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

by Andy Peloquin

  “That oughta knock the chocks out from under their plans.” Noll shot him a wicked grin. “See, Captain? I told you you were the man for the job!”

  Aravon acknowledged the compliment with a nod, but his mind was already working on the next steps. There were two sources he could go to for rumors about the goings-on in the city: the high courts of Icespire, where lords and ladies gossiped behind polite smiles and courtly pleasantries; and, of course, taverns. The choice was crystal clear—few could gossip like soldiers and mercenaries.

  “First thing in the morning,” he told Noll, “we’re headed back to the Shattered Shield.”

  “Starting the day with a drink, Captain?” Noll grinned. “No complaints from me.”

  “A drink, breakfast, and anything we can find out about who’s angling to take over Eastfall.” Determination hardened like steel in Aravon’s gut. “If there’s even so much as a whisper on the air, someone will know about it.”

  * * *

  Aravon drew in a breath as he pushed through the doors of the Shattered Shield. It would be a long day of drinking and chatting with surly mercenaries and Legionnaires less than pleased to associate with a sellsword. But he wouldn’t leave until he found the answers he sought.

  To his surprise, the tavern was near-empty. A few mercenaries sat around their half of the taproom, nursing tankards of steaming ale or wolfing down a breakfast of sausages, potatoes, and boiled cabbage. The Legionnaires’ half of the tavern, however, was utterly deserted.

  That struck Aravon as odd. With Onyx Battalion off to the south, the only Legionnaires in Icespire were those recovering from injuries, awaiting transport across the Frozen Sea, or returning home after earning their discharge. Any without families waiting for them in the city would doubtless congregate here. There should be at least a handful drinking away their Legionnaire’s salary.

  So where are they?

  Aravon glanced toward the mercenaries’ side of the taproom and spotted a familiar bald-headed figure slumped over the bar. Emard hadn’t moved from his stool since Aravon left six hours earlier, and the Eventide man appeared far worse for the night spent drinking. Judging by his bleary eyes and the way he poked halfheartedly at his meal, the Princelander ale hadn’t been kind to the Voramian.

  “Morning, Emard,” Aravon said as he slid onto the stool beside the man.

  The mercenary responded with a half-grunt, half-groan—courtesy of what appeared to be a fierce hangover.

  “Where is everyone?” Aravon asked.

  “Azure Island,” Emard muttered.

  Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

  Emard’s head fell back to the table, his face an inch from the boiled cabbage spilling over the lip of his plate. Loud snoring echoed from beneath his heavy beard.

  Aravon turned to the tavernkeeper. “Why are all the Legionnaires on Azure Island?”

  The lean-eyed man looked up from his polishing a filthy pewter mug and shot him a glance of withering scorn. “Just come into town yesterday, did you?”

  Aravon nodded. “Actually, yes.”

  “Oh, right.” The barkeep had the good grace to appear chastened. “Figures, I s’pose. They been announcing it for days now.”

  “Announcing what?” Aravon pressed. The frustration mounted within him; how hard was it to give a straight answer?

  The barkeep turned to him with a grimace. “The grand funeral for Duke Dyrund and General Traighan.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Aravon felt as if someone had driven a dagger of ice into his heart. Every inch of his body had gone numb, and his mind seemed unable to form the simplest thought. Try as he might, he couldn’t draw breath. An iron fist squeezed his chest, clutching his ribs so tight they threatened to crush his lungs.

  He had only a vague recollection of leaving the Shattered Shield. Stumbling through the streets toward the Eastbridge. Pushing into the throng flowing toward Sanctuary Court. Shoving his way through the mass of people toward the front of the crowd, only to be stopped by a solid wall of Legionnaire shields.

  Now he stood, silent as a statue amid a crowd of mourners gathered in Sanctuary Court. The glittering, glassy surface of the Icespire seemed to have gone dark—dark as the deep grey granite obelisk to the Swordsman that rose opposite it on the southern end of the broad plaza. Even the noblemen and women in the throng had abandoned the bright, oft-garish hues they typically wore in favor of black. Those in the crowd too poor to afford clothing in mourning colors draped dark cloths over their heads or stained their faces and hands with soot.

  At the northern edge of the white-paved square, Prince Toran stood in rich robes the color of obsidian. Gone was his crown of office, and his fingers bore no rings, his throat bare of his royal collar. He stood with his head bared, his face twisted in grief. Even the Ebonguard, the Prince’s personal wardens, had donned black armor and helmets for the occasion.

  Two rows of solemn, ebony-clad figures stood alone in the plaza. The foremost, wearing the heavy armor of Legionnaires, served the Swordsman as Adepts, instructors in their divinely inspired art of war and battle. Behind them, a half-dozen men clad in the tight robes of Menders, the priests who served as the healers and physickers to the Legion. All servants of the Swordsman, here to pay homage to two men who had dedicated lives to their service.

  A solid wall of Icewatchers encircled the open plaza, yet fully fifty Legionnaires stood stiff-backed and at attention on the southern end of the square, within the shadow of the Swordsman’s obelisk. Black bands clung to their arms, and to the arms of a myriad of men and women within the crowd. The Legion symbol of mourning, an honor for their fallen brothers.

  Aravon couldn’t tear his eyes from the two bodies laid side by side on the twin stone biers erected in the heart of Sanctuary Court.

  Duke Dyrund’s face still bore the same serene look as the day he’d died. Zaharis’ alchemical treatment had kept the rot at bay and preserved his flesh enough that he could be laid out in state. Clad in the dark grey robes of Eastfall, his salt-and-pepper hair and beard oiled, combed, and smoothed to perfection. Strong hands clasped around the hilt of the Legion-issue sword placed atop his chest. A fitting farewell to the man who had served Legion, Prince, and duchy with honor.

  But it was the sight of the figure next to Duke Dyrund that twisted the knife in Aravon’s heart. General Traighan, once a proud Legionnaire, a towering figure of strength and imperious command, appeared as little more than a shriveled, wrinkled husk of a man. His hair had gone pure white, his beard thinned to nothing but wisps clinging to pale, sunken cheeks. What had once been a strong jawline now appeared skeletal, and no amount of coroner’s rouge could restore the vitality to the man that had withered away long before his death.

  The fingers clutching the ornate hilt of his General’s sword were so thin, so frail. The Legion armor and crimson cloak clung to shoulders far too bony and gaunt to support the weight. Those arms, little more than green sticks covered with waxen flesh, could never bear the burden of the Legion shield upon which his body rested.

  When did that happen? The question echoed in Aravon’s mind. Did I miss so much?

  His last memory of the General portrayed the image of health, a man nearly as tall as Aravon yet colossal in force of will and character. A shouting, swearing, tempest of a leader that ruled his home with the same dominance that drove his Legionnaires to battle. Anger brewing in those dark eyes as the General read the order that relieved him of command. A storm of fury, shattered furniture and crockery, and a swinging sword wreaking havoc through his mansion.

  On that day, Aravon had been glad Mylena was far from home—resting in the General’s Eastfallian cottage following a difficult childbirth. General Traighan had been a whirlwind of destruction that nothing, not Aravon’s entreaties nor the arrival of Duke Dyrund himself, could stop. That was the night Aravon had ridden away from his childhood home—the home of his father, the man who lived haunted by the ghost of his mother—for the last time.


  The man Aravon had left that day was a giant in name, deed, and stature. The same figure that had loomed large in Aravon’s eyes since his first memory. A stern, solemn man prone to towering rages and fierce outbursts of passion. Who spoke every word as if it were an order that must be obeyed without hesitation. The General who had beaten Aravon in a blind, drunk rage, then insisted the next day that the weeping, bloodied boy learn to defend himself.

  When did that…thing take his place?

  The body resting atop the Legion shield was alien to him. An imposter, who had consumed his father from within until only the skeletal shell remained. Only the shrunken specter of the Princelands’ beloved son and revered General. Not the strong, dominating, authoritative force of nature, but a stooped, shriveled creature broken in mind as well as body. It didn’t matter that the corpse laid out bore the same features as him—his sharp jaw, his high-arched nose, his deep-set, brooding eyes. There was nothing but a stranger lying there.

  But in a way, General Traighan had always been a stranger. A stranger who shared Aravon’s home, who commanded him, saw to his discipline, and ordered him to eat, sleep, train, and study. Who wept when he thought no one was looking, yet stood dry-eyed as Aravon’s mother was lowered into the ground. The man who sank deeper into a bottle with every passing day, and lost himself within the torments of rage, forced retirement, and the fraying depths of his crumbling mind.

  Aravon knew that man too well, the man he called Father. Yet the word “Father” seemed somehow…wrong. The man who lay on that Legion shield was General Traighan, to the world and his family both.

  Throughout his life, Aravon had heard every tale of the general’s exploits. Of the Battle of Stormcrow Pass, when two Legionnaires—young Private Sammael Dyrund and Corporal Traighan—had braved a treacherous mountain pass to launch a rear attack that broke the Eirdkilr lines. Of the Bloody Winter, when only Captain Traighan’s Third Company stood between the Eirdkilrs and the starving Jarnleikr town of Hraunstadr. Of countless battles fought and won over a military career spanning more than four decades. He knew the life of General Traighan, Commander of the Legion, hero of the Princelands, as well as he knew the familiar hilt of his spear or the feel of his favorite boots.

  But the man, Traighan, no General, no soldier, no looming figure of glory….well, he’d never known that man at all. If there was anything to know, that was.

  Who had he been before the Legion? What had he dreamed of doing, of becoming? What had he wanted, hoped for, aspired to? What drove his passions and melted his heart?

  Aravon knew the General had loved his mother, but why? How had they fallen in love? What had they found in each other? What special spark had driven his father to ask for his mother’s hand in marriage? When they learned they were to be parents, had they been overjoyed, afraid, or burdened? Why had they chosen the name “Aravon”?

  Those, and a thousand questions more, would never have an answer. They had died with the General. With the man that Aravon should have known, yet now would never know at all. The man that should have been the most important person in Aravon’s life, who had left an indelible mark on his soul and spirit that Aravon could never erase.

  That man now lay dead. Silent, his eyes sealed forever by the black wax of the Swordsman’s kiss, the pallor and lassitude of death like a cold blanket. Flesh, bone, and withered muscle, his soul gone to the Long Keeper’s arms days past. And with his spirit, every trace of the man Aravon might have come to know. Might have come to love as only a son could love his father. Free of the mantle of command and title, surrounded by a family that loved him far more than he deserved. If Aravon had been here, had been with him during his final hours, there might have been a chance, however faint, that he’d have caught a glimpse of the man that he should have loved as a father.

  But I wasn’t. The fist of iron squeezed tighter around Aravon’s heart until his knees threatened to buckle. I wasn’t here. And I never wanted to be.

  Acid churned in his throat at the thought, and he had to swallow to keep it down. He had fled home years ago. Followed his father’s footsteps into the Legion to escape the man himself. Even after Mylena and his sons, Aravon had continued fleeing. For Prince and country, he’d said, a lie that allowed him to believe he was doing the right thing. To protect my family, and to fight for the helpless. He’d believed all those things, yet beneath it all, he had simply been fleeing. Fleeing his father, the shadow the General had cast over his life. A deep, inescapable darkness—the pain of loss brought on by his mother’s death, and the burden that came from being the son of the great hero.

  He’d returned home to his wife and young sons, yet never to his father. When Mylena had insisted on moving into the General’s mansion, to care for him, his visits home had grown even more infrequent. Always with the excuse that his Legion duties demanded his attention elsewhere. Always precisely that: an excuse, a comforting lie.

  Home was a place he’d dreaded. Not the snatches of happiness he’d found with Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon. Not the simple comforts of the small Bayrise Hill house his Legion pay could afford. Those things hadn’t been a part of his life long enough for them to truly become his home.

  No, for him, home was the General’s mansion. A place of cold, deep shadows, darkened rooms, and the whispering of the wind through gauzy curtains. A realm of sorrow and death, of misery, heartache, and turmoil. A kingdom with a ruler that sat brooding over a bottle or growling terse commands.

  Aravon had fled, as far and fast as he could, to escape that miserable domain. He’d always believed that he would one day return home. A confident Legionnaire, Commander or General, a hero in his own right. A man who could stand straight in the face of General Traighan’s glowering disapproval.

  Yet that “one day” had never drawn closer. Each new assignment, each mission or posting, simply led him farther away. The Legion had become his home, his family, his friends. His love for Mylena had grown over the years and distance, yet the thought of returning to Icespire, to his wife and sons, always lay overshadowed by the knowledge that doing so would bring him back to General Traighan once more.

  He’d come home now. The Mistress’ hand of fortune had delivered him back to the city of his father.

  Too late.

  The man he’d never truly known, yet who he had silently admired and aspired to emulate, to outshine, that man now lay dead. He could never stand tall and look his father in the eye. Could never ask, “Am I still such a disappointment, Father?” knowing that the General would have no choice but to answer “You have made me proud, my son.”

  He’d come home too late for that.

  The sight of his father’s body drove that icy dagger, the pain of sorrow and loss, deeper into his gut. But the truth, a truth he scarcely dared admit to himself, was that he felt the General’s passing far less deeply than a son ought to. The tears that threatened in his eyes now came not for the father he had lost, but for the father he’d never had.

  The man who should have been the most important person in the world to him was a stranger. A man he’d never truly known. His death left a gaping hole in Aravon’s heart, yet that hole had been there in life already. This figure of such monumental importance, the only family he’d known since his mother’s death, mattered far less to him than the Duke who lay at his side.

  When Aravon’s gaze strayed to the Duke, he felt that lump rising in his throat, the clutching in his chest. Duke Dyrund had cared for him, had made certain Aravon knew the truth of his feelings. Had inspired confidence, spoken words of encouragement, and been a source of reassurance and comfort in Aravon’s darkest hours.

  And reminded Aravon that he wasn’t only a soldier. He was a man, living, breathing, and thinking. Suffering and feeling the suffering of others. His father, the one who should have been responsible for shaping him as that man, had left only a black mark, a stain on Aravon’s heart.

  General Traighan’s death had ripped out that part of Aravon’s heart, leavi
ng only a hole. A vacancy, a void of deepest black when there should have been joyous memories. Sadness, not at the thought of losing one well-loved, but a sorrow tinged with regret because there had never truly been love between them.

  No, that wasn’t fully true. Aravon had loved his father, yet it had been a love in his mind, the love of a dutiful son to his father. Not because he truly cared or felt a strong bond in his heart, but because he knew that all sons ought to love their fathers. And his father had loved him, too, hadn’t he? Aravon would never know. Would never have the opportunity to ask or to hear the words.

  Death had taken away his last chance at having a father.

  The weight settled onto his shoulders, so heavy he felt he would collapse beneath the weight. He found himself falling and would have collapsed, if not for strong hands on his right arm. He looked to his right, found himself staring into a strange yet familiar face. A face with heavy, blunt Fehlan features but a close-cropped beard the wrong color to match those ice-blue eyes. He was too numb to wonder when Colborn had come—he could only stand, leaning on the man, bolstered by the Lieutenant’s presence.

  Tears flowed then. The pressure in Aravon’s chest burst, the dam shattered, and the emotions washed over him. He wept—for the Duke he had loved and lost, and for the father he never truly had in the first place. Too many deaths all at once. He wasn’t prepared—he could never be prepared to deal with the reality that now stared him in the face.

  A bell rang—the Lady’s Bell, ringing out from atop the Sanctuary, tolling not the hour of the morning, but a resounding farewell to the two men lying silent on the funeral biers in the heart of Sanctuary Court.

  One of the Swordsman Adepts stepped forward now. His deep voice boomed across the square, raised in the mournful tune of the “Brave Soldier’s March”, a funeral song for fallen Legionnaires.

  He was called to march, brave soldier

  To don mail, to take up sword and shield