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

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Battle for Peace: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 2) Page 31

by Andy Peloquin


  In silence, Colborn dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and trotted west, in the direction Zaharis had indicated. Zaharis followed, but not without a look back at the abandoned sack—unusual for the Secret Keeper, who had never shown any interest in gold or wealth.

  “Snarl!” Aravon said as he fell in behind Colborn. “Follow!”

  The Enfield leapt from Aravon’s arm and took wing, quickly gaining altitude until he joined the crows circling Gold Burrows. His angry barking dispersed the carrion birds, but only for a few seconds. All too soon, the dark black shapes returned to their feast.

  Aravon debated whether or not to send Snarl with a message. After a moment’s contemplation, he decided against it. They’d catch up to Duke Dyrund with a few hours of hard riding. News of the massacre could wait until then. He was better off keeping Snarl close in case he had to send an urgent message.

  Belthar and Skathi rode close on Aravon’s heels, bringing up the rear of their small column. They seemed only too glad to leave the carnage behind.

  Even with his rudimentary tracking skills, Aravon could make out the trail the Eirdkilrs had left as they marched out of the mining camp. Trampled grass, snapped bushes, bent leaves, ground stained with blood. Bootprints had churned the ground to mud as dozens, or hundreds of prisoners were led away from the corpses of their friends and families.

  The trail led southwest for half a mile before it reached a broad, fast-flowing stream. Aravon’s heart sank as he approached the bank and found the Eirdkilr tracks ended there. Or at least his inexperienced eyes couldn’t detect any sign of the enemy’s passing.

  Aravon turned toward Colborn, but the half-Fehlan Lieutenant was already riding north along the stream, scanning the far bank. He kept riding north until he disappeared into the forest. Dread sank like a stone in Aravon’s gut when Colborn rode back toward them and pursued the stream farther south.

  Anger burned brighter and brighter in Aravon’s chest as he waited for Colborn to return. Belthar and Skathi shifted in their saddles, gripping their weapons tighter and scanning the forest around them with wary eyes. Zaharis sat with his eyes unfocused, as if deep in thought, turning something over and over in his fingers. Aravon’s brow furrowed at the sight of the black chunk of stone the Secret Keeper had retrieved from the wagon in Rivergate. The same black stone, it seemed, that had filled the sack of gold taken by the Eirdkilrs.

  Before he could ask Zaharis about it, Colborn rode back toward them. “River ran high last night,” he growled. “Churned the banks to mud, covered any tracks. I could cross, but—” He shook his head. “We’d lose hours trying to find them, much less catch up to them.”

  Aravon’s chest tightened. Damn it! It should have been impossible—hundreds of Eirdkilrs and their prisoners couldn’t simply disappear. Yet they had at Silver Break Mine, and now here. If Colborn had lost the Eirdkilr trail, it was well and truly lost.

  “What now, Captain?” Skathi asked, piercing green eyes fixed on him. “Go after the prisoners, or rejoin the Duke?”

  The burden of command weighed heavy on Aravon’s shoulders, as it always did when faced with a difficult choice. Much as he ached to help the Fehlans and Princelanders captured by the Eirdkilrs, he knew that the five of them had little hope of catching up, much less freeing the prisoners. Pursuit would only increase the risk of their being captured behind enemy lines. And the Duke needed his protection as he rode into the Fjall lands. This close to Eirdkilr-held territory, Aravon’s place was at the Duke’s side.

  With a frustrated growl, Aravon turned his horse southeast. “To the Duke,” he snarled. “And Storbjarg.”

  They might have been too late to save the miners at this camp, but the Fjall capital held their best hope of peace and an end to the Eirdkilr cruelty.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Gold Burrows Mine?” Duke Dyrund’s eyebrows pulled together, a deep scowl creasing his forehead. “Keeper damn them!” He drove his clenched right fist into his open left palm with a resounding smack. “I thought Silver Break was likely an isolated incident, but I never would have imagined…” His expression grew grim. “A hundred or more miners taken prisoner?”

  Aravon nodded. “That was our best guess, Your Grace, given the size of the camp and the number of casualties.” The word “casualties” felt cold, far removed from the truth—slaughtered women, children, and men were far from just numbers on an after-battle report—yet years in the Legion had taught Aravon that he couldn’t allow himself to feel every death in war. If he did, he’d drown beneath a torrent of sorrow at the wanton cruelty. Not only fellow Legionnaires and soldiers taking up arms, but the Fehlans and Princelanders that suffered as a result of war.

  He swallowed the surge of emotion and continued. “We lost their trail at the Smar River, but they’d passed more than a day earlier. By now, they’re likely deep in Fjall territory.”

  “Out of our reach, for now.” The Duke’s voice dropped to a growl. “Once we have the Hilmir and the Fjall warband on our side, by the Swordsman, we’ll make the bastards pay!”

  Aravon cocked his head. “You expect Throrsson to accept the Prince’s terms?”

  “He’ll claw for every inch of ground, protest that we need them more than they need us.” The Duke shook his head. “But, in the end, we have what he needs. And the Fjall have as much reason to hate their southern neighbors as we do. More, seeing as the Eirdkilrs have made their home in Fjall lands ever since the Vigvollr. Swordsman only knows how much the smaller Fjall villages and towns have suffered from Eirdkilr raids.”

  Again, the image of Oldrsjot flashed through Aravon’s mind. The Eirdkilrs wouldn’t burn and destroy their Fjall neighbors; they needed the farmers, shepherds, and herders alive to keep raising the food they would steal. But in the end, they would bleed the Fjall dry, leaving them as dead as the Eyrr they had slaughtered. Indeed, starvation made for a far crueler killer than Eirdkilr steel.

  “The fact that the Hilmir reached out to us means he’s desperate,” the Duke continued. “He knows his warband’s not large enough to deal with the Eirdkilrs alone, and Wraithfever’s making his hold on his lands even more tenuous. Doubtless, the only reason the Eirdkilrs haven’t taken advantage of the Fjall’s weakness is because of Legionnaires stationed in Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark. But if the illness persists, Throrsson’s army will only grow weaker. The Hilmir’s not going to let Eirdkilrs rip away everything he’s worked for.” The Duke’s expression grew grim. “He’ll make a deal, Captain, one way or another.”

  “For all our sakes, I pray to the Swordsman that you’re right.”

  The Duke fixed Aravon with a piercing stare. “So do I,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Once again, Aravon was struck by the shadows around Duke Dyrund’s eyes, the wrinkles that had grown deeper, more prominent in the last few weeks. The weight of responsibility weighed heaviest on those who wielded the most power.

  “Go,” the Duke said quietly. “Check on your men. Once I get a message off to Lord Eidan, I’ll join you.”

  Without a word, Aravon saluted, turned on his heel, and strode back through the trees toward the camp.

  He and his company of five had caught up with Duke Dyrund’s party at the second hour before midnight. The Duke had made camp in a shallow dell, where a short hill and a thicket of hazel trees offered shelter from the wind and prying eyes. Indeed, Aravon might have ridden past had Colborn not spotted one of the Duke’s mercenaries hiding in the bushes beside the narrow hunting path. The man, Scathan, had been posted to guide them to the well-concealed camp—one Aravon suspected had been chosen by Rangvaldr and Noll.

  The little scout was nowhere in sight; he’d drawn the second watch of the night, and he’d taken up position on the narrow path that led back to the main trail. Rangvaldr, however, lay sleeping on the soft grass covering the gentle slope, his feet propped up on a protruding root. He seemed perfectly at home among the Fehlan wilds—no great surprise, for he was Fehlan, a warrior of the E
yrr, born and raised in the forests and hills around his home.

  Lord Virinus had curled up in his heavy fur cloak, though he hadn’t ceased tossing and turning in an unsuccessful effort to find a comfortable position on the hard ground. The Black Xiphos mercenaries, save for the two on watch with Noll, busied themselves sharpening their black-handled weapons, checking their gear, munching on their cold meal, or sleeping while they could.

  But the four that had accompanied Aravon to Gold Burrows Mine appeared anything but relaxed. The faint light of their meager fire cast dark shadows across their masked faces, painting the snarling greatwolf features with a looming sense of menace tinged with cold dread.

  Skathi sat in silence, her fingers unmoving, the un-fletched shaft of an arrow abandoned between her feet. Belthar ran an oiled cloth up and down the head of his axe. It had long ago passed gleaming—the Odarian steel could blind its enemies, given its brilliant sheen of polish—and still his hands moved, as if operating independently of his mind. A mind lost in memories of the slaughter at Gold Burrows Mine.

  Zaharis’ fingers hadn’t stopped moving since leaving the mine. He toyed with the black stone, turning it over, over, and over so many times it nearly appeared smooth. His eyes shifted from an unfocused, distant gaze to narrowed scrutiny of the stone, then back again.

  The heavy darkness of the Fehlan night had nothing on the cloud of gloom that hung over Colborn. The Lieutenant hadn’t spoken a word since losing the Eirdkilr tracks. Though the mask concealed his face, the hunch of his shoulders, the stiffness of his spine, and the hollow look in his eyes spoke of brooding.

  Those were his people, Aravon realized. Even if he didn’t know them personally, they were his clan.

  Aravon had a good sense of what Colborn was feeling; he’d felt the same torment of emotions when he awoke to find the corpses of Sixth Company scattered across the Eastmarch. Men he’d marched beside, commanded, and shared food and drink with for years, butchered by the Eirdkilrs. Those men of Sixth Company had been “his people” just as much as the slain Deid miners and warriors at Gold Burrows Mine were Colborn’s.

  A sense of helplessness descended over Aravon. What could I possibly say to make him feel better? Any words he could summon would sound and feel trite.

  Yet he had to try. Colborn’s quiet words in Bjornstadt had helped Aravon cope with the losses of Sixth Company, the guilt he felt over their deaths. He owed the man at least the effort of attempting to help.

  He strode toward Colborn, his mind racing as he tried to figure out what to say. But, before he could reach the man, Belthar set aside his axe and stood. “A word, Captain?” the big man signed.

  Aravon hesitated a heartbeat, caught between his duty to Colborn and his need to hear whatever Belthar had to say. One look in Belthar’s eyes, however, made the decision. Belthar emanated uneasy reluctance, yet grim resolve glimmered there as well. Whatever Belthar had to say, it had taken the big man effort to work himself around to speaking up.

  “Of course.” Aravon’s fingers flashed and, with a glance at the brooding Colborn, he gestured for Belthar to follow him into the shadows a short way away from the fire.

  Once they were far enough away that Aravon didn’t have to worry about being overheard, he turned to Belthar. “I’m listening.”

  Belthar remained silent a long moment. Everything about him was defensive, from his posture to the way he leaned away from Aravon to his wandering gaze. Yet, finally, it seemed he summoned up the courage to speak.

  “I wanted to say something back in Rivergate, but I didn’t get a chance, what with Turath’s death and the race to join the Duke. After that…” Belthar hung his head, shame flashing in his eyes.

  “It’s okay, Belthar.” Aravon reached up and placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “Whatever it is, you can speak without fear of judgement. From me, or any of the others.”

  Belthar’s shoulders tensed and his gaze darted toward the campfire. Toward Skathi. His reluctance doubtless stemmed from fear over what his companions would think of him, but her most of all. Again, he seemed to wrestle with some inner turmoil before he continued.

  “Back in Rivergate, you saw those wagons parked next to the bridge, yes?”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “I did.”

  “Did you ever find out what they were for?” Belthar’s voice held a depth of meaning Aravon didn’t quite understand.

  “Silver from a secret mine deep in Jokull territory,” Aravon replied. “The second load.”

  “And the first,” Belthar’s words were slow, made ponderous by his rumbling voice, “what happened to it?”

  “Vanished overnight, according to the Captain.” Aravon’s curiosity blazed. Where’s he going with this?

  Belthar nodded. “So it’s true.” His huge shoulders knotted tighter, his spine stiffening. “It’s the Brokers.”

  Aravon’s eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar name. “The Brokers?”

  “Smugglers,” Belthar said, his voice quiet. “Best in the Princelands.”

  Suddenly, the meaning behind Belthar’s words dawned on Aravon. “Smugglers.” He drew in a breath. “The sort of men who would use a secret tunnel out of Ironcastle.”

  Belthar gave a single, curt nod, but nothing else.

  “Should I ask about how you know all this?” Aravon cocked his head. “How you knew the tunnel was there, and how you’re certain the Brokers are the ones who spirited away the wagons of silver?”

  “I…” Belthar hesitated, his eyes dropping away. “I knew my fair share of ‘em, years ago. A past lifetime, before I joined the Duke’s regulars at Hightower.”

  Again, the big man’s words held a hidden depth of meaning. Aravon might not understand precisely what Belthar was keeping secret, but he had no doubt the man was hiding something. Something important, something that filled him with such shame he didn’t want the rest of his company to find out the truth.

  “Back in Oldcrest, I asked you if your past would affect our mission.” Aravon kept his voice neutral, calm. “Knowing your…history with these Brokers, I have to ask again.”

  “No.” Belthar shook his head, then seemed to think better of it. “Or at least, it shouldn’t. Not out here, away from the Princelands. The Brokers know better than to venture south of the Chain.”

  Aravon wanted to press the man, wanted to know how Belthar had such insight into a group of smugglers. But, like Zaharis’ past with the Secret Keepers, it didn’t matter right now. Their mission was ahead, to the Fjall and the south. When the time came that it could affect their tasks, Aravon would bring it up again. Giving Belthar a chance to tell his secrets in his own time would earn the man’s trust, but if push came to shove, the big man would find no one shoved harder than Aravon when his soldiers’ lives were on the line.

  “Thank you, Belthar.” Aravon nodded. “I’ll let the Duke know.” He held up a hand as Belthar stiffened. “Not about you, but about the Brokers in general, and the fact they’re involved with the silver flowing through Rivergate.”

  If smugglers were tangled up with the mines in Jokull lands, it could speak of malfeasance. After all, the Prince undoubtedly had his own people to manage the transportation of the mined wealth. Unless he relied on smugglers—always a possibility, given the lengths to which Prince Toran had gone to keep mines like Silver Break a secret—the Duke needed to know so he could set Lord Eidan to investigating the matter.

  “Yes, Captain.” Belthar seemed to relax, and the worry in his eyes diminished as he turned to go.

  “But, Belthar...” Aravon’s voice stopped the big man in his tracks. Belthar glanced back, anxiety written in every muscle of his huge body. “Remember what I told you. The time’s coming, sooner rather than later, when you’ll have to trust us. Without that trust, we’ve got no chance of surviving what we’re certain to face out there.”

  The big man’s eyes darkened. “I know, Captain. You’re right, but...” He let out a slow breath. “Way I grew up, trusting the wrong p
erson got you dead. What others don’t know can’t come back to bite you in the arse.”

  “Until it does.” Aravon stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Look at what happened with Zaharis in Rivergate. He was blindsided by Darrak. If he hadn’t been the faster, better fighter, that could have put an end to our mission then and there.“ He shook his head. “A wise man once told me, ‘Secrets are like trench foot; eventually, they’ll turn everything rotten, and ignoring or concealing it only destroys you faster.’”

  Belthar gave a harsh chuckle. “Colorful.”

  “Soldiers tend to be.” Aravon smiled, but it was filled with sorrow at the memory of Naif, Sixth Company’s Lieutenant. His friend, who had fallen in the ambush on the Eastmarch. The pain of that loss still hadn’t faded completely, but hung like a weight on his shoulders. With effort, he pushed it aside…for Belthar’s sake. “The message still rings true. Eventually, when we return to the Princelands, it’s going to come out. Just like it did with Zaharis.”

  “If we return to the Princelands.” Belthar’s voice echoed with a note of gloom. “No telling what’ll happen to us out here, so close to the enemy.”

  “Not if, Belthar.” Aravon raised a clenched fist. “We are returning home, all of us.”

  He couldn’t imagine a life where he didn’t see Mylena and his sons once more. Everything he’d sacrificed thus far, everything he’d had to endure, it had all been for the sake of ending the war. An ending he intended to live long enough to see, and his men with him.

  “The sooner you let others help you carry the burden, the sooner it stops dragging on you.” He gripped the man’s huge bicep. “After all we’ve been through, I think the others have earned your trust.”

  “Aye, they have.” Belthar nodded his huge head. “And I don’t want to ruin that.”

  “Nothing you say will ruin it.” Aravon fixed the man with a solemn gaze. “You’re our brother, our comrade. No matter what’s in your past, we can handle it. I promise.”

 

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