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

by Andy Peloquin

“You know who we are,” Aravon said, “and that we bear the Prince’s insignia.” For emphasis, he drew out the silver pendant. “The fact that we’re standing here, ready to fight the Eirdkilrs, should be all that matters for the moment. You can always try to arrest us once we’ve finished off the enemy.”

  The Commander inclined his head. “Don’t think I won’t!”

  Aravon gave a harsh chuckle. “If we get through this in one piece, Commander, you have my word that I will submit should you choose to arrest us.”

  Belthar’s low, ferocious rumbling echoed from beside Aravon.

  “All I ask is that you give me one minute to explain the situation.” Aravon met the man’s gaze. “If, after that, you still consider us traitors, we are yours to deal with as you see fit.” He’d say or do anything to put the Commander at ease—right now, they needed to fight in unison to defeat the enemy that even now filled the air of Icespire Bay with the howling, shrieking war cries of “Death to the half-men!”

  After a long moment, Commander Torban nodded. “So be it.” At his gesture, his Ebonguards lowered their weapons. “But know this, Captain Snarl: you may be the Prince’s special bloody envoy, but the defense of the Palace is my duty. You and your men answer to me, understood?”

  “As long as you understand, Commander, that my soldiers and I have made it our mission to kill any Eirdkilrs that threaten the Princelands and its allies, and no one does it better.” Aravon spoke in a low growl, fire burning in his belly. “So you let us help you and your men as we see fit, and we’ll all get along just fine. Not to mention out of this battle hopefully in no more than a few pieces.”

  Commander Torban’s face hardened, his grey eyes going hard as flint. After a moment, he nodded and held out a hand. “Seems a fair bargain.”

  Aravon returned the Commander’s grip. “Your men know how to use those things?” With his free hand, he cocked a thumb toward the two ballistae.

  “All of ‘em.” Pride shone in Commander Torban’s eyes. “Part of their training.”

  “Mind if we make a couple of additions?” Aravon dropped his voice to a low growl. “My man’s got something that will do some real damage.”

  Commander Torban hesitated, suspicion flashing across his face, but after a glance at the oncoming ships, he nodded. “Go.”

  Aravon whirled toward Zaharis. “Got anything to make those ballistae do more damage?” he signed.

  Zaharis’ eyes sparkled. “You always know how to make a fellow feel special, Captain.” He turned to Belthar. “Big man, with me. I’ll need your help preparing the other ballista.”

  As the two raced off toward the clifftop where the nearest mounted siege engine stood, Aravon turned to Skathi and Noll. “Join the crossbowmen on the high ground, and make the bastards seriously consider turning back.”

  “With pleasure, Captain.” Skathi gave him the two-fingered Agrotorae salute and darted off after Belthar and Zaharis. Without a word, Noll took off across the sand and raced toward the crossbowmen crouched behind the wooden bulwark on the high ground opposite Skathi. The crossfire would do far more damage and force the Eirdkilrs to defend on three sides.

  Aravon shot a glance at Colborn. “Join them, or stay here?”

  Colborn’s eyes narrowed in thought as he studied the layout of the beach and the encircling bluffs. “I’ll take Stonekeeper to join Foxclaw.” He gestured to the eastern clifftop. “Just in case the Eirdkilrs try to climb up that little trail there.”

  Aravon followed Colborn’s pointing finger. In the brightening pre-dawn light, he could just make out the barest hints of a path carved into the cliff face. More like stepping stones carved into the rock wall, it would give the Eirdkilrs a place to scale the bluff in an attempt to outflank the defenders.

  “Go.” Colborn had chosen well, seen a flaw even he hadn’t noticed and positioned himself to be in the right place. A sign of a solid tactical mind—doubtless the reason Duke Dyrund had selected him for the Grim Reavers in the first place.

  Colborn and Rangvaldr hurried after Noll, leaving Aravon alone with the Ebonguards. He took his place at the rear of the shield wall, close enough to Commander Torban to hear his orders yet farther toward the left flank where the Eirdkilrs would hit hardest.

  Drawing in a breath, he studied the battlefield the Ebonguards had chosen. A good one, the best they could hope for on the unprotected Palace Isle. With the ballistae to fire on the ships, twenty crossbowmen to rain down missiles on the Eirdkilrs, and fifty Ebonguards to hold the beach, they had a chance—faint, yet a chance nonetheless—of victory.

  All of the Ebonguards around Aravon held crossbows in addition to their axes and swords. They’d need to shelter behind their shields against the hailstorm of Eirdkilr arrows, but they’d have time for a volley as the enemy made landfall and swarmed the beach. But just one. Fifty crossbow bolts could bring down some of the enemy, but would it be enough?

  The ballistae were their best defense against the enemy. A few well-placed bolts could punch holes in the ships’ hulls and sink them before they reached the shore. But they, too, would only have time for two or three shots before the Eirdkilrs drew too close for the siege weapons. And ballistae were engineered to kill soldiers, not sink ships. Unless the Mistress’ luck was with them—and Zaharis somehow found a way to make those ballistae miraculously effective—the Eirdkilrs would get through and make landfall.

  And then, we’re at the Swordsman’s mercy. If even half the Eirdkilrs made land, the Ebonguard would be outnumbered nearly three to one. Facing an enemy only a few of them had ever fought, the odds against them, the Prince’s wardens would be pressed hard. Aravon had to hope they wouldn’t break or be overwhelmed—if the Eirdkilrs got through, everyone in the Palace behind him and across the Northbridge on Azure Island would die. Tens of thousands of Princelanders, including Prince Toran himself and Aravon’s family, slaughtered by the Eirdkilrs. All because of Lord Eidan’s treachery.

  Anger simmered in Aravon’s gut, mingling with the familiar nervousness of battle. His eyes locked on the sleek warships drawing closer, closer, closer. The steady creak of the Eirdkilrs’ oars and the splash of water faded beneath the pounding of his pulse, the clatter of the Ebonguards shuffling nervously around him, the quiet huffs, grunts, and snorts of men steeling their nerves for battle. With the brightening pre-dawn sky behind them and the blue light of the Icespire to light their way, the Eirdkilr ships appeared like specters of doom and death skimming across the ocean’s surface. Ghosts, or demons of legend, come to slaughter everything Aravon held dear.

  In that silent, breathless moment before battle, Aravon once again felt torn in two. Duty warred with desire; his commission to protect the Princelands and his need to see his family safe. The enemy lay ahead, yet his wife and sons were behind him, in no less danger despite their presence on Palace Isle, away from the battle raging in the Mains. Somewhere within the Palace, Lord Eidan waited like a viper coiled and ready to strike from the shadows. Strike at Prince Toran, Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon.

  A part of his mind screamed at him to turn and run, to let the Ebonguard face the Eirdkilrs while he led his Grim Reavers into the Palace to secure the Prince’s safety and find his family. To hunt down Lord Eidan before he could betray and doubtless kill Prince Toran. But if he did that, the Eirdkilrs would break through. Even with him here, there existed a strong possibility the Eirdkilrs killed every soldier on the beach and still had free rein to plunder the Palace, rampage through the streets of Azure Island and slaughter the men, women, and children of Icespire. Yet staying and fighting wasn’t just the smart tactical choice—whittling down the enemy would make it easier for any Ebonguards holding the Palace and protecting the Prince to defeat the Eirdkilrs that survived the battle. In the end, it was the right thing to do.

  That terrible duty of making the right choice—even when it proved the more difficult—had weighed on General Traighan. Aravon had hated the man for it. For being away from him and his mother, and for being
angry, sullen, and withdrawn when he returned.

  In that moment, Aravon came to understand his father better. The General had struggled beneath the weight of the choices he was forced to make. He’d been off fighting to protect the Princelands while his wife lay dying. With her death, she’d passed to him the burden of caring for their son—a son he had no idea how to raise. Every decision he’d made had only added to the burden on his soul.

  And now, in a way, Aravon had made the same choice. The choice to ignore the danger to his family, to delay racing off to save them, all so he could save the Prince, Icespire, and the Princelands. A higher calling, Duke Dyrund would say. Yet one that came at a heavy toll.

  But Aravon wouldn’t lose himself in a bottle as his father had. He refused to allow the strain to shatter his soul or drag him into the depths of misery and despair. Instead, he would let it temper him like the finest Odarian steel. Like a blacksmith’s pounding hammer, the turmoil within his soul would hone him into a razor-sharp edge that killed Eirdkilrs for the sake of his people, his Prince, and his family.

  Finish this battle, then find my family. A simple plan. Impossible odds be damned. Nothing’s stopping me from getting to Mylena and my sons. Not the Eirdkilrs, and certainly not Lord Eidan. I will see them safe before the sun rises.

  That wouldn’t be long now. Already, the eastern horizon had begun to brighten—dawn would be upon them within an hour, perhaps less. The sun would rise to find blood staining the sands of Palace Isle, Eirdkilr and Princelander blood both. And, if the Swordsman smiled on them, the corpses of the enemy and Aravon’s family safe from danger.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” A harsh curse snapped Aravon from his thoughts. His eyes darted toward the five ships cutting through the water of Icespire Bay in the direction of the Palace.

  No, not five. Ice slithered through his veins. Four.

  Only four of the Jokull-built valdrskipa rowed toward the beach they now held. The fifth had broken off from the pack and turned southwest, slicing the choppy ocean. Headed straight toward the tower controlling the Deepshackle’s mechanism.

  For a heart-pounding second, Aravon considered breaking off from the ranks of Ebonguards holding the beach and racing to the defense of the soldiers holding the tower. Twenty heavily-armed and armored Ebonguards against sixty or seventy Eirdkilrs—even with the stone walls of the tower and the narrowness of the pier, the Prince’s guards would have a desperate battle to keep the barbarians out.

  With effort, he tore his eyes from the single longship. The real threat was here. Long before the Eirdkilrs broke through the Ebonguards holding the tower, the battle on the beach would be decided.

  Commander Torban seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Hold fast, lads!” he growled. “Eyes on the battle ahead. We’ve more than enough to keep us busy while our brothers hold the tower!”

  Low mutters ran among the Ebonguards—all knew the danger that came for them and their comrades. That drew closer with every splash of the Eirdkilrs oars, slicing through the water in those low, sleek ships adorned with the heads of wolves grinning as fiercely and savagely as the howling Eirdkilrs.

  “Swordsman grant us strength,” Commander Torban muttered, touching a hand to his sword.

  “And guide our aim,” Aravon finished in an equally quiet voice.

  The Commander’s eyes snapped toward him, narrowing to hard, grey points.

  Aravon met the man’s gaze without hesitation. “Time these Eirdkilrs got a taste of Legion steel.”

  Torban’s expression remained stony for a long second, until a flicker of a smile tugged at his lips. “A fitting feast for the bastards, indeed!” He gave Aravon a nod—the nod of acknowledgement from one soldier to another, Legionnaire to Legionnaire—and drew in a breath. “For Icespire!” he roared in the harsh, booming voice of a Drill Sergeant. “And for the Prince!”

  “For the Prince!” Aravon added his voice.

  The Ebonguard took up the cry. “For the Prince!” A shout of defiance hurled into the teeth of the enemy baying for their blood.

  Pride glowed within Aravon. The Eirdkilrs might outnumber the Princelanders, but the Ebonguards fought for their homes, families, and their Prince. In even the most desperate battle, the strength of a man’s courage mattered most.

  “Ballistae, fire when ready!” Commander Torban shouted to the soldiers manning the siege engines.

  “Aye, sir!” called back an Ebonguard.

  “Just letting them get a bit closer, Commander,” echoed another. “Bastards came all this way to get a ballista bolt up the arse. It’d be a shame to let them down, sir!”

  Laughter rippled among the Ebonguards, and all around Aravon shoulders squared, black-armored men stood straighter and tightened their grips on axes, shields, and crossbows. Grim humor and spite in the enemy’s face was every soldier’s best weapon against the threatening fear and panic of battle.

  A second later, the smart-mouthed soldier shouted the call they’d all awaited. “Send it!”

  WHOOMPH! The steel arms of the ballista snapped forward and the ballista bolt screamed through the air. It flew straight, the Ebonguard’s aim true. Slammed into the wolf’s head prow of the foremost longship. The snarling maw disintegrated in a spray of wooden shards and splinters. Screams of rage and agony rent the night as the bolt and the flying chunks of the prow punched through the shields, furs, and armor of the Eirdkilrs.

  A second WHOOMPH echoed a heartbeat later, and another bolt hurtled into the darkness. Followed by a loud splash and a groan of dismay from the Ebonguards manning it.

  “Reload!” The Ebonguard commanding the ballista team shouted curses and orders at his men as they frantically worked the winch that ratcheted the bowstring back slowly, slowly into place. With every creak of the winch, the loud splashing of the Eirdkilrs’ oars and their howling war cries drew closer. Aravon found he held his breath as the massive bolt was settled into its cradle and the Ebonguards swiveled the war machine on its mount.

  “Ready!” the guard aiming the ballista roared.

  But the call to loose didn’t come…not yet. Zaharis leapt up to the siege engine and touched a spark to the foot-long head bolt. Flames sprang to life, revealing a glass vial of some bright green liquid secured to the missile’s shaft, just behind the steel head. On the opposite cliff, Belthar, too, struck flame and set the bolt ablaze.

  “Give ‘em a taste of the good stuff!” came the call.

  WHOOMPH, WHOOMPH! The ballistae fired in near-unison. Steel arms sprang forward, the strings snapping taut, and the burning bolts sliced through the darkness separating the cliff from the approaching ships.

  Hope surged within Aravon as he tracked the arc of the guttering flames. The first missile flew straight and true, crashing into one longship’s foremost thwart. He didn’t hear the crack, but an instant later, flames of a brilliant, acidic green—Zaharis’ alchemical signature—sprang to life all along the deck. Shrieks of panic and terror echoed loud from the burning ship. Those Eirdkilrs not caught in the blaze threw themselves overboard or tried in vain to escape the fire consuming their ship.

  The second bolt, however, flew high. Its steel head tore a pathetically small hole in the ship’s square-rigged sail, barely touching a lick of flame to the canvas before splashing into the water off the starboard side.

  “Damn it!” cursed one of the Ebonguards manning the ballista. “Reloa—”

  His words cut off in a wet gurgle, his head snapping to the side. He sagged to the stone in a clatter of armor and lay still. The light of the Icespire shone on a black-fletched arrow buried in his throat, painting the gush of crimson spurting from his neck a grisly violet.

  “Arrows!” Commander Torban shouted. His words were swallowed beneath a cacophony of arrows raining down around the ballistae. The clanking, banging, and clattering of steel arrowheads striking stone and burying in the wooden bulwarks echoed loud, drowning out the commands shouted among the crews manning the siege engines. Though most of the mis
siles slammed into the protective cover built around the ballista, three more Ebonguards fell, struck down as they struggled to reload.

  “Leave them, Keeper take it!” The Commander’s roar echoed in the heartbeat between volleys. “Take cover!”

  The Ebonguards, trained to follow orders without hesitation, abandoned the ballistae and ducked for safety beneath the sheltering bulwarks. The hail of arrows continued unabated, the Eirdkilrs firing from the three undamaged ships. The wooden ramparts blunted their attack, rendering it nearly harmless now that the Prince’s guards crouched under cover.

  Harmless, but not useless. With the Ebonguards confined to the bulwark, they couldn’t reload the ballistae and bring it to bear on the approaching ships—a fact the Eirdkilrs knew, and the reason they kept up a steady rate of fire. Given how few men held the beach, Aravon understood why Commander Torban wouldn’t risk his Ebonguards’ lives, not so early in the battle. And, in the time the guards spent reloading and repositioning the ballistae for their next shot, the Eirdkilr ships would already be too far inside their range.

  But the defenders hadn’t spent their fury fully. Belthar popped up from behind the bulwark, his massive crossbow pressed to his shoulder. A heartbeat to aim, a deep breath, and he squeezed the trigger. The crossbow’s steel arms snapped forward and the three-foot bolt sped off into the night. A moment later, the crack of splintering wood and the tinkling of shattering glass echoed from amidships.

  An instant later, Skathi rose as well, a flaming arrow nocked to her bow. She had no need to aim, simply drew, raised the Agrotorae longbow, loosed, and ducked back under shelter in one smooth movement.

  The burning missile sped through the darkness in pursuit of Belthar’s bolt and thumped into a rower’s bench. The eerie green light of Zaharis’ alchemical fire blazed bright, setting fire to the Eirdkilr pinned to the gunwale by the massive crossbow bolt. In seconds, the entire midsection of the longship was consumed by alchemical fire. Cheers rose from among the Ebonguards as the Eirdkilrs abandoned the vessel before they, too, fell victim to the fire’s ravaging grasp.