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

by Andy Peloquin

  The Secret Keeper darted around the obelisk toward the flat northern face of the four-sided monolith. With careful movements, he uncorked the first vial, tipped it up against the stone, and poured a long, thin trickle across the surface. Lines of the crystal clear liquid slithered down the smooth face, pooling along the solid base.

  Tucking the now-empty vial back into his pouch, Zaharis popped open the second bottle and poured its contents in a line a few inches above the first. The moment the reddish-brown liquid touched the line of the first alchemical liquid, a loud hissing, sizzling arose from the stone. Acidic smoke burned Aravon’s nostrils and the stench set his stomach heaving in protest.

  “Back, Captain.” Zaharis signed. “We learned early on in our Secret Keeper training that mixing these three is never good. The results…well, you’ll see for yourself.”

  For the first time since Aravon had known him, the Secret Keeper moved hesitantly, a hint of fear sparkling in his eyes as he tilted up the glass vial to the stone. He poured a third line of the near-black liquid, this time nearly a full foot above the second line, tipping up the bottle so quickly he splashed a few drops onto the grass around the obelisk. The instant the vial had emptied, he threw himself away from the obelisk in a mad dash.

  A resounding crack split the air a moment later. So loud it set Aravon’s ears ringing, accompanied by a brilliant flash of light that near-blinded him. He, Zaharis, and Rangvaldr staggered backward from the thick cloud of smoke that poured from the now-hissing, spitting mixture on the stone obelisk.

  Long seconds passed before the sibilance fell silent. Aravon’s gut twisted at the acrid stench that rose from the monument. Yet, when he followed Zaharis around to study the monument’s northern face, hope surged within him. It appeared as if some giant maw had taken a bite out of the obelisk—nearly one third of the solid stone monolith had melted or crumbled to dust.

  The sound of booted feet echoed in the cemetery behind him. Belthar, Skathi, and Colborn returned, carrying two lengths of rope between them. From the western edge came Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires, burdened by more rope.

  In seconds, they had passed the ropes around the obelisk, slipping them up as high as they could manage to get the best-possible leverage to drag down the weakened stone pillar. Colborn, Rangvaldr, Aravon, and the Legionnaires bent to take up the ropes, but Belthar waved them away.

  “We’ve got this.” The big man turned to Endyn. “Think you can move fast enough to jump clear?”

  “With no little people to get underfoot?” Endyn’s rumbling chuckle echoed like thunder across the bay. “Just make sure you don’t get crushed, runt.”

  Belthar’s eyes widened a fraction behind his mask. “Runt?” Doubtless he’d met few men that towered over him the way the hulking Endyn did. “We’ll see about that!” Gripping a rope in each hand, he drew in a deep breath and threw his weight to pull against the stone obelisk. Beside him, Endyn slung the ropes over his shoulder and set his back to the effort.

  The two men grunted with the strain, their huge muscles bulging and rippling like steel serpents coiled beneath the flesh of their arms, backs, and shoulders. Sweat streamed down Belthar’s face and clenched jaw, and the black of Endyn’s dragonskin cut a stark contrast against the flush of red racing up his neck and cheeks.

  Crack!

  A faint sound, yet it filled Aravon with hope.

  “It’s working!” he shouted. “You’ve got this!”

  Belthar drew in a deep breath and leaned into the effort once more, the massive Endyn towering beside him. Flesh and bone wrestled against stone, grim determination against implacable steadfastness. A growl burst from Belthar’s throat, echoed by the Legionnaire roaring beside him. Their voices rose into a thundering crescendo as they gave everything they had to haul on those ropes.

  CRACK!

  Again, this time so loud it sounded like a snapping bone. A fissure opened along the length of the obelisk, reaching dark fingers through the surface of the granite. Slowly, with a ponderous groan, the monolith reeled, tilted, and toppled. Right toward the two men struggling to pull it down.

  “Now!” Belthar roared, and dove free of the falling monument. Endyn was only a half-step behind, leaping to the opposite side and stumbling on the grass bordering the cliff. He tripped on his huge feet, wobbling on the edge of the precipice, and only Duvain’s quick thinking kept him from falling. The slim Legionnaire darted forward and seized his brother’s massive wrist, pulling him with every shred of strength. The two collapsed to the grass, inches from the sharp drop-off.

  A moment later, the resounding crash of the falling obelisk shattered the early morning calm and set the ground shuddering beneath Aravon’s feet. The tip of the forty-foot monument slammed into the rocky cliff on the far side of the inlet. With a thunderous crack, the top three feet of the obelisk sheared off. Aravon’s heart leapt to his throat as the stone monument crumbled and fell into the chasm between the two islands.

  No!

  His hopes rekindled as the obelisk slid down the length of cliff face, caught on a rocky outcropping, and, impossibly, held. Wedged into place, its weight resting precariously against a stone ledge barely six inches across. A makeshift bridge between the two islands.

  Yet even as the monolith settled into place, cracks and fissures appeared along its entire length. The stone would give way before long—they had to be across before its weight and the weakened structure crumbled beneath their feet.

  “Go!” Aravon spun toward the soldiers beside him. “Get across, now! Ghoststriker, Foxclaw, Redwing, take the lead, eyes sharp for anything.”

  The three Grim Reavers moved without hesitation, sprinting the three steps toward the cliff’s edge, over the granite chunks and rubble strewn across the grass, and dropped onto the makeshift bridge. Rangvaldr and Zaharis followed a moment later, with a dusty, exhausted-looking Endyn and Duvain. Corporal Rold, Haze, and the rest of Captain Lingram’s Legionnaires went next. Belthar gave no protest as he let the others pass—he needed a few seconds of rest after that exertion.

  Finally, only Captain Lingram and Aravon remained. A glance toward Icespire Bay revealed the Deepshackles nearly submerged—only a single foot of solid steel chain remained visible above the water’s surface.

  Aravon had just turned to order Captain Lingram to cross ahead of him, but stopped as a call came from behind.

  “Wait!” A familiar voice, one accompanied by a figure Aravon recognized at once: slim and slender, with messy brown hair flopping around too-big ears and an angular face. “Let me help!”

  Captain Lingram’s face darkened. “Go back, Myron!” He stepped in front of the young Lord Virinus. “This isn’t—”

  “Please!” Desperation echoed in Lord Myron Virinus’ blue eyes. “I need to help!”

  Aravon and Captain Lingram exchanged glances. Clearly, neither of them had expected that reaction from the nobleman.

  Myron Virinus slowed to halt in front of them. “I was too afraid to fight at Storbjarg.” Shame burned in his face—red from exertion and remorse. “Even after we got out of that secret tunnel, I fled with the Hilmir’s daughter rather than stay by the Duke. The Duke threw himself at the Eirdkilrs to buy me time to flee. I’ve tried to tell myself I was following orders, but I can’t believe it.”

  The young nobleman turned his gaze on Captain Lingram. “At Saerheim, I was terrified. Terrified at what I’d just endured fleeing from Storbjarg, and even more so when the Eirdkilrs came for us there. I froze, then chose to run again instead of fight.”

  Captain Lingram’s jaw muscles worked, yet he said not a word—either in comfort or recrimination.

  Lord Virinus looked back to Aravon. “I’ve heard the rumors about my father, that he’s a traitor to the Princelands, that he sold secrets to the Eirdkilrs. But I’m not him. I want to prove that, to you, all of you.” He swallowed. “And to myself. I’m tired of being the coward he told me I was, all my life.” He drew his sword—a simple, practical bla
de free of adornments or ornate flourishes and showed signs of use. “I’m still terrified, but Icespire is my city just as much as it’s yours.” His eyes darted to Captain Lingram. “I can’t run any more, but I have to fight. I have to. And if my father really is the traitor everyone in Icespire believes he is, then I have to at least try and make amends for my family.”

  Aravon turned a questioning glance on Captain Lingram. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but he wasn’t certain he trusted the young nobleman. After everything his father had done, working with the Eirdkilrs. After everything he had done, trying to get Captain Lingram court-martialed and executed. Aravon didn’t know if the young man even deserved what he asked for.

  Yet one look in Myron Virinus’ eyes showed grim resolve mingled with the panic and fear. He wasn’t lying when he said he was terrified, yet the fact that he wanted to fight through the unease said a great deal about him. Perhaps not the man he’d been during the days Aravon had ridden with him, and certainly not the man who’d exacted petty vengeance on Captain Lingram for Aravon’s actions. But in that moment, the nobleman who stood before them had enough courage to face up to the truth of who he was and determined to battle on despite his fear.

  After a long second, Captain Lingram gave a slight nod—barely more than a twitch of his head, yet enough that Aravon recognized it. They needed all the help they could get for the battle to come, and Captain Lingram was willing to give the man a chance.

  “So be it.” Aravon stepped aside. “One more sword could prove useful.”

  Something akin to relief flashed across the young nobleman’s face, but disappeared in a moment. His cheeks flared a bright, ruddy red and he turned to Captain Lingram. “I’m sorry, Lingram. Truly. For—”

  “Save it.” Captain Lingram’s face was stiff, hard as the stone cliffs behind him. The only hint of the emotions roiling within him was the slight twitch of his jaw as he turned toward the makeshift stone bridge. “We’ve a battle to fight.”

  With that, he leapt down onto the toppled stone obelisk and raced across toward the cliff face of Palace Isle. Aravon gestured for Lord Virinus to move ahead, then joined the nobleman on the bridge. Though the stone groaned beneath their added weight, it held. Crumbling, grating against the rocks with a rumble of stone on stone, yet not yet dropping away beneath them. But for how long, only the Swordsman knew.

  We’ve got to get onto P—

  Something dark flashed across the blue, glowing face of the Icespire, a crossbow bolt that hurtled toward Aravon’s head.

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Aravon had barely an instant to duck before the crossbow bolt sliced the air where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. Fear lent wings to his feet, and he sprinted the remaining ten feet to the end of the obelisk in two seconds.

  Crossbow bolts pinged off the stone monolith behind him or whistled past his head. He ducked into the shadow of the cliff, crouched like the Legionnaires and Grim Reavers sheltering from the missiles.

  Bloody hell! The Ebonguard was firing on them. Either the Prince’s men, or the mercenaries of Eventide, working for Lord Eidan. He couldn’t be certain what the traitor had told them—the truth of what he intended to do, or a lie as deceitful as the story he’d given Emard and the mercenaries posted at Aravon’s house—but at the moment, the guards defending the Palace saw them as enemies. Not whoever lowered the Deepshackle or the Eirdkilrs that even now prepared to sail into Icespire Bay, but the Grim Reavers, the only ones trying to save Icespire.

  Damn Lord Eidan and his treachery! To stop the true enemy, he had to treat the soldiers holding the Palace as hostiles.

  “Shields go up first!” he shouted as he sprinted across the makeshift stone bridge. “Duvain, Rold, Haze, lead the way! Ghoststriker, with them.”

  “Yes, Captain!” Colborn saluted. Turning to the three named, he hustled them around him. “Endyn, Ursus, get us up there!”

  Belthar crouched, back to the cliff, and clasped his hands together. “Who’s first?” he growled.

  “Keeper take the bastards!” Growling, Corporal Rold gripped his shield tighter, raced the three steps toward Belthar, and leapt off the big man’s clasped hands. With a grunt, Belthar heaved the Legionnaire upward, sending him flying through the air and up the three feet toward the cliff’s edge. Rold landed in a half-crouch, half-kneel, shield held in front of his body. Crossbow bolts thunked into the wood, the metal heads punching through, yet the solid Legion-issue shield held.

  Haze was already leaping off Belthar’s hands by the time Endyn threw his back against the cliff and joined in. Duvain went up a heartbeat before Colborn and, together, the four soldiers set a solid wall of shields to cover the rest. The clatter of crossbow bolts grew louder, a banging and clanking that grated on Aravon’s nerves and set his teeth on edge, but no grunts or screams of pain echoed from the grassy lawn of Palace Isle. The Legionnaires and Colborn held the shield wall, a wall that grew broader and taller with every soldier Belthar and Endyn hurled up.

  Aravon’s stomach bottomed out as the obelisk beneath his feet shifted. Stone grated on stone, rasping like the scales of a giant serpent rattling against the cliff wall. The makeshift bridge lurched and dropped a few inches before settling back into place. Yet the splash and clatter of rocks—pieces of the obelisk breaking off—falling to the inlet below grew louder and more frequent with every heartbeat.

  “Hurry!” Aravon shouted.

  “Gee, Captain, and here was me about to take a nap!” Belthar called back as he hurled Noll up to join the Legionnaires crouched behind their shields. Skathi followed a moment later, leaping off Endyn’s clasped hands.

  “No arrows!” Aravon called after the two archers. “No casualties if we can help it!”

  Noll’s muttered curse sounded suspiciously like “bloody handicapping us”, but Aravon couldn’t be certain beneath the cacophony of the crossbow bolts.

  He guessed at least forty of the Prince’s one hundred and sixty-nine Ebonguard—thirteen for each of the gods of Einan—held the Palace’s southern entrance, and all of them held crossbows. With the special goat’s foot levers used to span the bows, they could loose every three to five seconds. Though the Ebonguard’s crossbows lacked the power of the winch-drawn bows used by some mainlander armies, they could still drive a steel-tipped bolt through Legion armor.

  Finally, only Aravon, Captain Lingram, and Lord Myron Virinus remained. The young nobleman stumbled and fell, his foot catching on the cliff’s edge. Captain Lingram, the next to go up, offered no hand of assistance—he simply took his place in the Legion’s shield wall without a word to the fallen man. By the time Aravon leapt off Belthar’s clasped hands and scrambled into place on the cliff, Lord Virinus had found his feet, yet his cheeks burned bright red.

  Aravon whirled to Belthar and Endyn. “Let’s go!”

  The words hadn’t left his mouth when the loud, harsh grating of stone on stone echoed, accompanied by a thunderous crack. The tiny fissures along the uppermost end of the sheared-off obelisk widened and the granite crumbled beneath Belthar and Endyn’s feet.

  Aravon’s heart stopped. Belthar, helping Endyn to stand, had no time to jump as the stone collapsed. All he could do was hurl Endyn toward the cliff face and throw himself at the rocky wall. Four huge hands closed around a crack in the cliff a heartbeat before the obelisk crumbled and plummeted toward the inlet below. The monolith shattered on the jagged rocks below and splashed into the water, sending twin pillars shooting out to either side.

  But Belthar and Endyn clung to the wall, jaws gritted, sweat streaming down their huge faces, grunting with the effort of trying to hold on.

  The rock in Endyn’s hand crumbled away and the huge Legionnaire gasped in horror as he plummeted after the falling obelisk. Belthar moved, so quickly Aravon barely had time to see his hand flashing out, his fingers locking around the Legionnaire’s wrist. For a heartbeat, they hung there, swaying, gasping for breath.

  “Come on!” Aravon threw himself to hi
s belly and reached down, scrabbling to grab Belthar’s hand. But the big man hung just out of his grasp. He could do nothing but watch, fear twisting in his belly, as Belthar struggled to maintain a solid hold on the cliff face.

  “Grab…on!” the big man gasped. Endyn’s boots scraped against the rocks and, finally, he managed to catch hold of a stony ledge. Belthar gave a shuddering groan as the ponderous weight of the massive Legionnaire diminished. In desperation, he swung his right hand toward the cliff, latching on a heartbeat before the rock in his hand crumbled and gave way.

  For a horrifying heartbeat, Aravon feared the two would fall to their deaths, dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks amidst the rubble of General Darold’s obelisk. Relief flooded him as slowly the two began to climb, hand over hand, up the cliff’s rocky face toward the top.

  Aravon snagged Belthar’s arm and hauled the man upward, straining and groaning with the effort. Together, they helped Endyn climb the last few feet, and the three of them fell gasping, streaming sweat onto the soft grass.

  For long seconds, Belthar and Endyn lay still, Aravon on his knees beside the two exhausted soldiers. That was too bloody close! His heart hammered a panicked beat in his chest.

  “What’s the delay?” Corporal Rold shouted over his shoulder. “Meat, now’s not the time to take a damned nap!”

  “Just picking a flower for your helmet, Corporal,” Endyn rumbled back. He struggled to his feet and turned to offer Belthar a hand up with a nod of thanks. The Grim Reaver nodded back, accepting the help to stand. The traveling, fighting, and now the effort of bringing down the obelisk and hoisting the Legionnaires had taken its toll on him.

  But Aravon could spare them no time to rest. The hail of crossbow bolts hadn’t slackened in the two minutes it had taken them to get solid footing on Palace Isle. At any moment, the Ebonguard or mercenaries—whoever fired at them—might change tactics and decide for a charge. Facing forty well-trained mercenaries or the Prince’s elite guardians, the twenty-odd soldiers here would have a bloody battle.