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

by Andy Peloquin

  The building stood three floors tall, with a low stone wall ringing it and a broad courtyard facing northwest, toward Icespire. True to Gengibar Twist’s words, close to fifty Eirdkilrs clustered within the confines of the stone wall, with another dozen or so perched on the second- and third-floor balconies and the rooftop. These held longbows, their arms pumping as they drew, nocked, and loosed their black-shafted missiles. Though the haze of smoke hid the enemy’s targets from sight, the clanking and banging of arrows on heavy wooden shields told Aravon Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires had engaged.

  Aravon pulled back around the corner. “Skathi, Noll, take out their archers.”

  The two Grim Reavers slid between their comrades and took their place at the front of the line. A quick glance around the corner, and they turned to each other.

  Skathi spoke first. “I’ll hit the roof and third-floor balcony, you take the second floor.”

  Noll’s eyes darkened. “I was going to say the same—”

  “You know I’m the better shot.” Skathi hefted her bow and the arrow already nocked in place.

  Noll shook his head. “Tell that to the Blood Queen’s eye!”

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Colborn growled. “Both of you shut up and get it done!”

  Again, the two archers exchanged glances, then Noll nodded. “Go high, I’ll go low.”

  Skathi raised three fingers for a silent count. At “one”—her middle finger—she and Noll spun around the corner, drew, and loosed. Creak, twang, hiss! Over and over again, the sound nearly drowned beneath the defiant, howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs. Five shots from Noll, six from Skathi, and the archers ducked back around the corner.

  Skathi nodded to Aravon. “Down.”

  When Aravon glanced at the enemy’s position, he found the rain of arrows had fallen silent, the bodies of the archers flat atop the roof or lying slumped over the balcony railing. “Good work.” He turned to Zaharis. “Got anything to soften them up?”

  Zaharis’ eyes went grim. “Sorry, Captain. Used up the last of what I was carrying at the Southbridge. Until I restock…” He shook his head.

  “Then we go in hard and quiet, and hit the bastards until they don’t get back up.” Aravon hefted his spear—his muscles had had a chance to recover, though his forearms still ached as he tightened his grip. “Same formation. Skathi and Noll, get up high and give us cover. We move in one minute.”

  The two archers took off at a run, disappearing into two crumbling buildings on either side of the street. Skathi emerged first, taking position atop the roof of a two-story wooden structure. Noll perched on a swaying balcony and shot down the hand signal for “Ready!”

  Aravon turned to his four companions. “Let’s do this.”

  Colborn and Rangvaldr moved in the lead, their pace slow, silent, and steady. Swords held in a low grip, helmeted heads barely visible above the metal rims of their circular wooden shields. Twenty yards separated them from the stone wall ringing the northern side of the building held by the Eirdkilrs. Twenty yards that seemed an eternity as the Grim Reavers advanced, one heart-pounding step at a time, eyes locked on the enemy.

  Fifteen yards. Ten. The howling cries of the Eirdkilrs grew louder, echoing off the stone walls of the building. Five yards. Three.

  Colborn and Rangvaldr broke into a mad dash, covering the remaining distance to the wall and leaping over in a single bound. Aravon, Zaharis, and Belthar came hot on their heels, hurdling the three-foot wall and racing across the stone-paved courtyard toward the Eirdkilrs holding the southern edge of the property against the Legionnaires.

  Only one Eirdkilr heard them coming, barely managed to squawk out a half-startled cry of alarm before Colborn’s sword cut out his throat. Rangvaldr slammed his shield into an Eirdkilr’s back, hacked down a second, and spun to slash at a third. By the time Aravon, Belthar, and Zaharis reached the enemy, half a dozen had fallen to the two shield-bearing Grim Reavers.

  Zaharis’ mace crunched into an Eirdkilr skull, spraying blood and shattering bone. Belthar simply seized one by the neck and hurled him backward. The massive barbarian crashed into a stone pillar, bringing it—and the balcony that rested atop it—crumbling down atop the downed Eirdkilr. The whole front wall of the building sagged, stones clattering around the entrance.

  Aravon grimaced even as he cut down an Eirdkilr, slashing his spear across the man’s spine, just beneath the rim of the steel skullcap. There went the element of surprise. Time to call in the Legionnaires.

  “Hit them now!” Aravon roared.

  He cut down the next Eirdkilr, slashing open the man’s face and slicing his braided beard in half. Drove the sharp Odarian steel spearhead into another’s back, tore it free, and cut the knees out from under a third. Slammed the iron-shod butt up between an Eirdkilr’s legs, and again into the barbarian’s helmeted head as he fell. Steel dented and bone crushed, and the Eirdkilr flopped to the ground.

  Chaos reigned in the courtyard. The Eirdkilrs, focused on the enemy to the south, had no chance to react in time to stop the enemy coming from the north. Those few who managed to turn to face Aravon died beneath the whirring, slashing spear blade. One dodged the blow, raised an axe to strike, and fell with an arrow driven through his eye. Another struck at Aravon, forcing him to leap backward, and Belthar’s axe sheared through the Eirdkilr’s head.

  Blood sprayed in the air. Eirdkilrs howled, screamed, and cursed in their guttural tongue. The clash of steel and the clang of heavy weapons striking shields filled the morning. Princelander curses, insults, and jeers slammed into Aravon as the Legionnaires and Brokers leapt over the wall to strike down the Eirdkilrs.

  The battle was over as quickly as it had begun. Aravon hadn’t even worked up a sweat by the time the last enemy fell. A good thing, that. As the rush of adrenaline faded, he found he could barely lift his spear. His legs, spine, face…hells, just about every part of him ached or throbbed. His stomach begged for food, his tongue for water.

  Yet a grim satisfaction flooded him as he stared down at the bodies. Fifty Eirdkilrs, assailed from both sides, caught off-guard by the rear attack, stood no chance. Not against close to an even number of Grim Reavers, Legionnaires, and Brokers. Especially not with Noll and Skathi on the Princelanders’ side. Nearly a dozen arrows protruded from the bodies—Noll and Skathi’s handiwork. The two archers appeared a few heartbeats later, arguing about who had the most kills. Aravon was simply too tired to listen to their debate.

  “Not bad, Captain Snarl.” A bloodied, heavily-breathing Captain Lingram strode toward him. “Though I’d expected you to handle this all on your own.”

  “Oh, we didn’t need your help, Lingram.” Aravon straightened, a tired smile broadening his masked face. “Just figured we’d let your boys have a bit of the fun.”

  He glanced over the Captain’s shoulder and his smile faded. Three Legionnaire corpses joined the bodies of the Eirdkilrs littering the street and the courtyard. A pair of arrows protruded from the throat and leg of the man Haze, and the other two—Aravon hadn’t known their names—lay with their necks and arms snapped, heads crushed by heavy Eirdkilr axes.

  Gengibar Twist’s Brokers hadn’t escaped unscathed, either. The man himself clutched at his ruined eye, where blood streamed from a deep gash in the scar tissue. More than a dozen Brokers had fallen never to rise again, and many more nursed wounds. One had both knees crushed, another his right leg shattered, a third with his right arm sheared off at the elbow.

  The battle had taken a heavy toll on all the Princelanders. Yet they had won. Here, at least, reclaiming this small corner of Icespire. That small victory filled Aravon with hope—hope they could drive the enemy from the city and restore peace once more.

  “You’re welcome, you big lummox!” Skathi’s voice brought Aravon’s head around. The Agrotora crouched over an Eirdkilr’s corpse, grasping at the arrow embedded in the barbarian’s chest. She tore it free with a wrench and waved the bloody missile at Belthar. “Had to use my lu
cky arrow to keep this bastard from shattering your skull.” Her eyes narrowed behind her mask and she tapped the iron arrowhead against his breastplate. “Better thank me properly, or next time I might let Foxclaw save your hide. And we both know how that’ll turn out!”

  With that, she slipped the arrow—still stained with blood, its fletching dyed a festive mixture of blue, red, purple, and gold—back into her quiver, alongside the one red-fletched Agrotorae arrow. Noll’s quiver, however, still had more than a dozen arrows.

  But before the scout could retort to Skathi’s insult, Colborn’s voice echoed loud from behind Aravon. “Captain!”

  A strange urgency—bordering on fear—rang in the call. That brought Aravon whirling around. There were few things in the world that could make Colborn afraid.

  Among them, Secret Keepers. Twenty figures in muted brown robes slipped up the street, moving in an eerie silence, their slippered feet noiseless on the muddy stone lane. Twenty pairs of eyes fixed on the Grim Reavers.

  The Mistress’ priests had found them. Amidst the chaos of the battle, the haze of smoke and flame. How, Aravon couldn’t begin to imagine, yet there was no mistaking the menace in their stern faces, the intent in their purposeful, gliding stride.

  The Secret Keepers had come to kill Zaharis.

  Chapter One Hundred Four

  Twenty brown-clad priests formed a silent, solemn line across the muddy alley. Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine as one stepped forward—Darrak.

  “The battle is all but won,” the Secret Keeper signed. “The time to submit to the Mistress’ will has come.”

  “No!” Aravon stepped forward, pushing to stand between Zaharis and the Mistress’ priests. “You will not take him!”

  Darrak’s eyes turned on him, cold and flat, as hard as his face. “The decision is not yours to make. He has evaded the Mistress’ justice—”

  “You think your Mistress would want you to kill one of the few people fighting to save this city?” Aravon’s voice rose to a shout. “That, after all the pain and suffering heaped upon Icespire today, she would care more for guarding her secrets than sparing tens of thousands of lives?”

  “Yes.” Darrak fixed him with an expressionless stare. “For her secrets could destroy all in this world, not just those few who live within Icespire.”

  “Sod that!” Belthar’s shout startled Aravon. “Run, Zaharis!”

  Aravon spun in time to see Belthar snagging Zaharis’ wrist and dragging the Secret Keeper into the stone building they’d just liberated. Yet as the big man ran, his right shoulder clipped the pillar holding up the other half of the balcony. The support crumbled in a hail of stone and dust.

  Brown-clad figures raced past Aravon in a blur, moving so fast he barely had time to register them before they were beyond his reach and darting across the courtyard in pursuit of Zaharis and Belthar.

  To Aravon’s horror, the front wall of the stone building sagged, buckled, and collapsed. A torrent of masonry and dust showered down around the entrance and, with a groaning rumble of stone on stone, the three-story building crumbled inward on itself. Aravon threw up his arm to shield his face from the stone and brick chips spraying over his face, barely in time to block out the massive cloud of dust that billowed outward. For long seconds, the booming crashes of the crumpling building echoed through the Glimmer, a hailstorm of clattering stone, splintering wood, and shattering roof tiles.

  The cacophony died. Slowly, the last falling stones rattled into place, and a dense silence gripped the courtyard. Grit flew in the smoke-tinged air, flooding Aravon’s nostrils, thickening his throat. He spat, spat again, trying to clear the dust from his lungs and mouth. But as he turned to face the building, horror twisted a dagger in his gut.

  Where once a solid three-story building of stone and brick had stood, now only a mound of rubble remained. The southern wall had collapsed fully, taking the east and west walls with it. Only the northern wall had escaped total ruin—the first two floors only remained upright because of the stone and debris piled against it.

  “No!” Skathi’s voice, barely above a whisper, harsh and edged with stunned surprise. Disbelief filled her eyes—filled the eyes of all the Grim Reavers, Captain Lingram, and the surviving Legionnaires. Even Gengibar Twist at the head of his Brokers appeared shocked. All eyes locked on the brown-robed priests standing amidst the cloud of dust before the caved-in building.

  Aravon couldn’t move. Couldn’t think, couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes. Belthar and Zaharis hadn’t just run into that building. Hadn’t been trapped within as it collapsed atop them.

  “No.” Skathi again, her voice stronger. “No, no, no!” She raced toward the pile of rubble and leapt onto the collapsed stone, scrabbling to climb the mound. Noll was at her side, and together, the two pawed at the debris, as if believing they could dig out Belthar and Zaharis from beneath. As if they couldn’t accept that no one, not even the Grim Reavers, would have survived that destruction.

  Rage flared within Aravon at the sight of the collapsed building. Burned brighter as his gaze moved to the brown-robed figures standing in mute silence before the ruins. He made no attempt to control his fury—instead, he gave in to it. Gave in to the fury that sent heat flooding through his veins.

  “Are you satisfied?” he roared at the Secret Keepers. “Is your Mistress’ lust for blood now satiated?” He gestured around him. “While the people of Icespire die around you, you care only about hunting one who has devoted his life in service to your goddess, even if you are too blind to see it? Are all the Mistress’ servants such spineless, self-serving cowards, or just you?”

  One of the priests turned. Darrak. Beneath the dust covering his expressionless face, Aravon caught a glimpse of pain. The same pain that had shone there when he tried to kill Zaharis in Rivergate and again in Littlemarket.

  But as his eyes fixed on Aravon, his fingers rose to sign without a hint of tremor. “Zaharis was not the only one deserving of the Mistress’ justice. You, too, know our goddess’ secrets.”

  “Go ahead.” Colborn materialized at Aravon’s right shoulder, shield and sword in hand. Though grief sparkled bright in his ice-blue eyes, defiance mingled with his sorrow. “Try it and see what happens.”

  Wood creaked as a bowstring pulled taut. “You want him?” Noll snarled from atop the pile of debris. “Your Mistress’ fortune won’t be enough to save you.”

  More figures appeared beside Aravon. Rangvaldr, his circular Fehlan shield guarding Aravon’s left side. Captain Lingram and his Legionnaires, forming a solid wall of steel in front of the Secret Keepers.

  “Zaharis was the one you sought, the one you say betrayed your Mistress.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, his eyes locked on Darrak. “Let the matter die with him.”

  Tense silence hung in the air, thicker than the choking dust and smoke darkening the morning sky. Darrak’s gaze never left Aravon’s. A silent war of wills raged between them in those fraught seconds. Aravon’s fingers tightened around his spear, his muscles coiling like springs. If the Secret Keepers gave the order to attack, he and his men were in for a desperate battle. Gengibar Twist wouldn’t risk his men for their sake; that left fifteen Legionnaires and Grim Reavers facing off against twenty of the Mistress’ priests. A fight they had little hope of winning. But they had already killed two of his soldiers—he’d be damned if he let the Secret Keepers kill any more.

  Something transpired behind Darrak’s eyes—an understanding or acknowledgement reached in his mind—and the Secret Keeper simply nodded. “So be it.” His expression hardened. “But do not confuse unwavering loyalty with blind cowardice.” Something sharp and angry flashed in his eyes. “Ignorance and grief loosen your tongue. Know that all men have secrets, and the Mistress knows all.”

  The merest hint of a smile, cold and menacing, played across Darrak’s lips as he turned away. “Farewell, Captain Aravon of Icespire. Pray to the Swordsman we do not meet again.”

  A chill shivered throu
gh every fiber of Aravon’s being. They know my name.

  Icy fear rooted him in place as the Secret Keepers melted into the smoky haze. As quickly as they had appeared, they faded into the shadows of the Glimmer. Without so much as a backward glance or a sound of rustling robes or slippers scuffing on stone.

  They know my name. The thought echoed through Aravon’s mind. The world seemed to fade around him, until nothing but that knowledge remained. Acid roiled in his stomach. There was no mistaking the threat in Darrak’s silent words—they might not kill him now, but if they ever changed their minds, they knew precisely who he was.

  “Captain.” Colborn’s voice sounded distant, faint. “Captain!”

  The shout snapped Aravon from his inner turmoil. He blinked, his eyes focusing on the Lieutenant’s masked face.

  “Captain, more on the way.” Colborn’s eyes slid past Aravon, toward the lane leading south.

  Numbly, Aravon turned to stare in the direction Colborn had indicated. A band of Eirdkilrs, perhaps twenty or thirty in all, had appeared in the distance. They moved in silence, their howls eerily silent. Blood stained the edges and tips of their massive weapons. All were wounded, exhaustion lining their brutish faces. Yet at the sight of the Legionnaires, Brokers, and Grim Reavers, the eager gleam of bloodthirst shone in their eyes.

  Aravon opened his mouth to shout for the Brokers to fall back to the safety of the Legionnaires’ shields and the stone wall, but he never got the chance.

  “Get ‘em, lads!” Gengibar Twist’s call to his men echoed loud among the close-packed shanties. “Show the bear-fuckers what it means to piss off Glimmertrash!”

  With a roar, the thick-necked thugs raised their clubs and charged toward the Eirdkilrs. Forty or fifty of the Brokers remained—poor odds against half their number of barbarians.

  Before Aravon could react, a new cry joined the Brokers’ roar. A savage, keening cry echoing with pain and misery. It came from behind Aravon, and on its heels came a flurry of arrows. Hissing through the air, a dark blur in the hazy sky, slamming into the barbarians. Eirdkilrs died where they stood, felled by the rain of missiles loosed with impossible speed.