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

by Andy Peloquin

  The Legionnaires at the outer gate, however, fought a desperate battle. Fully two hundred Eirdkilrs and Jokull had survived the driving rush to close the gate, and their howls of fury echoed loud as they tried to carve their way through the Legion’s shield wall. If they couldn’t get that gate open, their comrades outside—those off in pursuit of Colborn’s company—would be trapped outside, and they’d be trapped within.

  “There!” Aravon thrust his finger toward the gate. “We help them!”

  Captain Nyaro snapped a salute without hesitation. “Aye, sir!” He might not recognize Aravon—the unusual armor and the greatwolf mask saw to that—but it appeared he was smart enough to understand that Aravon was in charge. At least until the battle was over and his fellow soldiers were safe. Then Commander Rheamus could sort out proper chain of command.

  “About, turn!” Captain Nyaro shouted. Instantly, the Sergeants under his command took up the call, relaying it down the line of eighty Legionnaires. With the precision that made the Legion of Heroes the greatest fighting force on Fehl, the men of Topaz Battalion raised their spears and pivoted in place, turning. In less than five seconds, they had re-formed ranks, this time facing the enemy at the southern gate.

  Aravon’s surviving handful hurried to join the lines of Legionnaires, and Aravon took his place in command position at the rear of the company, with the hulking Balegar towering over him. Blood streamed from a deep gash in the huge man’s face, yet his expression revealed no hint of pain, only grim determination and fury. He gripped his weapon, the axe he’d ripped from Eirdkilr fingers, and squared his enormous shoulders in anticipation of battle.

  Aravon raised his bloody spear. “For the Legion!”

  “For Rivergate!” The men of Topaz Battalion roared and, at their Captain’s orders, marched to meet the enemy.

  Backed by the might of Fifth Company, Aravon felt his confidence mounting. The clash of steel, the howls of war cries, and the screams of wounded and dying men rang off the stone walls of Rivergate, underscored by the crackling of burning homes. Smoke thickened the air and stung Aravon’s lungs. The chaos of war held the city in a firm grip, and death rampaged through Rivergate tonight.

  Legionnaires fell beneath the mighty blows of Eirdkilr axes and clubs. Jokull spears slipped between momentary gaps in the shield walls or spanged off Legion helmets. Short swords stabbed out, biting deep into Fehlan and barbarian flesh. Blue-painted faces contorted in agony and Jokull howled as the shield wall advanced, inexorably, crushing them beneath its might.

  One look at the swirling tide of combat told him that they had a real chance of winning this. Westhaveners held the inner keep’s gate, repelling the scattered Jokull attacks and driving back the towering Eirdkilrs beneath a storm of arrows. The Legionnaires of Topaz Battalion stood firm, their shields and strong arms more than a match for the disorganized fury of their enemies. Fewer than a hundred Eirdkilrs remained, and half the Jokull had already fallen. The battle would be over in minutes at this rate.

  We just have to hold the gate!

  Aravon ached to break into a run, to sprint down the main avenue that led to the city’s southern gate and help the beleaguered Legionnaires there. Yet the Legion’s strength lay in its cohesion, its unity, the strength of its shield wall. That meant he had to keep his men moving at a fast march, yet no faster, if he wanted to strike with maximum efficiency.

  Anger surged within him as the company under his command closed the distance to the gate. A hundred yards. Seventy. Fifty. Twenty. He felt a roar building in his chest and he unleashed it, a mighty war cry that rang above the din of battle. A hundred Legion throats took up the wordless call as they clashed with the enemy trying to re-take the gate.

  The Eirdkilrs and Jokull fought—like demons out of the fiery hell, how they fought—but they had been caught flat-footed by the successive flank assaults. Captain Lemaire’s sneak attack had reduced the number by a few score, and Aravon’s men had done likewise. The charge from the inner keep slashed the enemy numbers by more than three hundred within the first minute, and the Eirdkilrs and Jokull, caught off-guard and disoriented by the repeated pummeling, never managed to form cohesive ranks or any semblance of a battle plan.

  They didn’t die easy. The seven-foot-tall Eirdkilrs wielded enormous axes, spears, and clubs capable of crushing Legionnaire limbs and smashing through shields. The strength of the shield wall was all that kept the massive barbarians from overwhelming the smaller Princelanders. They gave no quarter and asked none in return. A wild light shone in every Eirdkilr eye, twisted their war-painted features. They would kill every Eird or die trying.

  The Jokull, however, appeared far less slaughterous than their southern cousins. As Aravon’s commandeered company scythed through the ranks, fear pierced the battle frenzy burning on their faces. A few threw down their weapons and tried to surrender, only to be cut down by Eirdkilrs or the furious Legionnaires who had watched their comrades slaughtered, their city destroyed, and their homes torched.

  “Let them surrender!” Aravon shouted over the clash of weapons, the shouts and cries of battling men.

  Captain Nyaro took up the call, as did the Lieutenants under his command. The order flew down the lines as Sergeants shouted at their platoons. Too late for scores of Jokull, who died where they stood even after they threw down their rusty spears, but in time for the last forty or fifty Fehlans who had tried to re-take the gate. The shouts seemed to reach the Legionnaires holding the gate. A few Fehlans died in the attempt, many of the soldiers too caught up in the fury of battle to restrain their bloodlust, but by the time the last Eirdkilr fell, thirty-five Jokull knelt empty-handed on the crimson-stained street before the gate.

  Sweat soaked Aravon’s face, tunic, and hands. His chest ached from the blow he’d forgotten about, and blood and gore caked his armor, sliding down the alchemically-treated leather and seeping into his boots. He squelched with every step and his arms felt heavy—so, so very heavy, to the point that lifting his spear seemed an impossibility.

  Yet the battle wasn’t over yet. Behind him, knots of Jokull and Eirdkilrs locked in combat with the solid shield walls of Topaz Battalion and Duke Westhaven’s regulars holding the inner keep. Through the smoke hanging in the air, Aravon caught sight of Captain Lemaire at the rear of the company that had gone to his aid. Belthar’s hulking frame hovered at the Nyslian officer’s side, his enormous double-headed axe crusted with Eirdkilr and Jokull blood.

  Dread thrummed within Aravon as he searched the ranks for Skathi, but saw no sign of the Agrotora. He forced the worry from his mind and turned his attention back to the battle at hand.

  “Captain Nyaro, see that these men are properly restrained,” Aravon commanded, “then start going through the streets and clearing them out, thoroughly. No surprises!”

  “Aye, Captain Snarl.” Nyaro saluted.

  “Any enemies that try to surrender, let them.” Aravon fixed the man with a piercing gaze. The leather mask hid his stern expression, but his eyes and the command in his voice made the message clear.

  The Captain hesitated a long moment. Aravon understood the man’s recalcitrance. He, like everyone else in Rivergate, had suffered at the hands of the Jokull. They might not be as bad as their Eirdkilr cousins, yet the Fehlans had harmed Nyaro’s fellow Legionnaires and Rivergaters.

  Yet, Nyaro was a Captain of the Legion first and foremost. Despite his personal feelings, he had been given an order. “Aye, Captain.” Whirling, he set about barking orders to his men. Half of Fifth Company set about collecting the Jokull weapons and herding the surrendered Fehlans off to one side. The other half, including those who had accompanied Aravon, split into four ten-man platoons to clear the streets east and west of the south gate.

  Aravon glanced back at the battle in front of the inner keep. Topaz Battalion and the Westhaven regulars were mopping up the last of the enemy. The Eirdkilrs died to a man, often taking two or three Legionnaires with them in their battle frenzy. However, the N
yslian Captain seemed to have the same idea as Aravon, and any Jokull that threw down their weapons were allowed to surrender.

  Confident in the Legion’s ability to handle the battle, Aravon turned and raced toward the gate, shouldering through the exhausted, gaunt-faced Legionnaires guarding it. He sprinted up the stairs set into the stone wall, taking them two at a time, until he reached the battlements.

  His eyes scanned the marshlands south of Rivergate. Zaharis’ fire still blazed bright—impossibly, considering the fact that it seemed to consume only marsh water and damp logs rather than any fuel normal flames would feed on—though it had gone from a towering inferno fifteen yards tall to a low-burning line barely higher than a grown man’s knee. Yet it still provided ample illumination for Aravon to see across the space cleared around the city walls.

  Nothing moved beneath the shadows of the wetland trees. The howling war cries of the Jokull and Eirdkilrs echoed through the darkness, too faint and distant for Aravon to determine how far they were.

  Now, with the battle in Rivergate won, Aravon could spare thought to worry for Colborn, Rangvaldr, Noll, and Zaharis. They were out there somewhere, with a hundred and thirty Legionnaires of Topaz Battalion’s Second and Third Companies at their backs. So few, hunted by ten times their number of Eirdkilrs and Jokull. Enemies intimately familiar with the marshlands, their own territory, accompanied by savage barbarians intent on slaughtering every Princelander they pursued.

  Come on, Colborn! Aravon’s hands clutched the stone parapet tight, his knuckles turning white. Where in the fiery hell are you?

  Long minutes passed in silent vigil. The sounds of battle grew faint behind him, the clash of steel falling silent, until only the shouts of Legion officers and the cries of the wounded and dying echoed through Rivergate.

  And still Aravon watched, hoping, praying to the Swordsman that his comrades would find their way home.

  He whirled at the presence of a figure on his right, but relief flooded him as he caught sight of familiar tight-braided red hair.

  “Captain.” Worry twisted Skathi’s strong features as she stared out across the marshlands. “Any sign of ‘em?”

  “No.” Aravon shook his head. Acid writhed in his stomach. They should have been here by now. Only one thing would stop his men from returning. Aravon tried to push aside the image of Colborn’s unarmored, lightly-armed company surrounded by Jokull and Eirdkilrs, slaughtered to a man. He half-expected to see the swamplands stained red with Princelander blood, or the gently-flowing tide carrying the bodies of men he’d sent to their deaths.

  A flash of movement to the southeast brought him spinning around. Hope surged within him as he spotted a tall, lithe figure in mottled leather armor racing toward the gate. Zaharis moved at a dead run, arms and legs pumping, sending mud flying everywhere.

  Then another figure appeared through the trees, unfamiliar to Aravon, but wearing the mud-stained undertunic of a Legionnaire.

  More burst from the trees, five, then ten, then thirty and more. Fifty became a hundred, then a hundred and twenty. Aravon’s heart leapt as he caught sight of Colborn’s broad shoulders moving near the rear of the pack. Yet his brow furrowed. Where are Noll and Rangvaldr?

  A howl of “Death to the half-men!” drove a dagger of ice down his spine. Eirdkilrs burst from the marshlands fifty yards east of Colborn’s running men. To the west, directly south of the city gate, Jokull raiders splashed across a shallow stream, speeding toward the dry ground.

  Then two more figures burst from the trees, far behind the rear of Colborn’s column. A broad-shouldered man in mottled leather armor, with a smaller, compact man in similar armor limping along beside him.

  Aravon’s heart stopped mid-beat. His eyes went to the Jokull and Eirdkilrs converging on his men. In that moment, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Rangvaldr and Noll would never make it to safety in time.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aravon spun toward the archer on his left. “Skathi—”

  “On it!” She was already racing past him and heading east, drawing an arrow from the nearly-empty quiver on her back.

  Aravon dashed down the steps that led from the parapet to the ground below. “Open the gate!” he shouted.

  The Legionnaires stationed in front of the gate turned questioning glances on him, but none moved. Second and Third Companies had accepted Aravon’s command based on Duke Dyrund’s letter and the Prince’s pendant, but the rest of Topaz Battalion had no idea who he was. He’d saved their asses and fought beside Captain Nyaro, sure, but to them, he was just a man in a snarling greatwolf mask and strange-looking armor.

  Aravon had no time for the delay. Even as he raced down the steps, he scanned the ranks of Legionnaires until he spotted the two he sought. “Corporal Balegar, Ursus!”

  The two huge soldiers looked up from where they stood, at the base of the stairs, near the two enormous wheels that raised the portcullis.

  “Get the bloody gate open!” Aravon shouted. “We’ve got friendlies outside.”

  Belthar obeyed first, no hesitation. The giant Balegar moved a fraction of a second after him. Together, the two of them set to work turning the winches that typically required four soldiers to work. Yet as soon as they bent their enormous backs to the task, the clanking of chains echoed loud in the night and the portcullis slowly rumbled upward.

  “What you doing?” A Legionnaire bearing the insignia of a Captain rushed through the ranks formed up before the gate. “We just got the damned thing closed!”

  “My men are out there, with more than a hundred of Second and Third Companies.” Aravon brushed past the officer and raced toward the gate. He shot the bolt holding the wicket gate closed and ducked beneath the slowly-rising portcullis. “The enemy’s on their heels, and if we don’t go out there, they’re dead. So let’s go, Swordsman take it!”

  He didn’t wait to see if the officer followed his orders; the men racing toward the gate couldn’t afford even a second’s delay. As Aravon dashed onto the hills outside Rivergate, he scanned the night for his men. Zaharis alone was in sight, a mere thirty yards away, but he’d stopped to help a fallen Legionnaire to rise.

  “Get in here!” Aravon yelled, racing down the slope toward the Secret Keeper.

  “Working on it,” Zaharis signed one-handed. “Company’s not the most pleasant.”

  Aravon’s gaze slid past the Secret Keeper toward the Jokull and Eirdkilrs spilling out of the marshlands. “I can see that. Get your men to safety. We’ll buy you time.”

  If Zaharis signed a response, Aravon didn’t bother looking. He had eyes only for the column of muddy, unarmored soldiers streaming up the hill. His jaw clenched as he leaned into the mad dash, forcing his lungs to work despite the ache in his chest. Those at the front would reach safety, but the slower Legionnaires were cutting it close. As for Noll and Rangvaldr…

  Come on, damn it! Aravon tightened the grip on his spear and spurred himself to run faster. He gave the stumbling, exhausted Legionnaires a wide berth, instead turning his steps west, toward the Jokull. They’d reach the Legionnaires first, but Aravon just needed to buy a few seconds for the men to reach safety.

  The Fehlans howled in delight as they spotted the lone figure racing toward them. Raising their spears, they splashed through the shallow stream and charged up the hill.

  Right into Skathi’s arrows.

  The foremost Jokull fell in silence, a red-fletched shaft sprouting from his eye. Two more followed in quick succession, arrows feathering their scrawny, exposed chests and throats. A fourth screamed as a missile punched through his ragged breeches. He fell, hard, face into the muck, and his flailing limbs bore down the two Fehlans racing alongside him.

  But Skathi had a limited supply of arrows, and the stream of Jokull only grew thicker as more and more returned from their pursuit of the Legionnaires. Furious shouts and insults, barked in the sibilant marshlands dialect of the Fehlan language, pierced the night as scores, then hundreds of Jokull r
ushed into view.

  Aravon could never take them all on alone, but he didn’t need to. He just had to bring down the fastest of the lot, those close enough to catch his men before they reached the safety of Rivergate. Without hesitation, he raised his spear and unleashed an echoing war cry of his own. “For the Legion!”

  The first Fehlan died with Aravon’s spear in his throat. Aravon’s forward momentum drove the dying Jokull backward into the man behind him, and Aravon ripped his spear free, whirled it over his head, and cracked the iron-capped butt against the side of the man’s head. The Jokull fell, skull crushed.

  Aravon blocked a savage spear thrust, disemboweling the man with a whirling strike that carried him into a deflection of the next Jokull’s attack. The weighted end of his spear swept the Fehlan’s legs out from beneath him and shattered a kneecap. Before the man could rise, Aravon spun the spear and drove the tip into the fallen man’s chest. Odarian steel punched through ragged furs and filthy flesh, snapping bones, driving into the Jokull’s heart. He died with a venomous curse on his lips.

  In the second between enemies, Aravon risked a glance over his shoulder. The fastest of the Legionnaires had reached the open gate and had begun streaming through. Zaharis, ignoring Aravon’s orders, had returned to help another slow-moving soldier up the hill.

  Aravon had no more time to look for Colborn, to check for Noll and Rangvaldr’s position. The howling cry of a Jokull brought him spinning around. He whipped his spear around, knocking aside an enemy’s fishing spear, slicing through Jokull flesh. Crimson sprayed from the man’s ruined throat, splashing Aravon’s mask.