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

by Andy Peloquin

  Zaharis’ grim expression told Aravon he’d had the same thought. The tension lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as the door shuddered beneath another heavy strike. A moment later, a loud bubbling echoed from the door.

  A foul, biting reek filled the room, twisting Aravon’s gut in knots. He spun back toward the door and his eyes flew wide as the thick oak began to hiss and liquefy before his eyes.

  “Woodborer Venom!” Zaharis sucked in a breath, recoiling from the acid melting the door. “Don’t let it touch you!”

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. He had no illusions as to their chances of survival once the Secret Keepers got through that door—he’d faced Zaharis in hand-to-hand combat on the training field, and no one, not even Colborn, could defeat him. And against seven Zaharises?

  “The roof!” Zaharis thrust a finger upward.

  Of course! Aravon’s eyes darted toward the ceiling. The astrometrist’s shop, like all the buildings of Littlemarket, had roofs of sun-baked clay tiles set atop a wooden frame.

  “Give me a boost,” Zaharis signed as he backed toward the door.

  Aravon crouched and formed his hands into a stirrup—a classic Legion maneuver for scaling high walls and buildings.

  Zaharis took two quick steps, raised his foot, and sprang off Aravon’s hands. In that moment, Aravon threw all the force of his legs, back, arms, and shoulders into hurling the Secret Keeper upward. Zaharis’ boosted jump carried him high enough to close his hands around the largest of the wooden beams supporting the roof. He used the momentum of his leap to swing his legs upward and drove his heels into the tiles. Clay shattered and sharp, hard shards rained down onto and around Aravon. Yet, through the gap, he could see the starry sky above.

  Wrapping his legs around the wooden support beam, Zaharis swung his arms down and reached for Aravon. “Jump!”

  Aravon leapt as high as he could manage, and the fingers of his right hand locked around Zaharis’ left wrist. With the strength that had so impressed Aravon back at Camp Marshal, the sinewy Secret Keeper swung Aravon upward. Aravon’s reaching left hand closed onto the tiles, and though clay cracked beneath his grip, he managed to haul himself upward through the hole. Even as he scrabbled for purchase on the rooftop, the sound of wood splintering echoed in the room below.

  Fear set fire coursing through his veins. He was through the hole in the roof and rolling away before the door hit the ground. An instant later, Zaharis appeared through the gap, swinging like a sailor on a rope. Aravon seized the Secret Keeper’s arm and hauled him away from the opening.

  Not a second too soon. Two daggers hurtled through the hole and spun away into the night. Aravon had only a brief glimpse of Darrak’s moustached face in the room below as the Secret Keeper burst through what was left of the door. Then he was on his feet and racing away across the rooftop, Zaharis a step behind him.

  Zaharis overtook him in two steps. “This way!” He darted to his left, toward the single-story built up against the rear of Essedus’ shop. He leapt off the edge without slowing and flew through the air to land hard on the rooftop below. Tiles cracked under his boots, but he never stumbled, never wavered. His strong legs propelled him across the rooftop at breathtaking speed, away from the Secret Keepers on their heels.

  Aravon followed as best he could, dropping the eight feet to the roof and landing in a forward roll to absorb the momentum. Teeth gritted, heart hammering, he took off in pursuit of Zaharis. He’d never match the Secret Keeper’s agility or litheness, yet the threat of death on his heels drove him to desperation. He hurled himself across the broad gaps, pounded across rooftops, and dropped after Zaharis.

  Once, he dared to risk a glance backward. Dark shadows whispered through the night behind him. Barely more than a flutter of brown cloth, a hint of gloom black against the starlit sky, or a gleam of eyes reflecting the glow of the Icespire to the northeast. Yet though he never truly saw the Secret Keepers, he had no doubt they were there, coming for him. They wanted him dead, and the only hope of surviving this was to lose any sign of pursuit now.

  A wordless cry came from the rooftop ahead, and Zaharis fell hard, shattering clay tiles. Liquid shadow seemed to coalesce around him, blocking him from Aravon’s view. Yet a moment later, the gloom fell backward—a Secret Keeper, toppling, hacking and clutching at his throat. Zaharis leapt to his feet, kicked the brown-robed priest once in the face, and spun to dash off into the night.

  Only to find himself face to face with another priest that seemed to coalesce from the empty night sky. The dark brown robes blended with the shadows of Littlemarket, only visible when the Secret Keeper threw himself at Zaharis. His fists pummeled Zaharis’ midsection with staggering force. Zaharis gasped, stumbled backward, and tottered on the edge of the clay-tiled rooftop.

  Growling a silent curse, Aravon threw himself at the priest attacking Zaharis. His arms wrapped around the man’s waist and his shoulder drove right into the Secret Keeper’s gut. As his weight collided with the man, he shoved hard, released the priest, and planted his feet to arrest his forward motion. His charge hurled the Secret Keeper backward hard enough to slam him to the tiled roof. While the priest lay stunned, gasping for air, Aravon whirled toward Zaharis, arms outstretched. He snagged Zaharis’ wrist just in time to keep the man from plummeting to the ground below.

  Zaharis had only an instant to shoot him a grateful nod before two more shadows detached from the darkness around him. Cloth fluttered, slippered feet pattered across the clay tiles, and the Secret Keepers raced toward them, leaping through the night air to drop from two adjoining rooftops.

  “Down!” Zaharis signed. Without hesitation, he turned and leapt off the sloping roof. Aravon followed in the Secret Keeper’s wake, dropping the ten feet to the cobblestone street one story below. His boots thumped hard on the street and a spike of pain shot up his knees. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the throbbing in his joints and took off after Zaharis.

  The Secret Keepers gave pursuit soundlessly—they had no tongues to cry out, and the silence of their pursuit felt all the more eerie after weeks facing howling, shrieking Eirdkilrs. Noiseless death padded along in Aravon and Zaharis’ wake, like stalking mountain greatcats hunting prey through the darkened streets of Icespire.

  Yet the same gloom that concealed so many enemies also offered shelter for Aravon and Zaharis. When Zaharis darted down a street that led west, Aravon realized the Secret Keeper’s intention. Closer to the city wall, the buildings of Littlemarket grew taller, the shadows deeper. There they had a chance of evading their pursuers—at the very least, losing enough of the Secret Keepers that they could fight, hide, or slip past the priests.

  Fear and a hint of panic set Aravon’s heart hammering so hard it threatened to burst free of his chest. He’d faced death before—hundreds of times—yet the thought of being taken by the Secret Keepers and submitted to their hideous execution, the Lustration, sent a shiver of cold dread down his spine. Soldiers died in battle, slain by enemy weapons. The grim death awaiting him and Zaharis at the Secret Keepers’ hands was something far darker and grimmer, a ritual as bloodthirsty as the sacrifices carried out in the Deid Hefjakumbl.

  Through the shadows of Littlemarket they ran, never slowing in their desperate flight from the Mistress’ priests. Zaharis led them on a zig-zagging route through back alleys, down side streets, and into narrow gaps between the wood and brick houses. Sweat streamed down Aravon’s face and his sodden tunic clung to his chest. Yet despite the fire burning in his legs, his lungs, and his gut, he fought to keep up to the seemingly tireless Zaharis.

  Soon, the city wall loomed large before them, a mere hundred paces away. But two streets before they reached the towering stone enclosure, Zaharis cut sharply left to the south. One block down a muddy alley and swivel to the right, west once more toward the wall. Again to the south, back to the east, and farther south still.

  Then, so abruptly Aravon nearly missed it, Zaharis threw himself into a sliver of darkness betw
een two buildings. Skidding to a halt, Aravon leapt into the shadows and pressed his face against the brick wall. The lane was so narrow he couldn’t turn properly sideways, and the overhanging eaves of the rooftops above overlapped each other. The little through-path would be invisible from above, and the alley would be hard to spot from the street. As long as they made no sound, no movement to draw attention, they should be safe.

  Aravon struggled to control his breathing, to slow the frantic thundering of his heart. His pulse rushed in his ears so loud he feared it would give away his position to anyone in the vicinity. With effort, he swallowed the panic digging icy fingers into his brain. Fear rendered men stupid, and they needed every shred of cunning to evade their pursuit now.

  Salty sweat stung at his eyes, but Aravon dared not wipe it away. Didn’t dare to move a muscle. Any noise, even the slightest flicker of motion, and the Secret Keepers could find them.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Gritting his teeth, Aravon forced his breath to calm. One, two, three seconds in. One, two seconds out. Again, and again, until his heart slowed and the fear stampeding through his mind gave way to adrenaline-fueled clarity.

  He retraced their route from Essedus’ wooden shop—their desperate flight across the rooftops, then through the back lanes of Icespire. They were near the southern border of Littlemarket, close to Princetown. Unless the Secret Keepers had flooded the streets in droves, they had to have escaped their pursuit. There was simply no way the brown-robed priests could have kept up with Zaharis’ tortuous route through Littlemarket.

  Yet he refused to move until fully ten minutes had passed. Ten minutes, and no sign of the Secret Keepers. Not a flutter of cloth flapping in the night wind, not the whisper of a slippered foot on the cobblestone street.

  Cautiously, he stepped out of the shadows of the back lane onto the street. The two- and three-story buildings of Littlemarket blocked out most of the Icespire’s light, but faint threads and narrow beams pierced the cracks between the houses and shops. The pitiful illumination shone on empty streets as far as Aravon could tell. When no Secret Keepers leapt from the shadows to attack him, he let out his breath for what felt like the first time in hours.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Aravon hissed in a voice pitched low for Zaharis’ ears only.

  Zaharis stepped into a patch of moonlight, and there was pain etched into every line of his face. A gloom far darker than the deep shadows around them. The same anguish that had twisted his spirit when first he encountered Darrak in Rivergate. Perhaps even worse now, knowing that the man that had once meant so much to him was determined to kill him. To hunt him down with the relentless persistence of a tidal wave rushing toward the shore.

  “This is bad.” Aravon’s mind raced. “They know you’re here in Icespire. There’s no chance they’re going to stop until they find you, is there?”

  Zaharis shook his head. “Every Secret Keeper in the city will be hunting me. And now you. They know your face.”

  They know my face. A chilling statement, one that resounded with dire finality. The Secret Keepers wanted him dead. Him, Aravon of Icespire. Not Captain Snarl, the faceless man behind the mask. They had seen his face—even masked by his long hair and thick beard, it was still his face.

  Cold dread settled over Aravon. I can never go home.

  The thought struck him with the force of an Eirdkilr club to the chest. He’d always known his service to the Prince held its dangers, and it had been a given that he would remain dead to the world for as long as he served with the Grim Reavers. Yet this new realization flooded him with a fresh torment. He could never remove the mask. Could never go home. The Secret Keepers would hunt him for the rest of his life. Mask or no, Captain Aravon or Captain Snarl, he was marked for death by the Mistress’ priests.

  And if he went home, he’d put Mylena and his sons in danger as well.

  Horror twisted a dagger in his gut. “We…” His voice came out strangled, hoarse. He swallowed and tried again. “We need to get back to the Wrinkled Pig, regroup with the others, and figure out our next move.”

  Zaharis scrunched up his face. “The fact that the Secret Keepers came for us here means they don’t know where we’re hiding out. Yet.” His eyes darkened. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Then we hurry the fuck up.” Aravon gritted his teeth against the icy dread seeping through his veins. “We get the others and find somewhere new to hole up. Someplace they’ll never think to look for us.”

  “They’ll go to the Outwards, the Glimmer, and Littlemarket first.” Zaharis grimaced. “They’ll expect us to go hide there.”

  “Belthar’s got to know someplace safe.” Aravon couldn’t be certain—the big man hadn’t even been able to avoid his former Broker comrades. But at the moment, they had no other choice but to try.

  Zaharis’ fingers remained still for long seconds, his expression pensive. Finally, he inclined his head. “So be it.” He said no more—there was no more to be said. The situation had grown dire, and they could only adapt and fight as the battle demanded.

  Without a word, Aravon set off through the streets of Littlemarket, south toward Princetown. His eyes never ceased roaming the shadows of the alleys, back lanes, and broad avenues they passed. He searched each shuttered window and barred door, each patch of darkness beneath overhanging roof eaves or upper-floor balconies. He gripped the hilt of his sword so firmly his knuckles groaned beneath the strain. Yet no matter how his forearms ached, he refused to release his hold. He needed to be ready if the Secret Keepers found them.

  With every step farther south and east, the knots in Aravon’s shoulders tightened. The nervous roiling in his stomach intensified as they reached Windward Way. He crouched in shadows, studying the few people moving along the broad avenue cutting through the west of Icespire. Merchants pulling handcarts or tugging on the ropes of stubborn oxen hauling wagons laden high with goods. Icewatchers patrolling along the main road, their armor clattering and clanking with every tromp of their booted feet. Men and women hurrying about whatever late-night business kept them from home and bed.

  No sign of Secret Keepers. No silent, dark-eyed figures in muted brown robes.

  Swallowing the acid rising to his throat, Aravon motioned for Zaharis to move. They broke from the cover of darkness and dashed across the broad avenue, darting toward a patch of deep gloom between a pair of three-story buildings. Aravon felt naked, exposed as they raced through the open space. But even as they darted into the shadows once more, his nervousness refused to diminish.

  The two hours it took them to cross the People’s Markets, Eastway, and reach the streets of Portside felt like an eternity. Sweat soaked Aravon’s tunic, turned his palms damp, and streamed down his forehead despite the night’s chill. His neck ached from the incessant swiveling of his head, and his eyelids drooped with exhaustion. He hated himself for the nervous fear, for the way his heart pounded a terrified staccato against his ribs. But after their encounter with the Secret Keepers, he couldn’t shake the disquiet settling in his stomach.

  Only when they crossed the Legion’s Path did Aravon’s trepidation begin to diminish. No way the Secret Keepers could have hunted them all this distance. Had Darrak and his fellow priests actually caught up, they would have attacked rather than trailing the pair of them through the streets.

  Aravon allowed himself to breathe, to release his death-grip on his sword hilt. He felt a fool, like a green recruit leaping at the shadows of the Fehlan forests or yelping at the sound of branches rustling in the evening wind. Him, a fifteen-year veteran of the Legion of Heroes, afraid of priests. He forced a smile—it sounded ridiculous—but it was precisely that, forced. There had been nothing ridiculous about the very real threat of those brown-robed Secret Keepers.

  Relief flooded Aravon as he recognized the streets leading toward the Wrinkled Pig. He couldn’t help feeling glad to get out of sight and off the streets, someplace where he didn’t have to worry about being hunted. He need
ed a clear head to think, to consider their next steps. Without information from Essedus and the Hidden Circle, they had nothing to go on. That left them with few options going forward.

  Let’s hope the others have come up with—

  A hand reached out from the shadows of a nearby alley and dragged him into the darkness. Aravon staggered, pulled off-balance, but managed to spin and lash out with a vicious punch aimed at his attacker’s side—intended to crack ribs or drive into soft kidneys. His fist struck only empty air, but the grip on his shoulder loosened.

  “Easy!” hissed a familiar voice. “It’s me!”

  Aravon barely managed to pull his follow-up strike before it struck a heavy Fehlan jaw. “Colborn?” he whispered. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

  Colborn gestured for him to follow, and took off down the alley. The muddy lane led parallel to the street Aravon and Zaharis had been traveling, running north and letting out due west of the Wrinkled Pig. “Look!” The half-Fehlan Lieutenant thrust a finger around the corner.

  Aravon peered out of the darkness and his brow furrowed in confusion. The Wrinkled Pig appeared as squat and sturdy as the last time he’d seen it. A fire burned in the iron brazier set before the inn’s front entrance, revealing nothing but silence and darkness.

  He was about to turn back to Colborn when a hint of movement caught his attention. A glimmer of steel, flashing blue-white beneath the glow of the Icespire, in the alley east of the Wrinkled Pig. Aravon sucked in a breath. Not just one, but three heavily-armored figures stood waiting in the darkness, their eyes locked on the tavern.

  “Shite!” he cursed.

  The Steel Company had found their hiding place.

  “How in the bloody hell did they track us?” Aravon rounded on Colborn. “Please tell me Noll didn’t go back to the Shattered Shield!”

  Colborn shook his head. “I don’t think so.” His heavy Fehlan features creased into a grimace. “But how much coin do you think it would take for the innkeeper to turn us over? Especially when it’s the Steel Company mercenaries doing the asking?”