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

by Andy Peloquin

  “The Legion you vowed to serve.” Captain Lingram spoke in a hard, firm voice, his words ringing with command. “The Legion that trained you, armed you, gave you a brotherhood.”

  “Brotherhood!” Corporal Rold snorted. “What sort of worthless brotherhood tosses a soldier because he’s done nothing but his absolute best? All because some nobleman spreads around a few coins to greedy commander—”

  Captain Lingram’s hand cracked across Rold’s face. The Corporal stared up at his Captain, more stunned than hurt.

  “No.” Captain Lingram bent until his face hovered inches above Rold’s, his voice a low growl. “You may be angry, but I will not hear you disrespect the Legion or our commanding officers.”

  A blaze of anger flared within the Corporal’s eyes. “Captain—”

  “Do you hear me?” Captain Lingram roared in Rold’s face. “No matter your feelings, you are still a Legionnaire. That still means something, Soldier.” He thrust a finger toward the shields hanging on the wall. “We are part of a brotherhood, a brotherhood of men who have fought, bled, and died so you and I can sit here drinking and bitching about our problems. We are Legion, Rold. Until the day we die, we wear our colors in our hearts, and we bleed Legion red. That is an honor we fight to defend until our last breaths, and one we will never permit anyone to defile with word or deed.”

  He released Corporal Rold and climbed to his feet, pushing past Endyn, Duvain, and Haze to stand in front of the three Steel Company mercenaries. “Insult me all you like,” he snapped. “I have weathered storms far worse than your pitiful words.” He stepped closer, his eyes ablaze. “But the moment you insult my Legionnaires by even thinking they did anything less than their best, then you will feel the true wrath of a Legionnaire.”

  The mercenaries actually retreated a half-step.

  With a snarl, Captain Lingram turned his back on the Steel Company men and turned to face his soldiers. “Never forget. Never forget who we are, and what that uniform stands for!” He thrust a finger at Endyn’s Legion-issue armor. “We defend and honor it at all costs, even if that cost is our lives. That is the oath we swore to the Swordsman when we made the decision to join. So we uphold those oaths, no matter what.” His eyes darkened as he stared down at his own clothing—simple cloth tunic and breeches, no longer the armor he’d worn for fifteen years. “No matter what,” he repeated in a quiet voice.

  The fire seemed to leave his face, and his shoulders slumped once more. Without a word, he turned on his heel, stepped over the unconscious mercenary, and marched out of the taproom.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Silence hung in the tavern, so thick Aravon could feel it pressing in around him. All eyes locked on the three mercenaries and the four Legionnaires. Expectation filled the air, as if everyone within the Shattered Shield expected something more.

  Yet the Legionnaires followed their Captain’s lead. Endyn helped Rold to stand and, with mingled looks of respect, surprise, and solemnity, they stalked out of the tavern in pursuit of Lingram.

  Long seconds passed before conversations in the tavern resumed. The Steel Company mercenaries lifted their unconscious comrade and hauled him out, leaving the bloodstains on the floor as the only indication anything had happened.

  Yet Aravon would remember. The memory of Captain Lingram’s words, even in the face of disgrace and unmerited retribution, would remain burned in his memory, a testament to the man’s honor. Even after everything, he’s still a true Legionnaire. That’s something Lord Virinus will never take away from him.

  “Bloody Steel Company loudmouths,” the bald-headed mercenary beside Aravon muttered into his tankard. “One triumph at Forge Hill, and they think they’re the Swordsman’s gift to manhood and bravery.”

  Aravon inclined his head. He, like all on Fehl, had heard of the Battle of Forge Hill, deep within Eirdkilr-held Fjall lands. There, nearly a decade earlier, the Legionnaires of Pearl Battalion had faced thrice their number of Eirdkilrs on disadvantageous terrain after a week of hard marching. The soldiers had succumbed to exhaustion, insufficient food and water, and superior numbers. The battle would have been lost, had not a force of two hundred Steel Company mercenaries—hired by Duke Leddan of Oldcrest—been close enough to serve as reinforcements. Their arrival had turned the tide of battle long enough for the Legionnaires to re-form ranks and repel the Eirdkilrs.

  “Troublemakers, eh?” he asked. “Do they pay well?”

  “If you can get in, yeah.” The bald-headed Voramian nodded. “But unless you’re Odarian, you’ve got a better chance of taking a shite atop Icespire than joining the Steel Company.”

  “Damn.” Aravon shook his head and took a long drink from his tankard. “Guess I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  The mercenary fixed him with a curious stare. “You on the hunt for work?”

  Aravon nodded. “Last company I was with…let’s just say I’d rather eat my boots than go back to that bunch of incompetent pricks.”

  The Voramian snorted. “Aye, far too many of those around.” His expression deepened to a scowl, pulling his dark, thick eyebrows together. “Men who can barely tell their arses from an apricot, but give them a sword and they think they’re the Swordsman Reborn. True bloody heroes, the whole damned lot of them.”

  Aravon chuckled at the man’s mocking tone. “Give those of us who actually know a thing or two about battle a bad name.”

  “Keeper’s own truth, that is!” The man raised his tankard and drank deep, finishing with a loud “ahh!”

  Aravon sought out the tavernkeeper’s eye and held up two fingers. “One more for me and my friend here.”

  The man, a lean, hungry-looking Princelander clad in a ragged leather apron nearly as dirty as his hands, face, and the rag he shoved around the top of the bar, nodded and hustled off to refill the tankards.

  “Friends, are we?” The bald-headed mercenary fixed him with a suspicious stare.

  Aravon shrugged. “If not, there’s a lot worse in life than a free drink, eh?”

  After a moment’s silence, the Voramian gave a little snort and nod. “Fair enough.” He held out a hand to Aravon. “Emard, Eventide.”

  “Ather.” Aravon shook the man’s hand. “Formerly of the Silver Hound Brothers—or, as they proved themselves time and again, the Vicious Sons of Bitches—now on the hunt for a company where I can actually make a decent living.”

  “Not many of those around.” Emard turned to greet the fresh tankard, taking a long pull of the hop-heavy ale. He sighed and wiped foam from his beard. “Truth be told, your best bet’s to hoof it down to Ironcastle or Hightower. Better openings there, I hear.”

  “What about you?” Aravon asked. He studied the man’s leather armor—a patchwork of chain mail with sewn steel plates, atop a tunic as dark grey as the accompanying cloak and breeches. “Any room in Eventide? I’d look good in that color.”

  Eventide was one of the few mercenary companies Aravon had actually heard of, and they were well-respected…as far as sellswords went.

  “All full up.” Emard shook his head. “Got a fresh batch in from Ironcastle, and nowhere near enough jobs to keep them all fed. Like as not, half of the recruits’ll be let go in the next week or two.” He ran a hand across his bald head and down his face and bearded chin. “Bloody Legionnaires, taking all the best postings.”

  On Fehl, men of fighting age had three choices: join the Legion, sign up to serve under one of the Dukes, or try their luck with the mercenary companies. Those that were turned down from the Legion or failed to complete the rigorous training often ended up scorned by the Dukes’ regulars. Thus, they ended up as mercenaries.

  The problem with being a mercenary on Fehl was that there was little to offer. Looting and plundering of the Fehlan clans was strictly forbidden and punished harshly. Thus, sellswords could only earn money by serving wealthy employers. Most Princelander noblemen, however, tended to be on the stingy side. Mercenary companies ended up serving as household guards, priva
te security forces, or armed escorts through the areas most prone to bandits. Others were employed as troops to accompany the caravans that traded with the Fehlans south of the wall. Most remained among the Smida, Vidr, and Eyrr, far from the front lines, and thus well away from any action that could earn them more than a meager pittance.

  Prince Toran occasionally hired mercenaries to fight beside the Legion, but only when fresh troops were unavailable. Only a select few companies were trusted by the Crown enough to fight. Those who had earned the Prince’s trust—such as the Grey Daggers or the Sons of Mithrandus—earned good coin.

  “A friend of mine, Otton from the Black Xiphos, mentioned there was a nobleman who paid fair wages and gave decent jobs,” Aravon said. “Told me if ever I made it back to Icespire, to come to the Shattered Shield and keep an eye out for the man with this insignia.” He drew out Zaharis’ sketch of the carbuncle. The image was rougher than the Secret Keeper’s usually artistic drawings; before they’d ridden off to Camp Marshal, Rangvaldr had only managed to heal most of the burned flesh, though he’d promised to finish the job as his strength returned. “Seen this before?”

  Emard gave the symbol a quick glance and shook his head. “Never. Then again, not too many lordlings come in here themselves. They tend to send someone else to do the hiring for them.” Mention of “Black Xiphos” elicited no more response than Otton’s name—that was to say, none.

  Aravon allowed his frustration to show on his face. “And here was me hoping I’d be able to write home to the missus saying I got a decent job.”

  “Aye, that’s the hope for every poor bastard who comes through here.” Emard gave him a wry smile and a half-apologetic shrug. “Though I’ll say most of them tend to be a bit leaner and greener than you. You look like you’ve got a few years’ scuff on you.”

  “Aye.” Aravon nodded. “Third Company saw to that.”

  “Oh?” Emard turned to him, genuine curiosity in his eyes. “You former Legion?”

  “Pearl Battalion,” Aravon replied. “Corporal, before I took an Eirdkilr axe to the shield arm.”

  Emard winced. “Damn.”

  Aravon’s expression darkened. “Not much use in a shield wall if you can’t hold a damned shield.”

  “Did you at least make your Swordsman’s four?”

  Aravon shook his head. “Three years, ten months, two weeks. Out of commission just short of a Legion pension.”

  “Damn,” Emard said again.

  “You serve?” Aravon asked.

  “Aye.” Emard nodded. “Jade Battalion, stationed three years in Silverhill, two more in Bridgekeep.” He rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a long, white scar running up the length of his forearm. “Eirdkilr axe nearly took my arm off. Never healed properly, so I had to learn to swing a sword with my shield hand.”

  Aravon raised his tankard. “Fuck the Eirdkilrs.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Emard clanked his tankard against Aravon’s and emptied it in one long pull. When he finished, he eyed Aravon up and down once more. The glimmer of uncertain wariness left his eyes, replaced by an amicable brightness. “Tell you what, Corporal Ather, let me ask around, see if I can find a place for you in one of the other companies. Eventide may not have space, but I’ve got a few friends in the Bronze Riders and the Bear Hunter Company. Might be they have a spot open for a former Legionnaire.”

  “Really?” Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “I’d owe you one for sure.”

  “You’d owe me a lot more than just one!” Emard snorted, but his expression was wry. “No promises, but I’ll see if I can do something.” He drained his tankard and held it up. “But first, another round. On you.”

  * * *

  “Anything?” Aravon asked Noll as the two of them slipped into the darkness outside the Shattered Shield.

  “Does a full belly and the taste of piss-poor ale count?” The scout shot him a grin.

  Aravon scowled. “That productive?” Afternoon had long ago turned to night and, after long hours of drinking, Aravon’s humor matched the shadows around him. They had emerged from their efforts to hunt down Otton or the mysterious nobleman with the carbuncle insignia no wiser than when they entered the tavern.

  Noll shrugged. “Couple of people I met might have recognized Otton’s name, but they couldn’t tell me which company he’d joined. Even after I mentioned Black Xiphos, no one could confirm or deny it.”

  Aravon ground his teeth in frustration. “Anyone recognize the carbuncle?”

  “One old-timer thought he’d seen it someplace.” Noll grimaced. “Then again, he also thought he’d seen a unicorn frolicking on the walls of Icespire yesterday, so he might not be the most reliable source.”

  “Damn.” Aravon’s brow furrowed, irritation flaring bright and hot in his gut. “I might have a chance of getting a job in a mercenary company, but that doesn’t get us any closer to finding our traitor.”

  The Shattered Shield had been a dim hope, but it had been a place to start. Yet the fact that they’d come up empty-handed left him in a foul mood.

  We can’t give up so soon. With Colborn, Belthar, and Skathi busy on their own reconnaissance mission, he and Noll would have to return to the tavern the next day. He had to hope that by the following evening, Colborn would have uncovered something of use.

  But first, sleep.

  “Go,” he told Noll. “Get to the Wrinkled Pig and get the rooms. I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Got someplace important to be?” Noll raised an eyebrow.

  “Not quite.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “I’ve got to get a message to the Prince, let him know the truth of what happened with Captain Lingram at Saerheim.”

  Noll’s eyes narrowed. “You just going to waltz into the Palace, then?”

  “No.” Aravon shook his head. “But Snarl will.” Or, wherever Lord Eidan received the messages sent via Enfield to relay to the Prince.

  “Ahh.” Noll nodded his understanding. “You sure that’s wise? Not just risking him being discovered here in Icespire, but letting the Prince know where we are?”

  Noll made a good point. If the Prince knew they were in Icespire, it could somehow leak to the traitor.

  “I won’t include anything about our location,” Aravon said. “Just tell him what he needs to know about the Captain Lingram and Lord Virinus situation.”

  “Good.” Noll nodded. “No way he deserves that after Saerheim.”

  “Damned right.” The words came out in a growl. The confrontation with the Steel Company mercenaries remained burned in Aravon’s mind—not only the insults to Captain Lingram, a low blow after the losses he’d sustained fighting the desperate battle to retreat. No, what stood out most was Captain Lingram’s impassioned speech to his men. He, like every good officer, knew the importance of maintaining respect to the Legion. They had sworn their lives to service, and it was a matter of pride and honor to preserve the dignity of the Legion. Without it, they and so many other soldiers had nothing else.

  With a nod to Noll, Aravon turned and strode deeper into the darkened back alleys of Portside. His steps led east, toward the heavy shadows close to the city wall. There, he could call Snarl without risking the Enfield’s discovery. Snarl would have followed his orders to remain out of sight—though where the Enfield had chosen to hide, Aravon couldn’t be certain. With night to conceal his movements, Snarl could even now be circling above his head or lying in wait atop a nearby roof.

  Wherever Snarl was, he would soon be winging off with a message for the Prince. Based on his last communique with the nobleman, Lord Eidan was here in Icespire, close enough to deliver his message to the Prince directly. Aravon’s message would detail Lord Myron Virinus’ mistreatment of Captain Lingram, along with their suspicions that Lord Aleron Virinus was the traitor they sought. With that information, the Prince would ensure that the cowardly, petty actions of the young nobleman didn’t cause the death of an honorable Legionnaire like Captain Lingram.

  And if he didn’t, Aravon
and the Grim Reavers would be paying a visit to Lord Virinus’ household all too soon.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Aravon leapt to his feet as the quiet flapping of wings sounded outside the open window of the third-floor room. The darkness outside was thick beyond the east-facing window, with the inn’s brick walls blocking the soft blue glow of the Icespire to the west. Noll had chosen the room for that very reason—the shadows gave Snarl ample cover to conceal his movements.

  A moment later, sharp claws clacked on the clay-tiled rooftops, growing louder as the creature moved toward him, and two gleaming yellow eyes appeared in the night.

  Snarl gave a delighted yip at the sight of Aravon and leapt through the window, dropping lightly to the floor of their small chamber.

  “Good boy!” Aravon scooped up the Enfield, and Snarl licked Aravon’s face with a wet, warm tongue. With an excited little bark, Snarl lifted his head to show the steel tube on his collar—the Enfield’s signal that Lord Eidan had sent a message in return.

  Aravon removed the cap and plucked out the tightly-rolled parchment. Opening it, he held the message up to the light streaming from the single oil lamp and read Lord Eidan’s neat handwriting. “Word of Captain Lingram passed to Prince. Report on current mission and location.”

  “What’s it say?” Noll asked from the room’s second small cot, little more than a wooden box frame with a filthy straw-tick mattress and a stuffed wool pillow. The Wrinkled Pig was renowned for its discretion, not luxury.

  “Lord Eidan’s going to pass my message about Captain Lingram on to the Prince,” Aravon replied. “And he’s asking where we are and what we’re up to.”

  Noll looked up from his task of sharpening his plain steel short sword. “You going to tell him?”

  Aravon pondered the question. Duke Dyrund had placed his full faith in Lord Eidan’s abilities to use his secret spy network to further the Prince’s aims and aid in their mission to defeat the Eirdkilrs. A part of Aravon wanted to trust Lord Eidan as well—they could use an ally like him here in Icespire. He’d already been tasked with hunting down the traitor, and he had far more extensive resources than Aravon and his small company.