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

by Andy Peloquin

  “And that’s why you’re never going to turn out like him.” Aravon poured genuine warmth and concern into his voice. “You don’t hate yourself because of something you’ve done, but because of something someone else told you that you are. Everything you do proves that you’re right, that you are worth far more than he could have ever imagined. A soldier. A leader.” He stood and held out a hand. “A friend.”

  Emotion glimmered in Colborn’s eyes as he clasped Aravon’s hand.

  Aravon pulled Colborn to his feet. The Lieutenant was unsteady at first, his eyes losing focus as the blood rushed to his wounded head, and Aravon supported him until he found his feet.

  “When the Sixth fell,” Aravon said in a quiet voice, “I tried to find a reason for their deaths, and for why I’d lived. But eventually, I realized that there was no reason. As a wise archer we know once said, ‘All’s shite in love and battle.’”

  Colborn chuckled, wincing at the pain in his head.

  “And, as a friend of mine once told me, ‘You did what you had to. Saved the Legion.’” Those were Colborn’s words, spoken after Aravon’s mad dash to sound the retreat that prevented the Eirdkilrs from slaughtering Jade Battalion. “I don’t know if that’ll make it easier to live with, but it’s all the wisdom I’ve got for one night. You want more, go have a talk with the Duke or Rangvaldr.”

  Colborn chuckled, a bright sound that had lost much of its previous melancholy and rancor. “We’ll save the speeches for another day, yeah?” He grinned at Aravon. “For now, we’ve got an Eirdkilr queen to kill.”

  * * *

  To Aravon, it felt as if the sun had never traveled so slowly across the sky. It seemed a week had passed in the four hours he’d spent hiding among the stones surrounding the Waeggbjod. Life as a Legionnaire had hammered patience into him, but he hated the interminable wait before battle.

  For the tenth time in the last hour, he scanned his surroundings. No sign of Colborn, even though he knew where he was crouched beside Zaharis and Rangvaldr on the northeastern corner of the standing stone square. Aravon had insisted Colborn rest, even after taking Zaharis’ hastily-prepared alchemical remedy—a few roots and twigs the Secret Keeper said would diminish the discomfort but not much more.

  Noll and Skathi were hidden to the east and west, tucked out of sight among the tall menhirs surrounding the Waeggbjod. If he squinted hard enough, he could just make out the six-foot-long arms of Belthar’s enormous crossbow protruding from between two huge stones at the northwestern corner. Hiding anything that size, much less the massive man holding it, was near impossible, and a testament to the Fehlan camouflage Zaharis had painted onto their leather armor.

  To Aravon’s right, Snarl lay on his belly, wings curled up against his furry body, eyes closed. Yet Aravon knew the Enfield would leap to action the moment he was needed.

  Confident his company was in place, Aravon studied the field of battle. Again.

  The Waeggbjod was a flat grassy expanse fifty yards wide and long, a near-perfect square surrounded by a wall of towering menhirs. Aravon couldn’t tell if the standing stones had been carved by human hands or simply placed there, but the Fehlan runes etched into the stones proved the Fehlans had had a hand in building the ceremonial place.

  As the name suggested, the Waeggbjod was hemmed in on all sides by the standing stones, forming a solid barrier that no army could pass. Even after spending the better part of two hours circling the stone ring, Noll and Skathi had found only four openings large enough for Belthar—or an Eirdkilr—to slip through. Throrsson had been right when he said there was no way to launch a surprise attack from the north, south, or east.

  To the west, however, an opening in the stone wall provided a clear view of the Fjall lands spread out around the base of the hill upon which the flat ceremonial grounds sat. A single broad sinuous path wide enough to march ten men across ascended to the Waeggbjod.

  Up that path marched the eleven hundred and eleven warriors of the Fjall. Tall, broad-shouldered men with black, red, brown, and blond beards tied into tight braids and strung with colorful beads, bones, and bits of steel. Sunlight glinted off thousands of steel skullcaps, chain mail, swords, and axes. The red-painted shields of the warriors proudly bore the glistening black Reafan of the Hilmir. The sea of furs, pelts, and hides resembled a pack of hunting animals, but with fangs and claws of sharp steel instead of bone.

  The Fjall marched for war, and Eirik Throrsson led them. The Hilmir was resplendent in his glimmering chain mail, his black hair seeming wilder and thicker than ever in the bright light of day. His helmet bore the face of the snarling black bear—doubtless the same one to which his bear fur cloak had belonged. When he drew his sword, he seemed to shimmer with a brilliance almost as dazzling as Rangvaldr’s holy stones.

  Aravon shot a glance up at the sky. One more hour until noon. By now, Chief Svein Hafgrimsson and his Deid warriors should have taken their positions for the ambush. Somewhere over one of the hills north of the Waeggbjod, just out of sight, two thousand more Fjall warriors lay in wait. One more hour until the war for the Fjall lands begins in earnest.

  Since hearing the Hilmir’s plan, a faint hope had taken root deep within Aravon. The Hilmir’s strategy was sound, his preparations as thorough as any Legion commander or general. No battle plan survived a clash with the enemy, but Eirik Throrsson had done as much as any man could to mitigate the risks, to stack the odds in his favor. With three thousand warriors holding the city walls and more than five thousand here, they had the best possible chance of victory here.

  Victory, and the death of the Blodsvarri. That would be the first step into what Aravon hoped would be a successful—and short—campaign to drive the Eirdkilrs out of Fjall lands.

  Aravon’s gaze went to the horizon southeast of the Waeggbjod. At any moment, the seven-foot Eirdkilrs would appear over the gentle hill two miles from the ritual grounds. A crushing tide of filthy icebear pelts, blue-painted faces, and fury. Enemies that sought only to maim, kill, and destroy—not only the “half-men” that had invaded their lands, but their own people. Ruthless, bloodthirsty, a force of death and destruction and a blight on the land of Fehl. And at their head, the Blood Queen herself.

  Their appearance would herald the beginning of the end for the Eirdkilrs and their sanguinary leaders.

  Yet, as the minutes slowly passed and the horizon remained empty, worry began to gnaw at Aravon’s stomach. Faint, quiet, and subtle at first, like a mouse chewing at a galleon’s ropes. Then more noticeable, deeper, like acid eating into flesh. Every beat of his heart echoed in his ears, his pulse pounding an anxious rhythm.

  Another glance at the sky, and Aravon’s brow furrowed. Noon, but still no sign of them. Only a horizon of gently rolling hills, a sea of verdant grass unbroken by savage, brutish figures. The sun that should have stared down on a scene of battle and blood filled the air with a strangely beautiful warmth that made the utter silence all the more uncanny.

  Instinct screamed at Aravon. Something’s not right. His mind raced. She should have been here by now.

  The worry within his chest hardened to a dagger of ice as he caught the first threads of gray rising on the horizon. His breath caught in his throat, dread freezing the air in his lungs.

  Smoke. And it came from Storbjarg.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Fear drove an icy dagger into Aravon’s gut. Duke Dyrund!

  In an instant, Aravon leapt to his feet and whirled toward the spot where he knew his men waited among the menhir. “Zaharis, Noll, back down the hill and get our horses. Bring them around. We’ve got to get to Storbjarg now!”

  Stones clattered and tree branches rustled, and Aravon caught a hint of movement as Noll abandoned his hidden position among the stones. Within seconds, the scout and Secret Keeper were scrambling down the steep hill, back to where they’d left their horses. It would be a three-mile journey, then another five or more to circumnavigate the base of the hill. Yet none of his companions qu
estioned his order; doubtless, they’d all seen the same plume of gray rising in the distance.

  “Rangvaldr, get Colborn ready for battle,” Aravon called.

  “I’m fine, Captain,” Colborn’s voice drifted from his hiding place. “Just—”

  “Shut up and let Rangvaldr do his thing,” Aravon snapped. “We need your head healed and your mind sharp. If there’s a fight, we’re going to be ready.”

  No protest came from Colborn’s position. Even as Aravon picked his way toward the nearest opening in the wall of menhirs, a blue light glowed bright between the standing stones. Aravon had seen what the Eyrr holy stones could do in the Seiomenn’s hands. Though he didn’t understand the magic—fiery hell, until a few weeks ago, he’d never have imagined such a thing possible—all that mattered was that the healing stones would deal with Colborn’s wounds, any lingering trace of concussion. He couldn’t have his Lieutenant keeling over as they raced to battle.

  “Belthar, Skathi, with me!” With effort, Aravon squeezed himself through the boulders and onto the flat, grassy Waeggbjod. Loud grunts echoed from Belthar’s position as the man did likewise. His broad shoulders made it difficult, and it took a full minute for him to find an opening large enough for his bulk. Skathi slithered through the close-packed menhirs with a lithe agility even Snarl would envy, padding onto the grass from the east.

  But even as Aravon broke free of cover, the Hilmir was on the move. “Blodsvarri bitch!” His roar echoed across the Waeggbjod. He tore his sword free of its sheath and waved it over his head. “Striithlid, to Storbjarg! The treacherous Tauld will taste Fjall steel!”

  Throrsson’s words set the Fjall surging toward the path descending from the Waeggbjod to the flat lands below. Before Aravon crossed the first ten yards, the Hilmir had begun a sprinting dash down the hill. His warriors streamed behind him, clogging the narrow trail, a tide of fur-and-steel-clad bodies driven by fury at their enemy’s treachery.

  Heart sinking, Aravon slowed his mad dash. He’d never reach the Hilmir on foot now. No way he’d get through that crush of warriors on that narrow path. And even if he could somehow shoulder through, what were the odds Throrsson would actually listen to him? The sight of the smoke had whipped the Fjall warriors into a frenzy; it would take a miracle to stop their mad dash back to Storbjarg.

  Aravon couldn’t blame them. He wanted nothing more than to race back to the Fjall capital, to find out what had happened. Duke Dyrund was within the walls of Storbjarg, facing whatever enemy forces had surrounded the city—or, and the sight of the smoke made him assume the worst, somehow stormed the wall. It took every shred of self-control to remain in place when every instinct shrieked at him to run the seventy miles between the Waeggbjod and the Duke.

  But remain he did. Though every minute of inaction grated at his nerves, he forced himself not to join the tide of warriors stampeding down the narrow path. He couldn’t waste his energy on a frantic footrace back to Storbjarg; Noll and Zaharis would catch up with their horses before he’d covered even a fraction of the distance. And, as he’d learned from hard experience and centuries of military history, such haste could lead even the best-trained army down a path to disaster.

  Fear made men throw caution and common sense to the wind. Aravon had to hope the Hilmir hadn’t lost his good sense in the face of his rage and worry for his people. The minute their horses arrived, the seven of them would mount up and pursue the Hilmir, try to talk him into a slower, more deliberate approach to Storbjarg. A faint hope, but he had to cling to it.

  “Captain?” Belthar’s voice rumbled from behind and to Aravon’s left. “What do we do?”

  Aravon glanced over his shoulder; worry twisted the big man’s features and darkened Skathi’s forest green eyes. Belthar’s huge fists were white on the oaken stock of his crossbow, and Aravon caught a twitch of Skathi’s normally rock-steady fingers on her bow—the only sign of anxiety he’d ever seen from the archer. Their thoughts had to be with the Duke, just like his.

  Yet, he couldn’t let worry for Duke Dyrund stop him from thinking clearly.

  “We wait.” Aravon forced his lips to form the words, though they went against every instinct. “Until Noll and Zaharis bring the horses, we’ll only waste our strength chasing the Hilmir or racing to Storbjarg. Now, we take time to think, to plan.”

  “A wise decision.” Rangvaldr’s voice drifted from behind them. Aravon turned and found the Seiomenn striding toward them at a steady pace, Colborn at his side.

  “Assess the situation, evaluate what we know, and act accordingly.” Colborn nodded. The Lieutenant moved easier, his steps more certain than when Aravon had helped him ascend the hill hours earlier. The fact that he once more wore his mask and helmet proved Rangvaldr’s holy stones had worked their healing magic.

  “That’s pretty damned clear,” Belthar growled, thrusting a finger at the pillar of gray smoke.

  “Is it?” Aravon shook his head. “Not long ago, we watched water burning outside of Rivergate. That smoke could be a ruse just the same, something to throw the Hilmir off-balance and do exactly this.” He gestured to the tide of Fjall warriors surging down the hill, spilling across the plains east of the Waeggbjod. “If she did suspect that he planned something here, no way she’d allow Throrsson to pick the spot. Military strategy at its most fundamental: always be the one to choose your battleground.”

  “Damn!” Colborn groaned. “Which could mean those Eirdkilr watchers were nothing more than a tethered goat to draw the Hilmir in.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed beneath his mask, setting the leather creaking. He followed the process that led Colborn to reach that conclusion. The Hilmir would believe she suspected him, but the Blood Queen would want to lure him into believing he had the advantage. So her scouts were confirmation that she was suspicious of Throrsson, as well as proof that she intended to come to the Waeggbjod anyway.

  Tactics and battle strategy often amounted to guesswork that could make an Illusionist Cleric’s head spin, based on a commander’s understanding of his enemy and the information at his disposal. It seemed the Hilmir had been mostly right in his prediction of the Blood Queen’s behavior, but she had been one step ahead of him.

  “Swordsman’s beard!” Aravon swore. He began to pace, his mind working. “The last the Hilmir told us before we left Storbjarg indicated that the Eirdkilrs were marching this way.” He thrust a finger to the southeast. “His scouts placed the Blood Queen somewhere around Harbrekka, a hundred miles south of Storbjarg, east of the Jarnhaugr Mountains.”

  “And the Eirdkilrs from Dagger Garrison?” Colborn asked.

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Moving at top speed, they couldn’t have reached Storbjarg before tonight. And not even the Eirdkilrs can sprint all day and night without stopping.”

  Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr had run a hundred and twenty miles through dense Eyrr forests and across rivers to reach Bjornstadt. They’d made the journey in just over a day—a pace that any armed force, Fehlan or Princelander, would find impossible.

  “So what’s going on?” Skathi’s eyes narrowed. “If the enemy was so far away, how in the bloody hell did they get to Storbjarg without the Hilmir’s watchers noticing them?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me!” Aravon clenched his fist. “Not only were there no enemies reported anywhere near the Fjall city, but there should have been three thousand Fjall holding the walls. From what I know of the Hilmir, I’m confident he ordered the gates closed the moment his warband marched out of the city. Which means there’s no way that the enemy should have gotten into Storbjarg.”

  “Leading you to suspect a ruse,” Rangvaldr offered.

  “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.” Aravon nodded. “Start a fire near Storbjarg, force the Fjall into a hurried retreat back to Storbjarg, then…” He sucked in a breath. “Then hit them on the road back to the city!”

  Four pairs of eyes widened, and the five of them whirled toward the east, whe
re the last of the Fjall warriors had descended from the Waeggbjod and joined the mad dash back to Storbjarg.

  “We’ve got to warn the Hilmir!” Colborn shouted.

  Aravon had no time to wait for the horses. Noll and Zaharis would arrive within less than an hour, but in that time, the Fjall warband could be locked in battle with the Eirdkilrs. A well-placed ambush, launched at the right time, with the Fjall in such a hurry—the results could be devastating. Even with experienced scouts to guard his flanks and search for enemies, the Hilmir might not see the trap until its steel jaws snapped shut on his throat.

  “Let’s go!” Whirling, Aravon sprinted toward the narrow path, racing down the steep incline and leaving the Waeggbjod behind. He didn’t turn back to see if his men followed; the sound of their booted feet pounding along behind him was proof enough, even if he hadn’t had full confidence in them. Colborn, the fastest of their company, caught up to Aravon and fell into step beside him before he’d descended thirty yards. Rangvaldr’s healing stones had worked their magic, indeed, for Colborn had no trouble matching Aravon’s breakneck speed down the hill.

  The descending path zig-zagged back and forth, but Aravon dared not take the direct route down the steep, rocky hill. The distance seemed interminable, his heart hammering against his ribs, yet it couldn’t have been more than five minutes before the path leveled out and rejoined the dusty road cutting through the gentle-hilled grasslands.

  Only then did Aravon slow. “Belthar, Rangvaldr,” he gasped, struggling to control his breathing, “wait here for the others.”

  Both men appeared ready to protest, but Aravon cut them off with a slash of his hand. Between Belthar’s enormous crossbow, his heavy muscles, and the ponderous steel axe he wielded, he’d never keep up. And he needed Rangvaldr for another critical task.

  Aravon sucked in a deep breath, his lungs burning. “Belthar, get Noll and Zaharis up to speed, then ride with Zaharis to catch up to us. Rangvaldr, take Noll and get to Chief Svein Hafgrimsson. He’s going to need to know why the battle horn never rang, and it’s up to you to convince him to join battle.” He shook his head. “We can only pray to the Swordsman that it’s not too late.”