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

by Andy Peloquin

  But, after a long moment, he shook his head. “No. For now, this stays between just the seven of us.”

  Noll cocked his head. “You don’t trust him?”

  “The Duke trusted him, and that’s good enough for me.” Aravon ran a hand down Snarl’s furry head and scratched his scruff, eliciting a soft, delighted purr from the little creature. “But it’s not that. Right now, no one knows where we are. Not Lord Eidan, not the Prince, and certainly not whatever enemies are in league with the Eirdkilrs. The longer we keep our location and task a secret, the less chance anyone will find out and try to stop us. And, the less chance word will get back to the Secret Keepers or Brokers.”

  Noll’s expression grew thoughtful. “Sounds like a smart move.” He inclined his head. “A bit surprising, though, coming from you.”

  “Surprising?” Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Why’s that?”

  Noll set his sword and whetstone aside and leaned forward. “How long did I serve in Sixth Company under you, Captain? Three years?”

  “Nearer four. You joined us just before that skirmish south of Anvil Garrison.”

  Noll nodded. “Right. The night Corporal Older broke his nose tripping over his breeches and nearly drowned in the latrine trench.”

  Aravon laughed. “I’d forgotten about that.” The laughter felt good—amidst all the chaos, death, and bloodshed of the previous weeks, it came as a much-needed release.

  Noll’s smile faded, his face going solemn. “But in all those years, Captain, I never once saw you even think about breaking chain of command. You were always the ‘salute the uniform’ type of officer. Complete with the obligatory tent-pole up your arse.”

  Aravon shot Noll an unamused frown. “How kind.”

  Noll chuckled and a nasty grin broadened his narrow face. “My point is, you always seemed like you knew your place in the structure of things. Captain, leading your Lieutenants and Sergeants, taking orders from Commanders and Generals. So to hear you say we’re keeping things from the man who should be our superior officer, I guess it just drives home how much things have gone to rot.”

  “Indeed.” Aravon let out a long breath and settled back against the wall. Snarl climbed into his lap and settled his furry head atop Aravon’s right leg, nudging at Aravon’s hand until he obliged by stroking his neck. “The Duke’s death is a blow in more ways than one.” The pain within him—cold and hard as the glaciers floating in the Frozen Sea—hadn’t diminished in the last few days; if anything, it had only grown as they neared Icespire. “I never expected something like that could happen to him. The fact that it did just makes it clear that the situation’s a lot worse than I ever imagined while marching in the Legion.”

  “Because we’re no longer dealing with battles and armies, but politics, gold, and treason?” Noll inclined his head. “It’s a different sort of fight, I’ll admit, but a fight nonetheless.”

  “One we can’t solve with a cavalry charge or a well-timed counterattack.” Aravon’s jaw muscles worked, his teeth clenching. “I’m a soldier, Noll, not a politician or a spy. Yes, I’ve been trained to think outside the tactical box, to take an oblique approach to problems, but this…” He ran a hand through his dark brown hair, grown far beyond Legion-regulation length to hang down around his ears. “This feels too big for me. Give me an enemy to fight or a strategic problem, and I can figure it out. But tell me I’ve got to find a traitor amidst the Princelander nobility, and I feel like I’m back on latrine duty.”

  “Because the noblemen are stuffed full of shite, y’mean?” Noll chuckled.

  Aravon echoed the laugh, but it felt forced, strained.

  “I’ll say this much, Captain.” Noll’s expression sobered, his eyebrows knitted into an earnest frown. “You may say you feel out of place, but to the rest of us, you’re approaching this the same way you’ve taken on every other problem in the past. Difficult or not, you’re working the problem, and putting each of us to work on it as well. Using our strengths to figure things out and letting us do what we need to in order to see the mission through. That’s what makes you right for the job—not because you think like a spy or politician, but because you’ve got the savvy to figure out how to solve the problem no matter what it is. It’s why we won at Bjornstadt, Broken Canyon, Rivergate, Hangman’s Hill, and Steinnbraka Delve. And it’s why we’re going to win here, too.”

  The words, so surprising from a man like the scout, lifted Aravon’s spirits. “Thank you, Noll.” The weight on his shoulders hadn’t lifted completely, yet it felt lighter, the burden less ponderous and stifling. “Any chance you’ve magically come up with a solution to our situation that I can take credit for?”

  Noll gave him an impish smile. “Magic’s not really my thing, but if I get any bursts of inspiration, I’ll let you know.” He stretched out his compact, lean frame on the bed with a sigh. “Until then, I’ll be getting a few moments of sleep. Gotta be in proper drinking shape for another long day at the Shattered Shield tomorrow.”

  Aravon chuckled. “What a trying life you lead, Noll!”

  “Hey, like I said, you let us each play to our own strengths. Just so happens I’ll drink any man under the table. It’s a tough job, but for the sake of the mission, I’m willing to make the sacrifice.” With that, Noll burrowed his head into his stuffed straw pillow and set about the arduous task of falling asleep.

  Aravon chuckled and settled into his own bed. Snarl curled up at his side, the softness and warmth of the Enfield’s body comforting. He wrapped an arm around the little creature and closed his eyes. With each deep breath, the exhaustion of the day’s travels sloughed off, his muscles relaxing one by one until his body felt weightless, drifting along on the currents of fatigue.

  Yet Aravon’s racing thoughts refused to be silent. The decision to keep Lord Eidan in the dark left him conflicted. The man was their superior officer, the only one who could relay their messages to the Prince now that the Duke was gone—that thought brought back the pang in Aravon’s chest. But with the traitor so close to the Prince, Aravon knew he was making the right choice to protect his men.

  Finally, he gave up any hope of sleeping and sat up. Noll’s steady breathing told him the scout was asleep, and Snarl’s furry back rose and fell in time with the Enfield’s quiet snoring. Careful not to disturb either of his companions, Aravon climbed out of bed and padded softly toward his pack. From within, he drew out the Duke’s private pouch.

  He stared down at the leather satchel—half as long and wide as his forearm, heavy with the Duke’s personal items. He’d been avoiding it since the day he found Duke Dyrund lying cold and lifeless in Zaharis’ lap. As if by not opening it and going through its contents, he could somehow delay the inevitable realization that the Duke was truly gone. It was all he had left of the Duke, and he was loath to give it up.

  But the time had come. He had to open it. Had to hurdle this final obstacle that kept him from acceptance.

  Sorrow tightened his chest as he studied the ducal seal of Eastfall: a horse, powerful like the Kostarasar chargers bred by the Duke, in the reared-up rampant position, hind legs strong and forelegs raised as if to strike down an enemy. A symbol of intellect, courage, and readiness to act for the Princelands—accurate in its depiction of the man to whom it belonged.

  Aravon settled back onto his cot and gently opened the pouch’s flap. One by one, he drew out the objects within: a purse heavy with gold, silver, and copper coins; a strip of white cloth for bandages, an ivory-handled eating knife hinged to fold open and shut, a string of what appeared to be glass beads or cheap gemstones, flint and striking steel, a whetstone, a small bottle of oil for sharpening his sword, and the silver medallion earned upon his discharge from the Legion of Heroes. Save for the beads, the contents were as practical and utilitarian as the man himself.

  A lump rose to Aravon’s throat at the sight of the next object: a wooden figurine of the Swordsman, god of heroes. He kept this? After all these years?

  Tears bl
urred Aravon’s vision. He had carved that soldier more than twenty years earlier, using the knife the Duke had given him on his eighth nameday. A crude rendering, the clumsy work of a child, and the years had faded the poorly-carved features. Yet, the smoothness of the statuette told Aravon the Duke had pulled it out and held it often enough to have worn down the wood.

  Aravon made no effort to fight his sorrow. He’d been putting it off for so long, using the mission and the need to survive as an excuse to keep the emotions at bay. But now, with nothing to do but wait, he had the time to feel.

  To feel the pain of loss, the burden of knowing the Duke was gone. The man who had been so important to him, ripped away by a poisoner’s wicked needle. He let the tears flow, let the sorrow and grief wash over him. He sat hunched around that tiny figurine, quiet sobs racking his shoulders. One final, silent moment to mourn the Duke.

  The moment stretched on for long minutes, but slowly, the misery within him faded as the flow of tears stopped. The tightness in his chest diminished until he could draw breath. He could once again open his eyes and no longer find the world a featureless blur.

  He stared down at the wooden figurine in his hand for long moments. Drank in every detail of the smooth-worn surface, studied the rough cuts left by his knife long ago. With effort, he forced his arm to lift, his fingers to unclench from around the statuette as he placed the wooden figurine on the bed beside the other assorted items. He let it go, just as he had to let the Duke go. He still had all the memories of every moment spent with Duke Dyrund. Laughing, drinking, talking, planning their battle strategy, or simply sharing companionable silence.

  Those memories would suffice. He would carry them in honor of the Duke. But the rest—the pain, the denial, the anguish—he had to let those go.

  Wiping the tears from his eyes, he tore his gaze away from the figurine and looked down at the pouch. Nearly empty now, with only two objects remaining. An ivory-handled beard comb, the Duke’s one vain affectation, and the wax seal that Noll had found in Rivergate.

  The mark of the traitor. The insignia of the man that had purchased the costly poison from the Secret Keepers and hired Otton to kill the Duke.

  Aravon had relinquished his sorrow, but his anger remained. It burned like molten steel in his chest, a blaze that grew all the hotter in the void left by the grief and anguish.

  The fingers of his free hand balled into a fist until his knuckles grew white. I will find you, he vowed, his eyes fixed on the wax seal. I will find you and bring you to justice. By the Swordsman, I swear it!

  Yet, a hint of confusion pierced his anger. Something was off. Something was…missing.

  He racked his brain. How can that be? He’d never seen the contents of the Duke’s purse before, yet a nagging in the back of his mind refused to be ignored. For long seconds, he studied the items strewn across the bed, his eyes darting between them as he struggled to understand from whence that niggling doubt stemmed.

  His eyebrows shot up as realization dawned. The Duke’s ring!

  A memory flashed through his mind: Duke Dyrund removing his ducal ring in the forest north of Deepwater and slipping it into his pouch.

  Aravon’s gaze snapped back to the contents of the pouch, and there was no doubt. The signet ring bearing the emblem of the Duke of Eastfall was gone.

  Aravon leapt to his feet and raced across the room toward his pack. Blankets rustled and Snarl whined behind him—he’d awoken Noll and the Enfield, but he was too consumed by his frantic search of his knapsack to care.

  “Captain?”

  Aravon ignored Noll’s question. Instead, he tore Otton’s pouch from within his pack and raced back to his bed, where Snarl had risen to all fours, crouched and ready to pounce or take flight as needed.

  “What’s wrong, Captain?” Noll asked. No trace of sleep or fatigue echoed in his voice, but he was fully alert in an instant, as any good scout or soldier ought to be.

  “The Duke’s signet ring.” Aravon’s words came out curt, clipped. “It’s not in his pouch.”

  “What?”

  “Back when we first met up with the Duke outside Deepwater, he took it off and put it in his pouch.” Even as he spoke, Aravon ripped open Otton’s pouch and dumped its contents onto his bed. “But now it’s not here.”

  He pawed through the items: a few coins of silver and copper, a folding knife, flint and steel, a whetstone, and metal, wood, and bone trinkets. The same objects he’d found when searching the pouch back on the road from Saerheim, upon first learning of Otton’s treachery.

  But no signet ring.

  Damn! He sat back on his heels, mind racing. That had been the only feasible explanation as to where the ring had gone. If Otton had been the one to kill the Duke, he’d likely have taken the signet ring to…

  To what? Whatever the traitor had in mind, it involved the crest of Eastfall.

  But if Otton didn’t have it, where is it? Aravon’s mind raced. No way the Duke would have misplaced the ring. It could have fallen out—given everything that had happened on his flight from Storbjarg, such a thing wasn’t unheard of—but the Duke would have lost his right eye before letting anything happen to his ducal ring of office.

  Again, Aravon snatched up Otton’s pouch and turned it upside down again. Nothing came out. He thrust his hand into the leather satchel and felt around. Empty, save for the seams and—

  Wait! His questing fingers encountered a lump at the lower left corner of the pouch.

  He whirled to Noll. “Knife.”

  Without hesitation, Noll drew one of his four daggers and held it out to Aravon. In an instant, Aravon dragged the knife across the bottom of the pouch, the sharp edge slicing through the leather and seam.

  Something shining and metallic dropped onto Aravon’s bed, where it lay gleaming in the light of the candle.

  Aravon knew what it was even before he scooped it up. The Duke’s signet ring!

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Aravon stared down at Duke Dyrund’s signet ring.

  Otton had taken it—why, Aravon didn’t know, but it gave him a new line of questioning to follow.

  “Why would Otton want the Duke’s ring?” he asked Noll, half to hear the man’s reasoning and half to work out the problem aloud. “To prove that he was dead?”

  “The body would have been proof enough,” Noll said.

  “Unless he was certain the body would be abandoned in the Fjall lands.” Aravon’s mind raced. “So if he needed proof, it meant he needed it to be clear to all in the Princelands that the Duke truly was dead. But why?”

  “Given the method and location of the Duke’s murder, I’d say the traitor wanted no way to trace things back to him.” Noll’s face creased into a pensive frown. “Both the poison and the reason for wanting the Duke out of the way.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. “Which means there is far more to the Duke’s death than just removing a political opponent or a threat to the Eirdkilrs. The question is: what?” His eyes dropped to the ring. “This has to be the answer somehow.”

  His mind raced. “How much do you know about succession among the noble Princelander houses?”

  Noll snorted. “Really, Captain?”

  Aravon inclined his head. “Fair enough.” Noll came from Lochton—one of the smallest cities in Eastfall—a man of simple means. “Duke Dyrund died with no heir. Which means there’s no one to claim the duchy of Eastfall.” He stared down at the ring with its ornate insignia of the powerful horse rampant. “So the decision of appointing a new Duke would fall to Prince Toran.”

  “Right.” Noll spoke the word more in agreement than understanding.

  “Unless…” Aravon drew in a sharp breath as a thought struck him.

  “Unless what, Captain?”

  Aravon’s thoughts spun in a chaotic jumble. “Eighty or ninety years ago, one of the Dukes—I think it was either Lightmoor or Westhaven—died, and it was believed he left no heirs behind. But then someone showed up with the ducal ring o
f office and a letter claiming that he was the illegitimate son the Duke had never been able to acknowledge in life. And it was signed by the Duke himself!”

  “And that was enough?” Noll cocked his head. “A letter and the ring?”

  “In lieu of any proof to the contrary, yes.” Aravon nodded. “So what if that’s what’s happening here? What if the traitor decided to not only eliminate the Duke, but to take over Eastfall at the same time? With the signet ring, they’d have one of the two items needed to make any claim legitimate.”

  Noll’s eyes flew wide. “Keeper’s teeth, that’s colder than an Eirdkilr’s icy heart!”

  Aravon nodded. “But as we’ve seen, the traitor’s willing to go to any lengths to achieve whatever they have planned.”

  “Which, by the looks of things,” Noll said, “seems to be taking over Eastfall.” His expression grew grim. “It’d take a boulder-sized pair of stones to pull something like that off.”

  “Not to mention a lot of resources.” Aravon counted off the items on his fingers. “The signet ring, first of all. Access to the Duke’s documents, too. Plus the money to pay a talented forger to draft up a false letter.” He narrowed his eyes at the little scout. “Any idea where to find a forger?”

  “Not a clue.” Noll shook his head. “But Belthar might have an idea. Seems he knows the darker side of Icespire a lot better than either of us.”

  “Then we’ll ask him next chance we get.” Aravon’s jaw clenched, anger twisting his stomach in knots. “Even if the traitor hasn’t yet gotten the forgery, we’ll know to keep an eye out just in case anyone comes asking.” He held up the Duke’s signet ring. “And with this, we’ve got enough to keep them from taking over Eastfall.”