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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon watched the man go in silence. During his years as officer of Garnet Battalion’s Sixth Company, he’d seen Noll out of his light scout’s armor enough to recognize his scout’s stealthy walk. Let’s just hope no one else here sees him for what he is.

  He turned to the others. “While he’s gone, let’s get ready to ride. Grab some food, drink water, and do whatever else you’ve got to do. The moment he’s back, we’re out of here.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Time seemed to drag on for an eternity as Aravon waited for Noll to return. Colborn, like a true Legionnaire, had fallen asleep with his back against a broad alder tree. Snarl dozed as well, nestling against Skathi’s feet. The archer sat working on crafting new arrow shafts to replace those used in the battle. Knowing her, she’d likely taken time to cut as many of her Odarian steel arrowheads out of the slain enemies as possible. Aravon had spent enough time around the Agrotorae to know that they always carried a small pouch of replacement arrowheads, just in case.

  Rangvaldr sat in silence on the northern side of their small circle, his eyes closed but his posture upright. With his mask hanging around his neck, his face appeared surprisingly serene—surprising, given that he’d just killed Fehlans the previous night. Perhaps he was praying to Nuius, casting his burden onto the shoulders of the Eyrr’s god. If that helped him, Aravon envied him that peace of mind.

  Zaharis, however, was a stark contrast to the Seiomenn’s tranquility. He sat beside Rangvaldr, his pale face dark, a ceaseless whirlwind of activity. He chewed at his lower lip, plucked at the grass beneath him, and turned the black stone he’d taken from the silver wagons over and over in his fingers. His eyes fixed on the stone yet he seemed not to see it.

  Aravon paused in his pacing. Worry for Zaharis thrummed within him. The encounter with Darrak had changed something within the man, and now it left him a bundle of nervous energy, a stormcloud of emotions locked away deep in his brain.

  “Zaharis.”

  The Secret Keeper’s head snapped up.

  “Come.” Aravon inclined his head toward where the horses stood. “Help me go over the gear one last time before we ride.”

  Zaharis’ brow furrowed but he stood smoothly, rising from his cross-legged position to his feet with agile ease. He hunched slightly over his left side; evidently his dark mood wasn’t the only thing Darrak had left him.

  Aravon led the Secret Keeper around the horses, as far away from the others as he could get within the dense thicket. “How concerned should I be about Darrak?” He spoke in the silent hand language.

  A scowl deepened Zaharis’ expression. “First thing he’ll do when he wakes is send a report to the Temple of Whispers in Westhaven and Icespire. From there, it’ll spread to every other city around Fehl where my order has priests. Within the week, every Secret Keeper in the Princelands will know I’m alive and here.”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. “So where does that leave us?” He fixed the man with a solemn gaze. “Can you continue by our side, or do you need to run?”

  The Secret Keeper grew pensive, his brow furrowing in thought. After long moments, he shook his head. “I ride with you, Captain, as I swore to Duke Dyrund. But every day I remain in the Princelands puts me in greater danger. You and the others with me.”

  “And if we ride south?” Aravon asked. “How many of your brothers roam the Fehlan wilds?”

  Again, the contemplative frown. “South of the Chain, there is little chance of discovery. I will not lie and say they will not find me, but the land of Fehl is vast and men are hard to find. Especially men who make it their mission to remain hidden.”

  Aravon nodded. “I make no promises, but I will see if the Duke has anything that can take us south.”

  “And if not,” Zaharis said, “I swear that I will do everything to ensure that my brothers do not find me. I will not let my past affect our mission.”

  “That is all I can ask for.” Aravon met the man’s gaze. “But I cannot be the only one who knows the full extent of the danger we face in the Princelands.” He gestured toward the figures seated around the thicket. “You owe them the truth as well.”

  Zaharis’ face hardened, but he inclined his head. “I will tell them all.”

  “Knowing them,” Aravon said, “they will stand by your side. But they cannot hope to fight an enemy they do not know is coming.”

  “Yes, Captain.” Zaharis half-turned, then paused and shot a glance back at Aravon. “A lesser man would have ordered the truth. I can see why the Duke chose you to lead.” With that, he turned and strode back toward the camp.

  The words caught Aravon off-guard. Such a thing from Zaharis was high praise, indeed.

  Before he could give it any more thought, a slight figure slunk through the gap in the thicket. Aravon had half-raised his spear before he recognized Noll. Even as he lowered his weapon, he registered the puzzled frown on the little scout’s face.

  “What happened?” Aravon asked as he strode around the horses toward the man. “Did you find the Shouting Tankard?”

  “Aye, Captain.” Noll nodded. “But when I went, no one was waiting for me.”

  Aravon cocked an eyebrow. “The Duke’s man?”

  Noll shook his head. “Not so much as a starving mouse. I waited for a full half-hour and still no one showed.” Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out what looked like a chunk of crimson wax. “But there was this.”

  Aravon took the object from Noll. It was wax, the sort used to seal letters, bearing the imprint of a signet ring Aravon didn’t recognize: a carbuncle, eight radiating rods that formed an interlocked cross and saltire.

  “Where did you find it?” Aravon asked. A scrap of fragile parchment still clung to the chunk of wax; something this delicate wouldn’t have survived long left out in the open, which meant someone had placed it somewhere safe, away from the elements.

  “Dead drop in the stone wall.” Noll shot a glance at Belthar. The big man had stiffened, his expression frozen. The same reaction he’d had while detailing a surprisingly crafty plan to break into Duke Leddan’s stronghold.

  “Dead drop?” The term was unfamiliar to Aravon.

  “Sneaky way of passing messages. A hidden page in a book, loose brick or stone in the wall, something like that,” Noll explained. “Sort of like the caches we scouts use to leave supplies when ranging far ahead of our Legionnaires. Only it’s done in cities and towns.”

  Aravon turned the wax seal and its attached scrap of parchment over in his hands. He had no idea what the insignia meant or which noble House of the Princelands—or of mainland Einan—it belonged to. The fact that the Duke’s agent had taken pains to hide it meant it had to be important. More worrisome, however, was the man’s absence. If the Duke’s contact within Rivergate had an Enfield to send and receive information—a fact that seemed very likely, given the speed with which the updates had been delivered to the Duke and Lord Eidan—the message would have taken less than a day to get from Rivergate to the Duke to them.

  Which makes absolutely no sense. Aravon’s brow furrowed. That means the message would have been sent the same night we attacked Rivergate.

  The Duke’s agent wouldn’t have known they planned an assault, as evidenced by the message that the city’s supplies had run out and people were starving. Yet, if the man had been present during the battle, he’d have to have seen Aravon and the others in their strange, non-Legion armor. A man who reported to the Duke personally would likely know who they were, and would have sought them out in person long before the Enfield delivered his message.

  Unless he was already dead by the time we attacked. Cold dread sank in Aravon’s gut. That was the only explanation he could think of.

  He lifted his eyes to his men. “While you were in Rivergate, did any of you hear about suspicious deaths before we broke the siege?”

  Six pairs of eyes narrowed. “Suspicious?” asked Noll.

  “Not deaths by enemy arrows or by starvation.” Aravon’s mind worked
at the problem. “The only reason the Duke’s agent would miss the meet is if he couldn’t make it. And, given the quick arrival of the message—”

  “He’d have to have sent it off yesterday.” Skathi seemed to have reached a similar conclusion. “Not long before the battle, for that matter.”

  “Which means he’s either dead or wounded,” Colborn finished.

  Aravon nodded. “If he was wounded, he’d have done everything in his power to make that meet.” There were plenty of injuries that could render a man unconscious or immobile, and that could be one explanation. But the other…

  “The fact that he didn’t means something happened to him, you think?” Noll screwed up his face, an expression that made him look startlingly like one of the voles that ran rampant around the Princelands. “Yeah, that tracks.”

  “You suspect foul play?” Colborn asked.

  “Between him sending that message and now,” Aravon said, “the only men who died in battle were Legionnaires.”

  “And no Legionnaire would play spy?” A sneer twisted Skathi’s face. “Not all soldiers are as virtuous and noble as you, Captain.”

  Those words held a far greater depth of meaning, but Aravon had no time to dig in to it at the moment.

  “Legionnaires can be spies,” Aravon replied, “but were that the case, I believe that the Duke would have told me to be on the lookout for a particular soldier. He’d have tasked me to do my best to ensure his agent got out of the inevitable battle alive.”

  “Which leads you to believe that the Duke’s agent isn’t someone who would be put at risk in battle,” Colborn finished. “Someone else. A Rivergater, one of the regular citizenry. Someone who wound up dead for another reason. Murder.”

  Aravon shrugged. “Given the information we’ve got, that’s my best worst guess.” He glanced around the circle. “Unless any of you have another theory.”

  The six exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

  “Which leads me back to my original question,” Aravon said. “Did any of you hear of any strange or suspicious deaths?”

  A long moment of silence elapsed as everyone contemplated.

  “Oh!” Belthar’s rumbling voice broke in and he turned his huge face toward Noll. “Before the wrestling match with Balegar, did you hear the two Legionnaires of Fifth Company talking about Turath?”

  “Yeah!” Noll’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, that was suspicious.”

  “Turath?” Aravon asked.

  “Local tavernkeeper,” Belthar replied. “Lost his wife and daughters in the initial attack, then his youngest during the siege.” His huge face darkened. “Fell ill and never got better.”

  “One of the Fifth Company officers was dressing down a loudmouth for suggesting that Turath snapped and lost his marbles.” Noll shook his head. “Said he took a long walk off a short parapet. Blind drunk and mad with grief.”

  “Only the officer said Turath never touched his own merchandise.” Belthar frowned. “He slung the liquor but kept his whistle dry. Last I heard was the Legionnaire retorting that even a good man like Turath could go batty. That was when Balegar challenged me to an arm wrestle.” Pride shone on his face. “And you all know how that turned out.”

  Aravon gave the man an approving smile, but his mind was already working on the matter of Turath. He hadn’t wanted to believe his own theory. It was easier to think that the Duke’s agent had simply died in battle, but if—and it was a huge if—Turath had been the one sending messages, that “walk off the parapet” might have been more of a “thrown”. The alcohol could have been nothing more than the murderer’s ruse to distract from the truth of his crime.

  Which left the question burning in Aravon’s mind. Who knew the Duke had an agent in Rivergate, and who would want him dead?

  The same thought seemed to be brewing in everyone’s thoughts. The faces of those around him darkened, expressions growing grim.

  Since Silver Break Mine, Aravon had known that someone in a position of power was working against Duke Dyrund. Only a traitor would have revealed the mine, a secret known to a select few of the highest-ranked people on Fehl. Their visit to Ironcastle had written Duke Leddan off as a suspect in regards to the mine. Blaming the Duke of Oldcrest for this particular death seemed far more than a stretch of logic.

  Duke Dyrund had told him that Lord Eidan would investigate the matter. As the Prince’s spymaster, Lord Eidan’s reach extended throughout the entire Princelands. It was likely the man killed had been a member of his spy network, reporting to both him and the Duke. Aravon would make sure Lord Eidan learned of his agent’s death. Unmasking the culprit behind Turath’s murder would likely point fingers at whoever was responsible for Silver Break Mine.

  “Send me back into Rivergate, Captain,” Noll said. “Let me do a bit of poking around, see what I can learn about Turath’s death.”

  Aravon hesitated. The matter of Darrak remained fresh in his mind, and Zaharis’ statement that all the Secret Keepers on Fehl would soon be looking for them definitely added a new wrinkle to their mission to operate behind the scenes. Sending Noll into Rivergate was a risk; not only was it an added delay to their departure, but there was a chance Darrak would awaken and come after them, broken leg or no.

  Yet he couldn’t simply leave the matter alone. If Turath was the Duke’s agent and if he’d been murdered, the best time to look into it was now. The more time that elapsed, the greater the chance that someone would forget a vital detail of the matter. Even if they only got hints and clues, it could be enough to set Lord Eidan’s investigation on the right track. And, knowing the nobleman and the Duke to whom he answered, there would be someone sent to find out what had happened.

  Finally, Aravon nodded. “Go. You’ve got two hours, then get out of there.”

  “Got it, Captain!” Noll saluted.

  “Belthar, stay here and wait for him. The moment he’s back, I want you two riding north. We’ll be waiting for you at that spot where we camped the night before we arrived in Bannockburn.”

  “By the waterfall?” Belthar’s eyes lit up.

  “That’s the place.”

  “Aye, Captain!” Belthar saluted as well—he was getting better, Aravon noted.

  “As for the rest of us,” Aravon said, turning to the remaining four, “we get on our way, get camp set up and dinner ready for when they arrive.”

  “Ah, dinner!” Delight sparkled in Rangvaldr’s eyes, and a smile broadened his face. “After these weeks of hard trail rations and meager Legion fare, I find myself longing for a proper Fehlan suckling pig roast.”

  “No promises,” Colborn said, “but I could swear I saw grouse tracks near the stream.” He shot a glance at Skathi. “At least one of us ought to be able to bring a few down.”

  “Winner gets the first watch.” Skathi raised an eyebrow.

  “Deal!” Colborn shook her hand. “I’m already looking forward to a good night’s sleep and a half-decent dinner.”

  “Half-decent?” Zaharis signed. “You get me grouse, and I’ll produce a feast fit for a King.” His dour expression cracked, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Or, fit enough for a handful of savages like you.”

  Despite himself, Aravon couldn’t help mirroring the grin. “Looks like we’ve finally got something to look forward to tonight.”

  The five of them mounted up and rode out within five minutes. Snarl was too tired to fly or run alongside them, so Aravon carried the little Enfield curled up in his arms. That forced them to set a slower pace, but it was worth it to have Snarl rested and ready to fly once Noll and Belthar caught up with them. They might have to get a message to the Duke in a hurry.

  Thoughts of the Duke’s missing agent pushed Aravon’s momentary good mood aside. Such accidents didn’t simply happen by chance. Someone had killed Turath and covered it up to look like he’d thrown himself off the keep’s ramparts.

  An enemy—Eirdkilrs, one of the Duke’s political opponents, or the same traitor that had re
vealed the location of Silver Break Mine, Aravon couldn’t begin to figure out—had murdered the man.

  The question was: who? And what was the meaning of the strange heraldic symbol? With every pounding step of his horse’s hooves, Aravon felt the sense of wrongness penetrating deeper into his bones.

  If they didn’t find out who was behind all of this and soon, the Eirdkilrs might not be the only foe threatening Duke Dyrund, Aravon and his men, perhaps even all the Princelands.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The sound of drumming hoofbeats snapped five heads toward the south. Aravon reached for the spear resting on the grass by his side, Skathi nocked a freshly-made arrow to her bow, and a seax appeared in Rangvaldr’s hand. Colborn, on watch under the shadows of the trees, was invisible to Aravon’s eye, but he had no doubt the half-Fehlan was ready for anything.

  Snarl, curled around Aravon’s feet, perked up, lifting his little furry head. But instead of leaping toward the newcomers or barking out a greeting or warning, the Enfield lay back down and snuggled closer to Aravon’s boots—a comforting warmth after the long days and nights they’d endured.

  Zaharis seemed not to notice the sudden tension. The Secret Keeper appeared lost in deep, dark thoughts, his brow pulled so tightly thick furrows formed all up his brown-haired head. His lithe, strong fingers turned the small chunk of black ghoulstone over and over mindlessly.

  Aravon released the grip on his spear as he caught sight of the two riders—the towering giant astride one of the few horses on Fehl strong enough to bear his weight, and a small, compact man riding in his shadow.

  Noll reined in and leapt from his saddle with the easy grace of an experienced rider. “Please tell me you’ve got that fancy feast Zaharis promised,” he said, removing the straps that held his mask in place.

  Aravon gestured toward their small fire, and the spit that held three plump grouse. “Saved one for you.” He shot a glance at Belthar, who dismounted much more slowly than the scout. “Other two are for you. Extra-spicy, just the way you like it. Eat up, then tell us what you’ve found.”