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

by Andy Peloquin

  He felt a glimmer of hope as he caught sight of the broad avenue that cut from Windward Way toward the Westbridge. Yet, that hope died seconds later, dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of despair. A crowd of civilians—thousands strong, men and women screaming, cursing, and shoving against an unmoving throng of people as terrified as they—surrounded the Westbridge, blocking off the street for hundreds of yards.

  Aravon’s gut clenched. Keeper’s teeth! Getting through that horde would prove nearly impossible. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The fact that the crowd was so massive meant the Icewatch had sealed the steel-barred gate and blocked off access to the Westbridge. Over the press of people, Aravon caught sight of a contingent of thirty Icewatchers struggling to hold the gates against the men and women clamoring to be let through.

  Gritting his teeth, Aravon barked an order. “Ursus, Ghoststriker, Stonekeeper, clear a path!”

  The three named, the largest of their company, waded into the rear of the crowd. Pushing, shoving, snarling at people too slow to move aside. Belthar moved at the tip of the spear, his broad shoulders and huge hands carving a path through the press of bodies. Colborn and Rangvaldr braced against their shields, using them like the sides of a wedge to drive deep into the heart of the crowd.

  For a moment, Aravon was hurled back to the Legion shield wall. The thumps of heavy bodies striking shields. The hands reached, grasping, clawing at their helmeted faces, throats, hands, any hint of weakness. The jarring impact on his hands, wrists, elbows, and shoulders as he fought to hold his shield strong. The stink of fear, sweat, foul breath, and filth proved nearly overpowering. Above it all, the brilliant light of the burning Outwards splashed the faces and bodies of the throng in a vicious crimson-and-ruby blaze.

  But this was no army, no enemy they could hack down with sword, axe, and spear. They faced civilians, innocents, the people they even now fought to protect. Every life in this crowd depended on their getting through the jostling mass of Princelanders struggling to break through to safety. All the while inflicting as few injuries as possible.

  A few men and women turned angry snarls, shouts, and curses on the three Grim Reavers shoving through the crowd. The sight of the leather masks, strange armor, and bared weapons gave them pause. Just long enough for Aravon and his men to wade deeper into the tide of human flesh, muscle, and bone surging toward the Westbridge’s sealed gate.

  It seemed an endless eternity passed in that crush of bodies. Pushing, shouting for Belthar, Colborn, and Rangvaldr to keep moving. Slapping away grasping hands and shoving back anyone who stumbled too close. Desperately trying to keep his feet, hoping Skathi, Noll, and Zaharis did as well. If they fell in this mess of filthy bodies, ragged tunics, and panic, they might never stand. Gasping for breath and tasting smoke, ash, and fear thick on the night air. Smelling the stink of people afraid of the death that even now came for them. The death they could not flee, not with the Westbridge barred against them.

  How long they were trapped in the throng, Aravon couldn’t know. Five minutes, fifty, or five hours. Sweat streamed down his back, stung his eyes, and mingled with the sea water soaking his tunic. His arms and legs ached, his forearms screaming and hands long ago gone numb from gripping his spear in white knuckles.

  Then he glanced up, and bright steel glimmered in the light of the burning Outwards. Five paces in front of him, on the far side of a sea of people, the Westbridge gates rose into the night. Solid bars of interlaced metal as thick as Aravon’s forearms, tipped by long, sharp spikes. Though the gates bent and groaned beneath the assault of the battering horde of civilians, the metal held.

  Hope surged within Aravon as Colborn, Belthar, and Rangvaldr shoved the last few feet to the gates. He threw himself through the gap in their ranks and seized the steel bars, gasping for breath, fire racing through his body. The Grim Reavers formed a protective wall around him, holding back the crowd and buying him time to get through the gate.

  Through the gaps in the bars, Aravon caught sight of the thirty Icewatchers struggling to hold the bridge. Their faces mirrored the panic of the people without. They were the ones set to protect the city, yet they, too, had no idea how to survive the threat raging at the walls or pounding at their very gates.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Aravon shouted over the clamor of the crowd and the distant howling of the Eirdkilrs.

  “I am.” The man who stepped forward seemed to be the only one not paralyzed by panic. Doubtless he’d been the one to order the gates closed. “Watch Sergeant Tarkim. And what in the bloody hell are you supposed to be?”

  For answer, Aravon drew out the Prince’s insignia. “Captain Snarl.” He emphasized his rank. “Grim Reavers.”

  Evidently, the rumors of their reputation had spread as wide as Aravon had hoped, for mention of the name sent the Sergeant’s eyes flying wide. “Sir!” Tarkim snapped the Icewatchers’ salute, pressing two fingers to his forehead in a shape mimicking the Icespire rising high into the night.

  “Why are these gates sealed, Sergeant Tarkim?” Aravon demanded. “They have not been shut for hundreds of years.”

  “Orders from the Palace, sir,” Sergeant Tarkim responded without hesitation. “Straight from the Prince himself.”

  “Written by him personally?”

  “Wouldn’t know, sir.” The Icewatch Sergeant shrugged. “But it was stamped with his Royal Seal. Saw it myself: griffin, torch, and sword.”

  Of course. Aravon’s mind raced. The same seal that was stolen and used by Lord Aleron Virinus to stamp his letters to the Shalandrans.

  “Did the orders say why to seal the bridges?” he demanded.

  Sergeant Tarkim shrugged. “No explanation, but the Prince don’t usually explain himself to us. He orders, we obey.”

  “Then here’s an order for you, Sergeant: open the gate!”

  Sergeant Tarkim stiffened. “Sorry, sir. Can’t do that. Prince’s—”

  Aravon reached through the bars so quickly Sergeant Tarkim couldn’t recoil, seized the Sergeant’s breastplate, and pulled him against the bars. “I will not repeat myself, Sergeant,” he growled. “Right now, your comrades are defending the gates against an Eirdkilr army that they have absolutely no hope of repelling. It’s only by the Swordsman’s grace that the enemy hasn’t already overrun the walls. And when that happens, what fate do you think awaits all these people?” He gestured toward the crowd. “The people that you swore to protect when you took the oaths of the Icewatch!”

  “But—” the Icewatcher began.

  “Think, man!” Aravon roared. “There comes a time in every man’s life when he has to make a choice: the choice to cower within the safe, comfortable shelter of letting someone else make the tough calls, or being the one who makes those calls. Not because they’re easy, but because if you don’t, if you stay where it’s easy, people die.” He pulled Tarkim closer, crushing the man’s face against the bars. “These people here, they’re all dead if you keep this gate closed. Maybe you, too, and every man, woman, and child on Azure Island. But if you make the right choice, the hard choice, then you save thousands of lives tonight. And should it so happen that you die here and now, when you stand before the Long Keeper for judgement, do you want to answer for your action or inaction?”

  After a moment, the Icewatcher managed to give a frantic nod of his head. “Open the gate!” he shouted. “Open it now, Keeper take it!”

  Aravon released the man, and Sergeant Tarkim fell back. Yet his orders stood. Two Icewatchers worked the winch and, with a loud clinking of heavy chains, the spike-topped gates began to lower.

  Surprised gasps echoed from the people pressing around Aravon, and the crowd fell back, just long enough for the Grim Reavers to draw breath.

  As the gate lowered, Aravon fixed the Sergeant with a solemn gaze. “I swear, by the Swordsman’s strong right arm, the Prince will hear that Tarkim, Sergeant of his Icewatch, chose the path of courage.”

  The Icewatcher ducked his head and turned to his
fellow guardsmen. “Hurry up, damn you!”

  Now, Aravon turned to face the crowd. “Come!” he roared. “Follow me, and find shelter on Azure Island!”

  The moment the spiked tips of the gates disappeared into their recessed grooves carved into the stone, the flood of people surged across the Westbridge. The Icewatchers barely had time to get out of the way before the crowd thronged past and the thousands of feet thundered across the wooden beams of the ancient bridge.

  At their head raced Aravon and his Grim Reavers. They made the thirty-yard crossing in the space of ten seconds, sprinting at a dead run to outrace the tide of panicked civilians rushing along behind them. The ten Icewatchers holding the far side of the Westbridge didn’t so much as try to stop the approach—they simply stepped aside, terrified and bewildered, rather than be bulled over by the charging Belthar.

  “This way!” Aravon took the lead now. He knew Azure Island better than any of his Grim Reavers, knew the fastest ways to get where he needed to go. Their path led straight down Honor’s Lane, the broad avenue that spanned Azure Island from west to east. But he hadn’t gone more than twenty yards before he caught sight of a cluster of figures marching westward toward him.

  All wore Legion armor, dented in battle, rusted with age, or gleaming from years spent hanging over ornate mantelpieces. Standard-issue short swords and rectangular shields glittered in the light of the burning Outwards, and ornate plumes of every hue streamed from the top of their Legion helmets. Fifty men and women formed up in a solid shield wall, ranks ten wide and five deep. They had the grey hair, lined faces, and hunched shoulders of advanced age. Some no longer fit into their armor—shoulders too stooped and hunched, or bellies gone fallow with luxury. One carried no shield—his left arm ended in a stump at the elbow—yet he stood straight, his sword held in gnarled hands as he marched at the head of the company.

  Aravon recognized the man—everyone in the Princelands knew General Rodalus, predecessor to General Vessach, the man who had commanded the Legion when Aravon’s father was simply Commander Traighan of Pearl Battalion. He’d lost his arm fighting the Eirdkilrs at Anvil Garrison twenty years ago, but a missing limb hadn’t stopped him from taking up arms in defense of his city.

  So, too, the men and women around him. Former Legionnaires born and raised in Icespire, retired after decades of honorable service. Commanders, Captains, Sergeants, cavalrymen and infantry, even a handful of Agrotorae. Soldiers who had served their Prince and kingdom with distinction, valor, and honor. For reward, the Prince had bestowed on them the Swords of the Princelands, the highest military accolade—one that came with an endowment of land, the estates and mansions that dominated the western half of Azure Island. Yet now, with desperate battle raging at the city gates, they faced war once more.

  General Rodalus hesitated a heartbeat as he spotted the Grim Reavers charging along Honor’s Lane, and uncertainty filled his eyes at the sight of the throng crossing the Westbridge.

  “For the Legion!” Aravon came to a halt in front of the old General and snapped a crisp Legion salute. “For the Prince.”

  That the Legionnaires recognized—the salute, and the silver pendant he drew from beneath his armor and held before General Rodalus’ eyes.

  “I am Captain Snarl,” Aravon shouted, “commander of the Grim Reavers, chosen by Prince Toran himself. And now, you are his forces, all he has to hold his city against the enemy you have all faced so many times before. He calls you to take up his standard and renew your oaths to the Legion, to the Swordsman, once more. Are you with me?”

  This time, there was no hesitation. Fifty-one Legionnaires snapped to attention, shields and armor clanking, and shouted, “For the Legion!”

  “Captain Snarl.” Age had quietened General Rodalus’ voice, yet there was no trace of quaver or doubt in the old Legionnaire’s grey eyes. “Situation report?”

  “Eight thousand Eirdkilrs have come for our blood,” Aravon replied. “The enemy’s howling at the walls and though the gates are sealed, the Icewatch will only hold out for so long. I’ve got people seeing to the safety of the people of the Mains, and I’m on my way to make sure Southbridge and Eastbridge are open. We can’t fit everyone on Azure Island, but we’re damned well going to fit as many as we can before we bring down the bridges.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Coordinate the defense of Westbridge and see to it that the civilians find shelter in the mansions.”

  General Rodalus, a hero of Icespire, legend in his own right, snapped a crisp salute with his single arm. “And them?” He gestured with his sword to the Jokull longships waiting outside the Deepshackle

  “We’ll make sure they don’t get close enough to be of any use to their comrades. But first—”

  “The civilians, understood.” General Rodalus inclined his head. “We’ll handle it from here, Captain.”

  The old General whirled and began barking orders to his fifty-soldier company. These men of command, accustomed to leading, obeyed without hesitation. Danger threatened the city, and it didn’t matter who led, as long as someone did. And few were better-suited to command than General Rodalus.

  Aravon turned back to his men. “Let’s go.”

  The seven of them raced past the formed-up Legionnaires, sprinting down Honor’s Lane toward the first intersection that would lead them south, toward the Southbridge.

  Yet, as Aravon made that turn, he couldn’t help glancing to the east, toward the four-story, fortress-like mansion that stood just five hundred yards away. The home that had once belonged to General Traighan, and where Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon now waited. Doubtless terrified at the Eirdkilr attack, panicking, uncertain where to find safety.

  Aravon stumbled, tripping over his feet, his mind and body torn between desire and duty. Every fiber of his being ached to go to them, to ensure their safety, but he knew he had to see to the bridges for the sake of Icespire.

  Strong hands caught him, stopped him from falling. He looked up into Colborn’s masked face. Understanding glimmered in the Lieutenant’s eyes. “Go.” Colborn spoke in a quiet voice. “Find them, make sure they’re safe.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll handle Southbridge, Captain.” Colborn’s words rang with a note of command. “Take Magicmaker and go make sure your family’s safe, then meet us over at Eastbridge.”

  Aravon glanced at Zaharis, then back at Colborn. He almost protested—he could go alone—but stopped. The Temple of Whispers stood among the other temples south of Sanctuary Court, near the Southbridge. Taking Zaharis with him might just prevent the Secret Keepers from recognizing the two of them. They had enough enemies to fight without adding the Mistress’ priests.

  “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, tight with emotion. “I’m right behind you.”

  “Go!” Colborn turned and dashed off, heading south down the street.

  “You’re not trapped, Aravon.” Rangvaldr spoke in a quiet voice. “You just need to find another way.”

  For a minute, the Seiomenn’s words confused Aravon. Realization dawned with the brilliance of the gleaming Icespire. He couldn’t be Aravon at that moment—that man was dead to the world—but right now, his family needed Captain Snarl more than anything. The Captain Snarl that could command the respect and obedience of Icewatchers and Legionnaires alike. That man could get Aravon’s family to safety.

  The burden lifted from his shoulders, and he felt as if he could breathe for the first time in forever. His mask no longer felt stifling, no longer felt like a prison from which he could not escape. Here, now, the role he’d agreed to play would save the ones who mattered most.

  He broke into a run, his feet flying across the cobblestones. His heart pounded a furious beat in time with his boots. Fire burned through his muscles, but instead of fatigue, it blazed like the heat of a roaring inferno, flooding him with energy. His arms and legs pumped as he sprinted like a madman toward the General’s mansion. Toward his family.

  The world narrowed to a single poin
t: the gate set into the wall encircling the mansion. Through that gate lay home. Mylena. Rolyn. Adilon. He might not be able to take them into his arms, feel their warmth against his chest and the comfort of their presence, but he could make damned certain they got through this alive. That was more than he could have dreamed possible just one day earlier.

  Hope turned to ashes in his mouth as he caught sight of the gate. It stood open, the wood around the lock chewed to splinters by what had to be a heavy axe.

  No!

  Aravon burst through the gate and raced up the cobblestone walkway toward the simple, three-story brick-and-stone mansion. Yet, even as he approached the front entrance, a wave of horror crashed into him, staggered him.

  The door, too, hung broken and splintered, with only empty darkness visible inside.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Something was wrong. Aravon could feel it in every fiber of his being. No flickering torches blazed in the brass sconces outside the main entrance. The windows were dark, not a glimmer of candlelight or lamplight in any of the windows. Not even in the library, Mylena’s favorite evening retreat, or in the second-floor room where Rolyn and Adilon slept. A chill shivered down Aravon’s spine as he raced up the three front steps and burst through the open door into the mansion.

  Empty and silent, as he’d feared. No sign of Engen the majordomo, Tinasa and Averia, who were never far from the boys when at home, Leemia puttering around in the kitchens, or Whillem polishing the silver or dusting the dining room after the evening meal. Only the dark, cold stillness that set Aravon’s heart thundering.

  The mansion was exactly as he remembered it—the same echoing marble-tiled floors and high-vaulted glass dome above the marble staircase with its faded carpet; the one wooden bookcase in the parlor, still bearing the notch where General Traighan’s sword had scored it in one of his drunken rages; the suit of notched, dented, and oft-repaired armor standing on a tailor’s dummy next to the darkened fireplace, with the short sword, shield, and helmet hanging on the wall above the mantel; the same faded rugs littering the sitting room floor and the intricately rendered maps that greeted every visitor entering the main hall. Nothing had changed since his last visit…nothing but the layer of dust that seemed to hang thick and cloying around him.