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

by Andy Peloquin

  A single figure stood atop the Coracle, a hulking giant of a man that seemed somehow perfect for the gargantuan monstrosity he rode. Balegar, the Nyslian giant, had volunteered for the position—better to risk one soldier’s life than the three Legionnaires required to carry out the most important task of all.

  Come on, Balegar! Aravon’s fists clenched so tightly his leather gloves creaked. The Coracle floated downstream at a tremendous speed, racing toward the four massive piles that had once held the Rivergate Bridge aloft. Each of the supports were made from water-hardened river stone, easily fifteen feet thick around. If the Coracle plowed into those pillars, the Standelfr River would turn the wooden vessel to splinters—and the enormous Legionnaire with it.

  Aravon’s mind raced as he tried to calculate the Coracle’s approach, speed, and distance from the piles, but gave it up. He was no sailor or riverboatman. This was the part that Zaharis had been most specific about; a single second’s delay could spell the end of their plan.

  Closer, closer, closer, one hammering heartbeat at a time; the floating wooden monstrosity raced along on the Standelfr’s current, racing toward a stony doom—or the salvation of Rivergate.

  Then Balegar moved. Stooping, he bent his back to the massive stone anchor secured just beyond the prow of the Coracle. For a second, Aravon feared the weight too ponderous for the giant. Yet, as Balegar strained, the stone anchor slowly lifted and toppled off the side of the wooden boat. It hit the river with a loud splash and plummeted to the bottom of the Standelfr. Coils of rope snaked off the side of the Coracle, then snapped tight as the anchor struck riverbed. The prow of the boat tilted, dipped, and veered violently to the right, pulled toward the northern cliff face by the force of the river tugging against its anchor line.

  Aravon’s heart leapt into his throat as rope creaked and groaned beneath the strain. The Legionnaires on the riverbank hauled hard on the rope attached to the bow, pulling it closer to the northern cliff face. Five enormous logs attached to the Coracle’s prow, like the teeth of a naval ram, slammed into the stony riverbank with earth-shuddering force. Two gave a loud crack and shattered beneath the impact, but the remaining three held fast.

  Zaharis’ design held true. The Coracle’s bow remained unmoving, secured to the stone anchor, but the stern floated free on the current. With the ponderous lethargy of a Frozen Sea glacier, the stern swung outward. A slow shift, yet faster and faster as the river clutched the Coracle in its watery grip. Pivoting, its bow locked in place by the anchor rope and kept from slamming into the bank by its prow. One hundred and eighty yards of hulking, floating wooden scaffolding swung outward and floated toward the stone piles of Rivergate Bridge.

  Aravon’s eyes snapped to the figure of Balegar, racing along the flat top of the Coracle. His heavy boots thudded on the wooden planking as he raced the one hundred and fifty yards to where the second stone anchor sat waiting to be released.

  A fist of ice clutched Aravon’s heart. He’s not going to make it!

  The huge Nyslian moved with impressive speed for someone his size, yet he was no Belthar. His lumbering steps would never cross such a distance in the seconds he had left before the side of the pivoting Coracle slammed into the stone piles.

  Dread sank like a stone in Aravon’s gut as he watched the scaffolding-like construction floating toward its doom. He could do nothing but wait, breathless, his stomach in knots, as Balegar raced against time and the force of nature.

  Yet somehow, impossibly, Balegar reached the anchor just in time. The Nyslian giant threw his shoulder against the heavy stone and heaved. It seemed an eternity before the boulder toppled off the side of the Coracle and dropped out of sight into the Standelfr. Within the space of a second, the rope snapped tight and the boat jerked to a shuddering stop. Less than five yards from the stone pile that would have shattered it and Balegar with it.

  The huge Nyslian was thrown from his feet by the sudden force and flew off the side. He barely managed to seize the anchor rope as he hurtled over the Coracle’s edge. Aravon let out the breath he’d been holding as Balegar pulled himself back up and onto the boat.

  Yes! Hope once more bloomed in Aravon’s mind. The two anchor ropes had held thus far. As Balegar scrambled back onto the Coracle, he rushed back along the wooden planking toward the anchor set in the middle of the huge construction. Pausing only long enough to heave the last anchor over the side, he turned and raced toward the tow ropes the Legionnaires had used to keep the boat in position.

  “Move!” Aravon called the order. Even as Captain Lemaire relayed the order, Aravon burst from the forest and raced toward the Legionnaires on the riverbank. By the time he reached them and took up a rope, Balegar had unhooked the tow ropes from their hooks and now knelt to secure the ropes to another pair of hooks set into the two hooks at the end of the plank bridge.

  “Heave!” Aravon hissed to the men. Together, he and the six men leaned their weight against the ropes, and the plank bridge slid out from the prow of the Coracle toward the riverbank. Belthar was suddenly there, and with his help, the Legionnaires pulled out a wooden plank bridge thirty yards long—long enough to span the distance between the riverbank and the bow of their wooden construction.

  Captain Lemaire and ten Legionnaires were already at the riverbank, ready to race across the plank bridge and onto the Coracle. With Balegar at their head, they sprinted toward the stern of the huge construction and set about extending the plank bridge on the far end. But instead of designing the stern bridge to slide outward, Zaharis had insisted Bannockburn’s blacksmith secure this one on massive hinges that secured one end to the stern of the Coracle—the only way it could span the distance without ropes secured to the southern riverbank.

  Four knelt to unhook the tow ropes on the aft end, secured the ropes to the aft plank bridge, then helped Balegar, Captain Lemaire, and the others heave the bridge upward. Wooden push poles had been placed atop the Coracle for the precise purpose of shoving the plank bridge higher, higher, one hammering heartbeat at a time. Balegar and the ten Legionnaires beside him pushed until the bridge stood straight up. Gravity did the rest and the plank bridge dropped onto the riverbank—with the ropes to slow its descent and prevent it from breaking. It still crashed onto the stony ground, and Aravon winced at the sudden noise.

  Yet there were no Eirdkilrs or Jokull nearby to hear them; all enemies still living were too busy with Colborn’s distraction.

  Aravon was the first to race up the plank bridge and into Rivergate. Belthar thumped up the plank bridge on his heels, with Captain Lemaire, Balegar, and the remaining men following. Aravon barked out quiet orders, sending Legionnaires scurrying toward the shadows between the darkened houses that bordered the Marshway. In less than a minute, all the Legionnaires had crossed and taken up positions in two alleys on the eastern and western sides of the main avenue. Only once he was certain Skathi and her small company of archers had crossed did Aravon join the men gathered in the alley west of the Marshway.

  He drew in a deep breath, grim determination hardening within him. Fifty men was a pitiful force against close to three thousand enemies, but two solid shield walls of twenty-five Legionnaires—supported by Belthar, Skathi, Woryn, and four archers—could do serious damage to an enemy caught unaware.

  And, thanks to Zaharis’ brilliant and devious mind, they would hit the Eirdkilrs and Jokull from behind.

  Fifty-seven soldiers, fewer than half a proper Legion company, but if the men at his side fought with even a fraction of the anger that burned with Aravon, the enemy stood no chance.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aravon shot a quick glance at the twenty-five Legionnaires formed up opposite him, crowding in an alley on the western side of the Marshway. Belthar stood in the rear beside Captain Lemaire, ready to relay Aravon’s orders. Skathi and two of the archers held position in the big man’s shadow, arrows nocked and gripped tight.

  Woryn and the other two archers had taken up identical positions behind Aravo
n, who had a hulking bodyguard of his own. Balegar, the giant Nyslian Corporal, held a Legion shield in a loose, easy grip—it seemed to weigh nothing, and offered scant protection for his enormous, heavily-muscled frame—a hewing spear in his right hand. A standard-issue Legion short sword would be little more than a dagger to the big soldier. With his reach, the long-bladed polearm gave him a significant advantage over the smaller Jokull, and certainly put him on par with the seven-foot-tall Eirdkilrs.

  Right now, they’d need every advantage they could get. Aravon hesitated only a moment before giving Belthar the silent hand signal to advance. Zaharis’ fire wall still blazed bright south of the city’s outer wall, but there was no telling how long the conflagration could last in the muddy Fehlan swamplands. Or how long the Eirdkilrs and Jokull would remain focused on the fire and the inevitable surprise attack by Colborn’s company.

  They had to take advantage of that distraction to launch a surprise attack of their own.

  The Legionnaires marched out of the alley as quietly as heavily-armored men carrying heavy shields could manage. The shouts and howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs provided ample cover. For now.

  Aravon signaled to Belthar. “Slow and steady.” His eyes flicked to Skathi. “Keep a sharp eye.”

  The Agrotora nodded but didn’t release her longbow and the nocked arrow. Her grip was loose, her shoulders relaxed, but Aravon knew she could draw, aim, and loose in less time than it would take him to call out an order. He trusted her—and Belthar, beside Captain Lemaire—to handle their business. He had only to focus on his own platoons.

  “Stay ready,” he told Woryn.

  “Nothing gets past us, sir.” The man spoke in a low voice that echoed with a confidence that matched the easy way he held his bow. For a Legionnaire, he seemed remarkably comfortable taking up an archer’s weapons. And, as Aravon had seen first-hand, he was a deadly shot. Not quite as good as Skathi, but a damned sight better than most. Aravon doubted Noll or Colborn could outshoot the man easily.

  Then there was the enormous Balegar looming over him. Captain Lemaire had made the Corporal’s duty as plain as the thick Nyslian nose on his face: “Keep Captain Snarl safe, no matter what.” The Captain had given Aravon a wry grin. “Easier than trying to explain to the Prince why I let his special envoy fall in battle.”

  Aravon welcomed the hulking Corporal’s presence. Since the ambush on the Eastmarch, he hadn’t been able to lift a Legion shield. He’d grown adept at wielding his Odarian steel-headed spear, but now, marching in a proper Legion battle line, he had to fight like a proper Legionnaire. That meant using the spear the way a Legionnaire would—to stab over the front ranks and bite back at any enemies locked against the shield wall. But that left him exposed to Eirdkilr arrows and Jokull slings. With Balegar on his left, he could duck behind the big soldier’s shield and shelter from missile fire.

  He hoped the enemy wouldn’t have the time to bring their ranged weapons to bear. The plan was to hit hard from the rear and keep hitting until they pushed the enemy out of Rivergate. Simple, inelegant, but their only solution for retaking Rivergate and saving the starving Princelanders.

  Sweat soaked Aravon’s palms as he marched in silence behind his men. With ranks only eight wide and three deep, they had to rely on speed and surprise to carry the day.

  And one important element the Eirdkilrs hopefully aren’t expecting. A desperate addition to an insane plan, but their only hope.

  He sought out Skathi. “Do it!” he signed.

  As he turned his attention back to the road ahead, he caught the quiet thrum of the Agrotora’s longbow and the whistling of the arrow speeding off into the night.

  Please, he prayed to the Swordsman, for the sake of the innocents trapped within the keep, let this work. He no longer reached for Mylena’s pendant—the trinket had burned as a “grave gift” for Draian, a Fehlan custom. Instead, he tightened his grip on the smooth wooden shaft of his spear and clenched his jaw against the inevitable tremors that set in the seconds before battle. Fear kept a man’s mind sharp, but give in to it and it would turn to panic—panic that got men killed, not just the one losing his nerve, but everyone around him.

  The tension of every man in his small force was palpable as they marched down the Marshway toward the walls of the inner keep. Fires still blazed in the homes and shops bordering the broad avenue, lighting their way and painting the debris-strewn, bloodstained city streets a gory brown and black. Smoke thickened the air around them, a sharp bite in Aravon’s lungs that threatened to set him coughing, and billowed high into the night sky. Gritting his teeth, Aravon kept his pace steady, his steps quiet, moving in time with his men.

  Closer and closer they drew, until they could see the blood and gore staining the sealed keep gate, the marks left by Eirdkilr axes and clubs as they tried to batter the gate open. A rough-hewn log lay beside the gate, the improvised battering ram abandoned as the Eirdkilrs and Jokull turned away from the siege to burn Rivergate.

  Aravon sucked in a quiet breath as they reached the keep. No defenders stood atop the battlements, no calls to identify themselves or stand fast echoed from above. Silence and darkness greeted them from within.

  Clenching his jaw, Aravon turned to Belthar. “Be ready for anything,” he signed.

  Belthar saluted, a gentle thump of his fist against his alchemically treated armor, and turned to join Captain Lemaire and the rest of his company in taking the road that went along the eastern edge of the inner keep. Aravon’s company turned right, toward the western avenue. This was the moment of greatest peril. The forces divided, separated by the walls of the inner keep, they were vulnerable to counterattack. Yet they couldn’t risk taking just one of the roads that circumnavigated the inner keep. Hitting the enemy from both sides gave them the best chance of doing serious damage.

  Heart hammering in his chest, Aravon matched the steady pace of his Legionnaires. Step by agonizing step, the walls of the inner keep on their left flank and the dark alleys of Rivergate on their right, they marched toward the enemy. An enemy that far outnumbered them, but who they hoped to catch off-guard.

  Their plan was nearly foiled before they’d traveled half the distance around the keep. Three Jokull raiders stumbled out of a nearby house, drunk off whatever liquor sloshed within the clay pitchers they’d pilfered from Rivergate’s tavern. The blond-bearded, fur-clad Fehlans stopped short at the sight of the oncoming Legionnaires and opened their mouths to cry out.

  Woryn’s arrow took one in the gaping mouth, punching into his brain and dropping him like a sack of rocks. The other two archers loosed a heartbeat later, their shafts whipping past the formed-up Legionnaires and hurtling through the night to slam into the second enemy. The man fell, feathered by a pair of missiles in his throat and groin.

  The third, however, managed to turn and flee south, in the direction of their camp. A howling war cry burst from his throat.

  A flying spear silenced his call. The thrown polearm struck him with such force it knocked him forward, sending him sliding across the cobblestones. The Jokull never rose, but the shaft of a familiar hewing spear quivered in its sheath of muscle and bone.

  Aravon turned a surprised glance on Balegar. The big man’s arm was fully extended forward, and he had just begun recovering from the throw. A throw that, Aravon realized, had sent the spear a full eighty yards. And not the sort of spear designed for throwing; no javelin this, but a full-length hewing spear that had to weigh upwards of ten pounds, shaft to head.

  “Good reflexes,” Aravon said, approval echoing in his quiet voice. He’d once more fallen into the role of a Legion Captain, trusting his men to deal with individual enemies while he focused on the battle at large, so he hadn’t even thought to throw his own spear. Not that he’d have had much chance of hitting the Jokull from this range. Balegar’s cast was a feat few in the Legion—even the massive Belthar—could have replicated.

  Balegar accepted the compliment with a grunt as he drew the Fehlan-s
tyle longsword that hung at his hip. With a whispered command, Aravon set their small company in motion once more.

  His eyes went to the dead Jokull lying on the cobblestone street. Blood pooled around the bodies in an ever-widening pool, darkening their blond beards and staining their furs. He’d never seen a Jokull up close—they resembled the Deid and Smida, though with much leaner, gaunter features and more ragged furs. The Jokull marshes were harsh, with little dry ground to grow crops or raise livestock. The wetland clan’s diet subsisted chiefly of fish, frogs, eels, and other water-bound creatures they could catch. Not a life of prosperity, made even harder by the Legion’s presence on their eastern border.

  No wonder they joined the Eirdkilrs! Aravon shook his head as he stepped over the first body, his boots splashing in Fehlan blood. Anyone would seize a chance to claim not only Rivergate, but as much of Westhaven as their warriors could capture.

  Only Commander Rheamus’ quick thinking had stymied the plan. Now, Swordsman willing, Aravon’s men would push them back. Perhaps once the Jokull had lost, they would consider diplomacy. Then again, a loss could only compound their hatred of the Princelanders—the “half-men” their Eirdkilr cousins hated with such ferocity.

  Either way, that doesn’t matter now. Aravon tightened his grip on his spear. All that matters is that we win here. Diplomacy and relations with the Fehlan clans was a concern for politicians like Duke Dyrund, not a simple military man.

  The howling of the Eirdkilrs and Jokull warriors grew louder as they approached the inner keep’s southern edge. Aravon slowed his men—this close to the enemy, they had to move slow and quiet to avoid discovery until the right moment. The Legionnaires squared their shoulders and tightened grips on their weapons. Balegar had paused in his advance long enough to rip his hewing spear free of the slain Jokull; now, he hefted the polearm, bloodstained tip dripping along the cobblestone street.