“Oh, er…” Aravon fumbled for an excuse. “Let’s just say the Steel Company’s not exactly all smiles and open arms when it comes to the treatment of their fresh recruits. Not to mention I was busy getting fitted for this armor to have heard about it.”
A hint of suspicion flashed across Emard’s face, and he studied Aravon through narrowed eyes.
Before Aravon could continue, a shout echoed through the near-empty taproom. “Oi, you!”
Aravon’s eyes darted toward the voice. The door to the taproom was just swinging shut behind six Steel Company mercenaries dressed in full armor and helms, swords and surgeonsbanes hanging from their belts. They wore no masks, but anger hardened their faces as their gazes fixed on him.
Heart hammering, Aravon leapt to his feet. “Yes, sir!” He ducked his head, plastered a look of shame on his face. He had to sell the role of new recruit. “Sorry for the delay, sir, just—”
Fire blazed in the slate-grey eyes of the foremost mercenary. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re a fool if you think you can attack the Steel Company and walk away unpunished.”
Aravon’s muscles stiffened—he hadn’t thought to ask how Skathi had come by the armor.
The mercenary gripped the hilt of his sword and drew it slowly from its sheath, steel whispering on leather. “And whatever you did on Azure Island, you’ve got the Icewatch giving us grief. They’re accusing us of attacking Lord Virinus.” He thumped his chest, setting his breastplate ringing. A cold, hard smile broadened the man’s face as he advanced on Aravon. “You’ve got some questions to answer, you dumb shite. Best thing you can do is come quietly, now, before we decide to gut you where you sit.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Aravon’s stomach clenched as he studied the six mercenaries crowded into the doorway. A lifetime dedicated to training and fighting for his life had taught him to size up his opponents at a glance, and that glance told him he faced a serious threat. The Steel Company mercenaries wore heavy armor identical to his, and they gripped their longswords in the comfortable, easy grip of men accustomed to wielding the blades. Even as they stepped through the door, they fanned out, blocking any hope of his barreling through them and breaking for freedom out the front.
Clad in his own alchemically treated armor, spear in hand, Aravon might have taken them on. A sudden charge, quick feint, and blitz attack with his iron-shod spear could bring down two of his six opponents before they realized that they faced more than just another mercenary. Yet, with only his stolen longsword and surgeonsbane dagger, his chances of escaping this fight alive were slim.
The Steel Company mercenaries seemed to come to the same conclusion. The leader’s eyes darted toward the door at the back and his mouth opened to snarl a command.
Aravon moved before the words left his lips. His fist closed around the handle of his mostly-full tankard and he whipped his arm around. Ale sprayed in the air as the tankard flew across the tavern and crashed into the lead mercenary’s face. The warm liquid splashed down the man’s armor, mingling with the blood gushing from his split lips and broken nose. Aravon leapt to his feet, but instead of charging the stunned mercenary, he whirled to his left and darted toward the rear exit. He leapt onto a table, scattering drinks and eliciting a squawk of protest from the half-drunken mercenary whose fatty chunk of meat he stepped on.
“Get him!” A shout rang out behind him.
Too late. Aravon was already leaping off the last table and racing down the narrow hallway that led past the staircase and out the back door. As he’d learned during his training at Camp Marshal, he always scoped out every avenue of entrance and egress at every new location. Now, those preparations paid off. He burst out the rear door and into the muddy alley between the Shattered Shield and the rear wall of ale warehouse that abutted against the tavern.
Aravon spun to his right—the distance to the next intersection was far shorter than if he’d gone left, along the back of the warehouse—and sprinted toward the adjoining side street. He had to get out of sight before—
“There’s the bastard!” The call rang out in the alley a heartbeat before he clattered around the corner.
Damn! Aravon gritted his teeth. The Steel Company had spotted him.
He had one advantage: the entire city of Icespire spread out around him, and they had only six mercenaries to hunt for him. A few clever moves, and he could lose his pursuers among the people flowing through Portside.
The alley down which he ran connected to a larger avenue that ran east to west, but Aravon’s true destination was the narrow space between two ramshackle buildings. He’d found a gap in a crumbling brick wall barely wide enough for him to squeeze through, all but invisible unless from the precise angle. If he could duck into the opening before the Steel Company caught up, they’d waste precious seconds trying to figure out where he’d gone—or they would simply thunder past, giving him a clear path back to the safety of the Wrinkled Pig six blocks southwest of his current location.
There! He darted to his right and struggled through the concealed gap in the wall. He’d tried it last with leather armor, and the chain-and-plate mail was far bulkier and heavier. Sweat soon streamed down his face, mingled exertion and anxiety. The sound of booted feet thumping down the alley behind him grew louder. He twisted, shoved with his legs, and pulled with his arms, cursing silently as brick crumbled around him. Finally, he burst free with a loud creeeeaak of metal grinding on stone.
As he raced across the narrow garden growing between the two bawdy houses, he risked a glance over his shoulder. His heart sank as he found a set of Steel Company eyes locked on him. The mercenary was struggling to get through the gap, his companion in his wake, his heavy armor trapping him in place as it had Aravon. Yet Aravon knew it would only slow them down a few seconds.
Bursting through the bawdy house’s front gate, past a startled bouncer, Aravon rushed off down the lamplit side street toward another back lane into darkness. He threw himself into the deep shadows, the three-story buildings around him blocking out the glow of the Icespire and the red-shaded lamps of the brothels behind him. Blood rushed in his ears, his pulse racing in time with his pounding feet. Muck splashed beneath his boots, spattering the walls with foul-smelling ooze, and Aravon’s stomach twisted at the miasma of rank, rancid odors that hung thick in the alleys. One more reason he’d chosen it as an escape route—no sane person would want to go down that path that led behind two butcher shops.
Yet Aravon had waded through the mud and gore of comrades, had been drenched in the blood of his enemies as he hacked, stabbed, and thrust at Eirdkilrs howling mere inches from his face. That had been far worse than a few rotting bones and carcasses.
The alley turned sharply to the left, heading east toward the Soldier’s Gate. Even at this late hour, there would be enough traffic flowing along the Legion’s Path that he could lose his pursuers. It would mean doubling back west before cutting north to return to the Wrinkled Pig, but if it meant shaking the Steel Company mercenaries baying for his head, it was worth going the long way around.
By the time he reached the broad thoroughfare, he was certain he’d lost his pursuers. His route had wended a dizzyingly convoluted path through the back lanes and muddy alleys of Portside; so circuitous, in fact, that he now found himself far closer to the eastern wall and Soldier’s Gate than he’d intended.
In the glow of the Icespire, the massive gate appeared a monolith of iron, wood, and stone. Twenty feet wide and twenty-five tall, it had been built in the image of the Prince’s Gate. However, human craftsmanship could never rival the handiwork of the Serenii—the iron had long ago begun to rust, the wood decaying and patched in multiple sections, the stone core crumbling and littering the broad avenue with debris and dust. Both gates stood open day and night, but only ten Icewatchers stood guarding this entrance.
Beyond, Aravon saw the now-empty hill where the Legion encampment usually stood. Though the stone and wood structures of the Legion barracks r
emained, the tents of each Battalion traveled with them. It appeared a ghost town, hollow structures with doors and windows open into yawning blackness, no lamps, torches, or braziers to rival the glow of the Icespire or the faint moonlight.
Aravon’s path led beyond the Legion’s Path, away from the Soldier’s Gate, down a side alley. Glancing around to ensure he was alone, Aravon divested himself of his Steel Company armor. He left the helmet, chain-and-plate hauberk, and the thick padded gambeson in a pile behind a mound of reeking, slime-oozing debris. He kept only the longsword—he’d feel naked without a weapon—but left the surgeonsbane tucked beneath the armor. Clad only in the thin undertunic, breeches, and belt, he hurried back toward the main avenue and northwest through Portside.
Not a chance anyone will recognize me now! The Steel Company mercenaries pursuing him wouldn’t recognize the simply-clad figure striding up the street. The Icewatchers on patrol paid him no more than a passing glance. He, like the other men and women hurrying along their business at the third hour of morning, was just one more citizen of Icespire, only worthy of notice when caught breaking the Prince’s laws. He felt confident he could return to the Wrinkled Pig without fear of being followed.
Despite that certainty, he couldn’t help a growl of frustration. No way I can show my face at the Shattered Shield again. The Steel Company wouldn’t let the matter rest. They, like all mercenary companies, lived and died by their reputations. Masquerading as a company-employed sellsword earned retribution on par with impersonating a Legionnaire—harsher, in some cases, with long-lasting or even fatal outcomes. The Steel Company would hunt him down and punish him for the farce. Not to mention the assault on their brothers and the dent to their rapport with the Icewatch. Doubtless they’d offer a sizeable reward to any of the tavern’s patrons willing to inform them should Aravon return. Noll as well, perhaps. He’d been seen with Aravon—the Steel Company would ply him for information, using implements of torture and mailed fists rather than tankards of ale.
Damn! Aravon clenched his fists. That’s going to make this a whole lot harder.
The Shattered Shield had been a valuable source of information—it was there he’d learned of his father’s death and funeral, of the Hunter of Voramis, and Captain Lingram’s disgrace. All useful, yet none of it vital to their hunt for the traitor. Now, he might never learn who had hired Otton to join the Black Xiphos and murder Duke Dyrund.
His jaw muscles clenched. Let’s just hope Noll and Skathi have better luck getting information from Belthar’s contacts.
Chapter Sixty-Six
“Nothing?” Aravon raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing more useful than a fart in a hurricane.” Noll shook his head. “If there’s anyone who wanted Lord Virinus’ nephew dead, none of the people on Belthar’s list had any idea who or why.”
Aravon looked to Skathi.
The archer confirmed Noll’s statement with a grimace and a shrug. “Sorry, Captain. Not really my forte, this whole prying for information thing.” She shot a sidelong glance at Noll. “It takes a far more underhanded sort of person to do this job.”
Noll noticed her look and swept a mocking bow. “You’re too kind.”
Skathi ignored him. “We can keep trying, but—”
“No.” Aravon gave a dismissive wave. “It was a faint hope, anyways.” He resisted the urge to growl out in frustration. With the Shattered Shield no longer an option, they were running out of places to go hunting for information.
His gaze drifted toward the window. Sunlight streamed through the window, tinted a rusty brown by the hide stretched across the narrow opening. The Lady’s Bell should be ringing out the noon hour at any moment—he’d spent nearly six hours holed up in the stuffy third-floor room with Zaharis and a snoring Rangvaldr. Those hours had felt even longer as he watched Zaharis pore over his books, filled with illegible scribbles of Secret Keeper code, and study the chunk of black ghoulstone. When Rangvaldr had left to pay a visit to the Outwards two hours ago, Aravon had tried to sleep.
In vain. Despite Snarl’s warmth and soft purring against his chest, the frustration and feelings of impotence kept sleep at bay. He was wasting time and doing nothing. With the Steel Company hunting him, his face known to the infuriated mercenaries, he’d be better off hunkering down. That meant he’d waste even more time in fruitless inactivity as his Grim Reavers poked around Icespire for information.
On the far side of the room, Zaharis cleared his throat—the sign to get their attention.
Aravon glanced over at the Secret Keeper.
“I have someone I might be able to call on, Captain.” Zaharis’ brow furrowed, his expression growing somber. “I’d hoped to avoid it, but—”
Aravon cut him off with a slash of his hand. “Just being in Icespire is already too close to danger for you, Zaharis. I’m not letting you out of this room unless we literally have no other choice.”
“Seems to like we’ve hit that point.” Zaharis closed the tome in his lap and stood, fixing Aravon with a piercing gaze. “I know what’s at stake here, Captain. Both for me if the Secret Keepers find me and all the Princelands if Lord Virinus’ treachery continues.” He raised both palms, mimicking the two plates of a scale balance. “Given the odds we face, Captain, what would you do in my position? Or what would Duke Dyrund do?”
The question struck a blow—doubtless as the Secret Keeper intended. Zaharis was right. He was just one man, one life weighed against the thousands of Legionnaires, miners, Shalandrans, and Fehlans that had died because of the traitor. If Lord Virinus was responsible, stopping him was well worth the risk.
And yet, Aravon couldn’t bring himself to put Zaharis in the path of danger needlessly. It wasn’t just one life—it was the life of the man he’d come to admire, respect, to love as a brother. Losing him would hurt, and Aravon had suffered a great deal already. After Sixth Company, Draian, Duke Dyrund, and now General Traighan, he wasn’t certain he had the strength to stomach another death.
“We’ve got nothing else to go on, Captain.” To Aravon’s surprise, it was Skathi who spoke. “If Colborn comes up as empty-handed as we did, we’re no closer to nailing Lord Virinus for treachery than we were back in Steinnbraka Delve.” The archer set down her dagger and the arrow she’d been working on and now looked straight at him. “I don’t want Zaharis risking his life any more than you do, but if it gets us the traitor…” She shrugged. “If it was me, I’d make that wager every time.”
“So would I,” Noll said.
Skathi turned an incredulous look on the scout.
“What?” Noll held up his hands like a shield. “I would!”
Skathi snorted. “For the right price, maybe.”
“Hey, I’m not just in it for the gold. Not anymore.” Noll’s words held an insistent edge. “I might have started out that way, for the sake of…” He hesitated. “For my family.”
Zaharis and Skathi both appeared shocked at the admission.
“But now, it’s gotten bigger than just that. Bigger than just me.” He turned to look at Aravon. “Bigger than any of us. We’re in this for the sake of all the wives, sons, and daughters on Fehl. That’s what I’m fighting for.”
A long moment of silence passed. Skathi and Zaharis seemed at a loss for words, their eyes locked on Noll.
Skathi spoke first. “Well, damn!” Her eyebrows shot up toward her dyed brown hairline. “I’d have sooner expected the fiery hell to freeze over than hear you say something like that.”
Noll shrugged. “What can I say? I’m unbelievable. Amazing, even!”
Skathi held up a hand. “Amazing’s a stretch, Noll.” She pursed her lips, pensive. “I’d give you passable, tolerable. Maybe, on your best days, even decent.”
“I’ll take it!” A brilliant smile broke out on Noll’s face and he rounded on Aravon and Zaharis. “You all heard that! No way she can take it back now.”
“I might have been wrong about tolerable,” Skathi muttered, scowling.
&
nbsp; Aravon and Zaharis exchanged grins mirroring Noll’s. A moment later, however, the scout’s face grew serious.
“I know you’re trying to look out for us, Captain,” he said. “But Zaharis is a big boy. He knows what he’s getting into.”
Aravon hesitated, his thoughts racing. He had no desire to put his people at risk, but they were right. This had grown beyond the Grim Reavers, their brotherhood of warriors cloaked in secrecy and bound by sacrifice. Now it wasn’t just one small Fehlan village or a company of Legionnaires in danger—peril threatened the entire Princelands. Who knew what the traitor was planning? The Eirdkilrs had proven themselves a dire threat—how much more so when backed by and in league with a powerful Princelander? In the face of such high stakes, he and his soldiers had to put their lives on the line.
After a long moment, he sighed. “So be it.”
With a satisfied nod, Zaharis stooped and set about packing up his alchemical books and paraphernalia.
“But not yet.” Aravon gestured toward the window. “Not until the sun’s set and we’ve got darkness to conceal your face from the world.”
Zaharis turned back and lifted a hand to argue, but Aravon shook his head.
“Not a chance I’m budging on this one, Magicmaker.” He set his jaw and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m all for taking calculated risks, but I’m still going to do every damned thing I can to mitigate them.”
Zaharis’ face hardened, and for a moment, Aravon expected him to push the point. But Zaharis only gave a grudging nod and settled back onto the floor, opening his books and resuming his study of the ghoulstone.
Aravon rounded on Skathi and Noll. “As for you two, go find Belthar and help him scout out Lord Virinus’ mansion.”
“What about the Shattered Shield?” Noll asked, a tad too eagerly. “Surely you could use me back there, asking around for—”
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 52