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

by Andy Peloquin

  He managed to tear his eyes away from the grisly sight and searched the room for Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn knelt over one unconscious soldier at the far end of the stone chamber, head bowed, gemstone pendant pressed to his lips. The cries of the wounded drowned out the words he muttered—holy words, spoken in an ancient language—but the light of the oil lanterns and lamps couldn’t hide the glow of the stone. A soft blue glow, soothing and warm, bathed the Indomitable’s face as Rangvaldr pressed the holy stone against the gaping wound in his neck. Flesh re-knit and the trickle of blood seeping from the gash in his throat slowed and stopped.

  With a gasp, Rangvaldr sagged to one side. He would have fallen if Aravon hadn’t released his grip on the wounded Indomitable and caught the collapsing Seiomenn. Gently, he helped Rangvaldr to a seat, then turned back to lend a hand to the Indomitable slumping to the ground.

  Aravon turned and scanned the people moving among the wounded. “Foxclaw! One more for you.”

  Noll glanced up from where he knelt beside a wounded Indomitable, pressing a blood-soaked cloth to the man’s forehead. “How bad?” Worry darkened his eyes.

  “Bad enough he needs attention now.” The gash in his forearm hadn’t severed the artery, but it was a close thing. “Keep him alive until I can get Stonekeeper back on his feet, yeah?”

  “I-I’m fine.” Exhaustion thickened Rangvaldr’s voice, but he struggled to rise.

  “Easy, Seiomenn.” Aravon knelt beside the Fehlan and gripped his arm. “Push yourself too hard and you’ll be no good to any of us.”

  Rangvaldr snorted. “Funny, coming from you.” He shrugged off Aravon’s hand and rose to his feet, swaying as violently as an intoxicated sailor on a storm-tossed ocean.

  “Captain’s right, old man,” Noll called out as he hurried past to receive the next wounded soldier staggering into the chamber. “Go, take a breather. We’ve got this.”

  “But—” Rangvaldr began.

  “Come on, Stonekeeper.” Aravon slipped the Seiomenn’s arm over his shoulder and, with far less effort than should be possible for a strong warrior like Rangvaldr, steered the reeling Fehlan through the bodies, blood, and horror. Down the tunnel they went, two men too weak from their efforts to stand on their own. Aravon was glad to draw a breath free of the reek within that chamber—it made the stale air within the mine seem fresh by comparison.

  Once in the main tunnel, Aravon led the Seiomenn toward the side passage where Emvil and his Gangers had set up the barrels of water, watered rum, and their meager rations.

  “Captain.” Skathi greeted him with a nod and a concerned glance at Rangvaldr. “He pushing himself too hard again?”

  “And far too stubborn to hear anyone’s opinion on the matter.” Aravon shook his head. “Damned goat-headed Fehlans.”

  Rangvaldr responded with a muttered insult in his native tongue—Aravon didn’t recognize the words, but it sounded suspiciously like he called Aravon’s parentage into question while also suggesting some anatomical impossibility.

  “I’m hauling him away to rest, but first I’ve got to get some food and drink in him.”

  “You as well, Captain.” Skathi produced a near-empty waterskin and a bundle barely the size of Aravon’s fist, handing both to him with an apologetic look. “Strict rations, on the Proxenos’ orders.”

  As Aravon accepted the food and water, the Agrotora switched to the silent hand language. “People aren’t happy with the situation.”

  Those few miners waiting their turn for sustenance shot dark looks at the slope-shouldered, club-carrying Gangers guarding the supplies.

  Her eyes darted around. “And it seems the Gangers aren’t exactly beloved by the miners.”

  Aravon grimaced. Men who wielded whips were rarely friends with those who felt the lash’s sting.

  “Keep an eye out,” he said aloud, his hands too full to form the hand signals. “I’ll report to Lord Morshan as soon as I get Stonekeeper fed and settled.”

  Rangvaldr snorted. “You’ll make a wonderful mother someday, Captain.”

  “Why thank you.” Aravon chuckled and steered the unresistant, exhausted Seiomenn away. “I’ve always thought that, though I’m not sure how I’ll manage the breastfeeding part.”

  Rangvaldr gave a tired laugh as Aravon led him up the tunnel toward the adjoining corridor down which lay their camp. He was too exhausted to protest, but yielded to Aravon’s efforts to help him lie on his bedroll.

  “You can’t keep this up.” Aravon sat beside the Seiomenn and passed him the larger half of the grainy yellow cake within. “I know you’re trying to help as many people as possible, to keep us all alive, but if you don’t take care of yourself, you’re going to wind up dead. And I don’t mean that figuratively.”

  “Don’t you Princelanders have a saying about pots calling kettles hypocrites?” Rangvaldr shook his head. “Seems like someone should be saying the same thing to you, Captain.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. “That’s kind of the Captain’s job. Making sure everyone gets home in one piece.”

  Rangvaldr removed his leather mask, revealing an acerbic frown. “Is that what you were doing rushing into battle with the Eirdkilrs after you swore you wouldn’t?”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t—”

  “You’re too smart to truly believe whatever horse shite you’re about to spout.” Rangvaldr’s tone was biting, like a lecturing instructor drilling a particularly uncoordinated Legionnaire. He took a bite of the food, and sighed in relief as he chewed. Aravon bit into the cake as well—it was grainy, gritty, and tasted far too much like weevils, but he ate it down nonetheless.

  Rangvaldr swallowed and waggled a finger at Aravon. “I know you believed you did the right thing back there. After all, you saved the Indomitables and Callista from the Eirdkilrs, and got word of the attack here in time to save all these people. But when you step back, take a cold, hard look at your actions, you know it was an idiot’s move.”

  Aravon grimaced beneath his mask. He could do without the lecture—tired Rangvaldr sounded harsher than usual—but he couldn’t dispute the Seiomenn’s words. He had known his attack on the Eirdkilrs was foolhardy, even suicidal. He’d simply ignored instinct and listened to the part of his mind that told him it was the right choice.

  “Your first instinct is to save people,” Rangvaldr said, his voice quiet. “It’s why the Duke chose you to be our Captain. Why I left my home and my people to follow you.” He thrust a finger at Aravon. “Not Duke Dyrund, not the Prince, and certainly not some Legion commander. You.”

  The words surprised Aravon. “What?”

  “The way you fought for my home—for people you didn’t know or care about—that was enough to prove that you were a man worth following.” Rangvaldr sipped at the water and wiped at his heavy beard before continuing. “But pain can turn even good men bad. Make them foolish, reckless, or plain stupid. Men like that get themselves killed, or those who follow them.”

  Aravon’s cheeks burned. “I’m not—”

  “Going to get us killed?” Rangvaldr raised an eyebrow. “Not intentionally, sure, but in battle, there’s no way to predict the outcome. It takes a level head to see the big picture, to think beyond the immediate moment. That level-headed man is the one who saved my town, liberated Rivergate, and led the Fjall to victory over the Blood Queen.” His bushy grey eyebrows drew together. “But the man I saw yesterday, the one who charged off toward the threat, that man’s the sort of commander that’s liable to get someone killed. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much.”

  He sat straighter, staring up at Aravon with a piercing gaze. “You’re hurting, Captain. One look in your eyes and I can see the pain. More than you probably realize. And no one can blame you. Duke Dyrund, that hit you hard, nearly took you to the ground. Right now, you’re fighting to stand on solid ground when it feels like there’s only quicksand beneath your feet. You’re struggling to stay upright when all you want is to collapse a
nd give in to the sorrow. That sound about right?”

  Mutely, Aravon nodded. He could find no words—the Seiomenn spoke with his usual perceptiveness, and as always, his words rang with truth.

  “And there’s a part of you, deep down, that blames yourself for the Duke’s death.” Rangvaldr’s green eyes met Aravon’s. “That fills you with guilt because you couldn’t find a way to save him. Because you weren’t there at the end.”

  Again, that pesky lump in his throat and the surge of emotion at mention of Duke Dyrund. “Skathi said the same thing.”

  “Skathi’s a smart woman. A hard life like she’s had is bound to make you smart.” Rangvaldr leaned forward. “I’ve been Seiomenn a long time. I’ve come to recognize a person in pain.” He placed a hand on Aravon’s chest. “Physical pain’s never enough to drive away the hurt deep down. That sort of pain takes a lot longer to go away.”

  Aravon felt tears welling up in his eyes—tears that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t banish with a thought. They stung and threatened to break free.

  “It won’t go away on its own.” Rangvaldr continued in a gentle voice. “Not if you ignore it or try to push it away.” He shook his head. “The only way it’s going to go away is if you face it. You stop running from it and deal with it head-on, just like you would any enemy.”

  “This isn’t really the time or place for that.” Aravon’s voice was hoarse and he shook his head in an effort to banish the emotions. “We’re a bit busy fighting for our lives.”

  “I know.” Rangvaldr’s voice was gentle. “Which is why I’ve held my peace until now. But it’s important that you understand what’s going on in your mind and heart. What’s driving you to take reckless actions that put all of our lives in danger. Not so you start doubting or second-guessing yourself, but so that you at least consider the why behind your actions before you rush in. That bit of self-awareness is enough to give us all confidence that you’re making the right choice, one you’ve thought through for more than one damned second.”

  He gave Aravon a wry smile. “You’re put into positions where you have to make instant decisions. Life and death-sized choices. That’s a heavy burden for any man to carry, but you’ve proven you’re up to it. The rest of us just need to know you’re still up for it.”

  “The others, too?” Aravon’s gut tightened. He couldn’t be a good commander if his men doubted his ability to lead. Doubt led to hesitation, and in the situations they faced, even a single moment of delay could mean the difference between life and death, success and failure.

  “Not so they’d say aloud to each other.” Rangvaldr shook his head and, after taking another sip of water, leaned back against the stone wall. “But I’ve seen it in their eyes. A nagging doubt barely half-formed in their minds—though that’s pretty much par for the course with Noll.”

  Aravon chuckled, but it felt forced.

  Rangvaldr gripped Aravon’s shoulder. “None of us have stopped believing in you, Captain. You need to know that.” An intense light blazed in his eyes. “We just want to make sure you’ve got what you need to get through this the same Aravon we’ve all chosen to follow. Not some flawless, unfeeling lump of stone that shrugs off pain and grief like it’s nothing. But a man who, despite everything, can keep making the hard choices because they’re what’s right for the people who follow him and the people he’s vowed to protect.”

  Aravon’s throat thickened, but not from sorrow or grief this time. Instead, he felt only gratitude—for the soldiers who cared enough to worry about him and to confront him with a difficult truth.

  “Now, with all due respect, Captain, it’s time you bugger off and let this old warrior sleep.” Rangvaldr gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve wasted far too much of my precious strength lecturing you.”

  “Forgive me, oh grand Seiomenn.” Aravon laughed, genuine this time, and rose. Too quickly for his tired legs, which wobbled and threatened to give way beneath him. Yet he caught himself on the wall and pushed himself upright with only a hint of a groan.

  “As soon as I’m rested, I’ll see what I can do about all those aches and pains.” Rangvaldr said. “But for now, let’s see if that doesn’t knock some sense into you.”

  “I think your tongue-lashing is more than enough misery for one day.” Aravon turned to go, but stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Thank you, Rangvaldr. For caring enough to force the issue.”

  Rangvaldr’s smile lit up his face, genuine warmth driving back the dullness of his exhaustion. “We’ve all got our roles to play. Mine just happens to be granting all of you hotheads the majesty of my wisdom. One of the perks of aging is the ability to recognize the folly of youth.”

  Aravon snorted and turned away, replacing his mask. “Rest well, old man!”

  But Rangvaldr had no retort—he was too busy snoring in his bedroll.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Battle report is in, Proxenos.” Invictus Nytano’s bloodstained face was grave, the lines around his eyes deep and somber. “Eight slain and twenty-five wounded.” He, like the rest of the people in their small circle, appeared beyond exhausted. Three days of combat with only infrequent respites between waves of Eirdkilrs had left every one of them ragged, their strength and nerves fraying.

  “Out of commission?” Lord Morshan asked.

  “Six.” Invictus Nytano glanced over at Aravon. “That number would have been higher if your Stonekeeper hadn’t been there.” He held out a hand. “For that, we owe you all our thanks.”

  Aravon clasped the Blade’s hand. “Glad we could make a difference.”

  When Nytano broke off the grip, he turned back to Lord Morshan. “Seventy-nine Indomitables still stand and prepare for battle tomorrow, Proxenos.”

  “Seventy-nine.” Lord Morshan repeated. A solemn look darkened his swarthy face, and a frown tugged at his lips. His hands folded around the hilt of his greatsword and he leaned heavily on the grounded weapon. “Seventy-nine of one hundred and fifty.”

  “Don’t forget, sir,” Callista spoke up from her place beside the Proxenos, “nearly thirty of those that traveled with me to the rendezvous await us in the forest. By the Keeper’s mercy, we live to fight another day.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Morshan nodded to the Archateros. “A welcome reminder, Callista.”

  Callista glowed beneath her commander’s words.

  “And what of the digging, Head Ganger?” Lord Morshan turned toward the other figure that had joined them at his command. “How soon can we expect a way out?”

  Emvil’s smile made his nose appear even more crooked. “The Face of Mercy has smiled on us. The Kabili have uncovered a fault that cuts through the heart of the mountain toward the southeast. Already, their efforts progress at a steady pace. I expect they will be finished by tomorrow night. The following morning at the latest.”

  “Keeper’s mercy indeed!” Lord Morshan’s face brightened and his tired shoulders lifted. “Reward the miners with an extra drink to lift their spirits.”

  “With all due respect, Proxenos, but that would be unwise.” A frown twisted Emvil’s heavy features. “Stores of food are already dangerously low, and fully one-quarter of the water barrels were found contaminated. If we give them any more than has already been allotted, you risk thirst and hunger for the Indomitables. They must keep up their strength if they are to protect us from the enemy without.”

  “Very well.” Lord Morshan acknowledged the Head Ganger with a nod. “But when we emerge from this battle victorious, I will see to it that every Kabili working here this day is rewarded. If not by the Pharus or the Keeper’s Council, their compensation will come from my own pocket.”

  “The Lord of Blades is most generous.” Emvil bowed, but not before Aravon caught the glint of greed sparkling in the man’s dark eyes. “By your leave, I will spread the good news among the miners. Doubtless it will light a fire in their bellies and strengthen their arms.”

  “Go.” Lord Morshan dismissed the man with a wave.
“Keep me apprised on your progress, Head Ganger.”

  “Of course, my lord.” With another bow so deep his crooked nose nearly scraped the floor, the heavy-necked Emvil turned and strode off to rejoin his Gangers and the miners working to dig free of the mine.

  The Proxenos turned to the three Blades that stood in the tunnel beside him and Aravon. “Nytano, Aleema, Callista, find yourselves a quiet place and sleep a few hours.” He held up a hand as the three Blades opened their mouths to protest. “That is an order. The three of you have battled enough for one day.”

  Nytano and Aleema exchanged glances, but it was Callista who spoke. “And you, Proxenos? Will you not take rest and recover your strength?”

  “I will, once I am certain all my people are well.” Lord Morshan thrust a gauntleted finger toward a side tunnel. “Including the three of you. Go, join Killian and Elmessam in slumber. Dawn and the renewed attack will come all too soon.”

  Again, the three looked ready to argue, but after a moment, they saluted and did as their Proxenos commanded.

  “Your people not only follow you,” Aravon said when the Blades were out of earshot. “They trust you as well. An uncommon yet vital trait for an effective army.”

  Lord Morshan turned a self-deprecating smile on him. “A fact that has as much to do with my title as Lord of Blades than anything else, I suspect.”

  Aravon cocked his head, fixing the Proxenos with a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

  With a chuckle, Lord Morshan gestured to his sword. “The Blade of Hallar is not simply a weapon handed down from Proxenos to Proxenos like a prized sword or badge of office. Instead, it is the office. A sign of the Hallar’s blessing for the Keeper’s Blade chosen to serve Shalandra.”

  Aravon’s eyes narrowed. “So Proxenos isn’t a title like ‘General’ or ‘Captain’? One earned through years of service?”