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

by Andy Peloquin

  None of the sellswords paid Aravon and Noll any attention as they reined in and dismounted in front of the tavern. Draping their reins over the hitching post, Aravon led the way into the tavern, pushing through the swinging doors a heartbeat before another trio of drunken, red-faced mercenaries stumbled past. Aravon grimaced—he couldn’t decide which was worse: their alcohol-soaked breath, the smell of urine staining their breeches, or the cacophonic tune they failed to carry between them.

  The interior of the Shattered Shield, however, appeared far less chaotic than its exterior. Half of the taproom, at least. A broad white line had been painted across the floor, dissecting the tavern in half. The southern end was adorned with Legion company standards, shields, short swords, and coats of armor hanging on every free inch of wall. The wooden bar that stretched across that half of the room was clean and neat, the bottles well-polished. Those few men who sat drinking on the tables, benches, and stools held their tongues and kept their peace.

  The northern side of the tavern, however, bore the decorations from countless mercenary companies—shields, spears, swords, daggers, leather and steel armor, and mainlander weapons Aravon didn’t recognize. Many of the men and women who sat drinking along the bar appeared as unkempt and slovenly as the dilapidated bar itself. Even the tables, chairs, benches, and stools looked as if they’d seen better days, or had suffered damage from countless daggers, swords, axes, and drunken fools.

  Aravon didn’t need to be told which way to go. The divide within the tavern was visible to all, and the glare he received from one Legionnaire as he set foot on the wrong side of the white line immediately made his place in the tavern clear.

  Yet he hadn’t taken his first step toward the mercenary side of the bar when a figure in the back of the tavern caught his eyes. Though Aravon should have recognized the man anywhere, Captain Lingram appeared almost unrecognizable. The soldier sat slumped on the wooden bench, his hair disheveled, the first hints of stubble flecking a chin usually shaven clean according to Legion regulations. He gripped his tankard so hard his knuckles whitened and the pewter creaked. When he drank, he took such a long pull ale dribbled down his chin and soiled his simple tunic. Yet he made no attempt to wipe it away. He simply set the tankard down and stared numbly up at the Legion shields hanging on the wall.

  What in the fiery hell? Aravon's brow furrowed. Captain Lingram had always been so neat and upright, his Legion armor polished to a glistening sheen and his uniform pressed to perfection. Nothing like this slovenly, despondent man sagging on the bench. Pain etched into every line of Captain Lingram’s face.

  Aravon’s mind raced. He’d had no idea Captain Lingram and his men had reached Icespire—he’d expected them to remain in Sentry Garrison, where they could rest and recuperate after their ordeal in Saerheim. Yet here he was, and by the shadows filling Lingram's eyes, something had happened in the days since the Grim Reavers left them in the Deid lands.

  But Aravon couldn’t go over and ask, not without letting the man see his face—disguise or no, Lingram was sure to recognize him. Dressed as a mercenary, he wouldn’t be welcome on the Legion side of the bar.

  Instead, he hurried toward the mercenary side of the tavern, toward the lone figure drinking at one corner of the bar. Without a word, Noll slipped off toward one of the long wooden benches and tables where a cluster of mercenaries in white cloaks and bronze breastplates sat.

  “Two ales.” Aravon called to the tavernkeeper and plunked a silver half-drake on the counter. He settled onto a stool near the solitary mercenary—a Voramian, by appearance, with the dark hair and lean, narrow face to match—and leaned against the bar. A moment later, the tavernkeeper bustled toward them with a pair of tankards for him and Noll. After taking a long pull of his ale—or pretended to—Aravon shot a glance at the mercenary.

  “What’s with him?” He jerked a thumb toward Captain Lingram. “Who pissed in his tankard?”

  The mercenary shook his clean-shaven head. “Leave it,” he muttered. “That's better avoided.”

  “Oh?” Aravon leaned toward the man and dropped his voice to conspiratorial whisper. “Out on a binge celebrating something?”

  “Celebrating?” The mercenary snorted. “A court-martial’s not much to celebrate. Not for the Blacksword, at least. Especially not if the rumors are true.” The man passed a hand across his black-bearded face. “Might just be his last drink, way things are going. This time next week, he’s like as not to be drawing his last breath and swinging from a gibbet.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “What?” Aravon’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Aye.” The mercenary leaned forward and, shooting a glance at the Legionnaires, spoke in a low voice. “Rumor has it old Lord Virinus is pushing for the Prince to string him up for what he did.”

  Ice slithered through Aravon’s veins. “What did he do?” he asked, matching the man’s conspiratorial tone.

  “Disobeyed a direct order and nearly got his entire company killed, is the word.” Again, the mercenary’s dark green eyes darted toward the drinking soldier, and he shrugged his broad, mail-clad shoulders. “Add to that an assault on a civilian and nobleman of Icespire—”

  “Assault? On Lord Virinus?” In the years Aravon had known Lingram, he’d never found the man to be a hothead prone to losing his temper. Indeed, there were few as level-headed as Lingram.

  “Virinus the younger.” The man tugged at his beard and scrunched up his face. “The useless one…er…Marian or something.”

  Myron.

  Dread sank like a stone in Aravon’s gut. He didn’t know precisely what had happened during the days since Duke Dyrund sent Lord Virinus away with Branda, but he had little doubt the nobleman would take any perceived slight with the same disdain and contempt he’d shown on the journey to Storbjarg. If something had happened at Saerheim—and, judging by Lord Virinus’ extreme sullenness and the vitriol in his eyes as he’d stared at Captain Lingram, something had happened—a man like him wouldn’t hesitate to use his power to strike back at the Captain.

  But disobey an order? Confusion seethed in Aravon’s brain. That’s not possible, not for Lingram. The man had never shown even the slightest inclination of rebellion or insubordination during their time training and marching together. Though he hadn’t seen Lingram in the better part of two years, he couldn’t imagine the Legionnaire could have changed that much.

  No, there was an even likelier answer: Lord Myron Virinus was taking out his petty frustrations on Captain Lingram. Aravon’s rough treatment and interrogation on the road from Saerheim would have outraged him, yet what could the nobleman do against the Grim Reavers—soldiers who didn’t even exist in the first place? He’d found a more convenient target in Captain Lingram. Lord Myron Virinus would use whatever had happened at Saerheim to punish Lingram.

  Worse, Lingram couldn’t defend himself by insisting someone else had manhandled the nobleman. He couldn’t betray the Grim Reavers—their covert operations in the name of Duke Dyrund and the Prince were too important to compromise. That left him trying to dispute the accusation on his word alone. He could call on his Legionnaires to back up his claims, but the testimony of his soldiers—all mainlanders—would bear little weight if the young Lord Virinus threw the full might of his father’s power and wealth against the Captain.

  Few Legionnaires had ever been executed for anything short of treason, cowardice, and desertion. Under normal circumstances, assault on a civilian should earn Lingram a formal reprimand, a whipping, or, at worst, a demotion. Rarely would men be stripped of their command and court-martialed for something so minor. Yet, compounded by the loss of Onyx Battalion’s Ninth Company and the might of Lord Virinus against him, the military tribunal could be swayed to drastic punishment.

  Aravon felt sick. It shouldn’t be possible, but in a city like Icespire where power and wealth triumphed over justice far too often, it wasn’t unheard of. One look at the Outwards was proof enough for Aravon to believe that anything
could be brought about with the right amount of gold—and with the gold from Steinnbraka Delve in his coffers, Lord Aleron Virinus had more than enough to avenge the slight to his son.

  This is all my fault! In his haste to hunt down the traitor responsible for Duke Dyrund’s death, Aravon had committed the assault that Lord Myron Virinus now laid at Captain Lingram’s feet. The cloud of defeat already hung over Lingram—if Lord Virinus the younger used his father’s influence to strike back at Captain Lingram, he would push the matter as far as he dared.

  Aravon’s mind raced. He had no desire to see the Captain court-martialed and executed to feed the House of Virinus’ spite. And he’d seen the remnants of Saerheim, had seen the bodies of the Legionnaires lying beside the town’s gates. Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires had fought to the death to hold off the Eirdkilrs. Knowing him, he’d likely only abandoned the town once he was certain it would fall. Lingram would have certainly planned to remain and fight, but his men—men who he never failed to inspire no matter what company he was assigned to—had sent him away.

  And it’s not like he just saved his own life. Fifteen of his Legionnaires had survived, along with half the population of Saerheim. And, most important of all, Branda, the Hilmir’s daughter, along with the ungrateful Lord Virinus. A cruel mockery that the man whose life he saved now intended to see him hanged.

  Not if I’ve got anything to say about it! Aravon’s fists curled around the handle of his tankard until the pewter creaked. I’ll take the matter up with the Prince personally if I have to.

  As soon as darkness fell, he’d send Snarl off to Lord Eidan with a message for Prince Toran. His friend didn’t deserve punishment—he’d see to it that justice was served and Captain Lingram exonerated.

  He had just turned back to continue his conversation with the bald-headed mercenary when the doors of the Shattered Shield swung open and four figures marched into the taproom. Even out of Legionnaire armor, Aravon immediately recognized the gigantic man who had to duck to keep his head from scraping the lintel. Even inside the taproom, Endyn couldn’t stand fully straight for fear of scraping his forehead on the rafters. The breadth of his shoulders exceeded even Belthar’s, his forearms thicker than Aravon’s legs.

  In his shadow, his brother Duvain, Corporal Rold, and the Legionnaire named Haze strode into the tavern. The moment their eyes fell on Captain Lingram, sitting in the back booth, drinking alone in the shadows, they marched straight toward him.

  “Captain, there ain’t no way in the fiery hell we’ll let this stand!” Corporal Rold’s harsh, growling voice echoed loud above the dull hum of the taproom’s conversations. “Even if I have to haul that pansy-ass cake-eating pissant of a—”

  Aravon didn’t hear Captain Lingram’s quiet answer, but his face showed no sign of his soldiers’ anger, simply his usual calm composure.

  “Rot that!” Corporal Rold slammed a fist onto the wooden table, knocking over Captain Lingram’s now-empty tankard. “If the peckerless ponce slings shite at you, he’s soiling the memory of Sergeant Brash, Corporal Awr, and every other Deadhead that fell saving Saerheim.”

  Captain Lingram shook his head, and though again Aravon couldn’t hear the words, he recognized the placating look of an officer trying to still the tempest of his soldiers’ anger. Swordsman knew he’d talked enraged Legionnaires down before they went and did something stupid to get themselves killed, injured, or court-martialed.

  “Keeper take it, Captain!” Rold threw up his hands. “This ain’t time to be reasonable, not when that dung-faced prick is coming for—”

  “Enough!” The shout cut through the din of the taproom, and everyone fell silent. All eyes turned toward Captain Lingram, who had risen to his feet. Anger twisted his face and blazed in his eyes as he stared down his Corporal.

  A moment later, the mercenaries and soldiers turned back to drinks, food, and conversations. The fury faded from Captain Lingram’s features, replaced by weary acquiescence. “Enough, Rold. Let it be.”

  “Begging your pardon, Captain, but sod that!” Corporal Rold gave a violent shake of his head. “Each one of us was there, and we know what we faced. Anyone says you did anything less than your best is lying through their rotten teeth. And if you think we’re going to let that stand, best you give that another think. We’re marching right into General Tinian’s office if we have to, and we ain’t leaving until he knows the truth of what happened.” He turned toward his three companions. “Ain’t that right, lads?”

  “Aye,” rumbled the giant Endyn. He flexed his huge hands, his broad, blunt features growing hard. With the dark grey dragonskin creeping up the side of his neck, he appeared like a statue of Balgrid the Giant come to life.

  Captain Lingram shook his head. “You’ll just make things worse for yourself, Rold.”

  “Then it’ll be worse.” Corporal Rold shrugged. “But I’d rather spend the rest of my Legion service nose-deep in latrine duty than let that arrogant twist get away with laying the blame at your feet.”

  Pride swelled within Aravon’s chest. He wasn’t the only one willing to stand beside his friend. Lingram had won the hearts of his soldiers as well. They followed him even into the face of an Eirdkilr horde, the wrath of an offended nobleman, or their own commanders.

  Captain Lingram opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a new voice cut through the din in the taproom.

  “Oi, look here, fellows! It’s the Deadheads and the butcher that calls himself their Captain!”

  Aravon’s eyes darted toward the speaker—a tall, broad-shouldered mercenary clad in chain mail and a heavy breastplate, with his visorless helm tucked under his arm. From his belt hung the longsword popular among mainlanders and a twisted, three-bladed dagger known as a surgeonsbane. The mark of the Steel Company, a mercenary corps from the Einari city of Odaron, far to the north.

  Three more Steel Company mercenaries flanked him as he swaggered into the Legionnaires’ section of the tavern and planted himself in front of Captain Lingram’s table.

  “Tell me this, Blacksword.” He sneered the name like an insult, his Odarian accent harsh, throaty. “Is it really true that you and your men were outnumbered five to one?”

  Though Captain Lingram’s face hardened, he said nothing, simply returned to his seat, ignoring the mercenary.

  Duvain, however, rose to the bait. “Closer to ten to one!”

  “Ten to one, eh? Oooooh!” The Steel Company mercenary made a show of being impressed. “Big day for you, Deadhead.”

  Aravon tensed. The man was baiting them, prodding at wounds still fresh and raw. He knew Legion regulations prohibited brawling within Icespire—punishment was swift and severe. Legionnaires tended to drink outside the city limits to avoid the inevitable flare of tempers when men of war got together. Perhaps the bar had been divided in two sections for the precise reason of keeping the unruly, insolent mercenaries away from Legionnaires unwilling to break the military code of conduct.

  “First taste of blood, eh?” The mercenary bared his teeth in a mocking smile. “Tell me, did you piss your breeches? You certainly smell like it!”

  Duvain leapt to his feet, snarling, his fist pulled back to strike.

  Corporal Rold’s hand shot out and snagged Duvain’s wrist before he could throw the punch. “Don’t,” he growled. “He’s not worth the lashes.”

  Every muscle in Duvain’s body had gone rigid, his face white and his eyes bulging from their sockets. The slight soldier quivered with fury and the desire to unleash his anger. Beside him, Endyn’s huge hands clutched the table, his knuckles white. The creak of groaning wood echoed from beneath the Legionnaire’s grip.

  The mercenary’s sardonic grin broadened. “Way I hear it, you lot cracked, deserted—”

  One moment, Corporal Rold was holding Duvain’s fist; the next, he ripped a dagger from his belt and leapt at the Steel Company mercenary. Before the man could react, the Legionnaire had sharp steel pressed tight against his throat.

&
nbsp; “Say it again!” Rold growled. “Say that word again, and I’ll bleed you out faster than you can piss your breeches.”

  The mercenary, though caught off-guard by Rold’s surprising speed, recovered enough to sneer back at him and retort. “You lot deserted your—”

  ”GGRRAHH!” The roar that burst from Corporal Rold’s throat was a bestial, animalistic sound, a cry echoing with fury. His hand whipped up, back, and forward, slamming the pommel of his dagger into the mercenary’s forehead. The man crumpled to the ground, senseless, and Rold leapt atop him, fists flying, punching, snarling, spitting, screaming. “Say it again!” Blood flew as Rold pummeled the mercenary’s face, crushing bone, shattering cartilage, and pulping flesh and muscle. “Say it again!”

  The mercenary’s three companions ripped free their daggers—the cruel, vicious three-bladed surgeonsbanes—and made to attack, but Endyn’s huge bulk appeared in their way. The three men looked up at the giant and at the two soldiers flanking him, hesitating.

  “Rold, stop!” Captain Lingram leapt to his feet, threw himself around the table, and tackled the frenzied Corporal before he could beat the mercenary to death. “Enough!”

  Rold didn’t stop launching blows, even after Captain Lingram tore him off the unconscious, bleeding mercenary. A wild light shone in his eyes and his face was red with fury, a madness in his wild blows. Captain Lingram struggled to restrain his soldier, fingers locked around his pumping fists.

  “Enough!” Captain Lingram shouted at the Corporal. “Don’t throw your career in the Legion away for him!”

  Sanity returned to Corporal Rold’s eyes, but with it came white-hot rage. “The Legion?” Rold’s snarl echoed off the taproom’s rafters. “The same Legion that’s allowing that worthless cunny-stain to punish you for saving our lives?! I don’t give two wet shites about—”