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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon climbed to his feet and made to return to his seat beside Colborn, but as he turned, he found himself face to face with Duvain.

  “C-Cap…er…Captain Snarl, sir.” The slim Legionnaire spoke in a hesitant voice, his eyes darting about nervously as he fiddled with the frayed hem of his soot-covered, blood-crusted undertunic. “I-I’d ask a favor of you, sir?”

  Aravon tilted his head. “Soldier?” He spoke in the deep, growling Captain Snarl voice.

  Duvain’s gaze slid past Aravon to where Rangvaldr lay. “Your man, what he did with those stones….” He shifted from one foot to the other, gave a nervous cough. Finally, he seemed to summon up the courage to look Aravon in the eye. “Do you think he’d do the same for my brother?”

  “Your brother?” Aravon glanced at Endyn. The giant Legionnaire lay behind Duvain, a deep, booming snore rumbling from his massive chest.

  “Yes, sir.” Duvain gave a hasty nod. “You see, sir, it’s…it’s dragonskin. He’s got it bad and it’s getting worse.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Dragonskin?” he repeated. He had no idea what the man was talking about.

  “His neck, Captain,” Duvain’s words were quiet, yet concern echoed in his voice. “Just above the collar of his tunic.”

  Aravon squinted down at the giant, his eyes fixed on the spot Duvain had indicated. Then he saw it: thick grey scales like those of some giant lizard grew on the side of Endyn’s neck. They had cracked, the flesh between them bright red with inflammation, possibly infection. And, judging by the clench of the giant’s jaw and the lines furrowing his huge face, the condition likely hurt. At the very least, his armor would rub, chafing at the scaly skin.

  “Captain Lingram knows about it, sir,” Duvain pressed. “It’s not contagious, just something that’s been his problem since he was young. But it’s bad, sir. Though he’d never say a thing about it, we’ve always known…” He trailed off, and sorrow filled his eyes. “It’s only a matter of time before it kills him, Captain.”

  Aravon’s eyes widened. Kill him?

  The words spilled from Duvain’s mouth in a torrent. “We’ve tried everything. The Ministrants in Voramis said there was nothing we could do to stop it, barely even slow it. All they gave us is a few unguents to stop the pain. But after seeing your man heal the Hilmir’s daughter yesterday, I thought maybe he could use those glowing stones on my brother. It’s magic, isn’t it?” Desperation tinged Duvain’s voice and glimmered in his eyes. “Magic that could stop the dragonskin from killing my brother? Maybe even give him his life back?”

  “He can try.” Aravon couldn’t help but sympathize with the man—in Duvain’s situation, he’d be as desperate to do whatever it took to help his brother. “Stonekeeper’s too exhausted to do anything now, but you have my word that before we move out, I will speak to him, see what he can do for your brother.”

  Aravon would insist that Rangvaldr healed himself first—he needed the man back in fighting shape—but knowing the Seiomenn, he’d be more than willing to use his holy stones on the giant Legionnaire.

  “Thank you, Captain.” Relief shone in Duvain’s face, and he gave Aravon a Legion salute, fist thumping against his chest. “Thank you!”

  “In the meantime, I’ll see if there’s anything we can come up with to help.” Aravon turned to Zaharis. “Magicmaker.”

  Zaharis’ head snapped up at the sound of his hated codename, eyes narrowing at Aravon.

  “Take a look at this, see if there’s anything you can do.”

  Curiosity brightening his eyes, Zaharis climbed to his feet and padded over to where Aravon and Duvain stood beside the sleeping Endyn.

  “On his neck,” Aravon signed.

  A sudden, sharp intake of breath echoed from behind Zaharis’ mask as the Secret Keeper studied the flaking, crusted scales and reddened skin. When he straightened, the look in his eyes was grim. “What the bloody hell is that?”

  “Duvain called it dragonskin,” Aravon explained.

  Zaharis actually recoiled—a startling reaction, one Aravon had never seen before. “Bloody hell!” His eyes darted back toward the prone giant’s neck. “I’ve only ever heard of it, never seen it.”

  “And?” Aravon asked once Zaharis looked up.

  “And he’s better off putting a spike in his eye now.” Zaharis gave a shake of his head. “See how it’s climbing up the side of his neck? If it reaches his brain, he’ll die. Terribly.”

  “What’s he saying?” Duvain asked. “Can he help?”

  Aravon cocked his head. “Tell me you can do something.”

  Zaharis’ spine stiffened. “Slow it, maybe. Cure it, not a bloody chance, not unless...” His fingers fell still.

  “Unless?”

  “Captain, what’s he saying?” Duvain pressed, insistent, desperation echoing in his voice.

  Zaharis’ gaze darted toward his pack. “The Elixir of Creation could heal it.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. The Elixir of Creation was an alchemical concoction that Zaharis claimed had been created by the ancient Serenii. The Secret Keeper had dedicated his life to finding the ingredients to make the potion—one he’d claimed could transform the world. It was that search that had gotten him expelled from the priesthood of the Mistress.

  “It could work, if I had more.” Zaharis gave a shake of his head, his shoulders drooping a fraction. “The amount I’ve got left in the vial would diminish it, not eradicate it completely. And if I miss even a shred, one tiny speck of dragonskin, it will always come back.”

  Aravon gritted his teeth in frustration.

  “This is why, Captain.” Zaharis’ eyes hardened. “This is why my mission to find ice saffron is so important. With the Elixir of Creation, we could do so much! We could give the poor bastard a chance at life. And not just him. Everyone, anyone who’s ill or suffering. The Elixir could cure every disease, could prevent every plague. And so much more besides, things that we could only imagine! And that is why I gave up any chance at life in the Temple of Whispers. For my belief that this could change the world, I had no choice but to flee. It was the only way.”

  He fell silent, a moment of grief, but after a few seconds his fingers continued speaking. “But tell him that I’ll do what I can with the limited supplies I’ve got.” He turned to Duvain. “I can help to stop it from getting worse.”

  Aravon translated that last sentence.

  “Thank you!” Duvain's eyes brightened, tears of hope brimming. He looked as if he wanted to throw his arms around Zaharis.

  Zaharis seemed to sense that, for he gave the man a quick nod and hurried back to his pack. For the moment, the chunk of ghoulstone lay forgotten as the Secret Keeper rummaged in his near-empty satchel, pulling out plants, herbs, and the few pouches of dried ingredients remaining.

  “Thank you, Captain.” Duvain scrubbed at his eyes, brushing away the moisture roughly.

  Aravon rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Get some rest, Legionnaire. We move out before first light.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’m sorry, Soldier, but my Stonekeeper’s not up for healing your brother yet.”

  The look on Duvain’s face tore at Aravon’s heart. The young man hadn’t the willpower to hide his disappointment, the crestfallen slump of his shoulders. It made him appear even more exhausted, even after their short night of rest.

  “But give him a little more time to recover,” Aravon said, “and once he is at full strength, he will take a look at Endyn.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Duvain was clearly trying to put on a brave face, but failed.

  “Don’t lose faith, Legionnaire.” Aravon produced the small glass jar Zaharis had given him. “My man told me to give you this. It won’t cure the dragonskin, but it should help with the pain.”

  Might, Zaharis had emphasized—the Secret Keeper had cobbled it together from a few of the dried herbs, roots, and plants remaining in his alchemical chest, along with a few of those he’d found foraging in the Deid
forests, all in under an hour with no time to test it—but Aravon didn’t want to shatter the young soldier’s hope. After what he’d endured at Saerheim, he needed every glimmer of brightness in his very dark world.

  “Thank you, Captain!” This time, as the young man took the jar, his face and voice echoed that hope Aravon had wanted to restore.

  Aravon nodded, smiling as Duvain hurried away to take his place in the Legion line beside his brother. Too slowly for Corporal Rold, it seemed, who unleashed a tirade of invectives at the “hedge-born, moonstruck, ox-dull, greenhorn too busy pissing in his own boots to bother marching like a proper soldier”. Aravon had endured his fair share of haranguings by Legion Sergeants and Corporals in his day, but Corporal Rold seemed far more an expert at the task than most Aravon had marched under. He spared a moment of pity for the soldiers beside the foul-mouthed noncommissioned officer.

  Then again, after Saerheim, they could use it, Aravon thought as he hurried past the formed-up Legionnaires and out into the brightening pre-dawn morning. Having someone like Corporal Rold shouting at them may just be enough to keep the memories of their comrades away. For a little while.

  Noll, Skathi, and Colborn were already mounted, with Belthar inside helping Zaharis pack while keeping an eye on the still-exhausted Rangvaldr. The three Grim Reavers appeared before the Legionnaires and the Deid survivors. By the time Captain Lingram emerged at the head of his soldiers, the seven of them were ready to ride out.

  Aravon gave his friend a nod—the closest he could come to speaking to his friend for fear of his identity being discovered. Colborn had been the one to relay Aravon’s plan to serve as outriders to the main body of Legionnaires and Deid. With Noll and Zaharis to the south, Colborn to the east, Skathi to the west, and Rangvaldr riding beside Aravon north of the convoy, they’d have ample warning should the Eirdkilrs attack. Belthar would remain with the Legionnaires, lend his strength to help the wounded and his skill should battle arise.

  The outriders took off a full quarter-hour before the Deid were ready to move. Two hundred women, children, and elders moved far more slowly than marching soldiers, and the sun had already risen high above the treetops by the time their small procession reached the wagon road that led to the Westmarch and Sentry Garrison.

  Aravon and Rangvaldr sat waiting beside the road as the Deid wagons rolled onto the muddy track, followed by the walking Deid, Lord Virinus and his mercenaries, and Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires once again in the rear. With Aravon and his Grim Reavers serving as scouts, the survivors would have ample warning of danger should the Eirdkilrs once again give chase.

  A lump rose in Aravon’s throat as he caught sight of the cloth-wrapped corpse atop one of the Deid wagons. He’d purposely avoided looking at Duke Dyrund’s body the previous night, though it had taken a near-superhuman effort. The moment of grief he’d allowed in the Hefjakumbl was all he could afford for now—he’d mourn once the mission was complete and his people were safe.

  Finally, once the column had gotten underway, Aravon and Rangvaldr rode past the column. They kept the horses at a steady trot until they drew a mile or so ahead of the foremost Deid survivors, then slowed to a walk. No need to push the horses now—best to have them fresh should they need to flee or attack in a hurry—and their job was to keep just in front of the slow-moving column.

  With the sun high in the sky, Aravon found the day grew steadily warmer and brighter. He couldn’t help noticing the dazzling beauty of the myriad of lush greens, browns, whites, and reds of the Deid forest—the lofty pines with their sharp-needled boughs, the birch trees with their dazzling silver bark, the gnarled oak trees that held court over the stumpy mulberry trees and stunted underbrush.

  In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of brown wings and orange fur skimming low over the treetops. Snarl would watch over them as always, warn them of any danger he saw, smelled, or heard in the forest. A scout that not even Noll could best, and with only marginally less effective communication skills.

  The previous day, Aravon had nearly sent the Enfield winging off to Icespire with a message to Lord Eidan and the Prince of the Duke’s death. Yet something had stopped him. If there was a traitor placed close to the Prince, the news could incite them to unleash whatever treachery they had planned. The smart play was to keep the Duke’s demise a secret for as long as possible. If he could get to Icespire before the Duke’s body, he’d have time to dig around before all of the Princelands learned what had happened. And keeping Snarl close at hand gave him a way to communicate with Skathi, allowing them to spread out and operate with greater independence.

  A quiet grunt from beside him brought his attention around to Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn sat straight in his saddle, but Aravon knew him well enough to recognize the tightness of the lines around his eyes, the fatigue in his shoulders.

  “How are you feeling?” Aravon asked.

  “I’ve had better days.” Rangvaldr’s voice was heavy with exhaustion, though he tried not to show it. “But there’s nothing like bright sunshine and a cool morning breeze to cure your aches and pains.”

  “Aside from the magic of your Eyrr holy stones, you mean?” Aravon shot a sidelong glance at him. “You didn’t need to expend your energy healing the Legionnaires and the wounded Deid. Now, you’re too exhausted to—”

  “I’m fine, Captain.” Steel sharpened Rangvaldr’s words. “Just short on sleep, that’s all.”

  Aravon cocked an eyebrow. The man sounded on edge, far tenser than his usually serene composure. Unusual for the normally-cheerful Seiomenn. Yet, out of respect for Rangvaldr, he let the matter drop. Silence hung between them as they rode unspeaking for a few minutes.

  Rangvaldr broke the silence. “No one ever warns you that getting old would be so…” He seemed to be fishing for the word. “…exhausting.”

  “Oh?” Aravon tilted his head. Rangvaldr’s beard and braided hair had sprinklings of white and grey amidst the blond, but no one who had seen him fight would consider him old. The Seiomenn could swing a sword and wield a shield as fiercely as any Fehlan warrior.

  “I always thought I’d have more time before I started feeling my age.” Rangvaldr shot Aravon a sidelong glance. “At first, I told myself it was nothing but years of inactivity slowing me down. Being a Seiomenn’s not exactly the most active calling. Lots of sitting around, drinking ayrag, telling stories, and offering words of counsel to thick-headed chiefs.”

  Aravon chuckled. “Ailmaer really was a delight, wasn’t he?” The Eyrr chieftain had been one of the few people in the world Aravon liked less than the young Lord Virinus.

  Rangvaldr shook his head. “But after Rivergate, when healing the wounded left me drained, it started to creep up on me. Every day, it got a bit more difficult to get up. The ground always seemed a bit harder on my bones and joints. All that riding around Fjall and Deid lands, fighting at Hangman’s Hill, now healing the Hilmir’s daughter…” He let out a long breath. “I feel it now more than I ever thought I would.”

  Aravon nodded. Duke Dyrund had spoken of the vexation of his advancing years on a few occasions.

  “Don’t worry, Captain.” Rangvaldr gave a harsh chuckle. “I’m not planning on hanging up my shield any time soon. I’m with you until the end.” His voice deepened, darkness seeping into his eyes. “Sometimes it just feels like that end is drawing nearer far faster than I expected.”

  “A wise man we both know once said something much the same,” Aravon said. “When he thought I wasn’t listening, of course.”

  His words didn’t quite have the intended effect of lightening Rangvaldr’s mood. The shadows remained in the Seiomenn’s green eyes.

  Aravon tried again. “You know what I always admired about Duke Dyrund? He always knew himself. Knew his heart and mind, and was content with who he was.” A moment of silence elapsed as he thought back to the time he’d spent talking to and sharing quiet moments with the Duke. “He once said that the older he got, the more he realized that h
e didn’t have to be anything. That all the expectations of others stopped mattering as the years went by, and he just started being who he was, the genuine man beneath the title of Duke.”

  The Seiomenn cocked his head, curiosity in his eyes.

  “He was so balanced, so content with who he was.” Sorrow welled up within Aravon, but he pushed back against it. “He’d found peace inside, a deep-rooted contentment that nothing external could ever take away. And that’s exactly what you have, Rangvaldr.”

  Aravon turned now and met the Seiomenn’s gaze. “All this time we’ve been traveling together, you’ve never once doubted your faith or your purpose. The rest of us, we have our ups and downs—some more noticeable than others—but you, you’re rock-solid.”

  “Don’t always feel like it,” Rangvaldr muttered. “Then on some days, too solid, especially in joints better off flexible.”

  “We all have rubbish days.” Aravon chuckled. “But it’s how you deal with those days that matter. And you, Rangvaldr, you’ve proven that no matter how many shite days come, you can still keep that positive outlook, that optimism that makes you see the best in people. That’s something only a few people are born with, but you’ve made it an art form.”

  Aravon could have sworn Rangvaldr’s face twitched into a smile behind his leather mask.

  “You may have a few more years on the rest of us,” Aravon continued, “but all it’s done is make you someone we can look up to. The anchor that gives the Grim Reavers stability no matter how tempestuous the world around us is. And that is something worth far more than the ability to run a hundred miles or fight a thousand enemies without tiring.”