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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon, tired from the last watch shift of the night, made little conversation as the rest of their small company awoke. The same tense silence from the previous evening hung over the Black Xiphos mercenaries and Lord Virinus. After a quiet breakfast, they broke camp and rode out with little fanfare.

  Yet, as the day wore on, the thick bank of mist retreated, pushed back by the warmth and brilliance of the sun. Puffs of lazy white clouds dotted the cerulean sky, and Aravon felt his spirits lifting as the world brightened from dusky gray to a glorious medley of greens and browns. A sense of reverence hung over the old-growth forests of the Deid, a timelessness found in trees that had watched over the land for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years. There was an ancient beauty here—similar to the shimmering blue surface of Icespire or the glittering diamond-hard ice of the Frozen Sea glaciers—that couldn’t be ignored.

  They forded the Standelfr at the Yfir crossing just after noon, pausing only long enough to refill their waterskins from the fresh, ice-cold flow of the river. Rangvaldr’s silent offer of a birch stick to Noll—accompanied by the hand signal for “Hungry?”—brought a smile to Aravon’s face. By the time they reached the western shores of Cold Lake, Aravon found his spirits greatly lifted.

  Who could possibly feel maudlin in the face of such beauty?

  Cold Lake was vast—stretching nearly fifty miles east to west, closer to forty miles north to south—an expanse the color of the purest Twelve Kingdoms’ turquoise. The mirrored surface reflected the sunlight with dazzling brilliance, shining so bright Aravon had to shield his eyes. An icy wind rolled off the lake, carrying a crisp scent of clean, fresh water.

  Aravon grimaced. Almost makes me wish I hadn’t talked the Duke out of visiting Saerheim. Saerheim, built on the northern shore of Cold Lake, would doubtless offer views of the sunset and sunrise to rival those of Icespire.

  With reluctance, Aravon turned his horse away from the lake, resuming their trek south. They hadn’t come for the panorama, no matter how breathtaking.

  The trail they followed meandered along the lake’s shore, then ascended into the gently-rising hills that bordered it to the west. It was there, among those hills, that the Duke called a halt to make camp for the night an hour after the sun had set.

  Their small company spent another evening in silence, and neither Colborn nor Noll returned. Aravon trusted that meant the path ahead was all clear, but he couldn’t help worrying about the two scouts. Even Noll’s cleverness and skill had its limits, as he’d learned during the fateful ambush on Sixth Company. And if Colborn was too distracted with the burdens that weighed on his soul—burdens that had seemed to grow heavier as they rode into Deid lands—he could find himself in hot water.

  When morning dawned and still the two scouts hadn’t returned, Aravon found his worries increasing. “Eyes sharp,” he signed to his four companions.

  “Noll and Colborn not back yet?” Belthar’s fingers asked.

  Aravon shook his head.

  “Probably just ranging far ahead, Captain.” Skathi appeared unperturbed. “All they missed was whatever the fiery hell it was that Torin served last night.”

  Aravon grimaced; his stomach hadn’t appreciated the watery stew or the chunks of uncooked meat and raw vegetables floating in the lumps of duck fat. For once, he couldn’t help agreeing with Lord Virinus’ visible, if silent, contempt for the meal.

  “I’m sure they’re fine.” Aravon couldn’t quite feel the words, but he had to try for the sake of his soldiers. “All the same, just keep a watch. Never know what’s hiding out there.”

  “Aye, sir.” Belthar caught himself before saluting—Aravon had made it clear that there could be no association with the Legion once they entered Fjall lands—and managed to restrict himself to a nod.

  As the sun rose high, dappling the thick tree canopy with its golden brilliance, Aravon kept a close eye on their path for any hint of Colborn and Noll’s passage. He doubted he’d see any, not with Colborn’s woodsman abilities, which he’d passed on to Noll. Yet he still looked all the same.

  An hour before noon, they reached the southern end of Cold Lake. Aravon shot one last glance backward at the turquoise perfection of the lake. One day, when the war was over, he’d bring Mylena here. She’d love the sight of such beauty.

  Then he turned away, pushing back the thoughts of his wife and the future he didn’t dare dream of. He had the present to focus on. The mission was all that mattered now.

  Yet, as he pushed deeper into the woods bordering the lake, he caught sight of a feathered figure speeding across the watery expanse. Turning in his saddle, he craned his neck upward, watching the approaching creature. High in the sky, it flew on eagle’s wings, but Aravon caught a flash of orange.

  Snarl had returned, and judging by his speed, he carried an important message.

  “Your Grace,” Aravon called out. When the Duke didn’t hear him, Aravon tried again, louder. “Your Grace!”

  Now, Duke Dyrund glanced back, then slowed his horse to a walk when Aravon’s silent signal caught his eyes.

  “Snarl,” Aravon signed.

  “Where?” the Duke asked.

  Aravon jerked his head to the east, toward the forest. “Push on, I’ll catch up.”

  Duke Dyrund nodded and turned back to the hunting trail.

  Aravon drew in his horse and slowed to a walk, turning toward the dense forest bordering the path. The Black Xiphos mercenaries riding behind him shot curious glances at him as he pulled away from the column, but Skathi and Belthar, riding at the rear, made to follow.

  Aravon shook his head. “It’s just Snarl,” he signed.

  With a nod, the two returned to the small column, keeping pace at the rear of the line of riding men.

  Aravon pushed his horse off the track and through the dense undergrowth of the hazel trees. Duke Dyrund had insisted on keeping Snarl’s existence a secret from Lord Virinus and the sellswords, a decision with which Aravon agreed heartily. After Silver Break Mine and the murder of the Duke’s agent at Rivergate, he would take every possible precaution to keep all under his command safe. That included Snarl.

  A few dozen yards from the trail, Aravon stopped and dismounted. He glanced over his shoulder and, certain he was out of sight of the column, drew out his bone whistle. A short, sharp blast was all the Enfield needed to locate him.

  Snarl swooped toward him, dropping through the thick canopy of the towering hazel trees. His wings snapped out to slow his descent, and this time, he managed to land without slamming into Aravon.

  Delight gleamed in the Enfield’s amber eyes as he leapt on Aravon with a happy yip.

  “Hey, good to see you, too!” Aravon laughed, rubbing the creature’s furry back. “You were gone a long time.”

  Icespire and Camp Marshal were both roughly six hundred miles away as the Enfield flew, and Snarl could cover that distance in fewer than ten hours at top speed. Even at his average flying speed, he could have made that journey in under a day. There was only one reason he would have been delayed: Lord Eidan had kept him close at hand to send a message to the Duke.

  Sure enough, a piece of parchment lay rolled within Snarl’s message tube. Drawing it out, Aravon opened the note and read. The words scrawled on the parchment froze the blood in his veins.

  No!

  In an instant, Aravon was on the move. He leapt into his saddle and, shouting the command word for Snarl to follow, turned his horse’s head back toward the trail. His heels dug into the charger’s flank and he rode hard, crashing through the underbrush in his hurry to catch up to the Duke. He didn’t care who heard or saw—he had to relay Lord Eidan’s message now.

  Aravon’s heart hammered in time with the pounding of his horse’s hooves as he galloped up the hunting trail. Mind racing, Aravon bent low over the horse’s neck and urged it to greater speed.

  Skathi and Belthar whirled as Aravon came pounding up the trail behind them. The Agrotora lowered her bow, but worry sparkled in her ey
es.

  Aravon thundered past, racing alongside the column and reining in beside the Duke’s enormous black charger. “Your Grace, you must see this at once!”

  Duke Dyrund reined in his horse and snatched the message from Aravon’s outstretched hands. Blood drained from his face as he read Lord Eidan’s words. “Impossible!”

  Aravon shook his head. “I expected they’d regroup in the marshlands, maybe try another assault on Rivergate. But this…” He grimaced beneath his mask. “That’s one hell of a problem, sir.”

  “What’s a problem?” Lord Virinus’ nasal voice echoed from his place behind the Duke.

  “The Eirdkilrs that attacked with the Jokull were spotted returning south.” Duke Dyrund repeated Lord Eidan’s message, his tone somber. “They crossed the Westmarch fifty miles south of Hammer Garrison.” He crumpled the note in his fist, a snarl twisting his lips. “Two hundred and fifty of the bastards disappeared into Deid lands yesterday.”

  “Which means they’re ahead of our position,” Aravon said. “Between us and Storbjarg.”

  All along the line, mercenaries reached for their weapons, their expressions growing grim. Skathi’s grip tightened on her bow and Belthar’s on his axe. Zaharis and Rangvaldr’s eyes darkened and they exchanged somber glances. Two hundred and fifty Eirdkilrs was a serious threat even to a full Legion battalion, much less a company of fewer than twenty hired swords.

  Before anyone could speak, the sound of drumming hoofbeats echoed to the south. Aravon whirled toward the noise, and dread sank like a stone in his gut as he spotted Noll racing up the trail toward them.

  Noll pulled up just in front of the head of their column, his fingers flashing before he’d come to a full stop. “Eirdkilr tracks, dead ahead!”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Aravon drew in a sharp breath. Before he could respond, Colborn burst into view around the trail to the southeast. From the way the Lieutenant bent low in the saddle and spurred his horse to a gallop, Aravon knew he’d found tracks as well.

  “Which way do the tracks lead?” Aravon’s fingers flashed before Colborn reined in.

  Colborn didn’t lose a beat. “Northeast from our position, around Cold Lake toward Godahus.”

  A fist of iron clenched in Aravon’s gut. Godahus was one of the smaller Deid villages, built a short distance from the southeastern edge of Cold Lake. If the Eirdkilrs had penetrated this deep into Deid territory, it could mean they headed for Saerheim, north of the vast lake. The shadow in Colborn’s eyes told Aravon the Lieutenant had reached the same grim conclusion.

  “How old?” Aravon spoke aloud, for the benefit of the Duke’s party. If they were to face a company of Eirdkilrs, best they all knew to be ready for it.

  “A day, maybe more.” Colborn’s tone was grim.

  Aravon stifled a curse. If they passed this way a day ago, we could be too late. Saerheim could already be surrounded, or destroyed.

  Yet that didn’t seem quite right. He’d seen no sign of Eirdkilrs around Cold Lake, no indication that Saerheim on the northern shore was under siege. Unless the enemy was preparing to spring a trap, they could have simply gone raiding the smaller village—both for supplies and to send the same message to the Deid that they’d delivered to the Eyrr clan at Oldrsjot.

  But it was more than that. According to Lord Eidan’s note, the Eirdkilrs had crossed the Westmarch fifty miles south of Hammer Garrison. Their journey from the Jokull lands had led them nearly three hundred miles through hostile lands. Yet there had been no hint of any attacks on Deid villages.

  Why would they skirt the Deid west of the Westmarch, only to double back north toward a small Deid village near one of the Deid’s largest cities? Are they so hard up for supplies that they’d risk attacking allied clans this close to a Legion stronghold? Hammer Garrison stood fewer than thirty miles from the southwestern shore of Cold Lake.

  It made no sense, but the Eirdkilr strategy had been wildly unpredictable of late. If their assault on Rivergate proves anything, it’s that we need to start expecting the unexpected.

  Aravon turned to the Duke. “Your Grace, permission to follow the trail?”

  Hesitation flashed across the Duke’s face.

  “Your mission leads south, Your Grace, and I will send two of my best to guide you.” His fingers moved in the silent hand signals for Noll and Rangvaldr to accompany the Duke. “But if the Eirdkilrs are planning an attack on the Deid, we owe it to our allies to help. Even if we’re too late to help Godahus, we may be able to summon reinforcements or bring word of warning in time for the Deid warband or the nearest garrison to send troops.”

  Duke Dyrund growled a curse. “You’re right. I’ve got to get to the meeting with the Hilmir at once, but you and yours can afford a few hours’ detour.” He raised a warning finger. “I expect you to do nothing but scout and follow. Find the enemy, if you can, but only engage if there is no other choice, understood?”

  Aravon snapped a Legion salute. “Your Grace.” Turning to Belthar, Skathi, and Zaharis, he signed. “We move out. Follow Colborn!”

  Silent nods met his wordless command, and the three spurred their horses to follow Aravon past the head of the column, toward where Colborn had already begun turning his mount’s head to ride back the way he’d come.

  “Swordsman be with you!” Duke Dyrund called after them. “Until we meet in Storbjarg!”

  Whenever that will be, Aravon thought. Last time, he’d gone riding off in pursuit of Eirdkilrs, he’d barely arrived in time to prevent the enemy from killing the Duke. This close to enemy territory, he hated the idea of leaving Duke Dyrund with so few men to guard him. Noll’s scouting and Rangvaldr’s knowledge of Fehlan woodcraft made them the best choices to guide the Duke to Storbjarg, but even with nine Black Xiphos mercenaries and Lord Virinus, Aravon wouldn’t stop worrying until he once again rode at the Duke’s side.

  Yet now, the matter of the Eirdkilrs demanded his attention. Those two hundred and fifty warriors had traveled a long way from Jokull lands, likely enraged at the loss of their comrades and the recapture of Rivergate. If they were headed for Godahus, they would likely be out for blood—allied Fehlan in lieu of Princelander.

  Colborn set a fast pace, pushing the Kostarasar chargers to the limits of their speed and footing on the muddy hunting path. The specially-bred horses could cover ground far faster than any mounts Aravon had ever encountered, yet it felt as if they moved at a walk. Every thundering hoofbeat tightened the knots straining his spine. Every gust of icy wind rolling off Cold Lake to the north added to the chill running through his veins.

  Godahus was close to twenty miles northeast of their current position. They’d reach the village in less than two hours at this pace. But that could be far too late.

  Images of Oldrsjot flashed through his mind. Smoke still rose from the charred debris of the Fehlan longhouses. The fire had melted the wattle and daub walls, leaving only the smoldering beams, like the ribs of a grotesque obsidian monster. In the center of Oldrsjot, shards of marble had been crushed into fine gravel, as if someone had pried up the very stones of the village's main square. The bodies of Eyrr men, women, and even children lay strewn like refuse littering the ground. Their blood turned the boot-churned earth to a crimson mud.

  Horror churned in Aravon’s gut. The sight had sickened him, even after a decade and a half of combat and bloodshed. Is that what we’ll find in Godahus? More charred corpses and ruined lives?

  Slowly, one pounding step at a time, they closed the distance to Godahus. Twenty miles became fifteen, then ten. Aravon’s gaze darted to the forest looming on either side of the path, searching for enemies. Two hundred and fifty Eirdkilrs out for revenge after their loss at Rivergate. Vengeance they would extract from innocent Deid men, women, and children.

  Eight miles. Five. Three miles, then two. Sweat streamed down Aravon’s back and his legs ached from the horses’ punishing pace. Yet he didn’t dare slow, not with the fate of Godahus resting in the balance. />
  Please let us be in time to do something! The silent prayer to the Swordsman did little to shake loose the knowledge that the Eirdkilrs had likely come and gone hours earlier. Yet, it gave him something to cling to as he raced toward the Deid village.

  His gut twisted as he caught the familiar whiff of wood smoke. The same scent that had presaged the utter destruction of Oldrsjot. His heart sank. We’re too late.

  At that moment, they crested a hill and the forest thinned, giving way to a broad swath of cleared land that surrounded a small village.

  The village of Godahus was small, barely a dozen longhouses surrounded by a smattering of wooden buildings. Sheep and cows grazed in the hillside, watched by dozing shepherds and barking sheepdogs. Farmers labored in the nearby fields, their wives and children toiling at their sides. Smoke rose from every longhouse—smoke produced by villagers burning wood to smoke meat, cook their meals, and stay warm in the winter chill.

  All was peace and calm in Godahus.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Confusion hummed within Aravon’s mind. He barely managed to stop his horse as Colborn reined to a sudden halt.

  “What in the fiery hell?” Belthar rumbled. “I thought the Eirdkilr tracks led—”

  “This way.” Colborn had ridden a short distance up another smaller trail that led due north, skirting the village of Godahus entirely.

  Something else, something that had nagged at the back of Aravon’s mind for the last two hours, made even less sense.

  “Wait!” he called after Colborn. “This isn’t right.”

  The Lieutenant turned his horse and trotted back to where Aravon, Skathi, Zaharis, and Belthar sat. His eyes narrowed behind his mask. “What are you thinking, Captain?”

  “The tracks.” Aravon scrunched up his face in thought. “Noll said they led from the south, heading northeast toward Godahus, yes?”