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

by Andy Peloquin

  That position made it near-impossible for Aravon to reach him with warning of Grimar’s treachery.

  A fourth volley of arrows forced Aravon to take cover once more. He gritted his teeth in frustration as he waited for the rain of missiles to slow. The thunderous clanking and banging of arrows striking shields, armor, and helmets deafened him, made it difficult to think clearly. Adrenaline surged in his veins, narrowing his field of vision to the panting, grunting warriors around him, the stink of blood, the metallic taste in his parched throat.

  Aravon blinked hard, pushing back the fog of battle. He risked a glance out from beneath the shield cover and gauged the distance to Throrsson’s position. The bridge stood at the northeastern corner of Hangman’s Hill, fully fifty yards from the center of the Fjall line. He’d crossed barely half that distance, and at the rate the Eirdkilrs kept firing, it’d take him at least a half minute to cover the rest. Far too long.

  A lot could happen in thirty seconds.

  Screw it! Gritting his teeth, Aravon abandoned the protective carapace of shields and raced along the rear of the line. Arrows rained down around him, thumping into the ground, clanging off shields and helmets, or thudding into flesh. Fjall warriors shrieked, grunted, or cried beneath the torrent of missiles. One man immediately in front of Aravon toppled backward, a black-fletched shaft protruding from his throat. Blood gushed from his neck and stained the grass dark crimson.

  Aravon had an instant to react. No time to dodge, so he leapt over the slumping body. Pain raced up his left shoulder as an Eirdkilr arrow clipped his pauldron. The impact spun him half around and he hit the ground hard, staggered, thrown off-balance. A clod of dirt gave way underfoot and he went down. Soft grass slammed into his right side, shoulder, and face, setting his head spinning. For a moment, the world whirled wildly around Aravon, and pain raced through his neck and shoulders.

  With effort, he levered himself upright and struggled to rise. His eyes flew wide as he saw the arrow embedded in the ground a hand’s breadth from where he’d lain. Pushing back the instinctive surge of fear at his near-death, he rose to his feet and hurried onward.

  Yet as he placed his weight on his right foot, a sharp twinge of pain raced up and down his leg. His ankle had been twisted, slowing him down. The throbbing in his shoulders and neck spread up to his head, and pounding that settled in his skull. Aravon gritted his teeth and forced himself to hobble onward, down the line, toward the Hilmir.

  I’ve got to get there in time to warn him!

  The Eirdkilrs’ howling war cries redoubled, the piercing shrieks adding to his splitting headache. Through a gap in the upraised shields, Aravon caught sight of the huge fur-clad figures resuming their charge up the hill. A murderous tide of shaggy furs, filthy leather and gleaming mail, blue-stained faces, hatred blazing in their eyes.

  Suddenly, the foremost ranks of Eirdkilrs seemed to drop out of sight. Hundreds fell from view, as if swept over the edge of a waterfall. Muffled screams of pain echoed from where they had been a heartbeat earlier.

  “Enjoy the taste of those spikes, you bastards!” one of the nearby Fjall warriors roared at the enemy.

  Pain or not, Aravon couldn’t help a fierce smile. Well done, Hilmir! Spike pits were primitive, the sort of hunting traps used to snare prey, but highly effective. They required far more time and effort to build than the Legion cared to invest—far better to build earthen mounds to slow an Eirdkilr charge long enough to rain arrows down on them or unleash a swarm of ballista bolts. But without missile weapons, the Hilmir had been forced to use the terrain against his enemy. No supplies were needed to dig pits, and the forest below offered an abundance of wood to use for spikes.

  Slowly, the pain in Aravon’s ankle faded and he picked up speed. Thirty yards closed to twenty, then fifteen, ten, and five. Hope surged within his chest as he caught sight of a familiar broad-shouldered, black fur-clad figure at the front of the Fjall ranks.

  “Hilmir!” Aravon waded into the densely-packed Fjall, shoving his way through the press of men. The rearmost of the eight ranks were formed more loosely, but he couldn’t get past the fifth rank. The warriors standing shoulder to shoulder, pressed against each other in their determination to hold the opening in the barricade. His attempts to push through were met with snarls, curses, and strong arms that shoved him backward.

  Desperate, Aravon raised his voice as loud as he could. “Hilmir!”

  Throrsson never turned. At the head of his warriors, flanked by his son and Sigbrand, with his eyes locked on the enemy, the Hilmir would be seeing nothing but the battle ahead, the Eirdkilrs coming for his blood. That unbreakable focus, the sharpness of mind and clarity of thought, was a warrior’s greatest blessing and most dire curse. Time slowed in combat, the world narrowing until all that was the enemy ahead and the solid feel of weapons in one’s hands.

  Damn it! Aravon couldn’t let himself be drawn into the battle focus—the strength of the warriors at his side, the hammering of his heart, the cries and shouts of the warriors in the shield wall, the smell of blood in the air. He had to stay back, keep an eye on the big picture.

  At that moment, that meant warning the Hilmir. He could keep trying to force his way through to the Hilmir’s side, but without a shield, he’d only weaken the defensive line. Without hesitation, he turned and pulled back, shouldering his way out of the tightly-packed ranks of Fjall warriors. Behind the lines, free to move once more, he could plan his next move.

  The spike pits had slowed the Eirdkilr advance and bought the Hilmir a few seconds. The enemy archers kept up a steady stream of fire, but now Aravon realized that it wasn’t just the Fjall shields keeping the arrows at bay. Throrsson’s wooden barriers sheltered his warriors from the Eirdkilr fury. The Blood Queen’s archers couldn’t shoot directly at the Fjall shield wall, but had to try for high-arching plunging fire. By the time the arrows slammed into the upraised shields, their energy had been all but expended.

  Aravon spent those precious seconds deciding his next move. Throrsson was too lost in the heat of battle to be aware of Aravon. That meant Aravon would have to deal with the threat of Grimar himself.

  He scanned the ranks of Fjall warriors, and breathed a sigh of relief. By the Swordsman’s mercy, the traitor wasn’t within striking range of the Hilmir. There existed a chance he’d planted one of his warriors in close proximity to Throrsson, but if Aravon could find and eliminate Grimar, he could prevent the man from giving his men whatever order the Blood Queen expected them to carry out.

  He risked a glance downhill, and his gut tightened as he caught sight of the enemy. The Eirdkilrs had lost scores to the spike pits, but those behind the front ranks had no trouble skirting the traps. Their momentum had slowed for less than a minute. Now their furious howls split the air once more as the foremost warriors raced up the steep incline.

  “Now!” Throrsson roared.

  The Fjall warriors behind the barricades lowered their shields and, bending forward, lifted heavy poles from the ground. Poles they set against the topmost logs on their wooden wall. Dozens of Fehlans threw their weight to the task, roaring with the effort. Slowly, the logs toppled off the barricades, and loud thumps echoed across the battlefield. A slow rumbling sound filled the air as the logs rolled down the hill.

  Straight toward the Eirdkilrs picking their way between the spike pits.

  Yes!

  Hope surged within Aravon as the huge logs rolled into the tightly-packed ranks of enemies. Wood slammed into the Eirdkilrs with bone-shattering force, felling them by the dozens. Some were crushed beneath the weight of the rolling logs, while others were hurled backward into the spike pits.

  Yet too few. Far, far too few. By the time the logs rolled through the ranks of Eirdkilrs, casualties numbered no more than a hundred and fifty. That left close to three thousand left to face the sixteen hundred arrayed beside the Hilmir. A few traps and snares wouldn’t stop the Eirdkilrs.

  The ululating war cries split the air as the massiv
e figures charged up the hill. The ground trembled beneath the force of their pounding feet. Like a tidal wave of hideous flesh, bone, and filthy fur, they came on. Slowed by the steep incline, yet inexorable in their advance.

  With effort, Aravon tore his eyes away from the charging Eirdkilrs and scanned the ranks of Fjall warriors. He couldn’t hope to recognize the warriors from Storbjarg, but he should have a chance of picking out Grimar’s blond hair and twin-braided beard from the Fjall ranks.

  Come on!

  Tension thickened the air as the Eirdkilrs’ howls grew louder, the rumbling of their feet echoing like thunder in Aravon’s ear. His heart hammered in his chest, his mouth gone dry, his palms sweaty. Instincts shrieked at him to wheel, to face the charging enemy, and it took every shred of effort to keep his eyes focused on the ranks of Fjall. To search for Grimar.

  “Spears!” Throrsson’s roar echoed along the shield wall.

  This time it was the rearmost warriors that reacted. Stooping, they retrieved bundles of spears Aravon hadn’t noticed between the thick press of men. Little more than long wooden shafts with sharp, fire-hardened tips, yet there were hundreds of them.

  “For the Hilmir!” The Fjall raised their voices in defiance and hurled their spears. With the enemy less than a few yards away, accuracy meant little. The crude weapons leapt through the air and slammed into the charging Eirdkilrs. Blood sprayed and barbarians screamed as sharpened wood punched through leather, armor, and flesh. Flailing, falling Eirdkilrs brought down their comrades or simply fell where they stood, gurgling, coughing, their shrieks and howls cut off in an horrible instant.

  A second wave of spears flew, and more Eirdkilrs fell. More of the Eirdkilrs raced up the hill, only to find themselves faced with a third volley, this one far less cohesive. The rate of thrown spears slacked off as the Fjall’s arms tired. All too soon, the last of the spears had been cast, and the Eirdkilrs’ charge continued unabated.

  Aravon’s gut tightened as he scanned the Fjall ranks. Where the bloody hell is he? His eyes roved the steel helmets, the fur cloaks, the long braids of red, black, blond, and brown hair hung thick with beads, bones, metal, and trinkets. Fjall that looked like every other Fjall around them. Warriors clad for battle, nearly impossible to distinguish from the rest.

  Then his eyes fell on the broad-shouldered, blond-haired man with two long braids hanging down his back, and hope blossomed in his chest.

  There!

  Grimar stood twenty yards to Aravon’s right, at the center of what would be the Hilmir’s eastern flank. He held the tip of the spear formation, holding the opening in the barricades against the charging enemy.

  Aravon raced toward the man, mind racing. He had no idea how to stop Grimar—had no idea what the man intended—and there was little hope of reaching him at the front ranks of his warriors. But he had to figure out what to do before—

  The Blood Queen and her traitor sprang the trap.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  There was no warning, no signal to strike. Grimar simply turned and hacked down the warrior on his left. A heartbeat later, a dozen more swords and axes flashed in the shield wall holding the right flank. Blood misted in the air, stained heavy furs, spilled from slashed throats and shattered skulls. Men screamed and died, never realizing that their own comrades killed them. The warriors beside them turned stunned eyes on the traitors. Only to be cut down in the next instant.

  Aravon never slowed in his frantic sprint, yet moved too slow to stop the traitor.

  The entire right flank of Fjall warriors dissolved into a chaotic, swirling mess of bodies. The shield wall collapsed as men hacked, stabbed, and chopped at each other. Men that had been brothers and comrades before now slew each other. Fjall blood and bile thickened the ground, churned to mud beneath heavy booted feet. Men crushed up against each other, pressed too tight to do more than punch and bite, sought to bring down the enemies within their own ranks.

  All up and down the line of warriors, the traitors turned on their comrades. Their strikes had no cohesion, but their attacks rippled outward, all along the length of the Hilmir’s battle line. Warriors died beneath the axes, swords, and daggers of men they trusted to guard their backs. Shrieking, screaming, weeping, choking on their own blood, or dying without a sound. Packed so tightly together, there was no way for the Fjall traitors to swing freely.

  Yet the true aim of the attack wasn’t casualties, but disarray.

  No! Acid surged in Aravon’s throat as the Fjall shield wall writhed and squirmed beneath the assault from within. Two hundred and fifty warriors spread out among the entire hundred-yard line inflicted terrible damage. Worse, chaos rippled through the ranks of the Fjall. Fehlan turned against Fehlan, traitor and loyal Fjall warrior alike. Warriors fighting for their lives with no way of knowing who was friend or foe. Men cutting down all around them for fear of being cut down themselves.

  That was when the Eirdkilr charge hit the line.

  The giant barbarians crashed into the disordered Fjall, an inexorable tide of rage, fur, and steel. Howling, shrieking, screaming “Death to the traitors!”. Steel glinted in the daylight and fury burned in eyes set in blue-stained faces. Straight toward the three tips of the triangular formations the Hilmir had waiting for them.

  Or would have had waiting, if not for Grimar’s treachery. The Fjall traitor had vacated his place at the tip of the spear formation on the Hilmir’s right flank. As he struck, the treacherous warriors nearest him took a heavy toll on their comrades. When the howling mass of Eirdkilrs struck, the once-solid shield wall had disintegrated into swirling knots of embattled Fjall. Too focused on each other to stand against the oncoming enemy.

  The shield wall crumbled before the Eirdkilrs’ fury. Fjall warriors were thrown back by their comrades, stumbled over Fehlan corpses, or died beneath Eirdkilr axes, spears, and clubs. Crimson sprayed, bone cracked, wooden shields were turned to splinters, steel skullcaps groaned beneath dozens of impacts. The Fjall fell where they stood, trampled beneath Eirdkilr boots, crushed by clubs, hewn down by axes, impaled on sharp spears. Screaming, crying, shouting defiance and terror at friend and foe alike. The stench of loosening bowels, reeking urine, vomit, and blood hung like a pall over the swirling, chaotic knots of men.

  Aravon’s heart sank as the Fjall line buckled, sagged, and gave way. It didn’t matter that the Eirdkilrs charged in a loose-packed mass rather than an organized formation—the Fjall’s disarray was so widespread, Grimar’s betrayal so complete, that the Fehlans couldn’t hope to stand. The front ranks of Fjall died or were hurled backward, and the men behind them grunted, groaned, and roared as the Eirdkilrs punched deep into the disorganized third and fourth. All the while, Fjall traitors slaughtered their comrades, and warriors loyal to the Hilmir fell by the dozens.

  The rearmost warriors pressed forward, only to be hurled backward by the giant barbarians. Axes flying, clubs swinging, the Eirdkilrs waded into the right flank. The entire eastern section of the Fjall’s line descended into a chaotic orgy of carnage, agony, and death. Cohesion shattered, gaps in the ranks growing wider, the Fjall tried in vain to stem the tide of enemies.

  Tried and failed. Paid with their blood, and still they could not push back the Eirdkilrs. Time slowed to a crawl as the seventh and eighth ranks splintered into knots of battling warriors, too occupied killing each other to pay attention to the Eirdkilrs.

  They would break at any second, and Grimar’s treachery would be the undoing of the Fjall warband.

  With a roar of “For Striith!”, Aravon launched himself at the nearest traitor. Sharp Odarian steel punched into the man’s spine a heartbeat before he cut down another comrade. Blood sprayed as Aravon tore the spearhead free and brought it spinning around in a vicious slash that tore open another’s throat.

  But even as he cut down a third, another Fjall warrior struck at him. One of the Hilmir’s loyal warriors. Aravon barely managed to deflect the slashing sword stroke, turning it aside before it punched into his ches
t. He drove the iron-shod butt of his spear into the man’s chest. Hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs but not shatter bone. When the Fjall slumped to his knees, gasping, Aravon leapt around the man and raced toward the shattered right flank.

  He searched in vain for Grimar. The traitorous Fjall had abandoned his place at the tip of the spear formation, and now Eirdkilrs drove deep into the opening. Without a cohesive shield wall to face them, the Fjall had little hope against their larger, stronger, fiercer cousins.

  Aravon was about to throw himself into the chaotic battle line when something caught his eye. A warrior with twin blond braids and bloodstained sword had climbed onto the mound of earth supporting the barricade and scrambled east. Grimar’s eyes were locked on the Hilmir, a snarl twisting his face.

  No, Aravon realized, not the Hilmir. The traitor’s sword would strike down the warrior on the Hilmir’s right. Bjarni.

  In the space between heartbeats, Aravon considered and discarded a dozen options, until only one remained. A desperate, foolhardy choice that could get him killed. He acted without hesitation. Reversing his grip on his spear, he brought it up over his head. Pain flared in his shoulder, neck, and bruised chest as his arm stretched back, but he ignored it and hurled his spear with every shred of strength and fury burning through him.

  The spear flew true. The long, sharp blade punched through the side of Grimar’s head, just beneath the rim of his helmet, and hurled the man into the barricade. Odarian steel buried deep into wooden logs, pinning the traitorous Fjall to the wall, like a butterfly mounted on display. Blood fountained from the tear in the massive vein in his neck, but the spear’s tip severed Grimar’s spine. He hung limp, twitching and gasping, as he bled to death.