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

by Andy Peloquin

  Straightening, Aravon broke into a jog. “Heil, Grimar!” he called out.

  The Fjall warrior spun at the sound of his name, and the warriors surrounding him did likewise. A bristling forest of axes, spears, and swords sprang to life in a vicious, edged circle surrounding Aravon. Aravon held his hands out and made no threatening move. After a moment of squinting into the shadows, Grimar seemed to recognize him.

  “Captain Snarl?” he asked. “Is that you?”

  “In the flesh,” Aravon replied in Fehlan. “How are you here? Yesterday morning, Storbjarg was in flames, and the Eirdkilrs roamed its streets freely.”

  “It is the fate of Storbjarg that brings me here.” Darkness hid Grimar’s expression, but sorrow echoed in his voice. “And now, with the Hilmir fallen, I must bring news of the capital to the Hilmir’s son at once.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. They heard the shouts, did they? The Fjall warband had raised an unholy clamor; the sound must have reached Grimar and his men as they crept around, behind, or through the Eirdkilr lines.

  “Where is he?” Grimar asked. “Where is Bjarni Eiriksson?”

  “I don’t know.” Aravon shook his head. “I’ve spent the day leading the enemy on a merry chase. But if he is in camp, we will find him under Sigbrand’s watchful eye.”

  The first Fjall scouts greeted Aravon and Grimar with shouts to identify themselves, but those quickly turned to cries of elation at the sight of their comrades still alive. The news traveled through the camp so quickly it took less than five minutes for Bjarni and Sigbrand to make an appearance.

  “Fraendi!” The dancing torchlight set delight sparkling in Bjarni’s blue eyes, and a smile broadened his strong face. “We have been so worried about you and the others.”

  Grimar pulled the Hilmir’s son into an embrace, then pounding Sigbrand on the back in true Fehlan warrior fashion. “It does my heart good to find you alive and well, Brodrbaurn, despite everything that has happened.” His expression grew grave, his features heavy. “I only wish I came bearing better tidings.”

  Bjarni’s eyes darkened, a look of solemnity that bore a strong resemblance to the Hilmir. “Storbjarg?”

  “Fallen.” Grimar shook his head. “Set to the torch by the Blodsvarri’s men.”

  Bjarni’s face grew ashen. “And my mother, my sister?”

  Grimar’s dark expression and his silence spoke volumes.

  Bjarni appeared torn between sorrow and stunned horror. “By Striith!” His face twisted into a grimace. “What happened? How did the enemy get in? When my father marched out, did he not command the gates to be locked?”

  “Aye, and so they were.” Grimar tugged at his braided beard, shame burning in his eyes. “Yet the Tauld came upon us so quickly and with such force that even the gates of Storbjarg could not withstand them. Once inside, they set fire to every langhus they could, used the smoke as cover for their assault.”

  Bjarni bowed his head, as if to hide his anguish over the loss of his mother and sister.

  Grimar’s shoulders seemed to droop beneath a heavy weight. “We tried to hold them back, but there were too many. Against their three thousand, we fought a losing battle, to save our homes, protect our people, and repel the enemy.”

  Bjarni raised his head, tears still in his eyes, and placed a hand on Grimar’s arm. “Fraendi, you cannot—”

  “No!” Grimar whirled on Bjarni, a snarl twisting his lips. “It is my eternal shame that I am to blame for the loss of the Fjall’s greatest city. Now, nothing but ashes remains. The Tauld have ripped up the very stones of Storbjarg’s heart, torn down the Blotahorgr, and hauled away the remains. When we finally made our escape, they had set to work on the walls of Storbjarg. They intend to set an example for all of Fehl.”

  Worry twisted a dagger in Aravon’s gut. He desperately wanted to ask about Duke Dyrund, but Grimar and his warriors were exhausted, muddy, bloodied, and beaten—physically and emotionally. They needed rest and food.

  But it wasn’t only thoughts of the Fjall that kept Aravon from voicing the question. A part of him didn’t want to know what had happened; there was a very real chance their answer, the truth of the Duke’s fate, would be too heavy to bear. With everything they’d face over the next few days, it would be better to carry a weight of uncertainty instead of the ponderous burden of knowing he’d never see the Duke again.

  “I not only lost the city,” Grimar was saying, “I abandoned it.” He straightened, set his jaw in a hard line and squared his shoulders. “My men are not to blame for such cowardice. They only followed my command, so any punishments my Hilmir deems worthy will—”

  Bjarni cut the warrior off with a shake of his head. “My father has always told me that there is no shame in withdrawing from an impossible battle.” He collected himself, schooled his expression, and clapped Grimar on the back. “But it is good that you are here. How many men with you?”

  “Two hundred and fifty.” Grimar’s face twisted into a frown. “There may be more of our warriors roaming the lands to the north and east of Storbjarg, but this small force is all I could gather with me.” Reaching out a hand, the Fjall warrior gripped Bjarni’s shoulder hard. “Your father’s attack on the city gave us a chance to escape out the north gate while the Tauld were distracted. We owe him our lives. A debt we intend to repay by standing here, with you.” He hung his head. “If you will accept the service of a shamed and dishonored warrior.”

  “My father’s trusted companion!” Bjarni’s voice echoed with noble certainty, his tone warm with reassurance. “We would be honored to have you join us in our fighting retreat.”

  “Retreat?” Grimar’s eyes narrowed.

  A grin broadened Bjarni’s face. “We buy my father time to prepare the true field of battle.”

  Grimar sucked in a sharp breath. “Your father?” Surprise flashed across his face. “The Hilmir…lives? Your shouts of vengeance for the Hilmir’s death have rung loud enough to be heard in every corner of Fehl.”

  “A ruse.” Bjarni shot Grimar a sly wink. “To deceive the Blodsvarri.”

  “Striith be praised!” The Fjall warrior turned his palms and face skyward. “My men and I, we will march to him with all speed!”

  Bjarni’s face fell. “But you said you have come to join us. To help us hold the enemy in the retreat.”

  Grimar gripped Bjarni’s shoulder. “It would be an honor to fight by your side, Brodrbaurn, but knowing my Hilmir as I do, he has entrusted you with enough men to see your mission through. Yet if he is preparing the field of battle, then I have no doubt he will welcome more hands to work.”

  Bjarni’s expression was pensive. He shot a glance at Sigbrand, who gave a little shrug. Then he turned to Aravon. “What do you say, Captain Snarl?” the young Fjall asked. “My father placed his full faith in your advice, and it is your men who lead our warriors to keep the Blodsvarri following our retreat. Where are Grimar’s men most desperately needed?”

  The question surprised Aravon, almost as much as hearing Bjarni say that Throrsson trusted his counsel. Yet, after a moment to recover, Aravon’s mind set to work on the problem at hand.

  Without speaking to Colborn, he couldn’t know the outcome of the western ambush. But, given the results his mission had achieved, he wasn’t certain adding two hundred and fifty warriors to their part of the plan would yield exponential results. It would make their position a bit more secure, give them a few more shields to hold the fighting retreat, but little more.

  Aravon’s brow furrowed in thought. “As Grimar rightly said, your father entrusted you with a force large enough to keep the Blood Queen in pursuit.” He glanced at Sigbrand. “How heavy were your losses today?”

  Sigbrand grunted. “Light.”

  “Thirty-five wounded, twenty gone to feast with Striith in Seggrholl.” Bjarni’s jaw muscles worked and his fists clenched at his side. Aravon recognized that expression—the burden of command would weigh heavy on one so young.

  “The decisio
n is yours, son of the Hilmir,” Grimar said. “We march under your father’s banner. Either by his side or yours.”

  Bjarni nodded. “I would hear Captain Snarl’s counsel, still.”

  Finally, Aravon inclined his head. “If you don’t think you’ll need them here, I’m certain your father could use a few more hands.”

  Bjarni remained silent a long moment, his expression thoughtful as he contemplated Aravon’s words. “Go, Grimar. Join my father at Hangman’s Hill, and bring him word that his plan works as he hoped.” He lifted his head and stood taller, a look of regal confidence on his handsome, lightly bearded face. “When the sun rises on Fehl the day after next, it will find the Fjall warband ready for battle.”

  “With steel in our hands and defiance in our hearts!” Grimar clapped the young man on the back. “We march within the hour.”

  “Not until you have eaten.” Bjarni glanced at the exhausted, mud-covered, battered warriors surrounding Grimar. “You look famished.”

  “Our flight from Storbjarg gave us little time to grab provisions,” Grimar shook his head, “and forage this far north has never been abundant.”

  “Then come, Fraendi.” Bjarni wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulder. “By the grace of Striith, we may find a few drops of decent Ornntadr mead to wash the smoke and dust from your throat.”

  Grimar chuckled. “To that offer, Brodrbaurn, you will never hear argument from me.”

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  “How is she?” Aravon frowned down at Skathi. The archer lay on her bedroll, covered in a blanket that looked suspiciously like Belthar’s. In the meager light of their small campfire, her unmasked face looked pale, the wound on her head darkening to a deep purple bruise.

  “Sleeping,” Belthar rumbled. In the privacy of their small camp, set twenty yards north of the main Fjall encampment, he’d removed his own mask as well, revealing a face stained by mud and blood and darkened by worry. “Been in and out of consciousness all day.”

  Worry twisted in Aravon’s empty stomach. Zaharis had taken great pains to disabuse him of the “fanciful, idiotic notion” that sleeping after a serious head wound could lead to brain damage—in fact, the Secret Keeper emphasized that rest helped the brain to recover from the injury. Yet fifteen years of heeding the wisdom of temple-trained Menders was hard to shake. “Has Zaharis been by to see her?”

  Belthar shook his head. “Haven’t seen him. Or Colborn.”

  That only added to Aravon’s growing nervousness. They should have returned by now. He had no idea what could delay them; they hadn’t had to outrun Eirdkilrs as he did. So where in the fiery hell are they?

  He forced himself not to voice the question—it would do no good to add to Belthar’s worries over Skathi. Instead, he removed his mask and sat on a fallen log a few yards from the big man.

  “She’ll be fine, right, Captain?” Belthar’s quiet question held a depth of genuine concern.

  “I’m no Mender, Belthar, but if I know Skathi, she’ll be back on her feet and snapping at you by morning.” Aravon pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-plastered hair. It felt utterly marvelous, better than the freshest linen sheets or a cool Frozen Sea breeze on the hottest summer days. “But as soon as Zaharis and Colborn get back, we’ll—”

  “Feed them a feast fit for Kings?” Colborn’s voice echoed from behind Aravon. “Give us the Prince’s comfiest bed and a week to sleep?”

  Aravon whirled, so fast he nearly toppled off the log. A smile broadened his face as two very bedraggled, muddy, leaf-covered figures in leather armor shuffled into their campsite.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Aravon whistled through his teeth. “You go swimming in a mud hole?”

  “This, from the picture of elegance and grace?” Colborn gestured at Aravon’s armor.

  Aravon glanced down. He hadn’t yet had a chance to wash off, either, and the mud caking his armor made it feel twice as heavy. “Spent the afternoon playing ‘capture the Legionnaire’ with the Eirdkilrs. Still the reigning champion, even if it meant taking a little slush bath.”

  Colborn removed his mask and was about to retort, but stopped when he caught sight of Skathi. Worry blazed in his ice-blue eyes and he hurried to crouch over Skathi. “What happened?”

  “Took an arrow to the back,” Belthar rumbled. “Her armor bore the brunt, but the hit to the head’s the real problem.”

  “Move aside, you big oaf!” Zaharis’ fingers flashed, and he gave Belthar a little shooing gesture. Once the big man made way, he crouched beside Colborn and frowned down at the sleeping Skathi. “Before she slept, was she awake, alert, talking?”

  Belthar nodded, his jaw muscles working and his face strained. “Enough to shout at me for nearly cracking her longbow with my ‘big, clumsy bear paws’.”

  “Got anything to speed things up?” Aravon asked. “Like what you gave me at Camp Marshal?”

  Zaharis shook his head. “Ran out of that at Rivergate. Haven’t had a chance to brew up more.”

  Aravon stifled a frustrated growl. They’d need their archer in fighting shape for the fight at Hangman’s Hill. A few well-placed arrows could turn the tide of battle.

  “But, I think I saw some Fire Daisies just west of camp.” With a tired sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s go, Belthar. Your arms will hold a lot more than mine.”

  Belthar hesitated. His gaze fixed on Skathi, and reluctance hardened his broad, heavy features. He clearly didn’t want to leave her side.

  Aravon placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “Of course, Captain.” Belthar blushed and rose to his feet in a hurry, his thick fingers fumbling at the straps of his leather greatwolf mask.

  “I’d take a bit of whatever pain-killing herbs you find,” Aravon said. The pain in his leg had mostly diminished, but the throbbing ache of his bruised chest seemed to have set in to the bone.

  Zaharis cocked his head. “You take a beating?”

  Aravon grimaced. “Glancing club blow to the leg. Arrow to the chest.” He scraped away the mud crusting his leather breastplate, revealing a deep gouge in the material, courtesy of the Eirdkilr arrowhead. “This alchemical coating of yours does wonders to keep us alive, but not much to soften the punch.”

  Zaharis shrugged. “Nothing’s perfect, Captain.”

  “No complaints from me.” Aravon shook his head. “Just need to be around and on my feet tomorrow, and the next day for Hangman’s Hill.”

  Zaharis flashed him the signal for “understood” and, snapping his fingers at Belthar, turned and hurried westward through the camp.

  “You sure you’re okay, Captain?” Colborn’s quiet voice radiated a concern that was mirrored in his eyes. “Arrow to the chest’s going to leave a bloody big bruise.”

  Aravon drew in a long breath—yes, still hurts like a donkey kick to the bollocks—and let it out slowly. “Won’t be dancing shirtless in an Icespire henhouse anytime soon, but you don’t have to worry about me keeling over in the middle of a battle.”

  Colborn raised an eyebrow. “Icespire henhouse?” His expression grew incredulous. “Do I want to know?”

  Heat suffused Aravon’s face, his cheeks burning. He couldn’t believe exhaustion had loosened his tongue so much—that was one secret of his youth he’d intended to take to his grave. He changed the subject, quickly. “Mission report?”

  “Success.” Colborn sat beside the sleeping Skathi, leaned against the tree with a groan of delight. “A hundred Eirdkilrs gone to worms, with fewer than a dozen friendly casualties. Few wounds here and there, but nothing serious.” He shook his head, his expression amazed. “I swear, I still can’t get over the crazy magic Zaharis can conjure up, almost out of thin air. No matter how many times I see it, it’s still bloody impressive.”

  Aravon leaned back against a nearby tree, propped his boots up onto the log beside him. After the day he’d had, he welcomed a few minutes of doing absolutely nothing.

/>   “He’s come through for us a lot, hasn’t he?” Aravon nodded. “If being around him has taught me anything, it’s that even the tiniest things can make the biggest difference. Like those Earthshakers Noll was fiddling with. Nearly made the Eirdkilrs piss their breeches when they went off!” A wry laugh burst from his chest. “I can only thank the Swordsman they don’t have Magicmakers of their own.”

  Colborn chuckled, yet his smile faded. “Speaking of magic, where’s Rangvaldr?” His brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t he be dealing with Skathi’s wounds?”

  “He’s not back yet,” Aravon said. “Mission’s taking him longer than he expected.”

  Colborn growled. “Damn the stubborn bastards!” To the Lieutenant, it went beyond simply the needs of their situation—it was personal.

  “Give him time.” Aravon sighed. “If anyone can talk sense into them, it’s Rangvaldr.”

  “If not, we’re well and truly fucked.” Colborn’s lip curled up into a snarl.

  “Have faith, Colborn.” Aravon tried to sound more confident than he felt. Since the ambush on Throrsson’s men, he’d found himself struggling to keep up the belief that he could outthink, outmaneuver, or outfight the Blodsvarri. The Eirdkilr leader had proven herself far more devious than he’d expected, and even with his understanding of military history, he’d felt like a drowning man struggling to keep his head above water more than once.

  Yet he couldn’t let the soldiers under his command see that self-doubt. They needed to believe in him, which meant he had to believe in himself. And those who fought at his side. “Have faith in the Hilmir and his Fjall, in Rangvaldr and Noll. Without faith, we’ve got nothing left but the promise of certain death.”

  “A real ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” Skathi muttered from where she lay curled on her bedroll.

  Instantly, Colborn and Aravon leapt to their feet. The Agrotora had made no move to sit up, but the fact that she was speaking filled Aravon with hope.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.