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

Author:Andy Peloquin [Peloquin, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Fantasy Fiends Publishing Inc.
Published: 2019-10-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Every hint of Aravon’s grief-induced numbness faded in that moment. All thoughts of his loss and the pain of his sorrow faded, replaced by a wary sharpness of mind. He was once again Captain of the Grim Reavers, and a soldier under his command needed him. If he didn’t take control, find a way to calm Colborn, the Lieutenant might do something—something violent and driven by his anger, anger justified over years of abuse and at his father’s hand—that could ruin the mission.

Aravon stepped smoothly between Colborn and Lord Derran. “Ahh, Lord Derran!” He spoke in his deep Captain Snarl voice and swept a stiff, soldierly bow. “You, too, are the honored guest of Lord Virinus?”

“I am.” Lord Derran narrowed his eyes at Aravon and gave a little sniff. “Though I’ll admit it feels far less of an honor now that I find your sort here.”

“My Commandant was summoned to attend.” Aravon said. “We are simply guilty of being here by association.”

“Commandant Simont?” Lord Derran raised an eyebrow. “It was my understanding that he and the rest of your ilk were occupied with the goings-on in The Violet Fens.”

Aravon scrambled for a response—he’d heard of nothing of interest taking place in the aforementioned duchy, but that meant little, given that his sole focus until now had been dealing with the Eirdkilrs. “But he left behind just enough of us to remind the Icespire nobility that we are those best-suited for whatever tasks you may require.” Aravon dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And at a price far more reasonable than our competitors, particularly to upstanding nobles like yourself.”

Lord Derran turned up his nose. “Indeed.” He gave a disdainful sniff. “How like a hired sword to turn an old, used-up General’s memorial service into an opportunity for profit!”

Aravon gritted his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. It took all his self-control not to drive his fist into the nobleman’s face.

“Lord Whitevale.” He gave the man a half-bow before turning on his heel and striding away. Behind him, Colborn stood frozen still, but Aravon recognized the icy glitter in the Lieutenant’s blue eyes. Hatred, rage, and bone-deep loathing.

“Stay on mission.” Aravon spoke a voice low enough for only Colborn to hear. “We’ve bigger problems to worry about.”

For a moment, he feared his words would fall on deaf ears—Swordsman knew that if someone had spoken to him mere hours ago, he’d never have heard them. After everything Colborn had endured at the man’s hands, he wouldn’t have blamed the Lieutenant for striking out, even drawing his sword and cutting Lord Derran down. But he had to trust, had to believe Colborn knew the importance of their mission depended on his keeping his fury in check.

Relief flooded him as the clank of plate-and-chain mail echoed beside him. He didn’t need to glance at Colborn to feel the tangible storm of anger emanating off him in waves. Yet Colborn remained in step with him as he strode through the crowd of richly dressed, lace-festooned, heavily-perfumed men and women thronging in and out of the grand ballroom.

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