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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Magicmaker taught me a simple test to evaluate for damage to the brain.” Colborn glanced up at Aravon. “With your permission, Captain.”

  Aravon nodded. “Do it.”

  Colborn waved a finger in front of the big man’s face. “Follow my finger with just your eyes. No moving your head.” After a few seconds, he nodded and lowered his finger. “Good. Now, answer these simple questions, yes or no. Got it?”

  “Yes,” Belthar rumbled.

  “Are you in Rivergate?” Colborn asked.

  “No.” Belthar shook his head, wincing.

  “Are you at Hangman’s Hill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I prettier than Noll?”

  Belthar chuckled. “Horses are better looking.”

  “Damn, that head wound is really bad.” Noll shook his head. “Probably fatal.”

  With a chuckle, Colborn stood and offered the big man a hand up. “Seems fine.”

  “Thank you.” Aravon turned to Rangvaldr. “Your arrival couldn’t have come at a better time. I and all the Fjall owe you our lives.”

  Rangvaldr gave a dismissive wave. “Just doing my job, right, Captain?” Humor sparkled in his eyes.

  “But Hafgrimsson had the right idea about that Ornntadr mead.”

  “You’d betray your loyalty to Eyrr ayrag?” Aravon’s eyebrows rose beneath his mask. “What would Nuius say?”

  Rangvaldr shrugged. “Some men are fortunate enough to have two great loves.”

  “My flask’s dry,” Noll put in, “but I’ve got a bit of water left.” He plucked the waterskin from his belt and thrust it out to Rangvaldr.

  The Seiomenn took it. “That’ll have to do.” Uncorking the skin, he lifted his mask enough to place the opening to his lips and tilted back his head to drink. He’d gotten little more than a mouthful before he spat and sputtered. Lifting his fingers to his mouth, he plucked out a handful of what looked like muddy marsh river grass.

  Noll dissolved in a fit of laughter. “Yes!” he howled. “I got you, you bastard!”

  Rangvaldr was too busy spitting to form a reply.

  Noll rounded on Aravon, triumph in his eyes. “It’s like the old saying goes, Captain. ‘Revenge is a drink best served tepid with a mouthful of swamp grass’.”

  Despite his exhaustion, thirst, and the pain radiating through every muscle in his body, Aravon couldn’t help laughing.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  By the Swordsman, we pulled it off!

  Aravon stood halfway up Hangman’s Hill, too tired to do more than sit and watch the men moving around the battlefield. Wounded Fehlans screaming, weeping, or suffering in grim silence. Limping men helping others with shattered arms and crushed skulls toward the base of the hill, where the injured were being tended to by their comrades or the Legion’s Menders.

  Far too many would never walk away from Hangman’s Hill. Thousands slain in battle, with nearly as many succumbing to wounds, blood loss, pain, or infection. The sound of whirring bone saws and shrieking soldiers echoed from within the forest—the Legion surgeons would have a busy day. Almost as busy as the warriors set to collect the slain warriors of the Deid and Fjall warbands.

  A full hundred-man company of Legionnaires had joined the Hilmir’s men in cutting down trees to build the ceremonial biers for the Fehlan dead. The Eirdkilrs would be left to rot, their bones bleaching the marshlands where they had been dragged and discarded. But for the honored warriors that had died in battle—even the forty-odd former traitors—a fiery death and ceremonial farewell awaited. A tribute to their courage and strength. True sons of Fehl, each and every one.

  And the blood. So much blood. Splattered across the bright green blades of grass, staining the churned mud a gruesome crimson, trickling along on the currents of the Hardrfoss. A metallic taint thickened the air, so heavy Aravon could taste it through his mask. It coated his armor, mask, gloves, and weapons, turning to a grisly crust as it dried. Among the blood, bits of shattered bone, locks of torn-off hair, and entrails spilled from torn-open bellies.

  Aravon would never grow inured to that grim sight.

  A few score Fjall and Deid moved among the fallen warriors, collecting weapons. On the western side of the hill lay a pile of Eirdkilr spears, axes, and clubs. In the center, near the funeral bier, the axes, swords, and shields of the slain Fehlans lay in a pile. Those weapons would be distributed among the dead and burned with their bodies—trophies to take into the afterlife, to hang on the walls of Seggrholl as they sat to feast with Striith and the Fehlan heroes gone before them.

  The warriors still standing moved slowly, their eyes shadowed and faces gaunt, hollow with the horror of war. Even experienced warriors could know abject fear, feel the icy fingers of death clutching their necks. A battle like this left far deeper scars on the mind than on the body.

  “It could have ended far, far worse.” Eirik Throrsson’s voice rumbled from Aravon’s left.

  Aravon shot a glance at the Hilmir. He hadn’t heard the man approaching, but that came as no surprise. The battle had left him drained in mind as well as body. “Indeed.”

  The Blodsvarri had fallen, and the traitorous Grimar as well. The defeated Eirdkilrs were on the run. Their grip on the Fjall lands had been shattered.

  Yet, the fate of the Hilmir’s people still hung in a precarious balance.

  Storbjarg had burned, its proud gates destroyed, and—if the traitorous Grimar had spoken truth—the walls torn down. The Fjall’s once-mighty warband was all but annihilated; fewer than nine hundred had survived the battle, three hundred of whom were wounded. Many wouldn’t live through the night, even with the Menders’ aid.

  “What will you do now, Hilmir?” Aravon asked. “What does the future hold for the Fjall?”

  “I cannot say.” Throrsson shook his head, setting his shaggy black hair flying the bones braided into his beard rattling. “Your Commander Galerius knows how to use a strategic position to his advantage. He presses me with the hope that, in my eternal gratitude for his timely arrival, I grant the Legion permission to enter my lands.”

  “Not the worst idea.” Aravon shrugged. “You could use a few more swords to help drive out the Eirdkilrs in the south, hunt down the ones who fled now.” He searched the Hilmir’s eyes. “As the Duke said, the Princelands have no intention of conquering the Fjall. Our best hope is in alliance, in uniting against our common enemy.”

  Throrsson rumbled deep in his throat, a contemplative sound that held only a trace of anger. Long seconds of silence passed before he nodded. “I will consider it.” He gave a dismissive wave. “But even with Storbjarg destroyed and my warband reduced, the Fjall are no weaklings.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt.” Aravon chuckled. “You will rebuild, as you did after Vigvollr and Banamadrhaed.”

  “Aye.” Throrsson nodded slowly. “And we expect the Duke to come through on his end.” He narrowed his eyes at Aravon. “I will expect the cure for my people to arrive as promised. To Ingolfsfell, where I will accompany them to Ornntadr.”

  Mention of Duke Dyrund and Wraithfever set worry panging through Aravon. The tiredness retreated beneath the urgency of getting Rangvaldr and his healing stone to the Duke’s side.

  “Of course.” Aravon nodded. “You will have what you need to save your people. And your daughter.”

  “My d—” Throrsson cut off with a sharp breath, surprise staining his muddy, blood-caked face. “You mean…?”

  “She lives,” Aravon said. “The Duke personally carried her from Storbjarg beside your wife. Though your Asleif has gone to Striith, Branda still fights the Wraithfever.” He leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “The Duke has instructed a special dose of the cure to be delivered to her at Saerheim.”

  The Hilmir’s eyes narrowed, his gaze darting around. “He sent her to the Deid?”

  “They are allies to the Princelands, if not the Fjall.” Aravon fixed him with a meaningful glance. “There, she will be safe until we can reach her. Unti
l the cure can reach her.”

  Suspicion flashed across Throrsson’s face. “And then what?” His jaw muscles worked and a snarl tugged at his lips. “Keep her as your hostage to ensure my…compliance?”

  “Never.” Aravon shook his head. “The Duke only gave that order to keep her out of harm’s way. Once she is cured, he will ensure that she is brought safely to wherever you wish. Knowing the Duke, I’m certain he will task us with that mission.”

  For a moment, the wary light blazed brighter in Throrsson’s eyes. But it quickly faded, and he gave a curt nod. “So be it, Captain Snarl.” He held out a huge hand. “Find my daughter, heal her, and bring her safe to me. Seek me out in Ornntadr. There, we will raise horns of the finest mjod and speak of peace between Fjall and Princelander once more.”

  Aravon clasped the Hilmir’s forearm. “By the will of Striith.”

  “A word of caution.” Throrsson’s words echoed in a low rumble. “The Blood Queen was just one of those leading the Tauld’s attacks, and her death will only slow Farbjodr’s plans, not stymie them completely. There is one, in particular, you would do well to watch out for when bringing my daughter south. A bastard of a man named Asger Einnauga. One-Eye, they call him. He commands the eight thousand Tauld that live among the Myrr and Bein. Though I have not heard rumors of his presence this far north for weeks, I have little doubt he will be the next arrow loosed from Farbjodr’s quiver.”

  Aravon’s brow furrowed. “Anything in particular springs to mind?”

  Throrsson contemplated for a moment, then shook his head. “It is rumored that he was the one to plan the siege on your garrisons, but more than that, I could not say.”

  “Thank you, Hilmir.” Aravon nodded. “I will make certain to keep a sharp eye out.”

  Throrsson grinned. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He gave Aravon a little nod. “Until we meet again, Captain Snarl.”

  “Thank you, Hilmir.” With a bow, Aravon turned and hurried down the hill.

  His steps led toward the forest where the Fjall and Deid had taken their wounded. So many wounded. Men bleeding from shallow wounds and clutching gashes so deep bone shone white through their flesh. Warriors unconscious from pain or screaming to Striith and Olfossa for mercy, for relief from the pain. Proud, strong men of the Fjall and Deid warband reduced to tears, wordless sobs, or keening cries by grief, agony, and the burden of loss.

  He found Rangvaldr sitting beside Sigbrand, pressing the holy stones to a long, jagged tear in the warrior’s right arm. The wound was deep, the bone cracked, but the flesh slowly re-knit as the Seiomenn held out the glowing holy stones.

  Aravon hurried toward him, but waited until the brilliant blue light diminished, the wound finished closing. “Stonekeeper,” he called. “We need to go, now.”

  Rangvaldr nodded to Sigbrand and stood, slowly. Though the mask hid his face, Aravon saw the deepened wrinkles, the shadow that hung in the man’s eyes. The Seiomenn’s shoulders were slumped, burdened. “I would stay and help, Captain,” he said. “There are many who could use Nuius’ gift of healing.”

  “The Legion has Menders,” Aravon insisted. “Besides, there is someone who has greater need of your aid.” His fingers flashed the sign for Duke Dyrund.

  Instantly, the Seiomenn was on full alert, his head snapping up. “What happened?”

  “Wraithfever.” Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Magicmaker found a way to slow it, but—”

  “Let’s go!” Rangvaldr hurried toward him and, together, they strode out onto the flat, grassy expanse at the base of Hangman’s Hill.

  Just then, the thundering of galloping hooves echoed loud to their left, followed by loud splashing as Colborn and Noll rode across the shallow ford. Behind them came three huge chargers with empty saddles.

  Colborn drew up in front of Aravon. “Captain.” He dropped the reins of Aravon’s horse and turned to scan the hillside until he found what he sought. “Ursus!” he called, and gave a loud whistle.

  Belthar rose from his seat on the slope, his movements ponderous, still recovering from the head wound. Noll led the big man’s horse up the hill and, with a grateful nod, Belthar clambered into the saddle.

  Aravon cast a worried glance at the big man. On his back hung the huge crossbow—left carefully at the summit of the hill so as not to incur Polus’ wrath on their next return to Camp Marshal—and he gripped his huge double-headed axe in his left hand. He seemed no worse for the serious wound sustained, though Aravon knew Rangvaldr would keep a close eye on him for the next few days. The side effects of that severe head injury could show up days after the battle ended.

  But Belthar gave him a nod, his fingers flashing the hand signal for “All good”. Aravon had to take the man at his word—Belthar deserved that much respect.

  Aravon cast one last glance at the field of battle. The towering king oak trees cresting the hill. The wooden barricades splattered with the blood of Eirdkilrs and Fjall warriors. The deep crimson stains and swaths of ground churned to mud that covered the hillside. A place of death, yet for today, a place of triumph.

  Grim satisfaction settled in Aravon’s stomach as he turned his horse’s head toward the east. He was glad to leave the battlefield, the blood and carnage, the reek of death far behind. Yet the knowledge of what they’d accomplished here left him hopeful, filled him with confidence.

  They’d done the impossible, together. Because of today, there was hope for a better future for the Fjall, Deid, and all of Fehl—a future free of the Eirdkilrs.

  Then he turned away from the battlefield and dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, setting the charger into motion. Within five minutes, he and his companions had splashed across the ford and turned south along the Hardrfoss’ western riverbank. Toward the cave where Skathi and Zaharis waited with the Duke.

  We’re coming, Duke Dyrund! Aravon gritted his teeth and spurred his horse to run faster. Just hang on a little bit longer.

  The horses covered the first half-mile south in the space of five minutes, their smooth, rolling gait carrying them across the flat, grassy terrain with ease. Aravon waited until they were just far enough out of sight of the Legionnaires and Fehlans on Hangman’s Hill before slowing and drawing out his bone whistle. Three short, sharp blasts were all he needed to summon Snarl.

  Less than a minute passed before he caught sight of the furry, winged figure speeding through the crystal blue sky toward him. Snarl’s orange-and-white coat gleamed in the sunlight, nearly as bright as the Enfield’s amber eyes as he landed in front of Aravon’s horse and raced toward him, yipping and barking in delight. Aravon had dismounted and now knelt to greet the Enfield, scratching Snarl’s scruff and letting the little fox creature lick his face for a few seconds before drawing out the cloth that held Skathi’s scent.

  “Go!” Aravon said the command word. “Find her!”

  Snarl sniffed the cloth and, with a delighted bark, leapt into the air, his wings flapping loudly as he climbed high above the treetops. By the time Aravon clambered into his saddle, the little Enfield had already dwindled to a fast-retreating shape on the southern horizon.

  Aravon turned to find his four men looking at him, questions in their eyes. “Just in case,” he said.

  They seemed to accept it as an answer—or, at least Colborn did. The Lieutenant spurred his horse into motion, Aravon a heartbeat behind him. Belthar, Noll, and Rangvaldr kept pace so as not to be left behind.

  Truth be told, Aravon didn’t need to send Snarl ahead to the cave. They’d reach it in less than an hour at their fast pace. But he wasn’t going to take risks, not with Eirdkilrs fleeing from the battle. There was a chance, however miniscule, that the retreating barbarians had spotted the cave and decided to take shelter there. With Skathi wounded and Zaharis looking after the Duke, Aravon wanted to be certain he spotted any surprises well ahead of time.

  The minutes seemed to drag on, the terrain flashing by at a snail’s pace. It didn’t matter that the chargers were running at near full-speed; Ar
avon chafed at every second it took him to reach the Duke’s side. Rangvaldr had to work his magic before the Wraithfever—

  All thoughts faded as Aravon caught sight of Snarl speeding back toward him. The Enfield had been gone for less than five minutes. Dread settled like a stone in Aravon’s gut. That can’t be!

  No way Snarl could have covered that distance in such a short time. Which meant something was truly wrong.

  “Go!” he shouted and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks.

  Snarl swooped low, circled once with a high-pitched bark, and took off toward the south once more. Aravon followed as fast as he could, pushing his horse into a gallop until the Enfield flew into a dense stand of trees west of the riverbank. The thick branches, gnarled roots, and dense underbrush forced Aravon to slow his pace, which only added to the anxiety roiling within him. Worry settled into his bones; he couldn’t put the sense into words, but every fiber in his being screamed at him that something terrible had happened.

  He crashed through the trees headlong and burst into a small clearing amidst a circle of towering pine trees. He reined in, barely stopping in time before he plowed into Skathi. The archer stood with her feet planted, bow bent and an arrow nocked. Recognition flashed across her unmasked face as she caught sight of them, and she lowered her bow with a grimace. Yet there was no mistaking the worry that darkened her forest-green eyes.

  Then Aravon saw the two figures behind the archer. Zaharis sat on the ground, his back against a tree, his face twisted in a look of sheer panic, cheeks white with horror and guilt. He rocked back and forth with a horrible, keening cry, hands clutching at the figure in his lap.

  In that moment, all else faded around Aravon, and his eyes locked on the prone figure beside Zaharis. Duke Dyrund lay with his head on the Secret Keeper’s leg. His eyes were wide, empty and unseeing, all flush of fever gone from his face. All hint of color fled as well.

  The Long Keeper had gathered Duke Dyrund into his arms.