Captain Lingram spoke before Lord Virinus. "My lord, you need to see this."
The nobleman snatched the parchment from his hands. As he read, his face went from florid to pale to a sickening shade of grey. "By the Swordsman!" he breathed. "It can't be."
Captain Lingram’s expression grew somber. "We have to assume it is. The question, sir, is what you want to do now."
Lord Virinus' mouth hung open, and he stared at the captain with unseeing eyes. "What…I…want to…do?" he mumbled, as if dumbstruck.
"Yes, my lord," the captain said. "As the ranking officer in Saerheim, you have a choice to make. Do we hold our position and hope we can stand against that?" He thrust a finger at the note. "Or do we flee?"
Lord Virinus' lips worked soundlessly. All his pompous arrogance had fled, replaced by hesitance. Dangerous in such a perilous situation. "I-I…" He swallowed.
"My suggestion, my lord," the captain said, "is flight. The walls will only hold for so long. If we can get out before they reach us, we've a chance of reaching safety. Or at least enough of us escaping to get you back to Icespire with the girl in one piece. Right now, that's all that matters."
Lord Virinus stared at the captain, agog. He seemed at a loss for words.
"My lord, you need to make a decision now!" Captain Lingram snapped. "Our lives are all in your hands. Either take command, or step aside so I can do my job." He fixed the nobleman with a baleful glare. "The choice is yours."
Lord Virinus' face went even paler.
Captain Lingram nodded. "So be it." He raised his voice so all could hear. "Deadheads, as of this moment, I am the ranking officer in Saerheim. Lord Virinus has given me command, and I am in charge until such a time as we reach safety. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Captain!" the Legionnaires echoed.
Captain Lingram turned his back on the dumbstruck nobleman and strode toward the men gathered before the gate. He held the parchment high. "I have just received a message form General Vessach. Our army suffered heavy losses at Hangman's Hill, and they were forced to retreat. An entire clan of Eirdkilrs broke through their ranks, and they are roaming the countryside, razing friendly villages and slaughtering our allies. The general sent us warning to be aware, but I believe the Eirdkilrs are coming directly here."
He thrust a finger at Lord Virinus. "The girl accompanying Lord Virinus is the daughter of Eirik Throrsson, and the Eirdkilrs know what will happen should our alliance with Fjall be cemented. There is no doubt in my mind that they are coming here to kill her. If she dies, so too dies our hope of peace in Fehl."
The captain looked from soldier to soldier. "But the Eirdkilrs didn't count on one thing: us. They failed to account for the Deadheads that stood between them and their prize. I say we make them pay for that mistake. What say you?"
"Hoo-rah!" Corporal Awr shouted. The other veterans echoed the shout, and a few of the older Deadheads echoed it as well.
"They call this company Deadheads because they believe you are the dregs of the Legion of Heroes. So be it!" The captain smiled. "Let them call us what they will. Let us wear the name with pride, and let us make it a name that every Eirdkilr bastard remembers. For it will be the name of the brave Legionnaires that spit in their faces when others cowered!"
"Hoo-rah!" More voices took up the cry.
"We cannot stand before the Eirdkilrs—according to General Vessach, they number at least five hundred."
"Now four hundred and some, Captain!" Weasel shouted.
"Right you are, soldier." Captain Lingram nudged one of the barbarian corpses with a boot. "We've proven that our shields, swords, and spears are as deadly as any of the other companies in the Legion. We've already shown that we can stand our ground and face the barbarians head on. But now it's time for us to prove that we can think with these dead heads of ours."
Laughter rippled among the ranks.
Captain Lingram grinned. "The walls of Saerheim are strong, and the cliffs provide us cover to the south and north, guard our retreat. But we are too few to hold off five hundred—"
"Four hundred and some!" Weasel chanted.
"—Eirdkilrs," Captain Lingram continued without pause. "We have a duty to protect the people of Saerheim, and a duty to protect Lord Virinus and Throrsson's daughter. If we stand and fight, we fail in those duties. If we retreat, we have a chance of survival. Though it goes against everything I have learned as a Legionnaire, I value my life over my pride or a chance at glory. We run, Deadheads. We run to fight another day, fight to the last man in order to protect those given into our charge. What say you?"
"Hoo-rah!" Every voice in the line echoed the cry now.
"Sergeant Brash!" Captain Lingram called.
"Yes, Captain!" Brash said.
Captain Lingram pointed to the east gate. "I expect the enemy to come from that way. The cliffs give us cover enough that they can't come from north or south, and I doubt the Eirdkilrs have had time to go the long way around. That means this is their only way in. Keep the walls manned until the last minute, but be prepared to pull out when I sound the alarm."
"Understood, Captain." The sergeant saluted.
"Sergeant Danver, have Squad Four prepare the villagers to leave immediately."
The sergeant named saluted. "Aye, sir." He snapped his fingers, and the men of his squad fell out of line and raced toward the city square.
Captain Lingram strode after them. "I will explain everything to the villagers for you, and will translate…" His voice faded as the distance grew.
"Squad Three, Squad One, onto the wall!" Sergeant Brash shouted.
Duvain, Endyn, and the others raced up to the ramparts. They crowded in beside the men already in position, jostling to get a good view. The pointed tips of the wooden palisade wall ended just below Duvain's neck level. Endyn's head, shoulders, and chest protruded well above the protective cover.
"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 weapon. He'd never even hit the target during the weeks of practice, but that didn't matter here. He had a sea of targets to choose from. The Eirdkilrs racing up 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 barba
rian'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!"
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