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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Next time, keep me far from the brandy, yeah?” Colborn hawked a gob of phlegm, spat, and swallowed hard. “The Nyslians make great wine, but damn if that brandy doesn’t pack a punch.”

  “Lesson learned, eh?” Aravon grinned. He turned to the door, but stopped just before leaving. “Can’t forget this.” Stooping, he picked up his mask—still stained with Jokull and Eirdkilr blood.

  Colborn looked down at his own leather mask, clutched in his free hand. “It’s easier when we wear these, you know. Easy to forget who we are beneath.”

  “Or, who we’re trying to be.” Aravon pursed his lips. “I think it was Taivoro who said, ‘The mask does not hide us from the world; it simply strips away pretenses to reveal who we truly are.’”

  “Taivoro, eh?” Colborn’s eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t take you for a lover of erotic plays, Captain.”

  Aravon scowled. “I’ve Mylena to blame for that. Always loved his poetry, though she sometimes broke out the saucier things when…” He trailed off, aware of a flush of heat rising to his cheeks and the smile growing on the Lieutenant’s face. “Not everything Karannos Taivoro wrote was as bawdy and carnal as you’d expect.”

  “Aye, sure it’s not.” Colborn’s grin only widened at Aravon’s discomfiture. “Your secret’s safe with me, Captain. But if you ever need a few minutes alone with one of his plays, you just say the word and—”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Aravon snapped, though he couldn’t truly be mad at the man. Irreverent, caustic Colborn was far better than the drunken, howling man he’d found in that alley the previous night. “Now, get that mask on before we head out to find the others.”

  Colborn seemed to hesitate mid-step, his foot hovering in the air. His expression had gone as rigid as his spine, his face a mask of anxiety. “The others…”

  Aravon understood the reason for his tension. Colborn had always been the officer, Aravon’s second-in-command, in control of himself and everything around him. And now, after the previous night’s events, he likely feared the shift in their opinions. Officers needed the respect of the soldiers serving under their command. Without it, they were little better than politicians.

  He turned to face Colborn fully and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “They’ll understand. They just need to know why.”

  Colborn’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “I owe them that much, eh?”

  “As much as pertains to last night. As for the rest…” Aravon shrugged. “We’ve all got things in our past we’d rather leave there. But the only way we’ll be effective is if we share the burdens together.”

  Colborn drew in a long, heavy breath, then blew out his cheeks. “So be it.” He stared down at the leather mask in his hands, his gaze intense. “The truth, then. Come what may.”

  Aravon tied on his own mask without a word. None were needed.

  After a comfortable night of rest, the mask felt stifling, stiff from all the blood. Come to think of it, I feel damned stiff all over.

  He glanced down at his armor. Zaharis’ alchemical treatment didn’t just harden the leather; it also coated it with a slick sheen that repelled water. And blood. Long streaks of crimson tracked the path that the Eirdkilr and Jokull blood had traveled as it rolled off him. Yet enough of it had dried on the leather’s surface that it cracked with every movement.

  Grimacing, he turned to Colborn. “What say we find a well and wash off? After the night you’ve had, I bet a bit of fresh water will go a long way.”

  Colborn nodded. “I’ve got mud in places I didn’t know I had places.”

  Aravon chuckled. “To the well, then!” Turning, he strode toward the door and pushed it open.

  Outside, a wall of noise and light assaulted him. The thick pall of smoke from the previous night had dissipated to little more than a gray haze. Sunlight bathed the city of Rivergate in brilliance and warmth, pushing back the feeling of gloom that had hung over the besieged city. All around him, Rivergaters hurried through the streets or worked to clear the rubble and ashes that had once been their homes. Platoons of armored Legionnaires toiled beside the citizens, helping to restore order in the wake of the Jokull and Eirdkilr attack.

  But the sounds that greeted Aravon’s ears filled him with hope. The clatter of bricks, the thumping of heavy logs and roof beams, and the low murmur of conversation. Not, however, the wailing, howling war cries of the enemy.

  The battle seemed to have ended, the world moved on without them. And after the tension of the previous days, it was the most glorious discovery of all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Ba-le-gar!” The shouts and cheers echoed from within the inner keep long before Aravon and Colborn strode through the gates. The source of the noise became immediately apparent: a crowd of Legionnaires had formed off to one side of the inner keep’s courtyard, around two enormous figures seated around a Nyslian wine barrel.

  A masked Belthar was locked in an arm wrestle with Balegar, the Nyslian giant. Their forearms looked like twin oaks, flesh red from the massive quantities of blood flowing through their tensed muscles. The leather greatwolf mask covered Belthar’s face, but his enormous shoulders were tensed, his barrel chest bulging. Sweat poured down Balegar’s forehead and stung his eyes, but the enormous Legionnaire never looked away from his opponent.

  “How long have they been at it?” Aravon asked one of the Legionnaires in the crowd, the archer Woryn.

  “Twenty minutes.” Woryn shook his head. “The odds started out five-to-one in Balegar’s favor, but now…?” He shrugged. “It’s anyone’s guess which one will give out first.”

  Balegar had a crowd of soldiers cheering him on, but only one figure hovered at Belthar’s back. Like Belthar, Noll had washed off the blood and mud that had covered him from head to toe the previous night, but his excited voice held no trace of exhaustion.

  “Come on, Ursus!” Noll shouted Belthar’s code name. “Don’t let the damn bastard wear you down!”

  “Shut…up…Foxclaw!” Belthar grunted with the strain. “Gotta…focus.”

  “I’ll give you focus!” Noll called. “Think of a pretty redhead, smile for days, eyes the green of a Fehlan forest and tongue sharper than your ax—”

  “Graah!” Belthar’s roar drowned out Noll’s words, and his arm inched forward, pushing Balegar back a fraction of an inch.

  Much to the dismay of the watching Legionnaires. Even Woryn lent his voice to the shouts encouraging the Nyslian giant.

  Aravon almost didn’t intervene—Swordsman knew he wanted to find out which of the two would prove victorious as much as the men around him—but, sadly, they had better things to do. Pushing through the crowd, he strode to stand over the two grunting, straining men.

  “Ursus.” He spoke in a quiet voice. “We’ve got to get a move on.”

  “Sorry…Captain,” Belthar growled. “Can’t…lose. Too much…riding on—”

  “Now, Ursus.” Aravon turned to the Nyslian giant. “It’s over, Balegar.”

  “He quits…I win.” Balegar struggled to speak against the strain.

  Aravon hesitated. He knew Belthar well enough to know the big man would never back down from a fight, especially not one like this, in front of so many Legionnaires—men he’d always admired, a brotherhood he’d wanted for years to belong to. They might not be cheering his name, yet he was the center of attention. Not ridiculed or derided, but applauded for his strength. Giving up now, well that was something Belthar could never do.

  With a sigh, Aravon stepped back. “Finish this, Ursus. Quickly.”

  “We hit…thirty minutes,” Belthar gasped, “and…the payout…doubles.”

  “End it,” Aravon growled. “That’s an order, soldier!”

  The muscles in Belthar’s enormous forearm and bicep rippled, and blood rushed up his arm toward his hand. He grunted, his free hand clenching into a fist, and leaned into the effort. Balegar rumbled low in his throat and tightened his grip on Belthar, trying to push back against the renew
ed assault. Belthar answered with a growl, which rose to a full-throated roar as, with a final effort, he drove Balegar’s arm down against the barrel top with an audible thunk.

  Groans rose from the crowd, but Noll threw himself into the air. “Yes!” His fist pumped wildly and he slapped Belthar on the back. “Told you, big guy!”

  From the stoop of his shoulders, Aravon could see Belthar’s exhaustion, yet he stood and held out his left hand to Balegar. “Good match, Legionnaire.”

  Balegar’s face had gone dark. He stared up at Belthar with an angry expression, a scowl twisting his face. Slowly he stood, looming half a head taller than Belthar, seeming to cast him in the shadow of a boiling thundercloud.

  Aravon tensed, anxiety thrumming within him. Big men with volatile tempers could be very dangerous.

  The moment passed. A wry grin split Balegar’s enormous face and he gripped Belthar’s hand in return. “Good match, indeed.”

  Now the crowd’s groans and jeers turned to applause, resounding cheers echoing through the inner keep. Many slapped Belthar’s back and offered commendation for his strength. Noll, slipping along in Belthar’s shadow, collected the winnings of their wagers.

  Normally, Aravon might have frowned on such things. As he’d said, he and his men had better things to do than gamble on feats of strength. But after the tension of the previous days, he welcomed a chance to let his men blow off a bit of steam.

  With the arm wrestling match ended, however, they could get on with whatever came next. He’d been so concerned with Colborn that he hadn’t given much thought to what that next was. Now, he bent his mind to how they proceeded.

  “Where are Zaharis and Rangvaldr?” he signed to Noll and Belthar once they’d pushed through the crowd and exited onto the main avenue outside the inner keep.

  “Secret Keeper’s holed up somewhere studying something.” Noll shrugged. “Didn’t say what, but got mighty antsy when I asked him about it.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow—an expression lost beneath his mask—then tilted his head. “Any idea where?”

  Noll jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Little place on the north side. Said it’s quieter there, away from the Legion taking back control of the gate and holding off one last desperate attack.”

  “The Sei—” Belthar’s thick fingers, exhausted from his wrestling match, fumbled the letters for “Seiomenn”. “—said something about saying prayers for the fallen Jokull. Last I saw, he was headed up to the wall. But that was hours ago. He could be anywhere by now.”

  “You and Colborn,” Aravon signed to the big man, “see if you can find him.” His mind had already begun to work at their next move. “Once you do, bring him over to the north side, to the bridge. We’re headed across the Standelfr and back to Bannockburn.”

  “Oh?” Colborn’s fingers signed.

  Aravon nodded. “Snarl’s delivering our news to the Duke, which means he’ll be back soon with more instructions of what to do. When they come, I want to be mounted and ready to ride. That means collecting our horses.”

  The Kostarasar chargers had been left in the care of Bannockburn’s wealthiest farmer, who had promised a plentiful meal of hay and oats. That had brought a smile to Aravon’s masked face. If only he knew how much the beasts ate! Much of Belthar and Noll’s recent winnings would go to compensate the man for his generosity.

  He turned to Noll. “You, lead me to Zaharis. We’ll collect him on our way back to the bridge.”

  “And Skathi?” Belthar signed.

  “She’ll be supervising the teams crossing the supplies,” Aravon replied. He’d sent her shortly after recapturing the city, but she’d had to travel back to Bannockburn, then return with food from the town and get it across their makeshift bridge. The task would likely take another few days, which meant Skathi would be right where he wanted when they returned to collect their horses.

  With a nod, Belthar turned and strode off down the main avenue, south toward the gate they’d just retaken. Colborn’s eyes flashed toward Noll and he looked as if he wanted to speak, but seemed to think better of it. Turning, he hurried after Belthar.

  Aravon hesitated only a moment before heading in the opposite direction. Colborn would get a chance to explain himself to everyone, but only after they got out of Rivergate.

  “Lead the way,” he signed to Noll.

  Noll hurried north through Rivergate, taking the eastern road. The brick and stone houses in eastern Rivergate had evidently survived most of the Jokull and Eirdkilr devastation, though more than a few wooden buildings, thatched roofs, and market stalls smoldered, leaking thick black smoke. Yet the farther they went from the main avenue, the more houses Aravon found still standing. Plenty of wrecked furniture, broken windows and doors, and valuables discarded by the looters, yet less wanton destruction.

  Noll led Aravon to one single-story stone building a short distance from the eastern edge of the outer wall. He pushed open the door and entered without a word. Within, Aravon found Zaharis seated on the floor amidst a sea of debris—overturned furniture, shattered crockery, and half-eaten foodstuffs. The Secret Keeper had cleared a small island of calm in the chaos, and spread out a collection of alchemical items: a stone pestle and mortar, leather pouches stuffed with dried herbs and noxious-smelling powders, glass tubes, bright-glowing heat stones, and a neat pile of blue flowers.

  Aravon’s jaw dropped. Is that…? The question died unformed in his thoughts. Zaharis had described ice saffron, the plant he’d spent the last decade hunting, as pale blue with bright crimson threads, but these were closer to the near-purple of a hyacinth, dotted with spots of yellow, orange, and red.

  “These again?” Noll groaned. “Nearly got us caught collecting these, Zaharis.”

  The Secret Keeper didn’t look up from his work, crushing a pair of deep blue petals in his mortar. The fingers of his left hand signed, “You’ll be glad we got them.”

  “Oh?” Noll folded his arms. “Does Belthar really smell all that bad?”

  Now Zaharis lifted his eyes to the scout. “Yes, but that’s not what these Squatting Crocuses are for.” He removed the pestle and took a long sniff of the contents of his mortar. “Once properly dried, these little beauties will make a wonderful addition to my collection of things that set fires. A single spark, and you’ve got a big blaze that’ll make the Dragon Thorngrass oil look like a match in comparison.”

  “Very useful.” Aravon’s mind flashed back to the alchemical tricks Zaharis had used against the Eirdkilrs at Anvil Garrison, Broken Canyon, and Bjornstadt. The more he had up his sleeve, the better as far as Aravon was concerned. “But you’ll have to keep digging into it later. For now, we’ve got to get across the Standelfr and regroup with the others.”

  “Plans, Captain?” Zaharis signed.

  “None yet.” Aravon shook his head. “But Snarl should be back before nightfall, so I want to be ready for whatever the Duke’ll ask of us next.”

  Nodding, Zaharis set about stowing his pestle, mortar, and the rest of his alchemical oddities in the heavy pack he always carried.

  “By the way,” the Secret Keeper signed one-handed as he packed his bag with the other, “I left our marshland friends a little treat.” He turned long enough to shoot a wicked grin at Aravon and Noll. “Funny thing about the leaves of the Squatting Crocus plant, they’re terribly poisonous when left in water. Turns even clean drinking water bitter and undrinkable. Anyone unlucky enough to get a bellyful’s going to spend so much time soiling their trousers they’ll be too busy to think about sieges. Hence its name.”

  “Damn, Zaharis!” Noll’s eyebrows shot up. “Remind me never to piss in your boots, yeah?”

  Zaharis chuckled as he set about gathering up the dark blue flowers and stuffing them into his pack. Finally, he’d gathered the last Squatting Crocus and slung his satchel over a shoulder. “Ready when you are, Captain.”

  Aravon had just turned to leave when a shadow darkened the door. The figure who stood there was a
man, bald like Zaharis but with only a pencil moustache above his upper lip and a long, thin goatee hanging from his chin. He stood a full head shorter than Aravon, slightly taller than Noll, but his arms were corded with muscle.

  Aravon’s blood ran cold as he caught sight of the man’s clothes: the unmistakable muted brown robes of a Secret Keeper.

  The man’s dark brown eyes slid past Aravon and locked on to the man behind him.

  “Hello, Zaharis,” he signed. “And to think Arch-Guardian Nalroth insisted you were dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Every muscle in Zaharis’ body went rigid and he froze mid-step. The leather greatwolf mask concealed the Secret Keepers’ face, but his gray eyes went ice cold at sight of the man in the doorway.

  “Darrak.” Zaharis’ fingers signed the letters slowly, as if unwilling to form the gestures.

  Aravon’s blood turned to ice, and a long ago conversation with Zaharis flashed through his mind. “If the Secret Keepers even suspected I still lived,” the man had said, "they would hunt me down and kill me. And you. And Duke Dyrund, and everyone I've ever spoken to.”

  He took a step to the right, interposing himself between Darrak and Zaharis. Darrak’s eyes never left Zaharis’ face—he ignored Aravon much as a donkey ignored a dozing gnat.

  Aravon leveled the tip of his spear at the brown-robed man, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. When he turned, Zaharis gave a slight shake of his head and stepped past Aravon to stand empty-handed in front of Darrak.

  “You’ve gotten more creative with age.” A fleeting ghost of a smile cracked Darrak’s stern façade, disappearing so fast Aravon almost thought he’d imagined it. “That wall of fire, Dragon Thorngrass oil with a touch of Weeping Serpentvine?”

  After a long moment, Zaharis nodded, but his fingers remained silent.

  “Saymech would’ve been proud to see it.” Something akin to sorrow flashed in Darrak’s eyes. “Proud, and disgusted by what you’ve done with the Mistress’ secrets.” The man’s lip curled upward. “Such knowledge is to be guarded at all costs, not—”