“No.” Lord Morshan gripped the heavy sword by its fuller and lifted it, showing Aravon the gemstone set into its cross guard. “In this stone, there is an ancient magic that dates back thousands of years to the days of Shalandra’s founding. The power will only quicken in the hands of one worthy of wielding the Blade of Hallar. And, only those chosen by the Blade are worthy of serving as Proxenos of the Keeper’s Blades.” He lowered the sword once more, grounding its point on the mine’s stony floor. “The Blade of Hallar chose me fifteen years ago, when I was nothing but an Ypertatos. Though I was young, I had the Elders of the Blade to guide me. My soldiers follow me because it is their duty as sworn servants of the Long Keeper.”
“But that’s not all.” Aravon shook his head. “The Blade may have chosen you, but if you were not fit to lead, your people wouldn’t follow you as readily as they do.” He chuckled. “Take it from a soldier who’s marched under far too many shite commanders.”
“And one who is a capable leader in his own right.” Lord Morshan gave Aravon a knowing smile. “A man who has earned not only the respect of his people, but their love as well.”
Heat flushed Aravon’s face. “You honor me, Proxenos.” A sad smile tugged at his lips; the Lord of Blades reminded him of Duke Dyrund, a warrior at heart, proud and capable, who cared for his people and would commend and reward as freely as chastise.
“No, Captain Snarl.” Lord Morshan fixed him with a solemn stare. “You do your Legion, your Prince, and your people honor.” He rested a hand on Aravon’s shoulder. “Though I wish the circumstances that had brought us together were less…dismal, I am glad to know there are good men and women among the Princelanders. My interactions in my time on Fehl have been far from pleasant. The nobility of Icespire reminds me far too much of the Necroseti that rule my city.”
Aravon clasped his hand, but something about the Proxenos’ word sparked his curiosity. “About that, Lord Morshan.” His forehead tightened to deep furrows as his mind raced. “You mentioned that your wagons deliver the gold mined here to a rendezvous in Smida-held land, yes?”
The Shalandran commander nodded, his kohl-rimmed eyes narrowing. “What of it?”
“Do you know to whom you are handing off the gold?” Aravon asked. “Who receives it and delivers it to the Prince?”
Lord Morshan hesitated. “As I said, they are unknown to us, their names never spoken aloud in our presence, as we do not speak our names in theirs.”
“Indeed.” Aravon inclined his head. He drew in a deep breath. “But if you do not know who these people are, how do you know your gold is reaching the Prince as promised?”
That seemed to surprise the Proxenos. “An insightful question.” His expression grew pensive. “I suppose I have simply operated in good faith, trusting Lord Virinus to ensure the Prince carried out his end of the bargain.”
“Lord…Virinus?!” Aravon sucked in a breath. “Lord Aleron Virinus?”
“The same.” Lord Morshan’s eyes narrowed to hard, dark points, the lines of his face etched with suspicion. “What is it about this name that has you so astonished?”
The revelation set Aravon’s mind racing, so fast he could hardly make sense of his whirling thoughts. Lord Virinus working with the Shalandrans to mine gold in secret. The same Lord Virinus who had pressured Duke Dyrund to take his son on a secret, critical mission to the Fjall. The same Lord Virinus that numbered among the wealthiest noblemen in the Princelands, courtesy of his ownership of one of the largest silver mines north of the Chain.
There’s no way that’s a coincidence!
Aravon’s head snapped up and his eyes locked on Lord Morshan’s face. “The negotiations to grant your people access to the mine, were they with Prince Toran himself?”
The Proxenos’ brow furrowed. “I do not know. It was carried out by the Keeper’s Council in the name of Pharus Mordus Khemnu Nephelcheres. Why?”
Aravon’s mind raced. “For weeks, we have suspected a traitor ranked highly in Icespire. Until now, we believed it was someone in the Prince’s Council, or close enough to have the Prince’s confidences.” He tugged at the thread, following it to the most likely conclusions. “I do not know if Prince Toran confides in Lord Aleron Virinus, but I do know Lord Virinus’ fortunes are vast, more than adequate to compensate anyone willing to provide him with information that could be used to his own ends.”
Lord Morshan drew in a sharp breath. “You suspect Lord Virinus of being this traitor?”
“There is a chance,” Aravon spoke slowly as his mind tried to put together the bits of information he’d gleaned, “that Lord Virinus is, in fact, the traitor that sold you out to the Eirdkilrs. Or if not him personally, someone close to him or in his employ.”
For a moment, he entertained the idea that the younger Lord Virinus had been the traitor. He’d certainly had opportunity during his travels with the Duke. Yet there had been genuine fear in the nobleman’s eyes as Aravon’s fingers gripped his throat. Not of his treachery being discovered—that sort of cowardly, deceitful fear looked far different than the genuine terror twisting Lord Virinus’ face at the prospect of death.
But if the elder Lord Virinus was the traitor, he could have arranged for Otton to join the Duke’s retinue. He certainly had the coin to afford it.
“Do you have anything to prove that your arrangement with the Prince is legitimate?” Aravon drew out the silver torch-and-sword-bearing griffin pendant and held it up. “Anything bearing his personal seal?”
Lord Morshan nodded. “Yes.” He swept an arm toward the mine entrance. “All the pertinent documentation is stored in my office.”
Of course. Knots twisted in Aravon’s stomach. Right in the middle of an army of Eirdkilrs.
His mind flashed back to Storbjarg and Rivergate, the last cities the Eirdkilrs had invaded. Both had been put to the torch, and the Fjall capital burned to the ground.
Dread sank in his gut. What are the odds Lord Morshan’s office survives long enough for us to search it?
Yet, he pushed aside his dismay. The Proxenos’ revelation had proven invaluable. There was a chance that the arrangement had been made by Prince Toran, and Lord Virinus had simply found a way to waylay the gold.
An image flashed through his mind: wagons heaped high with ghoulstone sitting near the Rivergate Bridge. Captain Lemaire, the Nyslian officer leading Jade Battalion’s Second and Third Companies, had spoken of other similar wagons being “spirited away”. According to Belthar, the Brokers were responsible.
The Brokers. Smugglers, believed to be the best in the Princelands. If they’re that good, how hard would it be for them to make wagons of gold disappear before they ever reached Prince Toran?
And, if Lord Virinus truly was the traitor working with the Eirdkilrs, he’d have ample motivation to sell out the Shalandrans. With Lord Morshan and his men slain and the miners hauled into captivity, there would be no one to reveal his duplicity. He could simply send his own people to continue working the mine at Steinnbraka Delve without Prince Toran ever being the wiser.
Keeper’s teeth! The nobleman’s sheer duplicity set Aravon’s mind racing. The thought that anyone could be so greedy—greedy enough to sell out hundreds of men, women, and children doing nothing more than earning a living—sickened him.
In a quiet voice, he explained his train of thought to Lord Morshan. The more he spoke, the darker the Proxenos’ face grew. A storm of fury brewed in the man’s kohl-rimmed eyes.
“By the Keeper!” Lord Morshan’s grip tightened around the hilt of his huge sword, his gauntlets creaking with the strain. “Such treachery sets the bile churning within me.”
“I swear to you, Lord Morshan, that when we get out of here, my men and I will hunt down whoever is responsible for our situation.” Aravon clenched his teeth. “I don’t give a damn if they’re the most powerful nobleman in Icespire—they will not escape with such treachery unpunished!”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Belthar.” Aravon
shook the big man’s shoulder and spoke in a quiet voice so as not to wake Skathi and Noll. The two slept nearby, exhausted from the day’s battle and labors. “Belthar, wake up.”
Belthar was halfway to his feet, axe in hand, before he opened his eyes. Aravon leapt back just in time to avoid the sweeping chop of the massive weapon—a fraction slower, and he’d have been missing a head.
“Captain?” Exhaustion thickened the big man’s voice. His sleep-heavy eyelids flew wide as his gaze snapped to the axe in his hand. “Oh, shite! Sorry, sir.” He lowered the weapon, his expression sheepish.
“Good to see fatigue hasn’t slowed your reflexes.” Aravon signed in the silent Secret Keeper language. He swallowed, struggling to slow the hammering beat of his heart. That had been too bloody close.
Embarrassed, Belthar stooped and placed the axe on the stone floor beside his bedroll. “What do you need, Captain?”
Aravon jerked his head to the side and motioned for Belthar to follow him. He strode a short distance down the tunnel until he was far enough from the sleeping Noll and Skathi that he had no fear of awakening them. Removing his mask, he fixed Belthar with a piercing stare. “Remember our conversation about the Brokers?”
Belthar’s face went instantly rigid, his spine stiff as the stone wall behind him. “Yes.” The word came out clipped, forced.
Aravon relayed what Lord Morshan had told him about the deal with Lord Virinus, along with his suspicions that the Brokers could be the ones receiving the shipments of gold in secrets.
“If that’s the case,” Aravon said, “and the Brokers really are working with Lord Virinus, it’s possible we’re going to run up against them when we return to Icespire.”
“When we…return.” Belthar spoke in a thick voice, his words slow. “So we are going back for certain?”
Aravon’s brow furrowed. “O-Of course.” The question caught him off-guard. “Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I just…” The big man trailed off. His eyes grew dark, and hesitation etched every line in his blocky face, tightening his huge shoulder muscles.
“Talk, Belthar,” Aravon commanded.
“I just didn’t know…that is…none of us really knew for sure if…” He blew out a long breath and threw up his hands. His words came out in a torrent, so quickly they tripped over each other. “With the Secret Keepers hunting for Zaharis, we weren’t certain we were ever going to return north of the Chain. We figured once you found out Lord Virinus the younger wasn’t responsible for the Duke’s death, you’d send word to Lord Eidan and let him handle it. And that you’d see the Duke’s body as far as Hightower or Silverhill, then head back south. What with all the Eirdkilrs running rampant around the Deid lands and your deal with Throrsson to bring his daughter safely to him at Ornntadr, there’s plenty to do in Fehlan lands. But hearing that we’re going back…” The flow of words finally slowed and cut off.
Of course. Out of respect for his pain over the Duke’s death, none of his Grim Reavers had wanted to press him about the danger they’d face in the Princelands. Not yet, at least. Perhaps they’d chosen to give him time to grieve as he accompanied the body north to the Chain. Truth be told, in his grief, he’d utterly forgotten the threat to Zaharis’ life. Or the fact that Belthar clearly had more than a little history with the Brokers.
He let out a sigh. “Keeper’s teeth, why does it feel like I keep letting you all down?”
“Sir?” Belthar’s heavy brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“Rangvaldr told me you were all worried that my pain over Duke Dyrund was making me reckless, foolish.” Aravon threw up his hands. “Now, I’ve forgotten that if we go back to the Princelands, Zaharis could end up dead. And whatever you’re trying to avoid with the Brokers.”
The big man’s face hardened to an inscrutable mask—in itself a visible tell, despite his efforts to hide his emotions.
Aravon shook his head. “I’ve been so focused on myself all this time, when it’s my job to be thinking about all of you. What sort of Captain does that make me?”
“A human one.” Belthar shrugged. “None of us have said anything because we care enough to give you time to process what you’re dealing with. You need it, sir.” He passed a hand over his face, scrubbing sleep from his eyes. “That’s what we do, our little company. We make sure each of us has what we need to get through whatever we’re facing alive. So no, Captain, you’re not letting us down. You’re just doing what any man in your position would do.”
Gratitude welled up within Aravon. “Thank you, Belthar. For your words, and for trusting me.”
“Sure.” The big man clapped Aravon on the shoulder, hard enough to nearly send him stumbling. “You’ve more than earned it.”
At Belthar’s words, something within him unlocked, a reservoir opened to let the tension in Aravon’s chest drain away. The deep breath he drew in felt like the first unburdened lungful he’d had in days.
“And, about the Brokers, sir.” Belthar’s jaw muscles worked, tightening his broad jaw to a sharp-edged square. “If they’re involved in this, I’ll do whatever you need me to do. Even if…” His gaze dropped to the floor and his voice lowered. “Even if going back there is the one thing I swore I’d never do.”
“Back there?” Aravon cocked his head.
Belthar didn’t look up. “Icespire, Captain.” His words seemed burdened by the weight of the mountain atop him.
“You’re from Icespire, too?” Aravon’s eyebrows rose. “I had no idea.”
“Yes, sir.” Belthar nodded. “Born and raised. Not a life as glamorous as yours, though. No son of a famous general. Just one more gutter-born child in a bawdy house.”
Aravon’s jaw tightened to stifle a grimace. “I can see why you don’t talk about it.” The people who dwelled in the poorer sections of Icespire—Littlemarket, the Glimmer, and the Outwards—lived hard lives of toil, hunger, cold, and deprivation. “Couldn’t have been an easy life.”
“No, sir.” Belthar’s eyes darkened and grew distant. “Growing up like that, you do what you have to. Survive however you can. Even when that means you’ve got to do things you regret later in life. Things that you can’t ever really make up for, no matter how hard you try.” He lifted his gaze to Aravon’s. “That scale feels like it’s never going to be balanced, you know.”
Aravon placed a hand on the man’s big shoulder. “You’ve done a damned good job of tipping it in your favor, Belthar. Everything you’ve done—serving at Hightower, joining to fight with us, saving all the lives you have—that’s going to count for something.” The Long Keeper cared little for where men had been born or who their parents were—the god of death judged each based on their actions, the good or bad done in their lives.
“Thank you, Captain.” Belthar gave him a grateful nod.
“And you can know you’ll never have to go back to that life, no matter what.” Aravon grinned up at the big man. “You’ve got us now. Not just your comrades-at-arms, but your friends. Your family.”
“Yeah, I know.” A brilliant smile broadened Belthar’s blunt-featured face. “That’s good enough for me.”
“For me, too.” Aravon let the matter of the Brokers drop for now. He’d have plenty of time on the journey back to the Princelands to raise the issue again.
Belthar’s stomach chose that moment to grumble, a sound so loud it echoed all up and down the tunnel.
Aravon chuckled. “Been drinking ale again, Belthar?”
“No, sir!” The big man’s cheeks flushed. “None down here, even if I wanted any. Just a bit hungry, that’s all. These tight rations are hard for someone my size. It takes a lot to keep me on my feet.”
“Don’t we all know it!” Aravon smiled. “Go, tell Noll to give you some of my share.”
“But, sir, you need—”
“I’ve had enough to eat today.” A lie—he’d had only the few bites of food during his earlier conversation with Rangvaldr—but at the moment, Belthar needed the food more tha
n him.
“You sure, Captain?” Belthar’s eyes narrowed.
Aravon nodded. “Definitely.”
A simple delight shone in Belthar’s eyes as he turned toward Noll’s bedroll and roused the little scout. Noll grumbled and cursed at being awakened, and his protests turned to full-on threats of disembowelment and dismemberment when he realized Belthar had woken him for food. Yet the big man didn’t stop until Noll finally relented and pulled the small satchel of their rations from its hiding place.
Grinning, Aravon turned to leave, but something caught his attention. Skathi, whose bedroll lay on the wall opposite Noll’s, was no longer sleeping. Her eyes were open, her gaze locked on Belthar.
Did she hear our conversation? Belthar wasn’t exactly known for being quiet. Judging by the way she looked at the big man, Aravon suspected she had.
But instead of scorn, disdain, or suspicion, her eyes held a trace of something Aravon hadn’t seen there before, not when it came to Belthar. Empathy.
Rangvaldr’s words flashed through his mind. “A hard life like she’s had is bound to make you smart.”
Aravon had no doubt Skathi’s life as an Agrotora hadn’t been easy—at best, the archers were demeaned by Legionnaires who saw the women warriors as irregulars, little better than mercenaries. Far too many of the Agrotorae had been forced to resist the advances of Legionnaires at the end of a dagger. Sometimes with fatal consequences for both parties involved, though the archers typically suffered most when Legion officers were involved. Through the few conversations Aravon had shared with Skathi, it had been perfectly clear that she’d lived through more than her fair share of tribulations.
And in that, she had found a kindred spirit in Belthar. A connection forged not only over the ordeals they’d endured as Grim Reavers, but the bond of people who had suffered in their lives yet still marched on despite the torments.
But isn’t that what binds us all together? A smile tugged at Aravon’s lips and the burden on his heart lifted. A Captain of a massacred company, now dead to the world. A man cast out from both his mother’s and father’s people. A gutter-born giant and an Agrotorae hardened by life. A Secret Keeper hunted by his own people. A scout who might never find his way back to the home from which he’d been evicted. A warrior torn between his desire for peace, his need to defend his home, and his duty to his people.
Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3) Page 27
