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

by Andy Peloquin

  As if on cue, hundreds of howling Eirdkilrs poured from the Outwards, carrying wooden roof beams, pushing carts, and hauling ladders hurriedly lashed together from the rubble of the slums. Hastily improvised siege tools as crude as a stone club, yet borne by the strong arms of the Eirdkilrs, they could do terrible damage.

  Against a Legion-held garrison, the Eirdkilrs would have stood little chance. Yet here, facing fewer than a thousand Icewatchers—men more comfortable sitting in a tavern than standing in a shield wall, city guards that had never even seen an Eirdkilr much less faced them in battle—the siege would turn against the defenders all too soon. If, as Aravon believed, Asger Einnauga was in command of this force, he’d have a proper plan of besieging the city. Eirik Throrsson had said the sieges at Rivergate, Dagger Garrison, and the Bulwark had all been Einnauga’s idea.

  The Icewatch had little hope of stopping the attack. They had crossbows, but how many quarrels among them? And how many of the city guards had actually used the weapons outside the training ground or had even a fraction of expertise? Icespire hadn’t seen battle in more than close to two centuries—no way the city could be even close to prepared for an assault on this scale.

  A fact Tyr Farbjodr had doubtless counted on. Which explained why he’d gone to such lengths to draw the Legionnaires away from Icespire, until only the ill-prepared, under-manned Icewatch remained to defend the city alone.

  All this flashed through Aravon’s mind in the space of a few heartbeats. The world around him had faded at the sight of his burning city, of the danger to his people and his family. Now, with effort, he dragged himself out of his thoughts.

  “…the bloody hell’s the plan, Captain?” Noll’s voice filtered through the distant chaos.

  Aravon turned to the scout, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, he realized he had no plan. What could he possibly do? The enemy outnumbered their meager defense force nearly ten to one. He had no Legionnaires, no Fehlan warriors to march at his side. All he had were the six Grim Reavers at his side and a handful of untrained guards trapped within a city under siege.

  Worse, he had no way to help. He couldn’t launch a rear attack on the Eirdkilrs, not just the seven of them. They couldn’t barrel through the enemy forces like Belthar, Zaharis, Rangvaldr, and Noll had done using those burning wagons at Steinnbraka Delve. He had no reinforcements to summon like he’d had at Hangman’s Hill. Not even the advantage of the high ground or his chosen terrain, like at Bjornstadt and Broken Canyon. He couldn’t even get into the city to help defend it from within.

  “I…” He swallowed. “I’ve got no damned idea.”

  Chapter Eighty-One

  His words seemed to hang heavy in the air, punctuated by the screaming Outwarders, the howls of the Eirdkilrs, and the crackling flames consuming the slums outside the city wall. For the first time in his life, Aravon could think of nothing.

  A sense of helplessness washed over him, left him feeling numb. As numb as when he’d ridden into the clearing and found Duke Dyrund lying silent and cold in Zaharis’ lap, or when he’d stood in the crowd in Sanctuary Court and stared at the lifeless husk that had once been General Traighan.

  He could find no words—what could he say in the face of such impossible odds? How could he think his way out of this one? The weight of everything that had happened over the last few weeks came crashing down on him.

  So much death and suffering. Sixth Company. Draian. The Legionnaires at Rivergate and the Fjall warriors outside the Waeggbjod. The thousands fallen at Hangman’s Hill. Duke Dyrund. Lord Morshan and Archateros Killian at Steinnbraka Delve. General Traighan. Now, his city. It was all too much.

  The burden pressed down on Aravon, threatened to drag him from the saddle. That weight had grown heavier with every day since the ambush on the Eastmarch. Even after he recovered his strength, he hadn’t been free of his guilt and remorse. Compounded by sorrow, grief, and heartbreak at every death of his friends, family, and loved ones. He was tired…so bloody tired. A part of him wanted nothing more than to give up, to lie down here and let the emotions wash over him.

  No. With effort, he pushed back against that bit of his consciousness—the bit that shrieked at him to quit. I can’t quit. Not when so many lives are at risk.

  But even if he fought, what could he possibly do? He was just one man, and he faced an army of Eirdkilrs. Not alone—never alone, not with the Grim Reavers at his side—but even together, they stood little chance of success.

  “Fuck that!” Anger blazed in Skathi’s eyes. “You’re Captain bloody Snarl. You always come up with a plan. So get thinking, damn it!”

  Aravon tried to speak, but no words formed on his lips. The weight of failure was crushing. A familiar voice echoed in his mind—the voice of his father. “Disappointment.” The single word exemplified his father’s feelings toward his son. Toward the son that now sat, helpless and hopeless, watching his city burn.

  “Have you learned nothing, Boy?” General Traighan’s stern, disapproving face flashed before his eyes, the cold growling snarl echoing in his ears. “Are you all your mother’s son, or is there even a shred of soldier’s iron in your bones?”

  Aravon’s lip curled into a snarl, and acid surged in his gut, as it always did when he thought of his father. The father that now lay dead and buried in Icespire Memorial Gardens. Even as his fists clenched and fire burned in his eyes, Aravon sought out the cemetery, built in the shadow of Icespire on Azure Island.

  He’d never speak to his father again, never see him alive. A part of him was glad for that. The General wouldn’t have to live through the destruction of Icespire. Aravon’s fault for not anticipating the attack or unmasking the true traitor, Lord Eidan, in time.

  Now, his gaze slid west, toward the towering mansions of Azure Island. Somewhere among those lofty buildings stood a simpler, more modest manor, once the home of the hero of Steel Gorge, now home to a soldier’s widow and her two fatherless children. A lump rose to his throat at the thought. Mylena and his sons were counting on him. He couldn’t give up. Couldn’t accept that he’d failed, or that he’d disappointed anyone—not Duke Dyrund, not his father, not the Prince, and certainly not his family—even though the enemy howled at the city’s gates.

  Azure Island! A jolt of energy shivered down his spine, crackling like lightning through every fiber of being and dispelling all traces of chill dread. Of course! They hadn’t yet lost all hope.

  Mind racing, he spun toward his Grim Reavers. “Even if the Eirdkilrs storm the gates, they haven’t taken the city yet.” He said the words aloud, half to himself and half to his companions. “They’ve only captured the Mains.”

  “Where most of Icespire lives,” Belthar shot back. “You know, the Glimmertrash and gutter shite.”

  “Exactly.” Aravon nodded. “But you know why they’re really here. They want the Prince, the Dukes, and every other powerful Princelander that came to the city for the Duke’s funeral.” He swallowed the last trace of emotion—cold dread, horror, and sorrow—that threatened to sap his strength and determination.

  Noll’s eyes went wide behind his mask, and Skathi sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Cut off the head, and the body dies.” Colborn nodded. His ice-blue eyes gleamed ruby red in the light of the fire, yet his expression held no dread, only pensive contemplation. “Put an end to the real source of Princelander power with one thrust.”

  “Yes.” Aravon’s heart beat faster as the ideas came to him faster. “But even if the city’s not prepared for war, those who built it hundreds of years ago were. Icespire was constructed to withstand siege. Not just the high walls and strong gates, but the bridges to Azure Island and the Palace.”

  Colborn’s eyes went wide. “You mean—?”

  “We collapse the bridges.” Words poured from Aravon’s mouth in a rush. “They were built to be dropped for situations just like this. Even if the gates fall or the Eirdkilrs get over the wall, they’ve got no way to reach Azure Island or Pal
ace Isle. As long as the Deepshackle is raised, the only way to get at the inner islands is across those bridges.”

  “But if Lord Eidan’s working with the Eirdkilrs,” Belthar rumbled, “I’d lay even odds that he’ll find a way to get those chains down.”

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. He kicked himself for a fool; he hadn’t even considered it. His gaze snapped toward Icespire Bay and the Jokull warships lurking outside the perimeter of the Deepshackle.

  If the Deepshackle is lowered, the Eirdkilrs could sail right up to Palace Isle. There’d be no way to stop them!

  Again, the cunning of Lord Eidan’s plan—of Tyr Farbjodr’s plan, enacted through the treacherous Princelander—chilled him to the bone.

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Then that’s what we do!” He tightened his grip around the haft of his spear. “We get everyone onto Azure Island and bring down the bridge to keep out the Eirdkilrs. And we make damned certain the Deepshackle stays up!”

  “Seems a bit much for just the seven of us.” Noll cocked his head. “Three bridges to bring down, rounding up the population of the largest city on Icespire and herding them onto Azure Island. Not to mention doing whatever it is we have to do to stop Lord Eidan from lowering the Deepshackle.” His tone was grim, his eyes flat, hard points. “We’re pretty damned awesome, but even I can’t be in more than three places at once, sir.”

  “So we find some help!” Aravon thrust a finger toward Icespire. “That is the largest city on Fehl, home to four hundred thousand people. How many of those are former Legionnaires like Duke Dyrund, men like my father who retired from service, or are too injured to hold a shield?” He gestured to his left arm, broken in the ambush on the Eastmarch. “How many of them are fighting men come to Icespire to join a mercenary company or the Legion, men untrained in war but possessed of a desire to fight for the Princelands?”

  Noll shot a glance at Zaharis. “Sums like that are your field of expertise, Secret Keeper.”

  Zaharis rolled his eyes. “The question was rhetorical,” he signed. “The Captain’s point was that we’re not alone. We have a city filled with reinforcements.”

  “We’ve just got to find them!” Aravon’s voice rose to a shout. “And convince them to aid us in the defense of Icespire. To hold the gates, to help get the civilians onto Azure Island, and to keep the Eirdkilrs from destroying our city, no matter what.”

  The actions of Scathan and the Black Xiphos at Lastcliff remained burned clearly in Aravon’s mind. Fifteen mercenaries had been willing to risk their lives to defend their fellow Princelanders. That sort of courage and sacrifice carried a great deal of weight in any battle.

  “We don’t have a Legion to fight at our side.” Aravon fixed his Grim Reavers with a solemn stare. “We’ve still got a legion of brave men and women who can join battle to protect their families. All we’ve got to do is find them and rally them to fight.”

  “Problem number the first, Captain.” Skathi gestured to the burning Outwards and the Eirdkilrs assaulting the Prince’s Gate. Their crude battering rams had inflicted little real damage on the Serenii-built gate, but more than a few of their hastily-constructed ladders now wobbled upward toward the Icewatchers holding the wall. “How the bloody hell do we get into the city? With the gates locked and under siege—”

  “I think I’ve got an answer to that.”

  All eyes turned to Belthar. The big man almost recoiled from the sudden attention, ducking his head as if embarrassed.

  “I know another way in to Icespire.” A grim light blazed in his eyes, and he spoke in a quiet, burdened voice. “But if we don’t move now, we’re never going to make it in time.”

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  “A bloody…Keeper-damned…boat?” Noll gasped with the effort of hauling at his oar. “How…is this…tiny fucking thing…a good...idea?”

  “Just shut up…and row!” Colborn growled back. All but Belthar and Skathi had taken turns at the four sweeps, spelling each other when the battle against the ocean’s tide and the foam-crested waves proved too tiring. Belthar gripped the tiller with a casual ease that surprised Aravon—one more unexpected skill in the big man’s arsenal. Skathi stood at the boat’s prow, alchemical lantern in her hand, sharp archer’s eyes fixed on the bluff tops to the south. The jagged stone cliffs of Bayrise Hill blocked all but the uppermost tip of the Icespire, casting them in deep shadow. Zaharis’ glowing stones provided only an anemic gleam to brighten the darkness that hung like a thick blanket over the ocean.

  Despite the faint light, Belthar seemed confident in his destination. He held the tiller firmly, trusting the flat-bottomed dory’s rudder and the strength of his oarsmen to propel them through the cresting waves and choppy water.

  “There!” the big man growled. “That little inlet.”

  Aravon, taking his turn at rest, shot a glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t see the spot Belthar had indicated—only water-splashed cliffs and the sharp tips of jagged rocks thrust from the ocean’s tide-churned surface met his eyes. But he trusted Belthar to guide them aright.

  “Pull harder!” the big man called. “We’ve got to get in there before the tide recedes too far.”

  None of the four rowers responded—they were too busy sweating, gasping for breath, and wiping the salty sea spray from their masked faces. The cliffs only slightly muffled the sounds of battle raging through Icespire; all knew the urgency of their situation.

  Last Aravon had seen, the Outwards still burned, brilliant pillars of flame and choking black smoke rising high to the heavens, blotting out the night sky. But the Prince’s Gate hadn’t yet fallen. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t yet overwhelmed the Icewatchers holding the wall. That gave Aravon some hope—they had a chance of making a difference, if only they arrived in time.

  They’d ridden hard for half an hour to reach the hidden cove nestled between rocky slopes, a quarter-mile east of the Outwards’ westernmost fringes. Tying up the horses and navigating the winding, narrow trail down to the ocean’s edge had taken another half-hour, and they’d been rowing for nearly as long. Far too long, given the threat that faced the city.

  But they could no more hurry their pace than they could command the ocean’s wind-whipped surface to calm. The four rowers pulled hard, replaced whenever they grew tired. Yet the flat-bottomed dory was built for stability, not speed.

  A Broker boat, Belthar had said. Their destination: a secret smuggling tunnel used by the Brokers to bring their illicit wares in and out of Icespire.

  The thought unsettled Aravon. He and Gengibar Twist hadn’t parted ways on amicable terms. The Broker had sworn to kill him if they ever crossed paths. If Gengibar ever learned Belthar had survived his poisoning attempt, doubtless he’d try to finish the job.

  But at the moment, it was their best worst option. With the city gates sealed, they had no other way into Icespire. At least none Aravon or any of the others knew. That left them only one choice: accept the risk and use the secret way in.

  Loud gasping drew Aravon’s attention back to the rowers. Noll was struggling with the heavy oar, fighting a losing battle against the strong current, the rough ocean, and exhaustion.

  “I’m up,” Aravon called to the scout. “Take a rest.”

  Noll almost looked ready to protest, but a faceful of sea water cut off whatever he’d been about to say. Dripping, his eyes pressed tight against the sting of salt, he slid out of the way for Aravon to take his place on the bench.

  Aravon’s shoulders, arms, and spine protested as he took up the oar—he’d barely had five minutes to give his muscles a break. But he ignored the pain and set his back to rowing. He hadn’t the time for fatigue. The people of Icespire were counting on him.

  A loud, harsh rasping grated along the underside of the boat, just beneath Aravon’s wooden bench. With a grimace, Belthar threw himself against the tiller, fighting to push the boat farther out to sea. The light of Skathi’s lamp shone on the glistening, jagged tips of rocks thrusting up like the spikes
in a pit trap.

  “Steady,” Belthar called over the hissing splash of the waves crashing against the bluffs. “Keep it straight.” He, too, was feeling the fatigue of keeping the rudder steady, pushing back against the current’s relentless grip.

  “Who died…and made you…a bloody sailor?” Noll shot back from where he slumped, gasping for air, in the boat’s water-covered flat bottom.

  The big man rumbled low in his throat, too low for Aravon to hear the precise words of the insult growled at Noll. Something suitably stinging, doubtless. The hammering of his pulse in his ears and the groaning of the wooden oar in his hands consumed his world. He’d long ago stopped feeling the chill of the icy sea water slithering down the back of his arm, soaking his long hair, and trickling into his boots. Salt parched his tongue and dried his lips, stung at his eyes every time the ocean sent a spray splashing his face. Or was that sweat? He couldn’t tell the difference—he was too wet to make the distinction.

  Belthar threw himself against the tiller, and the dory juddered slowly southward. As the boat turned, the battle against the cross-current lessened, and Aravon felt their pace speed up. His anxiety lessened a fraction as they hauled the boat steadily toward land. Toward the sheer rocky cliffs painted glistening black by sea water and the night’s darkness. He couldn’t spare the energy to glance back for the inlet Belthar had spotted. But as long as the big man held the tiller, he’d keep rowing until his strength gave out.

  On the bench in front of Aravon, Zaharis seemed ready to give out. His shoulders were pulled back and knotted tight, his spine hunched with the effort of rowing.

  “Noll!” Aravon called.

  “Yeah, yeah, I see him.” Noll crawled along the boat’s bottom and tapped Zaharis’ arm. “Take a break, Secret Keeper.”

  Zaharis gave a grateful nod and moved aside for Noll to replace him. The dory, a vessel nine feet wide and nearly twenty long, lacked stability, especially on the choppy ocean. Aravon had spent enough time on the Frozen Sea to recognize the boat’s use for hauling goods, but far more experienced seamen than his Grim Reavers had struggled with similar water craft.