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

by Andy Peloquin

  O’er mountain, hill, stream, and ocean

  Unto that hallowed crimson field

  And so he marched, brave soldier

  Shoulder to shoulder with brothers true

  Head held high and heart made of steel

  To pay the warrior’s due

  Onward he marched, brave soldier

  Through fear and torment and mud

  A warrior of iron, unbroken, unbowed

  ‘Spite battle and rivers of blood

  Into impossible fray marched the brave soldier

  His shield cracked, his sword now bent

  And there beside comrades loyal and true

  His strength one last time is spent

  To the end he marched, brave soldier

  Faced odds beyond hope and foes grim

  Fallen to the tempest of fury and rage

  The song of death sings out for him

  He will march no longer, brave soldier

  His body lies still on his shield

  Weep for that warrior who gave his last breath

  On that hallowed crimson field

  March on into peace now, brave soldier

  The Keeper’s arms open for thee

  Take your place with the Swordsman, he calls

  You to stand watch for eternity

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Aravon stared down at the glass bottle in his hands. He had no idea how it had gotten there, or how many he’d finished off before it. Judging by the tingling in his fingers and the thickness of his tongue, too many.

  Yet he raised it to his lips and drank deep. Perhaps the ale could wash away the sorrow, could flood the hole in his heart and somehow fill the void left by his father’s death. A void that had always been there, simply ignored until it was too late.

  He drank until the bottle was empty, then dropped it back into his lap. Sat there, gaze fixed on his arms, on the smooth, cold glass growing steadily warmer in his hands. Nothing but whirling, blinding chaos in his mind. Chaos, and the sorrow that had settled on him like the funereal shroud laid over his father and Duke Dyrund.

  Something pushed against his leg. Snarl, yellow eyes fixed on his face, nudged him. Aravon didn’t respond—he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He could do nothing but raise the bottle to his lips. Empty. He’d emptied it a moment ago. Lowered it, stared down at his hands.

  Voices murmured in the background. Colborn and Noll, a dim part of his mind registered, discussing something—something important, he knew, but couldn’t bring himself to focus. Couldn’t hear Colborn’s report or whatever Noll had tried three times to tell him. He could only lift that bottle up to drink.

  Empty. Again. Or was it empty still? He forced his fingers to unclench from the glass and faintly heard the tinkle of the bottle rolling across the floor. His thoughts refused to coalesce, but remained a maelstrom that set his mind reeling. The image of his father, that cold, pale, shriveled husk of a man, was burned into his mind’s eye.

  Sounds from the nearby room—a door opening and closing, new voices familiar, yet too faint to make out. Aravon couldn’t bring himself to move his eyes. It was too much effort. He was tired, so tired, drained from months of training, traveling, fighting, and watching men die. So much death. Sixth Company. Draian. Duke Dyrund. Now his father. The burden had grown too heavy to bear.

  His eyes drooped shut, but the world spun around him so violently he nearly emptied his stomach. Opened his eyes again only to find that the room hadn’t stopped whirling. Wool stuffed his skull and his head felt heavy. So heavy. Pulling him forward, off-balance. He fell. Fell for what seemed like an eternity, descending into darkness.

  Hands grasped his arms, pulled him upright. He blinked, dizzy, his vision a blur of tears and alcohol. Someone pressed something into his hands. Smooth, round, heavy with liquid. He knew what to do with that. Wanted to lose himself in it, in the comforting embrace of whatever strong liquor lay within.

  He brought it to his lips and swallowed. Gasped at the fire coursing down his throat. But not the fire of strong drink—a new fire, like lightning coursing through his stomach, sizzling, burning into every fiber of his being.

  A gasp escaped his lips and he recoiled. The world ceased its violent whirling, and his eyes focused. Through the blur of tears, the shadow of sorrow, focused on the face before him. Colborn’s face.

  “…you hear me, Captain?” the Lieutenant was saying.

  “Y-Yes.” Aravon nodded—a foolish action that set the world spinning once more.

  “…said it would take a few moments to work, Zaharis.” Colborn’s voice sounded distant.

  The fire continued burning through Aravon’s stomach, spreading up his chest, settling into his lungs, tightening his throat. He struggled to draw breath, found his lungs already full, and let out a long, ragged gasp.

  Slowly, the burning sensation subsided and the chaos in his brain retreated. His head felt clearer, his thoughts growing sharp. The feeling of drunkenness gave way to sobriety. And with it, the clutching pain in his chest. The pain of sorrow and loss, a torment burrowed so deep into Aravon’s bones it paralyzed him.

  With effort, Aravon drew another breath, and still another. The tightness around his heart diminished enough that he could suck in air unimpeded.

  He stared at the faces around him. Worry glimmered in Snarl’s deep amber eyes, and the little Enfield pressed his wet nose against Aravon’s hand. Colborn’s heavy brow furrowed in concern, and all trace of mockery or jest gone from Noll’s sharp features. Aravon’s gaze went to the other figures in the room: Rangvaldr and Zaharis—when had they arrived?—and Skathi, a look of urgent excitement in her face.

  “W-What’s…happening?” He struggled to form the words around a thick tongue. His throat was parched, his mouth filled with a foul, bitter acidity.

  “Time to sober up, Captain,” Skathi said, her tone insistent. “Belthar’s found a way into Lord Virinus’ mansion, but the only way we’re getting in is if we go now!”

  Aravon looked between the five people staring down at him, his mind struggling against the numbness that refused to release its grip on his thoughts, that threatened to drown him beneath the weight of sorrow.

  “You hear me, Captain?” Skathi snapped her fingers in front of his face.

  “Yeah.” Aravon nodded, swallowed hard, and blinked to clear the fog blurring his vision. “Belthar…found a way in?”

  “Big man came through for us.” Skathi gestured toward a heavy-looking sack that Aravon, in his drunken stupor, hadn’t seen her bring into the room. “But you’re going to have to hurry if we’re going to make it work.”

  Aravon glanced at the bag, barely noticing the bright tunic, vest, and breeches within. Thinking clearly still proved difficult.

  Skathi turned to Colborn. “He’s not up to it, is he?”

  “He will be.” Colborn gave her a reassuring nod. “Go, get ready. I’ll make sure he’s ready to move out in ten minutes.”

  “Five,” Skathi growled. She turned a glance on Aravon—not unkind, her eyes filled with a mixture of empathy, concern, and impatience—and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss, Captain. But the only way we do this is if you save your grief until later.” With a curt nod, she turned and hurried from the room.

  Colborn turned to the little scout. “Noll, you, too.”

  “You’re kind of in my room, Lieutenant.” Noll gestured around him. “Not a lot I can do with the three of you cluttering up the place.”

  “Go.” Colborn scowled. “Find a dark corner somewhere and get ready.”

  Throwing up his hands, Noll snatched a canvas sack from the floor and strode from the room.

  At a look from Colborn, Zaharis nodded and turned to go. He paused at the door, half-turning to face Aravon. “Words fail in the face of such sorrow,” he signed. “But I will pray that the Mistress brings you what peace and comfort she can.”

  Aravon nodded dumbly. He had no idea what “getting ready” meant or w
hat they were getting ready for. At the moment, his mind still reeling from grief and alcohol, he felt incapable of even forming coherent words.

  Rangvaldr crouched on the floor beside the bed, his bright eyes fixed on Aravon. “Captain, I can only imagine your pain. The Duke and your father at once, that’s a weight that could break even the strongest man.”

  Aravon felt the sorrow welling up within him, but no tears pricked at his eyes—he had no strength left to cry.

  “If it were any other time and place, I would be the first to insist that you had time to grieve, to process the loss.” Rangvaldr rested a strong hand on Aravon’s shoulder, his voice kind and soothing. “But you heard Skathi. We move now or we lose our shot at getting in to see Lord Virinus. We need to take that shot, Captain. Just this once, the mission has to come first.”

  “The mission.” The words spilled from lips that felt numb. What was the mission? He remembered little of what had happened before that morning. Before that funeral and the overwhelming tide of grief that had enveloped him all day. With the return of sobriety came a flood of guilt and shame. His Grim Reavers had seen him in this pathetic state, but he’d been too drunk and drowning in sorrow to care—about anything. Had Mylena been standing in Sanctuary Court, too? Had Rolyn and Adilon stood in funereal black and watched their grandfather’s burial ceremony, unknowing that their father was too lost in his own anguish to search for his family. He’d seen nothing but his father and Duke Dyrund lying on their funeral biers.

  Yet as the image of Duke Dyrund’s cold, pale face flashed through his thoughts, the anger returned. Burning, white hot, a deep-rooted rage that pushed back his guilt and scoured away the chill flooding his limbs. Fury replaced the numbness, coursing through his veins and infusing his muscles with a strange, frenetic energy.

  “The mission!” Aravon leapt to his feet, fists clenched at his side. “Lord Virinus will answer for his treachery.”

  “Damned right.” Colborn, who had stood quietly behind Rangvaldr, now stepped forward. “Belthar’s found us a way into his mansion on Azure Island. And when we get in, we drag the old Lord Virinus someplace where we can question him properly.” The hard, steely glint in his eyes left no doubt as to what he meant by “question”.

  “But to pull it off, we need our Captain.” Rangvaldr straightened and fixed Aravon with a solemn gaze. His green eyes piercing. “Can you handle it, Aravon? Can you put aside everything, just for the moment, to focus on the mission?”

  The mission. Aravon clung to those words like a dying man clung to his last breath. For years, he’d been doing precisely that, burying his feelings, tamping down emotion and fear for the sake of his men, for the task they’d been ordered to carry out. Never before had he faced such pain, yet the act of swallowing his emotions for the sake of the soldiers under his command was a familiar one. Comforting, in a way.

  He fought against the waves of anguish and misery that crashed atop him, pushed back against them in an effort to regain control. Never forgotten, simply buried deep down, behind barriers of his will and determination, but there, always there. That sort of pain never truly faded.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Aravon squared his shoulders and met the eyes of his two companions. “Yes.” His voice held no trace of the drunken apathy that had consumed him minutes earlier. “I can.”

  Colborn and Rangvaldr exchanged glances, then nodded.

  “Good.” With a grin, Colborn hefted the sack from the floor and opened it to reveal a suit of mixed chain and plate mail. “Then you need to get dressed. You’ve got an important role to play tonight, Captain Snarl.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  “Damn, these Steel Company bastards really don’t know a thing about comfort, do they?” Noll muttered from behind and to Aravon’s right. “It’s like they hate their clackers! Why else crush them in these idiotic codpieces?” Chain mail clinked as he struggled to adjust his trousers beneath the heavy hauberk.

  “Actually,” Skathi said from Aravon’s left, “I threw that in there just for you.”

  Snorted laughter burst from beneath the smooth, faceless steel masks covering Colborn and Rangvaldr’s faces. Zaharis’ shoulders shook in his silent chortling.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Noll growled. “That’s just cold, Skathi, even for you.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, it was Belthar’s idea.” Skathi sounded far too pleased with herself.

  Aravon couldn’t muster the energy to laugh at the prank. At that moment, he could do little more than march in a straight line, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached, eyes locked on the cobbled stones of the Legion’s Path. The heavy chain-and-plate mail dragged on his shoulders, adding to the burden weighing on his soul. Thankfully, he had the mask to conceal the anger burning within his gut.

  Once more behind a mask—this one metal, smooth and faceless, the masks worn by the Steel Company. A wall between him and the world at large, a shield at once protective and alienating, cutting him off from those around him while concealing the truth behind solid steel. At the moment, he welcomed the anonymity. He had no desire to speak to anyone, to step outside the comfortable heat of the fury coursing like lava through his veins.

  Even the beauty of the shining Icespire couldn’t push back his anger. The tower, so brilliant and blue beneath the light of the sun, now gleaming with its own inner radiance. It bathed the city in a soft azure glow that drove back the darkness wherever it touched and cast deep shadows where buildings blocked its illumination.

  The rich blue glow, usually so soothing and comforting, now felt cold—as cold as his father’s corpse, lying silent and unmoving beside Duke Dyrund. That shimmering pillar of light could not drive away the shadows lurking within Aravon’s heart.

  Every step along the Legion’s Path led them closer toward the Eastbridge, which would give them access to Azure Island and the mansions built facing the light of the Icespire. There, he would find Lord Aleron Virinus and confront the traitor. There, he would have an outlet for the fury burning through every fiber of his being.

  “You up for this, Captain?” Colborn, at his left, spoke in a quiet voice. “I can take the lead, if you want.”

  The words pulled Aravon out of his own head. “No,” he growled. “I’ve got this.” Pain and anger be damned—he wouldn’t fail his men.

  Through the wood and brick houses of Portside they strode, a proud company clad in steel that glittered in the soft blue glow of the Icespire. A few hundred yards ahead, Aravon caught sight of the Eastbridge that spanned the strait separating Azure Island from the rest of the city. It, like the other two beam bridges leading onto Azure Island, was far younger than the Icespire and the city wall. Simple constructions of wood and stone crafted by mainlander artisans, and imaginatively named for each corner of the compass—Eastbridge, Southbridge, and Westbridge that connected Azure Island to the main city, and Northbridge that spanned the inlet separating Azure Island from Palace Isle.

  A ten-man company of Icewatchers stood on the bridge, guarding the stone archway that supported the steelwork-lattice gates. Those gates would only be sealed in times of war, barring access to Azure Island, but they hadn’t been closed in more than two hundred years.

  The Icewatchers on guard, however, seemed to understand the gravity of their post. They ruled their crossing with all the self-importance and conceit of impotent men given positions of minimal power. In a city that hadn’t seen battle for centuries, their chief task consisted of “keeping out the riffraff”.

  Two Icewatchers in gleaming steel breastplates and sea blue cloaks barred their passage. “State your business!” said the taller and more commanding of the two, made even taller by his conical helm. “What business has Steel Company on Azure Island?”

  “Summons from Lord Aleron Virinus.” Aravon spoke without hesitation, his voice ringing with confidence—surprising, given his current mood.

  The guard cocked an eyebrow. “That so?” He studied Aravon and his five companions from hea
d to toe, suspicion darkening his eyes. After a moment, he thrust out a gauntleted hand. “Show me the order, then. Signed and sealed with the seal of House Virinus.”

  “The courier delivered none, only word that Lord Virinus expected to see us at once.” Aravon met the guard’s prying gaze, keeping all trace of emotion from his eyes. He’d grown far better at lying in recent months. “From everything I’ve heard about the man, he’s not the sort to be kept waiting.”

  The other Icewatcher snorted. “You got that right.”

  Shooting a glare at his companion, the first guard shook his head. “All the same, I can’t let you through without a legitimate reason for your presence. Your sort aren’t welcome here unless in the company of one of the island’s residents.”

  “You can’t let us through, or won’t?” Aravon spoke in a low growl. “Go ask him yourself if you doubt.”

  The Icewatcher sneered. “Not a chance I’ll disturb his party for you lot!” He gave a dismissive wave. “Best turn your arses around and—”

  Aravon cut him off with a slash of his hand. “You keep us here, and Lord Virinus will end up pissed because we never showed. When he finds out why we didn’t show—and trust me, we’ll make sure he does—who do you think’s going to be the one that gets pissed on?”

  The guard scowled. “Now, that’s not f—”

  “The choice is yours.” Aravon folded his hands on the hilt of his Steel Company longsword. “Risk Lord Virinus’ displeasure, or earn yourself the gratitude of the Steel Company for helping us get a job with the best-paying nobleman in the Princelands.”

  Mention of “gratitude” and “pay” worked like magic. As Aravon suspected they would. Icewatchers were loyal to the city, but their professional standards were far less professional than a Legionnaire or the Prince’s Ebonguard.

  “On with you.” The Icewatcher waved them past. “And when you’re bathing in the nobleman’s gold, remember it was Sergeant Angar and his company that did right by you.”