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

by Andy Peloquin

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  No!

  Aravon felt as if a mountain had just collapsed atop him, a thousand needles of molten iron driven into every nerve in his body. He half-fell, half-slid from his saddle and collapsed to his knees beside the Duke, seizing the man’s hands. Cold, limp, hands that didn’t grip back when Aravon held them tight.

  “We tried to get him to you, Captain.” Skathi’s voice echoed as if from a thousand leagues away, so faint through the rushing blood that pulsed in Aravon’s ears.

  Tears stung Aravon’s eyes, his breath freezing in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Could only lift his blurred gaze to Zaharis.

  “What happened?” The angry shout burst from his lips.

  Zaharis seemed not to see Aravon. He rocked backward and forward, that eerie, keening cry rolling from his tongueless mouth. No tears spilled from his eyes, but guilt was etched into every line of his face.

  “Zaharis!” Aravon gripped the Secret Keeper’s shoulders and shook him hard, setting Zaharis’ teeth rattling. “The Wraithfever, it was getting better!”

  That seemed to snap Zaharis back to reality. His eyes fixed on Aravon and horror twisted his face. He seemed unable to lift his hand from cradling the Duke to sign the silent words. “I did everything I could. The fever…” He shook his head. “It never fully broke. I had nothing…”

  Aravon could see no more through the blur of tears. A torrent of emotion burst from him in a single massive sob that wracked his shoulders. He tried to hold back the pain, the sorrow, but he could not. He could do nothing but sit at the Duke’s side and clutch his pale, limp hand.

  No! His heart seemed frozen between beats, his mind drowning in an overwhelming torrent of grief. Paralyzed, every fiber of his being screaming out in protest, Aravon felt as if he’d been hollowed out from the inside, his heart torn from his chest by a fist of iron. No, such a wound would kill him. This…this was far worse.

  The pain deep within the core of his being eclipsed the mundane aches of his muscles, the throbbing of his wounds, the exhaustion at the day. He felt nothing, heard nothing. Simply sat, stunned and frozen in a paroxysm of anguish. It was as if a part of himself had died here. A part of his life that had been so important even if he hadn’t known it all along.

  That realization only made the heartache more painful. The Duke had been such a central figure in his life, the man who he turned to when he needed advice, a comforting voice when Aravon’s father heaped scorn and disdain on his head. A friendly presence at his side after the horrors of losing Sixth Company, and again after the death of Draian.

  But now, with the Duke gone, he had no one left. To the world, Captain Aravon was dead. Mylena and his sons believed him lost in the ambush. His father likely wouldn’t remember him, even if he cared what happened to Aravon. Prince Toran knew, but he was the Prince, as far removed from Aravon as an eagle from a groundworm.

  No. With effort, he forced back the thought. I’m not alone.

  The darkness pressing in on his mind retreated, and he once more found himself sitting in that forest clearing, clutching the Duke’s hand. Though it took every shred of willpower, he lifted his tear-blurred eyes to the six faces around him. Zaharis’ pale, guilt-ridden face. Skathi’s brow, furrowed with concern. The kindness in Rangvaldr’s eyes, the empathy sparkling in Colborn’s. The way Belthar hovered protectively over him, Noll’s turning away to give him a moment of privacy.

  I’m not alone…because I have them.

  To the world at large, Aravon had died. Yet to these six people, these brave warriors that had chosen to join him in service to Duke Dyrund and the Princelands, he was very much alive. They cared—about his grief and pain, about his health, his safety. Belthar had risked his life to protect Aravon in the battle. Rangvaldr had set aside his desire to help his own people, all to heal the Duke. Skathi had set aside her desire to fight so she could watch over the Duke and Zaharis—Zaharis, who had done everything in his power to keep the Duke alive. Colborn, who had the quiet support that bolstered Aravon’s confidence when he doubted himself. Noll, who had somehow managed to look past his resentment over the deaths of his Sixth Company comrades to accept Aravon’s command.

  Without them, he had nothing, but with them, he had enough. The Duke’s loss hit him hard, a burden that would not leave anytime soon, yet he couldn’t wallow in his grief. For their sakes, he had to be strong.

  He turned to Zaharis. “You did…everything you could.” His words came out in a croak, his throat parched, but he forced his lips to form them. He swallowed. “Thank you, for trying.”

  Pain and guilt twisted Zaharis’ face. That suffering, that regret could gnaw away at even the most unassailable confidence. The burden Zaharis now carried would make a good man go bad. It was Aravon’s job as commander to take that off the Secret Keeper’s shoulders. To take it upon himself. His decisions, his consequences. He needed his men free of those weights, free to do whatever was needed to fulfill their mission. He could bear the burdens—it was part and parcel of a commander’s life.

  The Duke had taught him that. Had shown him that a great leader did everything in their power to lighten the loads of those that followed him. And now it was Aravon’s turn. His turn to live as the Duke would have, to honor his memory by being the man Duke Dyrund had always believed him to be.

  That didn’t dim the pain of loss, didn’t lighten the burden of grief, but somehow, oddly enough, it gave Aravon the strength to bear up under the strain.

  He tried to rise to his feet, lost his balance, and would have fallen if not for Colborn catching him. The Lieutenant held his shoulder, gripping it tight for a moment, until Aravon nodded. Instead of standing, Aravon rose to his knees and bowed over the Duke’s body.

  “Sing the song, Rangvaldr.” His words came out in a whisper. “The song for the fallen heroes.”

  “Of course, Captain.” Clearing his throat, Rangvaldr lifted his voice in the song he’d sung over the slain Eyrr, Draian, and the Duke’s men that had died at Bjornstadt.

  "In the hall of heroes,

  Evermore to dwell

  At the feast table of warriors and kings

  Who in battle bravely fell

  Enemies forever vanquished

  Peace for time beyond breath

  We mourn the sacrifice and laud the courage

  Of those who died the glorious death."

  Aravon closed his eyes, losing himself in the rise and fall of Rangvaldr’s rich voice. The swell of the song, the ringing, mournful notes. A farewell—not a final farewell, but it would have to do until he brought the Duke’s body back to Icespire for burial—yet fitting nonetheless.

  When the last note was sung and Rangvaldr fell silent, Aravon lifted his head and opened his eyes.

  “The Duke was many things to many people.” He looked at the six solemn faces around him. “Duke of Eastfall. Lord of Wolfden Castle. Councilor to the Prince. Envoy to the Fehlans. Friend and companion to my father. To me…” His voice cracked.

  Rangvaldr rested a hand on his shoulder. “To all of us.” Sorrow gleamed in his eyes; he’d respected, even admired the Duke, which was why he’d joined the mission after Draian’s death. “With his loss, the world grows a little colder, a little darker.”

  Aravon nodded gratefully to the Seiomenn and, swallowing hard, managed to find his voice. “Yet because of him, we are all united. United in purpose, a purpose he gave us. A mission to save the Princelands and Fehl from the Eirdkilrs. Because of him, the Fjall, Eyrr, and Deid still live. Because of him, Rivergate still stands.” A sad smile twisted his lips. “That is a legacy that any man would be proud of.”

  “Aye,” Belthar rumbled. “No better man than the Duke of Eastfall, that was what every regular in Hightower always said. Never thought I’d meet him outside a parade line. The day he chose me for this company, proudest day of my life.”

  “And mine.” Noll had finished with the horses and now stepped up to join them. “E
ven when I was certain I’d never ride again, that I’d be of no use to anyone, he pushed me. It’s thanks to him I’m here.”

  “Thanks to him we’re all here.” Something dark and dangerous gleamed in Skathi’s eyes. “We’d be dead without him, no doubt about it.”

  “Then we do what he brought us together to do,” Colborn spoke up. The Lieutenant had removed his mask, revealing his heavy half-Fehlan features, his braided beard, the ice-blue eyes that sparkled with grim resolve. “The battle here is won, but the Eirdkilrs are far from done for. So it’s up to us to make sure the Duke’s dream comes true. A dream of a peaceful Fehl, when Fehlans and Princelanders can live together.”

  “To the Duke’s dream.” Aravon’s words rang out with far more strength than he felt.

  “To the Duke’s dream!” Five voices echoed in the clearing.

  “To the Duke’s dream,” Zaharis signed. “And to living the life he expected us to.”

  Silence hung thick in the clearing for long moments. No one seemed eager to break the stillness, and Aravon couldn’t think of anything to say. Everything important had already been said, for now.

  Without a word, he settled back down beside the Duke and gripped the cold, lifeless hand in his own. He would come up with plans and clever strategies to defeat the Eirdkilrs later—now, he just needed a few moments to grieve. Not to lose himself or to wallow in misery, but to do as the Duke had said and “let himself think, let himself feel”.

  “Sir.” Skathi’s quiet voice echoed at his shoulder.

  Aravon looked up and found only the archer hovered nearby—the rest, including Zaharis, had moved to the opposite side of the clearing and sat around silently cleaning their armor, sharpening weapons, and busying themselves in whatever tasks kept soldiers occupied. Giving him space to mourn in peace.

  All but Skathi. The archer held out a small scrap of parchment to him. “He asked me to write it down, before…” She swallowed. “…before the fever got bad.”

  Aravon tried to form words of thanks, but none came. He could only nod, a lump thick in his throat, as he accepted the parchment and unrolled it.

  The message, written in Skathi’s hand, was brief. “Aravon,” it read, “it was my greatest joy to know you. You have made us all proud. The future of the Princelands rests in the best hands I could hope for.”

  That was it. No poetic flourishes, no artful prose such as would be spouted by the bards and troubadours of Icespire. Just the simple, succinct note of a man who had been a soldier long before he became a politician and diplomat. In its own way, all the more powerful.

  Moisture blurred Aravon’s eyes once more, and his fist closed around the scrap of parchment bearing the Duke’s final message. He made no attempt to hold back the flow of tears. For a few brief, quiet moments, he let the emotions wash over him. Not a tidal wave that threatened to crush him, but a river that cut deep, left a mark on his soul. As was right for a man like the Duke. Duke Sammael Dyrund had had a profound impact on Aravon all throughout his life. He would honor the man by carrying that mark forever.

  Opening his eyes, Aravon rose to his knees. Farewell, Your Grace. He set the cold, lifeless hand gently on the Duke’s chest, then laid the other atop it. A solemn, peaceful repose for a great man. May you know the Swordsman’s joy and peace in the Sleepless Lands forever more.

  He rose to his feet slowly, the pain of loss compounding the aches of his injuries and battle wounds. It would be a long while before that pain truly faded. Perhaps, like his improperly healed left arm, it would never be gone completely. So be it. He would bear the pain in honor of the man who had been a better, kinder, nobler father to him than his own father ever had.

  The emotions retreated, and with them the numbness that had descended over him. The smell of the forest—rotting leaves, damp earth, the rich, resinous pine sap dripping from the nearby trees—and the sound of his companions’ conversation filtered into his ears.

  “…a damned good shot,” Colborn was saying. “Three hundred, maybe three hundred and fifty yards.”

  “Not bad.” Skathi inclined her head. “I’d say impressive, but—”

  “Stick with impressive, yeah.” Noll glowed.

  A part of Aravon, the part recovering from his grief, was surprised by the conversation. Skathi hadn’t snapped or snarled at Noll, and the scout hadn’t responded with his usual salacity. A hint of pride glowed within him; they were truly becoming a company, as he and Duke Dyrund had dreamed. Death and battle had united them in a way that little else in the world ever could.

  Aravon’s eyes went to Zaharis. Misery, guilt, and sorrow etched into every line of the Secret Keeper’s face. Aravon could feel his pain—it didn’t matter that Zaharis wasn’t a healer, didn’t have magic stones or a Mender’s knowledge. He felt responsible for the Duke’s death. His twitching fingers turned over the little chunk of black stone so quickly Aravon half-expected it to catch alight.

  Aravon moved toward Zaharis, but Rangvaldr spoke before he’d taken a step. “What is that?” the Seiomenn asked.

  “Ghoulstone,” Zaharis signed left-handed, the fingers of his right hand never slowing as he twirled the stone. “Found it in Rivergate. More in Gold Burrows Mine.”

  “Let me see it.” The Seiomenn held out a hand.

  Zaharis hesitated. Aravon had seen the Secret Keeper’s habit of fidgeting when nervous, worried, or, in this case, burdened by emotion. Zaharis clearly had no desire to relinquish his trinket—the self-soothing mechanism helped to keep him calm. But, after a long moment, he handed it to the Seiomenn.

  “Never heard of ghoulstone,” Rangvaldr muttered. “But I could swear I’ve seen stone like this before.”

  Zaharis didn’t even look up. “Where?” he signed, his fingers sluggish.

  Rangvaldr frowned down at the stone for a few long, silent seconds before speaking. “In the main square of Bjornstadt.”

  That caused Zaharis to look up. “That was ghoulstone?”

  Rangvaldr tossed the little chunk of stone up and caught it. “Yes, I’m certain.” He held it out to Zaharis. “Always been easy to find, stone like that. Too easy, to hear Ailmaer talk about it. Pretty-looking, but of little use. Too soft and easy to crack, which gave the chief a bellyful of grief every time he had to repair the main square.”

  Then his brow furrowed. “Come to think of it, I’ve seen it somewhere else, too.” He reached up to touch the blue gemstone hanging at his neck. “The Eirdkilrs outside Rivergate, they wore them, too.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow, but chose not to butt in to the conversation. Instead, he took a seat silently beside Colborn. As long as the Seiomenn kept Zaharis talking, it would give the Secret Keeper a chance to escape his feelings over the Duke’s death. And knowing Zaharis, a puzzle was the best thing to divert his attention.

  Rangvaldr’s expression grew musing. “Funny thing is, a few of the Eyrr healers swore that it would stop certain poisons, but I always thought it was nothing more than—”

  Zaharis leapt to his feet so abruptly the Seiomenn nearly fell backward. “Poison!” The Secret Keeper’s fingers flashed. “How did I not see it?”

  He rushed across the clearing and threw himself to one knee beside the Duke.

  Aravon was a step behind the man. “What is it?”

  Zaharis gave no answer; his hands were too busy pawing at the man’s clothes, pulling up the Duke’s leather armored vest, fur-lined undercoat, and the thin tunic beneath. The moment Zaharis caught sight of the Duke’s exposed right side, a horrible keening sound burst from his tongueless mouth. His eyes darted toward Aravon, but instead of forming words, he thrust a finger toward a small, round mark just beneath the Duke’s ribs.

  Aravon frowned down at the tiny mark. Barely wider than a tailor’s needle, it bore a strong resemblance to a black sun spot or mole. Yet at the sight of the raised, red flesh around the black mark, Aravon’s eyes flew wide. “A wound?”

  Zaharis nodded.

  “From what?”
r />   For answer, Zaharis turned toward the camp and snapped his fingers. “My pack!” he signed. “Now!”

  Noll was the first to move, scooping up the Secret Keeper’s pack and racing across the clearing. Zaharis snatched it from him and nearly tore the drawstring in his hurry to open it. He dug through the contents before pulling out a tiny glass vial of clear liquid. Popping the cork, Zaharis poured a single drop onto the black mark. Instantly, the liquid began to bubble, turning black and filling the air with a terrible odor.

  Aravon bit back a cry at the sickening reek that rose from the Duke’s side.

  “Poison!” Zaharis’ eyebrows flew up toward his hairline, his fingers flashing at lightning speed. “No wonder my antidote remedies didn’t work! The Duke’s body wasn’t just battling Wraithfever—it was trying to fight off the poison as well.”

  Aravon sucked in a breath. “You’re sure?”

  Zaharis’ face had gone pale, a look of utter revulsion in his eyes, but he nodded. “This poison…I recognize it.” Horror tinged his expression. “A Secret Keeper poison. From the Temple of Whispers in Icespire.”

  Ice slithered down Aravon’s spine. “You mean…the Secret Keepers wanted him dead? Why? If they didn’t know that you were still alive on or Fehl—”

  “No!” Zaharis shook his head. “It’s not the sort of poison we Secret Keepers would ever use. Ours are more…sophisticated.” Distaste twisted his lips into a sneer. “The sort of poisons that would leave far less visible a trace. This.” He gestured toward the Duke’s body. “This is a poison we sell to the right kind of people with the right kind of coin. A lot of coin.”

  Aravon’s mind raced. “I’d ask if you’re certain, but—”

  “I’ve seen this poison nowhere else but in the Princelands,” Zaharis signed. “And it’s made from ingredients found only within a ten-mile radius of Icespire.”

  Aravon’s breath froze in his lungs. “So there’s no way the Fjall traitors could have done it.”

  Zaharis shook his head. “Not unless they got it from a Princelander.”