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

by Andy Peloquin

  Growling a silent curse, he released Lord Virinus’ throat. The nobleman lay still, his breath coming in wheezing, panting gasps, his face red and his eyes wide in panic.

  “Watch him,” he signed to Skathi. The memory of Lord Virinus’ hotheaded attack on Eirik Throrsson in the Hilmir’s longhouse was still clear in his mind—the nobleman had a tendency for potentially fatal stupidity. Add that to a hint of cowardice and a generous dollop of self-serving, and Lord Virinus was precisely the sort of man who might consider driving a dagger into the back of the man that had just embarrassed him in front of a score of Princelanders and hundreds of Fehlans.

  “If he tries anything, I’ll put him in the dirt.” Dark humor glinted in Skathi’s eyes—Aravon couldn’t tell if she meant that literally or figuratively.

  “Captain Snarl!” Captain Lingram’s voice drew his attention back to where the Legionnaires stood, now formed up facing Belthar, Rangvaldr, and Scathan. “While I can appreciate the nature of your mission—”

  “Then appreciate it in silence!” Aravon thundered.

  He winced beneath his mask as Captain Lingram’s face went rigid, eyes darkening. He hated that he had to snap at his friend like that, but he’d already spoken too much. The nature of their task demanded that he keep his identity a secret, even from men he considered friends. More so, now that they knew there was a traitor in Icespire, someone ranked highly enough to know the existence of Silver Break Mine.

  And, at the moment, the need to find the Duke’s killer superseded everything else.

  “Barcus.” Aravon knelt beside the mercenary, who lay trapped beneath Colborn’s bulk. The man made no attempt to move—a wise choice, given the sharp kneecap driven into his spine.

  The man spoke before Aravon could ask the question. “I swear I am innocent.” His voice was surprisingly calm for someone that had just been tackled, pinned, and accused of murder.

  Aravon nodded to Colborn, and the Lieutenant stood. Barcus rolled over slowly, careful to keep his hands away from his weapons.

  “I’m a man of Eastfall, like Scathan.” Barcus tilted his head toward his fellow mercenary in line beside Rangvaldr. “There’s not an Eastfallian alive who’d wish harm on His Grace. Best Duke we’ve had in a hundred years, everyone says it.”

  “That’s not proof of your innocence,” Aravon growled. He studied the man as carefully as he’d studied Lord Virinus—he had to see the look in Barcus’ eyes as the man spoke.

  “True.” Barcus inclined his head. “Then again, there’s not a whole lot I can do otherwise. You can tear my pack apart at the seams if you want, but you’ll find no poisons.”

  And therein lay the problem. Whoever had poisoned the Duke used a tiny needle to deliver the toxin—a needle small enough to conceal in any item of clothing, or simply to discard in their travels. He had a spark’s chance in the frozen hell of finding any concrete evidence.

  “Otton!” The word burst from the lips of Urniss, the mercenary trapped beneath Zaharis. He groaned as Zaharis wrenched his arm higher, twisting the joint until it strained in its socket.

  “Easy,” Aravon signed to the Secret Keeper.

  Zaharis released the pressure on Urniss’ arm, and the mercenary grimaced as the tension in his shoulder eased.

  Aravon strode over to crouch beside the prone Urniss. “Speak.”

  “Otton’s the odd one out, Captain Snarl.” Words spilled in a torrent from the mercenary’s mouth. “Barcus, Scathan, Serack, Torin, and Vosak, we’ve all known each other for a few years now. Marched with the Black Xiphos going on a decade. Ceren and Otton were the only ones I didn’t know. New recruits, joined up less than a few months ago. But Scathan there will vouch for Ceren.”

  Aravon shot a glance at Scathan.

  “My sister’s husband.” Sorrow darkened the man’s eyes. “Not sure how I’m going to tell her what happened to him. Not right, her imagining him wasting away with Wraithfever like that.”

  With a slow nod, Aravon turned back to Zaharis and signed for him to release Urniss. “And Otton?” he asked once the mercenary sat up.

  “Man of Eastfall, just like the rest of us,” the mercenary explained. “Or so he said. His accent wasn’t quite right. Always figured he was a northerner from up near Beggar’s Hole or Eastborne, but he could’ve been an Icespire man just the same.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. Both towns were directly on the border between the Duchy of Eastfall and the principality called, like the rest of the land north of the Chain, the Princelands. And both were fewer than a hundred miles from Icespire, the city where the poisoner had procured the toxin that killed the Duke. It wouldn’t be difficult for a man of Icespire to pass himself off as a northern Eastfallian if he intended treachery.

  “During the escape from Storbjarg,” Barcus put in, “he never strayed far from the Duke’s side. Even after the Duke insisted on carrying Branda.”

  Aravon’s gut clenched. Branda. Now that he was face to face with Lord Virinus and the mercenaries, he’d all but forgotten about the Hilmir’s daughter. Yet the time to ask about her condition—or her demise—would come after he finished this interrogation.

  Barcus continued, unnoticing of Aravon’s sudden distraction. “None of us thought anything of it. His job, after all.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. “And he was the only one close enough to poison the Duke?”

  “No.” Urniss shook his head. “We all could have had opportunity at one moment or another. When he was sick, I fetched him water from the river, and Barcus made him a feverfew tea to try and calm the Wraithfever. Even Lord Virinus could have done it.”

  Aravon shot a glance at the nobleman. Lord Virinus had collected himself and now struggled to regain some semblance of composure—made difficult by the blood, soot, and dirt staining his face and bedraggled clothing. Anger simmered in his eyes, and the look he shot Aravon seethed with indignant fury. Had Skathi not been close at hand, her sharp dagger ready to prick him if he got out of hand, he might have attempted something foolish.

  “But I can tell you with only a hint of doubt, sir,” Barcus insisted, “Otton’s the only one who might have done it. I knew the others well.” Sorrow clouded his eyes. “Marched, fought, and trained beside them for the better part of a decade. Loyal Eastfallians to a man. By the Swordsman and my eternity in the Sleepless Lands, I swear.”

  Urniss and Scathan both added their resounding affirmations. Even Torin spoke up from where he lay pinned beneath Noll, awaiting his turn for questioning.

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. The question is, can I trust their words?

  He’d never met the Black Xiphos mercenaries before their mission to Storbjarg—never even heard of their company, though that wasn’t surprising, given the Legion’s contempt of sellswords—and had little interaction with them during the journey. He couldn’t possibly hope to know what manner of men they were, what motivation they could have for wanting to kill Duke Dyrund, or what could tempt them to betray the ruler of their duchy. The Duke was beloved by his people, a war hero, and a counselor to Prince Toran himself. Anyone risking their lives to kill such a man would have to be certain of a truly fabulous reward awaiting them.

  Yet he could judge the men based on his instincts—the same instincts that Duke Dyrund had said made him the one best-suited to lead his hand-picked company. If the Duke had relied on him, had trusted his judgement, the best way Aravon could honor the man was by trusting himself.

  He studied the four men closely for long moments. Barcus, with his grizzled beard and no-nonsense demeanor. Urniss, taller and slimmer than his companions, yet no hint of deceit in his dark brown eyes, only sorrow over the Duke’s death. Torin—well, the mercenary’s face was pressed too far into the dirt of the road to get a clear look. And Lord Virinus, his dark eyes blazing with indignation at his mishandling, his narrow, angular face drawn into a scowl that made his ears appear even larger beneath his lank locks of disheveled brown hair. Plenty of resentment and outrage there, but no
treachery.

  Finally, Aravon let out a long, silent breath and nodded to Noll. “Release him.”

  Noll stood from Torin’s back and stepped away, making space for the mercenary to scramble to his feet.

  Aravon reached out a hand to Urniss. “So be it,” he growled in his Captain Snarl voice. "Your oaths are accepted.” Few men would risk their eternal souls lightly. Swearing on the Swordsman, god of war, the patron deity of soldiers and mercenaries, carried weight among fighting men.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Urniss accepted the hand and pulled himself upright. “No hard feelings, Captain Snarl. Just doing your job and all.” He brushed the dirt from his clothing and rubbed his right wrist. “Though maybe next time, tell your man to go easy on the sword arm, eh?”

  Aravon nodded. “I’ll be sure to mention that.”

  “Captain Snarl!” Captain Lingram’s voice echoed from where he stood with the rest of the formed-up Legionnaires facing off against Rangvaldr, Belthar, and Scathan. “I think it’s about time you explain yourself.”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. The Legion Captain deserved an explanation, and Aravon needed to know what had happened at Saerheim. But that wasn’t a conversation he could have, not if he wanted to avoid discovery. Better have someone else handle it.

  He turned to Colborn. “Tell him what he needs to know, and get the report of the battle at Saerheim.”

  Colborn saluted and strode toward Captain Lingram. “I’ll be doing the explaining, Captain.”

  “And you are?” Captain Lingram raised an eyebrow.

  “You can call me Ghoststriker,” Colborn replied.

  As Colborn took the Legion Captain aside, Aravon turned back to his men. “Noll, Skathi,” he signed, “keep an eye on the road south, make sure we’re not being pursued.”

  The two gave him a quick salute and leapt into their saddles, spurring their horses into a gallop down the road in the direction of Saerheim.

  Aravon turned to Zaharis. “See what you can do to help Rangvaldr with the wounded.”

  “I’m low on supplies, Captain.” The Secret Keeper shook his head. “I’ll barely be able to mix up a few painkilling draughts from what I collected foraging yesterday.”

  “Do it,” Aravon signed. “Rangvaldr can’t heal all of them, so we need him to deal with the worst injured to keep everyone moving. Sentry Garrison’s at least a day and a half away.”

  “Aye, sir!” Zaharis nodded and turned back to his horse, reaching for the near-empty pack strapped behind his saddle.

  With the threat of being attacked by the Legionnaires past, Belthar and Rangvaldr had turned toward him.

  “Rangvaldr, speak to the Deid and find out anything you can about what happened in Saerheim.” Aravon glanced over his shoulder at the nearly two hundred Deid women, children, and elderly huddled together, shivering in the morning chill. They looked a bedraggled lot, their clothing torn, burned, and ripped, faces and hands stained with soot. “And find out if they have anywhere to go.”

  Rangvaldr nodded. “I will do what I can.”

  “Good,” Aravon signed. “And see to the worst of the wounded. We need to start moving as soon as possible, and moving fast if we’re to stay ahead of pursuit.” He wasn’t certain the Eirdkilrs would give chase—they were likely exhausted from their marching and fighting—but he’d be ready if they did.

  As Rangvaldr hurried toward the Deid, Aravon addressed Belthar. “Stay around, make yourself useful, but keep an eye on Lord Virinus.”

  Belthar cocked his head. “You expect him to try something?”

  “We just embarrassed him in front of a lot of people.” Aravon shrugged. “Vindictive’s an ugly color on anyone.”

  Belthar saluted and went to collect the horses of those who hadn’t ridden off to scout. People had a tendency to underestimate the big man, yet Belthar had proven himself surprisingly insightful and canny in a number of situations. He wasn’t just all brawn; there was a brain in his admittedly large head.

  With the situation in hand, Aravon turned back to study their column. Fewer than twenty Legionnaires and scores of Deid survivors moved slowly, even on the best of days. And today was far from that. They’d be lucky to reach Sentry Garrison before noon the following day, more likely closer to sunset at the slow pace of the ox-drawn wagons and the exhausted women and children. The threat of Eirdkilr pursuit could only drive them so far beyond their limits before they collapsed. After all the fighting and marching, the Legionnaires wouldn’t be far behind.

  “Captain Snarl.” A quiet voice sounded at Aravon’s elbow. “Thought you might want to see this.”

  Aravon turned to find Scathan standing beside him. The grizzled mercenary held out a small leather pouch.

  “It’s Otton’s,” Scathan said.

  Aravon snatched the pouch from the man and tore it open. The contents were almost exactly what he expected to find in a mercenary’s private possessions: a few coins of silver and copper, a folding knife, flint and steel, a whetstone, and metal, wood, and bone trinkets that doubtless held sentimental value to Otton.

  Yet one object within the pouch was startlingly out of place among the other mundanities: a seal of red wax stamped with an insignia that Aravon would recognize anywhere.

  The air froze in Aravon’s lungs and his eyes widened at the sight. Racing back to his horse, he tore the Duke’s pouch from where he’d stuffed it among his own belongings and fumbled within until he found the item he sought.

  He held up the wax seal, found at Rivergate beside the Duke’s murdered agent, and studied it. There was no mistaking the strange shape—a carbuncle, eight radiating rods forming an interlocked cross and saltire.

  Aravon’s eyes darted from one to the other. He could find no difference. They were a perfect match. Otton had worked for the traitor.

  Chapter Nine

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. Keeper’s teeth! If he’d had any doubts about the mercenary’s guilt before, they seemed far more believable in the face of this new evidence.

  The strangeness of the insignia was just the first of its many mysteries. To his knowledge, none of the noble Houses of Icespire used the carbuncle as their seal. A nobleman from another duchy, perhaps? Doubtful, but he couldn’t rule it out. The Duke had seemed to recognize it, though he couldn’t place where he’d seen the insignia before.

  Its source made it even more suspicious. Noll had found the first tucked into a dead drop in Rivergate after Duke Dyrund’s agent failed to show—due to his being murdered the night before they liberated the city. Now, finding it here only further verified Aravon’s suspicions that someone was working against the Princelands and the Duke directly. They had gone to great lengths to assassinate the Duke during his journey to the Fjall lands.

  Aravon turned to Scathan and the other three Black Xiphos mercenaries. “Did Otton ever show this to any of you?” He held up the wax seal.

  The four shook their heads. “No, Captain,” Scathan said.

  “Any chance you recognize the insignia?”

  Again, four responses to the negative.

  Damn it! Aravon cursed in his mind. One more thread that seems to lead nowhere.

  He almost put it away, but stopped and turned to Lord Virinus. “And what of you, my lord?” Aravon kept his voice carefully neutral. “Do you recognize this?”

  If looks could kill, the vitriol in Lord Virinus’ eyes would have murdered an entire Legion Battalion. He stared at Aravon with indignation that bordered on open hatred. Yet Aravon didn’t back down in the face of the nobleman’s ire. He had nothing to fear from the man—Lord Virinus had no authority over him, no idea who he was beneath the mask. All he saw was the faceless, nameless soldier that had had the gall to lay hands on him, but he was impotent to do anything more than swallow his rage.

  “I do not,” Lord Virinus finally said, his words tight and clipped. “Perhaps you’d be better off spending your time searching for answers rather than laying hands on your betters.”
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  “I’ll take that under advisement.” Aravon gave the man a shallow nod and turned away, glad for the mask to hide his grimace.

  His distaste for Lord Virinus mounted with each interaction—the nobleman had a habit of irritating everyone around him, it seemed. The Legionnaires marching with Captain Lingram looked at him the way a butcher looked at a cut of maggot-ridden meat. Even the mercenaries traveling with the nobleman cast sidelong glances at him—always when his back was turned, of course. They had been hired for a mission: to protect the Duke, a job that extended to the Duke’s traveling companion, even if that companion was far too arrogant for his own good.

  He tucked both wax seals into the Duke’s purse and pocketed Otton’s pouch with a nod of thanks.

  Scathan shook his head. “All this time, all those miles we traveled together, we never saw his treachery.”

  “Some men are born deceivers.” Aravon shrugged. “There is no shame in being too honest to see the duplicity in your fellow man.”

  Scathan grunted. “Kind of you, sir, but all the same, I’ll be keeping a closer eye on everyone from now on.”

  “Just don’t keep those eyes too close,” Urniss put in. “I prefer to piss in private, thank you very much.”

  “That’s not what Torin said last night,” Scathan shot back, eliciting a scowl from the younger mercenary.

  Aravon chuckled silently. Good to see that some things never change. Even after a desperate flight from Storbjarg, a trek across Fjall and Deid lands, and now a battle at Saerheim, the spirits of these mercenaries remained as high as could be expected.

  The Legionnaires, however, seemed a different matter. Their faces appeared gaunt, pale beneath a black layer of soot and ash. Armor stained with blood, dented and scuffed by Eirdkilr weapons, tunics scorched by fire and torn in the fight. The threat of danger passed, at least for the moment, the looks of weariness, bone deep and all-pervasive, had returned. Though they stood stiff and firm in their ranks, it was an action carried out by rote, their eyes hollow and unfocused.