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

by Andy Peloquin

  Lowering his leather wolf mask, he stared the Shalandran in the eyes. “My identity as Prince Toran’s special envoy is a secret shared by few in the Princelands. And now you, Lord Morshan, Proxenos of the Keeper’s Blades, share it as well.”

  “Why?” The man’s dark eyes narrowed, his mouth pulling into a thin line that stretched his braided and oiled beard taut.

  “Because there must be trust between us if we are to get out of this alive.” Aravon met the man’s gaze without hesitation. “Trust that is given as well as earned. Not only by rescuing your soldiers, delivering warning of the attack, and fighting by your side.” He gestured to his face. “With this, you can know that I speak the truth when I say that I will keep nothing from you if it can lead to the salvation of your people.”

  Lord Morshan stared back at him, man to man, commander to commander. Finally, the Proxenos nodded. “I accept your sign of good faith.”

  “And,” Aravon said in a solemn tone, “for the sake of my own people, I need you to trust me enough to share secrets you would keep hidden from the rest of the world. The secret of what you and your people are doing here. To my knowledge, the Indomitables were last seen marching beside General Tinian, supporting his efforts to pacify the Jarnleikr in the east. Only something important would bring you here. So I would know what that is, and what you have learned about ghoulstone that makes it so valuable to the Eirdkilrs.”

  The look in Callista’s eyes at his earlier mention of ghoulstone had raised Aravon’s suspicions. He had to know why the stone, considered worthless gangue by the Princelanders and Fehlans who mined it, mattered so much to the Shalandrans. And, it appeared, to the Eirdkilrs.

  Lord Morshan remained silent a long moment. His face remained expressionless, yet Aravon caught the faintest hint of a twitch in his lips. Finally, the hardness around his eyes relaxed and his frown softened. “So be it.” He let out a long breath and, removing his bloodstained helmet, ran a hand through his long, dark hair. “Tell me, Captain Snarl, what do you know about shalanite?”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Nothing.” He’d never heard the word before, nor had any idea what it could be.

  “Shalanite is a mineral that, in the right hands, is worth far more than gold or silver.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “In the right hands?”

  “The hands of Shalandran steelsmiths.” Lord Morshan raised his bloodstained sword. “Mixed with iron in place of carbon, shalanite produces a steel far stronger, lighter, and more flexible than even the finest Voramian or Princelander steel.” He thrust a finger toward Aravon’s spear. “It is no boast to claim that not even the foundries of Odaron produce metal on par with Shalandran steel.”

  Aravon glanced down at the head of his spear. Odarian steel was among the costliest, more durable metals not only on Fehl, but all the world of Einan. It held an edge better than even the finest Voramian or Princelander steel, had greater flexibility, and could cut through iron-studded leather and even chain mail.

  “You are a man of war, Captain Snarl.” The Proxenos held out his sword. “This will be the finest blade you have ever held.”

  Aravon took the proffered weapon. It was fully six feet in length from its triangular pommel to the tip of its flame-shaped blade—a blade that seemed impossibly clean, its steel lustrous even in the dim light of the tunnel—yet it weighed far less than Aravon expected. He could swing it one-handed, albeit far more slowly than he wielded his longsword. Up close, the gemstone set into the cross guard seemed far less an ostentation and more an integral part of the blade. Something about that crystal-clear stone sent a shiver down his spine. Yet, as he lifted it, he felt its balance, its heft. Perfect, as impeccable as the slight flex in the metal that set the blade singing.

  “Truly, a work of art.” With reverence, he handed the blade back to the Proxenos.

  “It is no exaggeration to say that there is no other weapon like it in the world.” Lord Morshan accepted the sword with a solemn dignity. “This sword belonged to Hallar, Shalandra’s founder. And even after thousands of years of use, it is as flawless as the day it was forged.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. Even on Fehl, the Blade of Hallar was well-known—as renowned as the spiked mace of Agarre Giantslayer or the Swordsman’s own iron sword, wielded against Kharna the Destroyer in the War of Gods.

  An artifact of such ancient origin, here? In the hands of this man? A newfound reverence for the blade flooded him, and filled him with an unspoken desire to hold it once more. Such power, so close at hand.

  “The Blade of Hallar serves as the template from which all of our weapons are crafted.” Lord Morshan gestured to the huge sword. “Every flammard wielded by the Keeper’s Blades are forged in its image. And, over time, we have learned the secrets of crafting armor, shields, and other weapons. Secrets that are guarded with the same fierce zeal as the Odarians guard their own formulas.”

  Aravon inclined his head. “Or as the Secret Keepers protect their Mistress’ secrets.” Darrak’s attack on them had made it clear that the priests of the goddess of whispered truths would die—and kill—to safeguard their deity’s knowledge.

  “Precisely.” Lord Morshan grounded the tip of the huge sword and folded his hands on its cross guard. “But it is not only the secret of the forging that makes our Shalandran steel so valuable. The shalanite itself is also extremely rare, found only in the mines east of Shalandra.” The man’s frown deepened. “Or so we believed, until the day news reached Shalandra of ghoulstone.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. His mind whirled, and suddenly the reason for the Shalandrans’ presence here made sense. “You’re here to study it.” A statement, not a question. “To ensure our ghoulstone is not the same as your shalanite.”

  The Proxenos nodded. “Correct.” His expression grew somber.

  “Does Prince Toran know the truth?” Aravon tilted his head. “The real reason you are here?”

  “He does,” Lord Morshan replied without hesitation. “And he was more than willing to use that to his advantage.” He swept a hand to the walls around him. “In exchange for giving us access to the ghoulstone extracted from this mine, your Prince receives eighty percent of the gold. And without paying my miners a single copper bit.”

  Keeper’s teeth! Aravon struggled to mask his surprise. That’s one hell of a deal in the Princelands’ favor.

  “Prince Toran certainly has the better of this bargain.” Lord Morshan’s face twisted into a grimace. “I do not boast when I say that my people spend their lives working in the mines. For the Kabili, it is the only existence they know.”

  “And the ghoulstone?” Aravon asked. “Is it the same as your shalanite?”

  Lord Morshan ran a strong hand down his long, braided beard. “My people have run a myriad of tests comparing the two, and they have found some similarities.” A smile quirked his lips. “Something tells me a soldier like yourself might not be interested in hearing about streak, luster, hardness, or texture.”

  “Or understand what it means.” Aravon chuckled. “Though my Magicmaker might want to speak with your people to better understand it.”

  “Of course.” Lord Morshan inclined his head. “Suffice it to say, the composition of the stone shares some similarities, but not enough for it to be a concern for my Pharus. The differences are ample that the mining of ghoulstone would not affect our control over shalanite. The various…oddities included.”

  “Oddities?” Aravon cocked his head.

  Lord Morshan gave a dismissive wave. “Nothing concrete, not that my scholars have found, at least. But I have heard far too many stories—all from experienced miners, Kabili of sound mind and strong character—to fully dismiss them.”

  “Stories?” Aravon’s brow furrowed.

  “Of a strange glow,” the Proxenos replied. “One generated by no lantern or lamp carried by the miners.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. A memory flashed through his mind: the ledger of the overseer of Silver Break Mi
ne, a page filled with line after line repeating the question “Why does it glow?” The words—along with the eerie silence of the deserted camp—had been burned into his mind.

  “But we have discovered no proof, even after repeated tests.” The Proxenos shook his head. “Thus, we submitted our findings to Prince Toran two weeks ago, and were in the midst of making preparations to depart Steinnbraka Delve. Callista had just returned from delivering the penultimate wagonload of gold to the Prince’s people. And now this.” He leaned on his sword. “The timing is almost too perfect.”

  Once again, the image of Silver Break Mine—the total absence of life and sound, the empty tents, the abandoned tools, and all with no trace of battle or abduction—passed before his eyes. Horror sent a chill through his gut as he realized the truth.

  “This is no coincidence.” His words came out harsh, edged with ice. “It’s no accident the Eirdkilrs attacked you now.”

  Lord Morshan’s kohl-rimmed eyes went wide. “What do you mean?”

  Acid twisted in Aravon’s gut. “There’s a traitor in the Princelands.” He had no doubt about it. “Someone close to Prince Toran sold you and your people out to the Eirdkilrs.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “A traitor?!” Lord Morshan’s face convulsed into an enraged snarl much like the lion on his helmet.

  Aravon nodded. “The attack on Gold Burrows Mine could have been coincidence, but not Silver Break. Its existence was as well-kept a secret as Steinnbraka Delve. South of the Chain, only a handful of Eyrr knew it was even there. In Icespire, no one but those in the Prince’s confidences could have revealed it.” His jaw clenched. “If you are certain no one outside your own people know of this place—”

  “I am certain.” An edge of steel glinted in Lord Morshan’s eyes, and his jaw tightened. “Our wagons travel days through the Deid forests to a secret rendezvous in Smida-held land, where we hand off the gold to people unknown to us and careful to keep their identities a secret. For the ten months that my people have been here, there has been no sign of attack or breach of information.”

  “Then there is no other explanation.” The confirmation of his suspicion set Aravon’s gut churning. “The Eirdkilrs attacked Saerheim to claim the ghoulstone there, and doubtless to hold the city against the Legionnaires and Deid pursuing them after the Battle at Hangman’s Hill. But instead of pursuing the survivors of the battle, they came directly here. How else could they have known of the location?”

  Lord Morshan stood straight, his dark features hardening. “They could not have.”

  “And if, as you say, your people truly are the most experienced miners on Fehl, it would make them the ideal target for whatever the Eirdkilrs have planned.” That part, Aravon still hadn’t figured out. The question had nagged at him since Gold Burrows Mine, but no answer as to why had presented itself. “Your people are here in secret, with only a small force to guard them. The Eirdkilrs would not pass up such an opportunity, especially if, as you said, your miners are preparing to leave.”

  “By the Long Keeper!” Lord Morshan’s grip tightened around his huge sword until his gauntlets creaked with the strain. “Such treachery I’ve come to expect from the Keeper’s Council, but I hoped I’d left it behind when I crossed the Frozen Sea!” His jaw muscles twitched as he ground his teeth, his eyes narrowed in thought. “If you know of this traitor’s existence, surely Duke Dyrund has taken steps to unmask him and eliminate him.”

  Mention of the Duke brought back the memory of sorrow—a memory Aravon had tried to push from his mind for the sake of his mission. Yet no matter how he tried, how far he ran or how many enemies he fought, he could not escape the weight that dragged on his heart.

  “Duke Dyrund is dead,” he replied in a quiet voice.

  “Dead?” Lord Morshan recoiled in surprise, his dark eyebrows shooting toward his hairline.

  Aravon nodded. “Poisoned by a mercenary hired by, we suspect, the same traitor that betrayed you and your people.”

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Disgust twisted Lord Morshan’s features into a snarl and his fist tightened around the hilt of his huge sword until his gauntlets creaked. “No matter how far we travel, the one thing we can never escape is the treachery of our fellow man.”

  “Alas, if only it were not so.” Aravon’s feelings mirrored the Shalandran’s; the very thought of someone turning traitor and working with the Eirdkilrs nauseated him. How anyone could turn on Prince and country was beyond him. “I and my companions were returning to Icespire to investigate the matter personally. It was only the threat of the Eirdkilr attack that drew us away from that course.”

  “A detour for which my people and I are grateful.” The Proxenos removed his right hand from his flammard and held it out to Aravon, who clasped it in return. “We owe you our lives, Captain Snarl. Without you, Archateros Callista and her company would lie dead in the forest, and our walls would…” He trailed off, as if a thought struck him mid-sentence. “Speaking of, Callista said your big comrade had remained to travel with the wagons and the survivors of the attack. Yet I see only four men—your companions—and not my Indomitables.”

  “My men determined that it was better to keep them hidden in the forest then risk them on the desperate charge to the gate.”

  Lord Morshan snorted. “A foolhardy gamble. Were those soldiers under my command, I’d order them whipped for their recklessness.” A wry smile tugged at his lips. “Or showered in gold for their timely arrival.”

  “I think they’ll settle for a bite of food and a drink of water.” Aravon met the man’s grin with one of his own. “Unless you have a cask of wine or something stronger, of course.”

  “Stronger, we have.” Lord Morshan chuckled. “Not all the barrels stocked down here contain water. After all, as we have long ago learned, water stores far better when mixed with a generous dose of Drashi rum.”

  “I’ve never known my soldiers to pass up a drink of any flavor.” Aravon inclined his head. “It would do us well to wash the dust from our throats.”

  “I will see you and your companions have what you need,” Lord Morshan replied.

  “And we are at your command to aid in the defense of our position.” Aravon turned and glanced over his shoulder. “My man, Magicmaker, will brew up a tea of feverfew to ease the pain of your soldiers wounded in battle. And Stonekeeper moves among your soldiers and miners offering what healing he can.”

  A thought struck him. “Though, I give you fair warning that my healer’s remedy will be far less…typical than your soldiers might expect.”

  Lord Morshan leaned forward, a curious look in his eyes. “How so?”

  Aravon hesitated; he didn’t know how much the Shalandran knew of Fehlan culture, but he was certain he didn’t want to reveal Rangvaldr’s true identity. “Into our possession,” he said slowly, “have come certain artifacts as unique as your sword.” He thrust a chin toward the Blade of Hallar in Lord Morshan’s hands. “The Fehlans call them ‘holy stones’.”

  “I have heard of them.” Surprise flashed across the Proxenos’ face. “Though I believed them nothing more than the stuff of legends.”

  Aravon smiled. “Similar, no doubt, to the legends surrounding Shalandra’s founder.”

  “Fair point.” Lord Morshan inclined his head.

  “Suffice it to say, the holy stones truly are as the rumors suggest.” Aravon shot a glance over his shoulder, back toward the main tunnel. “My man, Stonekeeper, has the power to use them, and in doing so, will aid your soldiers in defense of the mine.” He stood straighter and swept a gesture indicating Colborn and Noll, who stood guard beside Elmessam and Callista. “Indeed, all of us stand beside you until the end. An end that, by the Swordsman’s grace, will see us all alive and safe.”

  “Keeper willing, it will be so.” Lord Morshan gave Aravon a solemn nod. He opened his mouth to speak, but a shout from the mine entrance brought him spinning around. One of the Keeper’s Blades, Nytano, was pushing between Callista
, Elmessam, Colborn, and Noll, racing down the tunnel toward them. Blood still dripped from his two-handed flammard, armor, and helmet, and even behind his mask, the weariness of battle shone bright in his eyes.

  Lord Morshan turned back to Aravon. “I must go, Captain Snarl. But when I have seen to the disposition of my soldiers, I will seek you out to hear your plan to repay the Eirdkilrs for their actions.”

  “I am at your service, Proxenos.” Aravon straightened and snapped a crisp Legion salute—in a few short hours, Lord Morshan had earned his respect as a warrior, soldier, and commander. In many ways, he reminded Aravon a great deal of Duke Dyrund.

  With the salute of a Keeper’s Blade—right fist to left shoulder—Lord Morshan replaced his mask and hurried toward Nytano. After a moment’s conversation in hushed tones, the two Blades turned and strode up the stony passage toward the mine’s entrance. Aravon, too, tied his leather mask back over his face before striding back to where Colborn and Noll stood with the two Keeper’s Blades.

  “All’s well, Captain?” Colborn signed in the silent hand language.

  Aravon nodded. “Archateros Callista,” he said aloud, “I’ve made certain your Proxenos knows that my people and I are to be available for whatever is needed. But until we are called upon, I would speak with your scholars, the ones responsible for studying the ghoulstone.”

  Callista’s eyes narrowed. “To what end?”

  “Because, as I said, the Eirdkilrs came here specifically for the ghoulstone,” Aravon replied. “I intend to find out why, and the scholars studying the stone are the ones best-suited to give me an answer.”

  A moment of hesitation passed, and Callista exchanged a quick glance with Elmessam. The Blade’s shoulders twitched in a shrug. When Callista turned back to Aravon, the distrust hadn’t fully left her eyes, but she simply said, “So be it. I will take you to them.”