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

by Andy Peloquin

  That moment was all the Hilmir needed. With a roar, he drove forward into the gap, hewing about him with his steel longsword, bashing in Eirdkilr faces with his shield. Blood sprayed around him, misting in the air as he opened Eirdkilr throats and sheared limbs. Beside him, Bjarni and Sigbrand hurled themselves into the momentary opening, widening the gap. More and more Fjall warriors seized the moment. The Eirdkilrs, caught off-guard by the blast and crumbling bridge, faltered. The ferocity of Throrsson’s attack pushed them back a single step. A step that cost the rearmost their lives. Eirdkilrs were shoved off the crumbled bridge by their retreating companions. Another step, and more fur-clad barbarians fell to be swept away by the fast-flowing current or drowning in the river’s icy embrace.

  Black-shafted arrows whistled across the river and rained down onto the Fjall—and the backs of the last surviving Eirdkilrs. Hundreds of Eirdkilr archers loosed shafts, turning the air dark. Steel-tipped missiles clattered into the earth, thunked into the trunks of the trees, or found Fehlan flesh. Men screamed and died on both sides of the battle.

  But the Blood Queen’s fury lacked real teeth. Fewer than a dozen of the Hilmir’s warriors fell before they locked shields, forming a defensive carapace—a tactic they’d adopted from the Legion of Heroes. Clattering chaos rang out across the river as the Eirdkilr arrows thumped into upraised Fehlan shields, punched through leather or spanged off iron and steel rims. Even as the Eirdkilrs on the northern side of the bridge fell to the plunging fire, the Fjall warriors slowly gave ground, retreating from the bridge, out of range of the Eirdkilr bows and into the safety of the trees.

  The Eirdkilrs’ howls of rage echoed loud across the Fjall grasslands, the Blodsvarri’s loudest of all. Yet the cries rang hollow, an empty waste of breath beneath the glow of victory that burned bright within Aravon. The Fjall answered back with insults and jeers, raising their voice in the Fjall song of triumph.

  Aravon sought out the Blodsvarri and found her eyes locked on him. Even from this distance, he could feel the hate emanating from within her.

  Smiling beneath his mask, Aravon swept a bow that would have been at home in Prince Toran’s court. When he straightened, the anger in her wild, frenzied eyes burned brighter than Zaharis’ alchemical explosion.

  That made victory all the sweeter.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  “The cowards!” Eirik Throrsson roared. He slammed a fist into a nearby sapling. Wood splintered beneath the force of the blow and the trunk snapped, bringing the young alder tree crashing down at his feet. “The eel-spined, limp-kneed, white-livered, dung-swilling cringelings!”

  “Sounds like he’s winding down,” Colborn signed behind the Hilmir’s back.

  Aravon’s lips twisted behind his mask, but he said nothing. The Hilmir’s tirade against the Deid had lasted for the better part of five minutes, and his shouts doubtless echoed all the way back to Jarltun deep in Deid territory. Perhaps even those south of the Sawtooth Mountains had overheard the diatribe of Fehlan curses—many far too creative for Aravon’s grasp of the language to comprehend.

  And his rage was justified. The Deid’s retreat had cost them a critical opportunity. Instead of taking down a quarter of the Blood Queen’s forces as originally planned, the Eirdkilr casualties had numbered fewer than eight hundred. The attack at the Fornbryggja had cost the enemy, but the Fjall paid a steep toll as well. Close to one hundred and fifty of the Hilmir’s warriors lay dead at the bridge crossing, felled by Eirdkilr axes, spears, clubs, and arrows. Only Zaharis’ alchemical marvels had prevented what should have been a decisive victory from turning into bloody defeat.

  But now, with fewer than fifteen hundred soldiers—five hundred of whom bore wounds, many grievous—the Hilmir found himself in a dire predicament. A predicament from which Aravon hadn’t yet figured a path to escape, even now, an hour after the sun had set and evening descended on the Fjall forests.

  “Get me close enough to that gutless Hafgrimsson,” Throrsson raged, “and I will snap his spine, rip it from his body, and feed it to him up the arse. Then maybe he’ll begin to understand what a damned fool he was to pull back when we had the Blood Queen by the short-hairs!”

  “But at least the day’s attack was not an utter failure, Father.” Bjarni spoke up from where he sat nursing a shallow wound on his left shoulder. “The Tauld suffered far heavier losses than we did.” He wiped away a trickle of blood leaking from a gash in his forehead—the wound had already begun to purple, but his face was a stoic mask that revealed no pain. All trace of the Wraithfever had gone as well. The Duke’s cure had worked.

  The rage burning in Throrsson’s eyes didn’t fade, but at least his invectives slowed to a growling trickle. Finally, he let out a long breath and turned to the young warrior. “You are right, my son. Not a complete loss.” He turned to Aravon. “How high do you estimate the enemy’s casualties?”

  Aravon frowned in thought. “Between the attack on Storbjarg, the ambush on the road, and the bridge collapse,” he said after a moment, “I’d say they lost more than two thousand. Perhaps as many as twenty-five hundred.”

  “Hmmph.” The Hilmir’s grunt almost sounded pleased. “It could have gone worse.”

  Aravon seized on the momentary lull in the Hilmir’s anger. “Unless the Blodsvarri can summon reinforcements from deep within Tauld-held lands,” Aravon said, “she’s got only the three thousand or so marching at her back.” He’d estimated her total strength at close to thirty-five hundred. “And, given the situation at Storbjarg, I feel confident to say that she won’t risk pulling out the men holding the city.”

  “Indeed.” Throrsson’s bushy eyebrows bunched together, a frown deepening his brow. “If she tried to pull those men out of Storbjarg, they would have my warband snarling at their backs.”

  What’s left of it, Aravon thought, but didn’t say. Invading cities was bloody work, and the aggressors always paid a high cost in lives when trying to take well-fortified cities. Doubtless the Blood Queen’s casualties had been high, the Fjall forcing them to bleed for every inch of ground they gained. Yet four thousand Eirdkilrs faced only three thousand Fjall—even fighting for their homes and families, the Fehlan warriors battling in the city streets would take heavy losses. Setting fire to the city created havoc and forced the Fjall to try and protect the citizens as well as repel the Eirdkilr invasion. The Eirdkilrs had burned Storbjarg to confound the defenders, and now, there was no sign of the warriors the Hilmir had left to guard his city.

  We’re on our own, Aravon thought, a grim mood settling onto his shoulders.

  “The Blood Queen’s forces only outnumber us two to one.” Throrsson’s voice was a growl, as bestial as the black bear to whom his fur cloak had once belonged. “All because of the craven Deid!”

  “So we start evening the odds.” Aravon spoke quickly before the Hilmir could unleash another long-winded tirade against Hafgrimsson and his warriors. “We whittle down their forces, one man at a time, if we have to. Fight like they do.”

  Throrsson narrowed his eyes. “Battle from the shadows.” He stroked his braided beard with one huge, hairy hand, setting the beads and bones rattling. “Ambushes and traps.”

  “Precisely.” Aravon paced around the small camp, his mind working at the problem. “My men are watching the Blood Queen’s men at the bridge, and they tell me she’ll be across by midnight.” He shot a glance at Colborn, who nodded confirmation. “So when she gets across, let’s make sure she follows us. And that she bleeds every step of the way.”

  “Follows us to where?” The Hilmir scowled. “Our plan to meet her in open battle at Dreyrugrakr only worked because we had the Deid at our backs. And it relied on the enemy taking heavier losses at the Fornbryggja.”

  Aravon frowned. Their original strategy would have ended with a pitched battle at the broad, flat expanse known as the Bloodstained Field, where the superior numbers and maneuverability of the combined Deid and Fjall forces gave them a fighting chance against the Blood Q
ueen. Yet now, with only the Fjall, they couldn’t hope to meet twice their number of Eirdkilrs out in the open. At least, not at Dreyrugrakr.

  The problem was, Aravon didn’t know the Fjall lands well enough to suggest an alternative battle site. Throrsson’s question made it clear he didn’t have a better solution, either.

  To Aravon’s surprise, Colborn spoke up. “I know a place.”

  Aravon and Throrsson both turned to face the Lieutenant. “Where?” Aravon asked.

  “Banamadrhaed.” Colborn’s voice was solemn, his expression grave.

  Aravon frowned. Why do I know that name? He could have sworn he had encountered it in his lessons of military history, but its significance escaped him.

  “Or,” Colborn said quietly, “as it is known among the Princelanders, Hangman’s Hill.”

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. Of course!

  All in Fehl knew of Hangman’s Hill, but it held special significance to the Deid and Fjall in particular. It was there, on the steep slopes of Banamadrhaed that the Deid stood in open battle against the Fjall and, for the first time in more than a hundred years, carried the day. Aravon’s father and Duke Dyrund had been at Hangman’s Hill that day—as privates in their first proper battle—as the Legion fought on the side of their Deid allies. Together, Princelanders and Deid carried the day, though not without heavy losses on both sides. So heavy, in fact, that Throrsson’s grandfather, Arvid Jorundsson, hadn’t had enough of his warband to protect his southern lands from the Eirdkilr attacks.

  Throrsson’s jaw muscles worked. “Hangman’s Hill.” His face tightened at the name, as to be expected from a proud Fjall warrior. As the Duke had explained on their travels, that loss at Banamadrhaed was considered by the Fjall to be the worst defeat in recent history—worse even than the Battle of Vigvollr.

  Yet mention of the battleground set Aravon’s thoughts churning. He went over everything he’d read about the battleground, the tactics employed by the Fjall, Deid, and Legionnaires. Though he had never been there in person, Lectern Harald had referred to it numerous times when teaching Aravon the power of small-force tactics. In fact, it was a small company of Legion cavalry—less than a hundred strong—that had turned the tide of battle. A fact the Lectern had drilled home during his lessons back at Camp Marshal.

  It didn’t matter that he’d never seen the battlefield with his own eyes—he’d heard it described and depicted so many times he knew every inch of that hillside and the surrounding marshlands, forests, and the river at its back. And it came with an added bonus: it was disputed territory, claimed by both the Fjall and Deid.

  Aravon’s mind raced. “The steepness of the hill would give us an advantage. And, with the marshes on our left flank and the river at our back and right flanks, we wouldn’t have to worry about being encircled.”

  “There would also be no way of escape should the battle turn against us.” The Hilmir’s eyes were dark, grim. “We could not retreat.”

  One of Lectern Harald’s lessons on battle strategy flashed through Aravon’s mind. “And the Blood Queen will know that,” Aravon said. “A fact that we’ll use against her.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Throrsson leaned forward. “Explain.” He tugged at his beard, running his fingers through the braids as he listened.

  “The only way we get to choose the battleground is if we make the Blodsvarri think she chose it.” A wry grin twisted Aravon’s lips behind his mask. “My wife loves to remind me that all of my best ideas are, in fact, her ideas, simply presented in a way that I believe that they originated with me.”

  Despite the burning intensity in his eyes, the Hilmir actually chuckled. “My Asleif says that she is ‘the fist of iron wrapped in ermine fur’.” A smile cracked his solemn facade. “Even the mightiest warrior may find his actions directed by the invisible hand of a clever woman.”

  Aravon pushed back against the feelings of homesickness that came whenever he thought of Mylena, the desire to see her once more, to sweep her and his sons, Rolyn and Adilon, into a fierce embrace. He had no time for the sorrow and longing; they had battles to plan, enemies to defeat.

  “Precisely.” Aravon nodded. “So we’re going to make the Blood Queen think she’s pushing us back, forcing us to retreat. Farther and farther north, until we are left with no choice but to make a desperate last stand.”

  Throrsson’s eyes narrowed. “Clever.” He tugged at one of his beard braids, pulled lose a twig that had been stuck there for hours and cast it aside. “And, by harrying her advance every step of the way, we force her to keep following us. Keep pushing us backward.”

  “Many an army’s advance has been turned to ruin by an active defense.” Lectern Harald’s words echoed in Aravon’s mind. “They’ll be moving quickly, trying to catch up to us, which gives us multiple opportunities to hit them hard with counterattacks and ambushes.” He glanced at Colborn. “We keep them on their heels, keep the initiative in our favor, force them to advance more slowly. All the while, we keep the Blodsvarri engaged and focused on us while we set up a proper defense at Hangman’s Hill.”

  Colborn remained silent a long moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. Finally, he nodded. “It’ll take more than just a few small sneak attacks to keep the Blood Queen hot on our heels. We’ll need to make it look like we’re desperate, throwing everything we can in an attempt to slow her down.”

  “How many men, Ghoststriker?” Aravon used Colborn’s code name.

  Again, a moment of contemplative silence before Colborn answered. “Five, maybe six hundred.”

  “That is nearly half my warband!” Throrsson growled. “Dividing our forces is a risky gamble against so many enemies.”

  “But what would sigra demand in a match of hnenfatafl?” Colborn straightened, facing up to the Hilmir. He was only an inch shorter and equally broad in the chest, his blond beard and hair a stark contrast to the Hilmir’s shaggy black locks. Yet his voice rang with the conviction and confidence of a Legion officer—of a man like Duke Dyrund. “A true victor takes decisive action in the face of impossible odds.”

  Throrsson met the Lieutenant’s eyes, their gazes locked. For a moment, Aravon was struck by the Hilmir’s resemblance to the black bear whose pelt he wore, just as Colborn’s strength and leather mask appeared like a snarling greatwolf. Two powerful men in a silent battle of wills—neither enemies nor friends, but two warriors and equals.

  Long seconds of tense silence stretched on, but finally Throrsson nodded. “It is a good plan.”

  “And I’ll need two hundred more to watch our flanks,” Colborn said without hesitation, “to stop the Blodsvarri’s scouts from getting around our position.”

  “Anything else?” Throrsson snorted. “Perhaps a night in the Hilmir’s bed or a seat of honor at the head of my table?”

  “I’ll settle for your son.” Colborn’s voice held a note of quiet self-assurance.

  Throrsson’s bushy eyebrows shot up, his face going purple. He opened his mouth, doubtless to unleash his rage on Colborn, but the Lieutenant spoke first.

  “The Blood Queen needs to believe our defensive assaults are real.” Colborn gestured to Bjarni. “She knows you’re wounded, so it would make sense that your son stands in your place.”

  A sly plan took shape in Aravon’s mind. “And we convince her that you’re too weak to fight.” He rounded on Colborn and Bjarni. “Let ambush and counterattack ring with cries of vengeance for the Hilmir’s death.”

  Surprise flashed across Throrsson’s heavy face. Then, a slow laugh boomed from his massive chest. “I have always wondered how my men would feel after my death.”

  “We will be suitably infuriated and aggressive, Father.” Bjarni’s grin mirrored Throrsson’s. “I will personally lead the assault to claim the Blood Queen’s head.”

  “Between the fighting retreat and the greatly exaggerated rumors of your death,” Aravon said, “the Blood Queen will believe her victory all but assured.” He turned to Bjarni. “After all, she will bel
ieve herself far more cunning than the Hilmir’s young son.”

  “Especially if we sell it,” Colborn added. “A few ambushes that don’t quite go off without a hitch, or a counterattack that gets bogged down just a second or three too long.” He shot Bjarni a confident glance. “Think you can pull off ‘enraged hothead’?”

  Bjarni drew himself up to his full height, his expression grandiose. “I am my father’s son.” A smile cracked his hauteur. “To hear my mother speak, enraged hothead should be the family emblem.”

  “Careful, Bjarni,” Throrsson growled. “You are not so strong and I am not so old that I will hesitate to lay you across my knee and thrash you as I once did.” He gestured around. “There is a convenient abundance of willow switches at hand.”

  Bjarni didn’t exactly flinch, but his jests at his father’s expense fell silent.

  Aravon and Colborn exchanged amused glances.

  “Think you can pull it off?” Aravon signed in the Secret Keeper hand language.

  “Have to try, don’t I?” Colborn replied. “Only way we get through this alive.”

  “Then let it be so.” Throrsson’s booming voice echoed through the forest clearing. He clapped a huge hand on his son’s shoulders. “Take Sigbrand, my son. He will guide and guard you in the battle to come.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Bjarni turned to face his father. “For trusting me to do this.”

  Throrsson embraced his son. “You have already returned from certain death once. If Striith chooses to take you now, I will send you to Seggrholl knowing you were a true man of the Fjall.”

  Bjarni returned the fierce hug. “I will make you proud.”

  A lump rose in Aravon’s throat and his eyes slid away. The sight brought back memories of his own father and Duke Dyrund—painful for two entirely different reasons.

  He swallowed his emotions as Bjarni left his father’s side and hurried toward the hastily-erected Fjall torchlit war camp to gather his men.