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

by Andy Peloquin

  But, like doubtless everyone else who entered the chamber, Aravon’s eyes were drawn toward the smooth crystal wall facing the glowing Icespire. The soft blue light filled the chamber with a soothing brilliance, subtly enhanced by the light of a half-dozen well-placed lanterns and the candle-laden chandelier that dangled from the ceiling two stories above. Unlike the main entrance, the grand ballroom only rose to the second floor—Aravon guessed Lord Virinus had insisted in placing his private offices and bedroom on the third floor, claiming the best view of the Icespire for his own.

  Music rang out loud in the ballroom, the trilling of flutes and pipes mingling with the low thrumming of a pair of violas. Two violins and a lute fought for dominance of the fast-moving tune, while a harp lent its high tinkling to the melody, wrapping all the instruments together in a feast for the ears.

  The low hum of conversation was occasionally broken by a drunken shout, a burst of laughter, or the loud greeting from one besotted noble lord or lady to another. Women clad in high-necked black evening gowns floated through the crowd like funeral flowers carried along on a river’s current. The clacking of high-heeled boots echoed in a cacophony as noblemen swirled around the ballroom, swept in dancing, drinking, and commingling with their fellows.

  Aravon slipped through the crowded celebration like a Frozen Sea white shark cutting through a school of minnows. Never stopping, never meeting the eyes of the guests, a silent wall of steel that ignored everyone and everything around him. Those few noblemen who bothered to notice him simply moved aside as he and Colborn strode into the ballroom.

  As he’d hoped and expected, Lord Aleron Virinus occupied the place of honor on a plush armchair set directly in the center of the northeastern wall, the shimmering Icespire towering behind him. He sat amidst a group of the older, more affluent noblemen of Icespire. Men who, like he, had earned their fortunes through commerce, trade with the mainland, or the wealth of their lands.

  Lord Aleron Virinus had long ago gone grey in his hair and beard, age drooping the skin around his eyes, cheeks, and mouth until he appeared like one of Duke Leddan’s fighting bulldogs. He had the slim build and narrow, angular features expected from a man of commerce, yet his high brows and sharp chin and nose gave off an air of cunning and intelligence. His upper lip seemed eternally curled up in a half-sneer, half-sly smile.

  Anger burned bright in Aravon’s stomach. Here the nobleman sat, drinking and celebrating, while Duke Dyrund lay dead, buried in Icespire Memorial Gardens. Tonight, Aravon would find out if Lord Virinus had played a role in that death, one way or another.

  He’d just taken his first step forward when Lord Virinus stood and, leaving his group of seated cronies, strode toward the wooden stage upon which sat the musicians. At his gesture, the ensemble quieted their instruments. All eyes in the room turned toward the stage as Lord Virinus tapped a silver spoon against his fluted glass.

  “My friends, honored guests, and esteemed peers of Icespire.” Lord Virinus bestowed a grandiose smile upon his audience. “Thank you all for joining me as we honor the memory of our fallen heroes. General Traighan, hero of Steel Gorge, one of Icespire’s greatest sons, and Sammael Dyrund, Duke of Eastfall, and a man I was proud to call my equal.”

  Aravon bared his teeth in a snarl behind his steel mask. Your equal? The one time Duke Dyrund had spoken of Lord Virinus, his voice had echoed with derision.

  “Tonight, we honor their lives.” Lord Virinus’ face grew solemn. “Great lives, filled with great deeds done in the name of the Princelands. We all know their accomplishments, so numerous that we would be here all night if we recited them now.”

  Scattered laughter echoed among the crowd.

  “So we will not fill their celebration with memories of their pasts. Instead, I have called you here to bid them one final farewell, from one noble family to another.” Lord Virinus raised his glass, setting the blood-red wine within sloshing. “To Duke Dyrund and General Traighan. May they rest in the arms of the Long Keeper and know peace forever more!”

  Hundreds of wine goblets, brandy decanters, and crystal ale steins rose high in the air. “Rest and peace!” the noblemen and women answered.

  Lord Virinus took a sip, then lowered his glass. “Let us honor their memory by looking forward, to the future they made possible. A future filled with hope, the promise of growth, and prosperity for all of us.” He leaned forward. “A future where I, Lord Virinus, can serve on the Prince’s Council to further the interests of Icespire and its people. With your support, I will take up their mantle and usher the Princelands into the brighter tomorrow they envisioned.”

  Anger coiled like a serpent in Aravon’s gut. How dare he? The Keeper-damned bastard turns my father and the Duke’s deaths into a political campaign! The memorial for Duke Dyrund and General Traighan was nothing more than a front, a façade to conceal Lord Virinus’ true motives. Aravon’s fists clenched, setting his steel gauntlets creaking.

  “Tonight,” Lord Virinus continued, “we are honored to have the daughter-in-law of our very own General Traighan among us. Her courage in these difficult times is a testament to his legacy, and…”

  Lord Virinus’ words faded to silence and the world around Aravon disappeared as he caught sight of Mylena. She stood near the stage, clad in a high-necked black funeral gown that somehow made her slim form even more beautiful. She’d pulled her chestnut hair into three tight, oiled braids that framed her heart-shaped face, and thick lines of kohl rounded her eyes in an effort to conceal the puffiness that set in after weeping. Yet all traces of sadness had faded, replaced by a stiff, inscrutable façade—a façade broken by the bright flash of fury as she stared at Lord Virinus. Outrage at discovering that her presence here had been used to further the nobleman’s political machinations.

  The air in Aravon’s lungs froze, and he could no more draw breath than he could move. Every muscle in his body had gone inert at the sight of his wife. She always was at her most beautiful when angry.

  His heart hammered a staccato beat, so forceful it threatened to burst free of his chest. Every fiber of his being wanted to go to her, to pull her into his arms, to offer what comfort he could. She had been there throughout his father’s death, had been there in his final moments. She’d endured his rages and the misery of his mental degeneration. She had borne the burden of caring for him alone while Aravon fought a battle hundreds of miles away. Had raised their two sons and kept a household, all the time believing he was dead.

  Dead. The word settled a colossal weight atop Aravon’s shoulders. She thinks I’m dead.

  He couldn’t go to her. He couldn’t sweep up her strong hand in his, wrap his arms around her strong shoulders—shoulders that had never once stooped beneath the weight of her duty as wife, daughter-in-law, and mother. He couldn’t look into her eyes—those beautiful eyes the hue of crisp olives—and offer even the slightest comfort in her tragedy. General Traighan hadn’t deserved her, yet Mylena had loved him as only a daughter could. Had sworn to care for him through his ailment, had done everything in her power to alleviate his despair and bring life to his household.

  Now that life had been snuffed out. Mylena was alone with Rolyn and Adilon, two young sons with no father to raise them, no grandfather to dote on them. The Duke had promised to see that all their needs were met, yet he, too, lay dead and buried. Who would look out for them now? Who would stand by her, offer her support and reassurance?

  “Sir.” Colborn’s quiet voice in his ear seemed to come from a thousand miles away. “Stay on mission.”

  More than anything, Aravon wanted to ignore those words. Wanted to ignore everything and everyone around him, to put aside the mission and simply go to his wife. It would be so easy—she stood a mere ten steps away, with nothing but overfed, pampered noblemen standing in his way. He could go to her, lead her outside, take her away from this garish mockery of a memorial service. He could take her home, to their home, their sons. They could be a family once more.

 
And yet, his feet refused to move toward her. Tears burned in his eyes and a lump rose in his throat, but, with supreme effort of will, he tore his gaze away from Mylena’s beautiful face. The simple act of looking away ripped a hole in his heart, left him exhausted, hollow. Yet he forced himself not to look back—if he did, he knew he’d go to her.

  That simple act left him exhausted, brought back a hint of the numbness he’d felt after standing in Sanctuary Court earlier that day. He watched Lord Virinus as if from a mile away, tracked the man’s movements from the stage through eyes that saw yet did not comprehend. His gaze never left Lord Virinus as the aging nobleman pushed through the throng of well-heeled men and women crowding around him. He pressed hands, offered his lordly smile, and laughed at the jokes of those flocking toward him.

  His feet remained frozen in place, yet his eyes followed Lord Virinus’ progression through the crowd. Back to the plush armchair, where he rejoined the greying noblemen. Now his sons, too, had taken seats at their father’s side. The eldest, Gravis, had his father’s sharp, cunning features, though his sandy brown hair hadn’t yet shown the first sprinklings of grey. The three younger sons—Aravon didn’t know their names, but none of them had reached their twentieth year—leaned on Lord Virinus’ armchair or stood behind him, shuffling from foot to foot in visible boredom while trying to sustain their forced looks of eager interest.

  Once again, the blazing fire of anger pushed back the numbness filling Aravon. This time, the anger was directed at Lord Myron Virinus, who sat in a straight-backed wooden chair beside his father. Aravon’s fists clenched at the sight of the young nobleman. After what he’d done to Captain Lingram, how dare he sit there laughing, drinking, and basking in the glow of his peers’ admiration of the Virinus fortune? There would be a reckoning—for the traitorous father and the craven son both.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Aravon ground his teeth in frustration as Lord Virinus settled back into his armchair and summoned another drink. No way he’s going anywhere anytime soon. He’d hoped that the nobleman might break off from the party for a moment, but the old man was too busy bathing in the adoration of his sycophants to leave.

  “Ursus, southeast corner.” Colborn’s low voice hummed beside him.

  Aravon shot a glance in the direction indicated. Belthar’s hulking frame stood planted beside the door to the grand ballroom. “Lots of empty, dark rooms back on the third floor,” the big man signed.

  Aravon nodded. “Just need to get him away from the crowd.”

  Belthar signaled “understood”.

  Aravon turned to Colborn. “The others?”

  “Watching for your signal.” Colborn’s masked face never moved, but his eyes darted to Aravon’s right.

  Aravon turned his head slowly and found Zaharis and Rangvaldr standing beside the southwestern wall. The Seiomenn was struggling to tear his eyes from the lavishness of the grand chamber, but Zaharis’ gaze never left Aravon.

  “I’ll get him away,” Aravon signed. “Close in once we’re out of the room.”

  Zaharis signaled acknowledgement and, touching Rangvaldr’s arm to get his attention, repeated the order. With a nod, the two men slowly began moving through the crowded ballroom toward him.

  Aravon strode toward the crowd surrounding Lord Virinus and pushed through the well-wishers. An idea sprang to his mind—only one thing would be of sufficient interest to pull the nobleman away from his revelry.

  He shoved through the crowd surrounding the circle of armchairs and planted himself before Lord Virinus. The nobleman’s smile cracked and his face clouded as he caught sight of Aravon’s Steel Company garb. He opened his mouth, but Aravon spoke first.

  “I bear a message.” He bent low over the old nobleman and pitched his voice low for Lord Virinus’ ears only. “From Lord Morshan. A matter of urgency.”

  Lord Virinus’ face froze midway between smile and frown, the muscles around his mouth and eyes going rigid. He recovered in a heartbeat, and the smug, pompous grin once more spread on his lips. “Ahh, my honored representatives of Commandant Simont.” Standing, he gripped Aravon’s hand as if shaking it, and pulled him close. “Not here, not now.”

  The nobleman made to break away, but Aravon held him fast, catching him by the elbow and squeezing his hand in a crushing grip. “Unless you are willing to risk discovery, you will make time, now.”

  When he pulled back, the nobleman’s expression had never changed, yet the smile had left his eyes, replaced by an icy edge.

  “We are honored by your invitation, Lord Virinus.” Aravon spoke in his growling Captain Snarl voice. “Commandant Simont sends his regards and congratulations.”

  Lord Virinus, ever the consummate politician, gave Aravon an oily smile. “I am glad you have come.” He turned to the guests and his sons seated around him. “If you will excuse me, I must discuss matters of great importance to all Princelanders.”

  He didn’t wait for the reassurances of his peers, but instead stalked off through the crowd. Aravon fell in at his right side, Colborn on his left.

  “This had better be truly important,” Lord Virinus hissed as he stomped across the ballroom.

  “Trust me, my lord, when you hear what I have to say, you will know how important it truly is.” It took all of Aravon’s self-control not to punch the man in the face, knock him unconscious, and haul him away.

  “Then hold your tongue until we are away from prying ears.” Irritation echoed in the nobleman’s voice.

  Lord Virinus paid no attention to the bowing, scraping men and women he passed, simply strode through the crowd with a determined step, forcing people to give way. Once out of the grand ballroom, he marched toward the stairs.

  Rangvaldr and Zaharis materialized from the crowd, falling into place behind Lord Virinus without a word. A moment later, Belthar, Skathi, and Noll joined them. Their movements were so smooth and subtle the old Lord Virinus failed to notice his two-man escort had grown to a full entourage of seven.

  Up the grand staircase they marched, the thump of their heavy boots muffled by the plush Al Hani carpets covering the marble. Tapestries, oil paintings in gilded frames, and statuettes of onyx, ivory, and silver decorated the corridors that led off from the stairs deeper into the expansive second floor, but Lord Virinus led them up to the third floor. From there, he strode down a broad, marble-and-gold-tiled hallway toward a door made of deep crimson wood—bloodwood, even that small amount worth a fortune to rival the crystal of the mansion’s glass-paned wall.

  “In here.” Lord Virinus inserted a steel key into the lock. “My office has all the privacy and security we need to discuss such matters.”

  The nobleman’s office was as generously furnished as Aravon had expected—everything from the heavy blackwood desk and plush armchair to the vivid-hued Al Hani woven rug to the wooden bookshelves laden with scrolls, leather-bound tomes, and gem-encrusted statuettes of gold and platinum displayed the nobleman’s wealth. The soft blue glow of the Icespire spilled through the transparent panes of crystal covering the entire northeastern wall of the chamber. Though they were only three floors off the ground, the views of the Icespire, the Prince’s Palace and the surrounding gardens, and the Frozen Sea beyond were breathtaking.

  “Lock the door behind you.” Lord Virinus spoke without glancing back, clearly accustomed to having his orders obeyed. This once, Aravon didn’t mind; he welcomed the privacy and a chance to speak to the nobleman uninterrupted. At his signal, Noll shot the deadbolt home and clicked the lock shut.

  Lord Virinus strode toward his massive desk—made of Ghandian blackwood, only marginally less valuable than bloodwood—and picked up the crystal decanter that stood upon a silver tray.

  “So, Sellsword.” The nobleman’s voice dripped contempt as he poured a splash of the honey-colored liquor into his snifter and turned to face Aravon. He seemed startled to find himself facing seven armed mercenaries, yet his self-assurance never cracked. “What is so important that you disturb
my party?”

  “Steinnbraka Delve,” Aravon growled.

  “What of it?” Lord Virinus snapped. He took a sip of his drink. “Unless you’ve come to tell me the gold has run out, I see no reason for—”

  “Uncle?” A new voice, timid and hesitant, echoed from the far side of the spacious office.

  Aravon whirled to his left, hand dropping to the hilt of his longsword. One of the bookshelves had been pushed aside, revealing a secret entrance to what he guessed was a hidden room. The man who stood just beyond the opening was at once paunchy and frail, his shoulders as weak as his jawline. His pale face went even paler at the sight of the armed men standing beside Lord Virinus. “I-I heard voices, and I thought—”

  “You fool!” Lord Virinus slammed his drink down on the table, setting the light brown liquor sloshing over the crystal lip, and hurried toward the middle-aged man. “There are Warrior Priests downstairs searching for you even now!”

  The man’s eyes darted between the Grim Reavers and Lord Virinus. “But—”

  “Still your tongue, Bannitus!” Lord Virinus roared. He gripped the man’s plump arm and shoved him back toward the secret entrance. “The fact that you are my sister’s son is the only reason I have not turned you over to Derelana’s priests. Only a true idiot would insist on attending the grandest public event in Icespire when he is being hunted!”