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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Forward!” Aravon called. Once again, he led a company of Legionnaires. Far too few, as at the battle for Rivergate, but that place of command behind the solid wall of Legion steel and wood felt comfortable, familiar. “Get to cover!”

  The southwestern edge of Palace Isle was a grassy lawn, a flat, open expanse free of any trees or shrubs to provide even a hint of cover. However, less than twenty yards from where they stood, the solid wooden pillars of a glass-domed gazebo would offer shelter. By the soft blue light of the Icespire, Aravon caught sight of two score crossbowmen scattered among the Palace gardens a hundred yards northeast of their position. Once he and his soldiers reached the gazebo, those archers would have to break cover and close in to get a clear shot.

  “Now!” Aravon roared.

  As one, the Legionnaires broke into an awkward run, their bodies twisted as they struggled to maintain the shield wall while covering the twenty yards toward the gazebo. It couldn’t have taken more than ten seconds to cross the distance to the gazebo, but the booming and clattering of the Deepshackle echoing across Icespire Bay set Aravon’s heart pounding. When he finally managed a glance toward the north, his stomach bottomed out.

  The Deepshackle had dipped beneath the ocean’s surface. Within a minute, the Eirdkilrs would row their shallow-draft boats across the huge steel chain, and the invasion of Icespire Bay would commence.

  Aravon’s eyes darted toward the northwestern edge of Palace Isle. There, he knew, stood the tower containing the mechanisms that controlled the Deepshackle. He and the Grim Reavers had to get there, had to get the sea chain back up. But he couldn’t do that and fight the crossbowmen firing at them. His only hope lay in splitting their forces.

  Their primary focus had to be getting to the Deepshackle, but the moment Lord Eidan found out of their presence on Palace Isle, he’d doubtless unleash whatever treachery he had planned against Prince Toran. And, if he knew the Grim Reavers were here, he’d order Mylena and Aravon’s sons killed.

  Splitting up was the only way they could make it work.

  Realization struck Aravon a blow to the gut. The Ebonguard was unquestionably loyal to Prince Toran. Whatever deceit Lord Eidan had used to turn them against the Grim Reavers, it likely didn’t extend to the Legionnaires. Once the Prince’s guardians saw Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires—only the soldiers, not the masked Grim Reavers—they might hesitate. Indeed, even now, the fire of crossbows had slackened, as if the Ebonguard realized they were firing on troops loyal to the Prince. There was a chance Captain Lingram could talk his way into the Prince’s presence and be in position to stop whatever treachery Lord Eidan had planned. And, hopefully, save Aravon’s family in the process.

  He explained his reasoning to Captain Lingram—leaving out the part about Mylena and his sons, of course. “Your only hope of getting to the Prince in one piece is to do it without us. The Ebonguard has no reason to doubt your loyalty. You’ve got to get them talking long enough to convince them you’re here to protect the Prince. We’re going to need every one of them to turn back those ships.”

  “Understood.” Captain Lingram shot a questioning glance at Lord Virinus.

  That silent look spoke volumes. “He comes with us.” If Lord Eidan had spread rumors of Lord Aleron Virinus’ treachery, the old nobleman’s son might be seen as traitor by association.

  Captain Lingram nodded. “Swordsman smile on you, Captain Snarl.” His fist banged against his armor in a Legionnaire’s salute.

  Aravon returned the salute. “And you, Blacksword.”

  Turning, he found his Grim Reavers already facing him—they’d heard his explanation to Captain Lingram, and had made ready to break off from the Legionnaires.

  “Quick and quiet through the gardens,” Aravon said. “Nothing stops us from reaching that tower and getting the Deepshackle back up.”

  Six heads nodded assent and understanding. They had no desire to kill Ebonguards or Eventide mercenaries, but the lives of all in Icespire depended on them raising the Deepshackle. At any cost.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon scanned the western side of Palace Isle. The towering building of the Palace itself rose four stories into the night, a building of stone adorned with thousands of stone griffins perched on every balcony, ledge, and buttress. The marble guardians stared down at them with stern, unseeing eyes, sharp-tipped swords and torches held aloft, wings spread as if for battle.

  The light of the Icespire bathed the entire Palace in a soft, beautiful glow, painting the white, grey, and pink-veined marble a brilliant azure. A strange contrast to the harsh glare of the inferno raging through the Outwards and now within the city walls itself. Palace Isle, usually a place of such peace and beauty, felt like an island of eerie calm facing an approaching storm.

  The Palace had no walls, no defensive barriers or towers to repel enemies. For centuries, the Deepshackle had kept out enemy ships, and with Azure Island and the Northbridge as final lines of defense, there was no chance any landward army could reach it. Thus, the Prince’s Palace had been built for elegance and beauty, not for any defensive purposes. Once the Eirdkilrs made landfall on the beaches of Palace Isle’s northern shore, nothing but the Ebonguard would stop them from reaching the Prince.

  So it was up to Aravon and his Grim Reavers—with Lord Myron Virinus at their side—to stop the Eirdkilrs before that happened. They had to reach the Deepshackle’s tower and raise the sea chain once more.

  Tension tightened Aravon’s shoulders as he gave the silent order to run. He broke into a mad dash, bursting from the cover of the Legion shields and darting toward a nearby patch of berry bushes. A shout echoed from the crossbowmen and bolts whistled past, thumping into the grass behind him. Yet, in the space of a few seconds, he had reached the protective shadows of the shrubs.

  He didn’t glance back—he knew his Grim Reavers followed at his heels. They followed his lead, for he alone among them had ever stepped foot on Palace Isle. He led them through the darkened gardens, racing through leafy shrubs, avoiding thick hedges, and ducking under low-hanging branches heavy with late-season fruits.

  The glow of the Icespire cast dappled light across the gardens around him. Glimmers of soft blue trickled through the thick, leafy canopy of the garden, playing tricks with the shadows. Aravon’s gut clenched tighter with every step—he could be running into a company of Ebonguard, and crossbow bolts could cut him down at any second.

  Yet he never slowed. They could afford no delay; a single minute could spell the difference between success and failure.

  Through a gap in the gardens, he caught sight of the first Eirdkilr-manned longships. The low, sleek vessels had lowered oars and now rowed toward the unprotected bay. The first was already sliding across the unbroken ocean where the Deepshackle had once stood a solid barrier. Within seconds, the next ship would enter the bay, and the rest weren’t far behind.

  Gritting his teeth, he drove himself to run faster. To ignore the thundering of his heart, the sweat soaking his tunic, the burning in his lungs. The distance to the northwestern side of the island—barely a quarter-mile—seemed endless. And, with every step, the Eirdkilr ships rowed closer, closer, closer to the mouth of the Bay.

  Hope surged within him as they burst free of the gardens and raced down the grassy hill toward the stone pier jutting out of the island’s edge. Yes! There, at the far end of the stone pier, stood the two-story tower that housed the Deepshackle’s control mechanisms. One of the Eirdkilr longships had gotten past, but the others were just now approaching the lowered Deepshackle. It would be close, but if they could just get into the tower, they could raise the sea chain and close the bay once more.

  Yet that glimmer of radiant hope turned to ice in his belly as he caught sight of the fur-clad figures standing at the base of the hill. Fifteen towering giants with rusted skullcaps, long hair and braided beards, and chain mail stood guard before the pier, axes, spears, and clubs held at the ready.

  The Eirdkilrs weren’t coming
to Palace Isle—they were already here.

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Aravon’s heart stopped mid-beat, his feet stuttering and his pace slowing in surprise. Eirdkilrs, here?

  It seemed impossible, yet there was no mistake. No one could ever confuse the seven-foot barbarians with their filthy ice bear pelts, chain mail, and massive weapons for Princelanders.

  The “how” of it all boggled his mind. It should have been impossible for the Eirdkilrs to slip past the raised Deepshackle—the chain stretched across the entire length of the bay, and not even small coracles could slip through. Yet somehow, the long, sleek rowboat moored to the jetty had gotten past the chain.

  Anger flared within Aravon. Lord Eidan’s treachery again!

  The Prince’s spymaster had to have known the Eirdkilrs would be coming here for the Deepshackle—fiery hell, he’d probably shared with them the information that brought them to this tower. It would have been a simple matter for him to sneak this handful of Eirdkilrs into the city in advance of the battle and equip them with the boat. Then, once the siege of the city wall had begun, all eyes turned to the south, he would have ensured the jetty was poorly defended.

  It had almost certainly been him who had pulled the Ebonguard away from the north shore of Palace Isle and stationed them on the opposite end of the Palace, by the Northbridge. The skeletal force of Ebonguards left here—Aravon counted five corpses clad in the black plate mail and plumed helmets of the Prince’s guards—wouldn’t have been prepared for an Eirdkilr attack.

  Worse, the Ebonguards stationed around Palace Isle could have no idea the Eirdkilrs had made landfall. While the tower itself stood visible from the Palace’s balconies and windows, the hill that rose to the Palace gardens blocked the view of the jetty’s landward end. No one but Aravon and his Grim Reavers knew the true threat.

  Aravon risked a glance to the north. The second ship had already drawn abreast of the submerged Deepshackle, its sleek, shallow hull skimming over the water’s surface like some terrible sea wolf. The rest of the Eirdkilr fleet—all thirty of them—had taken up oars and now surged in a throng toward Icespire Bay. They would soon be within the protective barrier and hundreds of Eirdkilrs would flood onto Palace Isle.

  Not a bloody chance I’ll let that happen!

  Aravon didn’t need to give an order to his men—they knew their business. Skathi’s arms moved a heartbeat before Noll’s, nocking an arrow, drawing her bowstring to her ear, and letting loose. The arrow whistled toward the Eirdkilrs and thumped into one’s chest. The impact hurled him backward to splash into the water, his blood joining the white-capped waves crashing against the rocky pier.

  Noll’s arrow took the next Eirdkilr in the throat, and Skathi’s second missile brought down one of the four Eirdkilrs that held bows. A moment later, Belthar’s enormous crossbow bolt slammed into another of the barbarians, lifting him from his feet. He flew through the air and collided with the Eirdkilr behind him. The two fell to the ground in a tangled heap of flailing limbs, clinking mail, and blood. The first Eirdkilr died without a sound; the second lay screaming, the tip of the huge bolt driven through his gut.

  But the Eirdkilrs had been prepared for battle. Though they’d doubtless expected heavily-armored, slow-moving Ebonguards not the speedy, leather-clad warriors sprinting toward them, they were prepared. They raised their huge shields against Skathi and Noll’s arrows, and their two archers returned fire without flinching.

  An arrow flew toward Aravon’s chest—from twenty yards away, the Eirdkilr couldn’t miss, and Aravon had no chance to dodge. Time slowed to a crawl as the steel-tipped missile sliced through the air, a dark blur limned in glowing blue by the light of the Icespire. The cold hand of death come to claim Aravon.

  Thump!

  Aravon sucked in a breath, expecting the flood of agony. None came. A heavy shield stood between him and the Eirdkilrs—Rangvaldr had saved his life, thrown up a defense just in time. Belthar grunted as an Eirdkilr arrow drove into his shoulder with staggering force. He slowed only long enough to drop his huge crossbow and unlimber his axe, wound be damned.

  Skathi and Noll had only a handful of arrows between them, but they kept up a steady stream of fire until the last possible second, keeping the Eirdkilrs crouched behind their huge shields. Just long enough for Colborn to sprint past Aravon and throw himself onto the enemy.

  The Lieutenant had abandoned his bow in favor of sword and shield, and he leapt into battle with all the fervor of a Fehlan warrior. Odarian steel glinted in the light of the Serenii-built Icespire, shimmering blue-grey, rending flesh, tearing through chain mail, and hacking leather armor to shreds. Blood misted in the air as the Lieutenant’s sword opened an Eirdkilr’s throat and sheared off another’s hand at the wrist.

  Belthar, Rangvaldr, and Zaharis were a step behind Colborn. Zaharis’ mace was a blur in the pre-dawn light, crushing elbows, knees, and faces. Rangvaldr’s charge drove an Eirdkilr back a half-step, and his sword laid open the man’s neck to the bone. Belthar’s axe crunched through an upraised shield, slammed into the barbarian’s helmet, and crushed his skull in a spray of gore and blood.

  Aravon struck a low blow, his spear sweeping the legs of two Eirdkilrs from beneath them. The barbarians fell hard, crashing to the ground in a clatter of armor and weapons. A quick thrust and a slash, and the Eirdkilrs’ blood soaked into the grass of the hill.

  Against fifteen Eirdkilrs, no ordinary force of seven soldiers would have stood a chance. Yet the Grim Reavers were anything but ordinary. Clad in alchemically-hardened armor and wielding weapons no Eirdkilr-forged steel could ever match, they were a force of death and destruction, carving through the barbarians in the space of a few seconds. The Eirdkilrs never fled nor asked for quarter—they fought and died where they stood, borne to the grassy ground beneath the force of the Grim Reavers’ charge.

  But the giants did not die easy. A day of travel and hours spent fighting and running through the smoke had left the Grim Reavers exhausted, their movements slowed by fatigue, hunger, and thirst.

  Belthar’s left arm, struck by the arrow, moved slowly—too slow to block an Eirdkilr axe. His helmet turned aside the blow, but he staggered, stunned by the impact. As Zaharis killed the Eirdkilr about to strike Belthar down, another barbarian slammed his club into the Secret Keeper’s right arm. Zaharis didn’t pull his arm away fast enough; the club crunched into the muscles of his biceps with jarring force.

  Colborn, too intent on the enemy before him, failed to turn aside a spear thrust at his side. His instinctive twist and the alchemical treatment hardening his leather armor kept the weapon from piercing, but the blow sent Colborn stumbling backward, gasping in pain. His shield dropped, exposing his head to a vicious axe stroke from another Eirdkilr.

  Skathi’s bowstaff cracked across the barbarian’s face, but she had to throw herself into a desperate roll to dodge another attack. She would have died beneath the Eirdkilr’s thrusting spear had Lord Virinus not hacked at the barbarian’s weapon. A useless attack, but one that bought the Agrotora a heartbeat. Long enough to draw an arrow, spin, and drive the tip of the missile into the Eirdkilr’s boot. Even as a howl of pain and rage burst from his throat, Skathi tore the arrow loose and thrust it into his wide-open mouth.

  Blood spattered Aravon’s armor and leather mask as he cut down the last Eirdkilr. Fire burned in his lungs and his legs, arms, and shoulders ached from the furious combat. But he couldn’t afford to rest—he rushed over to Zaharis. The Secret Keeper’s arm hung by his side, and pain glimmered in his eyes.

  “Broken?” Aravon asked.

  For answer, Zaharis moved the arm—little more than a twitch—and shook his head.

  Aravon nodded. “Keep to the back, let us lead the way.”

  The Secret Keeper nodded his agreement—it made more tactical sense to let the less-injured be first into battle.

  “Ursus!” Rangvaldr hurried over to Belthar’s side. The big man lay on his back, propped up on one elbow
. His eyes were slightly glazed, unfocused. He barely grunted as Rangvaldr tore out the arrow.

  “Oi, big man!” Noll hovered over Belthar. “What’s your name?”

  “Greenmeadow.”

  Noll’s eyes darkened. “What’s that?”

  “Greenmeadow.” The dazed look left Belthar’s eyes, replaced by a sparkle of grim humor. “It’s where I last tumbled your mother.”

  “He’s fine!” Noll growled and straightened, a disdainful huff in his voice. “It’d take more than an Eirdkilr axe to crack that hard skull of his.”

  Rangvaldr peered at the wound in Belthar’s shoulder. “I could heal it, but—”

  “It’d take time.” Belthar blinked away the last of his dizziness, his eyes darting toward the Eirdkilr ships. “Time we don’t have.” He pushed the Seiomenn away. “It’ll keep.”

  Aravon nodded. “Let’s go.” He thrust a finger toward the tower at the end of the pier. “I’d bet Belthar’s dinner there are more Eirdkilrs waiting for us there.”

  “It’s a party, then!” Anger glazed in Colborn’s ice-blue eyes.

  Aravon nodded. “Shields in the front, just in case,” he ordered. “Magicmaker in the back with Ursus and Lord Virinus. Foxclaw, Redwing, with me in the middle.”

  “Yes, Captain!” Skathi saluted with her bow.

  Aravon turned to Lord Virinus. The nobleman stood a few steps away, his wide eyes locked in stunned surprise on the corpse of the Eirdkilr at his feet.

  “Lord Virinus,” Aravon called out. “This isn’t over.”

  The young nobleman seemed to struggle for a moment before tearing his eyes away from the slain barbarian. He blinked once and gave a half-dazed nod.

  Aravon gritted his teeth. He couldn’t have the man freezing up mid-battle, as inexperienced soldiers tended to do.