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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Straight toward them,” he replied. “If there are Eirdkilrs hunting them, they’re going to need our help to get out of there alive.”

  Five pairs of eyes darkened behind leather masks. No one said the words aloud—seven of them against hundreds or thousands of Eirdkilrs were rubbish odds—but they clearly thought it. Yet, as with everything else they’d done thus far, they faced that daunting task with little alternative. If they didn’t push themselves, people died. Survival counted on them doing the impossible. So they would do it, trusting Aravon and each other to pull it off.

  “Noll, Rangvaldr, take point,” Aravon said quickly. “Keep to the hunting trails and forest paths, and stay off the wagon roads until we’re well northwest of Saerheim. Skathi and Belthar, in the back, and keep sharp eyes. Zaharis, Colborn, with me.”

  All but Colborn fell into position without a word. The Lieutenant hadn’t torn his gaze from Saerheim, even at the sound of his name. His shoulders were slumped, and a look of utter emptiness filled his eyes. Yet, when Aravon touched a hand to his shoulder, he whirled, hand dropping to his sword.

  “Let’s go,” Aravon said.

  Colborn blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and Aravon caught a hint of moisture glimmering in the man’s ice-blue eyes.

  “I need you with me,” Aravon said, “keeping an eye out for any Eirdkilrs trying to catch us.”

  Colborn’s mask moved as if he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He simply nodded mutely and fell in beside Aravon.

  Damn! Aravon shot a sidelong glance at the Lieutenant as they rode. He’s shaken bad.

  Colborn had seemed so stoic, so strong, yet behind those walls he’d erected around himself, there was a man just as human as the rest of them. A man with a past far more complicated than Aravon could even begin to imagine. And a significant part of that past had just gone up in flames.

  Through the forest they raced, as fast as they dared given the darkness and the dense forest. It seemed an eternity before they emerged onto the hunting trail and spurred their horses northward, along the path that led toward Saerheim.

  But now they couldn’t go to the Deid village. Their only hope of finding the traitor alive—and whatever Legionnaires had been in Saerheim at the same time—was to track them northward.

  Noll rode scout two hundred yards in the lead, disappearing into the darkness in seconds. Rangvaldr pulled thirty yards ahead until he rode just within Aravon’s line of sight. They rode at the chargers’ special rolling gaits, devouring the miles at a steady pace.

  To the east, the fire brightened the night sky, and a pillar of dark grey smoke blotted out the stars. Yet all around Aravon, darkness pressed in around him, filling him with dread. He could see only a few yards in any direction, the shadows of the night thick. He had to trust that Snarl, Noll, Rangvaldr, and his own senses would warn him of danger.

  Time seemed to drag on and fly by at the same time, marked by the thundering of Aravon’s heart and the hoofbeats of his racing horse. The knots in his shoulders grew tighter as the path they followed drew closer to Saerheim. To his relief, the trail split off five miles from the burning Deid village. Aravon breathed out a silent sigh as he followed Rangvaldr down the left-hand path that led northwest, away from Saerheim. Away from the Eirdkilrs.

  Trusting his companions’ sharp eyes, Aravon allowed his mind to run. He did quick calculations—the fleeing Deid and Legionnaires couldn’t have fled Saerheim more than half an hour before Aravon caught sight of the burning village. He guessed a little over an hour had passed since that time, which meant the survivors had been traveling for no more than two hours, covered less than ten miles. In the hour or two it would take him and his soldiers to cut through the dense forest between their position and the Westmarch, the survivors of Saerheim wouldn’t have gone more than twenty miles from their burning town.

  The question is: will there be Eirdkilrs pursuing them?

  Eirdkilrs could cover ground at upwards of seven miles per hour, a pace they could sustain all day long. At full speed, they were a match for any Legion horses—all but the specially bred Kostarasar chargers Aravon and his companions rode.

  Yet, like any mortal beast or human, they could tire. This particular group of Eirdkilrs had marched nearly a hundred and fifty miles from the Bulwark to Hangman’s Hill in just two or three days, fought the Fjall and Deid warbands, and fled from the battlefield through heavy marshlands and dense forests. That had been the previous morning, which meant they had to push hard to reach Saerheim ahead of Aravon and his companions. To achieve that, they would have traveled without resting, taking the shorter path to Saerheim around the western shores of Cold Lake.

  Aravon had to hope that the Eirdkilrs would be too exhausted to give more than a halfhearted chase. If there are women and children with the fleeing Deid, it’s their only hope of survival.

  Chapter Six

  The forest seemed to flash past them in a blur of grey shadows, distant echoing sounds, dappled starlight, and the thick, oppressive darkness beneath the forest canopy. Aravon’s eyes never stopped moving, his gaze darting from tree to tree, as if expecting Eirdkilrs to leap out and attack them. It didn’t matter that the howling war cries sounded distant—at least a mile or two to the east of their position. He couldn’t shake the worry that the enemy would come for them at any second.

  He had no idea how long or how far they rode; in the dense tree cover, he had no way to mark the time or passage of distance. All he knew was that they had to keep riding, keep following Noll and Rangvaldr until they left the Eirdkilrs behind and reached the survivors on the Westmarch.

  To his dismay, they were soon forced to slow. The forest around them grew denser, the underbrush thick with thorns. The ground underfoot turned muddy, then to marshlands. Noll and Rangvaldr could no longer ride far ahead—they had to remain close together, within eyesight, no more than a few yards separating their horses.

  Damn it! Aravon growled a curse as their pace slowed further. The trees pressed in around him, branches drooping toward his head, their leaf-laden fingers threatening to encircle his neck and choke the life from him. The stink of mud and stagnant water hung so thick in the air the smell of bog seeped beneath Aravon’s mask. Every splash of their horses’ hooves through the watery lands set his teeth on edge until his nerves grew ragged, frayed.

  Midnight found them slogging through a marsh clogged with reeds, rushes, and cat-tails. It seemed hours passed before they finally reached a patch of dry land where they could pause to rest the horses. They’d pushed hard all day, and even the Kostarasar chargers needed a few moments to breathe.

  No one spoke, simply sat in their saddles, weapons held in nervous hands and eyes roaming the darkness. The howling war cries still remained a mile or more off, but the Eirdkilrs could be even now slipping through the marshlands toward them.

  Every muscle in Aravon’s body stiffened as a quiet rustling echoed from the shadows ahead of him. Not the rustling of hundreds of booted feet, but only a few. One, perhaps two people crashing through the forest with far less grace than any Eirdkilr.

  Yet he wouldn’t take any chances. Eyes fixed on the spot where he guessed the sound came from, Aravon slid from his saddle and crept, spear in hand, toward the cover of a towering pine tree.

  The rest of his company reacted with alacrity. Skathi’s horsebow creaked as she drew, and weapons appeared in Belthar and Zaharis’ hands. Even Colborn seemed to have emerged from his stupor somewhat. He held his Fehlan-style longsword drawn, though his shield remained on his back.

  Aravon narrowed his eyes, squinting into the darkness. The tree canopy east of their position was thicker, the gloom of night so thick as to be nearly tangible. Only when they reached a small patch of moonlight leaking through the trees could Aravon make out the shapes of three figures racing through the forest. Right toward them.

  His heart hammered a staccato beat, adrenaline flooding his veins in expectation of battle. Yet the three men crashi
ng through the underbrush were far too small to be Eirdkilrs. They wore no chain mail, no shaggy icebear pelts, carried no oversized weapons. Indeed, two of the men wore only simple undertunics, gripping Legion-issue short swords in their hands. Deserters, perhaps? There was no sign of their shields or armor.

  The third, in the front of the small group, wore leather armor and a fur cloak—no Legionnaire, that much was clear.

  Aravon sucked in a breath as a shaft of moonlight illuminated the third man’s face. Scathan! He’d recognize those Eastfallian features—angular, covered by a close-cropped beard of dark brown to match the long hair that hung in a tail down his back—anywhere. The heavy double-bladed, black-handled sword on his belt was all the confirmation Aravon needed.

  The man was one of the mercenaries that rode with Duke Dyrund on his mission to the Fjall. A competent warrior, scout, and tracker, perhaps even a former Legionnaire. Yet a sellsword nonetheless, a member of the Black Xiphos, one of the nine that had been near enough to poison the Duke in Storbjarg.

  Anger flared within Aravon, burning as hot and bright as the fire that consumed Saerheim. He whirled toward his companions. “We take Scathan down, quick and quiet,” he signed. “Keep the other two alive, but don’t let them interfere.”

  With a nod, Zaharis hung his mace on his saddle horn. “Leave Scathan to me,” he signed.

  “Belthar, take the bigger of the two. Skathi, the smaller one. Nothing fatal. He’s Legion.”

  Skathi let her bowstring relax and, hanging the bow over her saddle horn, slipped from her horse’s back to disappear into the underbrush in an instant.

  Aravon turned to Colborn. “Keep an eye out for any pursuit. They look like they’re running from something.”

  Colborn nodded. The threat of danger had snapped him from his apathy. He was a Legionnaire first and foremost. The mission above all—no emotion, even grief or pain at seeing Saerheim burned, would stop him from doing his job.

  Aravon dropped from his saddle and slipped behind the cover of a thick tree. Between the shadows of the forest and his mottled armor, the mercenary wouldn’t see him until it was too late. A part of Aravon wanted to take down Scathan hard—sweep his legs out from beneath him or slam the iron-shod butt of his spear into the mercenary’s chest. But until he was certain of Scathan’s guilt, he’d give the man a chance.

  Zaharis struck so quickly Aravon barely had time to see it. One moment the forest was dark, the only thing moving between the trees was Scathan and his two lightly-clad companions. The next, the Secret Keeper was standing in the mercenary’s way, wrapping an arm around his neck and bringing him to the ground with a single smooth, flowing twist of his hips. Scathan thumped face-first into the ground with bone-jarring force, and Zaharis was kneeling atop his spine, just below the base of his skull.

  The reactions of the mercenary’s two companions were as different as night and day. The larger of the two never slowed, but raised his Legion-issue sword and charged the Secret Keeper without hesitation. He swung to cut Zaharis down from behind, but Belthar stepped out from hiding, right into his path. The man slammed into Belthar’s chest and, like an apple striking a brick wall, he went down hard. Before the man could cry out, Belthar had one huge hand fastened around his sword arm and the other clamped over his mouth. Yet even with Belthar’s bulk atop him, the man kicked and struggled until Colborn placed the tip of his sword against the man’s throat.

  The second man, however, stumbled in his utter surprise. “Endyn?” The word burst from his lips in the heartbeat before his feet tangled on an exposed tree root. He stumbled and fell, crashing into a pile of leaves. Skathi simply strolled up to him and pressed a dagger to his neck. The scrawny man lay on the ground, too stunned and winded from his run to protest or put up a fight.

  All this happened in the space of two seconds. As the larger of Scathan’s companions struggled in Belthar’s grip, the mercenary recovered enough to groan in pain. He tried to push against Zaharis’ restraining knee, but the Secret Keeper only pressed down harder. With a hiss of pain, Scathan lay still.

  “Kill me, you bastards!” he growled. “I’ve never begged for my life, and I don’t intend to start. Do your worst, Eirdkilr scum!”

  Zaharis shot a glance up at Aravon. “First time I’ve been mistaken for an Eirdkilr,” he signed one-handed. “Do I really smell that bad?”

  Aravon didn’t smile; he was in no mood for humor. “Let him up,” he signed, tightening his grip on his spear. “But be ready if he tries anything.”

  Nodding, Zaharis stood, removing his knee from Scathan’s neck. Yet as he rose, he pulled the man’s xiphos from his belt and tore the sword free of his hand in one smooth move.

  Scathan rolled over and leapt to his feet with a scowl, a snarled curse forming on his lips. The words died as his eyes fell on Aravon.

  “Captain Snarl?” Confusion darkened the mercenary’s face. “What are you—”

  Aravon thrust the tip of his spear forward, stopping it a hair’s breadth from the man’s throat. “The truth, Scathan,” he growled. “Truth is the only thing that will get you out of here alive.”

  Scathan’s hands flew up, and he stared cross-eyed down at Aravon’s spearhead, then at Aravon himself. “Truth about what?”

  “The Duke.” Anger edged Aravon’s snarled words. “Did you kill him?”

  “Kill him?” Scathan’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “The Duke’s…dead?” he gasped, surprise flitting across his face. “How? Did the Wraithfever—”

  “Poison.” Aravon moved the spear closer until its blade rested against the side of Scathan’s neck. One twitch and the razor-sharp edge would open the large vein—a fact the mercenary seemed keenly aware of, for he made no move. “Someone killed Duke Dyrund using a poisoned needle.”

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Scathan’s eyes went wide, then wider still as his mind put the pieces together. “And you think I did it?”

  “If not you, then one of the eight men who traveled with you.” Without removing his spear from the man’s throat, Aravon took a step closer and dropped his voice to a dangerous low. “The only people who could have obtained the poison found nowhere else but Icespire. So tell me the truth, Scathan, because your life depends on it.” He locked eyes with the mercenary. “Did. You. Kill. The Duke?”

  “By the Swordsman and my eternity in the Sleepless Lands,” Scathan said, “I swear I did not poison Duke Dyrund or do anything to harm him in any way. On the contrary, I was one of the few who tried to help him after the Wraithfever set in.” Remorse darkened his eyes. “If he hadn’t ordered me to accompany Lord Virinus to Saerheim, I would have stayed and tried to help. Find something to cure him.”

  Aravon’s gaze never left the mercenary as he spoke. No Princelander would speak the words of that solemn oath lightly, and there was no hesitation or deceit in Scathan’s voice. Indeed, his anguish appeared genuine.

  After a long moment, Aravon lowered his spear. “So be it. You have sworn by the Swordsman and your eternity. Keeper have mercy on your soul if you are lying.”

  “And may I rot in the deepest, darkest hell!” Scowling, Scathan raised a hand to touch the side of his neck. “Just to be clear, you’re sure it was one of us that did it? No chance it was one of the Fjall that betrayed Storbjarg?”

  Aravon nodded. “According to my man Magicmaker,” he used Zaharis’ codename, “the poison used was the sort few men without deep purses could afford.”

  Scathan’s eyes narrowed. “Men with purses as deep as the good Lord Virinus.”

  Aravon shrugged. “He’ll have a chance to answer soon enough.” Lord Virinus had been his primary suspect, though he couldn’t quite understand the young nobleman’s motive for murdering Duke Dyrund. But in the game of Icespire politics, motives could be as murky as Legion latrine water.

  A scuffling sound came from where Belthar held the larger of Scathan’s two companions down. It seemed the man hadn’t quite stopped struggling, even against Belthar’s tremend
ous strength.

  “If the mood for killing me has passed,” Scathan said, “tell your men to back off. Those Legionnaires won’t do you any harm.”

  Legionnaires? Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Could have fooled me.

  The larger of the two certainly had the defiant temperament and size to be a Legionnaire, but the smaller resembled a clerk or scholar more than a soldier.

  “Ursus,” Aravon said. “Let him up.”

  The moment Belthar removed his hand, the man unleashed a torrent of invectives that could only have come from a Legionnaire. His stream of creative curses smoothly transitioned between insulting Belthar’s manhood to questioning his lineage to making unfavorable comparisons to pustules and cankers, then back again to do it all over again without ever taking a breath.

  “Rank and company, Soldier!” Aravon snapped.

  The Legionnaire, hearing that familiar ringing note of command, turned to Aravon and saluted.

  “Corporal Rold, Onyx Battalion’s Ninth Company, stationed at Saerheim until tonight, sir.” He was a large man with a craggy face and deep-set eyes nearly as dark as his heavy black beard. His shoulders and arms had the breadth of a man accustomed to wielding sword and shield, and he looked uncomfortable enough in his undertunic to make it clear he spent more time in Legionnaire armor than out.

  Corporal Rold gestured to his companion. “And this fine specimen of manhood’s called Duvain.”

  Duvain was a slight man, barely in his second decade of life, who looked better-suited to a chandlery or bookkeeper’s shop than a Legion company. His hasty salute was sloppier than Belthar with an injured sword arm.

  Corporal Rold’s eyes narrowed as he took in Aravon’s masked face and strange mottled-pattern armor. “Now how’s about you tell me who in the bloody hell the lot of you are, before I shove this sword so far up your—”