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

by Andy Peloquin

  “You did well, my lord.” He spoke the words with confidence, more for the young man’s sake than his own.

  A hint of pride flashed across the young man’s face, pushing back against the daze of battle. “I know you don’t trust me after…” He locked eyes with Aravon. “But I swear on the Swordsman, I am no traitor. Simply a man trying to no longer be a coward.”

  Aravon inclined his head. “Head high, jaw firm, face to the enemy.” He wouldn’t trust the nobleman so easily, not after what he’d done to Lingram, but even men like Myron Virinus deserved a second chance. “You’ll prove your courage, to us and yourself.”

  Lord Virinus tightened his grip on his sword. He seemed so young, barely midway through his second decade of life, and so terribly out of place amidst the battle-hardened Grim Reavers. Yet for all his inexperience and fear, his determination hadn’t wavered in the face of the enemy. That was more than could be said for many Legionnaires Aravon had marched with and commanded. Perhaps there was hope for Myron Virinus yet.

  “Move!” Aravon called. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  He led the way across the broad stone pier. With the tide receding, the ocean had pulled back from the jetty, leaving only standing puddles that splashed beneath the Grim Reavers’ pounding boots. Though the current had worn the stone smooth and the water turned it slick, sand crunched under the Grim Reavers’ boots, offering just enough traction as they raced down the fifty-yard length at full speed.

  A part of Aravon’s mind dissected the Eirdkilrs’ presence here, trying to rationalize their plan of attack. Doubtless Lord Eidan had intended for the barbarians to hold the tower, trusting to the high tide to raise the ocean’s surface above the pier, thereby cutting off any hope of reinforcement. His plan of attack had gone awry, the Deepshackle raised, delaying the Eirdkilrs’ attempt to lower the sea chain until now.

  Yet, as he glanced out to sea, he could see the plan hadn’t fully failed. The second longship had sailed over the submerged Deepshackle, a third and fourth close on its heels. The rest of the Eirdkilr fleet would be across the chain in a matter of minutes.

  With a growl, he returned his attention to the slippery stone underfoot and the tower just twenty yards ahead. At that moment, arrows sliced through the air, hurtling toward them and thumping into Colborn and Rangvaldr’s upraised shields. The Eirdkilrs fired through the tower’s arrow slits, yet they could only loose a few volleys before Aravon and the Grim Reavers flattened themselves against the tower’s outer wall, too close for the Eirdkilrs within to fire straight down.

  Colborn tried the heavy metal door—it refused to budge, locked from within. “Keeper’s teeth!” He turned to Belthar. “Can you pick the lock like you did in Rivergate?”

  Belthar shook his head. “Not with my arm the way it is. Takes precision and—”

  “Move!” Zaharis shoved his way to toward the door. “I’ll handle this.”

  The Secret Keeper fumbled in his bag of alchemical supplies, yet his hands shook from the injury to his arm. As he drew out a handful of some dried, shriveled root, something else fell from his pouch. A dark shape, barely the size of a large knuckle, that plopped into the sand-filled salt water puddle next to the door.

  Aravon’s eyes, fixed on the little chunk of ghoulstone, saw the immediate transformation. The black stone suddenly glowed bright, filling the world with a brilliant blue gleam.

  He sucked in a breath. By the Swordsman! He would recognize that glow anywhere.

  Turning, he stared up at the Icespire—the same marvelous blue as deep and lustrous as the ocean on a sunny day—back to the ghoulstone, then at the stone hanging around Rangvaldr’s neck.

  Understanding dawned in that moment. The Eirdkilrs didn’t just come to Icespire to destroy us. His gaze went back to the Serenii-built Icespire, rising two hundred feet into the night sky. They came here for that.

  Ghoulstone, as it had been called, wasn’t just worthless, inert gangue. Something about the mineral made it so powerful that the Serenii had used it in the construction of their tower. The Fehlan holy stones, too, if his eyes didn’t deceive him. Though Aravon might not understand how Rangvaldr’s holy stones worked, he couldn’t deny that the magic did exist.

  Zaharis, with all his practical, scientific alchemy, had somehow recreated it. The droplet of water that had seeped into the stone mingled with the Elixir of Creation and changed upon exposure to the ocean. Somehow, impossibly, the Secret Keeper had brought to life something even he believed impossible.

  Magic.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  The word staggered him. It felt…wrong. Magic was something reserved for the ancient Serenii, a force far beyond his ability to understand, or even to believe its existence. Rangvaldr’s holy stones had proven that it was real, and now that chunk of stone glowing on the stone pier reinforced the truth in his mind.

  Ghoulstone somehow has magical properties. And the Eirdkilrs want it.

  The pieces clicked into place. The words written into the journal of Silver Break Mine’s overseer—“Why does it glow?” The tales of the Shalandran miners seeing a glimmer in the darkness. And the reason the Eirdkilrs had gone so far out of their way, invading as far north as Rivergate, to get their hands on ghoulstone.

  The enemy’s actions of the last months now made sense. The seemingly random attacks on Fehlan and Princelander targets had had a specific purpose. It had all been for ghoulstone—the assault on Steinnbraka Delve and Saerheim, the attack at Storbjarg, the destruction of Gold Burrows and the captives taken from Silver Break, the siege at Rivergate, even the wanton brutality of the Eirdkilr assault on the tiny town of Oldrsjot.

  Not just tactical decisions intended to weaken the Fehlan resistance and the Princelanders’ hold on the continent, but to get their hands on ghoulstone.

  The same realization shone in the eyes of every one of the Grim Reavers around him. They, too, stared down at the stone gleaming on the ground, and they saw the purpose behind the Eirdkilrs’ actions. Every battle, every desperate fight for their lives…it all came down to that. How and why, they couldn’t know now, but the truth stared them in the face.

  Zaharis moved first, stooping to scoop the stone up in a black cloth and stuffing it back in his pouch. None of the Grim Reavers spoke—they had all seen it, and the burden of that knowledge weighed on each in its own way.

  Yet they had no time to ponder its significance. Five ships had already crossed the Deepshackle, with three more close behind and the rest in pursuit, propelled by the strong arms and oars of the Eirdkilrs. Thousands of enemies, headed toward them.

  Zaharis spun back toward the lock and stuffed the dried, gnarled root into the opening. “Stand back,” he signed. With his right arm, which seemed to be moving more easily since he picked up the stone. Another realization that Aravon pushed to the back of his mind until a more opportune time to consider it.

  Zaharis drew out a firestriker from within his pouch, scraped it along the metal surface to light it, and touched the flame to the dried root. The tendrils caught light instantly, and the little fire burned up toward the root stuffed into the lock. A loud whoomph echoed, accompanied by a puff of smoke and a blaze of bright light. The metal lock cracked and the door swung ajar.

  Belthar moved toward the door, but Colborn stopped him. “Shields first.”

  Grunting, the big man stepped aside, making way for Rangvaldr and Colborn to precede him.

  Aravon gripped the door and looked to the two Fehlans. At their nod, he ripped it open and they charged into the tower.

  Arrows flew from the shadows within and thumped into the twin shields. Aravon leapt into the tower on Colborn’s heels, found himself face to face with six Eirdkilrs barring their entrance. A seventh stood on the stair, bow in hand, reaching for an arrow.

  Colborn’s sword took the nearest Eirdkilr in the throat and Rangvaldr’s cut out another’s legs. Aravon leapt between the two shield-bearing warriors and drove his spear straight at an Eirdkilr’s shi
eld. The force of his blow staggered the man just enough to break the solid shield wall. A scream of pain echoed from the Eirdkilr on the stairs, but Aravon had no time to look up. He fought for his life—and the lives of all in Icespire—his spear whirling, lashing out, striking at the Eirdkilrs high and low. The towering barbarians stood firm beneath his onslaught, massive legs planted like oak trees. But every second he kept them engaged and on the defensive bought his comrades time to take them down.

  Belthar’s axe crunched through an enemy’s shield, shattering the arm beneath. The Eirdkilr’s piercing scream echoed through the tower, followed by a second a moment later as Aravon drove the iron-shod butt of his spear up between a barbarian’s legs. As the man fell, a gap opened between the remaining Eirdkilrs—a path clear to the stairs.

  “Go!” he shouted to whoever listened. “Get up to the second floor and get that chain up!”

  The Eirdkilr stumbled to his feet, lashing out with a powerful club blow aimed at Aravon’s head. Ducking, Aravon drove the sharp tip of his spear into the man’s wrist. Bone cracked beneath the force of the blow and the club fell from nerveless fingers.

  But the Eirdkilr wasn’t down. He leaned his shoulder into his shield and drove it straight at Aravon’s face. Pain exploded in Aravon’s nose, lips, jaw, chin, and chest as the metal boss slammed full into him. The impact hurled him backward and sent him crashing into the wall. The back of his head struck stone, hard enough to daze him, and he fell to his knees and hands. Stars whirled in his vision. He clawed at the stone, desperate to find his feet before the barbarian finished him off, yet the world spun in a dizzying blur around him.

  He dimly heard the screams of pain from above, felt hot warmth splattering his neck and seeping beneath his collar into his armor. Blinking hard, he shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and found himself face to face with an Eirdkilr. Dead, neck twisted at a terrible angle, weapons still gripped in lifeless fingers.

  Aravon recoiled and pulled back from the slain barbarian. Found himself alone in the downstairs chamber with Colborn hovering over him. Blood stained the edge of Colborn’s sword, his arms, and the front of his shield.

  “Captain!” The Lieutenant’s shout pierced the numbness and the ringing in Aravon’s ears. “Captain—”

  “I’m good.” The pain in Aravon’s face hadn’t yet diminished and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, but nothing felt broken. The dizziness passed and he leapt to his feet with only a hint of unsteadiness. “Go, help the others!”

  Without hesitation, Colborn leapt up the stairs, disappearing around the corner of the circular stairway. Scooping up his spear from where it had fallen, Aravon raced in pursuit of the Lieutenant.

  The sound of combat—clashing steel, wood thumping against flesh and heavy shields, the grunts of embattled men, and a scream of pain—echoed down the curving staircase. The bodies of three Eirdkilrs clogged up the stairs, forcing Aravon to leap over them. He reached the top and burst into the second-floor tower room to find a scene of chaos and blood.

  Skathi and Noll had abandoned their bows and drawn short swords, cutting at a single Eirdkilr like two hounds nipping at a bear’s heels. Belthar was locked in a ferocious wrestling match with another Eirdkilr, while Lord Myron struggled to dodge the swiping, swinging axe wielded by a third barbarian. Zaharis’ mace crunched into an Eirdkilr’s leg and the man screamed out, falling to one knee but lashing out with his shield. The blow caught the Secret Keeper full in the chest and hurled him backward.

  Colborn sidestepped a hacking axe chop and cut down an Eirdkilr, only to nearly lose his head a moment later as the next Eirdkilr charged. Rangvaldr threw himself forward and thrust his shield into the path of the blow. Staggering, stumbling, off-balance, the Seiomenn fell back and struck the wall hard. His sword and shield dropped as the Eirdkilr raised his club to strike.

  Aravon leapt over the last Eirdkilr corpse and drove his spear into the Eirdkilr’s side. The barbarian froze, weapon still upraised to strike, blood spurting from the tear between his ribs. He coughed, spraying more crimson, staggered, and slumped. When Aravon tore his spear free, the barbarian slumped and lay still.

  Instinct shrieked at him, and he ducked. Just in time to avoid an Eirdkilr axe whistling toward his head. Rangvaldr’s sword thrust mere inches from his face, sliding past the rim of his helmet and punching into the Eirdkilr behind him. Aravon whirled and lashed out with an elbow. His blow struck the chain-mailed chest of the barbarian, but the man was already dying, bleeding from a stab to the heart.

  As the Eirdkilr staggered backward, Aravon had a moment to breathe, to look around the second-story room—simple stone walls, a table with five chairs, and the bodies of five Ebonguards littered around the bare wooden floor. Set against the northern wall of the room, flanked by two broad windows, stood the six-foot-tall windlass that controlled the Deepshackle.

  Aravon dashed toward the wooden wheel, seized two handles, and threw his weight against it. The windlass had to weigh twice as much as he, and it was connected to the massive Deepshackle—no way he could move it alone.

  “Help me!” he roared. Though he strained with every ounce of strength, he couldn’t so much as budge the enormous wheel.

  Suddenly, a huge figure pushed in beside him. Belthar seized the handles and, with a grunt, pulled hard. His prodigious muscles bunched as he threw the force of his back, legs, arms, and shoulders into the effort. A growling roar rumbled in Aravon’s throat and his muscles screamed in protest, but he couldn’t stop. They had to raise the Deepshackle, had to stop the Eirdkilrs from—

  The wheel moved. Slowly, with a loud clanking that set the stone walls of the tower rattling and quaking. Yet the wheel turned in Aravon’s hand, the tension on his muscles loosening for a single heartbeat.

  “Again!” He and Belthar threw their weight against the windlass and hauled. The wheel moved, just a few inches, yet again the loud rattling of the massive sea chains echoed through the room. Howls of fury and rage filled the air as the Eirdkilrs—Aravon didn’t know how many of the ten that had been in the room still lived—saw their battle plan unravel.

  “Belthar!” Skathi’s shout pierced the air. A harsh bark of pain sounded from behind Aravon, but Belthar was torn away from the windlass and borne to the ground beneath the weight of an Eirdkilr. Skathi’s arrow protruded from the back of the barbarian’s neck, but the blood that pooled around the two hulking figures could only have been Belthar’s.

  No! Aravon wanted to scream, but he could spare no breath. Belthar had helped him set the windlass moving, but it took all his strength to keep it moving, keep the Deepshackle slowly rising one inch at a time.

  Then Belthar moved, his huge hand clamping on the Eirdkilr’s shoulder and pulling the barbarian from atop him. As the big man rolled the corpse from atop him, Aravon caught sight of a third figure: Lord Myron Virinus, his body interposed between Belthar and the now-dead barbarian, sword still buried in the Eirdkilr’s gut. The blood had come from him—from the gaping wound in his side.

  Horror thrummed within Aravon as he hauled at the windlass. The young nobleman tried to stand, failed, his legs giving out. He coughed weakly, spraying blood. The spear that had torn open his side had also crushed his ribs and punctured his lungs.

  “Rangvaldr!” Aravon managed to shout.

  “Kind of…busy!” Rangvaldr called back.

  Without slowing his exhausting labor of turning the windlass, Aravon glanced over his shoulder, seeking out the Seiomenn. Rangvaldr was locked in a furious wrestling match with a snarling, spitting, cursing Eirdkilr. Noll leapt atop the barbarian’s back and drove his sword into the base of the huge skull, but the dying man collapsed forward atop Rangvaldr. Though the two Grim Reavers struggled to push off the barbarian’s huge bulk, Aravon knew it would do no good. His eyes went back to Lord Virinus—the vein in his side gushed blood, and the pool forming around him was far too wide. He was already gone; his heart simply hadn’t stopped beating yet. Not even Ran
gvaldr could heal that wound.

  Lord Myron Virinus’ eyes locked on Aravon. For a single moment, the world went still and silent. Gone was the sound of battle, the thumping of Aravon’s pulse and the burning of his muscles. In that heartbeat, as he met the dying nobleman’s gaze, nothing else mattered.

  “Tell…Lingram,” Myron Virinus gasped, “not…a…coward.”

  Then the windlass moved in Aravon’s hands—Belthar back at the wheel, joined by Colborn now—and the moment shattered. He had glanced away for a heartbeat, and when he looked back, Lord Virinus was gone. In silence, without so much as a gasp, rattle, or whimper. A quick death…an honorable one, after a fashion.

  Aravon stumbled back from the windlass, his strength flagging, but Belthar and Colborn worked the huge wheel for him. The clanking of the Deepshackle thrummed through the chamber, echoing in time with Aravon’s heart. He stood, staring down in silence at the fallen Lord Virinus.

  Rangvaldr stumbled across the room and dropped at the nobleman’s side, reaching for the pendant around his neck.

  “Peace, Rangvaldr.” Aravon placed an exhausted hand on the Seiomenn’s shoulder. “He’s gone.”

  Rangvaldr looked up at him, anguish bright in his eyes. “Captain, I—”

  “It’s not your fault.” Aravon shook his head. “The Long Keeper called him. And he gave himself to save us. He wanted to redeem himself—with his last act, he did so.”

  Behind him, Belthar and Colborn struggled with the huge windlass, grunting with the strain of turning the wheel. The mechanism was so big it required four Princelanders to move. Two Eirdkilrs—or two Belthars—could turn the wheel, and when Noll, Skathi, and Zaharis threw their shoulders against the windlass, it moved faster.

  But Aravon didn’t move. He knelt beside the nobleman’s body.

  “Go,” he said. “Help the others. See to their wounds.”

  Rangvaldr left without a word, and soon his grunts joined those of the other Grim Reavers.