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

by Andy Peloquin

  Let’s just hope Zaharis can find what he needs, Aravon thought, but didn’t say. The Secret Keeper had run dangerously low on his alchemical supplies; his distraction to free Throrsson had literally burned through the last of the Dragon Thorngrass he’d collected at Rivergate. Now, he was dependent on what he could find in the Fjall forests.

  Aravon turned his attention back to Storbjarg, what little he could see of it. The fires had dimmed in the Fjall’s enormous city, making it near-impossible to peer through the thick, choking wall of smoke that hung like a funeral shroud over the Hilmir’s capital. The sounds of battle within had also diminished—as with all urban battles, the fighting had doubtless degenerated to short, sharp clashes among the muddy alleys and back streets. Any Fjall warriors still in Storbjarg would likely be hunkering down, searching for the best chances to ambush their enemies or flee the city with their women and children. Against three, perhaps four thousand Eirdkilrs, the Hilmir’s warband had little chance of victory.

  Again, the overwhelming burden of sorrow descended on Aravon’s shoulders. The Eirdkilrs had set Storbjarg to the torch, and according to Skathi’s reports, they held both the north and south gates. Unless the Duke had managed to escape before the initial assault, he was somewhere within the blackened remains of the city. Alive or dead, Aravon couldn’t know for sure, yet the dark parts of his mind filled his thoughts with images of the Duke’s corpse—hacked to pieces by Eirdkilr axes, burned to nothing but charred flesh in the fires that consumed the city.

  “Here they come.” Breathless excitement echoed in Colborn’s words, and he thrust a finger toward the south.

  Aravon pushed back against the emotions, locking them away down deep, forcing himself to focus on the mission. He squinted in the direction indicated. Between the faint threads of morning light and the thick pall of smoke, Aravon could barely see a flicker of movement from the forest bordering the southern road. But if he had a hard time spotting the Hilmir’s men, and he was looking for them, they’d be all but invisible to the Eirdkilrs in Storbjarg.

  Tension coiled in his stomach, knots tightening his shoulders. His hand tightened around the ash shaft of his spear. He hated standing by and watching, but for this part of the battle, he needed to be an observer. He’d come face to face with the enemy soon enough.

  The attack came so silently it took Aravon by surprise. No shout of “For Striith!” broke the silence. No battle horn echoed off the walls of Storbjarg. From where he crouched in the bushes, Aravon heard only a faint clanking of shields and swords, the metallic whisper of clinking chain mail, and the soft footfalls of a thousand Fjall warriors padding across the grassy expanse surrounding the city.

  Eirik Throrsson, Hilmir of the Fjall, raced at the head of his men, a towering figure clad in gleaming chain mail, a massive brown bear pelt, and plain steel skullcap. Like the tip of a spear, he drove straight toward the open south gate, fury driving him and his warband to breathtaking speed.

  Time seemed to slow, and Aravon’s breath caught in his lungs. Fifty yards to the city gate. No shout of alarm from within. Thirty. Twenty. Still no sign the enemy had caught sight of the approaching force. Ten yards. Five.

  A bellowing roar shattered the silence. Throrsson gave voice to his fury now, a wordless battle cry taken up by a thousand Fjall throats. The deafening wall of noise rolled across Aravon and set his flesh prickling. That battle cry held a depth of rage and defiance sufficient to drive fear into the hearts of any foe.

  The Hilmir charged through the gate, his warriors streaming after him, and disappeared into the thick wall of smoke. The sounds of clashing steel echoed through the haze of smoke, and Eirdkilr howls turned to cries of agony as the Fjall hit them hard.

  Then, through a momentary gap in the gray haze, Aravon caught sight of the Hilmir and his men locked in furious battle with the Eirdkilrs. Only a few dozen of the towering barbarians, barely enough to slow the tide of the assault. The surprise attack had caught the enemy off-guard. So consumed were they by the battle inside Storbjarg that they couldn’t mount a proper defense against this new threat.

  Throrsson and his thousand Fjall rolled over the first scattered bands of Eirdkilrs like a giant sea wave crashing onto the banks of Icespire Bay. A dozen, two dozen, fifty, then a hundred fell. Cut down by furious Fjall, trampled into the bloody mud by booted feet that never slowed their furious advance. Skulls crushed, bones shattered, crimson darkening their filthy icebear pelts, the Eirdkilrs died howling, screaming, or weeping in agony. Fifty of Throrsson’s men tore off to the west, hunting down Eirdkilrs flooding the back streets of southern Storbjarg. Another fifty charged east, but the bulk of the Hilmir’s force surged down the long, straight avenue that led into the heart of the city.

  Aravon’s fists tightened on his spear until his knuckles turned white. Come on, Throrsson! Don’t abandon the plan.

  The Hilmir knew the danger of getting bogged down, trapped within the streets of Storbjarg. His meager force of one thousand could never hope to defeat the three thousand or more holding the city.

  Yet in the heat of battle, even the coolest-tempered man could lose his head. Surrounded by the burning wreckage of their homes, the corpses of their friends and loved ones. Aravon had felt that rage many times—the burning, all-consuming desire to tear an enemy’s throat out with bare hands, to hack and slash at a foe until nothing remained but bloodied ribbons of flesh and shattered bones. But if the Hilmir and his men gave in to it, they’d lose the battle before it even began.

  Aravon’s gloved fingers worried at the smooth ash shaft of his spear, anxiety twisting in his stomach. The Hilmir’s forward thrust hadn’t lost momentum; if anything, it had gained speed as the Fjall warband crushed groups of scattered, disorganized Eirdkilrs. More enemies fell to the surprise assault, swallowed beneath a roaring wave of Fehlan rage and steel.

  But the farther into Storbjarg they went, the greater the risk. Damn you, Throrsson. Not so far!

  Aravon leaned so far forward he nearly toppled from his perch. A sense of helplessness tightened his chest, set his nerves jangling. He should have been there, should have helped lead the charge to prevent the Hilmir and his men from losing their heads. Any farther and they might not be able to retreat when—

  The howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs grew deafening as they spilled out of the back alleys and down the main avenue. Through the haze of smoke, Aravon caught sight of scores, then hundreds of towering figures with blue-stained faces, filthy icebear pelts, and enormous weapons surging through the streets toward the Hilmir’s warband. In a matter of seconds, the Fjall warband would crash with an ever-growing tide of Eirdkilrs.

  “Pull back!” The shout burst from Aravon’s lips before he could restrain himself. It was lost beneath the roar of battle, the crackling of the still-burning city. It would do no good, anyway. Throrsson was committed, driven by his rage and bloodlust. And Aravon was too far away to do anything but watch as the Hilmir charged his men toward a rapidly solidifying wall of enemies.

  Then the racing Throrsson came within sight of the Eirdkilrs. Aravon sucked in a breath as the Hilmir slowed. Sound the retreat! Pull out while you still can.

  His hope died in the next heartbeat. The Fjall chief raised his sword high and with a roar of “For Striith!” drove straight toward the center of the Eirdkilr line.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  No!

  The thunderous crash echoed off the walls of Storbjarg, pierced Aravon’s bones and filled him with dread. The howling war cries of the Eirdkilrs mingled with the shouts of the Fjall, the clangor of steel on steel, the screams of dying men. The enemy line buckled beneath the force of the charge, pushed backward, but held. Even as Throrsson’s warriors hacked, slashed, and chopped at the enemy crushed up against them, the Eirdkilr line grew, thickened, and solidified. With every passing second, more and more of the Fjall warband committed to the attack, and more Eirdkilrs streamed from the streets to join the fray. The Eirdkilr battle line stretched across
the main avenue, while the Hilmir drove his spear-tip formation straight into the center—a center far too thick to punch through.

  Keeper take you, Throrsson! Aravon whirled and scrambled toward the trunk of the tree, then began climbing down to the ground. The Hilmir had lost his head, had succumbed to the rage of battle and the horror at seeing his city destroyed. Emotion had burned away all rationale. Throrsson fought for his city, his people.

  And doing so would get his people killed.

  It fell to Aravon to salvage the battle. He had to find a way to get the Fjall to pull back, to get out while they still could. Every passing second brought more Eirdkilrs to the battle. At any moment, the tide would turn and the enemy would engulf Throrsson’s men.

  If they don’t get out now, they’ll—

  The sound of a battle horn pierced the din of chaos. A glorious, ringing blast that carried across Storbjarg and echoed off the high stone walls. Hope surged within Aravon as the horn blew again, then a third time. Three blasts! The Fjall signal to retreat.

  Yes!

  The icy fingers uncurled from around Aravon’s heart, and he scrambled back up toward his perch beside Colborn.

  “They’re pulling out.” Relief echoed in Colborn’s voice.

  Sure enough, as Aravon regained his vantage point, he found the rearmost Fjall breaking off the battle. Warriors had turned to flee, racing back down the muddy street toward the twisted, ruined remains of the south gate. Scores, then hundreds of the Fjall, abandoning the battle.

  Yet not the Hilmir. Throrsson and a handful of his men remained locked in combat. Steel war axes flashing, swords biting, shields slamming into Eirdkilrs or absorbing the brutal punishment of their enemy’s enormous weapons. A bestial roar rumbled from the Hilmir’s throat as he battled the barbarians who had destroyed his home.

  Damn it, Throrsson, get the bloody hell out of there!

  Superior Eirdkilr numbers exacted a heavy toll on Throrsson’s warriors. Fjall fell beneath the stronger, larger enemies. Blood spattered filthy white icebear pelts and faces stained blue as the Eirdkilrs bit back, hard, against the Fjall. Fehlan warriors died beneath the renewed assault. Crimson sprayed in the air, the screams of pain echoing in time with the pounding of Aravon’s heart. The Eirdkilrs pushed the Hilmir’s shield wall back one step, then two. With every inch of ground, more Fjall fell. Brave warriors never to rise again.

  Aravon swallowed the acid that rose to his throat. This was the most dangerous part of the battle, and if Throrsson didn’t disengage now, the Eirdkilrs would engulf the few men remaining beside him. Already, the outer flanks of the Eirdkilr line had begun to push inward, forcing the Hilmir’s line to bow inward. In seconds, it would collapse in on itself, and the battle would be—

  Then came the horn, a single piercing blast. The signal the Hilmir was waiting for. With a furious shout, the Fjall leaned into their shields, swung their weapons with every shred of rage. The Eirdkilrs were thrown back by the ferocity. In that instant of pause, Throrsson and his men broke off, turned, and raced after their men. A dozen Fjall fell as they abandoned the fight, but the abruptness of their flight caught the enemy off-guard. For a heartbeat, an eerie silence hung where the sounds of battle and death had once held the city of Storbjarg in an iron grip.

  The calm was shattered a moment later by the Eirdkilrs’ howling war cries. Fierce, bloodthirsty, and bestial, the giant barbarians raised their voices in triumph and gave chase to their fleeing foes. Slowly at first, like a boulder just beginning to roll down a mountain, then faster and faster, gaining momentum as the flood of enormous, fur-clad figures pursued the Hilmir. They had their prey in their sights. He wouldn’t escape again.

  Aravon gasped, blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Blood flowed in his veins once more and he could move, no longer frozen by the nervous tension of battle. His eyes darted south of the rushing Eirdkilrs, to where Throrsson and his fleeing warband thundered through the streets of Storbjarg.

  Just a few more steps! Aravon’s heart hammered a staccato beat against his ribs. The pounding quickened as the Fjall disappeared once more behind the wall of smoke hanging over the city.

  Then the first of the Fjall warriors streamed through the gate. Disorganized, chaotic, yet only in appearance.

  Suddenly, Aravon understood Throrsson’s actions. They needed to make the assault on Storbjarg convincing, else the Eirdkilrs would never believe their retreat and flight genuine. That was why Throrsson had pushed the advance so far, kept his men locked in battle until the last moment.

  They had kept to the plan.

  And now it’s my turn!

  Aravon scrambled down from his perch. “Let’s go!” he called to his men.

  Leaves and branches rustled as Colborn and Noll clambered down the tree above him. Aravon’s breathing quickened at the urgency humming within him, and it seemed an eternity before he reached the ground. Without waiting for his companions, he sprinted the twenty yards to where they’d left the horses. He untethered all three horses and hauled himself into his saddle as Noll and Colborn burst through the bushes. Noll leapt onto his horse’s back without slowing, and Colborn was only a step behind. Sawing on his horse’s reins, Aravon turned the mount’s head east. Toward the place where he knew the Hilmir would lead the Eirdkilrs.

  Branches whipped at his face and head as he thundered through the dense woods, and he bent low over his horse’s neck, digging in his heels to spur the horse into a gallop. Though the forest floor was uneven, he trusted his fleet-footed charger. He had mere minutes to ride nearly two miles and get in position for the second phase of his plan.

  He didn’t bother glancing to the south; the thick forest bordering Storbjarg would hide the Hilmir’s fleeing men and their Eirdkilr pursuers. But it didn’t matter. The Hilmir had proven that he could stick with the plan, even amidst the blazing ruins of his home. He’d keep the Eirdkilrs engaged long enough to get them where they needed to be.

  Come on! Time seemed to drag at a snail’s pace as Aravon and his two companions raced through the forest. His mouth was dry, his palms sweaty as he clutched his horse’s reins. He knew what awaited him beyond the woodlands—he just needed to get there before the Eirdkilrs did.

  Then he saw it: blue sky between the trees, the western edge of the dense woods. Yes! Jaw set and grim, Aravon raced through the woods, darting between the trees, and charged out onto the grassy hill beyond the tree line.

  There, on the narrow wagon road leading northwest, three hundred of the Fjall warband had formed into a solid line. The warriors’ red-painted shields displayed the glistening black Reafan of the Hilmir, and a gleaming forest of steel axes, spears, and swords bristled all along the Fjall battle line. Three hundred broad-shouldered warriors clad in heavy furs, chain mail, and spike-tipped bowl helmets, glaring defiance at the still-empty road to Storbjarg.

  Aravon shot a glance over his shoulder. “To your places!” he signaled to Colborn and Noll.

  Instantly, the two broke away from him and rode south along the tree line. They had their own roles to play in the battle to come.

  Aravon turned his attention back to the Fjall warband formed up for battle. A pitiful force compared to the enemy that even now raced toward them. Yet with the Fjall lands so flat, this was the best place to lure the Eirdkilrs into battle.

  Spurring his horse down the hill, Aravon galloped toward the middle of the line. He sought out the brown-bearded Fjall warrior in command—Sigbrand, who had led the force of two thousand awaiting the ambush at the Waeggbjod.

  Aravon reined in his horse in front of the man. “They’re coming!”

  A fierce grin split Sigbrand’s face, revealing teeth as yellow as the amber beads braided into his beard. “You hear?” he turned and roared to his men. “The Tauld have taken the bait. Today, they learn the true measure of Fjall bravery!”

  Three hundred throats loosed a defiant shout, and the air echoed with cries of “For Striith!” and “For Storbjarg a
nd the Hilmir!”

  With a nod, Aravon wheeled his horse and galloped back along the lines, circling around behind the line of warriors. He would be of little use locked in the Fjall shield wall—he had no experience fighting in the Fehlan-style battle line—but from the rear, seated in his saddle, he had a clear vantage of the battlefield. He’d be in the best position to act should the tide of combat turn against them.

  Grim resolve hardened in his gut as he drew his spear and tucked it under his arm in a lancer’s grip. He’d never ridden into battle—he’d lived and breathed infantry during his fifteen years in the Legion—but his officer’s training had involved a basic understanding of the couched lance charge. And, with the speed, mobility, and weight of his horse, he stood the best chance of inflicting serious punishment on the enemy.

  A wry smile twisted his lips. A mighty cavalry charge of one. Commander Oderus would have loved this.

  He reined in behind the line, turning his horse to face the road up which the enemy would soon appear. Tension hung thick over the shield wall, a nervous silence that seemed to thunder in Aravon’s ears. Nervous sweat rolled down his spine and his heart hammered in anticipation of the battle to come. This was always the worst part: the waiting before the battle.

  Aravon turned to the only one who could help him now. Strengthen our arms and guide our swords, mighty Swordsman, he prayed. As always, the silent plea brought a measure of peace, stilled the anxiety twisting like worms in his gut. He drew in one long breath, exhaled. A cold calm settled onto his shoulders and lifted the burden of worry. He would do everything he could to affect the outcome of battle—the rest was up to his god and the men fighting at his side.

  Then the first of the Fjall warriors appeared from the south. First a trickle, a few dozen, but that number grew to fifty, eighty, a hundred, and still more. Running, hair and braided beards flying in the wind, armor clanking and boots pounding up the hard-packed earth of the wagon path. A streaming mass as chaotic as any fleeing army.