Lingram's voice rose to a shout.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm not giving you much choice." Brash folded his arms over his chest. "After what you did for me in Garrow's Canyon, I owe you. Seems like as fine a time as any to make good on that debt."
Captain Lingram tried to speak, but Awr cut him off. "You've a part to play in all this, Captain. You've got to get the Fjall chieftain's daughter back to Icespire and make sure t
hat treaty gets signed. Would you really trust Lord Virinus with command of your men?"
The captain's brow furrowed.
"He'd get everyone killed before daybreak." Awr shook his head. "The rest of them are counting on you, sir." He saluted. "Brash and I'll mind the village in your absence. Might even have a nice warm meal prepared for you when you get back."
Captain Lingram tried to speak, but no words came. He swallowed and tried again. "How many can you spare?"
Sergeant Brash turned back to study the walls. "With thirty-five, I can hold long enough for you to get out."
Awr nodded. "We'll keep them busy for you, Captain."
Captain Lingram's eyes narrowed. "Awr, you don’t have to do this. There's no debt between us."
"That's where you're wrong, sir." Awr gestured to his throat. "The bastards would've finished the job if it weren't for you. It cost you everything to stand up to that cunt Virinus for me. Not a day's gone by that I want to tell you to take it back, to sit down and let them hang me for thievery. You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me."
"I did what was right, Awr. You were trying to feed your family. You didn't deserve—"
"And that right is what got you sent here in the first place." The corporal folded his arms. "I won't let your pig-headed insistence on being a good man get you killed."
Sergeant Brash and Corporal Awr straightened and gave Captain Lingram a solemn salute. "It was an honor, sir," Brash said.
The captain returned the salute with a hard expression. "Make the bastards pay, Sergeant."
"Aye, sir." Sergeant Brash nodded. He turned to Awr and clapped the corporal on the back. "Seems like a nice night to dance with the Long Keeper, doesn't it, Corporal?"
"That it does, Sergeant." Awr returned the grin. "And I've got my dance shoes all polished and ready for the party." With a nod to the captain, he turned and strode with Brash toward the east gate.
Captain Lingram watched them go, unable to take his eyes from them. When he finally turned away, tears glimmered in his eyes.
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