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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon paid the legends little heed. To him, it mattered only as a defensive position—as ideal a location as the Hilmir could have chosen. Dense marshlands and bogs guarded the Hilmir’s eastern flank, while the Hardrfoss River provided defense to his west. The summit of the hill was close to a hundred yards wide, and the Fjall had more than enough men to hold it.

  And Throrsson hadn’t wasted a moment of the last two days. Heavy wooden barricades had been built around the bases of the two king oak trees, impassable spike-topped barriers intended to funnel the enemy toward three sections of the hilltop. The openings in the constructions were barely five yards across, and in those gaps stood the Fjall shield wall. A solid, unbroken line of fur-and-steel-clad warriors with gleaming steel helmets, bristling weapons, and shields displaying the black-on-red Reafan of the Hilmir. Front and center, at the head of his men, stood Throrsson himself, resplendent in chain mail that seemed to shimmer in the daylight.

  To reach him, the Eirdkilrs would have to charge straight up two hundred yards of steep, muddy slope. The altitude also limited the effectiveness of the Eirdkilr archers. And, if the Hilmir was half the tactician Aravon believed, he would have used every minute of the last two days planning for the inevitable Eirdkilr charge.

  The enemy had pushed him into a corner, and now the Hilmir set his back against a wall and bared his fangs at the Blodsvarri’s army.

  As Aravon drew abreast of the field’s southern edge, he caught sight of the ever-growing ranks of Eirdkilrs forming their own wall at the base of Hangman’s Hill. Thousands of them, huge figures in shaggy icebear pelts, faces stained dark blue. Weapons far too large for any Fehlan or Princelander to wield, clutched in hands that could crush skulls and tear out throats.

  Yet the towering barbarians made no move to attack. They had no need to hurry—their enemy was within their grasp, with no way of escape. Though the Fjall held the high ground, they had nowhere to retreat. The Hardrfoss River circled northward, curling around behind Hangman’s Hill and cutting off any avenue of escape. Once the Eirdkilrs closed with Hilmir’s men, there would be no way out. Death or victory—given the number of Eirdkilrs arrayed at the base of the hill, the latter was next to impossible.

  Their plan to lure the Blood Queen to battle here had paid off. Now, the Eirdkilrs would have to assault the Fjall, dug into a position of advantage. All their efforts over the last few days—whittling down the Eirdkilr forces in bite-sized chunks and preparing for this fight—was just the preamble. Neither the Hilmir nor Aravon had doubted it would come to battle. Eirdkilr and Fjall locked shield wall to shield wall. The outcome rested on the courage, skill, and determination of the Fjall warband.

  Not if Grimar springs his trap!

  Aravon reined in his horse just within the cover of trees and scanned the ranks of Fjall warriors, desperately searching for the treacherous Fjall warrior. Behind their locked shields, with bright steel helms covering their faces, Aravon had no way of telling Grimar and his warriors apart from the rest of the warband. The treacherous Grimar could be standing at Throrsson’s side, ready to turn on his Hilmir at a crucial moment in battle.

  “Shite!” Colborn’s curse echoed from beside Aravon. The Lieutenant had pulled up and circled back toward him. “What’s the plan, Captain?”

  Aravon forced himself not to look at the enemy preparing to attack, but instead study the terrain. Tension knotted his shoulders as his eyes followed the land northward. The western bank of the Hardrfoss River rose as steeply as Hangman’s Hill, but the river was too broad to ford anywhere but the shallow crossing—the crossing now guarded by more than six hundred Eirdkilrs.

  Even if they followed the river’s course, they wouldn’t find a way across. The Hardrfoss circled in a tight horseshoe bend toward the northeast of Hangman’s Hill, then cut sharply northward in the direction of Cold Lake and Saerheim.

  Yet something nagged in the back of Aravon’s mind. A memory from Lectern Harald’s story of the battle between the Fjall, Deid, and Legionnaires.

  He whirled to Colborn. “You remember the Battle of Hangman’s Hill, yeah?”

  Colborn nodded, eyes narrowing behind his mask.

  “Is it just me, or was there mention of a bridge in that story?”

  “Of course!” Colborn’s eyes widened and he sucked in a breath. “A narrow footbridge, used by pilgrims come to visit the site of the Giantsbane’s victory!”

  “That’s the one.” Aravon’s mind raced. “The Legion used it to reinforce the Deid’s position on the hilltop—”

  “—sending three full companies across, until….” Colborn’s excitement faded. “Shite!”

  Then Aravon remembered why he hadn’t bothered to include that bridge in his battle plan: it had crumbled beneath the weight of the Legionnaires. Half a Legion company had died in that collapse, drowned in their armor, dashed against the rocks, or swept downstream by the current.

  Keeper’s teeth! There was no bridge. In the aftermath of the battle, the Fjall and Deid had both claimed the land as their own, which meant neither had rebuilt the crossing. Nothing remained but the weathered, rotted wooden supports that had given way and nearly lost the battle.

  Aravon’s momentary hopes shattered. With the Eirdkilrs holding the ford and no way to get across the Hardrfoss, he’d never get to the Hilmir in time to warn him of Grimar’s treachery.

  Despair loomed heavy in his mind, a weight that threatened to drag him down. He gritted his teeth and pushed back against the burden. The setback couldn’t stop him from reaching Throrsson before the battle was lost.

  “Belthar, with me!” Aravon ordered. “Colborn, head south along the Hardrfoss, see if you can find us any kind of way across.” He turned his horse’s head northward.

  “Where are you going?” Colborn called after him.

  “To see about that bridge!” Memories of Rivergate flashed through Aravon’s mind. There, too, the bridge had been destroyed, but they’d built a way across. “If I’m not back in a quarter-hour, that means I’ve found a way.” It was a faint hope, but anything was better than nothing.

  “Aye, Captain!” Colborn’s voice echoed through the trees behind him.

  Aravon raced northward, keeping to the tree cover to conceal his position from the Eirdkilrs to the east. He bent low over his horse’s neck, both to avoid the branches whipping past and to remain balanced. Every chance he got, he risked casting glances at Hangman’s Hill.

  The Eirdkilrs hadn’t charged. Yet. Their battle cries filled the morning air, piercing howls that rang off the steep slopes of the hill. The Fjall remained silent, defiant, unmoving. Aravon didn’t need to see their faces to know that every man on that hilltop was feeling the nerves before battle. Jaws clenching, fists tightening around weapons, hearts hammering in Fjall chests. Even the bravest warriors suffered that instinctive fear in the minutes before the enemy charge, the clash of weapons and shields.

  Then the Eirdkilrs fell silent. So suddenly, as if all sound had been sucked out of the world, leaving only a void of utter stillness. Even the pounding of the horses’ hooves seemed to grow quieter in that lull.

  Aravon risked a glance eastward in time to see a single figure break free of the pack. Long, dark hair hung in myriad braids around the Blodsvarri’s blue-tattooed, blood-crusted face. Spear in hand, a snarl on her lips, the Blood Queen marched a few feet up the hill. Her voice rang out in the distance—too far for Aravon to hear what she said, but he had little doubt as to her message. Insults to the Fjall, threats of death and torture, promises of the suffering she’d heap on the families of every man who stood in that shield wall.

  The Blood Queen’s snarling shouts continued for long minutes, her guttural Eirdkilr words ringing out with a burning ferocity that sent an instinctive shiver down Aravon’s spine. A part of his mind, a part deep down within him, almost gave in to the belief that she would win. Her forces not only outnumbered the Fjall two to one, but she had the traitor hiding in Throrsson’s ranks. Two hundred and fif
ty traitors.

  And Aravon could do nothing to warn the Hilmir of the danger.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Gritting his teeth, Aravon gripped the reins tighter and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, pushing the charger to a gallop. His racing path led north and east, circling around behind Banamadrhaed. As he drew abreast of the hill’s summit, he got a clear view of the Hilmir’s forces arrayed behind the barricades. The Fjall stood in three spearhead formations, the sharp tips thrust through the openings in the bulwarks and growing wider until they joined into one solid, unbroken line of warriors. A strong, well-anchored position—as long as they held the hilltop.

  Hope bloomed radiant as Aravon caught sight of the bridge on the hill’s northern slope. It had been destroyed in the Battle of Hangman’s Hill, but someone had rebuilt it. The construction was as crude as the Eirdkilrs’ repair of the Fornbryggja, little more than logs lashed together with rope. It was barely wide enough for two men to cross abreast. Yet its presence meant everything for the battle ahead.

  Throrsson, you bloody genius!

  Aravon’s eyes snapped upward toward the Hilmir’s ranks, and he counted quickly. Something about the shield wall had struck him as off, and now he knew what it was.

  There are two hundred Fjall missing!

  The Hilmir had taken seven hundred and fifty men to prepare the battle at Hangman’s Hill. Bjarni had lost a hundred-twenty of his original eight hundred men in the last two days of ambushes and fighting retreat. With Grimar’s two hundred and fifty to swell the Hilmir’s ranks, the Fjall warband formed up on the hill’s summit ought to number close to eighteen hundred. Yet, Aravon estimated fewer than sixteen hundred stood in the Fjall shield wall.

  So where the hell are those other warriors?

  As Aravon approached the crudely-repaired bridge, he caught sight of bootprints leading off north and west into the sparse forests. His mind raced.

  If the Hilmir had sent two hundred of his warriors to the west, it meant he planned to take advantage of the crossing southwest of Hangman’s Hill—the same one now held by the Eirdkilrs. Such a small force would inflict few casualties on a solid wall of enemies, but once the Blood Queen had committed her men to the charge…

  Hit them from the back hard, take advantage of their eyes locked on the hill.

  But the genius wasn’t in just the flanking attack. With the bridge restored, Throrsson had an avenue of retreat. He’d pay a heavy toll in Fjall blood if he yielded the hill, but Aravon knew the Hilmir well enough by now to know he’d only do it in extremis.

  Given what they’re facing, that may be all too soon!

  As if on cue, the Eirdkilrs took up the howling war cries again. The Fjall responded now. Defiant shouts, cries of “For Striith!”, and the deafening clash of swords and axes on steel-rimmed shields. A cacophony of fury and contempt, a challenge to the enemy arrayed against them. Daring them to charge and taste the full force of the warband’s might.

  The tumult set acid churning through Aravon’s stomach. He had to hurry to reach the Hilmir before—

  The Eirdkilrs’ howls rose in volume and, with a shrieking cry from the Blodsvarri, the giant barbarians charged. A thundering tide of warriors that set the ground trembling as they lumbered up the hill toward the Fjall position.

  Damn it!

  Then the land west of the Hardrfoss dipped, and the rising ridge of Hangman’s Hill hid the charging enemies from view. But not their cries, those eerie, bestial howls that rolled over the warriors clustered among the hilltop and rang around the empty land around Aravon.

  Come on!

  Aravon raced the last two hundred yards toward the repaired bridge and drew his horse to a skidding, panting halt. He leapt from the saddle before his charger came to a full stop and spun toward the two figures that had followed him.

  “Belthar!” he shouted. “Get back to Colborn and tell him the Fjall are going to hit the Eirdkilrs at the southwestern crossing. The two of you, find them and lend a hand.”

  “You can’t go alone, Captain!” Belthar protested. “Not with Grimar waiting to strike.“

  Aravon opened his mouth to snap a retort, to order Belthar to obey. Yet, the words died on his lips unformed. The big man was right. Those two hundred Fjall warriors were an arrow in the Hilmir’s strategic quiver, but their rear attack wouldn’t matter if the main Fjall force crumbled.

  “Go!” Aravon thrust a finger back the way they’d come. “Get to Colborn, tell him the plan, then get across and join me on the hill! We’re going to do our damnedest to keep the Hilmir alive.”

  “Yes, sir!” Belthar sawed savagely at his horse’s reins, turning the beast’s head back the way they’d come. He dug his huge heels into the charger’s ribs and set off at a gallop in the direction of where they’d left Colborn.

  That left Snarl. The Enfield had dropped out of the sky and landed on the grassy hill beside him, amber eyes gleaming in the bright morning light.

  “Go!” Aravon shouted the command word and thrust a finger at the tree cover. “Hide!”

  Snarl gave a little whine and padded closer to Aravon.

  “No.” Aravon shook his head. “You can’t fight, not here.”

  The Enfield had saved Noll and Rangvaldr in the battle at Rivergate, but here, in broad daylight, he’d be too visible and a target for Eirdkilr arrows. Aravon wasn’t willing to risk Snarl’s life.

  The bright yellow of Snarl’s eyes darkened and the Enfield sat on its haunches, staring up at Aravon and filling the air with its whining barks.

  Aravon knelt beside Snarl. “Go,” he whispered. “Stay safe, Snarl!”

  Snarl nuzzled against him, his fur soft on Aravon’s neck, his body warm and comforting. His trust filled Aravon with confidence and hope—they could do this!

  He gave the Enfield a gentle push. “Go!” he shouted the command word. “Hide!”

  Snarl obeyed this time, turning and racing toward the trees a hundred yards away. Aravon had little doubt the Enfield would watch the battle, watch over him, but as long as Snarl was safe, he could focus on doing what needed to be done.

  Whirling, he raced the few steps toward the bridge and leapt onto the rope-bound logs that stretched across the wooden supports. The logs groaned and shifted beneath his boots, but the Hilmir’s construction held.

  The howling of the Eirdkilrs echoed loud enough for Aravon to hear clearly, even with the hill between them—clear enough that he could hear the cries change, from glee at finding their enemy trapped to ringing notes of pain and surprise.

  A defiant grin split Aravon’s face. Give them hell, Throrsson!

  The hastily rebuilt bridge was no architectural masterpiece, but it would suffice if the Hilmir had cause to use it. More than that, it gave Aravon a way across—and with it, hope for the battle. Aravon just had to reach Throrsson before it was too late.

  The Eirdkilrs’ howls of agony redoubled as Aravon leapt off the bridge onto the reverse slope of Hangman’s Hill. He dashed the twenty yards up the steep incline and crested the sharp ridge.

  Just in time to see hundreds of Eirdkilrs stumble and fall. The barbarians’ cries of agony rent the air as they raced across a stretch of hillside strewn with jagged rocks. Similar to Legion-made caltrops, the debris slowed the enemy charge. Eirdkilrs staggered or collapsed, ankles snapped, and the rocks sliced the Eirdkilr boots to ribbons. The thundering charge slowed as the enemy stumbled and fell.

  Slowed, but didn’t stop. With no archers or darts to throw, the Fjall could do nothing to take advantage of the Eirdkilrs’ stalled momentum. The jagged rocks would inflict a handful of casualties at best, force the Eirdkilrs to pick their way across the uneven terrain, but the Hilmir had no way to bite back.

  The Eirdkilrs, however, had archers aplenty. The thousand warriors surrounding the Blodsvarri raised their massive longbows, drew, and loosed. Hundreds of black-shafted arrows darkened the brightening southern sky, filling the air with a terrible hissing. Missiles driven by the po
werful Eirdkilr longbows arced high, slowed, and plunged toward the Fjall shield wall.

  “Shields!” came the Hilmir’s roar. In a single smooth motion, the wall of red-and-black-painted shields swiveled upward, locking together to form a carapace as solid as a tortoise’s shell—a Fjall tactic the Legion of Heroes had imitated when conquering Fehl centuries earlier.

  Aravon spared the arrows a single glance—they’d fall short, he knew. The Eirdkilrs had underestimated the steep angle of the hill and the distance.

  Yet as he raced toward the rearmost ranks of the shield wall, he knew the Fjall wouldn’t get lucky with the second volley. Only the specially-trained Agrotorae exceeded the skill of Eirdkilr archers.

  “Hilmir!” Aravon shouted in Fehlan. His voice was drowned beneath a hailstorm of steel and stone-tipped arrows thumping into the grassy hillside just beyond the Fjall’s front ranks.

  Before he could shout again, the second wave of missiles rained down around him. The Eirdkilr archers had found their range.

  Aravon threw himself under cover of the Fjall’s upraised shields. Heavy Eirdkilr arrows thumped into shields made of hide-reinforced wooden planks banded with steel. Screams echoed along the Fjall lines as arrows slipped through tiny gaps, punched into chain mail or sliced exposed flesh. Pain flared through Aravon’s neck as one slammed into his aventail. The arrow that would have plunged into his throat bounced off the alchemically-treated leather, but not without impact. Sharp, stabbing twinges radiated down his neck and into his left shoulder.

  The rain of arrows had barely slowed before Aravon risked moving again. He darted out from beneath the Fjall shields and raced along the rear of the shield wall toward Throrsson’s position at the center of the line.

  “Hilmir!” he shouted, in a vain hope Throrsson could hear him over the clattering of arrows and the Eirdkilr howls.

  Legion Commanders directed the battle from the rear, trusting their Captains, Lieutenants, and Sergeants to lead the individual squads and platoons that made up their companies and battalions. But a Fehlan shield wall was a beast of a very different nature. Instead of fighting in individual, independent companies, Fjall warriors formed a single, solid line that stretched across the hilltop. The leader of the warband always fought at the front and center of the battle line, his trusted seconds to his right and left, flanked by the most skilled and heavily-armored of his warriors.