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

by Andy Peloquin

  “No,” Throrsson replied without hesitation. “But the Blodsvarri will honor the ritual. She cannot afford to have the Fjall as her enemy.”

  “Unless she already suspects that you will join forces with us.” The Duke’s expression grew pensive, and his fingers toyed with the sharp bone tip of his drinking horn. “In which case, those three thousand Eirdkilrs marching from Dagger Garrison are intended as a clear threat. A promise of what she will do to you if you do not sue for peace.”

  Throrsson’s bushy eyebrows knitted together in thought.

  “If your roles were reversed,” the Duke pressed, “if you went to such a meeting with an old enemy that finds its position weakened, its forces thinned, would you not do likewise? With those three thousand Eirdkilrs at your back, she would hold the tyna position, force you to call daudr and cede the victory.”

  Surprise registered on Throrsson’s face. “You know hnenfatafl?”

  The Duke inclined his head. “I have long been a student of such games of strategy. Not only our own Nizaa, but your games as well. A much more direct, warrior’s approach than Nizaa—an admirable insight into the mind of a Fehlandr warrior.”

  A small grin tugged at the Hilmir’s lips. “Another lesson my father taught me, one I learned well.” He gestured to a side table, upon which sat a wooden board and carved ivory pieces very similar to the Einari game of Nizaa. “Perhaps, one day soon, we will have to play a game, you and I.”

  “One day soon.” The Duke smiled. “After the Tauld have been dealt with and peace restored to your lands and ours.”

  “Indeed.” Throrsson’s grin faded, and his expression grew somber once more. “Your counsel is wise, Duke of Eastfall. I can understand why the Prince sent you in his stead.”

  Duke Dyrund bowed in his seat. “The Hilmir does me a great honor.” Genuine warmth echoed in his voice—the shared respect between powerful men who understood and perhaps even liked each other.

  “This message of yours,” Throrsson said, gesturing to the parchment in Aravon’s hand, “it said the three thousand Tauld broke off their attack last night?”

  Aravon nodded. “Yes.”

  The Hilmir ran a hand through his heavy, braided black beard. “That is more than two hundred of your miles away. Even if they ran all day and all night, they would require nearly three days to reach the Waeggbjod.” His expression grew pensive. “My meeting with the Blodsvarri takes place at noon, the day after tomorrow. Long before those additional warriors pose any threat.”

  The Duke’s expression never wavered, but Aravon noticed a sudden tightness in the man’s shoulders. “Perhaps not at the Waeggbjod, but to Storbjarg, certainly.”

  Throrsson nodded. “A valid concern, Duke Dyrund, but with three thousand of my own warriors holding the walls, the Blood Queen’s threat will lack any real bite.” He bared his teeth in a savage grin. “The walls of Storbjarg have never been captured, and as you saw at your garrisons, the Tauld have little hope of victory if it comes to a siege. No, Princelander, we have no need to worry about Storbjarg.”

  “And what of the villages they pass?” the Duke asked. “The Eirdkilrs could—”

  “The Tauld would not be that foolish.” The Hilmir shook his head. “They raid and pillage, but if they destroyed, they would suffer as much as my people. For it is our crops, our livestock, our furs, our lumber, and our goods they steal.” Anger darkened his face, and a stormcloud brewed in his eyes. “They cannot live off the land and make war on your Legions, and they cannot afford to turn us against them.”

  “But you are already turning against them,” the Duke protested. “The Blodsvarri has to know that, else she wouldn’t have pulled back those three thousand warriors from the siege to threaten your land.”

  “She may suspect,” Throrsson retorted, “but she cannot know for certain. She may be a cunning bitch, but she cannot truly see the hearts and thoughts of men.”

  “You say there’s no chance that she could have learned of your true plan?” The Duke raised an eyebrow, his tone bordering on incredulous.

  “None.” Throrsson’s jaw took on a stubborn cast. “Gyrd traveled alone to the meeting with Chief Runolf of the Deid. My warband has been quietly preparing for battle, but even they do not know what battle they will fight, not until the hour when I lead them out of Storbjarg.” He slammed a clenched fist onto the wooden arm of his throne-like chair. “The Blodsvarri will have her suspicions, but there is no way she can know.”

  The Duke drew in a deep breath, remaining silent for a long moment. Aravon had a good idea of what the man was thinking. Someone high in the Prince’s confidence had leaked important information to the enemy, so it wasn’t impossible to believe that the Eirdkilrs had eyes and ears among Throrsson’s people. Yet pushing the matter would only insult the Hilmir, strain their fledgling relationship with the man. Unless he had proof that someone in Throrsson’s confidences was a traitor, saying so would do little to endear the Duke to the Fjall chief.

  “So be it.” The Duke gave a little half-bow from the waist. “You know your men as only a warrior and Hilmir could.”

  “Precisely why I believe that my plan will succeed.” Throrsson’s heavy, bearded face creased into a snarl. “With half my warband to hold Storbjarg and the other half by my side, we will put an end to the Blodsvarri. Even if the Tauld do lay siege to Storbjarg, our walls are high, our gates strong. We have supplies enough to last for months. And, with the warriors of the Deid marching at our side, we will take the fight to them.”

  A new problem presented itself to Aravon. “If the enemy lays siege to Storbjarg,” he said, “how will your people receive the Wraithfever cure?”

  That stopped Throrsson cold. His expression grew hard as stone, his jaw muscles working. After a moment of silence, he shook his head. “If the Tauld surround Storbjarg, they will only make our task of defeating them easier. They will be trapped between our walls and the five thousand men at my command.”

  “If it were just three thousand,” Aravon pressed, “I’d lay good odds on you winning that battle. But that doesn’t account for the other four thousand Eirdkilrs under the Blodsvarri’s direct command. Seven thousand enemies against your five thousand and the three thousand holding Storbjarg. Odds far worse than golden, even for the Fjall.”

  Throrsson’s stony expression deepened slowly into a scowl.

  “Consider this alternative, Hilmir.” The Duke spoke quickly. “Three weeks ago, General Vessach marched out of Icespire at the head of Onyx Battalion, reinforcements for Dagger Garrison and the Bulwark. When news of the sieges reached him, the General intended to hold them at Hammer Garrison, plan a counterattack to break the Eirdkilrs one stronghold at a time. But with the siege abandoned, that leaves an entire battalion to join the assault on the Eirdkilrs in Fjall lands. And, with the Eirdkilrs focused to the south, there is a chance we could free up men—perhaps as many as two thousand—from the northernmost Eastmarch garrisons and bring them here to help drive out the Tauld.”

  Throrsson’s eyes narrowed. “Two thousand of your Legion, in my land.” His expression soured, as if he’d just swallowed a mouthful of Noll’s cooking.

  “The combined forces of the Princelands, Fjall, and Deid would outnumber the Eirdkilrs,” the Duke pressed. “With our shield walls and your warriors’ courage, the enemy would have no chance of standing before us. The Legion could march the Wraithfever cure straight to Storbjarg, driving back the Eirdkilrs and delivering healing to your people at once.” He raised a clenched fist, and excitement filtered into his voice. “Such a defeat would cost the enemy dearly. Not just crippling them, but perhaps even pushing them from your lands altogether.”

  For a moment, a glimmer of hope flickered to life within Aravon. The Hilmir’s expression was pensive, yet it actually seemed as if he’d concede to the Duke’s plan.

  “Change the rendezvous with the Blodsvarri.” Duke Dyrund’s voice held an insistent edge. “Send word that the Wraithfever has weakened your wa
rband so much that you cannot risk pulling your men far from your city for fear of Princelander attack. Instead, change it to a meeting place nearer Storbjarg, someplace where you hold an even greater advantage. Not just a tactical advantage, but close enough to the men here in the city that you could summon reinforcements if the battle turns against you. And, with the Deid to attack from the rear and the Legion marching to your aid, your victory is all but assured.”

  The momentary hope died within Aravon as Throrsson’s face hardened, grew somber. “There is nowhere else.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “What?” The Duke’s eyebrows shot up.

  “To the south of Storbjarg and beyond the forests to the east and west, the terrain is little more than flat grasslands. To the north, plenty of hills and forests, but nowhere to hold a pitched battle.” Throrsson shook his head. “The Waeggbjod is the only place for fifty leagues that offers any sort of tactical advantage. The high mountains offer ample hiding places to conceal not only my men, but the Deid warband as well. With just one way to march men in and out, it is the only place where we can trap the Blodsvarri and her warriors.”

  Anxiety twisted in Aravon’s gut. The Duke’s plan had been good, but his ignorance of the local terrain worked against him.

  “And we may be aligned in our mutual enmity against the Tauld,” Throrsson continued, his voice barely above a growl, “but as my great-grandfather and his fathers before him, I will not permit your soldiers to enter my lands. For far too long, where your Legions marched, they conquered and controlled.” Anger darkened his eyes. “Your garrisons on the Eastmarch and Westmarch already infringe on the boundaries of what was once Fjall lands. I have permitted them because they keep the Tauld occupied and, given our new alliance, I will continue to permit them. But I would rather be dragged through the burning Helgrindr into eternal darkness than let your Legionnaires invade my lands.”

  “With all due respect, Hilmir—” the Duke began.

  “There will be no discussion!” Throrsson roared, rising to his feet. Fury blazed in the warrior’s eyes and his teeth bared in a snarl. For a moment, his wrath and hulking form bore an undeniable resemblance to the ferocious Fehlan black bear whose pelt he wore. “My warband will push back the Tauld, with the help of true sons of Fehl. Your Legionnaires will remain north of my borders, or by Striith, you will taste Fjall steel.”

  “You believe you can push them back across the Sawtooth Mountains?” the Duke asked in a quiet voice. “Even with your warband at full strength, the Eirdkilrs outnumber you. And they fight beside the Myrr and Bein.”

  “Savages in name and spirit!” Disdain twisted Throrsson’s face and he turned a wrathful glare on Lord Virinus. “Brutes, flesh-eaters, and cave dwellers, just as you Princelanders label all of us.”

  The humiliated nobleman had remained silent all this time but now, singled out by the enraged chief, shrank back. His face paled and he seemed to wilt beneath the Hilmir’s fury.

  The anger in Throrsson’s eyes lessened, though didn’t truly fade, and he turned back to the Duke. “You offer the salvation of my people and speak of invasion in the same breath. Were you anyone else, Duke of Eastfall, I would have you eviscerated and slain in the Blotahorgr as a blood sacrifice to Striith. Yet, I give you warning, there will be no talk of Princelander soldiers in Fjall lands.”

  The Duke’s face had gone as rigid as his spine, yet he showed no fear in the face of Throrsson’s fury. “So be it.” His voice was stiff, controlled. “You are the Hilmir, and my Prince wishes only to make peace with the Fjall. Your terms are acceptable.”

  Aravon knew the Duke well enough to recognize the unspoken “for now”. Even with the support of the Deid warband, the Fjall wouldn’t suffice to drive the Eirdkilrs back across the Sawtooth Mountains. Though the Hilmir’s plan could cripple the enemy, if it succeeded, it would only set the Eirdkilrs back a year or two. But Fehl would never truly know peace until the Eirdkilrs were soundly defeated and the stronghold at Snowpass Keep rebuilt and guarded.

  Yet Duke Dyrund was far too savvy to drive that point home, at least in this meeting. He would wait until the Fjall found themselves in more dire circumstances before offering Legion assistance once more. Let’s just hope Throrsson and his people don’t lose too much before he’s willing to consider it.

  Aravon’s mind flashed back to the carnage and death at Gold Burrows Mine, the corpses of the Deid warriors and miners piled high. The Jokull had lost nearly half their warriors in the space of a single night, and the Eyrr had nearly been destroyed by Hrolf Hrungnir. Too many Fehlans had suffered at the hands of the Eirdkilrs—thousands of Princelander and Einari Legionnaires as well. The suffering would only end once the Eirdkilrs had been destroyed or thrown back beyond the Sawtooth Mountains.

  “I would, however, ask a favor of the Hilmir.” The Duke’s voice was calm, with no trace of the frustration he doubtless felt.

  “A favor?” Throrsson raised a bushy black eyebrow, resuming his seat once more.

  “No one on Fehl would doubt the courage, strength, and skill of the Fjall warband,” the Duke said, “but the ebb and flow of battle can be impossible to predict. If, by some twist of grim fate, the Blodsvarri were to survive your trap at the Waeggbjod, the consequences could prove…disastrous. After all, the success of your plan hinges on first eliminating her, then falling upon a disorganized, leaderless enemy, yes?”

  Throrsson’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. “What is this favor?” he growled.

  To Aravon’s surprise, the Duke gestured to him. “Permit Captain Snarl and his men to lay a trap of their own at the Waeggbjod. One that will end with an arrow in the Blood Queen’s heart.”

  Aravon’s grip tightened on his spear. He had no desire to leave the Duke’s side, especially with the enemy marching toward them. Yet he couldn’t fault the Duke’s plan. Skathi was the best archer Aravon had ever known—even Noll and Colborn admitted it, though not without a good deal of begrudging on Noll’s part. She could put an arrow into the Blodsvarri’s eye from two hundred yards. Sending her would be the best way to ensure the Hilmir’s plan succeeded and the Blood Queen never left that meeting alive.

  Throrsson seemed to reach the same conclusion. “Blood may not be spilled on the sacred ground,” he rumbled, his voice slow and pensive, “but the moment she leaves the Waeggbjod, your men may spring their trap.”

  A wry smile twisted his lips. “My great-grandfather might have considered your plan the coward’s way. Mine as well, for that matter. But the Bastard Bearhound is long dead and buried, and the world has changed since his days.” He stood, nodding. “We must change with it, for it is the only way that we can defeat our enemies.”

  The man’s words struck Aravon as surprisingly…enlightened. Many Princelanders saw Fehlans as stubborn savages, clinging to rituals that men like Lord Virinus saw as “barbaric” or “primitive”. But men like the Hilmir were proof that those Princelanders were wrong. The people of Fehl were as intelligent and perceptive as the savviest men of Icespire. The only difference lay in their priorities; Fjall, Deid, Eyrr, and every other Fehlan saw life through eyes no one from outside their cultures could truly understand. That realization was the first step toward finding common ground with men like Eirik Throrsson.

  “Thank you, Hilmir.” The Duke stood as well, reaching out a hand to Throrsson. “For being willing to speak of peace with we who have been your enemies for hundreds of years.”

  “You saved my son, offered salvation to my people.” Throrsson’s voice was quiet as he clasped the Duke’s forearm. “The Tauld demand blood and servitude. I prefer your way.”

  “I’d certainly hope so!” The Duke snorted. “Now, I hear that a cask of exquisite Ornntadr mjod has been tapped in the great hall. I believe that is something even an uncultured Princelander like me can enjoy.”

  “Aye, so it is!” Excitement gleamed in the Hilmir’s eyes and he patted his broad belly. “My Asleif has been instructed to keep a goat roasti
ng on the spit for us.” He stopped at the door. “But, for the sake of what we face, I would ask you remain in your langhus. We cannot risk the Blodsvarri’s eyes and ears sending word of a Princelander feasting with the Fjall.”

  “Of course, Hilmir.” The Duke gave a little bow. “I must speak with my men and make final arrangements regarding the Wraithfever cure.”

  “I will seek you out before I march on the morrow,” the Hilmir said. He made to leave, but stopped and turned back, his gaze darting to Aravon. “Tell me, Captain Snarl, why do you not remove your mask, even now? After all, men who fight together must know each other’s faces. Else how will they tell friend from foe?”

  The question caught Aravon off-guard. The Hilmir hadn’t seem bothered by it since the moment they rode into Storbjarg, yet now suspicion stained his face, echoed in his question.

  “Surely you are not so monstrous that you fear revealing your face to the world?” The smile on Throrsson’s lips didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Handsome or hideous, my face matters not.” Aravon shook his head. “All that matters is the strength of my arm and the sharpness of my spear.” He straightened, met Throrsson’s gaze without hesitation. “A spear that now fights at your side, Hilmir of the Fjall. The wolf’s fangs and the bear’s claws. When you see this mask, be it mine or the warriors that ride with me, you will know that you battle beside a friend against any foe.”

  The skepticism in Throrsson’s eyes didn’t quite fade, but he seemed to accept the words. “So be it.” He nodded, then turned to the Duke. “Until tomorrow, Duke Dyrund.”

  Duke Dyrund bowed, but Throrsson had already turned and strode off into the depths of his longhouse, disappearing through the curtain of furs. Aravon shot a glance at Grimar and Gyrd, the Hilmir’s seconds-in-command. Both had remained silent throughout the proceedings, watching him, Lord Virinus, and the Duke with wary eyes. Neither spoke as Aravon gave them a nod and followed Duke Dyrund from the longhouse, the slight Lord Virinus at his heels.