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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon had seen that look a hundred times in thousands of soldiers before. “Combat fatigue”, the priests of the Illusionist called it. The effects of witnessing comrades and companions slain, damage done to the mind by the demands placed on it by the surge of terror and panic only experienced in the heat of battle. The horrors of what he’d endured, the sights, smells, and sounds of battle. The images of death, carnage, and misery burned into their minds, that remained ever-present and ready to leap to the fore the moment they closed their eyes.

  Even the loudmouthed Corporal Rold wasn’t fully immune to its effects. As he took his place among his soldiers, his words grew increasingly uncouth as he shouted at them to “Tighten up that line, you maggots, or by the Keeper’s hairy tits, I’ll have you digging latrines until your bollocks hang down to your knees!”

  The Legionnaires responded slowly, their movements listless and their eyes dull. Rather than bristling at Corporal Rold’s insults or giving any indication they’d heard him, they took their places in morose silence, their faces dark with despondency and exhaustion.

  As Aravon’s gaze roamed the soldiers, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the giant beside Duvain. The two stood close, closer than soldiers marching in a column, hinting at some bond between them. Despite the size disparity and the giant’s heavier, thicker features, the familial resemblance was strong.

  Brothers, eh? Aravon raised an eyebrow beneath his mask. Two more different people would be harder to find.

  He couldn’t help glancing over to where Captain Lingram stood in a hushed conversation with Colborn. Lingram had been his friend and close companion during his days in the Legion, but over the last few weeks, Colborn had become much more than just his Lieutenant. An odd realization, yet one that brought a strange measure of comfort.

  Colborn had been the kind word and strong, silent reassurance as Aravon grappled with the loss of Sixth Company and Draian. He’d opened up to Aravon about his past in a way that no junior officer ever would. And the more they journeyed and fought together, the more Aravon had come to depend on Colborn. Not only for his intellect, woodcraft and tracking skills, and tactical intuition; Colborn was the tacit support that Aravon, as commander of their small company, could rely on in even the most impossible situation. They understood each other in a way that none of those under his command ever would—both their family histories, the losses in their pasts, and their time serving in the Legion. That was a bond Aravon had always longed for, yet as an only child, never truly found.

  Until now. The thought brought a wry smile to his face, a smile that grew sad as his eyes traveled to the cloak-bound bundle strapped behind his saddle. Damn, Your Grace. It’s almost as if you knew what we both needed.

  It could have been a happy coincidence—the result of the shared hardships and struggles—but Aravon wanted to believe the Duke had done it intentionally. One final gift from beyond the grave.

  As Aravon’s eyes shifted back to the two brothers, the bundle in the big man’s arms shifted. Aravon sucked in a breath as he caught a glimpse of pale yellow hair and fever-tinged cheeks.

  Could it be?

  Aravon whirled on Scathan and gripped his arm. “Is that the Hilmir’s daughter?” He thrust a finger at the girl in the giant’s arms.

  “Aye.” Scathan nodded. “Barely got her out of…”

  But Aravon was no longer listening—he was racing the five steps to where the giant stood holding the bundled-up Fjall girl.

  “Let me see her!” he demanded.

  The big giant stepped away from Aravon, shielding the girl with his massive arms and shoulder. His free hand dropped to his Legion-issue short sword and half-drew the blade.

  “Endyn.” Duvain spoke in a gentle voice. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m not going to hurt her.” Aravon moved closer to the huge man. “I just need to be certain.”

  The giant Endyn glanced at Duvain, who nodded, and slowly turned back to face Aravon. “She’s sleeping,” he rumbled in a voice like rolling thunder. “Fever broke this morning.”

  Aravon pulled the blanket gently aside and studied her face. She had flax-colored hair, a stark contrast to Eirik Throrsson’s shaggy black mane, yet there was no mistaking those strong cheeks, heavy nose, and bushy brows.

  Chapter Ten

  Blessed Swordsman!

  The girl’s skin was still red and flushed—if the Wraithfever had broken earlier, it was now back with full force. Sweat streamed down her brow and she moved about in Endyn’s huge arms, like a restless infant plagued by nightmares.

  “Stonekeeper!” Aravon was calling out for Rangvaldr before he turned away from the giant. Then, remembering the fact that the Eirdkilrs could be closing in on their position, he turned and raced up the wagon trail toward where Rangvaldr stood speaking with a man and woman.

  Both were well into their later decades, with grey hair going white and wrinkles as deep as the wagon ruts beneath their boots. The man wore thick woolen breeches and a sheepskin vest, while the woman wore a thick woolen dress decorated with bright strings of beads and a heavy fur cloak.

  “…where could we go?” the man asked in the Fehlan tongue. His accent and choice of words bore a strong resemblance to Colborn’s. “Everything we owned was in Saerheim. With our village burned, we have nothing.”

  “We still live, you old goat!” The white-haired woman rounded on the man, a frown deepening her wrinkles. “That’s more than either of us expected at our age. And while we live, Asmund, we have hope of rebuilding.”

  “For now, the Eirdkilrs hold your village,” Rangvaldr said. “But if there are others among your people who might be able to offer shelter—”

  “Stonekeeper!” Aravon called out.

  Rangvaldr turned at the sound of his code name. “Captain?” he asked in his native tongue.

  “The Hilmir’s daughter,” Aravon replied, also in Fehlan, breathless from his mad dash. “She needs you.”

  Rangvaldr’s green eyes widened behind his mask and his hand went to the stone hanging from his pendant. “Where is she?”

  “With the giant.” Aravon thrust a finger at Endyn. “The Wraithfever—”

  “I gave her something to break its grip,” the old woman said, “but it only slowed the fever. Without food or water, she won’t live through the day.”

  Aravon spun to Rangvaldr. “But with your holy stones, surely there is hope!”

  “Holy stones?” The white-haired woman’s eyebrows shot up. “You are a Seiomenn?”

  Rangvaldr nodded. “I am.”

  “Well, what are you standing around wasting your time with us for?” She gave him a shooing gesture, like a scolding housewife chasing chickens from her house. “Go!”

  Rangvaldr and Aravon hurried back up the road to where Endyn cradled the girl in his arms. “Set her down on the grass, there,” Aravon instructed the big Legionnaire. When Endyn hesitated, he barked, “Now, Soldier! We’re trying to save her life.”

  That got through to the giant. Endyn stooped and lowered the bundled-up girl gently to the grass beside the road, setting her in the cool shade of a tree. Branda tossed and turned, her hair plastered by sweat to her forehead, her cheeks flushed with fever. Aravon grimaced at the deep circles beneath her eyes, the skeletal curves of her face. The old woman was right—she wouldn’t live through the day. Not unless Rangvaldr could perform a miracle.

  The Seiomenn knelt beside the girl and lifted the pendant from around his neck. Bowing his head, he placed the stone against his lips and muttered those strange, unintelligible words—a language Aravon had never heard before. It sounded old, older than the primitive Fehlan spoken by the Eirdkilrs or the ancient Einari brought over by the mainlanders when they first invaded. This sounded as old as the trees around them and the ground beneath their feet. An ancient language that held immense power.

  As Rangvaldr spoke, the stone in his hands began to glow. Softly at first, then brighter as the words spilled from his lips. So bright it shone in
the daylight, a cerulean gleam that bathed his face and hands in a soothing radiance.

  Gasps echoed from Duvain and Endyn, who had remained nearby, and from the other Legionnaires along the line. Even the Deid seemed stunned by the power emanating from Rangvaldr’s holy stones.

  The moment Rangvaldr touched the glowing gemstone to Branda’s forehead, the blue light seemed to flow through her veins. Down her cheeks, pushing back the fever until the flush faded, and through her neck, disappearing beneath the thick furs bundling her body. Slowly, the sweat stopped pouring and her febrile tossing stilled, until she lay silent and calm, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm of deep, peaceful sleep.

  The glow dimmed, the light from within the stones fading until it died completely. The daylight seemed oddly dull in the absence of the blue glow, the world around them devoid of color. Yet, as Aravon stared down at the resting Branda, he saw a hint of regular color returning to flesh that had been pallid and sickly mere moments before.

  Rangvaldr seemed to deflate, and he sagged on one knee. He might have fallen if not for Aravon’s steadying hand on his shoulders. When he turned to Aravon with a grateful nod, a shadow of fatigue darkened his eyes. The healing drained his energy far more than the Seiomenn was willing to admit aloud.

  “Go,” he signed. “Get some food and water.”

  “Thank you, Captain, but there are more who need my help.” Rangvaldr stood, slowly, and wavered on his feet. He waved off Aravon’s hand, but said, “Maybe a bite of something could help.”

  Aravon watched the Seiomenn go. Rangvaldr was a strong man, a warrior in body and spirit. Yet that body still suffered the effects of fatigue, hunger, and thirst like the rest of them. Even the strongest spirit needed surcease from struggle and battle. And with everything that had happened and everything that remained for them to do, Aravon doubted they’d get much chance to rest anytime soon. The best they could hope for was to take what few opportunities arose. He’d make damned sure his soldiers took care of themselves—it was his job as Captain.

  When he turned back, he found the old woman kneeling over the sleeping girl. “She’s still weak,” the Fehlan woman said in her native tongue. “She’ll need weeks to rest and recover.” When she looked up, an edge of determination shone in her grey eyes. “We’ll look after her.”

  The giant Endyn cradled Branda in his arms, whispering to her in heavily-accented Fehlan. Yet his deep voice was surprisingly soothing, and the girl never stirred as Endyn stood and carried her toward the wagons of the Deid.

  “Right, Meat, quit gawking like a moonstruck milkmaid and get back in line!” Corporal Rold’s bark echoed from behind Duvain. The Legionnaire jumped and spun to face the Corporal.

  The Legion line had re-formed into a column three men wide and five deep—not even two full squads—with Rold at their head.

  “I don’t care that you mud-born nitwits are more comfortable holding your little prick than a sword and shield!” Rold snapped, jerking a thumb toward the rear of the column. “But with your arrow-magnet of a brother carrying the Hilmir’s daughter, that means it’s up to you to play Legionnaire and march in a straight line. Think you can do that without tripping over yourself again?”

  Duvain gave a hasty salute. “Yes, Corporal.”

  “Double time!” Rold barked.

  Duvain hustled toward the back of the column. Though he wore no armor and carried no shield—he’d abandoned them in their hasty flight from Saerheim, using them to lure the Eirdkilrs into the forest after them—at least he could form ranks well enough.

  Definitely green, Aravon decided. I’d bet Saerheim was his first battle.

  According to Duke Dyrund, Onyx Battalion had received reinforcements from the mainland a month ago. Aravon would bet all the wealth in Aegeos that Duvain was one of the new recruits brought across the Frozen Sea.

  His gaze roamed the Legionnaires formed up behind Corporal Rold. Most were little more than boys, as fresh and untrained as Duvain, all with the gaunt, hollow-eyed stares of men burdened by grief, loss, fear, and despair.

  Again, Aravon was struck by the strange situation. How is it that Captain Lingram ends up here, with a company like this? Men like the Blacksword, leaders beloved by their soldiers and respected by fellow officers, were rarely given the new recruits. Instead, they led the veteran companies that battled on the front lines. So what happened for him to end up at what appears to be some insignificant posting in a Deid village?

  As if on cue, Captain Lingram and Colborn broke off their conversation and hurried back toward Aravon.

  “Captain Snarl,” said the Legion Captain, “I was summoned to Saerheim to serve as an escort for Duke Dyrund and his companions on their return to Icespire. I was told it was a mission of the utmost importance and secrecy, and the fact that the girl is the Hilmir’s daughter is not lost on me. But now, with Saerheim fallen, I find myself burdened with the duty of ensuring the safety of our allies among the Deid.” He glanced at the scores of Fehlans clustered at the head of the line. “Sentry Garrison is the better part of two days away, but once I have seen the people of Saerheim safely delivered to the Legion stronghold, it would be an honor to escort the Duke on his final journey home.”

  Aravon’s eyes went to the Duke’s body strapped behind his saddle. Duke Dyrund deserved far better than to be packed like gear, but Aravon had had no other way to carry the corpse and cover ground quickly.

  But once he reached Sentry Garrison, he could ensure the Duke’s body was delivered to Icespire in a Legion cart. And he could think of no better man to join him in Duke Dyrund honor guard than Captain Lingram.

  He nodded, but remained silent. Instead, he signaled to Colborn in the silent hand language.

  “It would be an honor, Captain Lingram,” Colborn translated.

  Captain Lingram’s eyes narrowed a fraction, curiosity and suspicion flickering across his face for only an instant. But instead of questioning why Aravon remained silent, he simply saluted. “Then, Captain, I believe it’s high time we get on our way.” His eyes darted southeast, back the way they’d come, toward Saerheim. “Night will come all too soon, and if the Eirdkilrs give chase, they will not have far to travel to catch up.”

  As he and Colborn mounted up, Aravon caught a glimpse of Lord Virinus glaring at him. The nobleman made no attempt to hide his ire at the rough mistreatment, but Aravon paid him little heed. Injured pride mattered far less than the safety of the hundreds of men, women, and children on the road.

  The Black Xiphos mercenaries, however, seemed not to share Lord Virinus’ disdain of Aravon and his companions. Indeed, they actually gave Aravon a respectful salute—left hand to the black handle of their swords, right fist to their foreheads—as he passed. The anger in their eyes was not directed at him, but at the traitor in their company. Mercenaries prospered or suffered according to their reputations, and Otton’s betrayal was a stain that would be hard to erase.

  Their actions thus far have gone a long way toward amending the issue, Aravon thought. At least in my book. Scathan hadn’t responded to their querying with bitter outrage—instead, he’d joined in the efforts to find the traitor, going so far as to move against his own companions. The others had answered his questions and now held no rancor for his actions. That made them better men than far too many he’d met.

  His eyes darted back to the glaring Lord Virinus. Present company included.

  With Colborn at his side, they trotted past the mercenaries and Lord Virinus, heading toward the Deid at the front of the column. There, he found Zaharis busy applying a malodorous poultice of herbs, clay, and something that smelled far too much like horse urine to one woman’s burn.

  The Secret Keeper glanced up at their approach, and gave the signal for “wait”. A few seconds later, he tied off the bandage and, standing, turned to face Aravon. “I’m out of supplies, Captain,” he signed. “I did the best I could to get them on their feet, but they’ll need either the Stonekeeper or a Mender for the mo
re serious wounds.”

  Aravon nodded. “Good work,” he signed to the Secret Keeper. “When you’re done, mount up and get ready to move out.”

  As Zaharis returned to collect his horse, Aravon glanced at Colborn. He knew the Lieutenant well enough to recognize the tension in his posture, the shadow in his eyes. The bedraggled, exhausted, soot-stained people clustered on the road were all that remained of Saerheim. His village, the village that had shunned him as an outsider, just as his own father, Lord Derran of Whitevale, had done. Though that rejection had to sting, the sight of those people—his people—in such dire straits would doubtless inflict a far greater pain.

  Aravon had no idea what he could say to Colborn—what sort of comfort or reassurance could I possibly offer in the face of such horror?

  But before he could even make an attempt, a shout echoed from behind him.

  “Captain!”

  Skathi’s call snapped his head around, and he twisted in the saddle to get a better look. Acid swirled in his gut as he caught sight of the Agrotora and Noll thundering up the road toward them. They never slowed as they reached the column, but charged past the Legionnaires and the mercenaries, racing toward him and Colborn.

  “Enemy to the south!” Skathi shouted. “Eirdkilrs, three miles out and closing fast!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. “How many?” he asked, hauling at the reins to turn his horse around to face Skathi and Noll.

  “Two, maybe three hundred.” The Agrotora reined in just in front of him and Colborn. “Kicking up enough dust for five hundred and howling like a thunderstorm.”

  Damn! Aravon growled a silent curse. One look at the gaunt, fatigued, and hollow-eyed faces around him and he knew the survivors of Saerheim would never escape pursuit. Even if the sixteen soldiers still standing had been the Legion’s best, they wouldn’t do more than slow the Eirdkilrs down for a few seconds.