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

by Andy Peloquin

  Throrsson’s expression grew pensive. “Indeed.” Long moments of silence passed as the Hilmir studied Aravon. Finally, he nodded. “Any man who could pull off such an impossibility as you did tonight is a man worth listening to. So speak freely, Princelander, and I will listen.” He held out a hand. “As you say, together, we can turn bitter defeat into a triumph so resounding the Tauld will never recover.”

  “You’ve got a deal.” Aravon clasped Throrsson’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “Now, to formulate the plan, tell me everything I need to know about the Fjall lands north of Storbjarg.”

  * * *

  Aravon heard the quiet flap of wings a moment before a furry figure plummeted toward him. He had only a moment to brace himself before Snarl’s furry body crashed into his chest. Even still, he nearly went down beneath the force of the impact. Exhaustion dragged at his muscles, and he barely caught Snarl.

  The Enfield yipped and barked in delight, his paws scrabbling on Aravon’s muddy armor, and his pink tongue flashed out to lick Aravon’s muck-stained mask.

  “Hey there!” Aravon gave a tired laugh and reached up a hand to scratch the scruff of Snarl’s neck. “Good to see you, boy. Did you miss me?”

  Snarl gave another loud yip and leapt from Aravon’s arms, taking to flight and soaring up through the canopy once more.

  “An Enfield?” Surprise echoed in Throrsson’s voice. “They have not been seen on Fehl in two hundred years.”

  Aravon turned back and found the Hilmir staring at him through narrowed eyes. He shrugged. “Turns out there still a few flying around.”

  Throrsson gave a tired harrumph. “I’d wager my finest barrel of mead that your Duke Dyrund has found a way to make them useful.” His eyes widened a fraction. “Is that how you knew of the Tauld breaking off their siege?”

  Again, Aravon shrugged, but said nothing. He was too tired to do more than turn back and keep marching northward along the narrow forest trail. If Snarl’s here, that means—

  “Captain!” Delight sparkled in Noll’s eyes as he slipped out from behind the broad beech tree where he’d made his perch. “Keeper’s teeth, you had us worried there.”

  Despite the bone-deep exhaustion dragging at his muscles, Aravon couldn’t help smiling at the little scout’s enthusiasm. “Truth be told, Foxclaw—” He used Noll’s codename for the sake of Throrsson, who sat mounted on Aravon’s horse. “—it was bloody close more often than not.”

  “Wait until you hear what the Captain had us do to get through that Grim Forest unnoticed.” Zaharis’ fingers flashed. “If I never taste peat again, it’ll be too soon!”

  Aravon grimaced beneath his mask. He still had mud in places he didn’t know he had places, and every muscle in his body ached from the effort of the last three days of travel. His jaw ached from chewing on the gnarled Spiceroot, dirt still trapped between his teeth. Yet the root worked as Zaharis had explained—even now, nearly two days after the food had run out, he felt no hunger, only a deep, inescapable thirst. He wanted nothing more than a chilled glass of wine, a hot bath, and two long nights of rest.

  But, as Skathi’s latest message indicated, the situation was dire. Even now, Snarl would be winging back toward the archer—following the scent of the cloth Skathi had given Aravon—at her position just outside Storbjarg, where she’d remained for the last day and a half. She needed to know what he and the Hilmir—with a few of Zaharis’ more oblique tactical additions—had cooked up for the Blood Queen.

  Throrsson grimaced as he climbed down from the saddle, hunching over the still-healing wound in his side. The myriad of cuts inflicted by the Blood Queen’s knives had gone stiff, the skin tender. It would take a miracle to get him in fighting shape—or a touch of Eyrr magic.

  “Get Stonekeeper,” Aravon snapped an order. “The Hilmir could use a healing hand.”

  “Yes, Captain!” With a crisp salute, Noll turned and raced up the path.

  Aravon tried to ignore his tired feet and aching legs as he followed the scout into the forest. Thirty-six hours with only fitful snatches of sleep when Throrsson was too tired to continue. Fifty miles traveling across flat grasslands, through dense forest and one very muddy peat bog, dodging Eirdkilr hunters all the while. Once, when the enemy had caught up with them, they’d had no choice but to turn and fight. The wound in Throrsson’s side had reopened and bled anew, weakening the Hilmir and slowing their journey further. What would have taken them a day or less on horseback had been a three-day trek, with no food and limited access to water. Only Zaharis’ on-the-go foraging had spared them from starvation and exhaustion.

  Spiceroot proved a double-edged sword. The root sent a jolt of energy coursing through their muscles, driving back hunger and fatigue, yet the resulting “crash” had nearly cost their lives. The Secret Keeper had only given it to them when they were on the verge of collapse, and even then sparingly.

  But now they had reached safety.

  Aravon rounded the bend in the forest trail and relief flooded him at the sight of the Deid war camp spread out below. Hundreds of tents and thousands of fur-clad warriors, all armed and prepared for battle. The Hilmir had his warband—or at least the first of the warriors that they would use to strike back against the Blood Queen. The time would soon come when the Eirdkilrs would feel the full wrath of the Fjall. The Hilmir would have vengeance for his tortured and slain warriors.

  Yes, the desire to rest was overwhelming, but a greater desire burned within him, one he’d ignored since the moment he first spotted smoke over Storbjarg.

  He needed to see the Fjall city with his own eyes, needed to witness the destruction and carnage firsthand. And, if Duke Dyrund truly was dead as Skathi feared, Aravon needed to be there to figure out how to exact a heavy toll in blood on the bastards who had killed him.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Even with all of Colborn’s Fehlan-bred woodcraft, night had nearly fallen by the time Aravon and the Lieutenant drew within sight of Storbjarg. They’d seen the billowing columns of dark gray smoke in the Deid war camp, heard the clash of steel and the Eirdkilrs’ howling from a mile away. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the turmoil and bloodshed that consumed the city.

  Even now, four days later, the battle for Storbjarg raged on. Fjall warriors shouted to their god or hurled insults at the Eirdkilrs, who answered back with their shrieking, ululating war cries. The stink of burning wood and sod tinged the air, the fumes scorching Aravon’s lungs. Pillars of black smoke rose to block out the first stars appearing in the darkening sky, the settling haze so thick around Storbjarg Aravon could barely see the city’s towering stone walls. A thick, reeking night had descended upon the Fjall’s capital—a night of death and destruction at the hands of the Eirdkilrs.

  “Captain.”

  Aravon tensed at the quiet, rumbling voice that came from less than an arm’s length to his right. Belthar was all but invisible in the hazy, smoke-thickened twilight—he would have been even without the cape of camouflaging branches and leaves he wore atop his mottled leather armor. Beneath the pandemonium of battle echoing from inside Storbjarg, they had no fear of being overheard.

  Aravon slipped closer to the big man. “Situation report.”

  “Gone to shite, sir.” Worry twisted Belthar’s shoulders. “Gotten worse since Skathi and I arrived two days back.”

  Branches rustled and a figure dropped from the tree, landing beside him with the light-footed grace of a mountain lion.

  “It’s bad, Captain.” Skathi’s green eyes were dark behind her leather mask, and she barely paid attention to Snarl, even as the Enfield rubbed against her legs. “Real bad. The Eirdkilrs are in the city.”

  Aravon’s gut tightened. He had no clear view into the city, but the screaming of women, the terrified shouts of children, and the enraged battle cries of Fjall warriors defending their homes and families painted a perfectly clear scene.

  “How in the Keeper’s name did they pull that off?” Aravon demanded. “What h
appened to the Hilmir’s warband?”

  “Best worst guess, Captain?” Worry echoed in Skathi’s voice. “Something happened at the south gate.” She jerked a finger toward the southern end of the city. “I circled around, got as close a look at it as I could, and it looked like someone or something tore it off its hinges.”

  Aravon’s eyes widened. The gates of Storbjarg should have withstood a dozen battering rams.

  “When we got here, all I saw was lots of fire and smoke, and someone was raising hell inside.” Skathi shook her head. “I’ve done laps around the city, tried different vantage points to get a clear look inside. Nearly got caught in the process. But the Eirdkilrs are inside the city, no doubt about it. Walls don’t mean shite when the gate’s open. Can’t be certain, but I’d say all three thousand of the bastards that marched from Dagger Garrison are hacking their way through Storbjarg.”

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Aravon’s blood ran cold. So many! “And the warband?”

  “Holding their own,” Skathi replied. “At least they were, until the reinforcements showed up.”

  Aravon’s mind raced. He tried to think of how the Blood Queen had managed to get men into Storbjarg while committing so many of her forces to the attack on Throrsson. The Hilmir had said she commanded four thousand men directly, and only three thousand had been present for the attack on Throrsson’s eleven hundred. That left one thousand Eirdkilrs unaccounted for—plus the three thousand marching from Dagger Garrison. Had the walls remained intact, the Fjall’s three thousand should have been able to hold. Yet with the gate destroyed, Throrsson’s men fought a losing battle.

  “Smoke’s too thick to get a clear view, Captain.” Skathi’s eyes were dark. “But it’s not sounding good. I don’t hold out much hope for those inside.”

  With as many as four thousand Eirdkilrs rampaging through Storbjarg, it would be impossible for Throrsson’s men to hold the city and protect the citizens. Seventy thousand Fjall men, women, and children were now at the mercy of the merciless Eirdkilrs.

  “And the Duke?” Aravon forced himself to say the words. He’d dreaded this moment since he first spotted the rising smoke. In the three days since, his dread had grown. Now, he had no choice but to face the grim truth.

  Skathi hesitated, shot a glance at Belthar. The big man’s spine went rigid. Their silence told Aravon everything he needed to know.

  The world whirled around him, his head spinning wildly. Dark gray tendrils of smoke enveloped him in their hazy embrace and drove sharp, biting fingers into his mind, his heart. Acid scorched his lungs and the breath clutched in his chest. He struggled to draw in air, to think beyond the silent admission. Yet he could not marshal his wildly spinning thoughts, couldn’t suck in a single gasp of smoke-tinged oxygen.

  “Captain!” Colborn’s hiss echoed from his side…or a thousand leagues away, Aravon couldn’t tell. Strong hands supported him, lowered him slowly to the ground. He sat hard, leaning against the tree, trying desperately to regain control over his leaden limbs, his pounding heart, and the ache gnawing in his belly.

  “I-I’m fine,” Aravon managed to gasp out. “Just…hard time…breathing. The smoke.”

  He didn’t dare meet the three worried pairs of eyes staring down at him—if he did, if he saw the sorrow reflected back at him, the tears would flow. So he clenched his jaw and balled his fists so hard his hands trembled.

  “Here.” Colborn pressed a waterskin into his hands, his voice as gentle as his movements. “You’ve been pushing yourself hard, Captain. Take a breath.” A knowing look shone in his eyes, yet he said nothing as he turned away.

  Belthar and Skathi turned back toward Storbjarg, giving Aravon a respectful moment of peace.

  Aravon drained the waterskin, but it did little to wash away the sorrow that threatened to burst from within his chest.

  He couldn’t believe the Duke was dead. Didn’t want to. Hated the very idea that the man he respected—who he had grown to admire…to love—could be gone.

  The world suddenly seemed a cold, empty place. The Duke had been there when he awoke after the ambush on the Eastmarch, had been the voice of calm reassurance when Aravon wanted to join his men in death. He’d always been a solid, comforting presence in Aravon’s life. The proud friend that had stood beside General Traighan as Aravon marched off to his first Legion posting. A smiling face on the days when Aravon hid out in the stables to avoid his father’s drunken wrath. Quietly supportive as Aravon struggled with his first commission in the Legion—and his new mission for Prince Toran.

  And now he was dead. Slaughtered with the Fjall, betrayed by one of the Hilmir’s warriors.

  No! Aravon’s mind recoiled from the truth. He can’t have died. He’s smart, he’ll find someplace to hide. He latched on to that faint hope like a drowning man clung to driftwood.

  The Duke would have made himself scarce, taken refuge someplace safe the moment he heard of the attack. He and his mercenaries would likely be hidden in Storbjarg, away from the Eirdkilrs.

  Yet the thought lacked conviction. He had no idea what happened to the Duke, if he’d fallen under the initial wave, taken up defense of the city, or found refuge someplace safe. Worse, he couldn’t risk himself or his unit on a mission to sneak into Storbjarg to find out. At that moment, the only way to give the Duke a fighting chance of survival—if he’d somehow managed to survive this long—would be to carry out the plan he’d hatched with the Hilmir and Zaharis.

  A desperate, dangerous plan. One that could get every Fjall and Deid warrior killed with a single misstep. But for the sake of the Fjall trapped within Storbjarg and the rest of the Hilmir’s lands, they had to try.

  So, despite every part of Aravon that wanted to lie down and curl up—from exhaustion, hunger, and the burden of sorrow—he forced himself to rise to his feet. Still woozy and wobbling, but leaning on his spear and the trunk of a thick hazel for support.

  He had to stand, had to fight. It was all he could do now. If he didn’t, he’d crumble beneath the strain. The mission was all—it would keep him going until he could process the torrent of emotions roiling within him.

  As he stood, Colborn turned, and a silent signal from the Lieutenant brought Skathi and Belthar around as well.

  “Orders, Captain?” Colborn asked.

  “You three, stay here and keep watch. Anything changes, you let me know at once.”

  Belthar and Skathi nodded, but Colborn cocked his head. “You sure about this, Captain? You know that favorite military proverb about keeping your plans simple.”

  “Aye.” Aravon inclined his head. Colborn was right to question the strategy he and the Hilmir had concocted on their desperate flight north—it was his job as Aravon’s second-in-command. “But the Blood Queen’s proven that simple’s not going to work. Our only chance of pulling this off is to do the last thing she’s expecting.”

  A long moment of silence passed, then Colborn nodded. “Swordsman guide your steps, Captain.”

  “And you.” With a Legion salute to the three of them, he turned and slipped back into the forest, back toward his horse and the journey to the Deid war camp.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  “Are you insane?” Chief Svein Hafgrimsson leapt to his feet. “You plan on doing what?”

  “Attacking Storbjarg.” Exhaustion weighed heavy on Aravon’s muscles, dragging at his limbs, and it took all his effort to stand straight. Yet he forced himself to stand tall, to meet the Deid chief’s scorn with cool calm. “It’s the last thing the Blodsvarri will expect.”

  “Because it’s madness!” Chief Svein Hafgrimsson rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “I will not risk my warriors on your foolhardy plan.”

  “Good.” Aravon nodded. “Because we need the Deid here.” He tapped on the crude map he’d drawn in the loamy soil. “Lying in wait beside the Fornbryggja.”

  The Deid chief narrowed his eyes. “An ambush at the Ormrvatn crossing?”

  “Precisely.” Aravon gestured to Throrss
on, who sat regally on a fur-covered stump a short distance away. “The Hilmir will lead his men in an assault on the walls, but if he should prove unsuccessful in retaking Storbjarg, the Fjall warband will need ground to hold against the four thousand enemies within the city. Plus, the two thousand that the Blood Queen has marching at her side, and however many more she’ll have brought up to reinforce her position.”

  The words sounded grim. Two thousand Fjall and two thousand Deid against nearly six thousand enemies—that he knew of. Even with the perfect position, they’d be fortunate to get out of a battle alive, much less triumphant. Zaharis could only tip the odds so far in their favor. In the end, it would come down to a knock-down, drag-out battle between the Fehlans and Eirdkilrs. Their best hope would be to whittle down the Blood Queen’s forces as much as possible before that happened.

  That culling would begin in Storbjarg.

  “Tell me you have a better plan than this, Hilmir!” Chief Svein Hafgrimsson rounded on Throrsson. “This cannot be the best choice.”

  “It is the only choice.” Hard, grim resolve echoed in Throrsson’s voice, sparkled in his eyes with a glitter of steel. He stood, slowly, ponderous as a great bear, his face twisted in pain at his still-healing wounds. Yet, when he drew up to his full height, he was once more the commanding Fjall chief, leader of the largest and most powerful warband on Fehl. Or what had been until three days earlier. Now, Aravon couldn’t be certain how many of the Hilmir’s men remained. Yet that uncertainty did little to diminish the man’s authority, his commanding presence.

  “This is my plan.” Throrsson’s words echoed across the clearing. “And it is the only way that we stand a fighting chance against the Blodsvarri.”