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

by Andy Peloquin

  “It’s no longer an option.” Aravon recounted his confrontation with the Steel Company, their accusations—which elicited a grimace from Skathi, who had evidently helped Belthar obtain the armor and weapons—and his flight. “They know my face, and they’ve seen us together. They’ll go through you to get to me.”

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Noll cursed.

  “Hah!” Triumph shone in Skathi’s eyes. “No more cushy assignments for you, Noll.”

  Noll muttered an insult under his breath, which Aravon chose not to overhear.

  “Remember, our best plan is to get into Lord Virinus’ mansion. We do that, we can put him to the question—” Aravon shot a glance at Zaharis. “—without putting Zaharis at risk.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Nodding, Skathi stood, collected her arrows, and strode toward the door. Noll gave a sullen nod—visibly dismayed at losing the arduous task of sitting around eating and drinking all day long—and followed the Agrotora from the room.

  With a sigh, Aravon turned back to the window and twitched aside the hide pane. Night was a long way off—seven or eight hours at least until it was dark enough that he’d risk it. The chances they’d find a way into the Virinus mansion were slim—after the assassin’s attack the previous night, doubtless Lord Virinus would double or triple his security. But if it meant keeping Zaharis safe from the Secret Keepers hunting him, he’d cling to even the faintest hope.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  “Stick to the shadows, and keep out of sight!” Aravon growled in a low voice as he led the way down a small side street deep in the heart of Princetown, the neighborhood directly west of the People’s Markets. Skathi and Noll hadn’t returned before sundown, which meant he’d had no choice but to let Zaharis pay a visit to his contact. Yet that didn’t mean he’d take chances, not with the Secret Keepers aware that Zaharis was alive and on Fehl.

  “You do know I’m a priest of an order with ‘secret’ in the title, right?” Zaharis shot him a bland look. “I learned the ways of stealth and subterfuge before you were old enough to walk.”

  Aravon rolled his eyes. “Even veteran soldiers drop their swords in battle.” He shook his head. “I’m not taking any chances, not so close to the Temple of Whispers.”

  His gaze slid northeast, toward where he knew the towering grey obelisk to the Swordsman stood. There, seven miles and a bridge away from their location, the temples to the thirteen gods squatted on the southern end of Azure Island, bordered to the north by Sanctuary Court. Yet those miles were far too few—he wouldn’t feel safe until the Grim Reavers once more rode south of the Chain. Every large city on Fehl had a temple to the Mistress, and Secret Keepers could be found in many towns around the Princelands. Only in the Fehlan wilds would they be certain to avoid the priests hunting Zaharis.

  Being once more in Icespire left Aravon feeling far more nervous than he’d expected. The danger to Zaharis, Belthar, and their covert mission only accounted for some of the anxiety that set his stomach roiling.

  During his years in the Legion, he’d spent the vast majority of his time in smaller garrisons south of the Chain or serving in the fortresses protecting the Princelands. He’d paid frequent visits home to the city—less and less frequent once Mylena moved into General Traighan’s mansion—but spent most of his time either on Azure Island or bivouacked in the Legion encampment east of the city walls.

  Over the last few weeks, he’d grown accustomed to being far from bustling cities, with only his Grim Reavers for company. Now, being here in the narrow alleys and confined buildings of Icespire stifled him. If trouble found them—and, as he’d seen far too often since joining the Grim Reavers, it always did—he could only run so far before running into walls or encountering city guards.

  But that didn’t stop him from slinking through the shadows behind Zaharis. He had to reach this mysterious contact, to find out as much as they could about Lord Virinus’ dealings with the Brokers. He’d have to endure the claustrophobic feelings until they unmasked and dealt with the traitor.

  At least there’s one small comfort, he thought. The chances of anyone recognizing either of us are slimmer than Noll’s shot with Princess Ranisia.

  His long hair, beard, and the scar running down the right side of his face made him all but unrecognizable to any who might have known him. But Zaharis’ transformation from the Secret Keeper he’d met at Camp Marshal was far more complete. Gone was his close-cropped hair, his scalp shaven as bald as a Legionnaire’s chin. His beard had grown long and was dyed a deep black. Dark ochre powder around his cheekbones and chin gave his face a gaunt, almost skeletal appearance. Save for those piercing grey eyes, he bore no resemblance to the Zaharis Aravon knew.

  That only eased his worry a little. Steel Company was still hunting them. The Brokers had sworn to kill Belthar. Every hour spent in Icespire increased the chances someone recognized Aravon. And now the threat of the Secret Keepers. Even in his own city, he and his men were surrounded by enemies. He’d take every possible precaution for the sake of the mission.

  He cursed himself for forgetting to remove his Steel Company mail before visiting the Shattered Shield. That was a stupid blunder, one that never would have happened had he refused to let emotion cloud his wits. The mistake drove home the importance of absolute focus on their task at hand—he couldn’t let his feelings impede their mission any longer. Now, back in the familiar comfort of his alchemically-treated leather armor and his own sword at his hip, he felt once more like the Captain Aravon he needed to be for his men.

  The smell of Littlemarket greeted him two blocks before they reached it. While the People’s Markets were home to all the wooden booths, stalls, and brick-and-mortar shops where fine—and not so fine—goods were sold, Littlemarket was dedicated to the manufacture of those goods. Here, the clang of blacksmith’s hammers echoed in time with the clinking of stonemasons’ chisels, the whirring rasp of woodcarvers’ saws, and the meaty thunk of cleavers butchering the carcasses of cattle, sheep, and other animals sold to the Outwarders for a few copper bits.

  The stink of industry hung like a funeral shroud over Littlemarket. The chemical reek emanating from vats of dye collided with the stink of tanner’s potash, with a splash of piquant from the camphor used by the perfumers to craft their fragrances. Down one street, a haze of grey smoke and the odor of burned metal and hair emanated from a half-dozen smithies, while another stunk so heavily of animal droppings and urine that Aravon chose to slog through the muck of a back alley rather than pass by the horse merchants stabling their prize beasts.

  With every step deeper into Littlemarket, the miasma of odors around Aravon grew thicker—so thick he found himself struggling to draw breath. Yet he had no choice—according to Zaharis, the contact they were to meet would be found close to the tanneries dotting Littlemarket. Gritting his teeth, Aravon steeled his stomach and forced himself to keep moving.

  Littlemarket, the westernmost neighborhood of Icespire, had a reputation for being a place to find anything—anything—for the right price. Yet another part of his city Aravon had never entered. As a youth, he’d never had cause to leave Azure Island, the sheltered only son of a Legion officer and Crown-favored Princelander.

  “There.” Zaharis indicated an innocuous-looking, single-story wooden building sandwiched amidst a row of equally unremarkable structures.

  “What is this place?” Aravon asked in the silent hand language.

  “Something that should not exist.” The darkness cast deep shadows on Zaharis’ face, and his upper lip curled into a hint of a sneer. “An abomination in the sight of my Mistress.”

  The soft-blue glow of the distant Icespire shone on a faded sign, depicting the words “Astrometrist Essedus, Cosmic Miraculist” in bold blue-painted letters. Aravon’s brow furrowed. “What does the Mistress hate about star-watchers?”

  Zaharis shook his head. “Nothing. The stars do not, as they claim, speak to us, cannot predict our past, present, and future. But this is nothing
but a façade, a mask to conceal the truth. See that symbol?” He gestured toward the three interlocking rings displayed on the sign beside the shop’s name. “That is the symbol of the Hidden Circle. Alchemists who practice the holy craft outside the Mistress’ divine structures. A man who would have been brought to retribution had I not first been expelled from the Secret Keeper priesthood.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. “Retribution?” That sounded ominous.

  Zaharis’ expression grew solemn. “Our goddess, the divine Mistress of whispered truths, has entrusted her secrets only to those who serve her heart, mind, and body.” He gestured to his mouth—his tongue had been removed the day he swore his oaths to join the priesthood. “We follow her rules and limitations, protecting the world from knowledge that could re-shape our existence. Or destroy it altogether.”

  The fire burning in Zaharis’ eyes caught Aravon by surprise. He, like every Princelander and Einari, knew of the Secret Keepers’ devotion to guarding their alchemical secrets. Yet until he’d seen the marvels Zaharis had produced—from nothing more than a few plants and flowers, in some cases—he hadn’t understood it. But the intensity of Zaharis’ silent words left no doubt. The man truly believed that the knowledge he guarded offered power beyond anything a simple soldier could imagine.

  The Secret Keeper gestured to the small wooden building. “But these alchemists of the Hidden Circle follow no such rules, adhere to no divine scripture. They practice the forbidden arts of black alchemy, their actions unchecked and unrestrained by the rules laid out by the Mistress herself. And in doing so, risk unleashing upon the world all manner of horrors—plagues beyond even the Sanctuary’s ability to cure, devastation on an unprecedented scale, more…” Hesitation flashed across his face and his fingers froze mid-sentence. A long second passed before he finished. “…more than you could possibly imagine.”

  “But if that’s so, why hasn’t the Temple of Whispers shut him down?” Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve heard rumors of the punishments they inflict on those who break their laws.”

  He’d been barely a teenager when a trio of corpses had washed up in the Port of Icespire—male or female, no one could tell, for the bodies had been beheaded, limbs removed, every inch of flesh twisted by acid. Nailed to each corpse was a piece of parchment that remained crisp and fresh even in the water of the Frozen Sea. “Forbidden” was the only word, yet there had been no doubt who had left the message.

  “The same day I learned of this place, the Guardians in the Temple of Whispers learned of my presence in Icespire.” The shadow that flashed across Zaharis’ eyes had nothing to do with the darkness of the night. “I was too busy fleeing for my life to alert them to its presence. Perhaps it was the Mistress’ will. After all, if he can prove useful now, it may make some small restitution for his years of blasphemy.”

  “How exactly can an alchemist help us?” Aravon searched the Secret Keeper’s eyes. “Unless you’re here to stock up on supplies.”

  Zaharis shook his head. “I doubt he will have anything I need, but he will have information. Though the Hidden Circle deals in forbidden alchemy, their primary stock and trade is knowledge. They hoard it like a miser hoards gold. Use it to gain advantage in their clandestine negotiations, lock it away for eternity, or sell it to those who could find use for it.”

  “Ahh.” Aravon nodded understanding. Information brokers wielded secrets like weapons of war—words in place of steel, the enigmatic and unknown their battlefield. Even Legion Generals and Commanders sometimes resorted to trading coin for intelligence worth purchasing.

  “Come.” Zaharis broke from the shadows of a foul-smelling tannery and strode toward the little wooden building. “Speak my exact words, and we will have what we came for.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed, his mind ablaze with questions. Questions he swallowed or pushed aside for later. He trusted Zaharis enough to follow his lead.

  Despite the lateness—soon, the Lady’s Bell would ring out the ninth hour after noon—the shop remained unlocked. The latch lifted beneath Zaharis’ hand and the door swung open. A pleasant, tinny tinkling greeted them as they strode into the small shop.

  A single lantern burned within the cramped, dusty chamber within. The soft orange glow shone on three walls adorned with dozens of star charts on display. Images of the night sky, colorful depictions of the Einari constellations, and an assortment of equipment—astrolabes, armillary spheres, nocturnals, and dozens of steel, wrought-iron, bronze, and brass contraptions Aravon had no hope of recognizing—hung from the ceiling or sat on the low shelves beneath the astrometrist’s charts and maps.

  Only the far wall of the shop was free of charts and contrivances. Instead, the entire length of the room was a heavy bookshelf, laden with scrolls, stacks of parchment, and vellum-bound tomes bearing names like “The Magical Constellations of the Continent of Fehl” and “Celestial Omens and the Divination of Miracles“ in letters of gilded thread.

  A small wooden counter stood before the bookshelf, and behind it, a wizened man sat perched on a wooden stool, hunched over and squinting through a pair of thick glass lenses down at a book that lay open on the wooden surface.

  He reached toward the oil lantern and twisted the brass knob set into its base. The flame within the glass blurb brightened, filling the room with a sharp scent far too biting to be the fish oil burned in most lamps around Icespire. Something alchemical, no doubt. Proof of his proficiency in the Mistress’ forbidden secrets. Proof of his guilt in the Secret Keepers’ eyes.

  The white-haired man looked up at the sound of the tinkling doorbell, and the lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he gave them a broad smile. “Welcome, gentlemen. I am Astrometrist Essedus, master of cosmic miracles. Tell me what I might offer, and I will—”

  His quavering voice cut off in a squawk as Zaharis took two steps toward him, seized his collar in a strong fist, and half-dragged him over the counter. Even as a protest formed on the old man’s lips, Zaharis opened his mouth wide to reveal the severed stump of his tongue. With the hand not gripping the astrometrist’s collar, he signaled to Aravon.

  “You blaspheme against the mistress and profane her holy secrets.” Aravon spoke Zaharis’ words in his most menacing Captain Snarl voice. “For your crimes, death has come for you this night.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Essedus’ face went white, his eyes wide as his circular metal-rimmed spectacles. From his gaping mouth poured an unintelligible stream of nonsense, desperate protests, and wails that echoed his terror. He, too, knew the Secret Keepers’ reputation for guarding their alchemical knowledge.

  Zaharis lifted the gnarled Essedus bodily and slammed him atop the wooden counter. Aravon hid a wince at the bone-jarring thud—the man’s frail form couldn’t escape that sort of punishment unscathed. A cry of abject terror burst from Essedus’ lips as Zaharis drew a knife and shoved its razor-sharp tip into his open mouth.

  The Secret Keeper’s hand released his grip on the man’s collar and signed words to Aravon.

  “With the works of your hands, you have painted darker the stain on your soul,” Aravon growled. “The holy Mistress has seen your sacrilege and passed sentence on you. You dared taste of knowledge forbidden to you, so as you pass into the afterlife, you will do so without a tongue to taste the Keeper’s eternal blessing.”

  Zaharis pressed the blade against the astrometrist’s tongue, and the wizened man cried out, a hint of crimson welling on the corners of his lips.

  “As you gazed upon the Mistress’ secrets,” Aravon translated, “you will go into eternity without eyes to see.”

  Zaharis removed the dagger from Essedus’ mouth and pressed the tip against the man’s orbital bone, just beneath his right eye.

  “Your head is filled with truths that are not given yours to know.” Zaharis moved the dagger from Essedus’ eye and ran its sharp blade across the side of his neck, just hard enough to draw a fine line of blood. “Your hands have touched that whi
ch was not yours to touch, your feet carried you into a world off limits to you. Thus, you will go to the Long Keeper without them.”

  The astrometrist’s eyes flew wide and he stammered out a desperate babble of words rendered unintelligible by fear.

  “And yet,” Aravon spoke the words formed by the fingers of Zaharis’ free hand, “I offer you one chance. One chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of our Mistress. It is your only hope of escaping the divine punishment you deserve.” Zaharis leaned closer until his face was mere inches from Essedus’ long, hooked nose. “Do you understand?” he asked through Aravon.

  The wild light of desperation filled Essedus’ eyes, and he swallowed, wincing, and gave a frantic nod. “Yeth!” he said through the blood filling his mouth.

  Slowly, Zaharis straightened, removing his dagger from the astrometrist’s neck and held it up before the man’s eyes, revealing the edge still stained with blood.

  “Speak the truth,” Aravon said for Zaharis, “and you may be spared the Mistress’ retribution.”

  “A-Anything!” Panic glimmered dazzling bright in the old man’s eyes. “Ask what you will and I—” He cut off in a terrified wail as Zaharis pressed the knife against his throat once more, the sharp tip tickling his windpipe.

  “Show him the insignia,” Zaharis signed to Aravon without looking.

  Reaching into his pouch, Aravon drew out the wax seal stamped with the carbuncle and held it up before the terrified astrometrist’s eyes. “Do you recognize this?” he demanded in his deep, growling Captain Snarl voice.

  Essedus squinted at Zaharis, at the insignia, then back at Zaharis. After a moment, Aravon understood his hesitation—the old astrometrist’s spectacles had fallen off, but he dared not protest at his limited eyesight for fear of angering Zaharis.

  Bending, Aravon picked up the thick metal-rimmed glass lenses and replaced them on Essedus’ face. A hint of gratitude flashed in the astrometrist’s eyes, mingling with the desperation and fear at Zaharis’ presence. He managed to compose himself long enough to study the seal and give a tiny shake of his head.