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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Well then, whip it out and show us that you really do piss fire!” Gengibar chortled at his own joke. “Or, if it suits you better, you can always call down your winged dragon to cut us down like he did to the Eirdkilrs at Rivergate.”

  Dragon, eh? Aravon stifled a smile. Snarl was just a tad smaller than the four-legged wyrms of legend, but the little Enfield would appreciate the comparison.

  “I’d hate to destroy such an alluring neighborhood.” Aravon gestured to the houses around him. “Not to mention all the women and children who might get caught up in my stream of flaming urine.”

  “S’fair.” Gengibar chuckled and, mirroring Aravon, folded his arms across his sinewy chest. “Let’s say there’s a spark’s chance in the frozen hell I believe you. What’s a man like you doing in my little slice of the Sleepless Lands?”

  “Like I said, I’ve come for Belthar.” The thugs encircling them tensed as Aravon’s hand dropped toward his belt, but he simply drew out the strip of braided leather and held it up. “My men found this where they were expecting to find one oversized lummox. Not even the Eirdkilrs could separate him from this.”

  Gengibar’s gaze darted to the wristlet in Aravon’s hand, and an immediate, violent change came over him. The cool, calm façade disappeared, replaced by a towering inferno of rage.

  “I told him what would happen if he returned!” the one-eyed man hissed. “And the big idiot went and ignored my warning. I can’t have that sort of thing, not if I’m to keep my people in line.” His long-fingered hand dropped to the dagger at his belt. “And after what he did to Inaia, he deserves far worse than simply being gutted and strung up by his intestines.”

  “What he did?” Skathi’s shout echoed through the darkness. Anger sharpened her words. “He kept her safe, kept doing your dirty work even after you threatened her.”

  “Threatened her?” Gengibar’s lone eyebrow shot up, and he gave a derisive snort. “Way I remember it, it was the big lummox who let her die when I tried to bring in Ministrants from the Sanctuary to keep her alive.” The fire in his one good eye blazed bright. “I only said what I said to keep him in line. I’d never have hurt Inaia.”

  Aravon was struck by Gengibar Twist’s reaction. He recognized that fury—the fury born of sorrow. A wound that cut deep and would never heal.

  “Might be that I could have forgiven him for running off.” Gengibar spoke in a quiet voice. “Maybe let him off a few fingers or a hand shorter, shatter a leg bone or two. But after Inaia…” Once again, rage and hatred contorted his face into a snarl. “He deserves what he’s getting!”

  Beside Aravon, Skathi opened her mouth to growl a retort, but a stern look stopped her before she gave voice to whatever insult sprang to her lips.

  “Tell me,” Aravon said, “how much is his life worth to you?”

  Gengibar’s eye narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How much?” Aravon repeated. “Is it worth the utter eradication of the Brokers? Worth risking the Legion flooding the Glimmer, Littlemarket, and every corner of Icespire to hunt you down? Worth setting the troops of every Duke and Lord north of the Chain turning over every boulder and rotting log for your people?”

  He stepped closer to the circle of thugs, his eyes fixed on Gengibar Twist, and his voice once again deepened to the Captain Snarl growl. “Is it worth turning the Prince’s attention toward you and your operation, pissing him off so thoroughly that he signs a royal decree labeling your people outlaws? Or, even worse, setting a bounty on every Broker head in the Princelands?” He jabbed a finger at the Broker. “Is Belthar’s life worth that much?”

  Gengibar Twist absorbed the tirade in silence. No fear glimmered in his eyes, not even a flicker of hesitation or anxiety. Simply a cold smile, teeth bared in a sneering snarl. “One word.” He held up a lone finger. “One word from me, and no one ever finds out what happened to the arrogant fool who strode into the Glimmer and dared to threaten me.”

  “One word from me,” Aravon replied, his voice equally dangerous, “and my Grim Reavers tear every one of you a whole collection of new arseholes.” He spoke without taking his gaze from Gengibar’s solitary eye. “The little one may not look like much, but he’ll tear through the six behind us before they can whimper for their mothers. And the woman?” He gave Gengibar a cold smile. “You don’t want to find out what happens when she draws that sword.”

  Gengibar cocked his head. “And you?” Derision edged his words. “Here, within striking range of my bone-thumpers?”

  “Or am I in striking range of you?” Aravon gestured to the sword on his hip. “If I drew, Gengibar Twist of the Brokers, do you think your men are fast enough to stop me before I take off your right hand, your left arm at the shoulder, shatter your knee, and cut off whatever you’ve got dangling between your legs?” With slow movements, he reached up and drew out the Prince’s insignia from beneath the collar of his leather armor. “How do you think you would fare against the man who earned this?”

  Gengibar Twist’s gaze went to the silver pendant gleaming in the soft blue glow of the Icespire, and for the first time, something akin to uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Only for an instant, gone so quickly it might have been a trick of the light. Yet in that moment, Aravon knew he had the upper hand.

  “Or,” Aravon said, equally quietly, “you quit wasting my time and hand over my man. Then my people and I walk out of the Glimmer, and we don’t send word to the Prince that the Brokers had the audacity to lay a hand on one of his Grim Reavers. And you and your bone-thumpers offer up a special sacrifice to the Swordsman in the fervent hope that we never have cause to come back into your little slice of Icespire again. You run your empire of smugglers, thieves, and arm-breakers, and you forget that you ever saw our faces.”

  The Broker’s good eyebrow rose. “And if I say no?” His fingers toyed with the hilt of his still-sheathed dagger. “If I give my men the order to attack?”

  “Then the Icewatch finds twenty fresh corpses in the morning.” Aravon met the man’s gaze levelly. “And however many more of your people stand between me and my man.” He said it with no hint of arrogance; it was no boast, no grandiloquent claim of skill. He’d fight his way through the Brokers without hesitation. Three Grim Reavers against twenty men clad in rags, carrying the crudest of weapons. They stood no chance against him.

  The quiet calm in his voice didn’t stop the Brokers from bristling. Men with barrel chests and fists the size of small boulders squared their massive shoulders, tightened grips on their weapons, and squared off, ready to fight. Yet Aravon didn’t bother to look at them. The thugs would only be of concern if ordered to attack—he need only worry about Gengibar Twist.

  He held the Broker leader’s gaze for long seconds. A silent war of wills passed between them, Aravon’s steel meeting Gengibar’s ice-cold stubbornness.

  In the end, it was Gengibar who looked away first. “Vorrad, Barass.” He snapped his long, slim fingers. “Bring him.”

  Two of the thugs encircling the Grim Reavers shot hesitant glances at their leader, then lowered weapons and hurried off into the darkness of the nearby slums.

  Gengibar watched the two until they disappeared. When he turned back to Aravon, a wintry smile tugged at his lips. “We were mostly done with him anyways.”

  The words rang with a note of grim finality, and the icy scorn in Gengibar’s eye drove a dagger of fear into Aravon’s gut.

  A tense silence hung over the Glimmer. Aravon made no move, his hands resting comfortably on his belt, away from his sword yet close enough he could draw in an instant should Gengibar change his mind. The Broker bone-thumpers shifted from foot to foot, darting nervous glances to their leader and each other. All the while, the grin on Gengibar’s face grew colder, his one good eye never leaving Aravon’s face.

  Less than two minutes later, the thugs returned, grunting with the strain of some ponderous encumbrance. Anger and horror roiled in Aravon’s gut as he recognized the burden carrie
d between them: Belthar, bound hand and foot, coils of thick rope encircling his limbs and massive trunk, trussed up like a calf for the slaughter.

  Skathi sucked in a sharp breath at the sight, yet she made no move, even as the two bone-thumpers hurled the tied-up Belthar to the street. Blood trickled from a gash on the big man’s forehead, his nose, and swollen lips. Bruises had already begun to form around his eyes and cheeks—doubtless more would be visible beneath the fine tunic and breeches he’d worn to blend in on the streets of Azure Island. He barely even groaned, but lay quiet, his face pale and twisted by pain.

  “He’ll be dead before daybreak.” Gengibar Twist gave Aravon a smug smile. “If you’re fortunate, you’ll have a chance to say your goodbyes.”

  “What did you do?” Skathi crouched beside Belthar. Her knife made quick work of Belthar’s bonds. “What did you give him?”

  “Widow’s Spite, I hear it’s called.” The man’s grin turned nasty. “Vicious stuff. Liquefies his innards one at a time.” He held up a hand, a look of mock-concern on his face. “Don’t worry: soon his guts will start leaking out his arse, and that’s when the fun really starts. The screaming’s how you know it’s working!”

  “You bastard!” A wild, furious light darkened Skathi’s face. Her fingers tightened, as if aching to draw an arrow and drive it into the Broker’s one good eye. Yet both her bows and her quivers of Agrotorae arrows had been left with the horses and gear back in Pinehollow. She had only the dagger in her hand, the two hanging on her belt, and her longsword.

  “You’re too kind.” Gengibar swept a little half-bow. When he straightened, his smile had grown as hard and sharp as a diamond. “I owed him that much,” he growled. “For Inaia.”

  “Ranina, Ninn, get out of here.” Aravon barked the order. “Get him to Zaharis, now!” he signed with one hand behind his back. The two struggled to help Belthar stand and half-dragged, half-carried him away. Aravon never looked back to see if the thugs parted—his eyes remained locked with Gengibar Twist as he stood unmoving, thumbs still tucked casually into his belt.

  “And you, oh mighty Grim Reaver?” Gengibar Twist cocked an eyebrow. “My patience at your presence grows thin. You don’t walk out of here with your men, might be you never walk out at all.”

  “Answer me one question.” Aravon held up a finger. “One question, and I may forget that you’re responsible for the death of my man.”

  The Broker’s eye narrowed a fraction, but he said nothing.

  Aravon took the silence as acquiescence “Lord Virinus. You’re working with him stealing gold from the Prince.”

  The words elicited an instant reaction. A sudden tension around Gengibar’s eye, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his long fingers froze on the hilt of his dagger—so slight Aravon would have missed it had he not been looking. Yet that response confirmed Aravon’s suspicion.

  “I don’t hear a question,” Gengibar snapped.

  “I don’t need to ask one.” Aravon shook his head. “Your face told me everything I need to know.”

  Fury darkened the man’s eye and his face reddened. He opened his mouth to speak, to bark the order to attack, yet seemed to think better of it and stopped himself.

  Aravon didn’t give the man time to retort, to snarl an insult, or to command him to leave—he simply turned on his heel and strode up the muddy alley. The eight thugs formed up behind him stood their ground, tightened grips on their weapons. He never slowed, never hesitated. It didn’t matter that he was alone in the Glimmer—the weight of the Prince’s insignia and the façade of unflappable confidence protected him far better than his sword and armor.

  He fixed the bone-thumpers with a stern gaze and kept walking straight toward them. His face a mask of calm, though a nervous flutter twisted his stomach. If they didn’t step out of his way, he’d be forced to—

  They moved aside, opened a path for him to pass. Without slowing, Aravon marched up the muddy lane, back the way he’d come what felt an eternity ago.

  “Don’t ever let me see you in the Glimmer again, Grim Reaver!” Gengibar Twist’s voice echoed behind him. “Prince or no, you’re a dead man!”

  Aravon said nothing, never looked back. Keenly aware of the eyes boring fiery holes into his retreating back, yet refusing to show even a fraction of nervousness. As with fighting dogs, the scent of fear would unleash the Brokers’ barely-restrained fury.

  One breath at a time, one measured step at a time, up the street he strode and around the corner. Into the shadows of a nearby alley.

  Then he broke into a run. His boots pounded on the muddy stones and he poured every shred of speed into his legs. Not only to get out of there, get away from Gengibar Twist before the Broker decided he was better off killing the man who insulted and threatened him. He had to get to Belthar now.

  He caught up to Skathi and Noll at the next street. The two smaller Grim Reavers struggled under Belthar’s ponderous weight, their pace frustratingly slow. Belthar had barely regained consciousness enough to keep his feet under him as they staggered, gasping for breath, up the lane that led out of the Glimmer and back into Eastway.

  “Let me!” Aravon pushed in beside Skathi and slung Belthar’s huge left arm over his shoulder. Skathi relinquished her grip on the big man and went to help Noll on Belthar’s right side. Together, the three of them supported the half-senseless man, hurrying as fast as they could.

  A quiet moan escaped Belthar’s lips. Another a few seconds later, and still more. His eyelids snapped open and pain glazed his eyes, twisted his broad, heavy features. Sweat soon streamed down his forehead and he bit down hard on his lips, yet the moaning rose to hissing cries of pain as the four of them stumbled up Leeward Way toward Portside.

  Aravon’s lungs soon begged for air, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to bear Belthar’s weight. Moisture soaked his tunic, stung his eyes, and turned his palms slick. His legs and lower back ached from the burden resting on his shoulders. On Belthar’s right side, Skathi and Noll staggered beneath the big man’s bulk.

  Yet they refused to slow. With the grim determination that had kept them alive and moving so many times before, the three of them pushed through the pain, the fatigue, the strain. Everything faded from Aravon’s mind—all that remained was the mission: getting Belthar back to the Wrinkled Pig.

  He had no idea if Rangvaldr had returned from the Outwards, but if not, Zaharis had to be able to do something to help. Something to stop the Widow’s Spite from eating Belthar from the inside out. The Secret Keeper’s alchemical knowledge had to help save Belthar’s life.

  With every step, the sounds of Belthar’s pain grew louder. He vomited, soiling their boots, and half-sagged on legs gone weak. Aravon, Skathi, and Noll grunted beneath the increased burden. Yet somehow, they managed to keep Belthar from collapsing.

  On they staggered, dragging the big man between them. They wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t quit. The life of one of their own hung in the balance.

  Hope surged within Aravon as the taverns and bawdy houses of Portside came into view. The red-shaded lanterns guided their steps through the darkness, like lighthouses pointing the way to safety. Biting back against his exhaustion, he adjusted his grip on Belthar’s huge torso and hauled harder. They had to move faster, had to get Belthar to Zaharis now, before the poison caused irreversible damage.

  “Hold on, Belthar!” Skathi’s voice pierced the thundering of Aravon’s pulse in his ears. “You keep fighting to stay alive, you big lummox.”

  “I’ll…tr—” Belthar’s weak words cut off in a gasp and grunt, a grimace twisting his features. He hissed as another wave of pain flashed through him.

  “Almost…there!” Aravon gasped.

  He nearly wept in relief; there, two streets north and east of them, stood the Wrinkled Pig. He’d never been so glad to see so squat and dirty a building before in his life.

  Maneuvering Belthar through the narrow front door required a near-superhuman effort of will. Belthar�
�s legs had gone weak, too weak to hold him upright, so Aravon had to drape the big man’s frame over his shoulders. His knees groaned beneath the strain, and his back screamed in protest as he and Noll struggled to drag Belthar up the stairs. Skathi hefted Belthar’s legs, pushing and wrestling his huge body.

  It seemed an eternity before the sweating, grunting, gasping trio hauled the half-conscious Belthar down the third-floor corridor. Skathi squeezed past and barreled toward the door of their room. She didn’t wait, didn’t knock, simply drove her shoulder into the wooden door and burst through.

  “Zaharis!” Her shout rang out in the hall. “It’s Belthar. He’s dying!”

  Chapter Seventy

  Zaharis was on his feet even as Aravon and Noll staggered through the door. The Secret Keeper took in the scene—Skathi’s sweat-drenched face, the panic in her voice, Aravon and Noll staggering beneath the prodigious weight of Belthar’s immense frame, and the big man’s moans—in an instant. All trace of fatigue faded from his face.

  “Put him on the bed,” his fingers flashed. “Then get the fiery hell out of my way!”

  The ropes of the wooden cot creaked and the frame groaned as Aravon and Noll lowered Belthar onto the straw-tick mattress. Free of his burden, Aravon staggered backward, clearing the way for Zaharis. And for himself to collapse against the windowsill. Every muscle along his spine was on fire, his lungs filled with molten lead. The miles from the Glimmer had been the longest of his life, and that was after the encounter with Gengibar Twist left him drained. He leaned against the open window and gasped in the salt-heavy sea air drifting south from the Port of Icespire.

  Snarl’s amber eyes appeared outside the window and the Enfield gave a little whine, nuzzling his wet nose against Aravon’s hand. Aravon stroked Snarl’s fur, yet his eyes turned back to where Zaharis stooped over Belthar.

  Noll sat on the opposite cot, as drained as Aravon, his narrow face dripping perspiration. Skathi, however, hadn’t left Belthar’s side. “Do something, damn it!” A storm of worry brewed in her eyes.