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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Exactly what makes them the perfect spies!” This man, Aravon recognized immediately. Tall, broad-shouldered, with hair the color of rusted iron, and a face midway between strong and pudgy. The same blunt, hard features he saw every time he looked at Colborn.

  Lord Derran of Whitevale lifted his nose into the air. “You cannot be certain that they are not working for those savages howling at our gates. Their very presence on this island means an enemy could be in our midst at this very moment.”

  “Then that is a risk you will have to take.” Aravon clamped down on his anger with effort, forced his voice to calm.

  “And who are you to give such commands?” another of the noblemen asked.

  Aravon fixed the noblemen and their guards with a stern glare, and he drew out the Prince’s silver pendant. “I am Captain Snarl of the Grim Reavers, chosen of Prince Toran.” He shouted the words out loud for all in the crowd to hear. “It is by my order that these people are here. You have complaints? Take it up with the Prince! But for now, get the bloody hell out of the way and let these people through.”

  The guards lined up across the street hesitated as Aravon’s furious gaze fell on them. They stared at his bloodstained armor, the snarling leather mask, the insignia in his hand. Then their eyes slid to the right and left—Aravon didn’t need to look to know that his Grim Reavers had formed up beside him. The seven of them might not be an army, but to those guards and noblemen, Aravon knew they cut a fearsome sight.

  A moment’s uncertainty, and the guards stepped aside. They returned to stand beside their masters, cowed by the command in Aravon’s voice yet doubtless afraid of retribution from those who paid their salaries.

  At that moment, Aravon didn’t care. He could sort out this matter later. For now, he needed to ensure that the people seeking refuge on the island would no longer be hassled.

  He fixed the guards with a glare. “If any of you lay a hand on a single man, women, or child, I will hear about it, and I will come for you.” He took a menacing step closer. “I don’t care if they are from the Outwards, Littlemarket, the Glimmer, or from south of the bloody Chain! Everyone on this island is here because it is their only hope of escaping the bloodshed raging through the streets of this city. A city that belongs to them as much as it belongs to you.”

  “They’re scum, worse than Glimmertrash!” Lord Derran’s face creased into a sneer of disdain. “Traitors to their own people, not fit to be proper citizens of—”

  Colborn’s punch cut him off mid-sentence. The Lieutenant moved so quickly none of the guards could react, and the blow was backed by the force of Colborn’s rush and the power of his muscles. Lord Derran spun around and collapsed, face-first, to the cobblestone street. Aravon almost winced—he’d been hit by the half-Fehlan before, and that had to hurt—but he could spare no pity for Lord Derran.

  Aravon turned a fierce glare on the guards before they thought to come to Lord Derran’s aid. The men froze, hands on their swords and clubs.

  “Listen to me!” Aravon’s gaze slid past the guards toward the noblemen, now huddling panic-stricken and terrified by the hulking Grim Reavers standing within striking range of them. A few bristled with outrage, but Aravon shouted them to silence. “Right now, the city of Icespire faces a threat like it has not seen in more than two hundred years. Two hundred years! A battle that could very well lead to the destruction of our city, and yet you complain about your fellow citizens of Icespire sharing your island.”

  Anger coiled in his gut, and he poured that rage into his voice. “We face an enemy who cares not about noble or citizen, Outwarder or Azure Islander. They see us all the same—as Eird, half-men to be slaughtered, every man, woman, and child. They will tear out your still-beating heart and feast on your entrails, all because you are a Princelander.”

  He took a menacing step closer to the guards and the noblemen. “And you who claim to be noble are too busy cowering in the safety of your island, all while the people you despise are dying. Now, they have come to you for aid. As their homes are destroyed, their friends and families slaughtered, their lives burned to ash. If you are too spineless and weak to fight the Eirdkilrs, so be it. The day that you stand before the Long Keeper, you will give answer for your courage. Or the lack thereof.”

  A few nobles stiffened at the insult, their faces purpling with rage. Some sputtered, protested, or hurled insults.

  Aravon’s shout cut through their chatter like molten steel through ice. “But these are your people. Your fellow Princelanders, citizens of Icespire just as you are.” He snarled down at Lord Derran’s unconscious form. “Even those once called Fehlan are now Princelanders, seeking the shelter of our walls, refuge from the enemy. It falls to you, nobles of Icespire, to do something. Anything! If you will not take up arms for your city, the least you can do is use your wealth and plenty to make a difference for those in need.”

  A few sheepish looks passed among the noblemen, but most simply stared at him, faces hard as stone, eyes flat and cold.

  “For if you do not,” Aravon roared, “I will make certain the Prince hears of your avarice and cowardice.” His eyes narrowed behind his mask. “And for every reward the Prince metes out for bravery in battle and generosity of spirit and deed, he may well mete out equal and merciless reward for cowardice and cruelty to your fellow man.”

  He stared at each of the well-dressed men in turn. “You call yourselves ‘noble’? The grand lords and ladies of Icespire?” He snarled the words. “Prove it, not with words, but deeds. For by the time the sun rises on our city, we will truly know which of you are noble.”

  With that, he marched past the line of stunned guards and cowed nobles, through Sanctuary Court, north toward the bridge that would lead to the Palace. He didn’t look back—he had little doubt his message sank home. And if not…he would keep his word and report to the Prince anything that happened here.

  The cool glow of the Icespire ahead of him slowly cooled the blazing fire of his anger, replaced it with calm logic. The arrogance of the nobility couldn’t stop him from thinking clearly, from being smart with his approach to tackling the matter of the Deepshackle and—

  “Captain.” Colborn’s voice echoed at Aravon’s side. “Magicmaker filled us in on what you found at the General’s.”

  The words stopped Aravon in his tracks. He sucked in a breath as the memory slammed into him. He’d been so focused on the mission at hand that he’d managed to forget. Forget the horror at finding his father’s home empty, the rage at seeing the Eventide mercenaries in his dining room, their swords stained with blood.

  Now, those sensations came rushing back to him. Mylena and my boys!

  He whirled to face the Grim Reavers. “We need to get across the Northbridge now!”

  “Ready when you are, sir.” Colborn gestured to a group of figures behind him. “And we’ll have company.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “Captain Lingram?” He studied the fifteen Legionnaires that stood around the Captain: the hulking Endyn, slender Duvain, the glowering Corporal Rold, Haze, and the rest of Ninth Company. The last survivors of the Eirdkilr attack on Saerheim.

  Colborn inclined his head. “He asked what was going on, then insisted on joining us.”

  Aravon turned to Lingram. “Captain—”

  “All due respect, Captain Snarl,” the Legion officer cut him off with a smile, “but don’t bother wasting your breath trying to talk us out of it.”

  “We’re far too hard-headed for that to work,” rumbled the giant Endyn from his place at Lingram’s side.

  Aravon studied the fifteen soldiers. “You realize what we’re doing, right?”

  “Storming the Palace, taking on a traitor and possibly facing the Ebonguard and a handful of Eventide mercenaries.” Captain Lingram gave a little shrug of his shoulders. “Sounds like a pleasant way to start the day.”

  Duvain stepped up beside his brother. “You saved our hides back on the road out of Saerheim. Least we can do is join you
in this fight.”

  “And if you even think of giving us an order to bugger off,” Corporal Rold growled, “I’ve got a suggestion of someplace warm and dark where you can stuff it.” A long moment passed before he added, “Sir.”

  Aravon chuckled. “Seems like a company of defiant fools is just what the Mender ordered.” He looked at each in turn. “The Prince needs all sorts of men to win the battle.”

  “Maybe we quit flapping our bungholes and get a move on, then?” Corporal Rold swept a gesture toward the Palace and the Icespire to the north. “Not a lot gets done by pissing around.”

  Aravon snorted but couldn’t help grinning. “Wisely said.” He shot a nod to Colborn. “Lead the way, Ghoststriker.”

  The Grim Reavers fell into formation by instinct—Colborn and Noll in the front, Rangvaldr and Zaharis beside Aravon, and Skathi with Belthar in the rear. Captain Lingram and his soldiers formed a solid wall of steel and armor around them, and together, the twenty-two of them raced toward the Northbridge.

  Knots tightened in Aravon’s shoulders and the roiling in his stomach increased with every step. The half-mile to the bridge felt endless, the minutes dragging. Or perhaps it was the dread within him that made it seem that way. Once he got across the Northbridge, he had to find a way to get to Mylena and his sons as well as stopping Lord Eidan from lowering the Deepshackle to let the Eirdkilrs into Icespire Bay. Two monumental tasks, but he knew he had to choose the latter. The knowledge that the fate of the Princelands rested on him choosing his duty over his family came as a heavy burden—one he’d borne every day since his arrival at Camp Marshal, yet one that felt more ponderous than ever now that he faced the consequences of his actions up close.

  If Lord Eidan discovered the Grim Reavers had survived, what would stop him from simply killing Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon? The murder of Turath at Rivergate and the poisoning of Duke Dyrund had proven he wouldn’t hesitate to order death. But was he capable of wielding the knife himself? Aravon had to hope he never found out.

  No, their best hope lay in getting onto Palace Isle without Lord Eidan finding out that he had returned. If he could talk his way through the Ebonguard and warn them of the threat to the Deepshackle, they could handle the matter and leave him free to go for Mylena and his sons.

  He gritted his teeth and leaned into his run. We just need to get to the Northbridge and get across before—

  The thought died unformed in his mind as horror slithered through his veins. He nearly froze in place, half-stumbled over his feet, and barely managed to catch himself before he fell. Yet he wasn’t alone in his stunned surprise at the sight that awaited them.

  Where there had once been a solid bridge of wood, stone, and metal, now only empty air remained. The Northbridge had been collapsed. Their way to Palace Isle was cut off.

  But how? Aravon’s mind raced. Why? Prince Toran wouldn’t simply order the bridge brought down out of fear for his safety. Unlike the noblemen he’d just passed, the Prince was no coward to hide in the safety of his Palace. So why did the bridge come down? The Ebonguard would only lower it with a direct order from the Prince. Or…

  The thought drove a dagger of acid into his gut. Or Lord Eidan.

  No wonder the nobleman had fled to the Palace. From there, he could use the Prince’s authority to seize control of the island, order the bridge collapsed—under the guise of concern for the “Prince’s safety”, of course—and thereby isolate the Prince from the mainland. From reinforcements that could arrive in time to—

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Belthar’s rumbling gasp echoed from behind Aravon

  “Captain!” Skathi’s voice echoed with alarm. “Look!”

  Aravon didn’t need her pointing finger—the thunderous clanking and grinding of massive chains that echoed across Icespire Bay told him exactly what had elicited such a visceral reaction. Yet he followed her gaze anyway. Out to the bay’s edge where the Deepshackle slowly, slowly lowered into the ocean.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Bloody hell! Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. The massive sea chain, fully five miles from east to west, didn’t drop quickly. The mechanisms that controlled the Deepshackle moved at a ponderous pace. They had perhaps five minutes before the barrier lowered beneath the ocean’s surface.

  And when they did, the Eirdkilr ships would sail into Icespire Bay, straight to Palace Isle. The Prince, the Royal Family, and everyone in the Palace would die—Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon among them.

  And Aravon couldn’t stop it.

  “Shite!” Noll snarled a curse. “What in the bloody hell do we do, Captain?”

  Aravon’s mind raced as he cast about for a plan. Without the Northbridge, he had no way to get to the Palace—not in time to stop Lord Eidan from letting the Eirdkilrs into the bay. But he couldn’t just stand by and watch. Couldn’t let the traitorous nobleman win—and in his victory, slaughter Aravon’s family and Prince Toran.

  But what could he do? His mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic whirl as he tried to figure out his next step. The mansions facing Palace Isle were tall enough that he could fire a crossbow with a grappling hook and use a rope traverse to cross. That would take too long—he had no supplies handy, and by the time they found the rope and hook, the Eirdkilrs would have sailed into Icespire Bay.

  His mind flashed back to the Coracle, the raft-barge they had built to cross the downed Rivergate Bridge, but discarded the plan immediately. The construction had taken days. And though there were plenty of ships at bay in the Port of Icespire, no way they could sail into the inlet in time to reach Palace Isle. Not to mention the thousands of Eirdkilrs rampaging through Portside and eastern Icespire.

  Despair descended like a mountain atop his shoulders, and for a moment he felt paralyzed, powerless to do anything but watch the inevitable. Gritting his teeth, biting back the dismay surging within him, he forced himself to keep searching for something—anything!—that could save his family.

  Then he saw it: a stone obelisk standing within the fenced-off confines of Icespire Memorial Gardens. The tomb of Darold, first General of the Princelands, fallen in battle more than four hundred years ago. The monolith had been constructed in the likeness of the black stone obelisk to the Swordsman—a mere forty feet tall instead of the sanctuary’s hundred-foot height—made of solid granite. A monument worth a fortune. And, in that moment, Aravon’s only hope of saving his family, the Prince, and all of Icespire.

  He whirled toward Zaharis. “Magicmaker!” He thrust a finger at General Darold’s obelisk. “Will that do?”

  Zaharis’ eyes narrowed behind his mask, and he remained silent for a heartbeat, wheels turning in his mind. “Let’s find out!” his fingers flashed.

  Without hesitation, Aravon sprinted toward the nearby entrance to the cemetery. Though the iron gates stood closed and locked, he vaulted the five-foot wall in a desperate bound and raced through the perfectly manicured lawns toward the monument.

  An army of marble statues, each bearing the likeness of those buried beneath, watched his progress with silent, unblinking eyes. Row after row of tombstones—white for the Royal Family, dark grey for the nobility, black for fallen Legionnaires and warriors of the Princelands—disappeared into the night, the myriad of names etched into the stone a blur as he thundered through the silent, still cemetery. Around mausoleums larger and more luxurious than half the homes in Icespire, through grand archways adorned with the faces of the gods, and past stone coffins carved with intricately detailed flowers and flourishes. Straight toward the forty-foot obelisk that offered their only hope now.

  Aravon’s stomach twisted in knots as he passed the section of cemetery that held his father’s burial plot. Somewhere among those black stones he would find the General’s name. On the right, Duke Dyrund’s tombstone. On the left, a stone of brilliant grey granite for Aravon’s mother. The thought of those headstones sent a flash of pain and sorrow racing through him.

  Yet Aravon never slowed—he had no time to pause, no time
to grieve or give in to the torment of loss.

  His eyes locked on General Darold’s obelisk. Darold had been one of the first buried in the cemetery—long ago, when Icespire was still a freshly-conquered city—and stood near the edge of the cliff overlooking the inlet that separated Azure Island from Palace Isle. For a few dozen yards east and west of the General’s monument, the inlet narrowed to a gap just twenty or thirty feet wide. That had given Aravon a measure of hope, yet now, facing the chasm that separated him from his family, he felt a flutter of doubt. Would the obelisk be tall enough to span the gap?

  “Might work,” Zaharis said after a moment of study. “But it’s going to be close!”

  “Do it!” Aravon turned toward the Grim Reavers, Captain Lingram, and the Legionnaires that had chosen to accompany them. “Find me rope, or anything else we can use to pull down this obelisk.”

  “Pull down…?” Captain Lingram’s eyes shot up. To a Legionnaire, desecrating General Darold’s tomb would be like spitting into the face of the Swordsman himself. Yet, as his eyes darted toward the gap, recognition dawned. He spun toward his Legionnaires. “Let’s go!”

  He took off into the darkness, his Legionnaires at his heels. Skathi, Noll, Colborn, and Belthar joined in the hunt, leaving Aravon and Rangvaldr alone with Zaharis.

  Aravon’s eyes darted toward the Deepshackle; the clanking had continued unabated for the minute it had taken them to reach the obelisk, and already the lowermost three feet of the chain dipped beneath the ocean’s surface.

  Keeper’s teeth! They were running out of time.

  He rounded on Zaharis, who knelt beside the obelisk. “Well? Will it work?”

  The Secret Keeper’s hands flashed. “Granite’s a stubborn bastard of a stone. We’d spend hours chipping away at it just to weaken it enough.” He shook his head. “We’ll have to find something else. Something faster.”

  He dove into his bag of alchemical supplies, pawing at the myriad of sacks, pouches, bundles, and glass bottles within. Triumph shone in his eyes as he drew out three vials and held them up with a satisfactory nod.