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

by Andy Peloquin

  Cages, dozens of them, like a hound’s kennel built of heavy metal bars and solid locks. Dozens more amber eyes stared out at him, and furry heads lifted from within the comfort of chewed-up blankets and piled straw. The largest of the creatures barely stirred from his cage—Aravon recognized Skyclaw, Duke Dyrund’s Enfield, a mournful shadow filling his gleaming eyes.

  Aravon sucked in a breath. Keeper’s teeth! Three adult Enfields, one with a litter of six kit-nestlings, and two more that appeared the same age as Snarl. This was where Snarl had disappeared to as Aravon left Camp Marshal, Lord Eidan’s base to send and receive messages from his spies around the Princelands.

  But, as Snarl turned his head and yapped at the Enfields within the building, Aravon realized that it was far more than just that. It was Snarl’s home.

  “Good boy.” Aravon wrapped his arms around the Enfield’s furry body and pulled him close. Tears flowed now—Snarl had saved his family, and Aravon’s. “Good, good boy.”

  Snarl seemed to sense Aravon’s emotions, for he fell still, nuzzling his wet nose into Aravon’s neck. They remained like that for long seconds, and Aravon drew comfort from the warm softness of Snarl’s furry body. He might not be able to go to Mylena and his sons, even now, so close to death. But he was not alone. He wasn’t dead to the entire world. To Prince Toran, Snarl, and the Grim Reavers, Aravon of Icespire was still very much alive. For now, that had to be enough.

  Swallowing, Aravon rose to his feet and strode toward Prince Toran, who stood with Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires. Mylena held Rolyn and Adilon close, their little arms wrapped around her neck.

  With a supreme effort of will, Aravon tore his gaze from his family. Lord Eidan and Asger Einnauga might be dead, the Deepshackle once more defended and the Palace safe, but the battle for Icespire hadn’t yet been won. Not until every Eirdkilr rampaging through the Outwards and the Mains lay dead.

  Clearing his throat, Aravon spoke in his deep, growling Captain Snarl voice “My Prince, this isn’t over yet.” This close to Mylena, he couldn’t risk her recognizing him. Even just speaking now risked his identity being discovered. But Colborn was busy with Eira, so Aravon had to do his own talking.

  “You’re right.” With a nod to Aravon, Prince Toran turned to Mylena. “I will pray to the Swordsman that tonight’s events fade from your sons’ memories and leave them untroubled.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Mylena inclined her head and placed gentle kisses on Rolyn and Adilon’s cheeks. “They are strong, soldiers like their father and grandfather. Isn’t that right, boys?”

  Again, Aravon’s throat thickened. She had narrowly escaped death, yet showed no sign of strain or fear. She was so strong, as unbreakable as the finest Odarian steel. Just one of the many reasons he’d fallen in love with her and remained smitten after all these years.

  “Indeed they are.” Prince Toran smiled. “Know that I will do everything in my power to see that you are safe.” Though he spoke to Mylena, his eyes darted to Aravon.

  Aravon inclined his head in thanks and, turning on his heel, marched toward the door that led down the stairs into the Palace. He had to get away from his family, else his resolve shatter and he tear off his mask to reveal himself alive. He’d never imagined it would be so difficult to be dead. Then again, he’d never imagined he would return to Icespire, especially not at such a trying time.

  Footsteps echoed on the rooftop, and Prince Toran appeared at his side. Noll and Skathi, bows still drawn, flanked the Prince, Zaharis at his back. Captain Lingram, Endyn, and Corporal Rold. Of Colborn, Aravon saw no sign, but he guessed the Lieutenant would be loath to leave Eira. Keeper knew he’d hated leaving Mylena’s side—he could give Colborn a few more minutes with his grandmother.

  “Now, Captain Snarl,” Prince Toran said in a somber voice, “time we figure out how to save our city.”

  Chapter One Hundred One

  Aravon’s mind raced, his gaze sliding south. Pillars of dark grey smoke still billowed from the Outwards, and fires raged through Portside, Eastway, the People’s Markets, and Princetown. Though Littlemarket and Bayrise Hill had escaped destruction thus far, it was only a matter of time before the rampaging Eirdkilrs reached it. Anyone caught in the Mains would die, and homes, workshops, and merchant stalls would burn. Only Azure Island stood untouched, an island of calm amidst the chaos of the burning city.

  “Pardon the language,” Prince Toran spoke from beside Aravon, “but with what’s left of the Ebonguard and the Icewatch, we’ve got a frozen dick’s chance in the fiery hell of stopping the better part of five thousand Eirdkilrs.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot upward at the Prince’s salty expression. Then again, he knew he oughtn’t be surprised. Prince Toran, like every ruler before him, had served the minimum four years in the Legion of Heroes and marched beside soldiers as coarse and crude as Noll or Corporal Rold.

  “You’re right, sire. The situation’s grim.” He and the Prince marched down the stairs, descending into the Palace. After the brilliant gleam of the Icespire, the lamplit stairway felt dusty and cramped. “We’ve got less than eighty Ebonguards left, and I’d be surprised if more than a couple hundred Icewatchers made it to Azure Island before we brought down the bridges.”

  The guards holding the city gates would have fought bravely, but in the end, they’d been overrun.

  “It’s probably taking every one of them to keep the situation on Azure Island from turning ugly.” The memory of Lord Derran and the other noblemen set disgust twisting in Aravon’s gut. “The nobility aren’t exactly welcoming of the people who—”

  He cut off with a gasp, his eyes flying wide. The people! Why hadn’t he seen it before? He cursed himself for a fool—he’d been so focused on dealing with the individual problems of the Deepshackle and Lord Eidan he hadn’t stepped back to see the big picture.

  “I know that silence.” Prince Toran grinned from beside Aravon. “A General I once knew often got quiet like that when he was about to suggest something heroically stupid.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Or stupidly heroic—I often can’t tell which is which.”

  Aravon couldn’t help smiling, but he pressed on, dug deeper into the idea forming in his mind. “What makes Icespire the most powerful city on Fehl?” Aravon asked. “Not the wealth or the Icespire itself—”

  “But its people!” Prince Toran’s eyebrows shot toward his dark hairline. “Of course!”

  Aravon’s years of training in the Legion had included few lessons on urban warfare—the Eirdkilrs had no sizeable villages or towns north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Yet during his training with Lectern Kayless at Camp Marshal, he’d learned about the intricacies of capturing fortified strongholds or even sprawling cities like Icespire—or mainlander cities like Voramis and Malandria.

  Capturing the wall or storming the gates was simply the first objective any attacking army had to achieve. To win the battle, they either had to raze the city and slaughter its inhabitants, or force the ruler to surrender. Fighting street by street against a dug-in force battling on home territory was a bloody proposition—without two or three times the forces, attackers had little hope of capturing a city otherwise.

  Lord Eidan’s treachery had failed to force the Prince’s hand, and the attack on the Palace had been repelled. That still left four or five thousand heavily-armed and armored Eirdkilrs rampaging through the Mains, setting Icespire’s outer edges to the torch, slaughtering any civilians trapped on the wrong side of the bridge.

  But how many more had fled to the safety of Azure Island before the bridges were collapsed? Easily eight to ten times that number. Add to that mercenaries like Eventide or Steel Company and the armed retinues and household guards of the nobles—even the noblemen themselves—there had to be easily seventy or eighty thousand Princelanders on Azure Island capable of swinging a sword. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t yet set the entire city to the torch, and it would take them far longer than a few hours to slaughter more than a hundred thousand civilians
in Icespire’s Mains.

  With their attention focused on pillaging, killing, and destroying the city, the enemy would be scattered among Icespire’s eight urban districts. The Eirdkilrs had made a critical mistake: they’d believed they had the victory, and thus had grown careless in their confidence. The five thousand barbarians spread around the city could never withstand a full-scale counterassault by tens of thousands of Princelanders willing to fight and die for their homes and families.

  “We have the advantage in numbers,” Aravon said. “And we know Icespire far better than they ever could.”

  “Damned right!” A glimmer of hope shone in Prince Toran’s eyes. “All we need to do now is marshal our forces.”

  “That seems like—” Aravon began.

  Prince Toran rounded on Aravon, eyes flashing. “If you’re going to say ‘a dangerous plan’, Captain Snarl, best save your breath!” The Prince’s expression had gone hard and sharp as steel. “Only a cowardly ruler would hide in the safety of his Palace when the lives of his people are on the line. I’ve already had my Ebonguards prepare to ride out, and if you think to dissuade me from my purpose, then better you spend your energy where it’s most needed: fighting to save the city!”

  The intensity of the Prince’s voice and the storm of emotions in his eyes surprised Aravon. Yet what else would he expect from the ruler of the Princelands? Aravon stifled any word of protest; clearly there was no way of talking the Prince out of it.

  “I was going to say, that seems like just the sort of job a Prince spends his whole life training for.” He grinned beneath his mask. “Dressed in such fine armor, you certainly appear ready for it!” No one who looked at that gold-and-silver-adorned armor could doubt its wearer was a ruler and leader of men.

  “Come.” Prince Toran marched down the final flight of stairs and into the ornate marble-tiled, lamplit corridors leading west toward the Royal Ballroom. “Before the treachery with the Deepshackle, I had my Ebonguards preparing to reinforce the Icewatchers defending the Mains and the bridges. Now that the Palace is secured, we can ride out. And I would be honored if the Grim Reavers fight at my side.”

  “The honor is ours, My Prince.” Aravon inclined his head without slowing his stride. “But to have a real chance of victory, we must divide our forces. Strike at them from east and west at the same time.”

  “Like bollocks in a vise!” Noll clapped his hands together to illustrate his point.

  “You’re right.” The glimmering lamplight filling the Palace corridor played tricks on the Prince’s pensive expression, casting shadows in his eyes. “I lead the charge west and you to the east. With the bridges raised, we can sweep through the Mains at the head of our army of Icespire’s brave citizens.”

  Aravon raised a clenched fist. “The Eirdkilrs will never know what hit them.”

  Two Ebonguards pulled open the double doors to the Royal Ballroom, and Aravon marched into the grand chamber at Prince Toran’s side, his Grim Reavers and Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires at his back. He glanced at the giant lumbering along behind Captain Lingram; he owed Endyn a debt of gratitude, and he’d find a way to thank the huge Legionnaire for saving Mylena and his sons.

  Relief flooded Aravon at the sight of Belthar and Rangvaldr seated on one of the plush armchairs littering the massive circular room. Both stood as he and the Prince strode toward them, Belthar struggling to raise his bulk only a bit more than usual. The blood staining the bandage around his leg had all but dried; Rangvaldr’s healing had worked, at least enough to keep Belthar in the fight.

  And a fight it certainly would be! Against five thousand Eirdkilrs, the citizens of Icespire faced a fierce battle, indeed.

  “My Prince.” Commander Torban’s bow set the black steel plates of his lamellar armor clacking. The grizzled Ebonguard stood with five of his subordinates, and though all bore wounds, most were minor. The same couldn’t be said of far too many of the guards that fought to hold the beach. “The Deepshackle has been raised fully, the Eirdkilr assault on the tower repelled.”

  “Good work, Torban.” The Prince clapped the man on the shoulder. “How many Ebonguards remain ready to fight?”

  The old Commander’s face creased into a frown. “Fifty, My Prince.” The frown deepened. “No more than sixty, if you are willing to risk stretching the Palace’s defenses thin.” His jaw set in a stubborn clench. “I won’t pull men away from the Deepshackle’s tower, though, in case Lord Eidan had a back-up plan.”

  The Prince thought for a moment, then inclined his head. “As many as you can spare, Commander, but see to it that the Royal Family and all families in the Palace—” At this, his eyes darted to Aravon. “—are well-protected. We ride out at once.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Commander Torban snapped a crisp Legion salute—old habits died hard, and some old soldiers died even harder—and marched off, calling orders to his men.

  “What about them, Your Majesty?” Aravon spoke in a low voice, gesturing toward the twenty-odd Eventide mercenaries in the Royal Ballroom. The men in dark grey cloaks and chain-and-plate mail appeared nervous, almost huddled in a circle intended to protect themselves, not the Princess and her children. The truth of their benefactor’s treachery left them anxious. Aravon could see the question written in every tense line of their faces—would they, too, be considered traitors by association?

  Prince Toran gave a little nod, turned on his heel, and strode toward the mercenaries. A few visibly flinched or grimaced at his approach, but they didn’t retreat, instead squared their shoulders and met him face to face.

  “Your Majesty—” began the woman, clearly the highest-ranking mercenary in the grand chamber.

  Prince Toran raised a hand, and the woman’s words cut off. “Tell me,” he said, his voice as emotionless as his face, “did you know of Lord Eidan’s treachery?”

  “No, My Prince!” The woman gave a vehement shake of her head, setting her greying-brown hair whipping around her face. “By my eternity in the Sleepless Lands, I swear that Lord Eidan revealed none of his true intentions to us.” She looked to her companions for confirmation. “Any of us.”

  The rest of the nervous-looking mercenaries nodded.

  A long moment of silence elapsed, the Prince’s stern expression fixed on the sellswords in the ballroom. Then his gaze went to his wife, locked eyes, and a moment of silent communication passed between them. Princess Ranisia gave her husband a nod, so slight Aravon nearly missed it.

  “So be it,” Prince Toran said, his tone solemn. “Then tell me this, men and women of the Princelands: will you fight for Icespire? With no promise of payment or hope of reward, will you take up swords and join us in battle for this city?”

  The mercenary Captain straightened. “Without question, Your Majesty.” Her hand dropped to the sword at her side and she dropped to a kneeling bow. “We are yours to command, now and always.”

  Twenty-four sellswords followed her example, filling the Royal Ballroom with the clanking clatter of armor and weapons. In that moment, bathed in the light streaming from the Icespire at the heart of the grand chamber, the Prince seemed to tower above the kneeling mercenaries, a regal figure dressed in his princely armor, wielding a weapon that only a true warrior and monarch brought to war: mercy.

  “Rise, warriors of Eventide.” The Prince’s booming voice rang off the crystal walls of the grand chamber, and it seemed the Icespire itself flared to brilliant light. “Join us in the battle for our city.”

  When the mercenaries rose, a marked change had come over them. Gone was the anxiety and fear for their lives, replaced instead by a reverence, a burning determination to follow the Prince’s orders and fight. Men like the Prince, honorable rulers who earned the love and loyalty of his subjects rather than dominate them through sheer power and wealth, had a way of inspiring warriors to follow him. That was, in large part, what had made Aravon agree to join the Grim Reavers in the first place. He, like everyone else in this chamber, was a true Princelander, and
they would fight for their Prince.

  “Go.” Prince Toran pointed to the grand chamber’s southern entrance. “Get to the Eastbridge and Westbridge, and await our arrival. When the time comes, the bridges will be our path to victory, and I will need you to ensure they are raised.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” The mercenary swept a bow and, turning to her companions, barked an order. “You heard him, lads!”

  In an instant, the twenty-five Eventide sellswords were racing across the grand chamber, disappearing through the double doors a few seconds later.

  Prince Toran turned to Captain Lingram and the fifteen Legionnaires that stood beside Aravon’s Grim Reavers.

  “Lingram, called Blacksword, formerly of the Legion of Heroes.” The Prince strode toward the former Legion officer. “You risked a great deal joining Captain Snarl in coming here. An even greater risk wearing that armor and weaponry after your court-martial.”

  Pain flashed across Lingram’s face as he glanced down at his Legion-issue breastplate and mail, the short sword hanging at his side, and the shield gripped in his hand.

  The Prince drove on before he could speak. “But it is because of you and your brave Legionnaires that the people of Icespire still live. The time will come when I will properly express my gratitude, but for now, will you join us in battle, Captain Lingram? And your brave Legionnaires of Ninth Company with you?”

  “Of course, My Prince.” Captain Lingram straightened. “It would be my honor.”

  “Bloody right!” Corporal Rold snapped a crisp Legion salute, and all the Legionnaires mirrored it. The thumps of their fists striking their mailed shoulders resounded through the high-domed ballroom.

  “For the Princelands,” Captain Lingram called.

  “For the Legion!” echoed Duvain, Endyn, and the rest of Ninth Company.