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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Tribute from the Jokull, according to Commander Rheamus.” Captain Lemaire pursed his lips. “Not too likely, given their attack.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “From what I have heard around the city, someone has discovered silver in the marshlands. What you see here is just one load. The third such. It could be a rumor, but the fact that it arrived two days before the Eirdkilr attack tells me there may be more than a little truth, oui?”

  Aravon pondered the statement. “Too much of a coincidence that the Eirdkilrs happened to attack here and now, isn’t it?”

  Memories of Silver Break Mine flashed through his thoughts. He’d pushed aside the images of the abandoned, silent mining camp to focus on his mission here in Rivergate. Yet now, with the battle over, he had spare room to give it thought.

  Much as the military propaganda tried to suggest otherwise, the Eirdkilr War had begun over the resources abundant across Fehl. Early Einari had only begun to colonize when they discovered gold, silver, and precious stones—a vast fortune untapped by the “savage” natives. That had led to their incursion deep into Fehlan territory, and the Eirdkilr’s efforts to drive the interlopers off the continent.

  Silver Break Mine was just the newest of the many silver, gold, platinum, and gemstone mines around Fehl. Prince Toran could only afford to bring in Legionnaires by offering the mainland cities a share of the profits of his mines, or using the wealth pulled from the depths of Fehl to pay the Legion fees. A smart Eirdkilr commander—one like Hrolf Hrungnir had been, or one clever enough to plant spies in the Princelands and among the allied Fehlans—could easily conclude that the mines were the Princelander’s key to victory. Kill the miners and steal the resources, and Prince Toran would be hamstrung.

  A question flashed through his mind. What was the real reason for the attack here? Had the Eirdkilrs and Jokull come hunting the silver, only to find themselves unexpectedly in possession of Rivergate and besieging a dug-in force of Legionnaires? Capturing the city would give them access to the Princelands, but had that been more happy accident than the original intention of their attack?

  Whatever the case, they had failed, thanks to men like Captain Lemaire and Balegar. Yet something the Captain said niggled at him.

  “You said that’s a load of silver, yes?” he asked.

  Captain Lemaire nodded.

  “So why does it look like the wagons are heaped high with coal?” From where he stood, nothing but black stone was visible.

  “Ahh, that.” The Nyslian Captain gave him a wry smile. “A clever deceit to conceal the truth from the Jokull, and any Fehlan spies in our midst.” He winked at Aravon. “From what I hear, the black stone—Ghoulstone, some call it—is little more than worthless gangue mixed in with the gold and silver mined on Fehl. Too soft to use for building, shatters too easily to make it of any worth for floors or stone facades. Pretty parchment-weights at best, but it serves to disguise the silver piled beneath.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  “Even more mysterious,” Captain Lemaire continued, “the first load seemed to vanish the day after it arrived. No one saw it crossing the Rivergate Bridge. Poof!” A sardonic smile twisted his handsome face. “I don’t believe in spirits, Capitaine, but clearly someone wanted it spirited away unseen.”

  “Is that so?” From the corner of his eye, Aravon noticed Zaharis slipping toward the wagon. The Secret Keeper peered at the black stone and, with a speed that any thief would envy, pocketed a small chunk. He turned back to Captain Lemaire. “What did Commander Rheamus have to say about it?”

  “Officially, nothing.” The Captain’s smile turned wry. “Unofficially, however, he made it clear that we are to look anywhere else. Pretend it doesn’t exist, even.”

  That set off Aravon’s suspicions. Duke Dyrund had kept Silver Break Mine a secret even from Aravon, only clueing him in when absolutely necessary. Perhaps he’d given Commander Rheamus similar orders. With the future of the war resting on their ability to mine resources from the Fehlan countryside—and with the Jokull’s enmity toward the Princelands, even before this attack—he might have kept it a secret for the sake of protecting it.

  And given what happened at Silver Break Mine, he might have been right to do it.

  The miners had disappeared completely, with nothing even hinting at their fates. Had the miners working in the Jokull territories suffered a similar end? Until he spoke to Duke Dyrund, he couldn’t be certain.

  “Then allow me to honor Legion policy and join you in the pretense.” Aravon adopted a nonchalant tone. “I saw nothing, heard none of the rumors you certainly didn’t share with me.”

  Captain Lemaire chuckled. “Clearly you are accustomed to a life of politics, Capitaine. Perhaps, one day, I will have the honor of meeting the man beneath the mask.”

  “By the Swordsman’s grace.” Aravon gave the Nyslian officer a respectful bow and, with a nod to the hulking Balegar, strode toward the Coracle.

  The river crossing took less than three minutes. Carpenters had secured the land-side end of the plank bridge to stakes, and the stone anchors held the Coracle mostly steady as they strode along its length.

  Skathi stood waiting for them on the Standelfr’s northern bank. Her green eyes watched the Bannockburners and Legionnaires hauling supplies across, but she nodded as Aravon, Zaharis, and Noll approached.

  “Horses are waiting by the first mile marker,” Skathi signed. “I figured you might want to slip away quietly, so I restocked supplies from the food delivered to Bannockburn.”

  “Good thinking.” Aravon was glad his mask hid his surprise. He’d known she was clever—she’d proven that many more times than he could count. Yet to anticipate his order and have the confidence to act on it, that took a degree of prudent forethought he hadn’t expected. “Noll’s gone for the others. We’ll get on the road as soon as they arrive, then find somewhere to hole up come sundown once we’ve put some distance between us and Rivergate.” The longer they hung around the city, the more likely Commander Rheamus or another inquiring soul would begin to ask questions. Better to, as Captain Lemaire had put it, melt away into the mists.

  The mystery of heavily-laden wagons plagued Aravon as he marched up the Marshway. It didn’t make sense that the Jokull would pay tribute to Westhaven or the Prince, only to attack them a few days later. Far more logical was Captain Lemaire’s theory that silver had been discovered in the marshlands and someone in the Princelands had found a way to mine it.

  And, if the Eirdkilrs knew about it, he reasoned, it made sense that they’d try to disrupt that flow of valuables, perhaps even capture it for themselves. The attack on Rivergate could have served multiple purposes—not just punching through the Chain and invading Westhaven, but denying the Prince valuable resources that could be used to bring in more Legionnaires.

  Damn. Aravon shook his head. The Eirdkilrs are playing it far smarter than ever before. Something had changed—the Duke had suspected as much since the attack on the Eastmarch, but the siege of the Bulwark, the abduction of Silver Break’s miners, and now this surprise assault on the Chain itself only confirmed their suspicions.

  Aravon intended to raise the topic with the Duke next chance he got. We’ve got to figure out what they really want—aside from all of our scalps, of course—if we want to have a chance of stopping them.

  At the first stone mile marker north of Rivergate Bridge, Skathi led them into a dense alder thicket. There, seven enormous Kostarasar chargers stood saddled and waiting.

  “Farmer fed ‘em well.” Skathi spoke aloud. With no one around, they had no need to use the silent hand language. “Probably as well as the Duke would’ve. Almost made up for his complaining that they nearly ate him out of seed hay for the next year.”

  Aravon grimaced. He’d seen the huge horses eat; they rivaled Belthar’s enormous appetite and, like the big man, cared more about quantity than quality. “Next time I speak to the Duke, I’ll make sure he gets compensation.”


  He turned to Zaharis. “Go keep watch on the road for the others.”

  With a nod that seemed far more subdued than normal, Zaharis slipped off toward the highway.

  “What’s with him?” Skathi asked. “Seems gloomier than usual.”

  “He ran into a ghost from his past.” A solemn mood fell over Aravon. He held up a hand to stifle Skathi’s question. “He’ll explain later.” And Zaharis wouldn’t be the only one. When they made camp for the evening, Colborn also owed an explanation to their company.

  Worry about the Secret Keeper thrummed within him. Not his Secret Keeper, but Darrak, the one they’d fought in Rivergate. It would only be a matter of time before every Temple of Whispers in the Princelands heard of Zaharis’ presence on Fehl. That could complicate their mission.

  A faint, familiar sound reached his ears: the flapping of wings. He glanced up in time to see Snarl crashing through the thicket, wings tucked against his sides.

  Aravon’s heart stopped as the Enfield dropped toward him, apparently exhausted from the flight. His amber eyes seemed to have lost their glimmer, and Snarl’s wings drooped with fatigue. He plummeted rather than swooped low, landing heavily in Aravon’s arms.

  Worry gnawed at Aravon’s stomach. There was only one reason Snarl would be so exhausted.

  Aravon reached for the scroll tube and, wrestling the cap loose, fished out the small rolled-up parchment within. Nine words were all the message bore, yet the sight of them brought the knots back to Aravon’s shoulder.

  “Find contact behind Rivergate’s Shouting Tankard Inn, noon. URGENT!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Aravon read the message again. It was written in the Duke’s hand, not Lord Eidan’s. That filled him with a strange sense of anxiety, compounded by the sight of an exhausted Snarl in his arms. The Enfield’s wings drooped and his head hung low, nuzzled against Aravon’s arm. Snarl would only fly to the point of exhaustion if the Duke’s message was urgent.

  “Look at this.” He held the note out to Skathi.

  Frowning, Skathi took the message and read it. “The Duke’s hand, correct?”

  Aravon nodded, surprised by the fact that she could differentiate between the Duke and Lord Eidan’s handwriting. Agrotorae education was as varied as that of Legionnaires—that was to say, dependent entirely on their military rank and their lives before joining up. Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised that Skathi was more than simply literate. She’d proven herself far too capable to simply be “one more archer”. Skill alone wouldn’t have caused Duke Dyrund to select her for their special company. Though the Duke hadn’t filled him in on his reasons for choosing each, they had all, in their own way, illustrated the reasons for the Duke’s confidence in them.

  “Whatever it is, it’s got to be important.” Skathi handed the note back. “I’ll be back before the others—”

  “No.” Aravon shook his head, stopping the archer in her tracks. “This is a job for Noll.”

  “Noll?” Skathi’s posture went instantly rigid. When she spoke, her voice was hard, edged with the anger that glimmered in her green eyes. “All due respect, Captain, but I can get across that bridge, to the inn, and back here without breaking a sweat. Unless you don’t—”

  “I more than trust you, Skathi.” Aravon held her gaze, sincerity echoing in his voice. “But I need someone who doesn’t stand out.” He gestured to her long red braids. “Won’t take much for one of Captain Lemaire’s company to connect you with the same archer who fought beside them.”

  “And what does that matter?” Curiosity echoed in Skathi’s voice. “We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”

  “We are. But right now…” Aravon drew in a long breath. “It’s better no one recognizes whichever of us goes back into town.”

  Skathi’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Zaharis’ ghost,” Aravon replied simply. “Right now, suffice it to say that we’re better off going into Rivergate incognito, without our masks this time. Colborn and Rangvaldr are out of the question, and I can’t take the risk anyone in town knows me. Belthar’s huge frame and your hair are unmistakable. No one’s quite as unnoticeable as Noll.”

  Skathi snorted. “True that.”

  The scout was slight of build, his most remarkable feature a hawkish nose and a scar that ran from his chin to his right ear. Once out of his armor, he could pass for just about any Princelander. A shifty-eyed, conniving, light-fingered Princelander, but as inconspicuous as a farmer or stablehand.

  Aravon suspected that had factored into Duke Dyrund’s decision to choose the man—that, and the fact that Noll had served under Aravon and had personal motivation to put an end to the Eirdkilrs that slaughtered his company. But when they needed someone to blend in among the Princelanders, Noll was their perfect option, just as Colborn would appear perfectly at home among the Fehlans.

  “As you say, Captain,” Skathi finally admitted with a nod just short of grudging. “Let’s just hope he hurries up.” She shot a glance at the sky. “Noon’s not far off, and after a couple of sleepless nights, I feel like him.”

  Aravon glanced down at Snarl, nestled in his arms. The Enfield had fallen asleep, snoring quietly. The journey through the marshes and the flight to and from Camp Marshal—or wherever Duke Dyrund was at the moment—had taken a heavy toll on him.

  The same toll that days of travel and battle had taken on all of them. Colborn had gotten a night of rest courtesy of Aravon’s fist and too much liquor. Aravon guessed he’d snatched about three hours of sleep before the Lieutenant awoke. Knowing Noll and Belthar, they’d likely spent the time among the Legionnaires of Topaz Battalion. Zaharis rarely slept, yet the encounter with Darrak seemed to have left him drained, almost listless.

  Rangvaldr’s actions were the most curious. According to Belthar, he’d gone to pray over the fallen Jokull. As Seiomenn of the Eyrr, it fell to him to administer the final rites to his clan’s warriors slain in battle. Aravon had been in Bjornstadt as Rangvaldr commended his fellow Eyrr—and Draian with them—into the arms of the Roskvaettr, the revered ancestors that escorted the slain to Seggrholl, the afterlife of heroes.

  But the fact that he prayed over the Jokull came as a surprise to Aravon. The marshlanders had been his enemy. Perhaps not personally, for they had no reason to hate the Eyrr—aside from their dealings with the Princelanders—yet they would have slaughtered him as readily as they would the Legionnaires beside him.

  It took a special kind of man, a man with deep-rooted faith in his god, to offer such prayers for men who had taken up arms against him only hours earlier. Not only did that show what manner of man the Seiomenn was, but in many ways, it proved that he’d spoken the truth when he explained his reasons for joining them. Rangvaldr, more than any of them, fought a battle for peace. When the war with the Eirdkilrs ended, it was his hope—as with the Duke and now, increasingly, Aravon himself—that the Fehlans and Princelanders could find a way to coexist, to share the richness of Fehl.

  As if on cue, the man himself appeared through a gap in the alder thicket, accompanied by Zaharis, Colborn, Noll, and Belthar. While the scout pushed through the dense stand of trees and scrub with no difficulty, Belthar’s helmeted head and armored shoulders displaced the branches and set them rustling.

  “Ready to move out, Captain!” Noll called out, his voice just a little too cheery. Aravon couldn’t help noticing the way the scout’s eyes darted toward Zaharis every few seconds. Clearly he wanted that explanation now.

  He was in for a disappointment.

  “I just got word from the Duke.” Aravon held up the note. “Noll, you’re going back into Rivergate, now.”

  Noll cocked his head. “But we just came from—”

  Aravon thrust out the note to Colborn and relayed the message’s contents to the scout.

  “The Duke’s man inside Rivergate is the only reason we knew about the siege when we did,” Aravon said. “If the Duke’s wound this tightly about something, it’s
got to be important.”

  Colborn nodded agreement.

  Sighing, Noll shrugged. “So be it. While I’m there, maybe I’ll see about a bottle of that Nyslian brandy.”

  Aravon felt Colborn wincing beneath his mask. Brandy had been the cause of the Lieutenant’s undoing the previous night, and had left him with a vicious hangover—or would have, if not for Zaharis’ alchemical marvels.

  “No.” Aravon shook his head. “In and out, quick and quiet.”

  Noll muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “no fun”, which Aravon chose to ignore.

  “And you’re going in without your armor,” Aravon said.

  “What, you mean naked?” The scout’s eyes darted toward Skathi. “This your idea? All you’d have to do is ask.”

  “I’d rather gouge out my eyes and drink acid,” Skathi snarled.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Noll,” Colborn snapped. “No one wants to see your shriveled—”

  “You’re going in unarmored, in your plain clothes because we need to keep out of sight.” Aravon inclined his head toward Zaharis. “Can’t risk anyone recognizing you.”

  “Ahh.” Noll nodded understanding and, with no decorum, set about unbuckling his armor right in their midst.

  Colborn rolled his eyes and Belthar made a show of groaning and grimacing. Skathi, Aravon noticed, paid the little man no heed—much to Noll’s disappointment once he’d finally stripped down to his undertunic and removed his mask.

  “Go,” Aravon told Noll. “Get to the meeting, find out what the Duke’s contact wants, and get back here.” He fixed the man with a piercing stare. “No distractions.”

  “Aye, Captain!” Noll snapped a smart Legion salute and, turning, padded off through the thicket toward the highway that led south to Rivergate.