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

by Andy Peloquin

“However, the Blodhundrs’ defeat was likely little more than a momentary setback in Tyr Farbjodr’s plan.” Throrsson spoke in a slow, thoughtful voice. “The Blodsvarri still controls the Tauld in the west.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows drew together. Blood Queen? A rough translation, given the differences in Fehlan dialects, but one that seemed suitably fierce for an Eirdkilr leader. But a queen? Would the Eirdkilrs follow a woman?

  “This Blodsvarri,” the Duke said, “what is she like?”

  “As crafty and ruthless as Hrolf Hrungnir ever was,” the Hilmir continued, stroking his braided beard with a heavy hand. “More so, according to the stories of her subjugation of the Haugr and Hafr clans.”

  Haugr and Hafr were two of the eight smaller clans that occupied the southeasternmost corner of mainland Fehl, just north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Those clans were little more than roving bands of reavers, locked in an endless series of blood feuds and violent disputes that kept them fighting each other—no real threat to their neighbors, the Fjall to the north and Bein to the east.

  “It is said she slit her husband’s throat to take Tyr Farbjodr as her mate.” Throrsson’s face twisted in a grimace. “They rutted atop his corpse, bathed in his blood and entrails.”

  The Duke snorted. “A match made in a dark, twisted hell.” His expression grew pensive. “Yet the fact that she leads the Eirdkilrs speaks volumes.”

  “Aye.” Throrsson nodded. “I have met her, have stared in her eyes.” A dark look flashed across his face. “I am no Seiomenn, but even I know the legends of the Hveorungr. There is no life within her, only death. Death and a thirst for blood. Fehlan, Tauld, and Princelander, it makes no difference to her. Defeating her will be no easy task.”

  The Duke inclined his head. “But you would not be the Hilmir if you did not have a plan.” A smile tugged at his lips. “So I would hear it, and perhaps there is a word or two of counsel I might lend.”

  Throrsson fixed him with a narrow-eyed stare. “Sometimes, Princelander, you know far too much for your own good.”

  The Duke chuckled and swept a little bow from his seat. “That is, after all, my job.”

  “Of course.” Throrsson gave a dismissive wave. “Without my full strength, I cannot be assured of success against the Blodsvarri. My warband is reduced to six thousand, and she has ten thousand Tauld at her back—six thousand committed to the sieges on your garrison, and four thousand at her back. A prouder Hilmir might insist that his men are worth two of their enemies, but Thror Arvidsson did not raise a boastful fool.” His face broadened in a wry grin. “Well, not a fool, at least.”

  The Duke smiled in return, but said nothing, only gestured for the Hilmir to continue.

  “The Blodsvarri knows the strength of my warband,” Throrsson said. “I have made certain that she does. Since the plague struck—” His expression darkened, his eyes growing shadowed. “—I have ensured that her demands for Fjall assistance are met with protests about our weakened condition. A fact that I intend to capitalize on.”

  The Duke leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “I have arranged a meeting with the Blood Queen at the Waeggbjod, when the sun is at its peak, the day after tomorrow.”

  Aravon stiffened. A meeting, with the Eirdkilrs? Only the Duke’s calm demeanor kept him from stepping forward or leveling his spear at mention of such treachery.

  “Waeggbjod.” The Duke seemed to chew on the word. “Walled field, yes?”

  Throrsson nodded. “Once, the place where feuding Fjall chieftains met to settle the fate of their clans in single combat.”

  Aravon’s eyes narrowed, his tension giving way to incredulity. “You plan to challenge her to a duel?” That was the sort of thing mainlanders did—courtly duels were all the rage in the Praamian and Voramian courts, and had come into fashion in the Princelanders as well. He couldn’t imagine an Eirdkilr bound by the rules of polite dueling etiquette, especially not one with the name “Blood Queen”.

  “No.” Throrsson shook his head. “For the last two hundred years, the Waeggbjod has been a sacred meeting ground. It is there that the first Hilmir was crowned, and where I will one day be likewise, with Striith’s blessing.”

  Now it was the Duke’s turn to look suspicious. “And why will the Blood Queen agree to meet you there?”

  Throrsson leaned back in his chair. “Because I sent word that I desired to speak of joining the Tauld.”

  “Traitorous savage!” Lord Virinus’ nasal, piercing shout echoed in the longhouse. The Icespire nobleman leapt to his feet, gilded sword half-drawn, his face red and eyes fixed on Throrsson.

  Aravon’s blood ran cold. The Hilmir’s words had taken him by surprise, and even the Duke seemed puzzled. Yet Lord Virinus’ reaction was the violent, knee-jerk outburst of a fool—the sort of foolish officer who committed his men into battle without first hearing his scouts’ reports.

  Worse, the explosive tantrum could provoke Throrsson’s ire or cause offense. If the nobleman drew steel on the Hilmir, Virinus could very well end up dead—or, at the very least, shatter any chance at reaching an agreement.

  Aravon moved on instinct drilled into him over years as a Legionnaire and weeks at Camp Marshal. He danced forward, moving light on his feet like he’d seen Zaharis do a thousand times, and seized the nobleman’s wrist in a firm grip. With Virinus’ hand locked in place, Aravon wrapped his arm around the nobleman’s neck, seized his chin, and pulled him around and backward.

  The attack, taught to him by Zaharis, could snap a man’s neck with a quick wrench. Aravon, however, had no intention of killing Lord Virinus, outburst or no. His move simply dragged the man off-balance and twisted his head around, silencing his explosive words. A quick twist of his hips and he sent the nobleman to the ground—hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. Aravon knelt atop the man’s chest and drove a knee into his solar plexus.

  “Shut up and stay still!” he growled.

  A breathless, wide-eyed Lord Virinus stared up at Aravon. Stunned surprise soon gave way to outrage, but he could not suck in air to form words.

  “Lord Virinus!” The Duke’s voice cracked like a whip. “Control yourself!”

  The nobleman labored to draw breath. “B-But…he…”

  Duke Dyrund stood, strode to where Aravon knelt atop the prone nobleman, and spoke in a low voice. “Only a fool speaks before he knows all the facts. Consider this your first lesson in diplomacy, and thank the Swordsman that Captain Snarl got to you before your sword cleared its sheath.”

  Virinus’ eyes snapped to Aravon, and the burning indignation flared bright on his slim face.

  “Had you drawn, you would have challenged the Hilmir to single combat.” The Duke shook his head. “And how do you think that battle would have gone?”

  The blood drained from the nobleman’s face, and he gave a labored gasp.

  At the Duke’s nod, Aravon stood from Lord Virinus’ chest. The slight man drew in a breath, wincing as he struggled to sit upright.

  “The Prince promised your father that you could listen and learn.” The Duke’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. “So, like Captain Snarl said, shut up and stay still, or I send you back to Icespire tonight. Understood?”

  After a moment, the nobleman bobbed his head. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said in a voice that barely stopped short of a sullen pout.

  The Duke straightened and turned back to the still-seated Throrsson with an apologetic smile. “Pardon his rudeness, Hilmir. Some Princelanders fail to learn how different things are among their southern neighbors.”

  Throrsson’s eyes were fixed on the nobleman. Steel glinted there, not anger, but a disdain for Lord Virinus that bordered on distaste.

  “No apology needed,” he finally rumbled, turning back to the Duke. “This is, after all, my finest shirt.” He gestured to his lamb-skin vest and the roughspun tunic beneath. “It would have been such a shame to ruin it with his blood.”

  It was no boast, no jest, a simple statement of fact. Aravon ha
d little doubt that a man that could lead the Fjall, the toughest and largest of the Fehlan clans, would be a mighty warrior in his own right.

  The Hilmir’s gaze traveled to rest on Aravon, and his lips pursed slightly, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. After a moment, he shrugged and returned his attention to the Duke. “As I was saying, I have made arrangements to meet the Blodsvarri at the Waeggbjod. There, on the sacred grounds, we will lay down our weapons and speak of peace between the Tauld and Fjall.”

  Duke Dyrund steepled his fingers before his face. “To what end?”

  Grim humor twinkled in the Hilmir’s eyes. “To lure the Blood Queen into my trap, of course!” He leaned back, a smile of utter confidence brightening his face. “A trap that our friends of the Deid will be ready to spring.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. The Deid? The Fjall had never been on friendly terms with the Deid, even before the Eirdkilrs began launching raids into Deid lands from Fjall-controlled territory.

  Throrsson’s beaming grin widened. “The Fjall have called for a peaceful parley with the Tauld leader, and the Blodsvarri will come because she knows that I would never break the sanctity of the Waeggbjod. She and I will enter alone, and there we will remain until one of us declares the discussion concluded—either with the promise of peace or a declaration of war.”

  “You, of course, will speak of peace, yes?” The Duke raised an eyebrow.

  “Of course.” Throrsson nodded his shaggy head. “What better way to throw the Blood Queen off-guard than to promise her precisely what she wants?”

  “And, because you are arranging for it to be held on the sacred ground,” the Duke continued, “she will believe your offer is genuine.”

  “Right up until the Deid launch their surprise attack.” Throrsson’s bushy eyebrows rose. “As they are not my warriors, but the warband of a clan that has, until now, been hostile to the Fjall, there will be no oaths broken, the sanctity of the Waeggbjod unsullied.”

  “A cunning plan.” The Duke nodded approval.

  “But not without one major flaw,” Aravon put in.

  Throrsson turned a curious gaze on him. “And what is that, wolf man?”

  “Killing the Blood Queen will chop the head off the snake,” Aravon said. “Yet it doesn’t account for the ten thousand Eirdkilrs at her command. Even if you discount the six thousand arrayed against the Legion garrisons, that still leaves four thousand.”

  “By the end of the attack, that number will be fewer than three.” A smug smile played on the Hilmir’s face.

  Aravon cocked his head. “I’m listening.”

  “In the days when the Waeggbjod was a battleground,” Throrsson said, “only two men entered alone to draw swords and spill blood. Yet there were always warriors who stood watch to ensure neither side played false. Each clan would summon one thousand, one hundred, and eleven of the strongest men and women of their warband to stand testimony before Striith. The Haelvitni, they were called. Witnesses of death.”

  Understanding dawned on Aravon. “So your eleven hundred and eleven will face an equal number of Tauld, but with the Deid warband launching a sneak attack to throw the enemy off-guard.”

  Throrsson nodded. “The Blodsvarri will be the first to fall, and the two thousand men of clan Deid will force the Tauld to split their forces. The momentary confusion will suffice to give us the advantage.” He raised a finger. “As will the two thousand additional Fjall warriors that will be waiting a mile from the Waeggbjod.”

  Five thousand Fehlans against eleven hundred Eirdkilrs. Aravon nodded. Now that’s the sort of odds I can get behind.

  “Gyrd will be leading a company two hundred strong, the fleetest warriors of the Fjall tasked with the duty of hunting down any Tauld that escape the battle.” Throrsson raised a clenched fist, and defiance glittered hard as ice in his blue eyes. “None will survive to bring word of warning of the Blodsvarri’s death to their fellows. They will not be expecting it when the Fjall warband swoops down upon them and drives them from our lands once and for all!”

  Aravon played over the strategy in his mind. If they could defeat the Blood Queen at Waeggbjod, that left fewer than three thousand Eirdkilrs to face more than twice that number of combined Fjall and Deid warriors. The Duke had already sent Skathi riding out of Storbjarg to call Snarl and send word of their concord with the Hilmir to Lord Eidan in Icespire and his agents in Silverhill. Within a week, the wagons would arrive bearing the Wraithfever cure, and the Hilmir’s warband would be restored to near-full strength—minus however many warriors succumbed to the illness in that time.

  A week, Aravon thought. Eight thousand Fehlan warriors should be able to hold their own against three thousand Eirdkilrs that long. If the Hilmir could use his knowledge of Fjall lands to launch surprise attacks on the Eirdkilrs, they had a real chance of reducing their numbers further, until the fever-ridden warriors recovered enough for one final push. With six thousand Eirdkilrs focused on besieging Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark, Throrsson had a real chance of shattering the enemy’s grip on his lands.

  By the Swordsman, he’s actually got a chance of pulling this off! Hope surged within Aravon, lifting a weight off his shoulders. What had once seemed impossible now drew within their reach.

  Yet, even as the thought passed through his mind, a figure raced into the longhouse. Skathi, masked and armored, horsebow in hand and longbow slung over her shoulder, ran straight to the Duke’s side and thrust out a small strip of parchment.

  In silence, the Duke took the message from her and read it quickly. His face grew gray, new lines forming around the corners of his eyes and mouth. When he turned to hand the note to Aravon, shadows darkened his eyes.

  As Skathi retreated from the longhouse, Aravon turned over the note and read the words scrawled in Lord Eidan’s neat hand. The words drove a spike of ice into his belly.

  “Last night, the Eirdkilrs broke off the siege of Dagger Garrison,” the Duke said. “Three thousand of them, marching in this direction even as we speak.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Throrsson leapt to his feet. “What?” he roared, his eyes blazing. “Impossible!”

  “If only that were so.” The Duke’s voice was grave. “But my watchers have never yet fed me false information.”

  “The impossibility is that you know of such an action.” Throrsson narrowed his eyes. “Not even the fastest horse can travel that distance in a single day.”

  A smile played on Aravon’s masked face. Snarl can outrace a horse any day.

  An Enfield flying at full speed could cover the distance from Dagger Garrison to Icespire in twelve hours, with another twelve to fifteen hours for a second, fresh messenger to deliver the report.

  The Duke gave Throrsson a knowing grin. “The Princelanders and Fjall both have our secrets, Hilmir.” Then his mirth faded and expression grew serious. “But regardless of how we came by the knowledge, what matters now is that we have this intelligence. We know that three thousand Eirdkilrs abandoned the siege and march in this direction even now. We must decide what to do about them, not waste time with pointless questions.”

  After a long moment, the Hilmir seemed to accept the Duke’s words. “So be it.” His frown deepened to a pensive scowl, his eyes darkening. After a moment, he looked up. “I cannot believe that the Blodsvarri knows of my plans. I have shared them with no one but my most trusted warriors.” He gestured to Gyrd and Grimar, who stood silently behind him. “Even then, only a select few know the full extent.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. Just like only a handful of people on the Prince’s Council knew of the mines. The Eirdkilr battle strategies had grown more cunning in the last few years; it wasn’t impossible to expect they’d adopt similar tactics in other aspects of the war, including intelligence-gathering. The fate of Gold Burrows and Silver Break were proof enough.

  The Duke shook his head. “Our holy men teach that coincidences exist, but nothing happens at random. However, far be it from me to offe
r the Hilmir of the Fjall—”

  Throrsson cut him off with a wave. “Speak your thoughts plainly, Princelander.” His eyes narrowed. “My father taught that a wise Hilmir heeds the counsel of experienced men.”

  Duke Dyrund inclined his head. “The fact that she broke off her siege leads me to believe she sees you as a larger threat than the Legionnaires holding Dagger Garrison. If there is even a slight chance that the Blood Queen knows what you intend for her, you must act accordingly.”

  The Hilmir’s frown deepened. “Continue.”

  The Duke leaned forward. “Your plan is predicated on taking her by surprise and overwhelming her forces before she can retreat or summon reinforcements. But if she suspects, she will have her own warriors lying in wait, ready to spring a trap of her own. Which means that meeting her at the Waeggbjod is…inadvisable.” He tugged at his graying brown beard. “Not only will you be walking into whatever she has planned, but you will now have three thousand more enemies marching through your lands. That threat cannot be ignored.”

  Anger blazed in Throrsson’s eyes. “You suggest we abandon the plan?”

  “Not abandon.” The Duke shook his head. “Change it up. Give her what she’s expecting, but use those expectations against her.”

  Now the Hilmir leaned forward, interest flashing across his suntanned face. “I’m listening.”

  Duke Dyrund drew in a breath. “No one knows Fjall lands like you do. No one, perhaps, except the enemy that has claimed that land as their own. Which means that the Blodsvarri will likely know the Waeggbjod as well as the surrounding countryside. If she is half as cunning as you believe, she’ll already have scouts positioned where they can keep watch.”

  The Hilmir nodded. “Scouts that Gyrd and his men will deal with before the meeting.”

  “Which will, in itself, lead her to suspect something is amiss,” the Duke continued. “Either she will call off the meeting or she will simply spring her trap before she ever steps foot onto sacred ground.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do the Tauld hold your rituals and customs in the same high value as you and your warriors?”