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

by Andy Peloquin

  Noll’s face hardened in a scowl, but he could find no reply. “Pah!” he finally spat, then turned on his heel and stalked off into the darkness.

  Aravon was about to pursue the scout—Noll needed to get over his innate distrust of Rangvaldr if they were to fight side by side—but Rangvaldr’s quiet voice stopped him.

  “Leave him, Captain.” The Seiomenn sighed and shook his head. “Truth be told, I do not resent his suspicion. Had I not known what manner of man Duke Dyrund is, I, too, would have been suspicious of your motives for joining the fight at Bjornstadt.”

  Aravon turned a questioning gaze on him.

  “Fear not, Captain.” Rangvaldr gave him a small smile. “The Duke is not the only Princelander I have come to respect. Your courage in defending my home was what made up my mind to join you. And, as I have sworn to you and the Duke both, you have my loyalty to the end.”

  “I know that.” Aravon put a hand on the Fehlan’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry about Noll. He’s been a soldier too long. Trust comes hard to a man who’s known war and death all his life.”

  “Speaking from experience?” The little smile on Rangvaldr’s face held warmth as he studied Aravon. “You seem to have survived your years as a soldier surprisingly unhardened.”

  “Blame Mylena for that.” Aravon shrugged. “It’s hard to hate with someone so loving in your life.”

  “You’re more fortunate than most, Captain.” Rangvaldr chuckled. “From the Duke’s words, you alone among our company are blessed with family.”

  “I…” The words caught Aravon off-guard. “I guess so.” He hadn’t given it much thought—he’d simply accepted the soldiers as his to command without digging into who they were beneath the armor. But it made sense that the Duke had only chosen those without familial ties. Easier not to exist with no one around to care about you.

  “And you?” he asked. “Any family waiting for you in Bjornstadt, or among the lovely ladies of the Eyrr?”

  Rangvaldr chuckled. “More than a few ladies.” Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Being the Seiomenn has its perks, after all.”

  Aravon couldn’t help smiling.

  “But no.” Rangvaldr shook his head. “No wife, no sons or daughters. Only the burden of my past as a warrior of the Eyrr, and my duties as Seiomenn to my people. All Fehlans, not just the Eyrr.”

  His tone of voice grew heavy, as if a burden weighed on his shoulders. Aravon had a pretty good idea as to its source. Noll’s accusation might not have been too far off the mark.

  “Can you do it?” he asked quietly. “Can you kill the Jokull, your own people?”

  Pain flashed across Rangvaldr’s face, but he stiffened. “Of course, Capt—”

  “No.” Aravon gripped the man’s shoulder tighter. “I ask this not as your commanding officer, but as a fellow soldier. A friend.” He drew in a deep breath. “You were right when you said that carrying around the guilt of Draian’s death will consume me from the inside. But if killing the Jokull will do the same to you, I want to know. Maybe there’s another way. A way that doesn’t force you to raise sword against Fehlans.”

  A sad smile played on Rangvaldr’s lips. “I thank you, Captain. Truly. Your concern does you credit.” He drew in a long breath, exhaled slowly. “Truth be told, I had thought of asking you just that. I could stay back from the battle, find a way to help where I am not forced to bear the burden of Jokull deaths on my conscience.”

  “But?” Aravon cocked his head.

  “But if I did that, I would be no better than Ailmaer.”

  Aravon’s eyes widened. Ailmaer, Chief of the Eyrr clan, had cowered in the longhouse—claiming to “protect” the women and children—during the battle of Bjornstadt. Any man who had fought as bravely as Rangvaldr could never be considered craven.

  “Ailmaer hid from the difficult choice,” Rangvaldr said, his voice quiet. “He faced an impossible decision but rather than choose a path, no matter how difficult to walk down, he opted for inaction. In avoiding that responsibility, he proved himself a coward.”

  “And you will not hide from the difficult choice here.” Aravon nodded understanding. “Even if it burdens your heart?”

  “My heart will be strong, knowing I am doing the right thing for my people.” The words seemed to cost Rangvaldr, yet he spoke them nonetheless. “I will carry the burden, as is my duty as Seiomenn, for the sake of the Eyrr and all Fehlans. With it, I also carry the hope that one day—soon, if Nuius is good—I will once again put down my sword never to pick it up again.”

  “That is the hope.” Aravon gave Rangvaldr a warm smile. “And that is why Duke Dyrund selected us, and now you, for this mission. If we can find a way to put an end to the Eirdkilrs, Fehl will once again know peace.”

  “And I will do everything in my power to hasten that day.” Rangvaldr let out another long breath. “Even if I must carry the weight of Jokull deaths on my conscience.”

  “I never doubted you.” Aravon rested a hand on the Seiomenn’s shoulder. “Given time, Noll and the others will feel the same.”

  “Indeed.” Rangvaldr’s expression grew grave. “But, perhaps Noll was not as far off as he believed.”

  Aravon cocked his head. “Oh?”

  Rangvaldr shook his head. “I am not the only Fehlan that will raise a hand against their own in this battle.” He turned his palms upward. “Colborn will find himself facing a difficult choice in the mission ahead. One I am not certain he is prepared for.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “You think Colborn’s going to have a problem?”

  Rangvaldr shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt to ask. He is a strong man, yet even the mightiest oak will bow beneath the weight of a mountain.”

  Aravon opened his mouth to reply, yet stopped himself. He had no doubt Colborn would do whatever was needed to win the battle, no matter what. But what manner of commander would he be if he ignored the Seiomenn’s advice?

  Finally, Aravon nodded. “I will speak with him about it.”

  “You are a good man, Captain Aravon of the Princelands.” Rangvaldr returned the grip, fingers strong and firm around Aravon’s forearm. “A good man, and a better commander.”

  Aravon flushed beneath the praise, warmth burning bright in his chest. His respect for the Seiomenn had only increased after this conversation. Rangvaldr knew the truth of his actions, yet he bore the weight of his position without hesitation. That strength and sincerity of spirit shone in his eyes, echoed in every word.

  After a long moment, Rangvaldr released his hand and stepped back. “Now, Captain, by your leave, I will go help Colborn prepare the Legionnaires to march.”

  “Of course.” Aravon nodded. “May the Swordsman guide your steps and strengthen your arm, Rangvaldr.”

  A warm smile broadened the Seiomenn’s face, and his hand went to the gemstone pendant around his neck. “And may Nuius’ wisdom light your path to victory.” With a little bow, he slung his pack over his shoulder and hurried toward the Legion encampment.

  Aravon watched the man go. If he’d had any doubts about the man before, they were erased now. Fehl or not, no matter what happened, Rangvaldr would stand beside his companions.

  A hand on his shoulder brought Aravon spinning around. Zaharis thrust a rolled-up parchment at him. “Make sure Belthar doesn’t stray from my exact instructions,” the Secret Keeper signed. “Whatever his talents are, architecture isn’t one of them.”

  Aravon chuckled and took the parchment. “I’ll impress upon him the importance of being precise.”

  Zaharis turned to leave, but paused mid-step. He shot a glance over his shoulder at Aravon. “He’s right, you know. Rangvaldr.”

  “Right about what?” Aravon asked.

  “You are a good man, Captain.” The Secret Keeper smiled. “Anyone who cares about his men like you do is worth following. Even on a half-baked, suicidal plan like this.”

  Aravon was so stunned by Zaharis’ words that he failed to form a coherent reply before the Secret K
eeper had drawn too far away.

  “Captain?” A quiet voice from immediately behind him snapped Aravon from his thoughts.

  Aravon spun and nearly jumped as he found Noll standing two feet away. Noll returned from wherever he’d stomped off to, his anger had faded, and with the return of calm, he once again moved with the stealthy grace that made him such an effective scout.

  “Swordsman!” Aravon swore. “You’d give Colborn a run for his money, sneaking up on a fellow like that.”

  A grin broke Noll’s expression, but disappeared a moment later, replaced by a frown. “You really trust him?” His eyes darted in the direction of Rangvaldr’s retreating back. “He’s a Fehlan, after all.”

  “A Fehlan, yes,” Aravon said, “but one who’s joined our cause. The cause of bringing peace to Fehl and putting an end to this war with the Eirdkilrs.”

  Noll’s expression grew pensive. “So if our places were switched, and you were going out into enemy territory, you’d want him in dagger-range of your back?”

  Aravon nodded without hesitation. “Yes. Beneath the warrior is the healer who saved lives back at Bjornstadt, the Seiomenn who cares for his people. He believes in what we’re doing, and why we’re doing it. That’s enough for me, and it ought to be enough for you, too.”

  The scout’s eyes narrowed in thought, and he remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he shrugged. “So be it.” He fixed Aravon with a piercing stare. “You might be a shite archer, respectfully sir, but you’ve proven yourself a half-decent judge of character.”

  “Thank you?” Aravon raised an eyebrow. Leave it to Noll to insult and compliment him in one breath.

  “Don’t mention it.” Noll shook his head. “Ever. You tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it up and down.”

  Aravon chuckled. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Good.” Now a small smile broadened Noll’s face. “See you tomorrow night, Captain.”

  “Swordsman be with you.” Aravon clapped the little man on the shoulder. “Now get hoofing, or you’ll never reach your destination in time for us to kick Eirdkilr arse!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Captain Snarl, I mean no disrespect, but I am obliged to question this course of action.” Captain Lemaire turned toward him. “Is it truly wise to send my Legionnaires into enemy territory with only their weapons?”

  Aravon stifled a grunt; he’d expected resistance from Captain Lemaire the moment he’d suggested the plan.

  “Yes, Captain.” He spoke to the Nyslian officer without turning his masked face away from the column of men marching into the pre-dawn darkness. “The weight of their armor and shields will drag them down in the wetlands. They need to be as light as possible to get across the Standelfr, through the marshes, and into position in time for the attack.”

  Even leaving now, at the fourth hour after midnight, they’d be cutting it close. A Legionnaire could march close to four miles per hour loaded down with armor and pack. With their burden lightened, they could fast-march as much as five miles per hour—on good terrain. The distance to the crossing was ten miles, and they had to be across the Standelfr River before the sun fully rose, else risk being spotted by Jokull scouts. Setting a quick pace, Colborn and his men would complete that first leg of the journey in good time.

  But once they crossed the river and entered the marshlands, their pace would slow to a crawl—one, perhaps two, miles per hour. Aravon had no idea how far out of their way Colborn’s company would have to go to evade Jokull watchers. Stealth was their priority, not speed. They had to remain invisible to the enemies until the moment they attacked. Depending on how vigilant the Jokull were, that could tack hours onto a journey of at least ten miles wading through deep marshes, muddy bogs, and quicksands. Not a journey to rush if they wanted to arrive alive and undetected.

  Aravon had set his best soldiers to the task. Colborn and Rangvaldr were Fehlans, experienced in the ways of hunting, tracking, and moving through rough terrain—though the Eyrr lands on eastern Fehl were far less inhospitable than the Jokull marshlands. Zaharis and Noll had both excelled under Colborn’s tutelage at Camp Marshal. The four of them had the greatest chance of reaching their destination in time.

  But could they do it with a hundred and thirty of Topaz Battalion at their backs? Colborn had hand-picked the men, yet worry had been evident in his eyes as he set off at the head of their column. Aravon could only trust that the Fehlans, scout, and the Secret Keeper could pull this off.

  If they don’t, Rivergate will fall.

  Aravon turned to Captain Lemaire. “I know you’re only thinking of your men’s safety, Captain. As am I.”

  “Sending them into battle against the Eirdkilrs with no armor or shields?” Skepticism flashed across Lemaire’s face. “That is not exactly what I would consider safe, Capitaine.”

  Aravon couldn’t fault the man his disbelief. Truth be told, that was his least favorite part of their plan. Sending unarmored Legionnaires against the Eirdkilrs went against every rule of warfare he’d learned over his fifteen years of service. Everyone, from the highest-ranked General to the lowliest, latrine-digging Private, knew that the Legion’s strength lay in its armor, its shields, and its ability to fight in synchronicity as a cohesive unit.

  But this wasn’t time for “standard”, tried-and-tested tactics, not in this battle. Against such impossible odds, they had to take a big risk if they wanted any hope of success.

  “It’s not.” Aravon shrugged. “But if I know one thing about Legionnaires, it’s that they never back down from a fight if there’s a chance of winning. Especially one their Captain is confident they can win.” He turned to the Nyslian officer. “You don’t know me well, Captain, but you should know that I would never send others into a battle I wasn’t willing to fight. The only reason I’m not going myself is that I’m not the right man for the job. My people are, and they’ll do everything in their power to see your men get through this alive. You and me and those of us left here, it’s up to us to do our parts. Rivergate is depending on us, Captain. Your comrades, friends, and families. We’re their only hope, faint as that may be.”

  A long moment stretched on as Captain Lemaire studied Aravon’s eyes, the only thing visible beneath the leather greatwolf mask. Finally, he inclined his head. “As you say, sir.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but seemed to think better of it. “With your permission, I will check up on our other project?”

  “Thank you.” Aravon nodded. “Make sure my man’s instructions are followed to the letter.”

  “It shall be as if he built it himself, Capitaine.” His fist thumped against his breastplate in the Legion’s salute and, with crisp movements, he turned on his heel and strode back to camp, toward the distant sound of ringing hammers and whirring saws.

  A quiet whining echoed from the nearby bushes, and Aravon caught a glimpse of two amber eyes. Brow furrowing, he hurried toward the thicket and ducked into the shadows of an overhanging beech tree.

  “Snarl, what are you doing here?” He knelt and scooped up the Enfield—a task that had grown much more difficult, given how fast Snarl had grown over the previous few weeks. “You’re supposed to be with Colborn!”

  Snarl gave a soft whining bark and licked Aravon’s mask. His wings flapped as he nuzzled his face against Aravon’s leather armor, pressing his furry body close.

  “I know you don’t want to leave.” Aravon scratched Snarl’s scruff, so soft and silky. “But I need you to.”

  He didn’t know if Snarl understood what he was saying—sometimes the Enfield was little more than a wild animal, and at other times he stared up a Aravon with such intelligence in his eyes that Aravon almost believed the animal would speak—but he trusted in Snarl’s training. Duke Dyrund had shared the simple words of command that gave the Enfield basic instructions like “Stay”, “Go”, or “Follow”.

  Aravon had instructed Snarl to follow Colborn, and the Enfield had obediently trotted off into the darkness in
pursuit of the Lieutenant. Yet now, he stood here, snuggled in Aravon’s arms, clearly unwilling to leave him.

  “Go, Snarl,” Aravon whispered into his ear, stroking the Enfield’s soft fur. “Go, and keep my friends safe.”

  Kneeling, he set Snarl onto the ground and spoke the command words to “Go” and “Follow”. The Enfield turned those brilliant, yellow-glowing eyes on him, and for a moment, Aravon thought he saw sadness glimmering there. Snarl’s pink tongue flashed out to lick Aravon’s hand and, with a little whining bark, he turned and padded off into the darkness after Colborn.

  A lump rose in Aravon’s throat as Snarl disappeared into the foliage. He hated being apart from the Enfield, but he needed to send Snarl with Colborn in case they had to send an emergency message or call off the attack. He would have to trust that the Enfield could avoid Jokull archers, that he’d be safe in enemy territory. Like Aravon, Colborn, and the others, Snarl was one more soldier on a mission for the Princelands. He had his own battles to fight.

  Thoughts of Colborn brought Rangvaldr’s words to Aravon’s mind Damn it! He ground his teeth in frustration. He’d been on his way to speak with Colborn when the Nyslian captain sidetracked him, and now the Lieutenant had departed.

  He’ll be fine, Aravon tried to tell himself. The words felt hollow, but it was too late for him to call the Lieutenant back. He’s got the mission to keep him focused.

  Aravon stood and strode out of the bushes, back onto the open ground south of the Legion encampment. He had just turned to follow Captain Lemaire—he figured it was high time he check up on Belthar’s progress on Zaharis’ construction—when a call stopped him short.

  “Captain!” Skathi’s voice echoed from the south, in the direction of Rivergate Bridge.

  Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat as he spun toward the archer, who raced across the field toward him. He’d left her at the bridge to keep an eye on the Eirdkilrs and Jokull guarding the crumbled bridge, and to figure the best position for her handful of archers. The only reason she’d abandon her post was if something serious had happened.