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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon resisted the urge to let out a long, relieved sigh. Captain Lemaire and Balegar hadn’t moved, and he didn’t dare show any sign of uncertainty or weakness in front of the men. He’d learned long ago that a good officer held himself with confidence and authority. That didn’t prevent him from taking the advice of the men under his command or admitting his mistakes, but he never backed down from doing what he believed right.

  Captain Lemaire’s eyes followed the Commander’s retreating back. “Thank you.” He spoke in a quiet voice, not turning to Aravon. “There has been death enough for one night, Capitaine Snarl.”

  The words surprised Aravon. He’d half-expected disappointment from the Nyslian Captain; after all, it had been the men of his battalion that suffered at the hands of the Jokull and their Eirdkilr allies. Yet, it seemed the “man of war” standing before him had a hint of peace lurking in his heart.

  “Agreed.” Aravon nodded. For a moment, he remained silent. The howling of the enemies outside the gate hadn’t fallen silent, and thick smoke still rose from the burning houses throughout Rivergate. All around him, Legionnaires rushed toward the gate and climbed the steps onto the parapets, preparing in case the Eirdkilrs and Jokull decided to force an assault. Wounded men cried, screamed, or groaned. Syrupy rivers of crimson flowed across the cobblestone streets and stained the icebear pelts, marshland animal furs, and Legion armor of the hundreds that lay silent and still on the streets.

  Yes, there had been enough blood spilled for one night. If he could prevent more senseless deaths, he would do so, even if it earned Commander Rheamus’ ire.

  “Sir.” Captain Lemaire gave Aravon a sharp Legion salute and, turning on his heel, strode north after his Commander, the hulking Balegar at his heels.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Aravon cast a wary glance over his shoulder and, content no one watched his movements, ducked into the narrow alley that led toward the southeastern corner of Rivergate. The ache in his chest had settled into the bone, and even breathing proved painful. He’d almost sought out Zaharis, but thought better of it.

  Duty first, he told himself. The battle had been won, but his task was not yet complete.

  After the noise and chaos of combat, he welcomed the quiet darkness away from the rushing, marching, shouting Legionnaires guarding the gate. The Jokull and their Eirdkilr allies hadn’t left—their howls, edged with fury and frustration, echoed outside the high stone walls of Rivergate—but no attack had come yet. Doubtless they were regrouping and preparing for another assault, yet the lack of siege put them at a severe disadvantage against the dug-in, alert Legionnaires. Aravon wouldn’t be surprised if the enemy slipped away before sunrise.

  But it would be a long night until they did. He guessed it was the second hour after midnight—the battle had lasted less than an hour—but with Commander Rheamus and Topaz Battalion occupied with the Jokull prisoners, Aravon had finally found a moment to slip away and call Snarl.

  Finally, satisfied that he was far enough from people that the Enfield wouldn’t be spotted, Aravon drew out the bone whistle and blew a short blast. He listened intently for the sound of rustling feathers, the high-pitched yapping of the little fox-creature. The noise of Snarl’s approach reached his ears just in time for him to brace his feet to catch the Enfield.

  “Ow!” he groaned as Snarl’s full weight collided with his injured breastbone. His grimace turned to a full-on hiss of pain as Snarl’s paws scrabbled against the armor atop his chest, each movement sending fresh torment through the bruised muscle and bone. Yet, he’d take all the pain in the world if it meant Snarl was alive.

  The Enfield yipped in his ear, rough tongue flashing out to lick Aravon’s mask.

  “Easy, boy.” Aravon pulled the Enfield out to arm’s length. “Else you might end up with a mouthful of Eirdkilr blood.”

  Snarl answered with a joyous bark, squirming in Aravon’s hands and his wings flapping. Somehow, despite everything, the Enfield had far too much excited energy for the exhausted Aravon.

  “Settle down, Snarl.” He lowered himself to a seat against the wooden siding of a building that had escaped the flames and stroked the Enfield’s soft fur with a gentle hand. “You had me worried back there, you know? When you didn’t show up…”

  Snarl refused to sit still, but leapt to his feet and darted over Aravon’s legs with all the enthusiasm of his vulpine relatives.

  A smile broadened Aravon’s face as he watched the energetic Enfield scamper around. He truly had been afraid for the little creature when Snarl didn’t show. Then, when Snarl threw himself at the Eirdkilrs—an action that had bought Noll and Rangvaldr precious seconds—he’d feared an unlucky arrow would bring him down.

  His worry had been for naught, and the sight of Snarl’s boundless antics left him relieved—a relief compounded by the knowledge that they’d won.

  By the Swordsman, we actually pulled it off!

  It still felt surreal to him. Calling their plan “audacious” was an understatement on par with calling Belthar “husky” or Noll “a bit of a pain in the arse”. Yet somehow, despite the odds, they’d managed to complete their mission. Rivergate was once again under Legion control. From the grim determination sparkling in the eyes of the Legionnaires and Westhaven regulars, Aravon felt confident that the Jokull and Eirdkilrs would have a fiery hell of a fight on their hands.

  As for the matter of the starving populace and soldiers, Skathi had gone to solve that problem. The people of Bannockburn would be sending supplies across their makeshift pontoon bridge. Though the villagers had little enough to spare, it would suffice to feed the starving Rivergaters until Duke Olivarr could send more.

  And all Aravon had to do now was send Snarl with a message to the Duke. The note, penned by the light of a Legion brazier, was succinct. “Mission accomplished. Send reinforcements and supplies.” The moment Duke Dyrund read those words, he’d send word to the Duke of Westhaven. Food and, Swordsman willing, additional regulars from Westhaven would likely already be on their way now.

  Yet, to get that message to the Duke, Aravon had to send Snarl away. At the moment, after everything he’d just endured, he needed a few minutes of peace and quiet with the Enfield. Snarl’s enthusiasm and delight was contagious, and his antics always lifted Aravon’s spirits.

  The little creature seemed to sense his mood and came over, settling down atop Aravon’s legs. He pressed his nose into Aravon’s hand—his signal demanding that Aravon stroke his scruff. Aravon complied. The Enfield’s fur was so soft, his body so warm. He lay with his head in Aravon’s lap, gaze lifted. Those gleaming amber eyes held a look of such simple trust, as if Snarl knew that the alpha of his pack would take care of him.

  Aravon had tried to be worthy of that trust, not only for Snarl, but for all the men under his command. Yet, no matter the effort, he couldn’t prevent casualties. Fifteen of the men in his small force had died facing the Eirdkilrs and Jokull. Forty-five more would never leave the marshlands. Aravon hadn’t had the heart to ask Captain Lemaire how many of his men had fallen. Add to that the hundreds slain in the initial battle for Rivergate and the Legionnaires that fell bringing down Rivergate Bridge, and the death toll was far too high for Aravon’s liking.

  But that was the way of battle. Noll’s words, spoken after the battle at Bjornstadt, flashed through his mind. "Sometimes it's easier to blame a man than to accept that shite happens, even to good people." Surprisingly wise, coming from the little scout.

  Aravon had blamed himself for Draian’s death, and long hours of miserable self-flagellation had passed before he finally came to terms with it. Shite did happen. Men died in battle, no matter how much he wished otherwise. All he could do was his best to keep his soldiers alive.

  That understanding made the burden of command only slightly easier to bear. When the final death toll was counted, he’d have to live with the knowledge that he had given the order. That sort of weight rested heavy on every officer and commander’s shoulder
s.

  Sighing, Aravon gave Snarl’s scruff one last good scratch and, reaching into his armor, drew out the scrap of parchment. Snarl seemed to perk up at the sight. His head lifted, back arched, and his wings snapped out, eager to fly.

  Aravon rolled up the message and stuffed it into the metal tube secured to Snarl’s collar. Drawing out the strip of cloth heavy with Duke Dyrund’s scent and the golden disc, he held it up to the Enfield’s nose. “Take this to the Duke, Snarl.”

  Snarl sniffed the fabric and, with an excited bark, leapt a few feet into the air, wings flapping. Drawing out the bone whistle once more, Aravon trilled a longer note. Yipping quietly, Snarl gained altitude quickly and, turning north, disappeared into the night sky.

  Swordsman be with you. A lump rose in his throat; he was sorry to let the Enfield go, to be apart from Snarl. Yet, as always, duty came before desire.

  Aravon watched the starry heavens for long minutes after the Enfield disappeared. He knew what awaited him once he left the shadows of the city’s back alleys. A heavy burden, a final honor that every commander owed to those who fought and died under his command.

  Finally, he could put it off no longer. With a heart that ached far worse than any bruised breastbone ever would, he stood and marched back toward Rivergate’s inner keep.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “It is said the Legion of Heroes once stood shoulder to shoulder with the Swordsman himself.” Commander Rheamus’ solemn voice echoed across the courtyard of Rivergate’s inner keep. “Brave souls, men of honor and valor, warriors willing to face the hordes of demons that invaded Einan under the banner of the Great Destroyer. Warriors who died to a man. As the Swordsman fell facing Kharna, so too the first Legionnaires sacrificed themselves to protect mankind.”

  A thick blanket of silence hung over the paved stone courtyard. Seven hundred Legionnaires and Westhaveners stood mute, still as statues. The gentle breeze had died, the night owls fallen quiet, and even the howling of the Eirdkilrs and Jokull seemed hushed beneath the solemnity of the occasion. The quiet farewell to the soldiers who had fallen in battle.

  “Yet, despite their noble sacrifice, they remained nameless, faceless, forgotten to time.” Commander Rheamus shook his head. “No, never forgotten. To the world, perhaps, those who take for granted their peaceful lives. But those of us who serve in the Legion, who take up the Swordsman’s mantle and grave duty, statues are but a trinket, a trifle. We wear our badge of honor on our belts—”

  He drew his sword, and seven hundred soldiers followed suit.

  “—on our bodies—”

  The Commander’s fist thumped against his steel breastplate, and a thundering chorus echoed his movements.

  “—and in our hearts.”

  “For the Swordsman!” Hundreds of throats shouted in unison.

  “For the Swordsman,” Commander Rheamus intoned.

  Aravon’s eyes roved over the bodies arranged in neat, military precision on the cobblestones. Three hundred and seventy-eight Legionnaires and Westhaven regulars, the men that fell in the battle for Rivergate. Men who had given their lives to bring down Rivergate Bridge, to hold the walls of the inner keep, and to re-capture the city.

  The soldiers laid out here were only those recovered in the aftermath. Forty-five brave Legionnaires of Second and Third Companies would rest forever in the marshlands, their blood, flesh, and bones claimed by the Fehlan wilds. According to Commander Rheamus, twenty more had drowned bringing down the bridge, their bodies dragged away by the Standelfr River.

  Yet the ceremonial words were spoken in their honor as well. They had earned their rest at the Swordsman’s side.

  “So, though no statues will be erected in their names, no engraved stones bear the record of their actions, let us be the monument to their courage and sacrifice.” Commander Rheamus straightened, giving the fallen soldiers a final Legionnaire’s salute—fist to chest, crisp and precise. “We bear witness to who they were, and we will never, never forget.”

  “Never forget.” Seven hundred voices echoed the words.

  Silence fell once more. A lump rose to Aravon’s throat as he studied the pale faces, glassy eyes, and bloodstained figures of the fallen soldiers. Many had been stripped, their armor stolen by Jokull and Eirdkilr warriors, their lifeless flesh desecrated by barbarian knives. Some were mangled beyond recognition, heads and faces crushed beneath Eirdkilr clubs. Others missed limbs, their legs, arms, or heads severed by enormous axes.

  Yet Aravon had no doubt that every man and woman on the ground would be remembered by someone still living. It was the way of the Legion—to honor the memory of the brave fallen in battle. Soldiers carried those memories forever, long after they returned home and put a life of war behind them. But, for Legion dead, it was enough. They would go into the afterlife to spend an eternity with the Swordsman, an army of soldiers to be summoned by the god of war and heroics on the day of his return.

  A soldier coughed, another groaned at the pain of his wounds, and the moment shattered. Suddenly, sound seemed to return to the world, and the thick blanket of solemnity lifted. The simple ceremony had ended and life for the Legionnaires still living went on.

  Aravon glanced around the courtyard and found few familiar faces. Captain Lemaire had gathered the remaining men of Second and Third Companies—barely more than a hundred—and was in the process of reorganizing them into a single company, dispersing the rawest of the recruits among the rest of the battalion.

  Balegar towered behind the Nyslian Captain, a looming shadow with hooded brows and dark eyes. A thick bandage covered his ruined nose; he hadn’t been the prettiest Legionnaire, even before the wound. At least he, unlike so many of those he’d marched with, had survived. And come away with a trophy, it seemed. He’d left his hewing spear and kept the Eirdkilr axe, which now hung from his back. The way he’d wielded it in battle, it was definitely a weapon worth keeping.

  Aravon owed the Nyslian giant thanks. The hulking Corporal had saved his life at least twice. He moved toward Captain Lemaire and Balegar, but he hadn’t taken three steps before he caught sight of Zaharis hurrying toward him.

  “Captain,” Zaharis’ gestures were quick and sharp, an urgency sparkling in his eyes. “We need you.”

  “What’s the matter?” Aravon signed back.

  “It’s Colborn.”

  * * *

  Eerie, savage laughter pierced the darkness, sending a chill down Aravon’s spine as he hurried in Zaharis’ wake. Belthar, Noll, and Rangvaldr clustered around the mouth of the alleyway, radiating palpable waves of tension and worry.

  “They found him like this,” Zaharis signed

  Aravon’s brow furrowed, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes. Colborn sat in the middle of the muddy alley, legs splayed in front of him, his upper half reeling like a ship caught in a storm. His mask hung loose, revealing cheeks flushed a deep, drunken red. The contents of the clay jug in his hand sloshed as he waved toward the figures seated against the alley’s eastern and western walls.

  No, Aravon realized, not seated. Propped up, even after death. The broken shaft of a Jokull spear protruded from the throat of the Legionnaire to Colborn’s right, and the man’s pale features had long ago gone slack in death. Colborn’s Fehlan-style longsword was buried in the chest of the Jokull on his left. Blood pooled in a congealing puddle around the Fehlan, sticky and wet, filling the air with a metallic stench.

  Aravon’s attention snapped back to the Lieutenant. By the Swordsman, he’s blind drunk! Not just drunk, but shouting in a mixture of Fehlan and Princelander tongue, singing the funereal dirge Rangvaldr had performed in Bjornstadt with the words of the Legionnaire ceremony mingled in.

  “Sorry, Captain,” Noll muttered as Aravon pushed past. “Thought it was best to let you handle it.”

  Aravon nodded. “Good call.” Colborn was always so reserved, so in control of himself and his emotions. No telling what he would do in this state.

&nbs
p; Colborn’s song faded and he turned to the dead Jokull, raising his jug high and shouting a slurred “Skaal, Cousin!” he shouted in Fehlan. Tilting up the clay jug, he drank deep, liquor trickling from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. Belching loudly, he saluted to the Legionnaire. “Drink up, Brother!”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. Colborn was well beyond rational thought, yet he had to find a way to get through to the Lieutenant somehow.

  Reaching up, he loosened the straps holding his mask in place and pulled it down. “Colborn.” He spoke in a quiet, calm voice, slipping closer to the drunken man. “Colborn, can you hear me?”

  Colborn’s head whipped around, so fast he lost his balance and swayed, nearly falling onto his back. His free hand splashed in the crimson-stained mud, but he managed to remain upright. Barely.

  “Captain!” His voice rang out through the alley, an almost manic edge to his words. “C-Come to have a drink with ush?” The effects of the liquor slurred his words. He tried to rise, failed, then tried again, only to slip on the mud. He crashed back down to the alley floor hard, and that harsh, piercing laugh echoed off the walls. “I…I think…” He burped, switching languages to Fehlan mid-sentence. “…need to catch up, Captain.”

  Aravon pushed aside the proffered jug. The potent reek of Nyslian brandy rose from the jug’s wide mouth and wafted off the drunken Lieutenant in noxious waves. “Colborn—”

  “Look, Captain!” Colborn’s hand flashed out and snatched at the collar of Aravon’s armor, pulling him close. He spoke in a harsh whisper. “Look at him. He looksh jusht like me!” A drunken finger waved unsteadily at the dead Jokull.

  Aravon glanced at the Fehlan. His long blond hair hung in braids far dirtier and lanker than Colborn’s, his beard sparse, his features narrower and leaner. Yet even in death, there was no denying the blunt, wide Fehlan face, the solid jaw, and the ice blue eyes.