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

by Andy Peloquin

  As Aravon whirled, he saw Belthar pushed back, brought down by an Eirdkilr’s club. The right flank began to give way, sagging in on itself, too weak to hold.

  No! Ashes filled Aravon’s mouth, and horror twisted an icy dagger in his gut. The Fjall battle line was crumbling, and not a damned thing he could do about it.

  Then came the most beautiful sound in the world: the high, piercing cry of a battle horn.

  Aravon’s eyes snapped to the west. From the sparsely forested hills across the Hardrfoss River, hundreds of Fehlan warriors raced into view, spilling down the hill, surging toward the crossing where Colborn and the hundred Fjall struggled to pull back. At their head charged a broad-shouldered warrior clad in the furs, fangs, and skull of a gray Fehlan greatwolf. And beside him, a familiar figure clad in mottle-patterned leather armor, with a brilliant blue gemstone at his throat.

  Aravon nearly wept at the sight. Rangvaldr and the Deid had arrived.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Yes!

  Hope rekindled within Aravon as two thousand Deid warriors streamed down the hill toward the river crossing. The Eirdkilrs at the shallow ford had only a few seconds to break off the attack on Colborn’s small group and re-form a solid shield wall before the Deid crashed into them. The tumult of that clash rang up the hill, echoed by the insistent, driving clarion call of Chief Svein Hafgrimsson’s war horn.

  The six hundred Eirdkilrs swarming across the ford found themselves facing more than thrice their number. Even their shields and strength couldn’t hope to hold out against such overwhelming odds, against the rage that spilled from the throats of two thousand Fehlan warriors. The Deid knew the destruction visited upon their fellow warriors at Gold Burrows Mine. Now, with the enemy in their grasp, the time had come for vengeance.

  A savage grin split Aravon’s face at the sight of the Blood Queen’s surprise. Her crimson-covered, tattooed features creased into a look of stunned shock. The Deid had come for her, and she had nowhere near enough men to stop them. Fewer than nine hundred Eirdkilrs remained at the base of Hangman’s Hill, with another four hundred scattered across the hillside, picking their way over the jagged rocks or around the Hilmir’s spike pits. Now it was the Blodsvarri’s turn to scramble to get her men into position.

  Yet, Aravon had no time to rejoice, or to watch the Deid roll over the Eirdkilrs holding the crossing. His own battle on Hangman’s Hill had turned against him.

  In an instant, his eyes darted between the Fjall’s left and center. The left held, pushing back, and the center had managed to close the gaps in their ranks even after the Hilmir’s fall. But the right, with Belthar gone down, was a heartbeat from collapsing.

  Aravon raced toward the spot where he’d seen his man go down. He hadn’t taken five steps before a massive figure in mottled leather armor roared up from beneath the tide of Eirdkilr and Fjall warriors. Belthar laid about him with great strokes of his axe, hewing off an Eirdkilr’s head, crushing another’s chest, hacking off a massive arm. Blood splattered his face and sprayed from the edge of his whirling axe. All the while, his shouts of “For the Hilmir!” echoed above the Eirdkilrs’ howling war cries.

  The warriors on the right flank’s western edge cracked, and two Eirdkilrs surged into the gap. Fjall fell beneath their enormous weapons, helmets and skulls crushed, limbs shattered, flesh torn. The opening grew wider, wider, until five, eight, ten Eirdkilrs streamed through. Though the first two died before they’d taken three steps, the rest pushed through, deeper, punching a hole into the Fjall’s weakened ranks. Three broke through the rearmost line and turned to fall on their enemies from behind. Their howls of delight split the air as they raised their bloodstained weapons.

  Delight turned to agony as Aravon buried the tip of his sword into one giant’s side. Blood gushed from the wound and the Eirdkilr slumped, spine severed. Tearing his sword free, Aravon spun and struck out at the next Eirdkilr. Odarian steel sheared through the wooden shaft of his massive axe. Even as the steel head spun away and the Eirdkilr’s decapitated handle struck empty air, Aravon chopped through the braided beard, cartilage, and blood vessels in the man’s throat. His war cries cut off in a gurgling, coughing spray of hot crimson.

  The third Eirdkilr, however, was ready for him. Aravon’s sword slammed into his upraised shield, the tip striking sparks on the metal boss at its center. The Eirdkilr behind the shield bared his teeth in a snarl and drove his spear at Aravon’s chest. Aravon twisted aside, barely managing to avoid being run through. Yet even off-balance, his sword struck true. The sharp blade severed the man’s right arm at the wrist and the spear clattered to the ground. The Eirdkilr howled, blood spraying from the stump of his arm.

  Yet even that didn’t stop him. The huge barbarian leaned into his shield and charged. Aravon, barely regaining his feet, had no time to react. The rounded metal boss slammed into his torso hard enough to hurl him from his feet. Pain exploded in Aravon’s bruised chest, the air knocked from his lungs. He struck the muddy ground hard, and struck the back of his head. Though the helmet absorbed the impact to his skull, his armor did little to prevent the agony radiating from his already-injured breastbone. His back, spine, and shoulders ached from the impact and it was all he could do to suck in a breath.

  A shadow darkened the sky over his head. The Eirdkilr loomed over him, blood dripping from his severed right wrist, shield held overhead. With a guttural curse, the barbarian brought the steel-rimmed edge of his shield down, straight at Aravon’s head.

  And missed. The heavy shield swung wide, the Eirdkilr staggering. Crimson trickled from the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide in pain. He toppled to the side and landed hard. A dark stain radiated outward from his belly, blood staining his chain mail, furs, and the mud beneath him. Stunned, he stared at Aravon, agony twisting his blue-stained face.

  “May Helgrindr chew your soul and spit you into eternal darkness!” A Fehlan curse, growled by a familiar, furious voice.

  Now it was Aravon’s turn to be surprised. He stared up at the shaggy black hair and braided beard of Eirik Throrsson.

  “Hilmir!” Aravon sucked in a breath—even that small movement had agony flaring through his chest, yet he struggled upright. “You’re alive?”

  “Looks like it.” The Hilmir extended a hand to Aravon. “Feels like it, too.” He winced and pressed a hand to a gaping wound in his right side, where an Eirdkilr axe had severed chain links, leather armor, padding, and the thick layers of fat and muscle beneath his ribs.

  Aravon accepted the Hilmir’s outstretched hand and, with a grunt, pulled himself to his feet. The pain in his chest settled deep into his bones, a throbbing ache that radiated outward every time he moved. Yet the fact that he was alive—and the Hilmir, too—did wonders to make that pain tolerable.

  “Bjarni and Sigbrand got me out of there before the Eirdkilrs crushed me.” He turned a scowl on his son and the brown-bearded Fjall warrior. “Nearly cost us the shield wall!”

  “Your death would cost all the Fjall, Father!” Bjarni shouted over the din of battle. “But now, thanks to the Deid, we’ve got a fighting chance.”

  On his feet once more, struggling to catch his breath, Aravon had a moment to assess the battle. To his surprise, he found the swirl of combat atop the hill’s summit had diminished. Fully a third of the Eirdkilrs had pulled back—doubtless at the Blood Queen’s command—to protect her against the Deid. With the Fjall lines holding fast, the Eirdkilrs had lost the momentum for the battle.

  Yet the Hilmir’s men had paid a steep price. Of the sixteen hundred holding Hangman’s Hill, fewer than half remained standing. The rest had fallen to the Eirdkilr assault—and to the weapons of their comrades. Perhaps some wounded, but until the battle ended, he had to assume that the men still locked in combat were all that remained to him. Enough to hold, that much he knew. With the Eirdkilrs pulling back to protect the Blood Queen, there were too few on the hilltop to force the position. The Hilmir’s barricades and shield walls held.


  By the Swordsman, we’re still standing! Grimar’s treachery cost the Fjall dearly, but it hadn’t killed them outright.

  “What in Striith’s name happened?” the Hilmir demanded. “Grimar—”

  “Was a traitor.” Aravon quickly recounted what the Duke had told him. “The Blood Queen likely only agreed to let them go if they turned against you.” His brow furrowed behind his mask—a mask that had grown thick, sticky, and crusted with drying blood. “One of the traitors said they did it to spare their families.”

  “Which means Storbjarg has fallen.” Throrsson’s eyes darkened. “And the rest of my warband slain.”

  “For that I am sorry, Hilmir, “ Aravon replied. “But at least now, with the Deid’s help, we’ve got a chance of carrying the day!”

  As if on cue, loud cheers, jeers, and roars echoed from the Fjall’s left flank. A moment later, the center took up the cry. The Eirdkilrs were pulling back. From all positions. They abandoned their assault on the right flank and raced back toward their embattled comrades.

  Aravon’s gaze darted downhill. The Deid’s two thousand—accompanied by Rangvaldr, Colborn, and the seventy or eighty Fjall ambushers still standing—had rolled over the enemies holding the crossing. More than four hundred Eirdkilrs lay dead in the shallow waters, their blood turning the Hardrfoss River a grisly crimson. The Blood Queen fought just to stay alive long enough to pull her men back from their assault on the hill.

  “I thought you said the Deid had abandoned us.”

  Aravon turned back to find Throrsson staring at him, suspicion in his narrowed eyes. “They did, but I’ve found that my Seiomenn can be surprisingly persuasive.” He gestured at the hilltop. “And, the fact that we’re now standing on Deid land gives them a good incentive to join.”

  Throrsson grumbled in his throat. “Banamadrhaed has been Fjall land since my ancestors first took up sword and shield. One victory does not give Hafgrimsson the right to claim it for his own.”

  Aravon shrugged. “Maybe save that dispute until after we win. For now, we regroup, re-form, and figure out how to make the most of this.”

  “First, we need to root out the traitors.” The Hilmir raised a clenched fist. “Bjarni, Sigbrand, with me! Any man who stayed in Storbjarg surrenders or dies where they stand!” He turned and stalked into the mass of staggering, gasping, exhausted warriors.

  Aravon let out a relieved breath. He might not be able to single out any of the traitors still living, but Throrsson knew each of his warriors personally. The Hilmir would sort out the matter.

  In that moment, with the temporary cessation of the attack—on their position, at least—the adrenaline coursing in Aravon’s veins retreated, giving way to the exhaustion and listlessness that settled in after battle. Every muscle in Aravon’s body ached, and his chest throbbed, the pain radiating out toward his bruised shoulders and arm. His right hand refused to heed his commands to unclench, refused to release its death grip on his sword hilt. When he used his left hand to pry his fingers open, blood crackled where it had dried his glove to the leather wrappings. Fire coursed through his lungs, down his legs, and along his spine.

  Yet the battle wasn’t truly over. He couldn’t give in to the aches and pains, the exhaustion, not yet. First, he had to make sure his men had survived.

  He found Belthar kneeling and leaning on his axe, blowing for breath, his huge shoulders drooping with exhaustion. Dark crimson blood and mud stained his leather armor, along with chunks of bloody hair, gray matter, and bone shards. Yet, by all appearances, the big man had come out of the battle little worse for wear.

  “Damn, Ursus, but you gave me a scare.” Aravon shook his head. “Seems I’ll have to remember to give you orders to stay alive next time.”

  Belthar straightened at the sound of his Captain’s voice, rising to his feet quickly. “Right, Captain.” Too quickly. He groaned and hunched over his right side. “Maybe send those orders to the enemy, too. They seemed damned determined to put me down.”

  Aravon chuckled. “Anything broken?”

  “No.” Belthar twisted his torso slightly, barely managing to stifle a groan. “Won’t be dancing in the Icespire Royal Ballet for a few weeks, though.”

  “Good.” Aravon clapped the big man on the back—carefully. “Find some water, take care of any wounds, and get ready for the next assault. The Deid bought us a few minutes, but if we want to finish this, we’re going to have to push back, hard. That axe of yours won’t stay clean for long.”

  “Understood, Captain.” Belthar gave him a Legion salute.

  Aravon grimaced, but said nothing. The Fjall around him were too exhausted, bruised, and battered to pay the two of them much heed.

  All along the summit of Hangman’s Hill, Fehlan warriors sat on the muddy ground, slumped against the wooden barricades, or—in the cases of the worst injured—lay where they had fallen. A few score had managed to keep their feet, forming up three lines in the barricade openings. Yet it was little more than a show of force; the Fjall had taken a heavy beating, and only barely survived the assault.

  The clash of steel and the shouts, cries, and howls of battling warriors had fallen silent, but the screams of the wounded and dying filled the void. Men lay in the bloody muck, clutching at shattered limbs, gushing wounds, or trying desperately to keep entrails from spilling from their torn bellies. A few stumbled about, weaving like drunken men, their skulls and steel helmets crushed—they were already dead, but their brains simply hadn’t yet caught up. The metallic reek of blood did little to cover the foul odors of loosed bowels or breeches stained with the sweat and piss of terrified men.

  Aravon felt every scream, every weak gasp, every gurgling cry deep in the core of his being. It didn’t matter that they weren’t Princelanders—they were soldiers just like him, warriors that had stood strong in the face of an enemy that had come to kill him, too. In that moment, they were his brothers as much as any Legionnaire that had stood in a shield wall with him.

  Yet, as he had in so many battles before, he forced himself to turn a blind eye to the suffering, to deafen his ears to the screams. Already, the least-injured Fjall had begun dragging the corpses out of the way, carrying the wounded to the hill’s reverse slope and out of the way of the battle lines.

  Though they’d survived the first clash, the fighting was far from over. The Deid’s arrival had forced the Blood Queen on the defensive but, as he’d told Belthar, only her death would end the clash here. At the moment, surrounded by more than a thousand Eirdkilrs, there was little chance of that happening.

  A part of him regretted his decision to order Skathi to remain with Zaharis. One well-placed arrow could bring down the Blodsvarri, maybe even end this battle. But he pushed the fleeting regret aside. No matter how loudly she protested, he’d have been a fool to bring her into battle in her current condition.

  Not that he was in much better shape. He had collected a grisly assortment of bruises, aches, and pains that seemed to grow worse with every breath, every hammering beat of his heart. Yet he had no time to give in to it. Like his father had taught him—at the end of his fist, hickory switch, or wooden training blade—he pushed back against the discomfort and bent his mind to the task at hand.

  Lectern Harald’s lessons flashed through his mind. “Every army has its center of power, the critical point that, if destroyed or overrun, can collapse even the strongest point.”

  In the Eirdkilrs’ case, that “center of power” was with the Blood Queen, at the heart of the Eirdkilr lines. Unlike Hrolf Hrungnir and other Eirdkilr leaders he’d faced, the Blodsvarri didn’t lead from the front. She approached battle like a Legion Commander, commanding her men from the rear. Surrounded and protected by her warriors, she was free to watch the ebb and flow of battle, to issue orders. A more effective strategy, one that would have carried the day if not for the Deid’s timely arrival.

  That’ll also make it damn hard to get at her. Without archers, the Fjall’s only chance at bringing down
the Eirdkilr leader would be to charge downhill and close ranks. If they could drive a wedge into her forces, split them to the east and west, they could thrust right at the Eirdkilrs’ heart. The Blood Queen’s death might not break her army, but against two thousand Deid and nearly a thousand Fjall, the remaining force of fewer than two thousand Eirdkilrs had little chance of winning the battle here.

  Aravon turned to find the Hilmir, to share his tactical analysis. His eyebrows rose as he found Throrsson, Bjarni, and a hundred of his warriors surrounding a group of fifty Fjall. Anger, hatred, and disgust blazed in the Hilmir’s eyes, sentiments mirrored on the faces of every man at his back.

  He had found the traitors.

  Without a word, Throrsson stepped up to the first Fjall and buried his sword in the man’s chest. The Fjall died in silence, with only a faint, gurgling gasp escaping his lips. The Hilmir ripped his sword free and hurled the traitor’s body through the opening in the barricades and down the hill.

  The second man opened his mouth to protest, but the Hilmir’s sword opened his throat before he could get out a word. The Fjall holding the warrior released him and he slumped to his knees, gagging and drowning in his own blood.

  “Please, Hilmir!” protested the third warrior as the Hilmir stepped up to him. “The Blood Queen threatened our families.”

  For an answer, Throrsson hacked off the man’s head. “Fjall do not betray Fjall!” he roared. “We are chosen of Striith, chosen to live the lives of warriors and to die in glorious battle!”

  He chopped down a fourth and fifth traitor with quick, savage strokes of his sword. Fire blazed in his eyes as he swung around to face the next men in line. “Striith will never know their names!” Blood dripped from his long blade, spattering the faces of the dead warriors as he thrust his sword at them. “They die with empty hands, no true warrior’s death, and so they will never feast in Seggrholl, but will know only the torments of Helgrindr and eternal darkness! That is the reward their cowardice has earned.”