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

by Andy Peloquin

  Chapter Seventy-One

  At some point, Aravon must have fallen asleep, for when next he opened his eyes, bright sunlight streamed through the oilcloth window. Zaharis had dozed off in the corner, the chunk of ghoulstone still clutched in his hands. Snarl had returned sometime during the night and now lay curled up next to Belthar, his furry head resting on the big man’s massive arm. Only Skathi remained awake. Her face was pale, the muscles tense and deep lines around her mouth and eyes.

  Skathi glanced over as Aravon stood, and held out a scrap of parchment without a word. Aravon took it, read the note penned in Lord Eidan’s hand. “Acknowledged. Advise on location and status.” As expected, the spymaster wanted to know more—it was his job, after all. But that could wait. Aravon pocketed the parchment. He had more important things to worry about.

  “How is he?” Aravon moved toward the archer and the sleeping Belthar, keenly aware of the twinges and aches in his muscles from long hours spent sitting.

  “Worse.” Skathi’s voice was grim, her tone edged with doubt and concern. “He’s not in pain, but he’s getting weaker. If Noll doesn’t get back here with Rangvaldr soon—”

  “He will!” Aravon placed a hand on her shoulder. “If anyone can find one Fehlan in the Outwards, it’s Noll.”

  Skathi’s jaw muscles worked. “Damned fool.” She shook her head, her eyes fixed on Belthar. “Just like him to go and get himself killed at the worst possible time. Just when…” She swallowed whatever she’d been about to say. Long seconds passed before she found her voice again. “Just when we need him most.”

  Again, there was more to her words than met the ear, a depth of meaning she wanted to keep hidden yet echoed in her voice.

  “That was the last thing I expected, you know?” Skathi gave a harsh chuckle. “He’s surprising. Big man like him, no one would ever imagine he was one hell of a thief. But seeing him lead the way into Ironcastle, and the Broker tunnels, and now, watching him slide through the crowds like a wolf through a herd of sheep, it’s pretty damned impressive.” Her head snapped around and her emerald eyes blazed as they locked on his. “And if you tell him I said that—”

  “You’ll put an arrow through my eye, got it.” Aravon smiled. He sat back on his own bed, studying Belthar’s blunt features, barrel chest, and thick beard. “Surprising is pretty much the best word to describe him. In nearly every way. Growing up in the Glimmer, but turning into the sort of man he is. That life, everything he endured, it would harden most people. Not him.”

  “No.” Skathi smiled, a sad smile tinged with a hint of vexation. “It made him strong, but didn’t harden him. And that’s what makes him so damned frustrating.”

  Aravon cocked an eyebrow.

  “We’ve all lived hard lives.” Skathi glanced at him, a fleeting look, almost as if embarrassed that she’d revealed more than she intended. “Dealt with more than our fair share of shite. Been beaten up and beaten down time and time again. Just like him.” Her jaw muscles worked and she rolled her broad shoulders. “But while some of us hardened like iron, gone brittle, life’s tempered him, turned him into quality steel. So what’s so damned special about him? Why does he get better while the rest of us simply…endure?”

  “I don’t know.” Aravon shrugged. “I don’t think I could have dealt with half of what he has. But maybe that is what makes him special. A strength that runs deeper than just those damned huge muscles.”

  Skathi gave a harsh chuckle. “I didn’t take you for the jealous type, Captain.”

  “I’m a man, remember?” Aravon grinned and shrugged. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be envious of someone strong enough to bend good steel with their bare hands.”

  “Well, that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration.” Skathi rolled her eyes. “He’s no Balgrid the Giant.”

  “True.” Aravon inclined his head. “But over the last few months, I’ve come to find that there are few people in this world stronger than him. Stronger in spirit. Watching him fight on no matter how impossible the odds, throwing himself in harm’s way for the sake of protecting others. Even when they resented him for it.”

  A low growl rumbled in Skathi’s throat.

  “But he’s not the only one whose strength runs to the core.” Now Aravon turned to the Agrotora and fixed her with a meaningful look. “I know at least one other person who’s taken everything life has thrown at her and turned it into a will harder than diamond, tougher than Odarian steel.”

  Skathi met his gaze, yet a hint of color flushed her cheeks.

  “And I think that when he looks at you, that’s what he sees.” Aravon’s eyes went back to the sleeping Belthar. “Hell, it’s what we all see. From the day you arrived at Camp Marshal, you made your mark on our company. We wouldn’t be here without you, and there’s no doubt in any of our minds that we’re all better soldiers, better human beings, because you’re by our side. Because we have your example to follow. That no matter how tough the situation gets, no matter how deep in shite we are, our Redwing is going to keep fighting. So we’re damned well going to fight alongside her.”

  “Men and their egos, never willing to be outdone by a woman!” Her tone rang with mockery, yet gratitude sparkled in her green eyes.

  “Some people just set too bloody high a standard to live up to.” Aravon gave her a wry smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the only reason we’ve done what we have is because we’re all too busy trying to measure up to you to consider any impossibilities.”

  Genuine mirth echoed in Skathi’s laughter, and a hint of warmth brightened her eyes. “Smooth words, Captain. If you weren’t already married, I’d say the women of Icespire were fools not to snatch—”

  The door burst open, cutting off Skathi’s words, and Rangvaldr raced into the room with Noll on his heels.

  “Belthar!” Rangvaldr threw himself to one knee beside the big man. His heavy, greying brow furrowed and his green eyes went dark. “Nuius be merciful!”

  “Help him, Seiomenn,” Noll pressed. “Do your holy stones thing and fix it.”

  Rangvaldr didn’t need Noll’s insistence; he was already reaching for the pendant around his neck. He muttered those words of power, that ancient language unknown to Aravon and his companions—perhaps even to the Seiomenn himself—yet which brought the holy stone flaring to life.

  A soft blue glow filled the room, pushing back the golden noonday sunlight and radiating a soothing warmth. Rangvaldr pressed the stone to Belthar’s chest, his stomach, his sides, and his neck. Everywhere he touched, the tension seemed to drain from the big man’s body. He breathed easier, his sleep less troubled by pain. When the light of the stones finally dimmed, an almost-normal color had returned to Belthar’s face. Even as Rangvaldr tucked the holy stone away, Belthar’s eyes fluttered open.

  “I had the strangest dream,” he whispered. His gaze went to Skathi. “I could have sworn I heard someone say I was pretty damned impressive.”

  “Hallucinations.” Skathi shook her head. “The poison messed with your ears, turned your brain to mush.”

  “Aye.” A crooked grin broadened Belthar’s huge face. He closed his eyes, yet all trace of pain and fatigue had gone. His chest rose and fell steadily, and the tension in the room faded away, leaving only a profound sense of relief.

  “Bloody hell!” Aravon ran a hand through his head. “That was…”

  “Yeah.” Skathi nodded. “Too damned close.”

  “Bloody right!” Noll scowled. “You’ve no idea how hard it was to find our Stonekeeper here! The Outwarders weren’t exactly forthcoming about where he’d gone.”

  “You did good.” Aravon gave the scout a reassuring nod. “All that matters is that you got here in time.”

  “And with information of value,” Rangvaldr added. His lips twisted into a frown. “Sadly, not good news.”

  Aravon’s gut tightened. “Of course not.” He drew in a long breath. “Well, let’s have it.”

  “It’s Lord Virinus,” the Seiomenn said.
“He’s gone into hiding.”

  “What?” Aravon leapt to his feet. “Where?”

  “No one knew.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “But three dozen Fehlans swore they saw his carriage rumbling down the Eastmarch two hours before noon.”

  Damn! Aravon growled a silent curse. Had he ordered Skathi to leave Belthar’s side—or simply gone himself—he might have gotten close enough to find out where the nobleman was going. Lord Virinus could head anywhere in the Princelands. With his wealth, he had to have allies in every duchy. He’d be damned hard to find.

  Yet they hadn’t lost all hope. They still had one more source of information. If anyone will know where to find him, it’s the Hidden Circle!

  He glanced outside. Noon had come and gone, but evening would fall in just a few hours. And when darkness finally settled atop Icespire, he and Zaharis would pay another visit to Astrometrist Essedus and find out everything the Hidden Circle could tell him about Lord Aleron Virinus’ treachery.

  * * *

  The shadows in Littlemarket seemed thicker, the evening gloom more impenetrable as Aravon and Zaharis slipped down the narrow side street toward Essedus’ little wooden shop. Aravon’s eyes never stopped moving, never stopped roaming the darkness for any sign of danger. His shoulders tightened, worry gnawing in his gut.

  Yet, as they reached the astrometrist’s and saw no sign of danger, he tried to shake it off as nothing more than the effects of the city. After the Hunter of Voramis and Gengibar Twist, he couldn’t help looking for enemies concealed around every corner, within every darkened alley.

  An ominous silence greeted them as they swung open the wooden door to Essedus’ shop. No bell tinkled, only the quiet scritch, scritch of a quill pen nib writing on parchment.

  The wizened Essedus sat behind the counter, the candle once more burning at his side and a long, white feather pen in his right hand. Behind him, one of the bookshelves had been pulled aside, revealing a hidden door—doubtless into a secret back room.

  The astrometrist glanced up at Aravon and Zaharis entering his shop, yet never set down the quill. “You’ve returned.”

  “Do you have what we came for?” Aravon translated Zaharis’ silent hand signals as the Secret Keeper stalked toward the man. To his surprise, Essedus didn’t shrink back. Indeed, he seemed almost smug.

  Instinct shrieked at the back of Aravon’s mind. Something’s wrong.

  Essedus moved before Aravon could voice his suspicion. “Not a step closer!” The gnarled man’s left hand snapped up from behind the counter, gripping a crossbow barely wider than Aravon’s palm and aiming at Zaharis’ chest. A finger-length dart was set in its cradle, but in place of a sharp metallic head, the tip was a small glass globe gleaming with a dark grey-brown liquid. “One breath of Slumber’s Kiss is more than enough to drop you where you stand!”

  Aravon’s hackles rose. His eyes darted around the shop, yet he could see nothing within the tiny wooden room to make him suspect danger. So why did the alchemist think threatening two of them with one tiny crossbow was a real threat? Something about the scene didn’t make sense.

  “I went to your Temple of Whispers to deliver the information!” Essedus’ deep-lined face drooped into a furious snarl. “Imagine my surprise to discover the truth.”

  Dropping the pen, he snatched up something else from the wooden counter: a bell, the one that had hung over the door. With a triumphant smile, he rang the bell once, twice.

  Before the tinny tinkling had fallen silent, the door to the shop burst open. Aravon and Zaharis whirled, in time to see a half-dozen men in muted brown robes spill into the room.

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. The Secret Keepers had found them.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Aravon sucked in a breath as one of the Secret Keepers stepped forward. He’d recognize the man anywhere—short, balding, with a pencil moustache above his upper lip and a long, thin goatee hanging from his chin, and arms corded with lean ropes of muscle. The same Secret Keeper they’d encountered at Rivergate.

  “It’s over, Zaharis,” Darrak signed in the silent Secret Keeper hand language. “Your fruitless quest for something that does not exist. Your hopeless flight and evasion of the Mistress’ justice. Your betrayal of the oaths we swore to our goddess. This is the end for you. Come quietly, and there may still be hope for you to live.”

  Aravon’s eyes darted between Darrak and the six brown-robed figures spread out behind him. The priests didn’t spare him a second glance—they cared only about Zaharis. Wary tension etched the lines of their faces and every muscle in their shoulders, spines, and open hands had gone rigid. As if fearing the worst, holding little hope that Darrak’s words would convince Zaharis to accept his fate without resistance.

  His hand inched toward the sword on his belt, but stopped as one of the Secret Keepers turned toward him with a silent, stern glare.

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. The priest’s look held the dispassionate calm of a stonemason studying an uncarved headstone. Zaharis had warned him that anyone caught in his company would be executed; just because the priests judged him the lesser threat, that didn’t mean they planned to let him escape punishment.

  Two of us against seven of them. Acid twisted in Aravon’s stomach. In Rivergate, Darrak had nearly killed him and Noll while fighting Zaharis. Now, with the odds stacked so heavily against them, their chances of survival dwindled to nonexistent.

  Zaharis raised his hands slowly and signed, “If I surrender, will you let my companions live?”

  Aravon wanted to shout, to rail at Zaharis. He’d never accept one of his men submitting to such a grisly fate. Yet he understood what the Secret Keeper tried to do—what he was willing to do for them all.

  Darrak’s expression grew stony. “You know the cost of the Mistress’ knowledge.” He gestured to his mouth. “We pay the price when we swear the oaths to serve. But to those not so sworn, such forbidden truths come at a cost only paid in blood and death.”

  “There is nothing I can say to convince you to let this go?” Zaharis narrowed his eyes. “No promise to make, no vow to swear that will sway you—” His gaze roamed Darrak’s six companions. “—any of you?”

  “The vows you once made—to serve our goddess of whispered truths until the day you draw your last breath—have been broken,” signed another Secret Keeper, a woman with hair shaved close to the sides of her scalp and braided in one long tail down her back. “To you, Faithless One, all that remains is the Lustration, the cleansing sacrifice.”

  An involuntary shudder ran down Aravon’s spine at mention of the sacrifice. He’d seen the fire in Zaharis’ eyes as he threatened Essedus with the removal of his eyes, tongue, limbs, head, and the utter desecration of his body—the “cleansing sacrifice” believed holy by these fanatical priests of the goddess of secrets.

  The woman’s fingers never slowed as she formed the solemn words. “It is the fate of all who desecrate the Mistress’ holy secrets.”

  Her right hand moved, so quickly Aravon never saw her draw the dagger from within her sleeve. Yet he heard the thunk of steel punching into flesh, the sudden gasp of air. He whirled in time to see the alchemist staggering backward, eyes wide, the slim handle of a steel throwing knife protruding from his throat.

  “You…promised…my life!” the wizened man gurgled around a mouthful of blood.

  A somber frown darkened the woman’s face. “There can be no forgiveness for blasphemers.”

  With a harsh, bubbling gasp, the alchemist toppled to the side. His body thumped into the wooden floor amid a cloud of ancient, musty-smelling dust. The handheld crossbow clattered from his lifeless fingers and slid across the floor, coming to a stop less than an arm’s length from Aravon.

  He acted without a second thought. Threw himself into a dive, arms outstretched, fingers reaching for the loaded crossbow. His hand closed around the wooden stock and he came to his knees, spun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

  Time slowed
in that instant. Bright steel spun toward him in a blur of motion, rebounded off his leather breastplate, and spun away. The crossbow’s trigger clicked, and there was a little jerk in Aravon’s hand as the string, loosened from its cradle, twanged. The six-inch crossbow bolt leapt across the space between him and the Secret Keepers and struck the floor just in front of the priests. A loud crack of glass echoed within the chamber, followed an instant later by a whoomph of the mixture within escaping. A thick cloud of brown gas billowed up from the floor, engulfing the priests in a heartbeat.

  “Run!” Aravon threw the crossbow into the smoke—hoping to hit a Secret Keeper—and leapt to his feet, reaching for Zaharis’ arm. Zaharis stood frozen, shocked. Yet his surprise lasted for only an instant before he whirled, hurdled the counter, and burst through the door into the alchemist’s back room.

  As Aravon leapt over the counter, something slammed into his back. The force of the impact hurled him forward and sent him staggering. Steel clattered to the wooden floor—another dagger, he guessed, thrown blind from within the cloud of brown smoke. He managed to catch himself before barreling into Zaharis.

  Only to find he stood within a room that held no windows or doors. No way out, except through the door they’d just entered.

  Zaharis was already moving, darting around Aravon, seizing the door, and slamming it shut behind them. Not a moment too soon. The door shuddered beneath the impact of something heavy—a Secret Keeper foot, shoulder, or some other, heavier weapon. Another thump, this time accompanied by the splintering of wood.

  Aravon cast around for an escape. A man like the astrometrist, someone who spent their life in hiding from Secret Keepers, would have to have some back way out. An escape hatch, a tunnel, some concealed exit that only he knew existed. But unless they stumbled upon it by luck, it would do them no good.