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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon scowled, but the truth was that no one was better-suited for the task than Noll. During his years serving with Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company, the little scout had earned a reputation for being a fierce drinker. Though his sharp tongue could get him in trouble, he’d blend right in among the Legionnaires and mercenaries at the Shattered Shield.

  The fact that he was fairly unremarkable and unmemorable sealed the deal. Belthar’s size, Rangvaldr and Colborn’s obvious Fehlan features, and Skathi’s red hair would stand out among the people of Icespire. But, with the right clothing, Noll’s small stature and sharp, narrow features could easily pass as just one more Princelander.

  Then, there’s the fact that he can hold his liquor. Few Legionnaires could out-drink Company scouts—though far too many had endured the shouted lectures of their Drill Sergeants while trying to survive the pain of an alcohol-soaked head—and Noll had proven his ability to hold liquor better than most. Let’s just hope he can keep himself from getting too wild. Aravon hadn’t had to discipline Noll and the Sixth Company outriders, but it had been a close thing on more than one occasion. Scouts spent so much time in the wild that they tended to forget the manners expected in the marginally-polite society of Legion camp life.

  “And finally, Colborn.” Aravon turned to the Lieutenant. “I’ve got a special task for you. If it pans out, I believe it could be the most important job of all…”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  A familiar pang of longing flashed through Aravon as the walls of Icespire came into view across the grassy plain. The tightness in his chest had increased every mile they drew closer to the city, but now, seeing it for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he found it difficult not to rein in his horse and halt. Anything to delay what he knew lay ahead.

  As if he hadn’t already delayed enough. They could have covered the one hundred and fifty miles from Steinnbraka Delve to the Chain and the remaining three hundred seventy to Icespire in less than a week had they pushed their horses. But Aravon had insisted they all needed to rest. They’d taken it slow, letting the horses set the pace, shortening their hours of travel, sleeping more to recover from their recent ordeals.

  Yet those ten days of what felt a glacially slow pace had passed all too quickly now that Aravon faced the city of Icespire.

  It should have been a homecoming—he’d been born, raised, and trained as a Legionnaire in the capital. His wife, sons, and father lived within those thirty-foot stone walls, in the shadow of the Icespire itself. Yet it felt somehow…wrong. He wasn’t returning to the city as Captain Aravon of Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company. The man who rode across the flat plains toward the city gates was a dead man. Captain Snarl to those who knew him, but to the people who mattered, he was no one.

  Anyone who might have known him before his death on the Eastmarch would never recognize him now. Gone was his Legion-regulation appearance—fresh-shaved face, hair cropped close, weapons polished to a brilliant sheen. No more shining Legionnaire armor or high-plumed helm.

  The man who rode toward Icespire now appeared rough, crude. His beard had grown far too long over the last weeks, and his hair had grown long, curling around his ears much as his mother’s had. Gone was the Legion-issue short sword; even the Odarian steel sword and spear had been left behind with the Kostarasar chargers, and in their place on his belt hung only a plain longsword and dagger—poorly maintained weapons he’d purchased at Pinehollow with the rest of their crude gear. Zaharis’ treatment of walnut and darkthorn oil concealed the mottled pattern on his armor, leaving the leather as plain and coarse as that worn by any blade-for-hire. With the finishing touches to his disguise—a hint of ochre powder to hollow out his cheeks—there was no chance anyone in Icespire would mistake him for the son of General Traighan, lauded hero of Steel Gorge.

  His companions were equally unrecognizable, even to him. Colborn had trimmed his long beard to a more manageable length and dyed it, along with his hair, a deep chestnut brown. Belthar had used more ochre powder to accentuate the Princelander features Colborn inherited from his father—at a glance, he could pass for a man of Hightower, Silverhill, or any number of villages or cities along the Chain. Without his Fehlan shield, he bore little resemblance to the Lieutenant Aravon had met at Camp Marshal all those weeks ago.

  Skathi’s beauty was certain to draw eyes her way—even with her flaming red hair dyed the same brown as Colborn’s, her forest green eyes and sharp, high cheekbones couldn’t be ignored. Yet she had left her Agrotorae longbow and red-fletched arrows with the rest of their belongings and mounts. Instead, she carried a short horsebow and a quiver of simply-fletched arrows, along with a short sword and dagger on her belt.

  Belthar…well, there wasn’t much that could be done to hide his huge size, but the heavy beard he’d grown since leaving Camp Marshal certainly concealed his face. In place of his double-headed axe, he carried only a woodsman’s maul slung across his back. Simple or not, that weapon would do terrible damage when backed by the force of Belthar’s huge muscles.

  Noll alone needed no disguise. He had simply removed his mask and left his unremarkable features visible to all. With Garnet Battalion stationed south of the Chain, the chances of his running into a familiar face here in Icespire, more than three hundred miles from his hometown of Lochton, were nearly nonexistent.

  The sight of his comrades’ faces in broad daylight struck Aravon as terribly odd. For what seemed an eternity, since the first day they rode out of Camp Marshal, they had worn the leather greatwolf masks to conceal their features from the world, only removing them in the privacy of darkness.

  Now, under the light of the shining sun, he could see every new wrinkle, every trace of worry and fear, every hint of the strain that all had to be feeling. None of them had escaped the last weeks unscathed, and it showed on their faces. The dark circles under their eyes, the nervous tension in their jaws, the exhaustion showing in every line around their mouths. The shadow of anxiety hung over them all, more visible than ever now that they no longer concealed it behind leather masks.

  Belthar more than any of them. The big man’s face had grown steadily more solemn with every passing mile. Since crossing into the Princelands six days earlier, he’d become quieter, withdrawn deeper into himself, speaking only when spoken to directly. Even Skathi had had limited success drawing him out. Aravon knew the knowledge of what awaited him within Icespire weighed heavily on the big man. Belthar, too, had finally come home—to a city he swore he’d never see again.

  Such a grim feeling for such a beautiful city.

  Few mainlanders truly understood the splendor of Icespire until they beheld it in person. The tower for which the city had been named stood nearly two hundred feet tall, a dazzling pillar of glass as perfectly blue-green as the Frozen Sea over which it watched. It appeared as if some ancient colossus had driven a single massive shard of ice deep into the earth.

  By day, the surface glittered with the brilliance of melting ice. Sunlight glinted off its glassy contours like a million diamonds, filling the air with a radiance that threatened to outshine even the sun. But it was only at night that the Icespire truly came alive. The interior of the massive pillar seemed to glow with its own inner luminescence, as if it somehow captured the light of the sun by day to then bestow that same light upon the people at night like the gift of some benevolent god.

  The handiwork of the Serenii, no doubt about it. Only that ancient race, long ago lost to time, could have crafted something so magical, so spectacular. So perfect. Human hands built the stone Palace that encircled the pillar of glass. Mankind had erected the lofty mansions that spread across Azure Island, and the bridges that spanned the straits from the city itself to Azure Island and the now-named Palace Isle upon which the Icespire stood. The people who had first settled into the shadow of Icespire had built the solid stone wall surrounding the entire city and all the stone, wood, and brick buildings that squatted in its shadow. But only the Serenii could have bu
ilt a structure as timeless and enduring as the Icespire.

  That glittering, icy pillar of glass had appeared in the first legends of Fehl. A beacon that led the first Fehlan clans to salvation after the flood that sank Aegeos thousands of years earlier. A sign of favor from the gods of the Fehlans, a light to watch over them during the darkness of days long past. Some myths even claimed that it lit the night as a warning of a great cataclysm—the day it no longer shone, the world would end in fire, blood, and the destruction of all living things.

  Early Fehlans had worshipped it, so the Einari conquering Fehl centuries ago had immediately claimed it for their own. The stronghold established there had grown over the years, expanding outward until it became the first city in what came to be known as the Princelands. Yet even after all these years, the mainlanders-turned-natives still held the Serenii-built Icespire in awe.

  And how could they not? Even after seeing the Icespire his entire life, Aravon still felt awed by the majesty of the Icespire, the sheer perfection of its smooth, glassy surface. Anything that powerful, that majestic, is certainly worthy of respect.

  But the Serenii hadn’t just left the Icespire. Four glass domes, two each on both the eastern and western sides of the city, could never have been built by human hands. Nor could mankind have crafted the glass that channeled the sunlight and trapped the heat of day within those domes. Those glass domes served as the primary source of food in Icespire—thanks to the four enormous structures, each two hundred yards long and wide, the city could sustain itself with the crops grown there and on the farmlands that stretched out southeast of the walls.

  As they crossed the plains, Aravon couldn’t help glancing west, toward the four towering menhirs of onyx-dark stone that stood alone in the heart of the flatlands. Age and the elements had long ago worn smooth whatever runes were etched into the stones’ surface—the writing of the Serenii, some whispered, their gift to the early humans that lived there. Others maintained that this single monument was all that remained of the Skyldr, the lost Fehlan clan believed to have lived on Fehl with the ancient race. Whatever their origin, they sent a shiver down his spine anytime he drew too close to them.

  Aravon caught himself in the act of turning his horse east, down the broad cobbled-stone highway that encircled the Icespire farmlands. He’d made that turn-off so many times before, marching with his company to the broad stretch of hillside and flatlands designated for the Legion encampment. Now, however, he kept his horse’s head pointed due north, toward the city’s main gate. No ships lay at dock in the Legion port. The encampment was empty—Onyx Battalion, the last mainlander Legion company to arrive on Fehl, was far to the south, manning Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark while offering support to Eirik Throrsson and his Fjall.

  “Don’t forget,” Aravon had warned his six companions three nights ago, just before Zaharis and Rangvaldr broke off to head east toward Camp Marshal, “we may be back in the Princelands, but that doesn’t mean our mission is any less perilous.”

  With the traitor selling secrets to the Eirdkilrs, the death of Duke Dyrund’s agent at Rivergate, and the threat of both the Secret Keepers and Brokers, they were in just as much danger here as in Eirdkilr-held territory.

  More, in a way. Aravon’s jaw clenched, a grim cloud settling atop his shoulders. Out there, we knew who we were fighting. In Icespire, nowhere is truly safe.

  Long before they reached the city itself, the stink wafting from the Outwards reached him. Carried on the wind was the reek of filth, mud, disease, and refuse that curled Aravon’s nostrils and set his stomach churning—it was far worse than anything he’d ever experienced in a Legion camp.

  The Outwards had sprung up nearly eighty years earlier. Refugees, chiefly Fehlans, fleeing the Eirdkilrs rampaging south of the Chain had traveled far north to throw themselves upon the Prince’s mercy and beg for a place within the safety of Icespire’s walls. The city had grown too quickly, until the Icewatch had been forced to turn away newcomers. Those who remained near Icespire had erected their tents, built makeshift shelters, and cobbled together a new life for themselves outside the city limits.

  If the outer ward had ever been given a proper name, it had long ago been lost to memory. The people squatting there had simply taken to calling it the “Outwards”. A place where crime had become as commonplace as the muddy potholes dotting every alley and narrow lane. Where men and women fought over crusts of bread and killed for copper bits. All “decent” citizens of Icespire knew better than to enter the Outwards if they wanted to leave with their pockets un-picked and their throats un-slit.

  Aravon shot a glance at Belthar. “Do the Brokers hang out in the Outwards?” he signed.

  Belthar’s face tightened, and he gave a half-nod. “They come recruiting here, but anyone they hire gets moved to live inside the wall.”

  Therein lay the allure of joining the Brokers—or anyone, criminal or legitimate, that came with such an offer. Anyone south of the wall was considered vermin, a stain on the face of Icespire’s prosperity and wealth. None received full citizenship, nor were they granted ownership of the muddy stretch of ground upon which their hovels and shanties squatted. Entry into Icespire meant legitimacy, a future for themselves and their families—a future they would seize by any means necessary.

  “All the same, eyes sharp,” Aravon said in the silent hand language. “Last thing we want is to run into a familiar face this early into our mission.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Belthar’s face, already somber, grew even more serious. His eyes grew hooded as he studied the slums bordering the Eastmarch. The first glimpse of his home, a vastly different place from the General’s estate where Aravon had spent his younger days.

  Aravon glanced at the stretch of muddy ground between the Eastmarch and the nearest shack. Looks like the Council’s taken another crack at cleaning up the Outwards. Every two or three years, Prince Toran would convince his wealthier noblemen to part with enough coin to demolish the worst of the slums and erect new buildings within the city itself. Those he couldn’t relocate as citizens inside the wall were sent off to villages, towns, and cities within the other duchies—always with a pension or subsidy from the Crown to help them get on their feet.

  Yet no matter how many times the Icewatch sent the Outwarders packing and tore down the shanties, the stretch of slums never seemed to grow smaller. Like water, the Outwards flowed farther south or west when the eastern sections were destroyed, reshaping itself as old structures fell and new shacks and makeshift shelters were built. At the moment, the blighted area stretched only a few miles north to south, but curved along the entire western circumference of the wall toward the edge of Icespire Bay and the shores of the Frozen Sea.

  Aravon’s gut twisted as they rode past the Outwards, and it had little to do with the fetid odors drifting past on the wind. The sight of such misery—beggars and cripples wallowing in mud, men struggling to re-build shelters that sagged beneath the burden of poverty and the harsh elements, women herding gaggles of children far too filthy, emaciated, and ragged—sent a pang of sorrow through him. This was one aspect of Icespire he hadn’t missed, hadn’t looked forward to upon his return.

  The sight of the Outwards struck Colborn hardest of all. Without the leather mask, Aravon could see every line of anger, hatred, and disgust etched into the Lieutenant’s heavy, blunt features. Not directed at the miserable wretches who lived within the Outwards, but at the Princelanders who permitted such a place to exist.

  Ninety-nine out of every hundred Outwarders was Fehlan. Deid, Eyrr, Smida, Vidr, and Jarnleikr—the clans that had made peace with the Princelanders during their invasion centuries earlier. Blood traitors, the Eirdkilrs called them. They had turned their backs on the “true” Fehlans and sold their lands—and with them, their souls—to the invaders. As Aravon had seen at Oldrsjot, Bjornstadt, Gold Burrows Mine, and Storbjarg, those Fehlans suffered most beneath the Eirdkilrs’ cruelty.

  Yet how are they any better off here?
Aravon had once asked his father the question. General Traighan had had no answer, for though the Outwarders had no fear of the Eirdkilrs, starvation, exposure, and the cruelty of men and women in equally dire straits served as enemy enough. South of the Chain, they risked slaughter—like the people of Saerheim, their lives torn apart and burned to the ground in one terrible moment. Here, death came more slowly, yet no less inexorably. A crueler death, some might argue. One that lingered for decades rather than ending with the flash of a blade or the twang of a bowstring.

  Colborn’s spine stiffened as he saw the Fehlans—his people, the people of his mother—living in such misery. His face grew hard as flint, his lips pressed into a white line. His fists closed tight around his saddle horn until the leather reins creaked between his fingers. When he turned back to Aravon, something dark and ugly glimmered in his eyes.

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Can you handle this?” He’d expected a reaction from Colborn—what man, Princelander, Fehlan, even mainlander, could see that and not feel the disgust twisting in his gut? Disgust at the dire circumstances that forced people to live in such misery. But if the sight bothered the Lieutenant…

  Colborn said nothing, simply nodded. Face tight with fury and spine ramrod straight, he turned his horse off the Eastmarch and rode toward the Outwards.

  He alone could walk those streets among the Fehlans and pass unmolested. The cutthroats and pickpockets within the Outwards would think twice before violating a heavily-armored mercenary, especially not one who carried himself with the calm confidence of an experienced warrior. Colborn alone had a chance of gleaning useful information from the Fehlans crowded into those crumbling shanties and decaying hovels. According to Belthar, the Outwarders watched everything and everyone that passed along the Eastmarch, then sold that information to the Brokers, the nobles, or anyone with the right color of coin. If there was something to learn, Colborn was their best chance of learning it.