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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Sounds like something a good man would do.” A kind smile broadened Skathi’s sharp-boned features. “Derelana knows there are few enough of those in our world.”

  Belthar’s face brightened. He lifted his head and sat straighter, relief draining a fraction of the tension from his huge shoulders.

  “But the truth is that we will face danger in Icespire.” Aravon stood. “Not just from the Brokers, but from the Secret Keepers as well.” He turned to face Zaharis. “If you return with us, there is a chance your brothers from the Temple of Whispers will find you.”

  The pain that flashed across Zaharis’ face had nothing to do with his burned hands. Aravon knew he was thinking of Darrak, the Secret Keeper they’d run into at Rivergate. Darrak had had ample time to recover from their fight and send word to his superiors at the Temple of Whispers about Zaharis’ presence on Fehl. For Zaharis, returning to Icespire would be paramount to walking into the jaws of a ravenous bloodbear. And Aravon wouldn’t put his man’s life at risk.

  “So I can’t have you come.” Aravon’s jaw muscles worked. “I need you to remain at Camp Marshal, where no one will—”

  Zaharis was on his feet in an instant, eyes blazing. “Rot that! I go…with you.” Pain etched in his face as his fingers moved, slowly and clumsy from the thick burns covering his hands, yet the vehemence in his expression left no doubt as to his thoughts.

  “Zaharis, you yourself said what will happen if the Secret Keepers find you.” Aravon shook his head. “They’re going to kill you. And us with you.”

  “You…afraid!” Zaharis struggled to form the words. “Suddenly…a coward?”

  “No.” Aravon shook his head. “I’m not worried about us. Or, at least I’m not worried about myself.” His gaze moved from Zaharis to the rest of his small company. “I know exactly what’s at stake, and I’m willing to risk the Secret Keepers’ wrath if they find me with you. But I’m not going to command any of you to take that same risk.”

  “As if we didn’t sign up for exactly the same dangers you did?” Sharp steel edged Colborn’s voice and a hint of fire blazed in his eyes. “This is just one more battle we can’t avoid. So, as always, we’re facing it head on.” He glanced around. “All of us, isn’t that right?”

  Without hesitation, Noll, Skathi, and Belthar nodded. Rangvaldr’s nod was slower, the result of exhaustion rather than uncertainty.

  “Danger…together.” Zaharis signed. “A company.”

  “The bloody Grim Reavers.” Noll was the next to his feet. “That’s a big name to live up to. What sort of soldiers worthy of that kind of reputation turn their backs on their comrades over some itty bitty spot of bother?” As ever, his words held a dismissive tone, understating the danger they faced.

  Aravon looked from one face to the next—hard, confident faces. The faces of warriors, of soldiers. His Grim Reavers, the soldiers hand-picked by the Duke and trained to do the impossible.

  “Zaharis and I know what we’re facing back in Icespire,” Belthar rumbled. “but—”

  “But nothing.” Skathi cut him off with a slash of her hand. “Now we’re all caught up on the party awaiting us. And we’re all walking into it together, eyes open, fangs sharp.” She bared her teeth in a wolfish snarl. “If the Secret Keepers or Brokers want the two of you, they’re going to have to get through us.”

  “Damned straight!” Noll said, nodding for emphasis. “And they’ll find we don’t bend over and grasp our ankles without a fight.” A sly grin twisted his lips. “We’ve proven that often enough to the Eirdkilrs. If our own Princelanders want to take us on, they’ll get an arse-ful of Grim Reaver metal.”

  A long moment of silence elapsed as Aravon studied the six faces in front of him. Pride surged in his chest. Once again, danger loomed before them, a mission that could lead to their deaths. Yet they faced it without hesitation. A company of warriors and soldiers, indeed.

  “So be it.” A smile broadened his face. “Time and again, you never fail to surprise me.”

  “That’s in our job description, ain’t it?” Noll laughed and thumped a hand against his chest. “We’re all about that shock and awe!”

  Aravon chuckled. “Indeed.” A warm glow settled in his belly—he’d never dreamed he would serve with men and women like those seated around him.

  “Well, now that that’s settled, what say we get back to the really important work of polishing off that deer?” Noll turned to the venison roasting over the fire. “Feels like it’s been a week since I had a proper meal, so how’s about you quit brooding and cut me off a haunch of that, Belthar?”

  Belthar glanced down at Skathi, who remained crouched beside him. A moment of silence passed between them, something unspoken shared in that look. Then, without a word, Skathi stood and returned to her place by the fire. Snarl uncurled himself from around Belthar’s legs as the big man rose and moved toward the spitted meat. With a little shake of his head, the Enfield padded over to Skathi. But instead of settling down around her feet, Snarl simply nuzzled up against her legs as he moved past to resume his comfortable position beside Aravon.

  The warm glow within Aravon brightened to a gleam as brilliant as the sun. Smiling, he leaned down and scratched the Enfield’s scruff. In that moment, he felt as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. Snarl’s comforting presence and the silent acceptance of his company, of the danger they would face, soothed the anxiety that had roiled within him since leaving Steinnbraka Delve.

  He’d been dreading the return to Icespire—he still dreaded it, being so close to his wife, sons, and father yet unable to visit them. Then there was Duke Dyrund. Not the matter of the Duke’s body; Lingram would see that it reached Icespire, and that the Hilmir’s daughter was safe—either in a Legion-manned Garrison or in the Princelands, where she could recover her strength. He trusted the Legionnaire enough to leave those matters in Lingram’s hands until after the traitor had been rooted out and eliminated.

  For these last few days, Aravon had been so focused on surviving the Eirdkilrs that he’d been able to forget the fact that the Duke had died. Now, with the danger past, the burden threatened to return. With the battle past, he could no longer hide from the truth. Duke Dyrund was gone. His mentor, the man he’d tried to emulate, gone forever. That pain cut deep.

  Yet the fact that his small company stood united by their common goal—to hunt down the traitor working with the Eirdkilrs—filled him with hope, bolstered his confidence. The seven of them, together, had pulled off the impossible far too many times to count. With them by his side, they stood a very real chance of unmasking the threat to the Princelands.

  Though, how the bloody hell we’re going to do that, I still have no idea.

  As Aravon leaned back against the tree, Snarl leapt up into his lap and curled into a warm, compact ball. The weight atop his legs and the heat of the Enfield’s body filled him with a quiet calm. At least one thing hadn’t changed in the last few days. No matter what happened, Snarl was the one constant that filled his life with joy. The Enfield had been thrilled to see Aravon after days apart. Though Snarl had been no worse for the time—he’d amassed an admirable collection of rabbits, pigeons, and squirrels, far more than Aravon had eaten while in the mine—it felt wonderful to be reunited. The little creature’s buoyancy and boundless exuberance never failed to cheer him up.

  He stroked Snarl’s fur with one hand, and with the other picked up a document from the pile by his side. This one numbered among the worst-damaged, with little more than a corner of parchment escaping the fire. It appeared to be another letter negotiating the Prince’s terms for the Shalandrans’ aid mining the gold at Steinnbraka Delve.

  Damn! Sighing, Aravon set the letter aside and plucked another from his small pile. This is getting us nowhere.

  He passed a hand across his eyes in an effort to wipe away the fatigue blurring his vision. He’d feel better after a night of rest, but he couldn’t bring himself to sleep yet. Not until he’d found something, any
thing, of use.

  The rest of his small company settled into a comfortable evening routine. Colborn had drawn out his Odarian steel longsword, and the quiet, steady rasping of his whetstone echoed through the forest. Zaharis had drawn out the chunk of ghoulstone he’d found in the Shalandran mine and was turning it over and over in his fingers—doubtless to keep the burned flesh from stiffening before Rangvaldr could heal it the following day. Belthar kept turning the roasting deer on the spit, cutting off chunks of meat for himself and the ever-demanding Noll.

  Skathi, too, had taken to her usual evening task: making arrows. Somehow, she’d managed to find the time after the battle at Steinnbraka Delve to cut her Odarian steel arrowheads free, and now she fashioned new shafts: horse-hoof glue mixed with verdigris to attach the fletching, thread to hold the feathers in place, and hide glue for the Odarian steel arrowheads. Only a handful of those high-quality tips remained; most of the missiles she now crafted bore iron tips taken from the Deid hunting arrows.

  Her quiver lay nearly empty at her side. Only two arrows had survived the battle: one, the last red-fletched shaft that was the hallmark of the Agrotorae archers; the other, a simple wooden shaft that had been fletched with what appeared to be feathers dyed a festive mixture of blue, red, purple, and gold.

  Skathi looked up and, noticing Aravon’s gaze on her quiver, shot him a grin. “My lucky charms.”

  Aravon nodded. Like all soldiers, the Agrotorae had their own superstitions—among them the belief that an empty quiver was bad luck. “You got through our last battles alive. I’d say that makes them more than just lucky.”

  “Captain.” The sound of Rangvaldr’s voice, faint and hoarse, brought Aravon’s head snapping around.

  The Seiomenn was trying to sit up, but exhaustion left him too weak. Finally, he gestured toward his pack, which lay at his feet. “Something in there…for Zaharis.”

  Curiosity furrowed Aravon’s brow as he stood and moved toward Rangvaldr’s pack. The moment he opened the flap, a smile broadened his face. Reaching into the Seiomenn’s leather satchel, he drew out the studded iron sphere and held it out to Zaharis. “I believe this belongs to you.”

  Zaharis’ eyes widened, but he nodded eagerly, gesturing toward the wooden chest that held all his alchemical remedies, supplies, mixtures, and equipment.

  “I figured…that would…be useful,” Rangvaldr said, his voice still thready and strained. “Besides…no way I’d leave this…anywhere Noll could…get his hands on it.”

  Zaharis laughed, a dry sound made harsh by the severed stump of his tongue, but it brought a smile to Aravon’s lips. If the Seiomenn could crack jokes, it meant he was getting better. By the Swordsman’s grace, a bit of food, water, and rest would see him restored to full strength.

  Good. Relief filled him as he reclined against the tree. We’ll need him for what’s to come.

  Aravon picked up the next parchment, but his eyes refused to focus. Holding it up to the light did little to make the letters clearer in his blurring vision. He was about to put it down when something caught his eye.

  A carbuncle, eight radiating rods that formed an interlocked cross and saltire, etched into the center of the parchment.

  Every shred of exhaustion faded from his mind and body. He bolted upright and studied the parchment. The firelight gleamed on the words, yet the carbuncle had disappeared. Or had it? When he held it up and looked through the parchment, the symbol was immediately visible.

  His jaw dropped as he stared at the mark, scarcely daring to believe it was real. Yet, when he blinked again, it hadn’t faded.

  “Zaharis!” Aravon called. “Take a look at this!”

  The Secret Keeper glanced over, and Aravon beckoned him, urgency twisting in his stomach. When Zaharis came to crouch beside Aravon—accompanied by curious glances from Noll, Skathi, Belthar, and Colborn—Aravon held the parchment up to the fire. “Look!”

  Zaharis sucked in a breath, his eyes going wide.

  “You’ve seen that before?”

  The Secret Keeper nodded.

  “How is it possible?” Parchment was made from animal skins—goat, cow, or sheep—scraped thin and dried under tension. To create a mark like that one would require expertise far beyond his knowledge of the preparation process.

  “Special…ink.” The Secret Keeper struggled with the hand signs, his burned fingers stiff. “Alum, vinegar…more.” His jaw muscles worked in frustration. “Invisible…until heated.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. The parchment had been exposed to heat—the upper edges scorched by flame. It was thanks to the Eirdkilrs’ rampage that they could see the hidden insignia they sought.

  He held the fragment up to the fire, his eyes fixed on that carbuncle. The same symbol he’d seen on the wax seal in Otton’s pouch, and the one Noll had found in the dead drop in Rivergate.

  It all comes back to this! The Duke hadn’t known which noble house the symbol belonged to, yet he believed he’d seen it somewhere before.

  Aravon’s mind raced. If we’re going to find the traitor, we need to be looking for this seal. But how? The Icespire College of Arms kept a record of all the insignias of the noble houses, but Aravon couldn’t exactly stroll into the Palace and demand access. Even as Captain Aravon of the Legion of Heroes, he’d have had to go through the proper military channels to gain entry to the College of Arms. Now, as a dead man who would enter Icespire in the guise of a sellsword for hire, he had even less chance of getting his hands on the information.

  Yet the carbuncle’s presence on this document gave him someplace to start. Lord Aleron Virinus had penned the letter—or his personal scribe—on the parchment. The nobleman would undoubtedly recognize the insignia.

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. Which means our hunt for the traitor begins at the Virinus mansion.

  Lord Virinus would give answer—either for his treachery to the Princelands, or an explanation as to how he’d become embroiled in the conspiracy to steal gold from Prince Toran’s coffers. Whether he was working with the Brokers or selling information to the Eirdkilrs, Aravon would find out just how deep the conspiracy ran. The fact that the Prince’s insignia was stamped onto a letter written in Lord Virinus’ hand made it clear that the nobleman was up to his neck in it.

  He shared his conclusions with his company, and looked to them in turn. “I’m open to suggestions on how to go about this right.”

  “Other than bursting into Lord Virinus’ chambers and stringing him up by the cullions, you mean?” Noll cracked his knuckles. “It’d feel awfully good to see him dangling with his nadgers in a vise.”

  Colborn rolled his eyes. “It’d also draw a damned lot of attention, a direct assault on one of Icespire’s richest and most powerful noblemen. And, given that we’re trying to avoid any unwanted notice from the Brokers and Secret Keepers…”

  “You’re right.” Noll nodded. “So we do what we did at Ironcastle. We break in under cover of night, then hoist the traitorous nobleman up by his beanbag.”

  “Until we have conclusive evidence that Lord Virinus actually is the traitor,” Aravon said, “all we have to go on is our suspicions.”

  “Suspicions that are, admittedly, founded on pretty damning details.” Skathi gestured to the letter in Aravon’s hand.

  “Agreed.” Aravon nodded. “But Prince Toran isn’t going to make a move against Lord Virinus until he’s certain beyond any shadow of a doubt that he’s guilty. So it’s up to us to find the proof.”

  “How, precisely?” Noll asked. “Ask for an invite to his next soiree? While I’m all for dancing and dinner parties, we’re not the sort of polite company he’s wont to entertain.”

  “You’re right.” Aravon turned to Belthar. “Which is why you’re going to find us a way to break in, just like we did at Ironcastle.”

  Belthar’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “It’ll take me a day or two to get the lay of the land, but if there’s a way in, I should be able to find it.”

  “Good
.” Aravon turned to Skathi. “And while he’s doing that, I want you with him, watching his back and keeping an eye out for Brokers.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Skathi inclined her head.

  “Zaharis, you and Rangvaldr are taking a detour to Camp Marshal.”

  The Secret Keeper’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, I’m not trying to keep you out of harm’s way.” Aravon swept a hand toward Zaharis’ wooden chest of alchemical supplies. “But if we’re going to go up against one of the Princelands’ richest noblemen—and all his guards—we need every trick in your arsenal of alchemy. Not to mention arrows for Skathi, Noll, and Colborn, bolts for Belthar’s crossbow, and anything else we might need to pull this off.”

  All nodded in agreement. For far too long, they’d been operating with limited supplies, only what they could carry. But they wouldn’t be in the Fehlan wilds any more. They could bring all the necessary equipment into Icespire and store it wherever they stayed—not to mention get their hands on more, should the need arise.

  “And me, Captain?” Noll asked. “Saving the most important task for the most skilled of our company, right?”

  “You’re coming with me,” Aravon said. “We’re going to sell our swords at the Shattered Shield.”

  Noll’s eyes narrowed. “Say what?”

  “Whoever hired Otton to join Scathan and the others on the journey south, it’s likely they found him at the Shattered Shield.” Aravon glanced at Belthar, who nodded. It had been the big man’s idea in the first place, so he deserved the recognition. “So we ask around a bit, see if anyone recognizes the insignia. Or, if they’ve heard of Otton.”

  Noll raised an eyebrow. “You mean we get to hang around in a tavern, drinking and chatting up the local mud-brains?”

  Aravon scowled. “Maybe I should bring Col—”

  “No, too late!” A triumphant grin broadened Noll’s face. “You already assigned it to me, and no take-backs.”