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

by Andy Peloquin

  With a little yipping bark, Snarl darted toward the entrance. The sound confused Aravon. It wasn’t the same growl that had warned him of the Fjall warriors the previous night. No, it sounded…joyful.

  Aravon raced after Snarl, bursting out of the cave and into the night beyond. Snarl’s eagle claws clacked as he scrambled over the rocks littering the bank of the nearby river. His yipping grew louder, eager, delighted.

  What in the bloody hell?

  The Enfield raced the twenty feet toward the river’s edge and threw himself into the water, splashing around a dark shape draped over a large, smooth stone. Moonlight shone on heavy furs and what could only be sodden fabric. The bundle gave a weak groan and shifted, but its movements fell still and it slumped back into the water.

  Aravon closed the distance to where Snarl stood over the body. A man, Aravon realized, as he caught sight of the broad shoulders and dark beard. With cautious movements, he reached down and turned the man over onto his side.

  Moonlight shone on the man’s face, and Aravon’s blood turned to ice. It can’t be!

  But there was no mistaking the dark hair, graying beard, and angular features of Duke Dyrund.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Aravon blinked, twice, three times, his mind refusing to accept the evidence of his eyes. His breath caught in his lungs. It had to be a trick of some sort.

  Then the Duke stirred. Barely more than a flutter of his eyelids, a twitch of his fingers, but in that instant, hope blossomed in Aravon’s chest.

  He’s alive! He barely stopped himself from shouting in elation.

  Snarl splashed around the Duke’s body, leapt up onto the rock, and licked his face. Turning his amber eyes to Aravon, he gave a happy yip.

  Aravon wrapped his arms around the Duke and scooped him up. He turned and scrambled back toward the cave as fast as he could manage, his own pains forgotten in the joy of finding the Duke alive. Yet even as he raced across the smooth river stones, he sensed something wrong with Duke Dyrund. The Duke was a tall man, strong, a warrior in flesh as well as spirit, but at that moment, he weighed next to nothing. He shivered weakly in Aravon’s arms but radiated a heat as intense as the burning pine trees.

  “Skathi!” Aravon called out as he stumbled toward the mouth of the cave. “It’s the Duke!”

  No arrows greeted him as he entered, only Skathi’s look of wide-eyed surprise. “Fiery hell!” Skathi cursed. “How is he—”

  But Aravon didn’t hear the rest of her question. In the light of the flickering campfire, the Duke’s face appeared gaunt, hollow. Dark circles formed around eyes that had grown deep-sunken. Aravon couldn’t tell if the moisture on the Duke’s forehead was sweat or water from the river, but there was no mistaking the feverish shivers wracking his body or the bright red hue to his cheeks.

  Horror twisted a biting dagger of acid in Aravon’s gut. Wraithfever!

  The Duke’s eyelids opened, sluggish. Eyes gone glassy and fever-bright fixed on Aravon. “A…ra…von?” a whisper, faint and weak, escaped the Duke’s lips.

  “It’s me, Your Grace.” Aravon’s voice cracked, his throat thick. “I’m here.” Kneeling, he set the Duke’s body gently on the earthen floor as close to the fire as he dared.

  “A…ravon.” A little gasp, and the Duke’s eyelids drooped closed once more.

  Aravon glanced over his shoulder. Snarl had run into the cave, his yipping barks echoing loud in the enclosed space. Aravon didn’t know if there were Eirdkilrs somewhere out in the darkness and at that moment, he didn’t care. He had to save the Duke, and there was only one man who could do it.

  Without hesitation, he rose to his feet, spun, and raced the few steps toward the mouth of the cave. “Zaharis!” he shouted into the night. “Zaharis, get over here!”

  Not waiting to see if the Secret Keeper had heard his call, he returned to his place kneeling beside the Duke.

  “What’s the matter?” Skathi asked.

  “Wraithfever.” Aravon clenched his jaw. “He’s burning up. We need to get it under control.”

  At that moment, Zaharis burst into the cave, Colborn hot on his heels and Belthar a few lumbering steps behind. The three of them reacted with the same shocked surprise as Skathi.

  “Wraithfever!” Aravon called to the Secret Keeper. “Tell me you’ve got something for this, Zaharis!”

  Zaharis scrambled to his pack and pawed through its meager contents, a frantic look on his face. He finally drew out a small pouch, tearing at the drawstrings so violently he nearly ripped them. From within the pouch he produced a single gnarled, dried root and whirled on Belthar. “Drop the Bonesets!” he signed.

  Belthar dumped his armload of pure white flowers onto the ground in front of Zaharis and, sparing only a single worried glance at Skathi, frowned down at the Duke. “Will he live?” he rumbled.

  Zaharis had no answer; his hands moved so quickly, crushing the white flowers into the mortar, he couldn’t spare a moment to sign a response. Digging into his pack, he drew out a few of the bright yellow Fire Daisies and added them into his mortar. “Water!” he signed in Colborn’s direction without looking up from his pestle-work.

  Colborn snatched the near-empty waterskin from his belt and, tearing out its stopper, thrust it into Zaharis’ hand. The Secret Keeper drained the meager contents into his stone mortar a few drops at a time, using the pestle to crush the leaves, stems, and white and yellow blossoms into a thick sludge. A bit more water, and he poured the concoction into a small wooden cup he always carried.

  “Make him drink this.” The Secret Keeper held the cup out to Aravon. “It’ll slow the fever, but not by much.”

  Once Aravon took the cup, Zaharis leapt to his feet. “Belthar, get to the river and fill this.” He thrust the waterskin out toward the big man, who took it and disappeared outside in a moment.

  Zaharis frowned down at the Duke. “No lie, Captain, this is bad. The cold water of the river kept the Wraithfever at bay, but he’d have died from the chill soon enough. Without Fetidroot, I can’t even begin to mix up a proper cure. I’m low on supplies, and the best I can hope for is to find a bit of feverfew, some elderflower, and maybe, if the Mistress smiles on us, a bit of Violet Coneflower.”

  “Just do whatever you can!” Desperation burst from Aravon’s chest and rang in his words. His mind raced. He turned to call Snarl—he could send the Enfield to Lord Eidan, have him bring back a dose of Wraithfever cure in his message tube—but paused.

  “How long does he have?” he asked Zaharis.

  The Secret Keeper’s eyes darkened. “If I can find a way to break the fever, he might have a day.”

  Aravon’s gut twisted. Not enough time! Sending Snarl to Lord Eidan would take the better part of half a day, and Lord Eidan’s presence in either Icespire or Camp Marshal meant Snarl would then have to fly to Hightower to collect the cure, then race back to where they now sat. He’d never make it in time.

  But there was someone who could. “We just need to keep him alive until we can get Rangvaldr to him!”

  Zaharis gave a quick nod before turning and sprinting off into the forest. Aravon cradled the Duke’s head in his lap, pulling his mouth open gently to pour a trickle of Zaharis’ concoction between his lips. The Duke, unconscious, seemed too weak even to swallow.

  “Here, let me.” Colborn knelt beside him gently massaged Duke Dyrund’s throat. Long seconds passed before the Duke finally managed to swallow the few drops.

  Come on, Duke Dyrund! Aravon’s heart hammered against his bruised ribs, anguish burning a fiery path down his throat and stomach. Fight, damn it! Just stay alive long enough for us to get Rangvaldr here!

  Rangvaldr’s holy stones had to work. If the Seiomenn had believed they would cure the Fjall stricken by the plague, it meant they could save the Duke’s life.

  He tried again, and this time the Duke managed to swallow on his own. One tiny sip, then another. Barely a few drops at a time, but Aravon didn’t stop until he had emptied the cont
ents of Zaharis’ cup down the Duke’s throat.

  His eyes locked on the Duke’s face. In the glow of their small campfire, the Duke’s fever-bright cheeks contrasted sharply with the near-white pallor of the rest of his skin. He shuddered in Aravon’s arms, his eyelids fluttering open and closed.

  Time slowed to a crawl as Aravon watched, powerless to help the Duke. He gripped the Duke’s shiver-wracked frame as if trying to wring the fever from his body. Yet nothing seemed to happen.

  It’s not working! The effects on Bjarni had been nearly instantaneous, but that had been a proper cure. Not the crude, hastily-mixed remedy comprised of random flowers.

  No! Aravon clung to the Duke’s body and to the faint hope. It’ll work!

  Duke Dyrund was a strong, stubborn man—fiery hells, the fact that he somehow got all the way here from Storbjarg is proof of that! It didn’t matter that Wraithfever had already killed fifteen thousand Fjall, including hundreds of the Hilmir’s warband. If anyone could fight through the illness, it was the Duke.

  Please, Aravon begged silently. He no longer wore the silver Swordsman’s pendant, so he clutched the Duke’s arm tighter instead. Please, don’t let this be the end. Bring him back to me.

  A torrent of emotions washed over him—all the feelings he’d kept bottled up from the moment he first saw the smoke rising over Storbjarg. He’d forced himself to remain focused on the mission, to put the needs of the Princelands and Fehl over his personal concerns for the Duke’s safety. The life of one man, even a man as valuable as the Prince’s personal counselor and envoy, meant little compared to the tidal wave of bloodshed that would engulf Fehl if the Eirdkilrs defeated the Fjall.

  Yet at that moment, he didn’t care what happened beyond the circle of firelight. A fist of iron gripped his heart, squeezing so tightly he felt his chest would burst. His lungs refused to draw breath and his thoughts whirled in a chaotic jumble. He hadn’t felt like this since he sat at his mother’s bedside. Since he held her hand and watched the Bloody Flux consume her soul, wither away her spirit until nothing but a husk of the bright, smiling woman remained. Then the husk had become a corpse, cold and pale, eyes unseeing.

  The loss of his mother had nearly broken him—it had certainly shattered a part of General Traighan’s spirit, left him a broken shell of the man he’d once been. Years had passed before Aravon could bear to remember his mother without tears flowing. Only after Mylena had he been able to visit her grave in Icespire Memorial Gardens. The sight of her name carved into the headstone would have broken him had Mylena not been there to hold his hand. He didn’t know if he could endure this loss, not after so many others.

  The Duke wasn’t just his commanding officer, even his mentor; the man had been more like the father figure he’d needed. Far more a father than the cold, distant General Traighan had ever been. A man without whom life would be a crueler, darker place.

  He clutched the Duke’s forearm tighter and prayed a silent, wordless plea to the Swordsman. Time lost its meaning, and the world seemed to whirl by around Aravon, leaving him alone with the Duke in a bubble suspended in that single moment between life and death. Aravon saw nothing, heard nothing—nothing else mattered but the Duke. All he knew was the beating of his heart, the gentle rise and fall of the Duke’s chest, and the tears burning in his eyes.

  A hand on his shoulder shattered his trance. Aravon blinked, found himself staring into Zaharis’ eyes. When had the Secret Keeper returned? And Belthar, too, with his waterskin full to bulging.

  Zaharis’ fingers moved, but Aravon’s numbed mind refused to grasp the meaning. He looked at the Secret Keeper, unseeing, uncomprehending.

  “Captain.” Colborn’s voice sounded distant, as if he spoke from a mile away, though he stood at Aravon’s side. “You need to let him go.”

  Aravon wanted to protest, to shout that the Duke still lived, that he wasn’t ready to give up. But as he caught sight of Skathi moving her bedroll to make a place beside the fire, he understood the meaning of the Lieutenant’s words. He released his death-grip on the Duke’s arms, letting Colborn and Belthar lift Duke Dyrund from his leaden, numbed hands.

  They’re taking care of him. With effort, Aravon forced himself to rise from his seated position, to move muscles and limbs that had gone numb from remaining motionless for so long. With movement and the return of blood flow came sensation, a thousand pins and needles prickling along Aravon’s spine, arms, and legs. Yet that discomfort pushed back his stupor and his heart seemed to beat once more, his thoughts slowing, coalescing from whirling chaos into something approaching rational thought.

  Zaharis knelt over the Duke and tipped the wooden cup up to his lips. Wisps of steam rose from the thick, dark-green liquid within—had Aravon truly been so focused on the Duke that he hadn’t noticed Zaharis return and set to work heating up whatever he was now using to treat the fever?

  The Secret Keeper emptied the cup into the Duke’s mouth, and for a moment it seemed the world stood still. Silence hung thick, tense in the cave. No one breathed, no one moved. All eyes fixed on the Duke, waiting, hoping.

  A sound shattered the silence: a ragged, faint inhalation of air. The Duke’s chest expanded, and the burning red faded from his cheeks.

  Aravon nearly wept with relief. He scrambled to a position kneeling in the dirt beside the Duke, a rush of emotions swelling within his chest as the color returned to the Duke’s pale skin, the shivers stopped, and his eyelids ceased fluttering. The Duke breathed easier, rested comfortably.

  Aravon’s eyes snapped up to Zaharis’ face. “Thank you!” The lump in his throat turned his words hoarse. He wanted to throw his arms around the man, to let the tears of joy flow free. He hadn’t felt this happy or relieved in what felt like forever.

  Zaharis nodded, but his expression was grim. “I got lucky finding Violet Coneflower back there. Mixed with these Fire Daisies and a bit of white willow bark, it’ll slow the fever, stop it from overheating his body and damaging his brain. He’s got a chance of holding on a little longer. Hopefully long enough until we can get him to Rangvaldr.”

  Mention of the Seiomenn snapped Aravon’s mind back to reality. The numbness faded and gave way to the memories of their dire situation, the impending battle, and the looming threat of the Eirdkilrs. His worries returned and with them, a burden of guilt.

  He’d been so consumed by his concern for the Duke, the overwhelming grief and hopelessness, that he’d nearly lost himself. In that moment, he had a better understanding of his father. Of how his father had become the man Aravon remembered.

  He shot a glance at Colborn. “How long?”

  The Lieutenant cocked an eyebrow.

  “How long was I…” Aravon hesitated, grimacing. “…out of it?”

  “Hour. Maybe a little more.”

  Keeper’s teeth! Aravon’s jaw clenched. He could easily have drowned within that chasm of emotions. He’d forgotten everything, everyone. At any other time, it could have gotten him killed. Him, or the soldiers under his command.

  He stared at his four companions. Guilt and shame brought a flush of heat to his cheeks. “I-I’m sor—”

  “Not needed, Captain.” Skathi cut him off with a shake of her head. “We know how much the Duke means to you. We’ve got your back.”

  Aravon’s gaze went to Belthar, and the big man nodded. Colborn and Zaharis likewise. There was no condemnation, no recrimination in their eyes. Only understanding, compassion. Each of them had suffered their own losses, felt crushed by the same burdens of sorrow that weighed on him. That shared pain was what bound them together.

  Gratitude surged within his chest. “Thank you,” he choked out. He looked at each in turn, at the reassurance on their faces. “Truly.”

  Belthar grinned. “We’re your faceless company, Captain. Your Grim Reavers. No matter what.”

  Aravon smiled at the name, given them by the men of Rivergate. It felt wonderful to know they cared for him as much as he cared for them. That friendship, tha
t bond of brotherhood, that was what made them strong as a team. A bond no enemy could shatter.

  A weak moan escaped the Duke’s lips, and his eyelids fluttered open once more. “A-Aravon?”

  Aravon whirled toward the Duke. “I’m here, Your Grace.” He scooped up the Duke’s hand; the heat rolling off his skin had diminished, though not gone altogether. “I’m here.”

  The Duke blinked, struggled to focus on Aravon’s face. Slowly, lucidity returned to his eyes as the flush of fever drained from his cheeks. “Where...?” He swallowed, grimacing. “Water!” he croaked.

  Before Aravon could ask, Skathi thrust her waterskin toward him with a wince at the pain but no protest. Aravon nodded thanks and, unstoppering the skin, tilted it up to pour a trickle of water into the Duke’s mouth. Duke Dyrund swallowed, coughed, and swallowed again. When Aravon tried to give him more, the Duke gave a weak shake of his head.

  “Just…had to wash out…the taste…of Zaharis’ hogwash.”

  The Secret Keeper snorted. “Fine way to say thank you, Your Grace.”

  Aravon laughed. The Duke’s joke was a clear sign he felt better, at least for now. Zaharis’ remedy had bought them a day—hopefully time enough to return with Rangvaldr and his holy stones.

  He finally voiced the question he’d been dying to ask since he first found the Duke lying on the riverbed. “How are you here? How did you get out of Storbjarg?”

  “Asleif,” the Duke croaked. “Underground tunnel…from the Hilmir’s longhouse.”

  Relief flooded Aravon. The Hilmir had been right to place trust in his wife’s capabilities.

  “The Hilmir’s wife…hid us...with her daughter.” The Duke gasped for breath as he struggled to sit upright. The fever had left him weak, though his voice grew stronger with every breath. “When the time…came to flee…I helped carry Branda.”

  Memories of his last conversation with Eirik Throrsson flashed through Aravon’s mind. The Hilmir’s guilt at not giving his daughter the cure for Wraithfever—fever that had now spread to the Duke.