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

by Andy Peloquin

  Chapter One Hundred Two

  When Prince Toran turned and strode from the Royal Ballroom, a small army of Legionnaires, Grim Reavers, and Ebonguards marched at his back. Fewer than forty men and women to take up arms in the battle ahead, but with the strength of purpose burning in their hearts, the handful of soldiers surrounding the Prince would serve as the core of the army needed to scour the Eirdkilrs from Icespire.

  Get ready, you bastards! A savage grin twisted Aravon’s lips as he marched out of the Palace’s front entrance and into the stone-paved courtyard that offered a clear view of the fires raging through the Mains and the Outwards. We’re coming for you, and there’s nowhere in Icespire you can hide!

  One hundred and fifty massive warhorses stood in the courtyard outside the Prince’s stables, saddled and waiting for their riders. Though they could never match the speed and endurance of Duke Dyrund’s specially-bred Kostarasar chargers, these were true beasts of battle, taller at the shoulder than Aravon and thick with heavy ropes of muscle. Clad in heavy steel barding, their hooves shod in iron, the armored mounts appeared a truly fearsome sight.

  Far too many saddles sat empty—the Ebonguards trained to ride these horses into battle had gone to the Long Keeper’s arms during the Eirdkilr assault on the tower and the beach. Yet the forty black-armored guards, Commander Torban among them, that sat in those saddles had a look as ferocious and formidable as the armored mounts stamping and chomping beneath them.

  Prince Toran turned to the Grim Reavers and Legionnaires. “Mount up, brave soldiers. We ride for battle.”

  Aravon and his comrades mounted up in silence—all but Belthar, who struggled to clamber into the saddle, his wounded leg giving him trouble. Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires, however, appeared far less at ease with the prospect of riding.

  “What are we, bloody cavalry?” Haze muttered to Corporal Rold.

  “Right now, you’re getting your pimpled arse up in that saddle and playing horse-kisser, Soldier, or you’ll taste my boot,” the Corporal snapped back. “If riding gets us to battle faster, we’ll damned well ride!” He struggled only fractionally less than his fellow Legionnaires, infantry one and all, to mount. All but Captain Lingram sat awkwardly, struggling to grip the reins and keep their balance while holding their huge shields.

  Endyn had chosen the largest of the warhorses, a massive beast taller than Colborn, yet the mount seemed to groan and struggle beneath the giant’s prodigious bulk. Aravon had no doubt the horse would be as glad to get rid of its rider as the profoundly uncomfortable-looking Endyn would be to dismount.

  Aravon caught Noll’s whisper. “Fair warning, Ursus, someone might start thinking it’s time to replace you with the even bigger fucker. Way he ripped that door off its hinges—”

  “Laugh it up, Foxclaw,” Belthar rumbled back, “but we can always find new rats skulking around the streets of Icespire.”

  Noll chuckled behind his snarling wolf mask and a sparkle of mirth shone in Belthar’s eyes. It felt good to see them joking with each other, despite the ordeal of the last few days. But that was ever the way of soldiers—humor sapped the power of fear and the prospect of certain death.

  At that moment, an ox-drawn wagon rumbled into the courtyard from the eastern side of the Palace, and Aravon caught sight of swords, spears, shields, clubs, and axes piled high within. Many had been stripped from the slain Eirdkilrs and Ebonguards, but many more still bore the thick layers of dust that came from sitting in an armory untouched for years. The Royal Arsenal had been emptied to arm the civilians of Icespire to fight for their homes.

  Prince Toran drew his sword, a long, straight-edged blade. “We ride, for Icespire and the Princelands!”

  He clapped his heels to his horse’s armored flanks, and the beast leapt into motion. Commander Torban rode at the Prince’s right side, but Aravon took his place at the Prince’s left, with the Grim Reavers around him. Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires rode behind the fifty Ebonguards that remained to fight.

  Powerful muscles rippled beneath Aravon as his warhorse charged south toward the Northbridge. The cacophony of thundering hooves echoed loud in his ears, and though every jolting step sent pain stabbing through his tired and wounded body, the thrill of battle rushed in Aravon’s veins. The Palace was saved, the traitor defeated, his family saved—all that remained was to finish the fight and defeat the last Eirdkilrs. With the soldiers around him and at his back, the Prince leading the charge, their chances of victory had just skyrocketed.

  Four Ebonguards furiously worked the capstan that lifted the bridge from where it had dropped into the chasm between the islands. The clanking of massive steel chains signaled the raising of the Northbridge, accompanied by a deafening thump as it slid into place. Water sloshed across the wooden surface and slithered off its sides in salty sheets, splashing under the horses’ hooves as they galloped across the massive bridge and onto Azure Island.

  The first light of the rising sun peered over the eastern horizon, bathing Sanctuary Court in a brilliant white-gold. The crowd of Princelanders had swelled, packed tightly within the open space. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children—citizens and nobles of Icespire alike—thronged into the stone-paved square, shouting and jostling for position, casting fearful glances at the burning city, or huddling together for warmth against the night’s chill. Those eyes turned northward as Prince Toran, Aravon, and their little army charged down the main avenue and reined in on the edge of the broad plaza.

  “Hear me, people of Icespire!” The Prince’s voice rang out, confident and booming with an aura of majesty, across the square. “Though the night may be bleak and the situation dire, we are not without hope. For while we still live, Icespire cannot be destroyed.”

  He trotted forward and pulled free of the crowd of soldiers behind him, giving the people a clear view of his gold-and-silver-threaded armor.

  “The Eirdkilrs believe that burning our homes and slaughtering our fellow Princelanders will set our hearts quailing with fear.” He sat tall in his saddle, sword gripped in his right hand. “Hear their howls, which ring with delight at seeing us cower on this island, hiding from their wrath.”

  Now he reined in, just a few feet from the edge of the crowd. “But we do not cower!” he roared. “We do not hide! We prepare to fight, to strike back against their cruelty and bloodlust.” Fire and iron edged his words. “For now that our families are safe, our loved ones found refuge, it falls to us—to each and every one of us—to take up arms, to steel our hearts and dig deep within ourselves to find the courage to stand tall as true men and women of the Princelands.”

  Mutters and whispers ran through the crowd, and the people nearest Aravon exchanged puzzled glances, as if uncertain they understood what the Prince asked of them.

  “Look around you, brave Princelanders!” Prince Toran swept an arm in an expansive gesture that encompassed the entirety of Sanctuary Court. “Look where you stand! You stand in the shadow of the mightiest hero of our world, the Swordsman himself.” He thrust a finger toward the obelisk standing guard at the plaza’s southern edge. “When the demonic armies of the wicked Kharna threatened to set the land awash with the blood of mankind, did the Swordsman tremble and hide in his heavenly halls? When he faced certain death at the hands of the Great Destroyer, did he hesitate to sacrifice himself for the sake of all that was good and holy?”

  “No!” answered a single voice—a soldier’s, judging by the harsh cadence and resounding volume. “He bloody well took the battle to Kharna!”

  “So he did!” Prince Toran spurred his horse, pushing deeper into the crowd of people filling Sanctuary Court. The Ebonguards fell into place behind the Prince, with Aravon, the Grim Reavers, and the mounted Legionnaires joining them. “And tell me, when the Eirdkilr hordes stood at the walls of Hightower, did Bannack Redfist hide behind his defenses?”

  “No!” More voices took up the cry.

  “The Redfist threw open the gates and drove his sword into
the teeth of his enemies.” Prince Toran waved his sword aloft. “And though he fell that day, the walls of Hightower still stand, and the Eirdkilrs never stepped foot on Princelander soil.”

  Shouts and cheers rose from the crowd, scattered at first, but growing louder and more determined as the Prince drove on.

  “Did Leon Lightfoot flee when his quiver was empty?” Prince Toran’s gaze swept across the crowd. “ Or did he tear his own arrows from the corpses of his foes to loose them again and again at the enemy howling for his blood?”

  A wordless roar rippled through the crowd. Aravon could feel the intensity filling Sanctuary Court.

  “And what of Hellgrimar the Bold, Captain Anthon of Westhaven, or our very own Duke Dyrund and General Traighan?” The names of the Princelands’ greatest heroes rolled over the crowd, whipping them into a zealous fervor. Hearing his father and the Duke mentioned in the same breath filled Aravon with a burning pride. “All of them faced impossible odds, but did they back down?”

  “NO!” The cry swelled to a thundering crescendo that echoed across Sanctuary Court with defeaning force.

  “No they did not!” Prince Toran shouted. “No matter the enemy, no matter the threat, they stood strong. As must we, right here, right now! Through fire and blood and anguish, through loss and grief, we must stand. Together, united in purpose and spirit, we cannot be defeated. So let us stand, my people, as one, bound by the blood that even now flows through the streets. Our blood, in our streets. And let us say to the enemy, ‘No more!’” He thrust his sword high into the air. “And when the sun has risen, it will shine down on an Icespire that knows the bitter taste of sorrow, yet has never tasted defeat. The light of day will find our hearts firm and our arms strong. Morning will dawn on a city filled with heroes, my brothers and sisters, courageous warriors who stood defiant against the enemy threatening our homes, our loved ones. Steel and valor is all we need to bear us through the fight to come!”

  “And a couple of big cunts like Belthar and Endyn at our backs,” Noll muttered from behind Aravon.

  “Captain.” Skathi’s voice brought Aravon’s head snapping around, in time to see the wooden wagon rumbling down the avenue behind him. He and the other mounted soldiers moved their horses aside, clearing a path for the weapon-filled vehicles.

  “Arm yourselves, my people!” Prince Toran swept a hand toward the wagons. “Prepare to face the enemy, and know that we will see this battle through to victory.” He kicked his horse into a gallop and raced along the northern edge of the crowd, waving his sword high in the air. “For the Swordsman, for Icespire, and for the Princelands!”

  “For the Princelands!” Aravon roared.

  “For the Princelands!” the cry echoed from the Grim Reavers, Legionnaires, and Ebonguard at his back.

  The low muttering in the crowd swelled to a dull hum, and cries of “Princelands!” and “Icespire!” echoed from the throng.

  “We are the most powerful city on Fehl!” the Prince roared, galloping back the other way. “Let us show these bastards what that truly means!”

  The crowd shifted and buckled, and a handful of men burst free of the throng. Legionnaires one and all—General Rodalus and his army of retired officers, Commander Lerring and the others that had fought to hold the Northbridge—clad in dented, notched, rusted, and ill-fitting armor, yet a look of grim determination blazing in their eyes .

  “Command us, My Prince!” General Rodalus shouted. “We fight for our homes.”

  “For our city!” Commander Lerring echoed, raising his sword high.

  “For our Prince!” The Legionnaires took up the cry. “For our Prince!”

  More figures shoved through the crowd. Guards of the Icewatch, Sergeant Tarkim among their number, fewer than two hundred yet unwavering in their resolve to fight. Mercenaries of the Steel Company, Grey Daggers, Sons of Mithrandus, and a dozen more companies Aravon had never heard of, wearing armor and wielding weapons as diverse as the insignia and colors adorning their clothing. Noblemen and their household guards, unarmored and carrying only metal-shod truncheons, short swords, or heavy daggers.

  But on their heels came thousands more. Outwarders with platinum blond hair and beards braided in the style of their Fehlan ancestors. Heavy-necked thugs wielding clubs, rusted swords, and daggers of the sort used in an alley knife fight, a one-eyed man leading their number. Merchants, blacksmiths, carters, artisans, drovers, dockhands, even beggars and lepers. Men and women from every corner of the Mains, from Portside to the People’s Markets to Bayrise Hill. Citizens of Icespire that clamored toward the wagon and took up weapons to fight. For their homes and families. For their city, and for their Prince.

  In the distance, far to the south of Sanctuary Court, Aravon caught sight of a knot of unmoving men. Nobles, judging by their ornate robes, abandoned by their household guards. Lord Derran was doubtless among them, but Aravon paid them no heed. They would have to live with their cowardice—the people crowding along the northern side of the plaza had made their decision. They would fight.

  “For the Prince!” the throng roared. “For Icespire!”

  The cheers and shouts echoed through Sanctuary Court, swelling to a brilliant crescendo that set the island itself trembling. A wall of sound that washed over Azure Island and raced toward the Mains, toward the enemy rampaging through the burning city.

  Hope surged within Aravon, mingled with the warm glow of pride. Pride at his people, the people of Icespire, who faced battle and the prospect of death without flinching.

  They had their army. Now the time had come to drive out the Eirdkilrs and reclaim their city.

  Chapter One Hundred Three

  Aravon twisted in his saddle, seeking out Colborn at his left hand. “Ride ahead,” he signed, “and give the signal to raise the Eastbridge.”

  Nodding, Colborn turned his horse to the east, clapped his heels to the beast’s flanks, and raced away from Sanctuary Court.

  “To the east and west!” the Prince shouted. “And may the Swordsman guide us all!”

  A defiant roar rose from the crowd. Legionnaires, Icewatchers, mercenaries, noblemen, and civilians all raised their weapons or clenched fists, filling the night with their cheers and shouts. Buoyed on that wave of courage, Aravon and the Grim Reavers kicked their mounts into a gallop. The iron-shod hooves of the warhorses struck sparks on the stone-paved Sanctuary Court, filling the plaza with a clangor far louder and more brazen than any Legion drum corps. The cries of the people of Icespire echoed in time with the clattering hoofbeats and the pounding of Aravon’s heart. Leaning low in the saddle, spear gripped tightly in his right hand, Aravon charged east. Straight along the Soldier’s Path toward the Eastbridge and the battle beyond.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder, found his Grim Reavers riding at his back. Noll and Skathi held their horsebows drawn, arrows nocked. Their quivers were nearly empty—fewer than a dozen arrows apiece—yet they met Aravon’s gaze with a grim nod. Belthar waved his huge axe above his head, howling and roaring a wordless battle cry. Zaharis rode in silence, mace in hand, blood staining its spiked head a grisly crimson. Next to him, Rangvaldr gripped his reins in his shield hand and drew his long Fehlan-style sword.

  To Aravon’s surprise, he found Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires following them. Not riding into battle at Prince Toran’s side, the place of honor, but with them, the Grim Reavers. Though the infantrymen struggled to remain in their saddles, they clung to their reins and horses’ manes with jaws clenched, faces hard, and the fire of battle blazing in their eyes.

  And behind the horsemen came the people of Icespire. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, a wall of men and women, ragged and noble, rich and poor, armed with steel, wood, or marching to combat with empty hands. The cheering, shouting cries of the Princelanders filled the night—the battle call of Icespire.

  A smile tugged at Aravon’s lips. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

  He turned back toward the east, just in time to hear
the clanking of massive chains, see the Eastbridge slowly rising. Dripping wet and covered with water, yet a solid span of wood as old as the Icespire itself. Colborn spurred his horse to a gallop and fell in beside Aravon and the Grim Reavers. Shield held firm, sword ready to strike.

  Across the inlet on the Mains, Eirdkilrs looked up from their rampage—from setting torches to the homes of Portside, from tearing down doors and smashing window shutters, slaughtering those Princelanders that hadn’t made it across the bridge—and their bloodthirsty howls echoed loud. Behind them, fires burned all throughout the city’s northeastern districts. A wave of heat billowed toward Aravon, and on its heels came thick, choking smoke that burned his throat and stung his eyes.

  Yet Aravon only gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his spear. Leaning forward in his saddle, legs braced against the horse’s side and his stirrups, he led the charge across the Eastbridge. Straight down the Eirdkilrs’ throats.

  A handful turned to greet the rising Eastbridge with shrieking, ululating war cries. “Death to the half-men!” they howled into the smoke-darkened night. Raised spears, axes, and clubs as they charged across the bridge.

  Their savage elation turned to dismay and horror as Aravon and his Grim Reavers charged. Aravon didn’t waste his strength striking out with his spear; he simply gave the warhorse its head, and the galloping beast barreled straight into the towering giants. Trampling the first, driving its spike-helmed forehead into the second, hurling the next off the bridge, crushing more beneath its iron-shod hooves. Two thousand pounds of flesh, muscle, and steel collided with the Eirdkilrs rushing across the Eastbridge. The barbarians died in droves, their mighty muscles no match for the beasts bred for war.

  Then Aravon was across the Eastbridge and thundering east. East along the Legion’s Path, trampling and crushing the scattered Eirdkilrs clogging the broad avenue. His spear flashed out like a cavalryman’s sword, opening throats, slashing faces and arms, tearing armor and flesh. Backed by the force of the charging warhorse and Aravon’s mighty swings, the Odarian steel spearhead carved through chain mail, leather, furs, and cloth like a red-hot blade through powdered snow.