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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon drew in a deep breath as they reached the southwestern corner of the inner keep’s wall. The moment of truth.

  As they rounded the bend in the road, Aravon had a full view of the chaos gripping southern Rivergate. A sea of Jokull and Eirdkilr warriors stood between them and the outer wall’s south gate, which had been thrown wide. Through the open gate, Aravon caught sight of the blazing inferno Zaharis had used to lure the enemy away.

  Brilliant flames of red and orange licked at the swamplands south of the city, bathing the land around Rivergate in blinding light. And there, limned in the glow of the raging fire, stood Colborn’s Legionnaires. One hundred and thirty strong, arrayed in six ranks twenty men wide, with Colborn, Rangvaldr, Noll, and Zaharis at their head. They wore no armor, carried no shields, but they threw themselves at the Eirdkilrs and Jokull with a roar that echoed off the stone walls of Rivergate.

  Aravon’s heart leapt to his throat. Colborn’s men had no chance of winning the battle against so many enemies. They hadn’t taken more than a half-dozen steps before they were swarmed by towering Eirdkilrs and howling, ragged Jokull. If they stood fast, they died.

  But Colborn was too wily to stand. Before the enemy could fully surround them, a blinding BOOM split the air in the middle of the Eirdkilr ranks. A pillar of fire burst high into the sky for a brief instant. That instant was all it took for Colborn’s Legionnaires to break off and flee. The one hundred and thirty men split in half and took off east and west, racing along the wall of burning flames and disappearing into the darkness beyond.

  The Eirdkilrs’ howls of rage split the night, echoed by the Jokull war cries. “Death to the half-men!” The Eirdkilrs’ battle chant rang off the walls of Rivergate, and the thunder of their feet set the ground trembling. A rolling tide of enemies—more than a thousand Fehlans and barbarians—surged through the gates to give chase to the fleeing Legionnaires.

  Aravon’s heart leapt as he watched the enemies streaming through the flung-open gates. Every passing second diminished the forces arrayed against them until, when the flow of pursuers finally slackened off, the number of the remaining besiegers had been slashed. Of the twenty-three hundred Jokull assaulting the city, Aravon guessed nearly half had raced after Colborn’s men. Two hundred Eirdkilrs had joined in the pursuit. That left a thousand enemies in Rivergate.

  A thousand against the fifty Legionnaires divided between Aravon and Captain Lemaire’s companies. That’s what Noll would call shite odds. A wry smile crooked Aravon’s face beneath his mask. Let’s see if a surprise attack can turn those in our favor.

  He had just opened his mouth to sound the attack, when a roar erupted from the southeastern corner of the inner keep. Aravon’s heart leapt to his throat as he caught sight of Captain Lemaire’s company charging down the avenue that led toward the inner keep’s south gate. He’d intended to attack first, bearing the brunt of the Eirdkilr and Jokull in the precious seconds it took for the rear assault to divert the enemy. But the run-in with the drunk Jokull had slowed them down, meaning the Nyslian Captain had the unenviable privilege of springing the trap.

  Aravon would be a step behind.

  “Charge!” he hissed, as quiet as he could manage.

  All Eirdkilr and Jokull eyes had turned away from the gate, in time to see Captain Lemaire’s men burst from the shadows along the eastern edge of the keep. So stunned were they by the presence of Legionnaires in their midst that they failed to meet the charge. Skathi’s arrows flew as fast as the Agrotora could fire, scything down the enemies clustered in front of the inner keep’s gate. Legionnaires hurled their hand axes at Jokull and Eirdkilrs too shocked to raise their round, steel-rimmed shields. Fifty enemies fell in the space of seconds.

  But those seconds were all it took for the enemy to recover. Surprise gave way to rage, and Eirdkilr howls echoed with delight at a new foe to slaughter. After days besieging the inner keep’s stone walls, they finally faced flesh and blood. The war cries of “Death to the half-men!” thundered through Rivergate and echoed off the high walls.

  Towering Eirdkilrs charged the clustered Legionnaires, waving enormous axes, spears, and clubs large enough to shatter a man’s skull and helmet in a single blow. The smaller Jokull raced in their larger cousins’ wake, waving spears rusted by years of fishing and frogging. Yet in such numbers, they could have fought bare-handed and overwhelmed Captain Lemaire’s forces.

  Aravon’s Legionnaires broke into a run, crossing a hundred yards toward the main avenue before the enemy spotted them. One Jokull half-turned, caught a glimpse of them, and fell with Woryn’s arrow in his throat before he could cry out. But the man’s three comrades, clustered around a brazier, saw the new threat and raised their voices in alarm.

  The time for stealth and subterfuge had ended. Aravon raised his voice in a roar. “For the Legion!”

  The three archers on the flanks sent a stream of shafts at the enemy, loosing one arrow after another, emptying their quivers into Fehlan and Eirdkilr bodies. As one, the soldiers drew their swords and lowered their shoulders into their shields.

  The wall of Legionnaires collided with the dispersed, surprised Eirdkilrs and Jokull with a deafening clash of steel and wood on flesh. Blood sprayed in the air as Legion short swords punched through ragged furs, leather armor, and enemy muscle and bone. Eirdkilr howls turned to cries of agony as the Legionnaires bowled through the scattered barbarians, and Fehlans fell beneath the charging Princelanders.

  Caught off-guard, attacked from both sides, the Jokull and Eirdkilrs seemed confused, disoriented. Of the thousand remaining enemies, only two hundred or so managed to mount any sort of defense. Eirdkilrs raised their huge shields in time to repel Legionnaire swords, and a handful of Jokull threw themselves against the solid wood-and-steel wall arrayed against them. Aravon’s men scythed them down in twos, threes, and fives. Facing a cohesive barrier of shields—with Legion short swords behind to bite back—the disorganized mass of barbarians stood no chance.

  Yet, slowly, one man at a time, the Eirdkilrs recovered from their surprise. Five, ten, twenty more joined those streaming toward Aravon’s shield wall. The huge barbarians threw themselves against the Legionnaires with howls of rage and flashing weapons.

  The first casualty came less than ten seconds into the battle. A Private of Third Company in the front rank fell, skull crushed by an enormous Eirdkilr axe. Even as the Legionnaires closed ranks and brought down the barbarian that slew their companion, a wild-eyed Jokull threw himself into the gap. Aravon thrust his spear into the man’s face, opening his cheek to the bone, and the Sergeant anchoring the center of the second rank drove his shield into the stumbling Fehlan, hurling him backward. But when the non-com officer moved forward, he stepped into the path of a driving Eirdkilr spear. Bloodstained steel exploded out the back of the soldier’s head, spraying Aravon with hot gore. The Eirdkilr howled and, tearing his spear free, swung around for another attack on the Legion line.

  Balegar’s hewing spear sheared through the barbarian’s neck, separating his head from his shoulders. A Legionnaire in the third rank stepped up to close ranks, and the soldiers behind him filled in the gap he’d left. Yet they’d lost a tenth of their number in the space of a few heartbeats, and scores more Eirdkilrs streamed toward them.

  The forward momentum of their charge slowed as the Eirdkilrs and Jokull crashed into their line. Slowed, then stalled completely. To Aravon’s horror, as more and more of the enemy joined the battle, he and his company found themselves forced to retreat. Such a small, ragged shield wall couldn’t stand against ten times their number of the seven-foot barbarians.

  “Captain!” A shout from beside Aravon brought him whirling around, in time to see the giant Balegar raising his shield. An Eirdkilr arrow thunked into the shield, a steel-tipped head punching an inch through the wood.

  Aravon had no time to thank the man, or to search out the archer who had loosed the shaft. His world filled with the snarling faces, howling war cries, and flashin
g weapons of the enemy. The fires burning outside the walls filled the air with thick, noxious smoke and splashed the Eirdkilrs in a light that turned their faces hideous, bestial. The ringing chant of “Death to the half-men!” rang in his ears until it was all he could hear, all he could think.

  A Legionnaire in the front rank crumpled beneath the crushing blow of an Eirdkilr club, then another to a savage thrust from a Jokull spear. The Legionnaires tried to close ranks, tried to re-form the shield wall, but there were too few against far, far too many. Even a single instant of inattention could cost the few men left to him their lives.

  Aravon’s spear was a stabbing, thrusting blur of steel that sprayed blood with every attack. The archers’ bows had fallen silent; they’d run out of arrows, and now joined the ranks of Legionnaires stabbing short swords at the enemy pressed up against the shield wall. Yet even as he drove the Odarian steel spearhead into an Eirdkilr’s chest, Aravon knew the battle had turned against him.

  Balegar grunted beside him, and from the corner of his eye, Aravon caught sight of the Nyslian giant crumpling, an Eirdkilr axe carving a deep gash in his face. Two more Legionnaires fell, borne to the ground beneath the crush of enemy flesh and metal. The Nyslians screamed as the Jokull and Eirdkilrs tore them to shreds.

  Aravon’s heart sank, dread writhing like acid in his gut. The time had come to sound the retreat, before the Eirdkilrs and Jokull slaughtered them all.

  He opened his mouth to cry out, but his words were drowned beneath the roar of an Eirdkilr charging their ranks. The huge barbarian burst through the weakened shield wall, axe swinging, shearing through one Legionnaire’s upraised sword arm and crushing another’s armored shoulder.

  Before Aravon could bring up his spear to defend himself, the Eirdkilr’s backhanded attack crashed into his chest. The alchemically-treated leather held, but the force of the blow knocked the breath from his lungs and hurled him backward. Aravon’s boot slipped on blood-slicked cobblestones and he fell hard. Gasping for breath, pain shooting through his torso, Aravon could only look up, unable to move in time to dodge, block, or deflect the enormous Eirdkilr axe descending toward his head.

  Chapter Twenty

  Time slowed to a crawl as death came for Aravon. Hatred twisted the blue-stained face of the Eirdkilr standing above him. The steel axe head glinted in the light of the burning Rivergate homes, bits of blood and gore darkening its enormous half-moon edge.

  Impossibly, the axe halted mid-air. An enormous hand gripped the shaft just beneath the crimson-stained head, arresting its downward swing. Snarling, a bloody Balegar held the Eirdkilr at bay for a brief second.

  Just long enough for Aravon to recover and explode upward. The Eirdkilr had just turned his hate-filled glare on the Nyslian Corporal when Aravon’s spear punched through his throat. The blow, driven upward from a half-seated position, lacked the force of a proper thrust, but the Odarian steel spearhead sliced through flesh, gristle, and blood vessels. Hot, wet crimson gushed from the man’s throat and splashed onto Aravon, the arterial spray spattering Balegar’s face. Yet the giant soldier seemed not to notice; baring his teeth, he tore the enormous axe from the crumpling barbarian.

  Aravon scrambled to his feet, trying his best to ignore the ache in his chest and back. Clambering over the fallen Eirdkilr, he hurried to take his place in the re-forming line. The shadow of the giant Balegar towered on his right.

  The attacking barbarian had opened a gap in the shield wall, but the Legionnaires had managed to close ranks, lock their shields once more. Eirdkilr and Jokull axes, spears, and clubs battered at steel-reinforced Legion shields, and two more soldiers fell before Aravon could bring his own spear to bear. The attack had reduced his company to just over half their strength, and more enemies streamed toward them with every second, bestial cries of rage and glee filling the air.

  Then a new sound greeted him: the groan of enormous hinges. A roar of “For the Legion!” drowned out the Eirdkilr and Jokull cries, and a flood of armed and armored men burst from within the slowly-opening gates of the inner keep.

  Topaz Battalion had joined the fight, Duke Westhaven’s regulars at their backs.

  “Bring the fish-fuckers down!” A shout rang out across Rivergate. A hundred hand axes hurtled through the air, striking down scores of Eirdkilrs and Jokull caught off-guard by yet another surprise attack. Enemies torn by the desire to attack the two small companies on their western and eastern flank found themselves beset from the north. In the confusion that gripped the Eirdkilrs and Jokull, a swarm of Legionnaires stormed out of the inner keep’s gates.

  The foremost company—a full hundred men strong, formed up in a solid wall of armor and steel twenty men wide and five ranks deep—rolled over the enemies clustered before the gates. Straight down the broad avenue they charged, a hammer of fury and determination barreling toward Rivergate’s wide-open southern gate.

  The second company out of the gate wheeled left, falling onto the Eirdkilrs and Jokull hammering at Captain Lemaire’s soldiers. Seconds later, a third company rushed out and swiveled right, toward Aravon’s men. The two hundred Legionnaires crashed into the backs of their enemies, and Legion swords took a heavy toll before the Eirdkilrs or Jokull could fully turn to meet the charge.

  Triumph surged within Aravon’s chest—Commander Rheamus had received Skathi’s arrow-borne message in time—but he could spare no attention for the battle. The Eirdkilrs’ howls doubled in pitch and volume at the sight of their enemy and the thrown-open gates of the inner keep. Those attacking Aravon’s men fought a desperate battle, torn between their desire to slaughter the pathetically tiny group in front of them and the need to wheel and face the full-strength company at their backs.

  Aravon’s spear flashed in the fire-lit night, its razor edge punching through Eirdkilr armor, opening Jokull throats, knocking aside weapons aimed at his men. With his ranks reduced to fewer than twenty, he had to buy the men under his command a few more seconds until reinforcements arrived. Enemy weapons battered at the Legionnaire’s shields but the soldiers, raw recruits and veterans alike, weathered the storm of fury.

  Help arrived in the form of furious, hungry-eyed Legionnaires of Topaz Battalion. The Eirdkilrs and Jokull had no choice but to break off the assault on Aravon’s slowly-retreating force. Too late. Even as they turned to face the larger threat, the Legionnaires of Rivergate crashed into them with a deafening roar of steel and wood striking flesh. The smaller, leaner Jokull were hurled backward, stumbling into their comrades and entangling with their larger Eirdkilr allies. Enemies stumbled on prone bodies or blood-slicked stones, falling beneath flashing Legion swords.

  At that moment, a new sound pierced the din of battle: a resounding, rumbling BOOM. It was the sweetest thing he’d heard in a long time. He spared a glance to the south, found the men of Topaz Battalion formed up within the now-closed gate, the heavy iron portcullis dropped into place.

  Triumph surged within him. Yes! Commander Rheamus had heeded the order scrawled on the slip of paper Skathi had shot over the wall. His men had retaken the outer wall, held the gate against the enemies inside and outside the city.

  The tide of the impossible battle had turned in their favor.

  “Forward!” Aravon roared, waving his spearhead at the enemy. “Hit them hard!”

  His small force, now reduced to just seventeen, closed ranks—a ragged wall of shields six men wide and two ranks deep, with Aravon, Balegar, and the three archers in the rear—and charged the enemy.

  Aravon’s small company punched into the rear of the Eirdkilr and Jokull ranks. Legion short swords thrust between gaps in heavy shields, finding exposed legs, throats, arms, and blue-painted savage faces. One bloody step forward at a time, the cobblestones slick and sticky beneath their feet, the Legionnaires under Aravon’s command fought to bring down the enemies already locked in combat with the men of Topaz Battalion. Only a handful ever managed to turn and attempt to repel the assault—they died beneath a storm of Legion steel.<
br />
  Balegar’s enormous axe whirled above the heads of his comrades, his massive arms swinging the weapon with enough force to shear through Eirdkilr and Jokull necks, limbs, and bodies alike. Aravon’s spear darted forward time and again, a striking snake that left Fehlans and barbarians dead in its bloody wave. All the while, the twelve Legionnaires in the shield wall absorbed the brutal punishment, trusting in their shields, armor, and courage to stand strong. Even when one fell, then a second and third, the men reacted as they’d been trained, closing ranks, locking shields, and facing their foes as a unit.

  Then there were no more enemies. The last Eirdkilr fell, so suddenly that Aravon’s small company staggered. A small gap stood between Aravon’s men and the shield wall of Topaz Battalion. Eighty of the original one hundred remained, men with gaunt faces and eyes filled with hate for the enemy that lay dead at their feet.

  In the momentary pause after the battle, Aravon shouldered through his now-ragged ranks of Legionnaires.

  “Who’s in charge?” He had to shout to make his voice, muffled by the leather mask, heard over the din of the battle raging within Rivergate’s walls.

  “Me.” A tall, broad-shouldered Legionnaire with a drooping moustache and an ugly-looking gash along the right side of his face stepped forward. “Captain Nyaro, Fifth Company, Topaz Battalion.”

  “Captain Snarl,” Aravon replied simply. “Good to see you got my message.”

  Captain Nyaro nodded. “Almost thought it was a forgery, except the damned Eirdkilrs can’t write such neat letters.” A grin split his bloodied, exhausted features. “Whoever sent that arrow over the wall is one hell of a shot.”

  “You can thank her later,” Aravon replied. “But now, we’ve got a battle to win.”

  His eyes slid past Fifth Company. The remaining two companies—short a few dozen Legionnaires, doubtless fallen to illness, hunger, or wounds—had joined combat, laying into the Eirdkilrs and Jokull occupying Rivergate between the inner and outer walls. The company that had gone to help Captain Lemaire’s men seemed to have a handle on the enemy occupying eastern Rivergate, and the gate to the inner keep was held by the three hundred men of Westhaven.