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

by Andy Peloquin

  Throrsson turned to Colborn. “Sigbrand is a proud warrior and a true son of the Fjall, but if I instruct it, he will accede to your orders.”

  “Thank you, Hilmir.” Colborn held out a hand to the Fjall chief. “I’m honored by your trust.”

  Throrsson clasped Colborn’s hand. “It is a shame that not all men of the Deid are like you, Ghoststriker.”

  The words froze Colborn. He seemed paralyzed, unable to move or speak—likely due to Throrsson’s identifying him as Deid.

  “Your father must have been a true warrior to produce a man like you.” The Hilmir gave Colborn a warm smile. “If only you had led the Deid warband in place of Hafgrimsson, perhaps we would not find ourselves in such dire straits.”

  Aravon saw the slight tightening in Colborn’s armored shoulders, the sudden stiffness of his spine. When he broke off the clasp, a shadow turned his eyes dark. “Thank you, Hilmir.” The words were courteous, but ice tinged Colborn’s voice at the mention of his father. What Throrsson intended as praise was nothing but a reminder of the cruel bastard that had tormented and hated Colborn his entire life.

  Throrsson’s eyes narrowed as he watched the Lieutenant stalk through the camp. “Strange to find such a compliment causing offense.” He shot a curious glance at Aravon. “Is he not of the Deid? His words and accent—”

  “He is Deid, but…” Aravon hesitated, uncertain how much of Colborn’s story to share. Not only because of the secrecy of their existence, the reason they wore the leather masks, but also because it was Colborn’s story, not his. If the Lieutenant wanted Throrsson to know, he would have spoken up.

  Throrsson raised a knowing eyebrow. “Ahh, a complicated history, yes?”

  Aravon nodded.

  The Hilmir chuckled. “Not all men are born into this world fortunate. Some to poverty, others to hunger, others to infirmity.” He gave a bitter shake of his head. “Others to men who were never meant to be fathers.”

  Aravon turned a surprised look on Throrsson. That was the last thing he’d expected to hear from a man like the Hilmir, the most powerful warrior and chief on Fehl.

  Throrsson gave a little shrug. “Taking on the title of Hilmir was not my only way to cast off my father’s shadow.” He cast a glance after Bjarni, who had disappeared into the camp. “Every day, the memory of Thror Arvidsson reminds me that I must be better. A better man, a better warrior, and a better father to my children.” Darkness clouded his face, his lips twisting into a frown. “Both of them.”

  Aravon could feel the pain radiating from the huge Fjall warrior. Such a difficult choice—to use the Wraithfever cure to save his son or his daughter, but not both—would be enough to weigh heavy on even the strongest of men.

  “A choice no one would envy.” Aravon rested a hand on the Hilmir’s massive shoulder. “Yet only a true father, a true man, feels that pain.”

  The Hilmir turned a sad look on Aravon. “I never had a chance…” He swallowed. “A chance to tell Branda I was sorry. For choosing Bjarni.”

  “She knew.” Aravon’s voice was quiet, kind. “She had to.”

  A moment of silence stretched between them, broken when Throrsson roughly brushed a hand across his face—scrubbing away tears Aravon purposely didn’t see. “Well, Captain Snarl, I must find Sigbrand and speak with him, relay my orders regarding your Ghoststriker. Tired or not, my men and I march to Hangman’s Hill within the hour.” He held out a hand. “Give us two days, and we will be ready for the Blood Queen. The bitch will pay for every Fjall life she has claimed.”

  Aravon clasped Throrsson’s forearm. “Two days, Hilmir. Until we meet in battle once more.”

  With a chuckle, the Hilmir turned and strode away—off to make the preparations that would mean the difference between triumph or defeat at Hangman’s Hill.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  “Ghoststriker!” Aravon caught up to Colborn at the southern edge of the Fjall camp. The Lieutenant was mounted, his bags packed and tied to his saddle.

  Colborn looked back at the sound of his code name and reined in. “Captain?”

  “A word.” Aravon thrust his head toward the dark, empty forest a short distance away.

  Colborn’s eyes narrowed but, without a word, he dismounted and followed Aravon a few dozen yards into the wood. Only once they had traveled out of sight of the Fjall war camp did Aravon stop. Reaching up, he untied the straps that held his leather mask in place. “Swordsman’s grace, that’s good!” He sighed in relief and scratched the itch that had been bothering him through the entire conversation with the Hilmir.

  Colborn cocked his head. “What is it, Captain?”

  Aravon gestured to the man’s leather mask. “Take it off.”

  “Sir?”

  “The mask, Colborn.” Aravon insisted. “We need to talk face to face.”

  With stiff, slow movements, Colborn removed his mask. His face was a stony mask, his eyes flat and hard.

  “Are you up for this?” Aravon asked.

  “Of course, Captain.” Irritation flashed in Colborn’s eyes. “I don’t know why you’d a—”

  “With everything that’s been going on,” Aravon said, “I haven’t had a chance to talk since the night before the Waeggbjod.”

  Colborn’s jaw muscles worked, his brow furrowing.

  Aravon shook his head. “I’m not doubting you. That’s not what this is.” He fixed the Lieutenant with a piercing gaze. “Everything else going on, if you take it with you, it could get you or the others killed. Just tell me your mind’s on the mission and your head’s on straight, and we’re good.”

  Colborn hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. “Eyes sharp, mind clear, Captain.”

  Aravon searched the man’s eyes, the hints of emotion revealed by the tightness of his expression. Despite the shadows that darkened his eyes, the result of the Hilmir’s intended compliment, Colborn seemed less troubled than he had before the Waeggbjod. It seemed that night on the hill had given him a measure of closure, brought peace to the turmoil raging within him.

  “Good.” Aravon nodded and clapped the man on the shoulder. “That’s all I needed to know.”

  Colborn’s eyes narrowed. “And you, sir?” he asked quietly. “You got everything in hand? We’re all worried about the Duke, but…” He trailed off with a shrug. “Your plan’s solid, but I figured I’d ask.”

  Aravon opened his mouth to reply, to reassure Colborn, but stopped. He spent a moment in internal analysis, probing his own emotions and feelings on all that had happened. The soldiers under his command deserved the respect of a truthful answer.

  “Honestly,” he finally said, “I’ve kept my mind focused on the matter at hand just to keep myself from thinking about the Duke. I haven’t let myself believe that he really could be dead somewhere in Storbjarg, and I won’t until this battle’s done.” He let out a long breath, trying to expel the dread growing within him. “Best I can do is promise to try not to let it cloud my judgement or make me do anything stupid.”

  A little smile tugged at Colborn’s lips. “Best any of us could ask for, Captain.”

  With a nod, Aravon replaced his mask. “Then let’s go rejoin the others. We’ve got a Blood Queen to piss off.”

  * * *

  Aravon crouched in the shadows of the forest, his eyes fixed on the Eirdkilrs hard at work repairing the Fornbryggja. Keeper’s teeth! He growled a silent curse. They’ll have that finished and start crossing before midnight.

  The Eirdkilrs had hewn logs—backtracking south the better part of two miles for lumber—and hauled the materials to the crumbled wooden bridge. Their “repair” was crude at best, little more than massive trunks bound together with rough hempen rope and strips of hide. Yet even crude proved effective. Zaharis’ destructive blast had only brought down a section of the bridge twenty yards long. The towering cypress trees more than spanned the gap, which meant the attack had only stalled the Eirdkilrs, not stopped them.

  He clung to the hope that the Blood Queen w
ould cross her entire force of thirty-five hundred before marching after the Fjall, which meant the bulk of her forces wouldn’t set off until nearly daybreak.

  But, even if the main Eirdkilr body didn’t march immediately, doubtless they’d send scouts or skirmishers in pursuit of the Hilmir and his men. It was Aravon’s job to make sure that advanced force found only the Fjall warriors marching with Bjarni and Sigbrand. A force that even now was working with Colborn to prepare a nasty surprise two miles north of the bridge.

  Aravon turned to his men. “Skathi, Belthar,” he signed, “stay here and keep an eye on things. Colborn will have Fjall up here to cover for you in an hour. When they arrive, get to the ambush spot and see what needs doing.”

  Both nodded and returned to watching the Eirdkilrs.

  “Zaharis,” Aravon found the Secret Keeper crouched in the shadows beyond Skathi, “Colborn needs you for, as he said, ‘something bloody devious’. Follow the trail and take the first fork to the east. You’ll find him at the stream two miles north.”

  “Yes, Captain.” With barely a rustle of leaves, Zaharis slipped into the forest and out of sight, hidden in the deep shadows of darkness.

  “Noll, Rangvaldr, with me.” Aravon jerked his head to where the horses stood waiting, their reins looped around a low-hanging birch branch.

  Exchanging curious glances, the little scout and the Seiomenn broke from cover and followed him back to their mounts. Once well out of enemy earshot, Aravon filled the two in on the plan to lure the Blood Queen to Hangman’s Hill.

  “Sounds like a good plan.” Rangvaldr nodded. “I visited Hangman’s Hill once, many years ago. A good place to make our stand.”

  “Especially if we can whittle them down a lot at a time.” Noll rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to see what sort of fun Colborn’s got Zaharis cooking up for them.”

  Aravon shook his head. “Sadly, you’ll miss out on the show. For us to have any hope of survival, I need the two of you for very specific tasks.”

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Just a little closer. Aravon’s eyes tracked the small company of Eirdkilr skirmishers slipping through the early morning mists. The towering barbarians kept low, creeping swiftly through the ravine, careful to avoid the water trickling among the smooth stones that littered the creek bed. The mud walls sloped upward only ten feet from the creek, offering easy concealment for the fast-moving barbarians.

  A mile west of their position, Bjarni, Sigbrand, and five hundred of the Fjall were making enough noise on their retreat that the blindest, deafest cretin on Fehl could follow them. Even from this distance, Aravon could hear the enraged shouts as the Hilmir’s son sold the ruse of his death from battle wounds. The cunning Blodsvarri, wary of more surprises after yesterday’s battle, had sent teams of skirmishers and scouts to flank the Fjall position and assess the Hilmir’s forces.

  Unfortunately for the Eirdkilrs sneaking along beside the creek below, Colborn had expected the maneuver. At any minute, the Lieutenant would be springing his own trap on the scouts sent to circle the western edge of Bjarni’s force. It fell to Aravon to ensure this particular ambush went off without a hitch.

  Ten yards, he counted silently. Five. Four. Three, two, one.

  “Now!” he roared in Fehlan.

  The Eirdkilrs were no fools or cowards caught off-guard. All forty whirled toward the sound of Aravon’s voice, shields raised, boots splashing in the creek as they turned to face the enemy. Raising shields, spears, axes, and clubs, they braced for the charge.

  But Aravon’s position on the western bank of the ravine was just one more ruse. Fifty Fehlan warriors burst from the eastern bank and hurled fist-sized stones at the enemy below. Rocks, hurled with all the force of the Fjall’s fury and strength, pelted the Eirdkilrs’ backs, legs, and helmeted heads. The massive, blue-painted barbarians staggered beneath the onslaught from the rear. Ten fell, stunned and dazed.

  With a roar of “Avenge the Hilmir!”, the Fjall warriors threw themselves into the ravine. Down the muddy walls, sliding and skidding, straight into the off-balance Eirdkilrs. The barbarians barely had time to turn and raise shields before the Fjall hit them.

  Fehlan and Eirdkilr shields clashed as the smaller warriors threw themselves against their larger, less numerous enemies. The Eirdkilrs, off-balance, struggled to recover and mount a cohesive defense. A dozen fell in the initial vicious onslaught, cut down by Fjall axes and swords. Even as the survivors raised weapons and struck back, the Fjall spread out to encircle them.

  Aravon leapt out of his hiding place and raced south along the ravine. He had none of Zaharis’ tricks to deal with this group—Colborn had needed the Secret Keeper’s help setting up a particularly vicious ambush—which left him, Skathi, and Belthar to deal with any surprises.

  Despite being caught off-guard, the Eirdkilrs held their own. The lumbering warriors stood a full head taller than their Fehlan cousins, their weapons far heavier and backed by the force of powerful Eirdkilr muscles. Shouts, cries, and Eirdkilr war cries resounded through the forest. Blood sprayed, men screamed, and blue-stained faces split into savage grins as the first Fjall warriors fell. Axes crunched through Fehlans shields, one shattering the arm beneath. An Eirdkilr spear found an exposed Fehlan throat and crimson misted in the morning air. In the space of ten seconds, the stream grew red with Eirdkilr and Fjall blood, the ravine’s walls churned to gruesome mud beneath heavy boots.

  But the initial assault had taken a heavy toll. The ten brought down beneath the hail of stones never rose—five Fjall warriors with sharp spears saw to that. More fell as the Fjall surrounded them, like a pack of wolves nipping at enormous wasteland icebears. One Eirdkilr corpse splashed into the creek, then another. The howling, barbaric cries grew quieter as fewer throats remained to take up the call. Less than a minute after Aravon’s shout, only fifteen Eirdkilrs still stood, facing forty-five determined Fjall.

  Crouched behind a thick alder tree, Aravon watched the battle in the creek with one eye and the ravine to the south with the other. He wouldn’t put it past the Blodsvarri to send a second company of skirmishers close behind the first, or set more scouts to watch. They couldn’t take any chances with this fight.

  Then came the high-pitched whistle he’d dreaded. Keeper’s teeth, I hate being right!

  Two figures burst from the trees on the opposite bank of the ravine.

  “Forty more, two hundred yards back,” Skathi signed as she raced north, the huge Belthar hot on her heels. “They’re coming fast!”

  “Be ready,” Aravon signed.

  With a nod, the archer ducked into the trees and disappeared from Aravon’s view. Belthar, however, didn’t follow. Instead, the big man raced northward, stopping only ten yards south of the embattled Fjall and Eirdkilrs. In the shadows of a huge, brightly-colored maple tree, he knelt and set about cocking his enormous crossbow.

  Of the six Odarian steel-tipped bolts he’d brought from Camp Marshal, only two remained in Belthar’s quiver. Skathi’s superstition seemed to have rubbed off on him; he’d insisted that the archer help him fashion new bolts—little more than wrist-thick sticks three feet long, with crude fletching and fire-hardened tips—rather than loose his last missile. Yet, in this battle, he wouldn’t need accuracy over a long range. Power was all that mattered in such close proximity.

  The sound of splashing grew louder, accompanied by the clatter of weapons and the high-pitched clinking of chain mail shirts. Aravon glanced to the south, spotted the huge figures racing up the creek toward him. Behind him, the cries of the dying Eirdkilrs mingled with the enraged shouts of the Fjall warriors. When Aravon turned, he found the Fjall had all but finished off their enemy. Five Eirdkilrs remained, surrounded by forty of the original fifty Fehlan warriors. A quick glance revealed five Fjall down for good—throats slashed, skulls crushed, or limbs sheared—with another five bearing wounds ranging from slashing cuts to, in the case of one unlucky Fjall, a caved-in chest.

  Aravon’s jaw
clenched, knots of tension forming in his stomach. This had better work! If it didn’t, the Fjall would find themselves outnumbered, with no easy escape.

  His eyes tracked the Eirdkilrs’ movement. Closer they came, picking their way along the ravine, leaping over water-smoothed stones and muddy patches of ground. They broke into delighted howls as they spotted the Fjall, howls that grew angry at the sight of the Eirdkilr corpses piled in the ravine.

  The Fjall turned to face the new threat, and they, too, gave voice to their rage. Rage at the loss of their home, the “death” of their Hilmir, and the suffering they’d endured at the hands of the Eirdkilrs for years. Clashing swords and shields, they charged south down the ravine toward the oncoming barbarians.

  Aravon’s gut clenched. Slow it down! The Fjall were running as fast as they could, covering ground quickly in their haste to close with their enemy. His eyes snapped to the bend in the river that had been set as the mark. A few quick calculations, and dread sank like a stone in his stomach.

  They’re moving too fast. Yet he could do nothing but watch, trapped in his position, as the Fjall and Eirdkilrs closed.

  Finally, he could wait no longer. The foremost Eirdkilrs drew within spitting distance of the designated spot, and Aravon had to strike. If he didn’t, the Fjall would end up caught in their own trap.

  He didn’t shout—he trusted Skathi to analyze the situation and react as he did—but simply whirled and struck. His spearhead glinted in the dappled forest light and Odarian steel sheared through rope, bit into wood with a loud thunk. A moment later, an ear-splitting crack echoed through the forest. One crack turned to two, then five, then more, growing louder as the pre-sawn tree collapsed.

  Right on top of the Eirdkilrs. The immense weight of the oak tree slammed atop the enormous fur-clad figures, crushing them to the ground with pulverizing force. Ten Eirdkilrs were turned to pulp beneath the toppling tree.

  But the trap hadn’t been sprung without a hitch. The oak slammed into the front of the line, not the center as he’d intended. Instead of splitting their line into even halves, five Eirdkilrs were cut off by the trees behind them to face the charging Fjall, while more than twenty remained south of the collapsed tree.