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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon moved in a stalking crouch, lifting his feet high, placing the outside ball of his foot down first, rolling to the inside ball of his foot, then lowering toes and heels. A strange, awkward walk, but one Colborn had insisted on practicing four to six hours a night back at Camp Marshal. Aravon hadn’t yet mastered it, but he could move well enough to cover ground without fear of making too much noise.

  Yet all of Colborn’s lessons failed to prepare him for the jangling of his nerves, the anxious hammering of his heart, the shrieking voice in his mind that told him to charge as he’d trained to for years. This was the hardest part of new skills like woodcraft—so much of what he’d learned during his weeks in the Duke’s special company went against the instincts honed as a Legionnaire. He could no longer forward-march in a straight, orderly line, not with enemies hiding somewhere ahead of him. If he wanted to survive this new mission, he had to become a new man.

  The soft, springy ground made it easier to keep a steady pace, yet the thick grass and the heavy carpet of leaves forced him to move slowly. A single dried leaf or twig crunched underfoot would alert the Eirdkilrs to his presence. Clenching his jaw, he steadied his nerves and willed his muscles to maintain a glacial forward speed. As long as he clung to the shadows and kept his movements slow, he could do it.

  Sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes, soaking his leather face mask, turning his tunic sodden. Suddenly, the world around him swam into crystal clarity. He heard every tiny sound—the rustling of leaves, the wind rattling branches against each other, his own breathing, far too loud in his ears. The smells of damp, mold, and fresh plant life filtered into his nostrils. His eyes locked on the shadows of the twin trees ahead and to his right.

  One step at a time! He growled a silent curse. Thirty yards became twenty-five, then twenty. How long have I been at this? It felt like hours, yet it couldn’t have been more than two or three minutes. Fifteen yards, ten, five. Closer, so close he could hear the Eirdkilrs’ quiet breathing. Aravon fought the instinct to hold his own breath—the resulting gasp of air would be far more noticeable than a slow, steady flow of oxygen in and out of his lungs.

  Even from three yards away, he couldn’t see the man hiding in the deep shadows. All that mattered was that he could hear the Eirdkilr. And that the Eirdkilr didn’t hear or see him until it was too late.

  Slowly, Aravon slithered the last ten feet toward the twin trees and crouched beneath the exposed, dangling roots. The scent of earthy loam and dripping roots filled his nostrils, yet he could only think of how close he was to the Eirdkilr. Close enough that if he made one wrong move, the Eirdkilr would see and hear him.

  It took every ounce of self-control to keep his movements ice-slow as he reached for the hilt of his Fehlan-style longsword. He couldn’t draw until the last minute, but when the moment came—

  An Eirdkilr appeared between the trees. Moonlight shone on the blue-stained face, the hard, bearded features, the hooded eyes that stared over Aravon’s head and straight downhill. With a quiet grunt, the Eirdkilr drew the attention of his comrade to something down the hill.

  Something hissed through the darkness, followed by a meaty thunk. In that instant, Aravon ripped his sword free and drove it up between the gap in the two trees. The thick, razor-sharp point sliced through the Eirdkilr’s tangled beard and into the underside of his chin. Aravon leapt to his feet as he thrust upward, driving the tip home into the barbarian’s brain until it struck skull. Hot, warm blood gushed down his hand as he tore the blade from the enemy. Like a felled oak, the Eirdkilr toppled to the ground with a resounding thump.

  Above and to Aravon’s left, a faint gurgling sound split the silence. Moments later, something heavy crashed through the branches of the knobby cottonwood tree and slammed into the ground.

  Heart hammering, Aravon reached for Snarl’s whistle and gave a short, sharp blast. Higher up the hill, behind a pile of rocks, the sound of a scuffle broke out. Men grunted, steel clanged off stone, and the loud smack of a fist striking flesh resounded in the darkness.

  Aravon had no idea what had happened, but suddenly he was on his feet and racing up the hill toward the rocks. If Colborn hadn’t managed to surprise the Eirdkilr—

  A huge, bearded figure with blue-stained face and a thick fur cloak darted out from behind the pile of rocks. Aravon wound up to throw his spear, only to remember he wielded his sword, the spear left behind. Horror thrummed within him as he caught sight of the blood staining the Eirdkilr’s knuckles. Even as he leapt over the gnarled roots of an ash tree, he couldn’t help fearing for Colborn. He couldn’t know what had happened—if the Lieutenant was dead or bleeding out onto the soft, damp hillside.

  But the Lieutenant wasn’t his priority. He had to take down that Eirdkilr, stop him from getting word of their presence back to the Blood Queen.

  Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t close the gap to the fleeing enemy. The Eirdkilr’s legs were longer, and he fled across level ground, while Aravon raced uphill toward him. Dread sank like a stone in his gut. He couldn’t hope to match the Eirdkilr’s speed.

  I can’t let him get away!

  The next instant, an arrow sprouted from the man’s neck. A second and third followed in rapid succession, slamming into the Eirdkilr’s left leg and side. The force of the impacts hurled the barbarian head-first into a tree. His steel skullcap collided with a solid walnut trunk and he rebounded, staggered backward, and toppled with a wet, gurgling sound. Even as Aravon closed the distance, the fallen Eirdkilr’s frantic twitching movements slowed, then stilled. A huge, bloodied hand fell away from the arrow shaft embedded in the huge vein beside the dead man’s throat.

  Without slowing, Aravon whirled to the right and charged the pile of rocks behind which the Eirdkilr had been crouched. Anxiety turned to horror as he caught sight of a helmetless Colborn sprawled face-down on the ground.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  No!

  Aravon threw himself into a crouch beside the Lieutenant, scrabbling at the man’s heavy form and struggling to roll him over. Blood glistened in the moonlight, streaming from a gash in Colborn’s forehead just above the edge of his mask and staining the sharp edge of a nearby rock. The Lieutenant’s eyes were wide, dazed. Yet relief surged within Aravon as Colborn sucked in one ragged breath, then another.

  Thank the Swordsman!

  The tension drained from his muscles and his movements slowed. He ran hands over Colborn’s neck, down his chest and sides, but mercifully the man bore no other wounds. We’re lucky the Eirdkilr decided sending a warning was more important than finishing off his enemy. Otherwise…

  He shoved aside the thought. He didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to entertain the image of Colborn lying on the ground with his skull shattered, his neck snapped, or his guts spilled across the forest floor. He’d already lost too many of the men under his command; he could only count himself and Colborn lucky that the Lieutenant wouldn’t be another name to add to the burden on Aravon’s heart.

  At that moment, Colborn groaned and blinked. “C-Captain…”

  “Easy, Colborn.” Aravon spoke in a low voice; he couldn’t be certain they’d finished off all the Eirdkilrs in the area, but he doubted Colborn was clear-headed enough to speak in Zaharis’ sign language. “Give it a moment. You took a hard hit.”

  “Bastard heard me coming,” Colborn muttered, wincing as he pressed a hand to his forehead. “Knocked me back before I could take him down.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. Heard Colborn? None of them, not even Fehlan-born Rangvaldr, could match Colborn’s stealth in the wilds. Either the Lieutenant had gotten unlucky, or…

  “Take it easy.” He helped Colborn sit up and lean against the boulder. The man’s face twisted in pain, but shame burned in his eyes.

  “Did we get them all?” Colborn asked.

  Aravon nodded. “Quick and quiet, like you trained us.”

  “Good.” Shadows played across his face, but anger blazed bright i
n his ice-blue eyes.

  A quiet rustling sounded off to their right, and Aravon spun, sword gripped tight and raised to strike. He stopped at sight of Zaharis’ snarling wolf mask appearing from the darkness. “How bad?” the Secret Keeper signed.

  “Hard hit to the head,” Aravon replied. “Not too bad, but have you got anything to get him back on his feet?”

  “Rangvaldr’s a few steps behind.” Zaharis jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Those Eyrr holy stones ought to help.”

  Aravon shook his head. “Can’t risk the glow giving us away.”

  “That’s not what you said a moment ago.” A playful glint shone in Zaharis’ eyes.

  “Good work on that.” Aravon nodded. “I’ll let Rangvaldr work his magic if we get a chance later. For now, can you do anything?”

  Zaharis hesitated a moment, then his shoulders drooped slightly. “Sorry, Captain,” he signed. “Last of my painkillers were left with Darrak. I haven’t had a chance to restock supplies or go foraging.”

  “No matter.” Aravon shrugged it off. “He’s a soldier. He’s taken harder hits before. He just needs a few minutes and he’ll be back on his feet.”

  Zaharis nodded. “First chance I get, Captain, I’ll see what I can scrounge up.” He looked around him. “Never been this far south before, so it’d be interesting to look around, find out what sort of plants grow down here.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky.” Aravon shot Zaharis a knowing look.

  Something flashed in the Secret Keeper’s eyes—hope, dread, remorse, a combination of all three?—but he nodded. “Maybe.” His encounter with Darrak had been a fresh reminder of what he’d given up in his quest for the ice saffron.

  At that moment, two more figures appeared from the bush—Skathi and Rangvaldr, who held out Aravon’s spear and pack, retrieved from where he’d left them.

  With a grateful nod to the Seiomenn, Aravon turned to Skathi. “Good shooting,” he signed. “Though you cut it bloody close with that last one!”

  The archer shrugged. “Couldn’t get a clear shot.” Her gaze flitted past Aravon to Colborn. “He going to need attention from Stonekeeper?”

  “Once we’re somewhere the glow won’t attract attention, yes.” Aravon nodded. “For now, I’ll give him a moment to shake it off, then get him back on his feet and keep climbing.” He glanced up the hill. “We’re almost halfway up. Get Noll and Rangvaldr out in front, eyes sharp for any more hiding in the shadows.”

  “We’ll clear the way.” A savage light blazed in the archer’s eyes, and she raised a clenched fist, revealing two bloodstained arrows—arrows she’d stopped to dig out of the bodies of her kills.

  “Get up top and find someplace to get a clear shot at the Waeggbjod. You, Noll, and Belthar, three different vantage points.”

  “Want we should find a nest for him, too?” Skathi asked. “Or you think he’ll be too woozy to shoot straight?”

  Aravon pondered a moment. “Three’s enough for now. If he feels up to it, we’ll get him in position a bit later.” He glanced up through the thick forest canopy at the sky; the first glimmers of daylight brightened the eastern horizon. “But the rest of you need to move now. We’ll follow as soon as we can.”

  Skathi gave him the Agrotorae salute and turned to relay Aravon’s orders to Belthar and Noll, who had joined them on the trail.

  Aravon’s eyes went to Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn’s hand clutched the holy stone at his neck.

  “Later,” Aravon told him. “Once we’re not in danger of being spotted or hunted.”

  Rangvaldr inclined his head and lowered his hand. “We’ll give you a moment, Captain.” He shot Aravon a knowing look before joining the other four. Within less than half a minute, they disappeared into the woods, Noll and the Seiomenn in the lead, followed by Skathi, Zaharis, and the heavier, noisier Belthar at the rear.

  Turning back to Colborn, Aravon rested his spear against the stone and took a seat against a stone opposite the Lieutenant. Colborn had removed his mask to wipe the blood from his face and forehead, leaving dark streaks across his ruddy skin and staining his blond beard. Aravon did likewise, setting the leather mask in his lap and toying with its textured surface.

  “Can’t believe he heard me,” Colborn muttered, his voice so quiet Aravon almost missed it. “That’s never happened before.”

  Aravon shrugged. “We all have bad days. Just happens you’ve had a few in a row.”

  Colborn’s face grew as hard as the stone behind him. “Bad days get men killed, Captain. Nearly did me in.”

  “All it means is that you’re human.” Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Might help if you say whatever it is aloud. This about Rivergate or Gold Burrows?”

  “Neither. Both.” Colborn hesitated, but pain tugged at the corners of his eyes. Finally, he let out a long breath. “Ever since Rivergate, I can’t get their faces out of my head.”

  “The Jokull?” Aravon asked.

  Colborn nodded. “Then, when I saw the bodies at the mine, it all came crashing back on me. Like I was the one that killed them.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I know, insane, right?” Colborn gave a bitter shake of his head. “Rangvaldr tried to talk me through it the night after, and his words helped. Some…”

  “But?” Aravon asked.

  For long moments, Colborn said nothing, simply stared at the ground. “But I can’t stop. Can’t stop feeling guilty, angry, ashamed. Just like him.”

  Aravon’s eyes narrowed. He’s talking about his father? He’d seen the deep-rooted pain glimmering in Colborn’s eyes the night after the Battle of Rivergate. Some wounds cut to the bone and never fully healed, no matter how much a man tried to push past them.

  “Like him, how?” Aravon pressed, gently.

  Colborn gestured to his face. “Every time he shouted at me, every time he beat me, he wasn’t actually mad at me. He was mad at himself. At his weakness. With my mother. A Fehlan, the thing he claimed to hate most in the world. I was a reminder of every moment of weakness he had. Not once, not twice, but for months. All his life, his father had hammered into him that Fehlans were savages, little better than animals. So how was he any better than them when he did what he did to her?”

  Aravon’s gut clenched. He’d seen men’s appetites drive them to extremes—drink, drugs, carnal pursuits, and more—but this…this was far more than anything he could have imagined.

  “He hated himself—more than anything in the world, he hated what he’d done—and took it out on me.” Anger glimmered in Colborn’s eyes. “When you’re young, you hear you’re a worthless piece of Fehlan shite long enough, you eventually start to believe it. Hard to shake it, no matter what you do or where you go. It may go quiet, leave you alone for a while, but it always comes back. It always comes back.”

  Aravon remained silent. He could find no words, but he needed none. As the Duke had said, Colborn wrestled with this alone, but just knowing Aravon was there, that he cared, was enough for the Lieutenant.

  “That’s what’s got me shaken, Captain.” Colborn fixed Aravon with a haunted look that had nothing to do with his head wound. “That I’m going to hate myself so much for what I did that I’m going to turn out like him. A self-hating bastard that turns every bit of good in his life to piss.”

  That was the last thing he’d expected to hear from Colborn, an experienced soldier, an officer in the Legion, a man who’d fought and killed for years. Yet he, too, knew how long and dark a shadow fathers could cast over their sons.

  “The last time I spoke with my father,” Aravon said in a quiet voice, “he said I was ‘the greatest disappointment in his life,.” He shook his head, a bitter snarl on his lips. “I heard that all my life, more so after my mother died of the Bloody Flux. Imagine that, the son of the great General Traighan, a disappointment.”

  Colborn’s eyebrows rose. “Damn, Captain! I had no idea.”

  “Not exactly a great story for around the campfire, is it?” Aravon g
ave a harsh chuckle. “But, yes, I know what you mean. That voice doesn’t ever really go away.” He leaned forward. “Want to hear something I’ve never told anyone else?”

  Colborn nodded.

  “When I was ambushed on the Eastmarch, when the Eirdkilrs wiped out the entire Sixth Company, you want to know what my last thought was?” Aravon clenched his fists. “Not that I’d never see my sons or my wife again, but it was the look of disappointment in my father’s eyes. That my death had been the last of a long line of failures. And then, when I woke up buried beneath the corpses of my men, I realized that was the last failure. My men had died but I’d lived. I had failed them and survived.”

  Surprise flashed across Colborn’s face. “A harsh truth for any man to live with.”

  “Indeed.” Aravon inclined his head. “So, like you, when the Duke offered me a chance to stay dead, the General was one of the reasons I accepted it. For the good of the realm, certainly. But also so I didn’t have to see the look in my father’s eyes when he found out that I was the only man of Sixth Company that didn’t die a soldier’s death.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Heroic and noble, isn’t it?”

  Colborn’s expression was pensive, and he remained silent for long seconds. “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But in the end, sometimes the ‘why’ doesn’t matter half as much as the ‘what’. What you do to prove him wrong.”

  Aravon’s lips twisted into a cold smile. “Followed in his footsteps and joined the Legion.”

  “And in doing so, saved how many lives?” Colborn tilted his head. “Not just at Rivergate, and Bjornstadt, and Broken Canyon, and everywhere else we’ve been. But during your fifteen years as a soldier and an officer before all this. That’s what I’ve been telling myself since I came back and joined the Legion. That I was proving my father wrong, showing him I wasn’t that worthless piece of Fehlan shite that he believed I was.”