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

by Andy Peloquin

  Aravon had no time for satisfaction; drawing his longsword, he threw himself into the swirling, turbulent melee of the right flank.

  “For Striith and the Hilmir!” he roared. He hacked down another traitorous Fjall, the marvelous steel of his heavy sword shearing fur, chain mail, muscle, and bone. He felt naked without his spear, but in the tight-packed ranks of the shield wall, he had little room to maneuver. This was work for a sword.

  Desperation gripped Aravon’s heart in an icy fist. He had to restore order to the shield wall. Only a fraction of the Fjall had managed to mount any semblance of defense against the Eirdkilrs. Yet they couldn’t hope to stand against the towering enemies ahead and traitorous comrades cutting them down from behind.

  Turning the tide of this battle would be near-impossible, but he had to try.

  He fought like a Legionnaire, keeping his sword close at his side for quick, vicious thrusts. The crush of men gave him cover against the traitorous Fjall’s wild swings, and the tip of his sword flicked out to turn aside spear thrusts. His slashing, stabbing, chopping blows brought down anyone who faced him. All the while, he kept up the calls of “For the Hilmir!”

  The world narrowed in around Aravon, and for a moment, he lost himself in the chaos of battle. Duck a slashing strike, drive his sword into the man’s chest. Drive a punch into one’s face, turn aside a descending axe from another. Steel clanged off steel deafeningly close to his ear. A warrior grunted, spitting blood, falling with Aravon’s sword in his throat. His own roars of “For the Hilmir!” seemed so distant, so faint beneath the screams, shouts, and clash of weapons.

  Mud churned beneath his boots and he slipped, stumbled into a fellow warrior, and nearly went down. He caught himself on a Fjall’s cloak, pulled himself upright. Turned aside a stab aimed at his chest and drove the pommel of his sword into a man’s face. Shouted, roared with every shred of strength. Blood spattered his masked face, hot and warm on his neck. Reeking odors of bile, urine, and spilling entrails clogged his nostrils. His lungs burned, his shoulders and arm ached, his fingers clutched the hilt of his sword so tightly he lost sensation in his hand.

  And still the enemies came on. Fjall seeking to cut him down—as traitor or loyal warrior, it didn’t matter. Eirdkilrs breaking through the ranks one death at a time. Killing, filling the air with blood and chunks of brain matter spraying from their clubs and axes. Sharp steel edged crimson darting toward his face. Aravon twisted aside and the spear slid past his face, punching into a warrior behind him. Thrusting forward, he drove the tip of his sword into the Eirdkilr’s throat.

  A howling warrior came at him from the left, but Aravon had no time or space to turn. He could only watch, helpless, as the Eirdkilr club descended toward his head.

  Only to be turned aside at the last minute by a Fjall shield. “For the Hilmir!” the warrior roared, and drove his sword into the Eirdkilr’s groin. Another hacked down the slumping barbarian, then fell with his skull crushed by another Eirdkilr behind. Aravon deflected a thrusting spear, drove his shoulder into an Eirdkilr shield, and drove his sword up, under the steel-rimmed edge. Blood and intestines splattered his boots, thick and reeking, turning the ground muddy.

  And still the Eirdkilrs came on. Huge figures that towered over the Fjall, their snarling, blue-stained faces filling Aravon’s world and blotting out the sky. Shrieking, howling, chopping, slavering for his blood and death.

  But Aravon no longer fought alone. His cries of “For the Hilmir!” now echoed from the throats of a dozen, then a score Fjall warriors formed up in the line beside him. Brave, strong men with bright steel weapons and solid shields. Shields that locked together to turn aside Eirdkilr strikes, and weapons that bit back against the enemy.

  With a roar, the Fjall pushed back, shoving the Eirdkilrs back a single half-step. In that instant, with room to swing swords and axes, the Fehlans brought down the foremost barbarians. More came on, hurling themselves against the weakened shield wall. Huge bodies crashed against the shields, the sound of their charge thunderous, their cries savage and piercing. Aravon ducked a savage axe blow and drove the tip of his sword into the Eirdkilr’s guts. The next enemy slipped, fell, and died beneath a savage thrust from the man on Aravon’s right. That warrior fell, skull crushed by an Eirdkilr club, a moment later.

  Aravon brought down the club-wielding barbarian and wheeled left, hacking through the forearm of an Eirdkilr about to strike down the Fjall guarding his side. The barbarian’s agonized shrieks were lost beneath the din of battle, but as he stumbled backward, bleeding from the stump of his arm, a gap opened between Aravon and the next enemy. A moment to breathe, to take stock of the battle.

  Time stood still, the thrill of combat running through his veins. The Fjall stood arrayed against the Eirdkilrs, a line twenty men wide and two deep, barely enough to hold the opening in the barricade. Yet that row of interlocked shields and bristling weapons was all that stood in the way of defeat. They had to hold—if the Eirdkilrs took the hilltop and shattered the right flank, they’d roll over the Hilmir’s center and crush the warband.

  Then the next Eirdkilr attacked, bringing his club swinging down toward Aravon’s head. He barely managed to get his sword up in time to deflect it. Not far enough. Heavy wood slammed into his left shoulder. Pain exploded down his left arm, but his right struck back in the next instant. Driving the tip of his sword into the Eirdkilr’s chest. The twisting motion sent sharp stabbing agony along his injured left side, but he managed to recover in time to meet the next attack.

  And the next, and the next. The tide of enemy never seemed to slow. Aravon could barely snatch breath between barbarians. Killing one, then a second, and still more. Palms slick with sweat and blood seeping through his gloves, lungs burning, fire coursing through the knotted muscles of his right hand. But if he slowed even a fraction, he died.

  Another Eirdkilr fell, and Aravon had another heartbeat to think. The crushing press of Eirdkilrs never slackened, only grew stronger, pushed harder, cut deeper as more and more enemies joined the attack. Yet the Fehlan shield wall had grown to sixty, thickened in front of the gap in the barricades. Impossibly, the right flank held.

  A hand clamped on the collar of Aravon’s armor and dragged him backward. Off-balance, it was all he could do not to fall as he was hauled out of the front line, through the swirling melee at the rear of the Fjall lines, and free of the crush of men.

  That instant nearly cost the Fjall the victory. For a second, a gap opened in the ranks, and an Eirdkilr burst through. It took three Fehlans to beat him back, cut him down. It was only the dying giant’s bulk that kept the enemy from surging through the opening. Trampling the Eirdkilr into the mud, the Fjall closed ranks, interlocked shields, and roared defiance at the enemy.

  The hand released Aravon’s collar, sending him stumbling. Aravon barely regained his footing before he fell, but whirled quick as a serpent, sword raised to strike.

  And found himself face to face with Belthar.

  Aravon caught himself before he lashed out. “Bloody good time!”

  “Sorry about that, Captain!” Belthar shouted. “But without a shield, you’re no good in the front line.”

  “Didn’t have much choice!”

  Movement from behind Belthar snapped Aravon’s eyes to the right. A Fjall warrior raced toward the big man, axe upraised, eyes fixed on the back of Belthar’s huge head.

  Aravon had no time to figure out if the man was loyalist or traitor—he simply reacted. A smooth move. a fencer’s graceful thrust. The tip of his heavy longsword slid past Belthar, a hair’s breadth from his armored side, and punched into the Fehlan’s chest. Belthar spun, swinging his huge elbow around to crash into the man’s face. Yet his eyes flew wide at sight of the Fjall warrior that lay sprawled in the mud.

  “Grimar’s man?” he asked.

  “No idea!” Aravon shook his head. “But we need to figure it out fast!”

  Free of the battle and behind the line of warriors, Aravon had a
moment to take stock of the situation. The right flank was still gripped in chaos. Swirling knots of warriors locked in combat, striking down friend and foe alike. A shield wall holding the barricade. Barely. Eighty men against five times their number of Eirdkilrs, a heartbeat from breaking yet fighting with every shred of courage and strength. Only the strong wooden barricades to their right and left prevented total collapse.

  The Blood Queen’s cunning had wreaked terrible havoc along the entire hundred-yard line. The right flank sagged, the formation pushed back, and only Aravon’s intervention had kept it from collapsing completely. In the center, the Hilmir, Bjarni, and Sigbrand stood at the tip of their spear formation, shield wall strong and holding back the Eirdkilrs. Yet, behind them, knots of Fjall warriors still clashed in a desperate battle. Traitors who wore the same faces as the men they betrayed. Bewildered men killing their own comrades, comrades they had just watched cut down friends and brothers. The chaos of battle amplified a thousandfold by treachery.

  To his relief, the left flank had held. Grimar’s warriors had caused the least amount of damage there, and the strong formation had rebuffed the Eirdkilr advance.

  Yet, one glance at the oncoming Eirdkilrs told Aravon the Blodsvarri had known where to strike. Grimar had purposely chosen to stand at the head of the right flank so the Blood Queen would see his position and exploit it.

  At least half of the fifteen hundred Eirdkilrs committed to the attack were streaming toward the right flank, and more had begun the ascent of the hill. The Fjall’s only salvation was that the two hundred-yard climb—over uneven rock-strewn ground and around logs and spike pits—prevented the Eirdkilrs from attacking en masse. With the Hilmir’s barricades, they couldn’t properly bring their superior numbers to bear. The thousand or more enemies streaming toward the left flank were clustered along the side of the cliff bordering the Hardrfoss River.

  Damn, but Zaharis could have put a dent in them! He wasted no time with wishing; they’d have to win this battle without the Secret Keeper’s alchemical marvels.

  Then, through a gap in the lines, Aravon caught sight of the Eirdkilrs still at the bottom of the hill. His eyebrows shot up as he saw the two hundred Fjall warriors locked in battle with the Blood Queen’s easternmost forces.

  Aravon nearly wept. Colborn, you beautiful bastard!

  Now he understood why the Blood Queen hadn’t yet overrun their position. Grimar’s attack had come at the perfect time for the Blodsvarri’s plans, but Colborn, thinking quickly, must have thrown himself and the two hundred Fjall ambushers into the attack to prevent the Eirdkilr leader from committing the rest of her men. Nearly a thousand Eirdkilrs remained at the bottom of the hill. More than enough to rout Colborn’s little force. Yet the Lieutenant had taken the gamble and bought Aravon and the Hilmir precious minutes.

  “Belthar, pitch in here!” Aravon thrust a finger toward the right flank. “Hold that damned line, you hear!”

  “Aye, Captain!” For once, Belthar didn’t salute, but simply turned and threw himself into the shield wall with a roar. His huge axe gleamed brilliant in the sunlight—Keeper’s teeth, has the sun already risen so high?—as he shouldered through the ranks of Fjall toward the front line.

  If anyone could hold that position, it was Belthar. He towered a head taller than the warriors around him, his brawn a match for the Eirdkilrs he faced. With a shout of “For the Hilmir!”, he threw himself against the Eirdkilrs about to break through the shield wall.

  Aravon tore his eyes away from the right flank, his gaze traveling east across the battle line. He spared a glance for Grimar’s limp corpse, still pinned in death to the barricades, dangling from Aravon’s hurled spear. Burn in the fiery hell, you bastard!

  In the center, the Hilmir still held the front of the line, but the ranks behind him had been thrown into chaos, a gap widening as men died. The Eirdkilrs had pushed him back a full two yards, forcing him to retreat from his position in the barricade opening. More and more of the giants streamed into the gap and hurled themselves against the Fjall shields.

  Yet, even as Throrsson retreated beneath the Eirdkilrs’ savage onslaught, the turmoil behind him, the clash of Fjall steel on steel, the shrieks and screams of Fehlan warriors, dimmed. Grimar had died, and his traitors had been brought down—at least some, enough for the center to reorganize. The Fjall knew their own. Slowly, one hammering heartbeat at a time, the center of the Hilmir’s battle line, re-formed. Shields locked, men pressed shoulder to shoulder, driving forward to bolster Throrsson’s line.

  The Eirdkilrs fell back. Half a step, then a full step. One yard, two. Dying, killing, howling, screaming in agony. Blue-stained faces twisted in snarls of rage and expressions of torment as Fjall weapons chopped off limbs, punched through their armor, or carved into exposed skin. Hitting back, crushing Fehlan shields, massive weapons rending flesh. Yet slowly, inexorably, shoved backward by the Hilmir’s roaring fury and the strength of his shield wall.

  A faint hope blossomed deep within Aravon’s mind. The Blood Queen’s treachery hadn’t killed them, hadn’t shattered their line. They still held. By the Swordsman, they still held.

  Then a new smell reached him. Sharper than the metallic tang of blood, deeper than the reek of blood, vomit, urine, and bowels emptying in death. An acrid smell, one that had filled the air around Storbjarg and hung thick among the ruins of Oldrsjot.

  Smoke!

  Aravon spun, and his heart sank as he saw threads of dark gray rising from the hill’s reverse slope. From the northeast and Throrsson’s crudely built bridge.

  Heart in his throat, Aravon raced toward the bridge. Five Fjall warriors in blood-soaked furs and leather armor surrounded the bridge—three facing outward, facing Aravon, and two lowering torches toward the rope-lashed logs spanning the Hardrfoss.

  Dread turned to rage that burned bright and hot in Aravon’s chest. Traitors!

  Down the hill he raced, ignoring the throbbing in his chest, the aches of his bruised shoulders and neck. No war cry escaped his lips. He gave the turncoats no warning, no time to react.

  The first Fjall died before he could turn. Aravon’s blade sheared through his neck and sent his head flying off the cliff to splash into the fast-flowing river. The second man half-turned, but Aravon’s return stroke carved a deep gash across his chest, severed the muscles and tendons in his shoulder. Spinning, Aravon drove the tip of his blade three inches into the third warrior’s belly. Blood sprayed as he ripped the sword free and gushed from the deep wound.

  Instinct screamed in the back of his mind and he threw himself backward, retreating a quick step up the hill. The fourth Fjall’s sword whistled a hair’s breadth from his head. One of the torch-bearing Fjall had turned to face him, burning brand in one hand and longsword in the other. Crimson stained the edge of the blade—the blood of fellow Fjall.

  “Traitors!” Aravon growled in Fehlan. “You betray your Hilmir and clan to the Blood Queen?”

  The warrior spat. “No clan or King can stand before the Tauld! We chose to save our families, at any cost.”

  With a growl, Aravon rushed in for a high overhand chop. A feint. As the Fjall raised his sword to block, Aravon brought the sword low. Steel bit deep into leg muscle and shattered bone. The traitor fell with a scream. Spinning, Aravon deflected the vicious thrust from the second Fjall, knocking the longsword aside. A quick thrust and he tore the blade free. Blood gushed from the man’s chest and he coughed, spraying crimson. Aravon whirled to the right and drove his sword home in the fallen Fjall’s throat. The man stared up at him, wide-eyed in horror, and slowly toppled to the side.

  Harsh, gurgling grunts echoed from Aravon’s left. Spinning, he found one of the Fjall warriors still alive. Bleeding from the wound to his chest, drowning in his own blood, yet still living. Defiant, snarling curses as he scrabbled in the dirt for his torch.

  Aravon leapt toward the man, sword flashing. Too late. The Fjall hurled himself onto the bridge, dropping the torch between two logs, t
hen plummeted off the edge without a sound.

  Even as the man’s body splashed into the Hardrfoss, fire consumed the logs. Brilliant flames licked at the oil splashed atop the bridge, bursting upward in a pillar of shimmering heat so bright Aravon had to leap back to avoid being caught in the blaze.

  Damn it! Aravon’s heart sank as the oil-soaked logs burned. No way out now. The Blood Queen and her Fjall traitors hadn’t just planned to destroy the Hilmir’s battle line—they’d ensured Throrsson had no choice but to fight to the death, cut off from retreat and any hope of survival.

  Heart sinking, Aravon scrambled back uphill. He crested the ridge in time to see the left flank bowing, the shield wall giving way before the Eirdkilr onslaught. The Hilmir’s center had been pushed back a step, though it held, anchored by the roaring fur-clad figure of Throrsson himself. Belthar held the right flank by the skin of his teeth. His huge bulk and immense strength kept the Eirdkilrs from overwhelming the Fjall warriors. Barely. Even with the big man in the center of the line, it looked ready to buckle at any second.

  At the bottom of the hill, Aravon caught sight of Colborn and the two hundred Fjall. Barely more than a hundred now. Slowly pulling back, forced to retreat beneath the Blood Queen’s superior numbers. They’d have to abandon the crossing at any moment else risk being overrun. Yet they had done the impossible. They’d given Throrsson more time to fight.

  And by the Swordsman, we’ll fight!

  Aravon had an instant to decide which way to go. The Eirdkilrs’ howls of delight from the left flank made up his mind—he had to shore up that line before it crumbled.

  He’d just taken his first steps to the left when the center line shattered. Eirik Throrsson fell, trampled beneath a tide of Eirdkilrs, and a broad gap opened in the shield wall. Towering barbarians surged into the gap with a roar of triumph.