Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2)

by Andy Peloquin

  “An hour, give or take.” The Secret Keeper shrugged broad shoulders. “Without the time to test the Sleeping Lily powder properly—”

  “An hour will do.” Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Will it harm them?”

  Zaharis shook his head. “A mild hangover, at worst.”

  “Good,” Aravon signed. “Better if no one but the Duke knows we’re here.”

  A quiet scrape sounded from the guard tower’s rooftop, but Aravon didn’t look up. Colborn would hold that position, out of sight of any guards below, and cover their retreat. In case of discovery, he could provide cover fire from above.

  The rope creaked beneath Belthar’s weight, and the big man grunted with the effort of climbing the wall. Aravon had almost insisted Belthar stay outside—he’d sustained more serious wounds than any of them, though mercifully none debilitating—but they needed the big man’s expertise once inside Ironcastle. And, in case the mission went sideways, his size, strength, and skill would prove invaluable.

  Aravon slipped out of the guard tower and onto the parapet, crouching low to remain out of sight of the guards below. He and Zaharis held the tower, but Noll slithered down the wall’s inner steps in silence, skirted the men crowded around the brazier burning beside the gate, and crept through the shadows toward the keep itself.

  A courtyard of paved stone stood between the wall and the keep, fifty yards of open space he’d have to cross to reach the shadows of the enormous building and its adjoining stables, warehouses, and smithy. If this was a Legion encampment, he’d never make that distance.

  It’s just the Swordsman’s mercy we’re not facing Legionnaires, then.

  Aravon glanced to his left, toward the two gatehouses flanking the southern gate. Lamps shone in upper-story windows, and the sound of laughing, shouting men echoed from within. Doubtless drinking, gambling, and keeping out of the cold, as soldiers tended to do. Another dozen or so clustered around a brazier that burned near the keep’s front entrance, a pair of iron-studded wooden doors nearly as heavy as the front gate. That same fire that kept the cold away blinded the guards to the darkness of the night.

  As he prepared to follow Noll, Aravon glanced toward the roof of the southwestern guard tower. Darkness hid Skathi from his sight, but he knew she’d be crouched on the roof of that tower, opposite Colborn. The two archers would have a clear view of Ironcastle Keep—just in case they needed cover for their escape.

  And, somewhere high above them, Snarl circled on his eagle’s wings. With eyes as sharp as an eagle’s and the night vision of his fox half, the Enfield made the perfect lookout. His yipping cries would alert Skathi in case of trouble.

  It seemed an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a minute, before Belthar hauled himself through the window and into the guard tower. He flexed his huge hands, wincing at the pain in his muscles, but nodded to Aravon. “Let’s move,” he signed.

  Aravon hesitated only a moment before giving Zaharis the signal to take the lead. He had to trust Belthar could keep quiet as they descended into the keep and followed Noll’s path into the shadows.

  Zaharis peered out of the tower and held position a few seconds before motioning for them to descend the staircase. The guards never looked their way as they raced down to the courtyard, dashed across the open space, and ducked into the shadows of a squat wooden building. The smithy, judging by the stink of burned metal that permeated every wooden beam and stone pillar.

  Aravon kept his breathing slow and steady as he followed Zaharis through the darkness, circling around to the east and heading north along the wall of Ironcastle Keep. Every step set his heart pounding—not in fear, but the nervous anticipation that came with knowing that they could face an enemy around every corner, in every shadow. Though it still felt odd to think that enemy could be a Princelander.

  The muscles in his shoulders were knotted tight by the time he spotted Noll crouched next to the keep’s rear entrance. Seems Belthar was right, Aravon mused. Everywhere really does have a back door. It appeared this one gave access from the keep’s kitchens, providing the Duke’s cooks a short path to reaching the reeking pile of rubbish heaped beside the servants’ outhouses. Not the most pleasant entrance, but at least we’ve got a way in.

  Noll turned to Aravon and shook his head. “Locked,” he signed. “Heavy one, too.”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched, but Belthar seemed unperturbed by the news. He crouched in front of the door, eye level with the keyhole. After a moment, he nodded and drew out a small leather pouch. Aravon’s eyebrows rose as the huge man selected long slivers of metal from within and inserted them into the lock. After a few moments, the lock gave a loud clunk and Belthar pushed the door open.

  Aravon couldn’t help marveling at yet another of Belthar’s surprising set of skills. No wonder the Duke selected him for our company. He’d never given much thought as to the Duke’s choice—Belthar had been a valuable asset to their team from the first day, his courage in battle and abilities with his double-headed axe made him a good companion to have in the fight against the Eirdkilrs. Yet Belthar was one of the only members of their company that hadn’t served in the Legion of Heroes. The why of that and how he’d come by such…unique skills filled Aravon with a burning curiosity to know who the big man had been before joining them.

  But that would have to wait until after their current mission. “Well done,” Aravon signed to the big man.

  Belthar nodded and stowed his tools.

  Noll’s fingers flashed. “Who knew those banana hands of yours could do something so delicate?”

  Belthar said nothing, but Aravon noted the tension in his sloped shoulders. It didn’t matter that it was the sort of ribbing and friendly banter common among soldiers; big man or no, he tended to be prickly when it came to Noll’s teasing.

  “Move,” Aravon signaled to the scout. “We’ve got an hour.”

  With Zaharis at his side, Noll slipped into the darkened kitchens. Aravon followed, with Belthar bringing up the rear. They moved in unison, their steps light and quick, balanced on the balls of their feet to make as little noise as possible. Their weapons remained sheathed, on his orders, but Aravon knew Noll could draw his short sword and dagger faster than any Ironcastle guard. And Zaharis, well Aravon had faced the man in bare-handed combat one too many times to imagine the Secret Keeper would be anything short of lethal if it came to a fight.

  Swordsman grant it doesn’t. Even if Duke Leddan was a traitor, Aravon had no desire to leave Princelander bodies piled up behind him.

  At the far side of the kitchens, a door opened onto a massive dining hall. Empty, with only a single lamp hanging on the western wall, above a throne-like chair that could only belong to Duke Leddan. Silent as wraiths, Noll and Zaharis led the way through the hall, slithering between the long wooden tables with the same grace that they’d cleared the obstacle course back at Camp Marshal.

  A signal from Zaharis sent them scrambling into cover, ducking out of sight beneath the long table. The tromp, tromp of heavy feet echoed off the stone walls and high-vaulted ceiling, accompanied by a glimmer of lamplight. Yet the sound and light faded long before it reached them, the guards continuing on their patrol of the keep’s interior.

  Aravon drew in a deep breath to slow his racing heart, but kept his outward façade calm. His men needed to know he had the situation under control, even if he felt utterly out of his element. He was a soldier, accustomed to battlefields and shield walls, not sneaking and subterfuge. But he couldn’t let them know that. They trusted him with their lives, and he couldn’t give them even a hint that he wasn’t up for the challenge.

  “Let’s move,” he signed to Noll and Zaharis, “before they come back around.”

  With a nod, the two ducked out of the shadows and continued on their path across the dining hall, toward the staircase that led to the keep’s upper floors. They’d have a long climb to reach the Duke’s private chambers on the level just beneath the rooftop and turrets, and they had only a
few hours to get in and back out before the sun rose.

  The faint glow of oil lamps lit the stairwell, giving them more than enough illumination to see as they raced up the spiraling staircase. Aravon grimaced at the sound of his and Belthar’s boots on the stone steps—it seemed terribly loud in the thick, all-pervasive silence. Yet he knew it was just his anxieties playing tricks on him. Fear made men jump at shadows or see enemies where none existed. If they truly were making too much noise, Noll or Zaharis would have warned them.

  Just before they reached the second floor, Zaharis jerked to a stop, hand flashing up. Aravon slowed, his foot hovering over the next step. A moment later, lights appeared through the archway that led into the second-floor. The sound of muttering voices and marching feet grew louder with every hammering heartbeat.

  The guards were headed right toward them!

  Chapter Two

  Zaharis moved before Aravon raised his hands to sign the silent order. Drawing a small cloth pouch from within his robes, the Secret Keeper wound up and hurled it down the hallway toward the guards. It struck the stone and thumped to the ground, giving off twin puffs of the fine-ground powder within. The dust-sized granules hung in the air directly in front of the approaching guards.

  Aravon’s gut clenched as three men marched into view. Right through the cloud of Sleeping Lily. Before the guards even raised their eyes toward the stairway, the alchemical powder took effect and they slumped to the floor, as senseless as their comrades in the guard tower.

  Aravon turned to Belthar. “Stow them out of sight, then follow.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Belthar signed.

  Noll and Zaharis gave the floating dust a wide berth, holding their breaths as they slipped past the unconscious men and down the hall, deeper into Ironcastle.

  The hallway led to another, smaller set of stairs. The Duke’s private stairs. Aravon had never visited Ironcastle, but he’d spent enough time in Wolfden Castle to know that all early Princelander fortresses had two staircases: the primary stairs that led from the ground floor to the main residences of the billeted soldiers and their families, then upwards to the keep’s rooftop and turrets; and the secondary stairs reserved for the castle’s resident lord or Duke. Those stairs were set far back into the castle, with a long, straight hallway that would be easily defended in case of attack. Had this been a siege, Aravon would have found the corridor lined with soldiers ready to die defending their lord. But in peace time, the halls were empty, the doors to the private chambers closed. The sound of heavy breathing and snoring echoed from within.

  Down the hallway they ran, their boots near-silent on the rush-covered floor. Aravon’s gut clenched as they passed one door after another, half-expecting them to burst open and disgorge an army. Yet the hour was late and the men within sleeping heavily. Not a soul stirred as Aravon and his men raced down the hall. Silence permeated the dimly lit corridors, and all was still as they rushed up the stairs to the Duke’s private chambers.

  The stairs ascended for two full floors, and Aravon felt the passage of every minute keenly. They’d entered shortly before midnight, which gave them the better part of four hours to get back out of the keep before dawn threatened. Even though it had gone smoothly thus far, he wanted to get the mission over with before anything happened. And, knowing our luck, it’s never going to be as easy as in and out.

  Finally, they reached the top of the stairs and found themselves confronted by the door to the Duke’s chambers. The door was made of heavy Fehlan redwood and reinforced with steel, with no lock for Belthar to pick.

  Noll gave a gentle push and shook his head. “Locking bar inside.”

  Aravon ground his teeth, a movement that sent pain flaring through his still-healing cheek. They’d gotten past the guards unnoticed and evaded detection, only to find themselves stymied here. When he glanced at Zaharis, the Secret Keeper shook his head. He hadn’t had time to replenish his alchemical supplies beyond what he’d been able to forage on the journey home. They had been fortunate to find the small patch of Sleeping Lilies growing near the tar pits north of Blackden—or unfortunate, in the case of Belthar, who had stumbled into the flowers and gotten a firsthand taste of their drowsy effects—else they might have had to rely on lethal force to get into Ironcastle.

  Belthar stepped back and drew in a deep breath, preparing to charge the door. Aravon stopped him with a shake of his head. Belthar was big, but no way he’d get through that much wood and metal without injuring himself and alerting everyone in the keep to their presence.

  Aravon’s mind raced as he tried to figure out their next move. They could improvise a battering ram from the heavy furniture below, but the Duke would hear them assaulting his door and raise the alarm. The towertop window into Duke Leddan’s private chambers was far too high for any of them to scale, even with the steel climbing spikes Skathi and Colborn had used to ascend the keep’s outer wall.

  Noll solved the problem by reaching out and knocking on the door. “My lord?” He spoke in a feminine tone, high-pitched and echoing with the timidity of a servant. “My lord, a messenger has arrived from Icespire. Says it’s most urgent, sir.” The mask concealed his features, but Aravon would have sworn the little scout was grinning.

  The sleepy grumblings of an irritated man echoed from within the room, followed a moment later by the thunk of a deadbolt being shot and the clank of the locking bar removed. “What’s the—”

  The door hadn’t opened more than an inch before Noll drove his foot into its inner edge, slamming the metal frame into the gray-bearded face of the man who appeared within. Duke Leddan was hurled backward and fell to the ground, hard, his head thumping on the ice bear-skin rug beside his bed.

  Noll leapt into the richly-furnished room in a heartbeat, dagger in his hand. He pounced atop the fallen Duke and pressed the razor edge of his knife against the man’s throat. “Not. A. Sound. Traitor.” He spoke in a low growl, fury tinging his words.

  Zaharis moved a step behind Noll, hurtling across the large room in silence and clamping a hand over the mouth of the woman sharing Duke Leddan’s massive four-posted bed. The woman, whose graying hair was a shade darker than her husband’s, startled at the Secret Keeper’s presence, her eyes flying wide. Yet her right hand darted beneath her pillow and lashed out at her captor. Zaharis barely managed to catch her wrist before the knife scraped off his armor.

  Duke Leddan seemed equally disinclined to be murdered in his own bedroom without a struggle. He glared daggers into Noll’s masked face, and his left hand scrabbled along the carpeted floor in search of anything he could use as a weapon.

  Aravon stepped on the Duke’s wrist, trapping it in place yet not applying pressure sufficient to cause pain. The man was, after all, a member of the Prince’s Council and ruler of Oldcrest. They owed him respect right up until the moment he proved to be the traitor.

  “Do your worst!” spat Duke Leddan. “I will not cower or beg for my life.”

  “We have not come for your life, Duke Leddan.” Aravon pitched his tone deeper than normal, trusting the mask to muffle his voice. He’d met the Duke enough times that the man could recognize him—hence the masks, a necessary part of the deceit Duke Dyrund sold to the world. “Not unless you are in league with the enemy.”

  “In league with—” Duke Leddan’s graying eyebrows rose and his ruddy face purpled with anger. “You dare accuse me of being a traitor?”

  “If the codpiece fits…” Noll growled and pressed the dagger harder against the Duke’s throat.

  Aravon lifted his boot from Duke Leddan’s wrist and crouched beside the man. “Silver Break Mine.”

  The Duke’s expression never wavered. “What of it?”

  “How much did they pay you for the secret of its existence?”

  “Pay me?” Now confusion twisted Duke Leddan’s face. “Who?”

  “How much?” Aravon repeated the question.

  Fire blazed in Duke Leddan’s green eyes. “I don’t know what you think
you know, but—”

  Aravon seized the man’s face in a gloved hand and gripped tight. “How much?!” he roared.

  “Not a Keeper-damned copper bit!” Duke Leddan met his gaze without hesitation. “Because I didn’t sell any secrets. And definitely not to our enemies!”

  “Your duchy is failing,” Aravon growled. “Farmland is going fallow, your crops are withering, and your people are going hungry. All that silver from the mines could go a long way toward feeding the hungry here in Oldcrest.”

  Duke Dyrund had made that much clear: Duke Leddan cared for his people, and he’d only sell the secret of Silver Break Mine to fill his coffers to care for them. Yet that reasoning made him no less treacherous.

  “Yes, it would!” Duke Leddan glared defiance into his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I’m a coward or traitor.”

  “You’re telling me you wouldn’t do whatever it took to care for those under your rule?” Aravon demanded.

  “Damned right I would!” Duke Leddan growled. “Which is why I sold the better part of ten thousand acres to the Nyslians.”

  Aravon cocked his head. “The Nyslians?” The men of Nysl came from the mainland of Einan, far to the north.

  “To grow grapes for their icewines.” Duke Leddan’s jaw clenched. “A deal that drives a dagger into the heart of every one of my ancestors who fought to claim Oldcrest, to build this very fortress. Yet times are changing, and I must change with it.” The anger surged in his eyes once more. “But hear me when I say I would never sell anything to the enemy. Not one square foot of bog land, and absolutely not the truth of Silver Break Mine. A mine where my people were working!”

  That was new information to Aravon. Duke Dyrund had told him Princelanders were mining alongside the Eyrr clan, but that was all. No mention of what parts of the Princelands the miners had come from.

  “Now,” snarled Duke Leddan, “if you’re done insulting me and accusing me of treachery, you’d better get your damned hands off my wife before—”