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

by Andy Peloquin

  A long moment of silence elapsed before Belthar finally responded. “Yes, Captain.” His voice was quiet, burdened, yet a hint of hope sparkled in his eyes. “I’ll give it some thought, sir.”

  “We’re here for you, Belthar. All of us.” Aravon’s gaze darted to Skathi. “Right now, you’ve both got your secrets, and holding onto them will just keep that wall between you impassable. The best thing you can do is let her see who you really are. After that…” He shrugged. “The rest is up to her. If she’s not interested in what you’ve got to offer, you owe her the respect of honoring her wishes. But if you want to have any chance, telling her the truth is the only way she’ll start to trust you. ”

  Belthar ducked his head. “Speaking from experience, sir?”

  Aravon laughed. “Hard-won, let me tell you. If Mylena hadn’t come out and told me exactly what I was doing wrong with her, I might not be the man I am today.” He rested a hand on the man’s shoulders. “Good soldiers learn from their mistakes, but the best learn from the mistakes of other poor idiots.”

  Belthar’s rumbling chuckle echoed from beneath his mask. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good.” Nodding, Aravon clapped Belthar on the back. “Now, get some rest. We’re back on the road at first light.”

  Belthar saluted—he’s getting better, Aravon noted, his movements crisper—and returned to his place before the campfire. He said nothing, simply leaned forward and stretched out his hands to the meager warmth of the flames, yet Aravon sensed he’d gotten through to the man. As with so much else, it would take Belthar time to come around, but when he finally did, their small company would be better for it.

  A burden settled on Aravon’s shoulders. After a long few days and the butchery at Gold Burrows Mine, he needed a few hours of rest before his early morning watch. But not before he spoke with Colborn. He had to make sure his Lieutenant was—

  His brow furrowed as he glanced to where Colborn had been sitting. The half-Fehlan was gone. Rangvaldr, too, Aravon realized. The two men had slipped away during his conversation with Belthar. Colborn’s watch was in three hours with Aravon, and Rangvaldr had already stood his shift.

  A faint hope blossomed within Aravon. Rangvaldr wasn’t just a brave warrior of the Eyrr; he was also Seiomenn, a priest, loremaster, and wiseman of his people. He had faced the same self-doubt over raising his hands against his own kind, and he, too, had lost brothers and fellow clansmen. If anyone could help Colborn through his grief and inner turmoil, it would be Rangvaldr.

  Aravon let out a long breath and strode toward his pack and bedroll. He’d check on the Lieutenant in the morning, once he got a few hours of sleep. That morning watch would come all too soon.

  * * *

  “Captain.” A hand shook Aravon’s shoulders gently, but Aravon was up and alert in a second, spear held at the ready. Soldiers who slept too deep couldn’t always count on wakening. More than once, Eirdkilrs had attempted to creep past unwary sentries to slit Princelander throats. Aravon, like all good Legionnaires, learned to sleep light.

  Yet, as he took in the camp around him, he realized that light had already begun filtering through the canopy. The early morning mists hung thick in the brightening sky.

  I slept through my watch!

  He spun toward the one who had awoken him. Rangvaldr had stepped back to evade him as he leapt to his feet, and a hint of humor glinted in the deep green eyes behind the leather mask.

  “Good to see you up,” Rangvaldr signed in the Secret Keeper hand language. “We were all sure Belthar’s snoring would rouse you. Drove away the wildlife for a mile in all directions.”

  Aravon’s heart hammered. “Why wasn’t I roused for my shift?” he demanded. His gaze darted to Noll, who was busy stuffing his belongings into his pack. The scout was supposed to get him up for his turn at watch.

  “We took a vote, decided it was best to let you sleep,” Rangvaldr answered. “Figured we needed your mind sharp when we ride into Storbjarg today.”

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. “You should have awoken me.” His fingers flashed, his sharp movements mirroring the irritation that flared within him. “I’m just as capable as—”

  “Don’t bother finishing that.” Rangvaldr shook his head and gave a dismissive wave. “It was not a matter of doubting your abilities. You bear the heaviest burden of all, that of command. Consider it our way of lightening the load the best way we know how.” He winked. “Take it as a compliment from your soldiers.”

  Aravon drew in a breath. The Seiomenn’s words soothed the burning flare of annoyance, filled him with a quiet pride. It felt good to know his men didn’t just follow him because they were ordered to, but that they cared enough.

  “Besides,” Rangvaldr continued, “Zaharis wasn’t going to get much sleep anyway, so he’s the one who took your shift.”

  Aravon looked for the Secret Keeper. Zaharis was already mounted up, his pack and small wooden chest strapped in place behind his saddle.

  “Thank you,” Aravon signed.

  Zaharis inclined his head, but his fingers remained silent—too occupied turning that chunk of black stone over and over. A new nervous habit, it seemed.

  Memories of the previous night washed over Aravon. He turned to Rangvaldr. “You talk to Colborn?”

  Rangvaldr gave a slow nod. “He’s solid. Troubled, certainly. Dealing with things in his own silent way, but solid.”

  “Whatever you said to him, I can only hope it helped as much as your words helped me.” A smile broadened Aravon’s face. “Another of those stories of yours, yes?”

  “No story this time.” Rangvaldr chuckled. “I’ve learned to save those for special conversations.”

  Aravon shrugged. “The way the Saga of Gunnarsdottir helped at Rivergate, I’m of the opinion you can tell us a tale anytime you want.”

  “Careful, Captain, or I might hold you to that.” Rangvaldr laughed and, clapping Aravon’s shoulder, turned to pack his belongings.

  Aravon worked quickly, rolling up his bedroll, tying it behind his saddle, and stowing his pack in place atop the blankets. The action, completed by rote as it had been so many mornings before, worked the kinks and knots from his muscles. Even after fifteen years in the Legion, he hadn’t mastered the delicate art of finding a comfortable spot on the hard ground. Judging by Lord Virinus’ stiff, jerky movements, the nobleman had suffered far worse.

  Just as he finished packing his gear, the snort of a horse sounded behind Aravon. Turning, he found Belthar sitting in his saddle, with Aravon’s mount beside him. The big man held out the reins. “Captain,” he rumbled.

  Aravon met Belthar’s eyes. Gone were the shadows from the previous days, and he was much more like the lighthearted, jovial man he’d first met at Camp Marshal. Yet, as Aravon had seen in the days since Ironcastle, that happiness had been nothing more than a façade to conceal whatever dark past weighed on Belthar’s soul. This version of the man, troubled but resolved, was more real, and Aravon welcomed the change.

  “Thank you,” he signed. He had to be careful about using his voice around Lord Virinus. Though he’d never met the man, there still existed a chance that the Icespire nobleman would recognize him. Lieutenant Naif had always said Aravon’s voice rang with the same steel that filled General Traighan’s, though without the harsh edge of a Drill Sergeant.

  Belthar nodded and turned his mount to join Skathi and Zaharis at the rear of the Duke’s column. The Duke himself and most of the mercenaries were already mounted, with Scathan, Barcus, and two others cleaning away the last traces of their camp. Aravon saw no sign of Colborn—likely he’d ridden out early to scout the way south, make sure no enemies stood between them and the Fjall lands. Given the Eirdkilr presence so far into Deid territory, it was better to be safe.

  Aravon paused a moment, long enough to say a silent prayer. Guide our steps and guard our backs, mighty Swordsman. Bring us safely to the lands of the Fjall where, by your grace, we will find a way to put an end to th
e war.

  He didn’t know if the Swordsman heard him—the god of heroes never spoke back—yet he felt better for it.

  With a nod to his men and the Duke, Aravon touched his heels to his horse’s flank and the beast broke into a run. Southward, to the Fjall and a hope for the future of Fehl.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Aravon whistled quietly as he crested the rise and saw the Fjall’s capital spread out below him. After more than a hundred miles of empty forests and hilly grasslands, Storbjarg seemed far more massive than anything he could have imagined.

  Storbjarg deserved its reputation as the largest and strongest of the Fehlan cities. No mere village or town, but a thriving hub of commerce, trade, and Fjall military power as large as Hightower, Ironcastle, or Wolfden Castle, dwarfed in size only by Icespire itself. Though Duke Dyrund’s spies had never managed to get an accurate count of the population, judging by the city’s size, Aravon estimated close to eighty thousand.

  Thousands of longhouses, huts of wattle-and-daub, and multi-storied buildings of stone and wood sprawled across five square miles of flat land. Roads of paved stone intersected the city from the four points of the compass, merging at a massive open-air plaza at the heart of Storbjarg. Even from a mile away, Aravon could hear the hubbub emanating from the bustling city.

  Most impressive of all was the high stone wall that surrounded Storbjarg. Somehow, despite the fact that the Fjall stonemasons could never rival the skill of Princelander or Einari artisans, they had managed to build a wall fully thirty feet tall to ring the entire city within a barrier of solid stone. The Fjall had also cleared back the forests to the east and south, providing a clear line of sight in all directions.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” The Duke’s voice echoed from Aravon’s elbow.

  “Yes, sir.” Aravon answered in the deep voice he adopted for the “Captain Snarl” persona. “Such a feat is unheard of south of the Chain.”

  “Storbjarg has always stood apart from the rest of Fehl.” The Duke shot him a wry smile. “From the day the Bastard Bearhound defied the first Eirdkilrs.”

  All on Fehl, even Princelanders, knew the tale of Jorund Ofeigsson, Throrsson’s great-grandfather, who led his warband to battle at Vigvollr. The ill-fated battle had caused monumental losses on both sides of the field—more than twenty-five thousand Eirdkilrs and Fjall had bled and died there.

  “That fierce, stubborn streak was always a hallmark of the Fjall.” Rangvaldr, who had ridden up on the Duke’s other side, spoke in a quiet voice. “A trait that has made the Fjall warband the best on Fehl. Were it not for Vigvollr, it is likely they would control far more territory. Perhaps everything south of the Chain.”

  “A dream that didn’t die with the Bastard Bearhound, it seems.” The Duke’s expression grew pensive. “Why else would Throrsson adopt his great-grandsire’s title of Hilmir and restore his warband?”

  “If that’s the case,” Aravon asked, “why haven’t the Eirdkilrs moved against them? Stopped them from growing strong?”

  “Because the Hilmir is a clever man,” Duke Dyrund replied. “For years, he has promised to lend aid to the Eirdkilrs in their attempts to subjugate Fehl and drive out the Princelanders. During that time, he has sent his warband raiding south, east, and west.”

  “To ‘blood’ them in preparation for battle.” Rangvaldr nodded. “Only a warrior who has slain an enemy, endured a winter in Ornntadr, and sired a son may stand in the shield wall. To the Fjall, war is not just a duty—it is their sacred calling. A Fjall warrior seeks death in battle, the only fitting tribute to Striith, their god.”

  Not too unlike the sermons preached by recruiters for the Legion of Heroes, Aravon thought. He had joined the Legion to honor his father, but not before the silver-tongued men had plied him with speeches about grand heroics, brave warriors, and duty to Prince and country. Wide-eyed young Fjall are just as susceptible to stirring rhetoric as Princelanders and Einari.

  “Surely the Eirdkilrs can’t be that naïve,” Aravon pressed. “The existence of the Fjall warband would constitute a threat they couldn’t ignore.”

  “Indeed.” The Duke inclined his head. “But, with the Legion forces so close at hand, the Eirdkilrs cannot afford to shatter their tenuous peace with the Fjall. They require the Fjall’s silent acceptance of their presence, even if they cannot demand their full support.”

  “A precarious position for Throrsson to find himself in.” Aravon shook his head. “Enemies on all sides, both demanding they help attack the other. Forces decimated first by battle, and now by disease.”

  “The fact that he has navigated it so well thus far proves that the Hilmir could well be worthy to bear the title he has claimed.” Duke Dyrund tugged at his beard, which seemed to hold more gray than dark brown these days. “Indeed, were it not for Wraithfever, he might have taken the battle to the Eirdkilrs—or, Swordsman forbid, to the Legion—on his own, and triumphed. Cruel and callous as it may sound, this illness is the best thing that could have happened for us.”

  The Duke was right: it did sound cruel and callous. But at least the Duke hadn’t come to prey upon the Fjall weakness, as the Eirdkilrs would. At least, not in the same fashion. The Eirdkilrs would subjugate the Fjall, while Duke Dyrund came with an offer of alliance, a hope for restoration. Aravon clung to that small distinction—it was all that separated men like the Duke and Prince Toran from the enemy he despised.

  “Any idea how far it’s spread?” Aravon asked. “Or if the Fjall have found a cure for it?”

  The Duke shrugged. “I have had no word from within Storbjarg since the Hilmir’s request for a meeting. But I trust that Lord Eidan would have sent word if the situation had changed.”

  Duke Dyrund had grasped the unspoken meaning beneath Aravon’s question. If the reports of Wraithfever were a pretense or no longer a concern, they could be riding into a trap. Throrsson could have easily arranged to sell out the Prince’s highest-ranked councilor and one of the most powerful men in the Princelands. The promise of a peace treaty would suffice to lure the Duke here, where he’d be surrounded by Fjall warriors. Even a fool would expect some sort of subterfuge or treachery, and the Duke was no fool.

  But if he believed the situation hadn’t changed, then Aravon could only operate based on the Duke’s collected intelligence. That didn’t mean he’d let down his guard—if anything, it only served to heighten his wariness of what lay ahead—but he would trust the Duke’s judgement.

  “Come.” The Duke touched his heels to his horse’s flanks. “Whatever lies ahead, we face it sooner rather than later.”

  Aravon kicked his mount into motion, following the Duke down the hill toward the gates of Storbjarg. Noll and Colborn appeared from the east and west, signaling that the way was clear—at least, they had found no sign of a trap or Eirdkilrs lying in wait around the city. That did little to ease the nervous tension that set Aravon’s nerves twanging like a bowstring. He slid his hand to the spear strapped across his right leg. Danger could lie within Storbjarg, hidden among the wooden longhouses, huts, and houses. No matter what came, he’d be ready.

  Noll and Colborn fell into position at the front of their column. Aravon and Rangvaldr rode on either side of Duke Dyrund, with four sellswords fanning out to flank them. Behind the Duke rode Zaharis, Lord Virinus, and two of the Black Xiphos mercenaries. The last three rode behind the Icespire nobleman, followed by Belthar and Skathi at the rear. A small company, yet, Aravon knew, one strong enough to face far superior numbers. The skill of his soldiers and his trust in the Duke’s judgement was all that kept him riding toward Storbjarg when every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to take up a secure position within the forest.

  You are no longer a Legionnaire, he told himself. Gone are the days of standing the shield wall. Now, you fight a different sort of battle, even if that battle leads you into the jaws of the enemy.

  The Fjall had never been overtly hostile to the Princelanders—aside from frequent raids on their
Fehlan allies—yet until now, all attempts at negotiation had been rebuffed. Aravon wasn’t quite ready to trust that the Hilmir intended them no harm.

  “Eyes sharp, weapons ready,” Aravon signed to Rangvaldr, Skathi, and Belthar. He turned in his saddle to glance at Zaharis. “Got a surprise ready in case they try anything, Magicmaker?”

  Zaharis’ eyes narrowed behind the leather mask, and Aravon had little doubt his bearded face creased into a scowl. “Rangvaldr created that code name in jest, Captain.”

  “We’ve all seen the magic you make, Zaharis.” Despite the tension in his shoulders, Aravon couldn’t help smiling. “And we all agree that it’s the perfect name for you.”

  Zaharis’ fingers signed something far too crude and insulting for Aravon to bother translating, though he ended his tirade with, “…but if they try anything, I’ve got a little treat to shove so far up their arses they’ll taste knuckles.”

  Chuckling, Aravon turned back to face forward. He’d seen what Zaharis’ “little treats” could do. The Secret Keeper’s knowledge of alchemy had proven invaluable far too many times to count.

  The gates of Storbjarg swung open at their approach, five men struggling against the weight of each enormous, iron-banded steel door. Up close, the city walls were even more impressive—thirty feet tall but nearly ten feet thick, built from river-hardened stones held together by a mortar so dark gray it nearly appeared black.

  Inside, the city of the Fjall shared a great many similarities with the Eyrr—only the number of longhouses, huts, and houses outnumbered Bjornstadt’s dwellings by a factor of hundreds. Muddy streets radiated outward from the north-south paved stone avenue, and a thick layer of dust seemed to cover the walls, doors, windows, and thatched roofs.

  Yet dirt or no, there was nothing dull or faded about Storbjarg’s flags. Every Fehlan clan had their own flag, but few bothered displaying it anywhere outside their chief’s longhouse. Here, however, Fjall pennants flew from every house, every turret atop the stone wall. A black raven with a serpent’s tongue and outstretched claws holding a longsword and shield, atop a field of brilliant red—the Reafan of Striith, symbol of the Fjall warband.