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

by Andy Peloquin

  “You call that mercy?” Throrsson’s voice was strong, only a hint of a quaver. “Tauld ritual butchery?”

  “The Tolfraedr,” the Blood Queen hissed, “or I will keep you alive long enough to watch every man that marches at your back torn limb from limb. I will give your arms, legs, and manhood to the Bein, so they may consume your flesh before your very eyes. Then you, the Hilmir of all Fehl, will bear witness to the total destruction of your precious Storbjarg as my soldiers burn every longhouse, tear down every stone of the wall of which you Fjall are so proud. You will live, Eirik son of Thror, a long life of suffering, and you will see what the Tauld do to every town, village, and farm under your rule, then to every clan that allies with the Eird!”

  The Eirdkilr leader stepped forward and pointed her spear, still stained with Gyrd’s blood, at the Hilmir. “And only then, only once we have destroyed everything you hold dear, everything you cherish, then you will be permitted to die. A slow death of festering wounds and old age. A coward’s death. Even in your afterlife, Striith will spit on your maimed, putrid corpse and cast you through the Helgrindr into eternal darkness!”

  For long moments, Throrsson remained silent.

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. Could he actually be considering her offer of surrender? He had no idea what the Tolfraedr was, but knowing the Eirdkilrs…

  “The Fjall do not kneel!” Throrsson’s voice rang out across the open ground. He slammed his sword against his shield, setting the metal singing. “To no man or woman, Princelander or Tauld!” Again, the flat of his blade thumped against his shield. “Death holds no fear!”

  More of his warriors took up the chant. “Death holds no fear!” They clashed swords on shields, a rhythmic sound that swelled as the entire Fjall warband joined in. The sound of steel striking wood echoed louder, louder, until it seemed to reverberate from the distant hills, the trees, even the blue sky above.

  “Do your worst, queen of blood!” Throrsson raised his sword above his head and shouted over the cacophony. He raised his voice. “We are Fjall, mightiest warriors of Fehl, and by Striith, we do not kneel!”

  The Fjall warband took up the rhythmic chant. “Striith! Striith!” Their voices echoed in time with their clashing weapons, and Aravon felt as if the ground rumbled beneath his belly.

  Yet when three thousand Eirdkilr throats echoed a war cry, it drowned out the Fjall’s chant. The Blood Queen’s left arm rose, fist clenched above her head, and in her right, she lowered her spear at the Fjall shield wall.

  The Eirdkilrs charged.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Aravon had stood in the Legion ranks and faced an Eirdkilr charge many times in his life. It never grew easier to stand strong in the face of such overwhelming force.

  The seven-foot barbarians surged toward the Fjall, a tide of furs, glimmering chain mail, leather armor, braids, and blue-painted skin. The force of their charge rumbled in Aravon’s bones, the pounding of their feet deafening in his ears. His right hand tightened on his spear, as if in memory of gripping his shield and sword in that breathless, gut-wrenching moment before the clash. The seconds between life and death, when only open air and ground stood between him and enemies howling for his death.

  There was no strategy to this battle, no cohesive ranks or lines of archers to soften the Fehlan shield wall. None was needed. Three thousand Eirdkilrs, thrice as many as their enemies, swept across the grass, up the dirt-rutted wagon track, and down from the thicket of trees to crash into the Fjall.

  Flesh, wood, and steel met in a thunderous clash. Not a single clash, but dozens. Hundreds. Thousands, all at once. Booming, shrieking, thundering as warrior slammed into warrior. Spears thrust through gaps in shields. Axes bit deep into flesh and clubs crushed helmets. Bright steel swords filled the air with blood and death. Crimson misted in the air, sprayed from gaping wounds, deluged the ground as Fjall and Eirdkilr locked in battle.

  Aravon more than heard the screams of pain; he felt them, every one of them, deep in the core of his being. He’d screamed like that before, in terror, agony, and rage as he faced the savage Eirdkilrs. His muscles twitched, going through the motions. Block, strike, deflect, block again.

  Steel sang a song of death. Leather-covered shields shattered, wood splintered beneath heavy clubs that crushed heads, shattered arms, and stoved in chests. Mud grew thick and slippery as booted feet trampled grass and blood soaked into the earth. Gasping, crying, screaming, shouting. Warriors, trapped in a struggle that could only end in death. Death to friend and enemy alike.

  Aravon found himself gasping for breath, as if he stood in the shield wall. With effort, he pulled himself back from the battle, back from the memories of seeing nothing but the enemy intent on spilling his blood.

  He blinked, hard, and suddenly he was back on the hill overlooking the battle, watching the Fjall struggle to hold off the Eirdkilrs.

  Hope came hard.

  The Fjall had lost a fifth of their number in the initial clash, borne down beneath the weight of the towering, charging barbarians. The cohesion of the shield wall held, barely. The battle had disintegrated into a chaotic, swirling mess of bodies. Fjall and Eirdkilr stood chest to chest, face to face. Weapons trapped by their sides or against their chests, they drew daggers or lashed out with bare hands. Stabbing. Chopping. Hacking. Digging fingernails into eye sockets and tearing at throats. Pressed too tight together to bring skill to bear. Strength and the weight of numbers would carry this battle.

  The Eirdkilrs had both on their side.

  Aravon whirled on Zaharis. “We have to help!”

  The Secret Keeper had already unpacked half his pouch, and he was pawing through his alchemical supplies, his movements frantic. Yet he shook his head, dismay ice cold in his eyes. “I’m out of everything!” He hadn’t had a chance to restock since Rivergate. They’d been on the move so much he’d found no time to replenish his supplies from nature’s bounty.

  Aravon growled a frustrated curse and rolled over, facing Belthar and Skathi. Belthar’s wide eyes were locked on the battle below, his huge hands balled in tight fists. At his side lay his enormous crossbow, forgotten and abandoned, his axe still strapped to his back.

  “Skathi!” Aravon’s fingers flashed. “Can you take down the Blood Queen from here?”

  The archer’s eyes narrowed. She turned back to the battle for a moment, then slowly shook her head. “Too far, even for my longbow.”

  In desperation, Aravon scanned the battlefield once more, searching for something, anything he could do to give the Hilmir a chance. If not to win, at least to retreat, to pull as many men out of this battle alive as possible. Yet, as his eyes went back to the Fjall warriors, the Eirdkilrs closed the circle behind them. The Hilmir’s men had turned to face the enemy that surrounded them, shields locked, faces set and grim. Courage meant little against such impossible odds.

  Aravon wanted to shout—no, he wanted to leap to his feet and rush down the hill, throw himself onto the enemy. It didn’t matter that they weren’t his men, his fellows of the Legion. They had come to the Fjall lands because the Hilmir’s warband was their best hope of defeating the Eirdkilrs.

  And now, that warband was being torn to shreds not two hundred yards from where he lay.

  Aravon shot a glance back over his shoulder. Please, mighty Swordsman, let them come!

  The flat grassy plains behind him were empty, devoid of life. The bright sun filled the air with a golden light, and a gentle wind set the grass swirling gracefully. The serenity felt horrifyingly eerie in contrast with the tumultuous symphony of blood and death that raged below their hilltop perch. No sign of the Deid. Or Colborn with the two thousand Fjall warriors. Nothing, but silence and serenity.

  Dread settled like a stone in Aravon’s gut. Much as he wanted to help, he knew he couldn’t. Only a suicidal fool would rush down and join such an impossible battle. The smart play here was to wait, to watch for any opportunity to help the Hilmir. Or, to hope that the stubborn Throrsson surr
endered before his warband was slaughtered to a man.

  Yet “smart” meant sitting by in silence, watching good men—men he’d hoped would join their battle against the Eirdkilrs—die. Fjall warriors in the prime of their strengths died beneath flashing Eirdkilr spears and axes. Skulls crushed, faces caved in, limbs shattered. Blood, so much blood, spilled across the grassy field.

  Eleven hundred and eleven men had dwindled to fewer than seven hundred. Six hundred and fifty. Six hundred. There was nowhere Throrsson’s men could run. No escape from the Eirdkilrs. Men died by the dozens, hemmed in on all sides by implacable foes with faces stained blue and dripping crimson. Towering, fur-clad enemies that howled for their deaths.

  The Blood Queen’s piercing, high-pitched laughter echoed beneath the Eirdkilr war cries. She stood behind her embattled warriors, her eyes wild as she watched her warriors tear the Fjall to shreds. A savage smile twisted her lips and she leaned forward, eager to see the proud Hilmir brought low.

  Throrsson roared for his men to fight, to stand strong. Fehlan warriors shouted to Striith, called to comrades, spat hatred into their enemy’s faces.

  And still they died. In twos, threes, tens and twenties. Surrounded, trampled, crushed, and stabbed. Eyes gouged out and throats slashed by enemy spears. Limbs and necks hewn, helmets shattered.

  The sight of so much death, the cries of dying men, and the coppery tang of blood filled Aravon’s senses. It made him sick.

  Five hundred. Now four hundred. In any other battle, the Fjall would have abandoned the field or thrown down their weapons. But there was no escape. Their only hope lay in the Hilmir bending the knee, something the proud, defiant chief would never do.

  Throrsson went down, lost somewhere beneath the crush of bodies. Slain by an Eirdkilr axe or spear. A hundred Fjall faced more than twenty times their number. Grim, defiant, bold, their faces creased in snarls. They gave as good as they got. All the Fjall had. The Eirdkilr ranks had been reduced to barely more than two thousand. Yet in less than a minute, the last hundred fell.

  Fell, but not to lie still and silent forever. Fehlan warriors groaned, wept, or cried in agony among the bodies of their comrades. Some cradled shattered limbs or sat in numb, dazed silence, blood leaking from head wounds and crushed chests. Missing arms and legs, or eyes, noses, even lips and ears. Men torn to shreds by the savagery of the Eirdkilrs, yet somehow alive.

  Aravon didn’t know whether to rejoice or grimace as a still-living Eirik Throrsson was dragged from beneath a pile of Eirdkilr and Fehlan corpses. Kicking, snarling Fehlan curses, he bled from a half-dozen wounds. Three towering enemies wrestled him to the ground, bound his hands and legs with ropes, and hauled him before the Blood Queen.

  “Remember,” her hiss carried up the hill to where Aravon lay watching, “I offered you the Tolfraedr. Now, all who live will face the culling. And you will watch it!”

  “Savage bitch!” Throrsson spat a mouthful of blood in her face.

  The Blodsvarri laughed and wiped the blood from her cheeks, licking it off one callused finger. “Good. Save that spirit, Hilmir.” The word dripped mockery. “You will need it to sustain you through the night.”

  A hiss from beside Aravon brought him whirling to his right. He blinked, almost surprised to find Skathi and Belthar there. He’d gotten so lost in the carnage, the swirl and chaos of battle, that he’d forgotten the soldiers beside him.

  “Colborn,” Skathi signed, and jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

  Aravon craned his neck, and a dagger of steel drove into his gut. A single rider raced toward them. No Fjall warband or Deid warriors. No army four thousand strong. Just one man riding a massive charger, alone.

  There would be no salvation for Throrsson and his men.

  Aravon glanced back down the hill toward the scene of battle. The Eirdkilrs had begun digging through the Fehlan bodies. But instead of dispatching survivors quickly, they pulled any still living out of the crush of corpses. Wounded, bleeding, and dying men were dragged to one side and bound with strips of cloth, fur, leather, and rope cut from the bodies of their comrades. Screaming, weeping, or groaning, they lay on the grass, their blood staining the earth around them. Some with intestines spilling from gaping wounds or severed limbs hanging from shredded flesh. Many with wounds more debilitating than mortal.

  The ones who fell in battle had the better fortune, of that Aravon had no doubt.

  Turning, he scrambled down the hill toward Colborn. The Lieutenant reined in his horse and leapt from his saddle with a grim shake of his head.

  “I found tracks leading back to Storbjarg,” Colborn reported, “but they were at least two hours old.”

  Two hours? Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Has it really been that long since we first spotted the smoke? The rush of battle and the threat of death could play strange tricks with time—speed it up to a frantic, blistering pace one moment, and slow it to a glacial crawl the next.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to think clearly, to pull his mind from the chaos of battle.

  That’s a good thing for Storbjarg, he realized. With two thousand men to join the three thousand holding the walls, there’s no way the Eirdkilrs can take the city. If they hadn’t already, of course. And if they have, there’s a chance it can be reclaimed.

  Hope for Storbjarg, however, meant nothing for Eirik Throrsson and the still-living Fjall warriors below. Aravon tried to formulate a plan, tried to evaluate his next steps, but it seemed impossible to come up with anything that didn’t wind up with the five of them dead.

  His eyes went to the northeast. Still no Deid. Where in the frozen hell are they?

  But it no longer mattered. Two thousand Deid could never defeat an equal number of Eirdkilrs in open combat. Even if Noll and Rangvaldr rode up with Chief Svein Hafgrimsson ’s men that very minute, there would be no hope for Eirik Throrsson’s men.

  The battle had been lost. Now, it was time for Aravon to re-adjust, formulate a new plan. Preferably one that didn’t end up with them all dead. And, Swordsman willing, one that gives us a chance to save Throrsson.

  That was when the screaming began.

  Chapter Fifty

  The densely packed leaves of the hickory trees did little to drown out the sounds of screaming, weeping, and dying Fjall warriors. A shudder ran down Aravon’s spine as the next man was dragged, bound and bleeding, from the ranks of captives. Even after fifty deaths—slow, torturous deaths, each carried out by the Blodsvarri herself—the Eirdkilrs hadn’t sated their lust for blood.

  Aravon hated himself, hated the helplessness, but he knew he could do nothing. Nothing but watch from cover of the thicket and wait until his chance to strike back came.

  Until then, more Fjall would die.

  The Blood Queen wasn’t content to open their throats or remove their heads. One by one, she had the captive Fjall bound to stakes her Eirdkilrs had driven deep into the earth. Then she went to work with her knives. Slow, almost tender strokes of her blades carved two runes into their flesh. The first, the Fehlan rune for Tauld; the second, a complex symbol that stood for “traitor”. Deep into the soft flesh of their bellies the Blodsvarri etched those cruel words, her knives slicing through skin, muscle, and organs. Organs that she pulled out with bloodstained hands. Yanking, dragging on the lengths of intestines, tearing until the warriors died from loss of blood or sheer overwhelming agony.

  Always died, always screaming. Yet no amount of suffering seemed to dim the Blood Queen’s savagery. When one died, another was hauled forward. Sunset hadn’t put an end to the torment—she had simply ordered torches lit and fires made, then continued her tortures under the watchful eyes of the rising moon. The darkness seemed to make the cries of agony echo louder.

  The Tolfraedr. Colborn had paled at mention of the Blood Queen’s words. Now Aravon knew why.

  Aravon had always believed the Legion cruel for its practice of executing every tenth man in a mutinous company—a sentence that hadn’t been carried out on Fehl
for more than fifty years. Yet the dispassionate beheadings of disloyal Legionnaires could never truly compare to the deliberate cruelty being inflicted upon Eirik Throrsson and his warriors. The Blood Queen reveled in her orgy of blood, death, and anguish, her warriors looking on with delight burning in their eyes.

  And through it all, the Hilmir had been forced to watch. Tears streamed down his huge, bearded face, his lips pressed so tight they had gone pale beneath the blood caking his skin. With his bloodied arms and legs bound to stakes driven deep into the ground, guarded by ten Eirdkilrs at all times, Throrsson had had no choice but to bear witness to his men’s suffering. Hear their screams, watch their entrails ripped out, and their blood and bile stain the grassy field.

  Aravon had never been squeamish—he’d fought in the shield wall, killed hundreds of enemies in hand-to-hand combat, sat beside men as Legion healers and physickers hacked off shattered and rotting limbs. Yet he turned away as the Blood Queen began her tortures anew. He could watch the brave warriors suffer no more.

  And not for much longer! Fists clenched, he shot a glance at the sky. The sun had descended behind the western hills more than an hour earlier, and the moon had yet to rise. Even once it had ascended, it would be little more than a sliver among the stars twinkling in the heavens. A perfect night for stealth and subterfuge.

  The Eirdkilrs had anticipated the darkness and set fires and torches blazing around the perimeter of their makeshift campsite, established a few yards from the dead slain in battle. Even from a hundred yards away, the stench of the corpses and the metallic tang of dried blood grew thick enough to twist Aravon’s stomach. Yet, he dared not move out from the shadow of the hickory thicket. He couldn’t risk approaching the fires. At least, not yet.

  His eyes darted to his right, toward the hill where he and his comrades had watched the battle. The hill was empty, he knew, and his comrades long ago gone to follow his orders. Belthar and Skathi, ridden off to hunt down the two thousand Fjall who had marched on Storbjarg and to observe the situation in the Fjall capital. Skathi would send Snarl winging off to the Princelands, carrying news of Storbjarg and the Hilmir’s losses here to Lord Eidan and the Prince. Colborn had gone to meet with Rangvaldr, Noll, and the Deid forces, to update them on the outcome of the day’s battle.