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

by Andy Peloquin

  “What, you don’t like breathing smoke?” Aravon cocked his head. “I’ve been inside your langhus when the fire’s burning hot or you’re roasting something on the spit. Seems about the same.”

  Rangvaldr groaned. “Ahh, what I’d give for a proper feast.” He chuckled. “Ailmaer might not have thought or battled like a warrior, but he certainly could eat like one.”

  “I’m sure Magicmaker could find some tasty grass roots or a shoot or two,” Colborn said. “Maybe a toadstool.”

  “Mushrooms!” Belthar rumbled, a deep, booming sound echoed by his stomach a moment later. “I’d go for a handful of those. Bloody hell, I’d even chew on a branch if it was particularly tasty.”

  “I saw a hawthorn bush back there.” Colborn jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Want me to go collect some for you?”

  Before Belthar could answer, two voices drifted up the muddy street toward them.

  “…just hold on a minute!” Noll was saying as he and Skathi approached, a silent Zaharis two steps behind them. “No way you brought down twenty Eirdkilrs!”

  “Need me to show you the bodies?” Skathi retorted. “Then again, if you can’t really count—”

  “Oh, I’ll count them, all right!” Noll threw up his hands and turned an incredulous look on Aravon. “Can you believe this, Captain? Redwing here’s trying to convince me she outshot me.”

  “To be fair,” Colborn interjected, “she is the one who brought down the Eirdkilrs’ rear guard before you could even draw your bow.”

  Noll’s eyes darkened behind his mask.

  “That puts me at least three ahead of you.” Skathi’s green eyes glowed bright as emeralds. “Suck on that, little man!”

  “Just accept it, Foxclaw,” Belthar rumbled. “You’re good, but not even Ghoststriker’s a match for Redwing.”

  “Thank you, Ursus!” Triumph echoed in Skathi’s voice and she swept a mocking bow. “Finally, someone with a solid head on their shoulders.”

  “Or so far up your arse he’s forgotten what sunlight looks like,” Noll muttered.

  Aravon cut in before Skathi took the back-and-forth any farther. “What happened, Magicmaker?”

  Zaharis’ hands had been burned, the flesh a deep red with large, bubbling blisters forming all along his fingers, palms, and wrists.

  Noll snorted a mocking laugh. “Got a bit too close to the flames, so he did. Ironic, ain’t it, our fire-maker getting scorched by his own alchemical concoction?”

  Zaharis glared and tried to form the silent hand signals, yet quickly gave up, pain bright in his eyes.

  “I’m happy to translate for you.” Noll stepped up beside the Secret Keeper. “He’s definitely trying to say that I’m the hero who saved the day, and that I should be rewarded by a week in Icespire’s finest bawdy-house.”

  Zaharis didn’t need dexterity to sign his one-fingered retort. The vitriol in his look would have killed Noll many times over.

  “And you kiss your mother with those hands?” Noll appeared outraged. “Shame on you, Magicmaker!”

  Zaharis rolled his eyes and made a gesture suspiciously like a cook stuffing a turkey. Then he turned back to Rangvaldr with a questioning look.

  “I-I can’t.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “Not until I rest and get something to eat and drink.” His shoulders drooped and he seemed barely able to remain sitting upright. “I’ve never used the holy stones so much in my life. I had no idea how much it would take out of me.”

  In Aravon’s mind, the Seiomenn had every right to be exhausted. He’d been traveling nearly nonstop for the last week, battling at Hangman’s Hill and now here, and healing dozens of wounded Fehlans, Legionnaires, and Shalandrans. He deserved rest—they all did, just as soon as they could get what they needed and leave the camp.

  Zaharis nodded and formed the simple signal for “Thank you”.

  Silence descended over their small company—the quiet of soldiers too exhausted to speak, with the cries of the wounded and the wails of mourning Kabili echoing loud behind them. Aravon couldn’t help feeling a bone-deep relief seeping into his weariness.

  “Damn.” Skathi’s voice was quiet.

  “Yeah.” Aravon nodded. No more words were needed. This battle had been far worse than anything they’d faced before. It could have gone bad—had gone bad for so many Shalandrans. They, too, could be mourning comrades or loved ones. Only the Swordsman’s mercy had spared them.

  At that moment, Invictus Nytano and Callista—Archateros no longer, but now Proxenos—strode toward them.

  “Here.” The Invictus held out a sheaf of parchments, stained by mud, booted feet, and blood, edges charred and crisp. Yet, to Aravon’s relief, many had survived the destruction, at least enough for their contents to be passably legible. “This is everything I could find pertaining to Lord Morshan’s arrangement with your Prince. Everything that survived the Eirdkilrs, at least.”

  “Thank you.” He nodded and accepted the documents.

  “You may take them with you.” Callista said. “Our time here in Steinnbraka Delve is finished. We will depart as soon as we have seen to our dead and wounded, finished our preparations to leave the camp behind.”

  “Of course.” It would take a day, perhaps two, for them to bury the fallen, offer mercy to the dying, and prepare the wounded to travel. And with so many wounded—close to two hundred Indomitables, miners, and Gangers—the journey would be difficult.

  For a moment, Aravon contemplated offering to stay and help; Rangvaldr’s holy stones could get the wounded on their feet more quickly. Though he hated the idea of delaying the return to Icespire, the Shalandrans deserved what help he could offer.

  But he couldn’t ask that of Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn had pushed himself beyond his limits already, and if he kept up the healing efforts, he would likely kill himself.

  So, instead, Aravon simply nodded and offered a Legion salute. “The Swordsman guide your path and strengthen your hearts.”

  “May the Faces of Mercy and Justice smile on you.” Invictus Nytano returned the salute. “Go with the knowledge that you have the eternal gratitude of Shalandra, the Indomitables, and the Keeper’s Blades.” He cast a glance at Callista. “And their Lady of Blades.”

  Callista stiffened, her face going hard. Aravon knew a burden of that magnitude would require time to grow comfortable with.

  Aravon stepped toward the woman and held out a hand. “It was an honor to fight by your side, my lady.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Callista accepted his hand and gripped it, hard. “You do the Princelands proud, Captain Snarl.”

  Pain and sorrow darkened her kohl-rimmed eyes, yet an equal measure of steel glimmered there. She had the strength to bear up under the burdens of loss and command. And, from what Aravon had seen of her over the last few days, with warriors like Invictus Nytano by her side, she would make a fine leader and Proxenos.

  When Nytano gripped Aravon’s hand, a solemn look filled his age-lined face. “I wish you the Keeper’s fortune on your hunt for the traitor, Captain.” He nodded. “Strike first, strike true.”

  Aravon returned the nod. “May the Swordsman guide you on your journey home and see you safely to your shores.”

  With those words, Aravon turned away from the two Blades and returned to his Grim Reavers. Noll and Zaharis had helped Rangvaldr to his feet, and together, the seven of them strode down the main avenue to where their horses stood near the camp’s front gate.

  None of them spoke as they slogged through the bloody muck, skirted the Eirdkilr corpses not yet gathered for burning, and moved around the last flickering tongues of alchemical fire that hadn’t fully burned out. Exhaustion, hunger, thirst, and the burden of emotions weighed heavily on each of them. Aravon had little doubt they were all as happy as he to be getting the bloody hell out of Steinnbraka Delve—after what they’d just endured, he wanted nothing more than to leave this place of death far behind.

  But as he struggled into his saddle and foun
d his seat, he couldn’t help looking back. Back at the brave Indomitables, miners, Gangers, and Keeper’s Blades that had fought beside him.

  The Blade, Elmessam, still sat beside Killian’s body. An arrow remained lodged in his knee, yet he spoke not a word as he stared in silence at the corpse still gripped in his hands. Two Indomitables wrestled to hold down a screaming comrade as a third re-set the shattered bone of his leg. A Ganger helped a miner limp toward the woman and children racing toward him with eager cries of relief and widespread arms.

  So many wounded and dead, so much suffering, pain, and loss. Yet for the men and women of the camp, life went on. The Shalandrans would survive. The strength he’d witnessed within the mine would bear them through this ordeal.

  He hadn’t ridden ten paces when a voice shouted out behind him. “Shalandra!” A loud clank followed the cry.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Aravon found Callista and Nytano facing them, spines stiff, fists against their black steel breastplates.

  “Shalandra!” Callista shouted again, and repeated the salute, banging her gauntleted fist to her chest. Nytano joined in the salute, as did the Indomitables nearest her.

  Again, the cry, “Shalandra!” A hundred soldiers in black armor mirrored their commander’s salute.

  “Shalandra!” The miners, too, those who could still stand, stomped their booted feet against the ground. The sound echoed in time with the clattering of mailed fists clanking on blood-soaked breastplates and hooked swords clashing against shields. Every Indomitable and Keeper’s Blade with the strength to rise now stood facing them, joining in the shout one final time.

  “Shalandra!” The roar echoed off the inselberg’s stony walls, thundering through the destroyed mining camp, and washed over the Grim Reavers. Aravon met Callista’s eyes, and the woman gave him a nod. An acknowledgement, gratitude for what he and his strange masked warriors had done for them.

  Aravon returned the nod, and though a lump thickened his throat, a smile touched his lips as he turned to the cleared ground between the palisade wall and the forest. A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. He would not soon forget the brave souls that fell in battle beside him, the lives snuffed out by the Eirdkilrs’ cruelty and bloodlust. But his time here hadn’t been spent in vain. Had it been pure happenstance that set his path to cross with the Shalandrans, or the workings of the gods?

  It was only because he’d come to Steinnbraka Delve that he’d learned the truth of the operation here, the silent agreement with Lord Virinus. And because of it, he now carried in his pouch the very documents that could lead him to the traitor in Icespire.

  With a final salute to the brave soldiers and miners, Aravon gave the signal to be on their way. In silence, the seven of them rode out of Steinnbraka Delve, leaving the carnage and death far behind.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Anything?” Aravon glanced over at Skathi, who sat next to him.

  The archer glanced up from her study of Lord Morshan’s documents, and one look at the frustration etched into the tired lines of her face told Aravon she’d come up as empty-handed as him. “Not unless you count flowery platitudes about the Pharus’ wisdom and foresight and how Prince Toran holds him in such high esteem as information of any use.”

  Noll snorted. “About as useful as that squishy grey stuff rattling around between Belthar’s ears.”

  “Careful,” Belthar rumbled from where he crouched beside the fire. “It’s not too late for me to drop a few dragon’s breath peppers in the food. And this time there’s no fountain nearby to get the spice out of your mouth.”

  “Though Rangvaldr could definitely find some grass.” Colborn chuckled and leaned back against the trunk of the thick birch tree he’d claimed as his perch. “Plenty of that around for you to chew on.”

  Noll’s scowl elicited a laugh from all around the fire, all but Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn sat unspeaking, staring into the fire, his eyes empty and his expression blank. He’d been near-catatonic since they rode out of Steinnbraka Delve—indeed, his exhaustion had prompted Aravon to call a halt early in the afternoon.

  Not that any of them could complain. The last few days of travel and battle had left them exhausted in mind and body. Even Noll’s digs at Belthar lacked their usual force—the scout was just too damned tired to put in more than a half-hearted effort. The seven of them had gone through the motions of setting up camp by rote, and greeted the settling night with few words. Indeed, the silence descending over them with the coming of darkness held an edge of tension, dulling the noise of the forest—the whisper of the wind kissing the pine needles, the chitter of squirrels, the warbling songs of nightbirds, and the distant rustle of animals rooting in the underbrush—to a muted hum.

  But Rangvaldr’s condition concerned Aravon far more than the others. He’d only realized how bad-off the Seiomenn was when he removed his leather mask and helmet. Rangvaldr’s hair and beard—once heavy with grey and flecks of blond—had gone white as fresh-fallen snow. The fine laugh lines on the Seiomenn’s face had deepened to wagon ruts. It appeared as if Rangvaldr had aged ten years in the last ten days.

  He’d barely responded when Aravon called the halt, simply climbed down from his horse—half-falling from exhaustion—and slumped to the ground with that vacant look in his eyes. Even after Skathi returned with fresh water from the nearby Standelfr and Colborn brought down a red deer calf, Rangvaldr had remained unmoving, too drained to join in their friendly banter. He’d barely responded when Skathi pressed a re-filled waterskin into his hands and only drank with help. Not even the smell of Zaharis’ cooking—with Belthar serving as his hands—had snapped the Seiomenn out of his trance.

  None of them had disturbed the Seiomenn, but gave him peace to rest. After what he’d done, what he’d given to them, to the Fehlans at Hangman’s Hill, to the survivors of Saerheim, and the Shalandrans, he deserved it.

  Aravon’s brow furrowed as he studied Rangvaldr. Let’s just hope rest, food, and water will be enough. He had no idea how the Eyrr holy stones worked—where the magic came from, how Rangvaldr’s muttered words activated their healing powers, or what their limitations truly were. It seemed Rangvaldr didn’t fully understand them, either. If he did, he might have known what his limits were and avoided pushing himself beyond them.

  Or would he? Aravon had spent enough time around the Seiomenn to know that Rangvaldr wouldn’t sit by and conserve his strength if he could heal, help, or save others.

  Back at Camp Marshal, he’d explained his reasons for joining their company: he sought to bring peace to Fehl, even if it meant fighting to put an end to the war, and he would heal any who needed it for as long as he had strength to use his magic. Even if he’d known the limitations of the stones’ power, he’d have found a way to go beyond for the sake of others.

  And that was what made him such a valuable part of their team. Rangvaldr genuinely cared—not only for his comrades or the Eyrr. He cared for all people, Fehlan, Princelander, even Eirdkilr. Aravon had seen the sorrow in the Seiomenn’s eyes as he took up arms against the Jokull and marched to war with the Eirdkilrs. There had been no hesitation—he knew the stakes, what fate would befall his people if the Eirdkilrs triumphed—but he fought a battle for peace, to put an end to the war.

  The Seiomenn’s silent support, encouraging presence, and quiet words of reassurance and comfort had gotten Aravon through difficult times. Colborn, too, and doubtless every other member of their company. Without realizing it, they’d come to rely on Rangvaldr’s strength of spirit. Each of them had their role to play—Rangvaldr’s was as the heart of the Grim Reavers.

  He’ll get better, Aravon told himself. He has to. We need him too much to lose him. Fehl needs him.

  With effort, Aravon pushed back against his worry for the Seiomenn and bent his attention to the parchments in his hand. Or what remained of them. The Eirdkilrs had evidently decided to use Lord Morshan’s documents for kindling to light their fires. Of the handful of documents Invictu
s Nytano had given Aravon, only a few remained untouched by flame or undamaged by water, booted feet, or—in the case of one particularly malodorous letter to Prince Toran—urine.

  Scratching the scruff of Snarl’s neck with one hand, Aravon used the other to study the charred remnants of what appeared to be a missive early on in the negotiations between Shalandra and Prince Toran. The letter detailed the discovery of ghoulstone and the Prince’s curiosity as to its properties. Beneath it, a message from Divinity Tinush of the Keeper’s Council expressed Shalandra’s interest in discovering the true nature of ghoulstone.

  “Captain, take a look at this.” An eager note rang in Skathi’s voice. “Something odd here.”

  Aravon’s head snapped up. “What is it?” Snarl, too, lifted his head, his pointed ears twitching.

  “Look.” Skathi held out a letter. “Look at the handwriting.”

  Aravon snatched the parchment from her hand and stared down at it. The contents of the letter seemed innocuous enough—information on the location of Steinnbraka Delve—but Aravon focused on the script. The light of the fire revealed letters penned in a neat, precise hand, clearly someone accustomed to writing. Yet, as he studied it, he realized what Skathi was seeing.

  One glance at the first letter from Prince Toran to Pharus Mordus Khemnu Nephelcheres confirmed his suspicion. “It’s not the Prince’s hand!” Snarl actually leapt to his feet, an eager light in his amber eyes. Yet, when no command came and no food or scruff-scratching was forthcoming, he settled back down around Aravon’s feet.

  “Might be nothing.” Skathi shrugged. “After all, the Prince isn’t the sort to write his own letters.”

  “No, but his Royal Scribe is.” Aravon’s mind set to work. “None of the ‘Prince’s’ messages were actually written by the Prince himself. Which means everything that bears the Prince’s seal was penned by the Royal Scribe. And anything that doesn’t match the handwriting of his Royal Scribe is a forgery.”