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

by Andy Peloquin

  As the Lieutenant broke off, Noll slowed and fell back enough to fill in Colborn’s vacated space at Aravon’s side. It didn’t matter that they rode into Princelander territory—they would maintain their standard formations through force of habit and discipline.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and he resisted the urge to glance toward the nearby hovels, wooden shacks, and canvas shelters bordering the Eastmarch. They were being watched—he simply needed to remain as uninteresting as possible. One more mercenary riding into Icespire was little cause for notice.

  As the grey stone wall of Icespire loomed closer, Aravon caught sight of the city’s southern gate. The Prince’s Gate, as it was called, fully twenty-five feet tall but with double doors each nearly thirty feet across. To his knowledge, no other city on Fehl—or on the mainland, for that matter—had a gate to rival that guarding the southern entrance to Icespire. Discs of metal fully an arm’s length across had been overlaid atop a wooden frame, which had been built around a core of solid blocks of stone. A massive system of chains and pulleys was required to swing the gates open and shut, and fully ten men had to man the capstan to move its bulk.

  In all the years since the city wall was first built—long before the first Einari arrived on Fehl and claimed the continent as their own—that gate had never been breached. Armies had overwhelmed defenders holding the wall or launched surprise attacks before the gate could be sealed, but once closed, that gate had held firm against armies numbering in the tens of thousands.

  The Prince’s Gate served as the primary of only two entrances into Icespire. The other, the Soldier’s Gate, was set into the eastern wall of the city, providing access between the Legion encampment outside the city limits and the port side of Icespire. That gate, built by Princelander architects three hundred years earlier, could never match the staunch imperishability of the ancient Prince’s Gate.

  A company of fifty Icewatchers held post at the Prince’s gate at all times, day and night. Ten stood guard near the massive capstan that operated the gate—a largely ceremonial station, one that permitted them to rest in the shadows of the gatehouse—while the remaining forty inspected the steady stream of heavily-laden wagons, ornate coaches and carriages of the nobility, and the abundance of foot traffic in and out of the city. Aravon and his three companions had to slow as the stream of people ahead of them inched forward at what felt like a glacial pace.

  Closer to the wall, guards split the flow into four lines—pedestrians in one, goods-laden carts in a second, horsed riders like Aravon and his companions in a third, and the well-heeled, better-dressed citizens in a fourth. That last line barely received a nod, while the others, especially the visibly poorer on foot and persons of interest in mercenary garb, were subjected to far closer scrutiny.

  There had been a time, many years ago, when a young Aravon had wanted to join the Icewatch and serve the city of Icespire as guard and champion of law and order. The sight of the guards on parade in their bright steel breastplates, blue cloaks, and sharp-tipped conical helms filled him with a youthful pride in the strong men and women who protected his city.

  Yet age had shown him what that glimmer of imagination could not: the armor—castoffs from the Legion of Heroes—scuffed, dented, and badly in need of repair; the conical nasal helms far too heavy and unwieldy for proper battle, the longswords of Princelander steel blunted by lack of maintenance. The heavy shields they carried resembled the rectangular shields of the Legion, but made of wood without the steel bands.

  All the signs of a city far too accustomed to peace to have any real understanding of war.

  The walls of Icespire hadn’t seen enemies in more than two hundred fifty years. The Icewatch hadn’t marched into battle or repelled a siege for nigh on two centuries. Without the Legion of Heroes to fight his war, the Prince would find his army sorely lacking in discipline, skill, and robustness.

  The Icewatcher who barred their way through the Prince’s gate was the perfect example of how far the city’s guards had fallen. His breastplate had clearly been made for a man around Belthar’s size, yet it hung loose around the chest and shoulders and pulled far too tight around the midsection. His sword was free of dents and scuffs, the leather still freshly wrapped. Even the effort of stepping in their way and raising his pudgy hand to halt their progress seemed to leave him winded.

  “Identify yourselves and state your business in Icespire.” The guard narrowed his eyes, which made his broad face and triple chins appear even larger by comparison.

  “Ather, Ninn, Garran, and Ranina,” Aravon said, gesturing to himself, Noll, Belthar, and Skathi in turn. “Come from Eastbourne to find work.”

  According to Belthar, mercenaries came to Icespire often enough that their arrival was unremarkable. As long as they minded their manners and kept their weapons sheathed, the Icewatch would largely ignore them.

  “Work, eh?” The stubby Icewatcher, barely taller than Noll yet with a girth that Chief Ailmaer would envy, eyed their plain-looking leather armor, dust-covered horses, and simple weapons. “Sellswords, are you? The four of you? Come to Icespire thinking you’ll join some proud mercenary company, do you?”

  Aravon ignored the man’s irritating habit of asking frustratingly obvious questions and simply nodded. “Aye.”

  Suspicion flashed in the Icewatcher’s eyes as he studied them in turn. He stuck out one plump lip in a half-pout, brow furrowed in deep thought. After a long moment, he stepped aside and waved them through. “Don’t let us catch you lot getting into any trouble, you hear? We don’t take kindly to your sort dropping bodies, understand? The enemy’s to the south, got it?”

  “Aye.” Aravon kicked his horse into motion before the Icewatcher asked more pointless questions.

  Chapter Fifty

  As ever, a sense of reverence fell over Aravon as he rode through the Prince’s Gate. The overlapping discs covering the gate gleamed with a brilliant patina as blue-green as the ocean to the north. Hard as iron, flexible as steel, and shining bright as silver, it was a metal no one on Fehl had been able to replicate. And the intricacy of the interlocking parts of metal, wood, and stone spoke of skill at artistry that not even modern Princelander or Einari craftsmen could approximate. One more remnant of a civilization long ago lost to time. A gift from the ancient Serenii, along with the stone wall to protect the breathtaking gemstone tower erected on the northern edge of the city.

  The city itself, however, lacked the grandeur of the gate, wall, and Icespire—at least the areas just within the gate. Buildings of brick and wood bordered the Eastmarch, most a single story but some rising two or three floors above the cobblestone street leading northward. A thick layer of road dust, dirt, and mud painted the structures like some bleak whitewash, turning every building a dull reddish-brown.

  A few merchants’ stalls broke the monotony of the disheveled buildings. Vendors cried their wares at full volume, hawking trinkets of cheap gemstones and worthless metal, tools of iron and brass, food long ago begun to spoil, and bolts of faded wool, cloth, and fabrics that might have once been dyed bright. The smell of grilling meat set Aravon’s stomach rumbling, yet the sight of the rodent-sized carcasses roasting over naked coals silenced his appetite in a hurry.

  With every step deeper into the city, the surroundings grew a bit more pleasant. The layer of dust and grime thinned as they approached the bustling center of commerce known, along with most of the area in the south of Icespire, as the People’s Markets. The sound of economy—shouted cries, the lowing of irritated beasts of burden, the rumble of wagons navigating the deep ruts in the cobblestones, and the dull hum of a thousand distant conversations—grew louder as they approached the vast marketplace that lined the Eastmarch between the Prince’s Gate and the Southbridge.

  On previous visits to Icespire, Aravon had ridden due north, pushing through those crowds of people to cross the bridge that connected the main city of Icespire—known as “the Mains” by those who tended to speak down nos
es pulled high in disdain—to Azure Island. There on Azure Island, the nobility of Icespire had their vast mansions and estates worth more than everything sold in the People’s Markets combined. There, too, General Traighan and the other celebrated military heroes of Icespire had their more austere mansions.

  But now, Aravon’s path led to the right, east along the broad lane that circumnavigated the interior of the city.

  He turned to Skathi and Belthar. “Swordsman guide you both,” he signed. “You know where to find us?”

  Skathi nodded. “We’ll leave a note at the Wrinkled Pig if we find anything important. And if it’s urgent, we’ll look for Noll’s ugly mug at the Shattered Shield.”

  “I’ll be the prettiest one there.” Noll blew her a mocking kiss, which Skathi deftly avoided and answered with a rude hand gesture not exclusive to the Secret Keepers.

  Aravon shot a glance at Belthar. “You good?”

  Belthar hesitated, then nodded. “Not much chance of running into the Brokers on Azure Island.”

  “All the same,” Aravon replied in the hand language, “you need anything, you give us a call.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Belthar’s face was solemn, his eyes hooded in shadow as he and Skathi rode north through the People’s Markets toward Southbridge.

  With Noll at his side, Aravon turned his horse to the east. The sailors—pirates, in truth, a fact long forgotten by most Princelanders—who settled the city had chosen the name Leeward Way for the avenue that ran east and north toward Icespire Port, and Windward Way for the avenue that ran west before circling north to climb toward the wealthier merchants’ mansions atop Bayrise Hill.

  Leeward Way led Aravon and his companions out of the People’s Markets and into Eastway, the district of Icespire where the poorer merchants and artisans made their dwellings. Crude buildings of brick and wood with clay-tiled roofs, yet a far cry from the poverty outside the Prince’s Gate. Here, the streets were paved with cobblestones, swept daily, and maintained in decent condition, though the damage incurred by heavy passage of carts, wagons, and heavily-burdened craftsmen could never fully be redressed.

  Aravon turned his horse off the road as a ten-man patrol of Icewatchers marched down Leeward Way, the tromp, tromp of their booted feet cutting through the din of life in Eastway.

  Odd, he thought. That’s the first patrol I’m seeing since entering the city. He hadn’t realized it until that moment, but now that he’d given it a moment’s contemplation, he couldn’t shake it off.

  The Icewatch numbered anywhere from one to two thousand, depending on recruitment, the Prince’s ability to pay their salary, and the number who left to join the Legion, a mercenary company, or a nobleman’s private household guard. Typically, patrols would pass on a far more regular basis—at least once every ten minutes. But if they were as few and far between as it appeared, the number of Icewatchers currently within Icespire couldn’t be more than a thousand.

  Yet, for the moment, that suited Aravon’s purposes nicely. He couldn’t risk interference from the Icewatch as he searched for information on Otton, Lord Aleron Virinus, and the Brokers. Fewer guards meant less chance that he and his companions would be put in a position of explaining their actions—which, Aravon had to admit, would likely appear suspicious in a city. They weren’t in the Fehlan wilds; here in Icespire, they had to conform to societal conventions or avoid notice as much as possible. Hence the disguise of mercenaries seeking employment.

  Through Eastway they rode, pushing through the heavy traffic that bustled along the main avenues. Tradesmen going about their business. Merchants hauling their wares to and from the market, whipping protesting oxen to haul carts and wagons laden with goods. Children playing along the avenue under the stern eyes of watchful mothers. All around, the commotion and movement of ordinary life in a city like Icespire.

  They have no idea what dangers life really has in store for them. The thought flashed through Aravon’s mind. These people, my fellow Princelanders, going about their duty with no understanding of what others south of the Chain live through.

  In truth, the people of the Princelands had it far better than most. The Legion of Heroes—Princelander sons and daughters among the ranks of Voramians, Praamians, Malandrians, Nyslians, Drashi, and other mainlanders—fought their battles. The Westhaven navy kept Jokull pirates from reaching the shores of Icespire, and regulars of all the duchies manned the forts and strongholds on the Chain. To most of these men, women, and children, the Eirdkilr War was as distant as a squabble in the Twelve Kingdoms or a hurricane off the Myrr coastline.

  They would never see the blood, feel the agony of limbs lost or crushed by Eirdkilr weapons. Never hear the shrieks of pain and cries to the Swordsman as physickers sawed through bones shattered in battle. Never swallow the surge of acid, bite back against the gnawing terror that flooded every nerve and muscle as a horde of Eirdkilrs charged, howling and screaming, to spill their blood.

  The Legion of Heroes shielded them from those horrors. Only the Outwarders knew the full extent of the threat facing those within easy reach of the Eirdkilrs. That explained why they chose to live in the slums outside a Princelander city than remain in their ancestral homes. The ducal regulars guarding the Chain served as the bulwark from death and carnage. Aravon and his companions, fighting in the shadows, ensured the Eirdkilrs never drew close enough for the people of Icespire to know the true meaning of suffering.

  It was not a duty the Grim Reavers took lightly. They had ridden all this way, had crossed half a continent, to unmask the traitor that threatened the peace enjoyed by the men, women, and children around him. He and his companions could never go home, but in doing so, they kept the Princelanders and their homes safe. That was a sacrifice he would make every time, without question or hesitation.

  Yet being back in Icespire brought back the full weight of his decision. Less than five miles away, Mylena and his sons were in General Traighan’s mansion on Azure Island. Back in the city of his birth, the city where he’d lived until he was old enough to join the Legion, back among the sights, sounds, and smells so familiar. Close enough to his family that it would take him less than an hour to reach them. But for all intents and purposes, as far away from them as if he’d stood atop the highest peak in the Sawtooth Mountains.

  With effort, he pushed the gloom away, yet the burden refused to leave his shoulders. He could force his eyes to remain locked on the street ahead, could stop his head from swiveling to his left to glance toward Azure Island. That did little to stop him from feeling the weight of his decision—the choice he’d made to serve the Princelands—settle on him like a lead blanket.

  He tightened his grip on his reins, forced himself to take long, calming breaths. He’d known that he was coming home, that he’d have to face the truth of his mission, yet the emotions surged within his chest like the Frozen Sea in a hurricane.

  Mile after mile, deeper they rode into Icespire, through the streets of Eastway until they reached Portside. The Legion’s Path, the avenue that ran from the Eastbridge to the Soldier’s Gate, was nearly empty, save for a few carts hauling supplies to the now-abandoned Legion encampment outside the walls.

  Beyond the broad avenue, Aravon caught sight of the two massive glasshouses located on the tip of the eastern bay. The enormous domes rose fifty feet high, like glimmering bubbles formed of the purest diamond.

  But Aravon’s path led farther to the north and east, toward the taverns, inns, and alehouses that dotted Portside. More than a hundred such establishments had sprung up between the Legion’s Path and the docks—places for soldiers, mercenaries, sailors, and dockhands to drink. With the presence of liquor came the desire for companionship, and far too many of the less respectable taprooms doubled as bawdy houses and bordellos.

  Noll’s eyes lit up as they rode toward one such house, a two-story wooden building with half-clad women hanging off the upper-floor railing. Thankfully, the little scout knew how to keep his head focused while on the missi
on. Well, mostly focused. Noll managed to hold his tongue most of the time, though a few jaunty retorts and lascivious remarks escaped his lips.

  When Aravon scowled at him, the look he mustered barely passed for apologetic. “Gotta play the part of mercenary, sir,” the little scout signed.

  Aravon rolled his eyes. “Don’t play it too well. We’ve got more important things to be thinking about.”

  To his relief, the Shattered Shield came into view around the next corner. The two-story building was made of stone and brick, a solid, squat structure that seemed to have weathered the years and countless brawls. The tavern’s namesake hung suspended from two chains, which creaked every time the wind set the two halves of the Legion-issue rectangular shield swinging.

  According to Belthar, tavern lore held that the establishment’s founder had been the first Legionnaire to step foot on Fehlan soil when the Eirdkilr Wars began. Or, if a sellsword told the tale, it was the first mercenary hired to lend their aid to the “Legion pansies pissing themselves at the sight of the enemy”.

  Either way, the tavern had a reputation for catering to men of a martial nature. Despite being from Icespire, Aravon had never heard of the Shattered Shield. That could be due to the fact that he was a high-born Princelander—son of General Traighan, rewarded for his illustrious career with a title of nobility—or a cake-eater. Commissioned officers rarely frequented the same establishments as their rank-and-file and noncommissioned officers. Especially when irregulars and mercenaries shared the unhallowed ground.

  Legionnaires, especially career soldiers and veterans, held mercenaries in a special regard—the same reserved for soiled breeches and latrine duty. Aravon had never developed the same contempt for those outside of the Legion of Heroes, yet their lack of discipline left much to be desired.

  Of the dozen or so mercenaries visible outside the front of the tavern, only two nursed tankards in silence. A group of six men in patchwork scale mail formed a tight circle around two men throwing drunken, wild punches at each other. Four more shouted insults at the other mercenaries, the fighters, and each other in turn.