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

by Andy Peloquin

Aravon had only a moment to spare for the fallen Lord Virinus. He closed the man’s eyes gently. “May the Swordsman guide you into eternity.” A quiet, simple farewell, yet it felt fitting. Lord Myron Virinus had been many things in life—few of them good—but he’d died well.

  Then he rose to his feet, turned away from the body. He stared through the huge window set into the window’s northern wall, his eyes locked on the ships sailing into the bay. Fifteen long, sleek warships slicing through the choppy ocean, wolves howling toward the citizens of Icespire.

  A loud crackling echoed across the bay, and the foremost ship seemed to slow, run aground on some invisible island. No, not an island, Aravon realized. The Deepshackle. The uppermost edge of the massive chain rose from the water like a mythical phoenix ascending from ashes. Rose, lifting the ship with it. Up, up, one inch at a time, until the hull burst free of the water. Another crack, the loud groan of splintering wood, and the ship split in two. Front and rear half splashed into the water. Screams of panic echoed across the bay as water rushed into the demolished boat. Heavily-armored Eirdkilrs cried in their guttural tongue and scrambled to pull off their chain mail, abandon weapons and shields. Too late. The ocean claimed its prize, the Eirdkilrs dragged into the icy depths by the weight of their armor.

  More cracks, loud and thunderous, like a cacophony of thunder. But the sky remained empty—the staccato reports came from the Eirdkilr-crewed ships that drove straight into the rising Deepshackle. Wooden prows crumpled as the fast-moving valdrskipa crashed into the chain. Though only the topmost foot of metal protruded from the water’s surface, the solid steel barrier ripped through the ships’ hulls like a hurricane through a wheat field. Eirdkilrs shrieked and howled their fury into the night, their screams of rage turning to panic and terror as the water claimed them. They could not hope to swim to shore, not with so much steel and leather weighing them down. Those few who managed to cling to the Deepshackle itself would survive…long enough to feed the blackfins.

  Aravon glanced back at Lord Virinus. The nobleman lay still, his face pale and bloodless, a pool of crimson around him. Because of his sacrifice in saving Belthar, they’d managed to raise the Deepshackle. The young man hadn’t given his life in vain. When he stood before the Long Keeper, that act would be weighed against everything else he’d done. Aravon had to hope it tipped the balance in Myron Virinus’ favor.

  A cheer echoed through the towertop room—exhausted, broken by gasps as the Grim Reavers slumped against the windlass, yet still thick with delight.

  “Take that, fish fuckers!” Noll shouted and flipped an obscene gesture through the window.

  “Don’t celebrate too long.” Aravon’s gut tightened. “We may have won here, but the battle’s far from over.”

  Seven pairs of eyes went to the long, sleek warships slicing through the waters of Icespire Bay. Though the Deepshackle had been raised in time to keep out most of the Eirdkilr fleet, five of their number had gotten past the sea wall.

  Five ships, each crewed by up to seventy Eirdkilrs. Three hundred and fifty enemies rowing at full speed toward the nearest place to make landfall: the Prince’s private beach at the northern end of Palace Isle.

  The Palace had no walls, no defenses to repel the invaders. Only the Ebonguard—fewer than one hundred and fifty now—to hold the beach. An impossible task, even for the Prince’s elite warriors.

  Unless Aravon and the Grim Reavers got there in time to fight them off, the Palace and everyone in it would die.

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Aravon was no sailor—he’d spent more time on horseback than aboard a ship’s deck during his Legion career—but even he could see the Eirdkilrs would reach the shores of Palace Isle in less than ten minutes. The foremost ship had already covered fully a quarter of the distance between the Deepshackle and the island’s northern edge in the time it had taken Aravon and the Grim Reavers to reach the tower and raise the sea chain.

  Bloody hell! Ten minutes to mount whatever sort of defense he could throw together. And against so many Eirdkilrs!

  If each ship held a full complement of warriors, he’d be facing close to three hundred and fifty Eirdkilrs. He and whoever else he could summon to defend the Prince’s private beach—the only way the barbarians would get onto Palace Isle.

  Yet, impossible odds or not, he had no choice but to fight. For the sake of his family, the Prince, and all in Icespire.

  He turned to his Grim Reavers. The six soldiers leaned against the wooden windlass, drained from the battle and the effort of turning the massive wheel. That, on top of days spent traveling and fighting. They were all as exhausted as he, wounded, and on their last legs. But the sight of those ships pulling relentlessly toward the shores of Icespire was all the motivation the exhausted and battered Grim Reavers needed to push themselves upright.

  Pride and gratitude swelled within Aravon. He’d commanded soldiers for years, marched among the finest Legionnaires on Fehl, yet these six soldiers—Seiomenn, Secret Keeper, scout, Agrotora, Lieutenant, and strong man—outshone them all. Their courage, determination, and relentless perseverance had saved the lives of so many Fehlans and Princelanders before. Now, they fought to save his family as well as their Prince. Without a word of complaint or hesitation, aches and pains be damned. More steadfast companions to fight side by side could not be found.

  “Let’s go, Grim Reavers.” He spoke in a quiet voice, too exhausted to shout. “Battle awaits.”

  No one spoke, but six heads nodded, six pairs of hands tightened around shields, swords, maces, axe, and bows. No words were needed. They all knew what had to be done, and they were the ones to do it.

  Aravon moved toward the stairs.

  “Wait, we’re just going to leave it?”

  Noll’s question stopped him mid-stride. He turned to find the scout gesturing toward the massive wooden wheel that controlled the Deepshackle.

  “A few good swings of Ursus’ axe, and it’s a sure-fire guarantee the bay stays blocked long enough to finish this battle.”

  Aravon nodded. “Indeed it is.” He’d considered and discarded the notion already. “But without the ability to lower the Deepshackle, Icespire would be cut off from supplies or reinforcements from the mainland until the mechanism is repaired.” Something that ancient would be far more complex than just a single wooden wheel—who knew if human engineers could repair the Serenii-made mechanism.

  “Yeah, but it’d keep those bastards out of our hair!” Noll thrust a finger toward the ships waiting beyond the chain—the wolves sitting, slavering outside the fence, staring with greedy eyes at their prey. “Long enough to win the battle, at least.”

  “We have to think about what happens after the battle, too,” Aravon said in a quiet voice. “Icespire must survive, must endure.” If they could get through this night, if they could repel the Eirdkilrs even now rowing toward the Palace and somehow fight back against those in the Mains, the city had a chance. It could be restored, repaired, and made anew. But to make that happen, they would need trade, supplies, goods, and manpower from the mainland. The Deepshackle had to remain undamaged.

  After a moment, Noll shrugged. “Better make sure it’s at least guarded, then!”

  Aravon inclined his head. “The Ebonguard will see to that. We are needed to fight.”

  He led the way down the stairs at a run. Lead filled his legs and dragged on his feet, the pain of tight muscles shooting along his spine and making each step a torment. Yet as he raced out of the tower and into the fresh, salty air of the pier, he once again caught sight of the Eirdkilr ships. Nothing would stop those sleek, wolfish vessels from making landfall. All too soon, scores of howling, shrieking barbarians would surge onto the shores of Palace Isle. He and the Grim Reavers needed to be there to stop them in their tracks.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to run faster. Bit back on the aches and pains, on the exhaustion that settled in a ponderous burden atop his shoulders. Duty and desire merged to spur him onward�
�he fought to save his Prince, his city, and his family. He leaned into the run, pounding along the slick, salt-and-sand-covered stone pier, toward the grassy hill that led up to the gardens of Palace Isle.

  Again, his eyes slid to the north, toward the Jokull valdrskipa. Closer now, nearly halfway to the northern edge of the island. Even at a full sprint, Aravon would reach the Prince’s private beach with only minutes to spare. What sort of defense could the seven of them hope to mount in that time?

  But he refused to let dismay slow his steps. Instead, it fueled his fire, drove him to run faster. His grip on his spear tightened and his jaw clenched so tight his muscles ached. Yet on he ran, determination hardening like stone within him.

  Up the grassy hill, back toward the gardens on the western side of Palace Isle. Then to the left, eastward, along the Palace’s northern edge. Beneath the watchful eyes of the stone griffins the Grim Reavers ran. Ran to desperate battle and the promise of blood. Their boots thundered on the stone walkways, marble-tiled courtyard, and the wooden floor of the viewing balcony set on the northwestern corner of the Palace. Leaping over stone benches, racing around shallow ponds covered with delicate lily pads, and sprinting through an army of marble statues depicting the greatest heroes of Fehl.

  The clank and clatter of armor pierced the thundering of Aravon’s pulse in his ears. Through the statuary, he caught sight of a company of heavily-armed men in black armor and helmets racing toward them. Hope surged within him as he caught sight of the man-height oval shields bearing the Prince’s insignia: a griffin holding a torch and sword.

  The Prince’s Ebonguard!

  Yet they, too, spotted him in that instant. The Ebonguard slowed their charge through the statues, and ten of their number dropped to one knee, leveling crossbows at Aravon and the Grim Reavers. From merely thirty yards away, there was no chance they’d miss.

  “Halt!” came the call from one of the Ebonguards. “One more step and it’ll be your last!”

  Aravon skidded to a halt, throwing his hands into the air. “We are the Prince’s men!” he shouted. “Captain Snarl and his Grim Reavers.”

  A moment’s silence, then one of the Ebonguards stepped out from behind the statue. His gaze fixed on Aravon, suspicion written in his narrowed eyes and the tightness around his square jaw. “Prove it!”

  “We bear his mark, just as you do.” Slowly, Aravon drew the silver pendant from beneath his armor. “We have come to join battle against the Eirdkilrs.”

  The Ebonguard stepped closer, eyes locked on the pendant. Long seconds passed in tense silence before he nodded. “Good timing.” At his gesture, the archers lowered their crossbows. “Duress, Lieutenant of the Ebonguard. You the ones who got the Deepshackle back up?”

  “That’s us.” Aravon shot the guard a questioning look. “Where were you all this time?”

  “Preparing for battle in the Mains,” Duress replied. “The Prince saw the bridges coming down, but he’s determined to hit back at the enemy with as big a force as we can muster. But when we saw the Deepshackle dropping, we hightailed it this way as fast as we could.” He shook his head. “The Palace is a big place.”

  “Tell me you’ve got men stationed at the Prince’s beach, Lieutenant Duress,” Aravon demanded.

  “Not enough to deal with them.” The Ebonguard winced. “Between holding the Palace against the traitors Lord Eidan warned us about and protecting the Prince, we’re stretched thin.”

  “Right now, the only enemies coming here are right there!” Aravon thrust a finger toward the ships. “If you can spare men to hold the Deepshackle tower, you can count on the seven of us to join battle.”

  They were the ones Lord Eidan had called traitors, he knew. Lord Eidan walked a fine line trying to conceal his treachery from the Prince, trying to maintain a front of legitimacy as long as possible to inflict maximum damage. That had likely prevented the nobleman from naming them specifically—he’d doubtless warned of a threat on the Palace, the assault carried out by Captain Lingram. But Prince Toran had to know the Grim Reavers were loyal, the Legionnaires as well. Soon, the spymaster’s ruse would be shattered and the truth of his duplicity revealed.

  But not yet. Aravon didn’t mention Lord Eidan’s treachery to the Ebonguards—that would only raise questions and demand explanations, and at the moment, they had time for neither. In less than five minutes, the Eirdkilrs would land on Palace Isle. They needed all minds focused on the battle to come; they could deal with the traitorous nobleman after stopping the Eirdkilrs.

  Lieutenant Duress nodded. “Commander Torban’ll be glad for the company.” He spun on his heel and gestured to his men. “Go, hold the tower!”

  At the Lieutenant’s orders, the twenty Ebonguards clattered past Aravon and the Grim Reavers, heading toward the pier and the stone tower that held the Deepshackle mechanisms. Now that they knew the enemy was coming, they would be ready for battle.

  Aravon and the Grim Reavers fell in behind Lieutenant Duress, following him as he raced along the walkways, through stone gardens, and past ornate marble and granite monuments to the thirteen gods of Einan. Had they the time, Aravon would have insisted on tearing down every effigy, image, and marker to build some sort of defensive barrier. Anything to slow down the enemy.

  But they couldn’t spare even a minute—he had to get to the beach and assess their defenses. Put together some sort of battle plan to get through this fight alive.

  A flicker of hope sprang to life within Aravon as he caught sight of the Prince’s private beach. The cove, a hundred feet wide and thirty long, was bordered by solid cliffs that narrowed to an ascending pathway a mere twenty feet across. Those jagged, rocky bluffs that offered the Prince privacy to enjoy the sands and gentle waves of Icespire Bay in comfort were their best chance of survival. The Eirdkilrs would have only one way onto Palace Isle—straight through the fifty black-armored guards that now stood in a solid wall of shields and steel facing the beach, five ranks ten men wide.

  Fifty soldiers against six or seven times that number of Eirdkilrs; terrible odds on the best of days, even for the Prince’s elite guards. Their heavy lamellar armor—plates of black Shalandran steel interlaced atop a chain mail shirt—and open-faced barbute helmets could turn aside arrows, sword strokes, spear thrusts, and even the edge of an axe, but even the strongest plate mail caved beneath blows of the massive Eirdkilr weapons, backed by enormous muscles. Though the Ebonguards’ courage might not wane in the face of their enemy, even their bones would break in the onslaught.

  Their weapons, at least, would give them an edge in the battle to come. Their heavy one-handed axes, made of the finest Princelander steel and wood, could cut through Eirdkilr mail and leather armor. The oval-shaped shields they all carried would protect them from Eirdkilr arrows. And, once the Eirdkilrs slammed into their shield wall, the short, straight-edged swords hanging from their belts worked as well as any Legion-issue blade for close-quarter fighting.

  Men of war, each one, trained by the Swordsman Adepts and Legion Drill Sergeants. Aravon suspected more than a few were former Legionnaires themselves—selected by the Prince to join his elite guard.

  Even better, they had siege engines. Swordsman be praised! Two ballistae dominated the clifftops overlooking the beach, erected on a heavy mount that swiveled east to west and could be raised or lowered as the ships drew within firing range. Judging by the size of these weapons—half the size and breadth of those used by Legion siege engineers—that range would be close to two hundred and fifty yards if they wanted an accurate shot. The heavy bulwarks built around the ballistae would provide shelter for the twenty archers scrambling to draw their crossbows.

  “Commander Torban!” Lieutenant Duress called as he raced toward the formed-up ranks of Ebonguards holding the beach. “We’ve got reinforcements.”

  The commander, an older man with greying hair and the grizzled, scarred face of a Legionnaire Sergeant, turned to face them. Aravon recognized him—once Lieutenant of Pearl Battali
on’s First Company, a man of whom General Traighan had spoken highly.

  Lieutenant Duress slowed to a halt in front of the Commander. “Captain Snarl and the Grim Reavers, sir.”

  Commander Torban’s eyes flew wide. “The bloody…?” His hand flashed toward his sword, and he barked to his men. “Traitors! Take them!”

  “No!” Aravon threw up his hands as the Ebonguards raised axes and turned toward him and his men. “We are the Prince’s loyal soldiers.” He swept a hand toward the Deepshackle. “We just slaughtered the Eirdkilrs that let those ships into the bay.”

  “Eirdkilrs?” The Commander’s wispy grey eyebrows shot up. “Impossible! No way their ships could’ve—”

  “A large skiff, Commander.” Lieutenant Duress’ voice was grim. “Saw it myself, beached right in the shadow of the tower jetty. And the corpses of Eirdkilrs beside Aldis, Ingwan, Naitor, and the others stationed there.”

  “By the Swordsman and my eternity in the Sleepless Lands,” Aravon said, “I swear that we are not traitors. We’ve risked everything to come here and fight. To stop them from getting to the Prince and slaughtering everyone in the Palace.” Even traitorous bastards like Lord Eidan, he thought, but didn’t say aloud. It seemed Lord Eidan had chosen to name the Grim Reavers as the traitors, at least to Commander Torban.

  “All due respect, Commander, but if we were traitors, why in the fiery hell would we be here?” Colborn’s tone held no emotion—flat, cold, and unshaken despite the soldiers menacing him. “Given what’s heading for us right now, you’d think we would much rather be literally anywhere else at the moment.”

  Commander Torban’s eyes snapped toward the five Eirdkilr longships skimming across the water toward them. Already, the lead vessel had drawn close enough to make out the dozens of blue-stained faces, beaded and braided beards, and rusted mail shirts of the Eirdkilrs hauling on the oars and crowding the gunwales, ready to assault the beach. “Fair point.”