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

by Andy Peloquin

  “I didn’t know!” Bannitus whined. “They shouldn’t have been able to follow me across—”

  A deafening crash of shattering crystal drowned out the man’s wailing. Transparent shards rained down on the far end of the office as the glassy ceiling exploded inward, and a shadow of dark grey dropped into the room. Boots crunched on crystal as the hooded, cloaked figure landed lightly. His feet had barely touched the plush rug, and already he was on the move. Steel glimmered bright in the glow of the Icespire and, with a vicious snarl, the assassin rushed Lord Virinus.

  Chapter Sixty

  Aravon had only the space between heartbeats to react. He had no desire to risk his life protecting Lord Virinus, but he couldn’t let the assassin take down the nobleman. Not until after he’d answered a few questions.

  That instant was all the time it took for Aravon to make up his mind. He hurled himself into the assassin, arms outstretched to tackle the hooded, cloaked figure. His hands closed around the man’s belt and his charge, backed by the weight of his heavy Steel Company armor, brought the assassin to the ground.

  Yet, impossibly, even as he fell, the assassin twisted into a roll that flipped Aravon over onto his back. Pain exploded in the side of Aravon’s face and the air burst from his lungs as he slammed into the carpeted floor with jarring force. The hooded killer leapt to his feet, his belt tearing free of Aravon’s grip, and hurled himself at the two noblemen once more.

  Steel clashed against steel as Colborn’s sword met the assassin’s. Even as Aravon scrambled upright and sucked in a breath, the Lieutenant staggered backward beneath a furious onslaught, the longsword and forearm-length dagger in the assassin’s hands whirling at terrifying speeds. The cloaked figure seemed to be in two places at once, his blade a glimmering blur that struck at Colborn almost too fast for the Lieutenant to follow. Only years of battle experience and Legion training kept that striking sword from finding flesh.

  But for how long? In the instant it took Aravon to regain his footing, the assassin had struck a half-dozen blows. Colborn couldn’t hope to survive that storm of fury for more than a few seconds.

  Aravon ripped his sword free and launched a strike at the assassin’s back, but the swinging blade met empty air. The assassin flowed like liquid shadow, one moment solid flesh and muscle, the next only a swirling dark grey cloak. Aravon and Colborn’s simultaneous strikes whistled harmlessly above and beside the assassin as the man danced between their longswords and leapt toward Lord Virinus and Bannitus.

  Only to crash face-first into Belthar’s fist. The big man was fast, and he’d gotten around behind Colborn in the seconds the assassin had tangled with Aravon. The force of his blow staggered the hooded killer back a half-step. Off-balance, he stepped right into Aravon’s slashing chop.

  Sharpened metal tore a massive chunk of flesh out of the side of the assassin’s neck. Blood sprayed from the torn artery, and the two noblemen shrieked as warm crimson spattered their pale faces, upraised hands, and ornate robes. Colborn’s thrust took the assassin in the chest, sliding between his ribs and pulling out so smoothly it barely registered. The hooded man stumbled backward and crashed against the wall, sagging on legs going weak.

  Aravon swiveled to face the dying assassin, Colborn on his right, Belthar at his back, and the rest of his companions spreading out to form a solid wall behind him. It didn’t matter that his and Colborn’s strikes had inflicted mortal wounds—they’d be ready if more assassins came through the window.

  The assassin’s hood had fallen back, revealing a dark face crisscrossed by scars, a hooded brow atop a thick nose broken and re-set far too many times to ever be straight again, and an upper lip twisted into a perpetual sneer. Midnight black hair cascaded in long, lank strands around his face—strands now soaked with the blood that gushed from the gouge in his neck.

  Yet, to Aravon’s horror, the man didn’t fall. The flow of blood spurting from the assassin’s neck slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. Aravon’s eyes flew wide as the assassin straightened, still pressing a hand to his chest, yet the pain slowly faded from his face.

  “Damn.” His voice was a deep, harsh growl, like the snarl of an enraged grizzly bear or greatwolf. “That bloody hurt.”

  The assassin’s eyes fixed on Aravon, and a shiver ran down his spine. Something about those eyes was so terribly…empty. Like the utter gloom of the un-lit mines of Steinnbraka Delve, or the pitch-blackness of a moonless night with clouds blotting out the stars. They glittered with an icy coldness somehow made all the chillier in the blue glow of the Icespire streaming through the shattered window.

  “So the craven bastard hired the Steel Company to protect him, eh?” The assassin pushed himself off the wall and stood straight. “All that coin spent and still it won’t do him any good.” He raised his longsword, pointing it at Lord Virinus. “There is no escape for you.”

  “Wait—” protested Bannitus.

  The hard, dark face turned to Aravon. “I offer you one chance to spare your life and get out of my way.” Razor-sharp steel edged his voice, harsh and cold. “I have no enmity with you, but I will offer no mercy, either.”

  Aravon gripped his sword tighter. “To get to him,” he growled in his Captain Snarl voice, a voice that seemed suddenly hollow in the face of the assassin’s deep-throated snarl, “you’ll have to go through us.”

  “So be it.” The assassin shrugged and tossed up his long dagger, catching it in a reverse grip. “It’s your funeral.”

  The crystal clear gemstone set into the pommel drew Aravon’s eyes—where have I seen its like before?—but he pushed the thought aside, instead focusing on the assassin. He made no move to attack; he and his companions held the advantage. Seven of them against one man—odds he’d take any day. The assassin would have to fight past them to get at the noblemen cowering and frozen in place a few steps from the safety of the hidden room.

  A small smile tugged on the assassin’s lips, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. As if to say, “You’re going to make this fun, aren’t you?”

  There was no warning, no intake of breath or tensing of the assassin’s muscles. One moment he was standing still, eyes locked with Aravon’s; the next, his sword was swinging toward Aravon’s neck, his attack almost too fast to follow. Aravon had only a heartbeat to raise his blade to protect himself. The assassin’s sword crashed against his, striking sparks as it glissaded down the razor-sharp edge, the tip sliding toward his eye.

  Desperate, Aravon twisted his sword and flicked his opponent’s blade away. The dagger in the assassin’s left hand thrust low for his stomach, and he scrambled to drop his sword to turn aside the lightning-fast attack. Without a shield or his spear, the weight and balance of his sword unfamiliar, he had no chance to recover in time to deflect the right-handed chop aimed at his head.

  But he didn’t fight alone.

  Colborn’s sword stopped the assassin’s blade a hand’s breadth from Aravon’s head. The Lieutenant shoved hard, hard enough to throw the assassin backward a half-step. Yet as he went to follow up, the assassin dropped beneath the slashing attack and spun, sweeping his heel around to slam into the back of Colborn’s knees. The Lieutenant’s legs buckled and he went down in a clatter of steel.

  Even as the assassin raised his dagger to drive the tip into Colborn’s chest, Zaharis, Noll, and Belthar leapt at him. The scar-faced man had no chance to finish off the prone Lieutenant before Belthar’s huge sword crashed down toward his head. He barely threw up his sword in time to meet the descending blow. Blades clashed with bone-jarring force, and Zaharis’ open left hand slammed into the man’s leather-armored chest, sending him stumbling backward. Noll darted in, lashing out with vicious, savage strikes of his three-bladed surgeonsbane, sword in his left hand poised to strike at any opening in the assassin’s guard.

  Impossibly, the hooded man didn’t fall beneath the sudden fury of the three Grim Reavers. Didn’t drop his guard for even a heartbeat. Though Noll’s swiping dagger tor
e a deep gash in his side, the assassin drove an elbow into Noll’s masked face and brought his long, curved dagger around to slash at Belthar’s throat. Only Zaharis’ timely attack—a hard sword chop to the assassin’s leather-armored gut—kept the knife from tearing a gouge in Belthar’s neck. Yet the Secret Keeper staggered back a moment later as the killer punched him hard in the face and slashed at his chest. Chain mail links snapped beneath the assault, but Zaharis’ desperate retreat kept the blade from finding flesh.

  Skathi and Rangvaldr hadn’t entered the fight, but Aravon had no doubt they were trying to find a way to get around behind the assassin or cut him off. They could only attack the man three or four at a time, else risk injuring each other. When they found an opening, they would strike.

  Aravon threw himself back into the combat, aiming a high chop at the assassin’s shoulder and bringing his heavy sword back down for a slash across the thigh. Neither struck home—the killer moved so quickly, it was almost as if he could anticipate their moves. In the seconds it took Colborn to regain his feet, Aravon had launched every possible combination of attack he could imagine. To no avail. The killer turned aside each strike.

  Then Colborn re-entered the fray. Aravon had met few men whose skill with a blade could surpass the Lieutenant’s. Colborn’s long, thick-bladed sword blurred as he hacked, chopped, and stabbed at the assassin. Yet even with Aravon and Noll searching for gaps in the killer’s guard, Zaharis circling to get around behind the man, their attacks failed to pierce the killer’s guard. His weapons seemed to be everywhere at once, blocking, deflecting, parrying, and following up with counterattacks so fast the Grim Reavers barely managed to keep them at bay.

  Pain exploded in Aravon’s face as the assassin’s sword slammed into his steel mask. He staggered backward, the world spinning, his cheek, nose, and lips going numb. Shaking his head to clear the ringing from his ears, he forced his eyes back into focus.

  In time to see the assassin bring his sword across in a powerful blow that crashed into Belthar’s armor. Only the thick plates sewn into the chain mail hauberk kept the longsword from slashing flesh. The force of the blow hurled Belthar backward, knocking him to the ground. Skathi leapt into the gap left by his huge body, her sword whistling toward the assassin’s head.

  A loud crack echoed through the room, and the upper half of Skathi’s sword spun away. The Agrotora had no time for surprise—the assassin’s dagger came for her neck, its razor-sharp edge seeking flesh and blood.

  Time slowed to a crawl as Aravon threw himself forward, sword upraised to block. Horror writhed like worms in his gut. He’d never make it in time, he knew. That blur of metal and muscle moved far too fast for him to reach Skathi before the knife tore open her throat.

  Metal glinted in the glimmering blue light, and steel crashed against steel. Colborn followed up his parry with a lightning-fast slash to the assassin’s chest. His sword tore a chunk of leather from the killer’s pauldron, ripped through his breastplate, and carved a deep furrow into his chest.

  Blood spilled over the assassin’s torso as he leapt back, out of reach of Colborn’s follow-up strike. Aravon leapt in front of Skathi—she could do little with the shattered stump of a sword in her hand, and she’d be vulnerable to the assassin’s attack. Rangvaldr materialized at his left shoulder, Noll and Zaharis spreading out to encircle the killer. Gritting his teeth, Aravon tightened his grip on his sword, the thrill of battle filling his veins with a blazing fire. Every muscle tensed in expectation of the renewed assault.

  Yet the assassin made no move to attack. He pressed a finger of his left hand to his chest; it came away wet with blood. “Impressive.” His deep, snarling voice held no trace of fear—only something akin to amusement. “Consider yourselves fortunate that your master’s life is worth little effort. My client only wants him dying in agony.”

  His hands moved in a blur, passing his dagger to his sword hand and reaching toward a strange-looking sheath on his right thigh. He drew something from the sheath—twin metal arms sprang out from a wooden stock barely six inches long, and a loud click echoed as some hidden mechanism locked a bolt onto the cradle of the handheld crossbow. The assassin pressed the trigger twice in quick succession. Aravon had no time to react as two hand-length crossbow bolts hurtled toward Lord Virinus. He heard only a shriek of pain, saw the assassin’s grim smile. Then, with a ripple of dark grey cloth, the hooded figure whirled and leapt out the shattered window.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Aravon threw himself toward the assassin. Too late. His fingers brushed the ragged ends of the killer’s cloak as the assassin plummeted from sight. Something snapped tight beside the window, and Aravon caught sight of a length of dark rope dangling from the rooftop. He leapt out of the window and grabbed the rope, sliding down after the assassin.

  “Captain!” Colborn’s call echoed through the window behind him.

  Aravon slid down the rope and hit the ground two seconds later. His knees protested at the impact, pain flaring down his shins, yet he took off west into the Icespire-lit gardens in pursuit of the assassin. He had only the occasional flash of movement, little more than rippling shadow amidst the darkness of the lush trees spreading leafy boughs over the shrubs, bushes, and flowers, yet he dashed in pursuit nonetheless. The assassin would doubtless avoid the guests on the eastern side of the mansion, and north led toward the cliff’s edge and the icy straits between Azure Island and Palace Isle. His best chance of fleeing the mansion unseen would be to head west, toward the wall at the edge of Lord Virinus’ estate. Once on the streets, he had more avenues of escape.

  Pounding feet and the clanking of heavy armor echoed in the gardens behind him, moving fast and closing the distance with every heart-racing step. Aravon couldn’t risk a glance backward to see who followed—even a single moment of inattention, and he’d lose sight of the assassin in the darkness—but only his Grim Reavers could have caught up so quickly.

  The western wall of Lord Virinus’ estate loomed in the darkness ahead. Eight feet tall, it stood a solid barrier of stone between the fleeing assassin and the shadows of Azure Island. Yet, the hooded killer leapt into the air in a near-invisible blur of dark grey, landing atop the wall in a single bound, and disappeared on the other side.

  Bloody hell! Such a feat should be impossible—as impossible as the killer’s inhuman speed and the way he’d recovered from wounds that would have killed any normal man.

  Aravon had no time to contemplate the implausibility of the killer’s existence; he’d have ample opportunity to explore the thought once he caught up to the man. He poured all his strength into his legs as he jumped and grabbed onto the lip of the wall. The weight of his armor dragged at his muscles, yet the thrill of battle coursing through his muscles drove him on. Two seconds later, he was dropping over the wall, his boots thumping onto the paved street outside the western edge of Lord Virinus’ mansion.

  Twin thumps echoed beside him, and chain mail clinked loudly as Colborn and Noll dropped over the wall.

  “There!” Colborn pointed down the street, south, in the direction of the large avenue that cut east-to-west through Azure Island.

  Aravon caught a glimpse of dark fabric disappearing around the corner. The assassin’s path led toward the Eastbridge—the shortest path off Azure Island and back to the Mains, where he could lose himself within the shadows of Portside, Eastway, or the Glimmer.

  Keeper’s teeth! Aravon took off in a mad dash down the road in pursuit of the killer. If he gets across the Eastbridge, there’s no way we’ll find him!

  Yet even as he barreled around the corner and raced up the broad avenue leading east, Aravon could feel dread sinking in his stomach—a weight as heavy as the armor dragging on his limbs and slowing his steps. The assassin moved with an impossible speed. No mere human could run that fast; not even an Eirdkilr at full sprint matched that pace. Even Skathi and Zaharis, who had caught up to them and now outran Colborn, couldn’t keep up. They lost sight of him around
the next corner long before they drew abreast.

  The light of the Icespire bathed the streets of Azure Island in a soft blue glow, broken up by deep shadows cast by the towering mansions. Aravon caught only a faint glimpse of the assassin ahead—little more than a flash of movement, the flare of his dark grey cloak—but he refused to slow. The killer had only one smart way off the island; Aravon just had to catch up to him before he reached the Eastbridge. He clung to a faint hope that the Icewatchers would slow the assassin long enough for him to draw abreast, yet if not, he had to take the hooded man down before he disappeared into the narrow streets and back alleys on the bridge’s far side.

  Heads turned as Aravon, Colborn, Noll, and Skathi clattered past. The few noblemen and women out at the late hour of night called out questions, shouted insults, or simply stared. They cut an odd sight—four masked and heavily-armored Steel Company mercenaries racing through the streets of Azure Island—but as long as they kept moving, they had a chance of getting past, through, or beyond any Icewatchers that might consider pursuit.

  Sweat streamed down Aravon’s back, soaked his tunic, and stung his eyes. His heart hammered a staccato beat in his chest and his pulse pounded in his ears. Lead dragged on his limbs—he hadn’t eaten a full meal since the previous day, and too much ale had sapped his strength. The weight of the clanking chain-and-plate mail slowed him further. Yet he refused to slow, though fire flooded his legs and burned in his lungs. He had to stop that assassin!

  Up the street, the last of the mansions parted, and the full light of the Icespire illuminated the forty-yard gap separating the easternmost estate from the Eastbridge. And there, through that patch of azure illumination, Aravon caught sight of that dark, flowing shape he pursued.

  Got you!