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

by Andy Peloquin

  Colborn’s eyes widened a fraction and he shook Prince Toran’s hand. “Thank you, My Prince.” His voice resonated with the same respect Aravon had heard when Colborn first called him “Captain”.

  The Prince released Colborn’s hand, then turned to Duke Dyrund. “While you fill in our Captain and Lieutenant, I will go and speak to the others. They, too, deserve the gratitude of all the Princelands.”

  “Of course.” Duke Dyrund gave a little bow. “I trust you will join us for dinner? While I doubt our simple fare can rival the feasts of Icespire, I’m certain we can cook up something half-edible.”

  Prince Toran chuckled. “Make it fully edible and I shall be there.” He turned to Aravon and Colborn. “Until later, gentlemen.” Turning, he strode from the War Room and closed the door behind him.

  Long seconds passed as Aravon struggled to comprehend what had just happened. The Prince, here in Camp Marshal, all for the express purpose of speaking with them! Aravon had accepted the mission without expectation of gratitude or recognition, but knowing that Prince Toran cared enough to make the journey filled him with pride. Pride to call himself not just a Legionnaire, but also a Princelander.

  The Duke’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Much as I wish that was the only reason I summoned you here to Camp Marshal, there is a matter of great urgency we must discuss.”

  Aravon’s momentary elation faded, and the Duke’s solemn tone and dark expression brought reality crashing back down on him. “Of course,” he said, steeling himself.

  Duke Dyrund and Lord Eidan stepped toward the oaken table dominating the War Room, and Aravon and Colborn joined them in study of the map of Fehl carved into the table’s surface. The details were breathtaking, with elevations for the mountains, depressions for valleys and canyons, even winding paths depicting the various rivers that snaked throughout the continent. The topographical map displayed everything from the northern tip of Icespire to the steep Sawtooth Mountains far to the south of Fehl.

  “Thanks to your actions, we now hold Anvil Garrison.” The Duke tapped the carved wooden figurine of a tower that represented the stone fort the Eirdkilrs had once occupied, and which Aravon had helped Jade Battalion drive out. “Gallows Garrison will be receiving reinforcements day after tomorrow, with half of Amethyst Battalion dividing their forces between Gallows and bolstering the four hundred of Garnet Battalion stationed at Scythe Garrison.”

  Aravon frowned down at the map. “What was the final casualty report from the Battle of Broken Canyon?”

  Duke Dyrund turned to Lord Eidan with a questioning glance.

  The nobleman flipped through a notebook for a moment and cleared his throat. “Between the cavalry, the Agrotorae, and the Legionnaires,” he read, “six hundred and thirty-five slain, with two hundred and twelve wounded, eighty-seven mortally.”

  Aravon forced himself not to think about the pale, lifeless faces of the men that had fought beside him at Broken Canyon—doing that would only bring back the weight that dragged on his shoulders, the burden of command. Instead, he occupied his mind by doing quick sums, losing himself in the cold calculation of mathematics. With half of Amethyst Battalion, Commander Oderus had more than a thousand soldiers spread between Anvil and Gallows Garrison, with an additional eight hundred or more stationed a hundred miles north at Scythe Garrison. Months ago, before Hrolf Hrungnir had attacked along the Eastmarch, that many men would have been excessive. Now, with the Eirdkilrs potentially planning to assault Eyrr lands, it could prove too few.

  “The good news,” Duke Dyrund continued, “is that the assaults on Anvil and Gallows Garrisons appear to be nothing more than the actions of one Eirdkilr chieftain.”

  “Hrolf Hrungnir,” Aravon growled. The leader of the crimson-cloaked Blodhundr, the Eirdkilr who had ambushed and killed every man of Sixth Company—save for Noll and Captain Aravon himself.

  The Duke nodded and removed the blue-painted piece representing Hrungnir from the table. “With him eliminated, the east is once again quiet. Jade and Amethyst Battalions have strict orders to monitor the surrounding Eyrr and Jarnleikr lands, and we will never again be caught unaware by a force of Eirdkilrs attacking in the east.”

  Though Duke Dyrund’s voice rang with confidence, Aravon knew they had nowhere near enough Legionnaires to properly patrol or watch all of eastern Fehl. Yet with the majority of the battles taking place on western Fehl, there were only so many men to pull away from the front lines.

  “With Hrolf Hrungnir’s failure in the east,” the Duke went on, “it appears the Eirdkilrs are ramping up their efforts in the west.” His finger traced along the map toward the Westmarch, the broad highway that stretched from Icespire all the way along the western half of Fehl toward Snowpass Keep in the Sawtooth Mountains—the jagged, near-impassable mountain range that was the only thing preventing the Eirdkilrs from flooding Fehl wholesale.

  “They have redoubled their attacks on the Bulwark and Dagger Garrison, forcing us to commit more troops to those strongholds.”

  The two named fortresses straddled the Westmarch as far south as the Legion had ever gone, which put them closest to the enemy—the first line of defense against the Eirdkilrs.

  Aravon frowned. “That makes no sense. Eirdkilrs don’t bother with sieges, not unless they know they can win. No one’s broken the Bulwark since it was founded, even back when the Eirdkilrs pushed us all the way north to the Chain.”

  “Correction,” Lord Eidan interjected, once more clearing his throat before he spoke—a habit that hadn’t grown less irritating since their last encounter. “The Eirdkilrs didn’t bother with sieges. It seems they are once again shifting their tactics.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. “How?”

  Duke Dyrund tapped on the two wooden fortress figurines for the Bulwark and Dagger Garrison. “The Eirdkilrs have laid siege to both, but it seems to be nothing more than a distraction to tie up Pearl, Sapphire, and Diamond Battalions.” His finger indicated the Fehlan clan lands surrounding the two southernmost strongholds. “With the three battalions tied up holding the walls, the Eirdkilrs are free to roam the Fjall lands. And to launch attacks on the Deid.”

  Colborn stiffened, so slightly Aravon only noticed it because he happened to be looking in the Lieutenant’s direction. Curiosity burned within Aravon, but he tucked it away until later.

  “And what of the men in Hammer Garrison, Sentry Garrison, and Deepwater?” Aravon gestured toward the two northern fortresses. “Surely with Beryl, Emerald, and Moonstone Battalions holding the strongholds, there should be men to spare!”

  “A month ago, I would have agreed with you.” Duke Dyrund’s expression grew grim. “But recent battles have taken their toll on all three garrisons. Emerald is at half-strength and a bout of the Bloody Flux has one in five men of Moonstone Battalion either ill or dying. The Menders and the Ministrants of the Bright Lady are doing what they can, but…” He shrugged. “There are no more to spare from the western garrisons.”

  Aravon’s eyes traveled across the map, studying the arrangement of the Legion troops across Fehl. Each Legion battalion had one thousand Legionnaires, give or take a few dozen, a contingent of cavalry from two to four hundred strong, and a staff—including Menders, carters for supplies, and commissioned officers—of up to two hundred. With the companies of attached Agrotorae irregulars—typically between one and four hundred, depending on the terrain where they’d be stationed—a battalion at full strength had roughly fifteen hundred fighting men. That meant more than sixteen thousand Legionnaires, cavalry, and archers currently distributed around the continent.

  Sixteen thousand men, and not one to spare. The thought added to his grim mood, which grew bleaker by the moment.

  “The good news is that Onyx Battalion is back in commission.” Duke Dyrund tapped on the black-painted shield figurine situated beside Icespire. “The last of the new recruits shipped in last fortnight.”

  Aravon grimaced. “Full of untrained, untested men.” Even experienc
ed Legions could crack in the face of an Eirdkilr charge; raw recruits were far more likely to break and flee.

  The Duke inclined his head. “Perhaps, but those untrained, untested men may make all the difference when it comes to a battle. A battle the Prince and his Generals anticipated after the attacks on the eastern garrisons, which is why Onyx Battalion began the march ten days ago.” He moved the black shield marker from Icespire toward Hammer Garrison, two hundred and thirty miles from the Chain. “If we send Onyx Battalion here, they can free up the veteran Moonstone Battalion to march south, toward Dagger Garrison and help break the siege. Once Dagger is freed—”

  “They can help defend the Bulwark.” Aravon nodded.

  “Forgive me, Duke, but what about Deepwater?” Colborn put in. He tapped the fortress a hundred miles south of the Chain. “Shouldn’t the recruits be as far from the front lines as possible?”

  Duke Dyrund and Lord Eidan exchanged grim glances. “That is why I have called you here. You must know of the situation at Rivergate.”

  Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “Situation?” Rivergate was one of the sixteen fortresses that formed the Chain, the heavily-defended boundary between the Fehlan territories and the Princelands. Rivergate sat astride the Standelfr River, which ran from the Deid lands in the heart of Fehl northeast through the lands of the Smida and Jokull clans.

  Duke Dyrund’s expression darkened. “According to our last report, the Eirdkilrs have finally turned the Jokull against us. Rivergate is under siege, and there is nothing the Legion can do to help them.”

  Chapter Six

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. “Under siege? By the Jokull?”

  The Jokull clan lived just south of the Chain, far to the west of Fehl. They alone of the northern Fehlan clans remained hostile to the Princelands. Even after the Legion conquered two-thirds of the continent, the Jokull remained a stubborn holdout, hiding in their swamps and marshes, launching raids against both Deepwater and Hammer Garrisons.

  The Standelfr River provided both a natural defensive barrier against the Legion and a clear demarcation of their territory’s limits. They had never expanded east beyond where the fast-flowing Feigr River joined the Standelfr, confining them to a tract of land less than two hundred miles wide and long—one of the smallest Fehlan clans, yet still the most fractious.

  According to admittedly limited Legion knowledge, the Jokull had fewer than two thousand warriors, mostly raiders and reavers. The Jokull controlled much of Fehlan’s western coast, their narrow longboats providing them access to both food and their Deid neighbors to the south. Westhaven, the Princelands’ westernmost duchy, had built up a navy to counter Jokull raids, and after a series of fierce sea battles nearly four hundred years earlier, the Jokull had been reduced to little more than the occasional nuisance.

  Rivergate had been built specifically to keep a watchful eye on the querulous clan. Situated on the southern side of the Standelfr River, it gave the Legion a toehold in Jokull land, a solid defensive stronghold to prevent the Jokull from crossing the river in their longboats and launching raids on Westhaven.

  The thought of the Jokull—a clan of fishermen, marsh dwellers, and sea wolves—laying siege to a fortress the size of Rivergate seemed impossible to imagine. Yet the Duke’s grim expression told him it was very real.

  “Five days ago, the Jokull launched a surprise attack on Rivergate,” Duke Dyrund said. “All twenty-three hundred of their warriors, it seems, with more than eight hundred Eirdkilrs supporting them.”

  Aravon’s gut twisted. That made sense. The Jokull wouldn’t besiege a fortress, but it seemed the Eirdkilrs’ shift in tactics included an alliance with the hostile Fehlan clan and an attack on the Chain itself.

  “In the course of battle, the combined Jokull and Eirdkilr forces managed to overrun Rivergate’s outer wall.” The Duke’s expression darkened. “The people of Rivergate retreated to the inner keep, but the men of Topaz Battalion and Duke Westhaven’s regulars sustained heavy casualties in their retreat. Less than eight hundred of our men remain, according to our intelligence.” He glanced at Lord Eidan, who gave him a confirming nod.

  Aravon sucked in a breath. “But if they stormed the outer wall, that means they’ve captured Rivergate Bridge!”

  Rivergate Bridge provided access across the Standelfr River, straight into the heart of Westhaven. If the combined Eirdkilr and Jokull forces controlled it, nothing stood between them and the Princelands.

  “Fortunately for all of us,” Lord Eidan put in, “the Legion Commander…” He glanced down at his notes and cleared his throat. “…Commander Rheamus, had the foresight to bring down the bridge before sounding the retreat.” His expression grew grim. “Though it cost a full Legion company, Rivergate Bridge was collapsed.”

  Relief mingled with the sorrow in Aravon’s chest. A hundred Legionnaires had given their lives to protect not only the people of Rivergate, but all the Princelands. A noble sacrifice, yet no less painful a loss to both the Legion and every family on Fehl and Einan that had sent their sons, fathers, and brothers to war.

  “But with the collapse of Rivergate Bridge and the retreat into the inner keep, the garrison was forced to abandon most of their supplies.” Duke Dyrund’s jaw muscles clenched. “Our eyes in Rivergate report that there is less than a week’s worth of food stored within the inner keep, while the Jokull and Eirdkilrs feast on the bounty pilfered from Rivergate’s warehouse.”

  “And,” Colborn put in, “without Rivergate Bridge, there’s no way to send reinforcements, either.” A statement, not a question.

  Duke Dyrund nodded. “The people of Rivergate will starve in a week, and with the Eirdkilrs in Jokull territory, we can’t afford to spare anyone from Deepwater and Hammer Garrison.” He tapped the two northernmost fortresses on the Westmarch. “Duke Olivarr of Westhaven might be able to pull a few hundred irregulars from his other strongholds along the Chain, but it would take more than a week for them to reach Rivergate.” His expression soured. “Without Rivergate Bridge, their only route would be to travel a hundred and fifty miles south along the Westmarch, then double back and head northwest, through Jokull territory—territory that appears to be crawling with Eirdkilrs, it seems.”

  Aravon shook his head. “Sending such a small force into the Jokull wetlands would be a waste.” The heavily-armored Legionnaires would get quickly bogged down in the deep mud and marshes, easy pickings for any Jokull or Eirdkilr raiding parties.

  “Which is why I said there is nothing we can do to help the garrison at Rivergate.” Duke Dyrund fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Nothing, besides sending you.”

  Aravon’s eyes narrowed in thought. “The seven of us. Against three thousand enemies surrounding Rivergate. With no bridge to get us across the Standelfr, and no reinforcements.” He shot Colborn a glance.

  “Sounds like a party,” the Lieutenant replied, a cynical grin cracking his stern expression.

  A smile tugged at Aravon’s lips, but the impossibility of the mission wiped away any hint of mirth.

  “There are some reinforcements available.” Lord Eidan’s deep, booming voice echoed in the War Room. He cleared his throat and tapped a finger on the over-sized fortress figurine representing Highkeep, the capital of the duchy of Lightmoor. “Two companies—Second and Third, Topaz Battalion—at near-full strength were rotated out with the last batch of Legionnaires shipped from the mainland. Many of them, however, chose to remain in the Princelands rather than return to their homes in…” He consulted his notes once more. “…Nysl and Drash.”

  Aravon cocked an eyebrow. Drash and Nysl were two mainlander kingdoms, thousands of miles away in the heart of the continent of Einan. These Legionnaires were far from home, yet they had chosen to remain. Likely career soldiers, men with no prospects beyond battle and the military. He could understand that—his father had given forty years to the Legion, and had seemed lost, cast adrift in the turbulent sea of civilian life in Icespire, once he was retired.

&nb
sp; “How many?” Aravon asked.

  “One hundred eighty.” Lord Eidan’s lips formed a small frown. “Half are veterans, but the other half are mostly raw recruits, or those recovering from bouts of the Bloody Flux.”

  Aravon had seen the plague spread through Legion encampments like a deadly wind, decimating companies and killing even the strongest of men. The fact that these recovered meant they were fighters in spirit as well as body.

  “They marched out of Highkeep last night.” Lord Eidan ran a finger along the map toward Eastland Tower, Westhaven’s capital, situated seventy-five miles from the Chain, then continued further south. “You will rendezvous with them here at Bannockburn, five miles north of the destroyed Rivergate Bridge. From there, it’s up to you to figure out the best way to deal with the situation.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. Even with nearly two hundred men at his back, they faced three thousand enemies. No access to Rivergate itself, no way to safely cross the fast-flowing Standelfr River, and the knowledge that every day’s delay meant starvation and death for the besieged Legionnaires, regulars, and citizenry of Rivergate.

  “There is no doubt that this is an impossible mission.” Duke Dyrund fixed Aravon with a solemn gaze. “Yet, after Bjornstadt and the Battle of Broken Canyon, I have faith that you and your men are up for the challenge.”

  Aravon exchanged glances with Colborn. The half-Fehlan Lieutenant frowned, the wheels in his mind already at work.

  Duke Dyrund raised a clenched fist. “Whatever supplies we can make available to you, tell us and it will be yours. But you are Rivergate’s only hope. Without you, every one of them dies.”

  A weight of responsibility settled on Aravon’s shoulders. Though he and his small company had trained for this precise purpose, confronted with a task so daunting, he found himself wavering. The odds were beyond hopeless.