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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Most are little more than a light snack, but a few are unfamiliar to me. There’s a chance one of them will do some good.”

  As Aravon’s eyes roamed over the mushrooms, he spotted something else. At the rear of the cave, just a few feet from where the Hilmir lay, a small aperture burrowed deeper into the earth. A tunnel?

  He snatched up the torch and held it up to the hole. Sure enough, though it was only wide enough for a grown man to crawl through, it opened up onto another similarly large cave beyond.

  Aravon turned back to Zaharis. “Try in there. You go deeper in, see what you can find. I’ll take care of the bodies.” Standing, he shook his head. “Can’t have anyone stumbling across the dead Eirdkilrs and finding our hiding place.”

  For answer, Zaharis nodded, a shadow darkening his eyes. Drawing out his quickfire globes, he got on his hands and knees and began crawling through the opening.

  Aravon turned and, leaving the torch within the cave, squeezed through the narrow opening into the night beyond. Darkness hung like a heavy blanket over the gully, broken only by the flickering, guttering light of a fallen Eirdkilr torch. The wind carried the metallic reek of blood and the stench of bowels loosened in death.

  Three enormous Eirdkilrs lay dead on the rocks covering the dried-up riverbed. One’s skull had been stoved in, his face slashed by the spikes of Zaharis’ mace. Another’s head was twisted at a grotesque angle, and the last barbarian’s eyes were wide, his hands still clutched around his crushed windpipe. Not for the first time, Aravon couldn’t help marveling at the Secret Keeper’s skill and lethality.

  Thank the Swordsman he’s with us. The display of combat mastery between Darrak and Zaharis had left him stunned.

  Stooping, Aravon seized one of the dead Eirdkilrs by the ankles and dragged the body into the shadows beside the cave. The seven-foot giant weighed far more than any man ought to, and the weight of his heavy fur cloak, chain mail, and helmet only made the task more difficult. Aravon was breathing hard and sweating harder by the time he set about hauling the third corpse out of sight. Any Eirdkilr marching up the gully would doubtless see the bodies, but they’d be invisible from above—the best he could do to conceal their presence.

  Ice slithered down his spine as a cry echoed from deep within the cave. High, piercing, a cry that he’d only heard once before. Whirling, Aravon released his grip on the dead Eirdkilr, snatched up his spear, and raced into the cave, in the direction Zaharis had gone. He scooped up the torch to light his way and scrambled through the narrow tunnel into the cave beyond. His spear led the way and he found his feet in a heartbeat, ready for whatever he’d find within.

  The second cave was nearly twice the size of the first, and rose in a near-perfect dome with hundreds of root tendrils dangling from the rounded earthen roof five feet above Aravon’s heart. Mushrooms by the thousands clung to the walls, filling the torch-lit cavern with a myriad of shades of brown, white, and red.

  Yet Aravon had eyes only for Zaharis, who knelt in the heart of the open space, hunched over a small mound of soft, damp earth.

  “Zaharis?” Aravon tensed, ready for anything. “What’s the—”

  Zaharis spun, a wild light in his eyes. His fingers formed no words in the silent hand language, simply pointed to the single pale blue flower growing from the mound.

  Aravon’s eyebrows shot upward. “Is it…ice saffron?” He scarcely dared breathe the words.

  Zaharis gave no reply. His gaze was locked on the little blue flower, his fingers twitching as he held the glass light globes up to its petals and studied it. He seemed frozen in time for a long moment, the only sound his breath coming in shallow, excited gasps. Yet, as the seconds dragged on, Aravon saw the tightening of the Secret Keeper’s shoulders, the hunch in his spine. Zaharis’ head drooped and, closing his eyes, he let out a long, shuddering breath.

  Without looking up at Aravon, his fingers signed, “It is not.”

  Aravon recalled the description Zaharis had given him. Pale blue flowers with crimson threads, growing in a cluster on thick stems that can grow up to two feet long. The threads of this flower were a brilliant gold, and the stem was thin, spindly.

  Sorrow thickened Aravon’s throat. The hunt for ice saffron meant so much to the man, and this was the third time he’d nearly found it, only to be disappointed by cold, hard reality. He rested a hand on the Secret Keeper’s shoulder. “You’ll find it, Zaharis.”

  “Will I?” Zaharis whirled on him, his eyes blazing yet tears streaming down his face. “Ten years, Captain. Ten years I’ve spent hunting this damned plant. Something that everyone else has told me doesn’t exist. I’ve lost friends, loves…” His fingers faltered, fell still, and he shook his head fiercely. “I’ve given up everything for this, Captain. And all I’ve got to show for it is this!”

  He ripped the flower savagely from the mound of earth and crushed it in his fist. “Nothing but empty hands and crushed hopes.”

  “Not nothing.” Aravon moved around to crouch in front of the man. “You’ve got us. We may not be Secret Keepers, but we’re as much your family and friends as anyone in your Temple of Whispers.” He gripped Zaharis’ shoulder tighter. “You’ve saved our lives a dozen times over. Not just us, but thousands more. Princelanders, Fehlans, even Einari. Everything you do makes a difference in this war. Even if you haven’t yet found the ice saffron, no one could ever say that your life meant nothing.”

  Zaharis stared at him, yet his eyes were unseeing, glazed over. The look of a man that had lost much and bore the burden of painful memories. Aravon had seen that same expression in the mirror, and in the eyes of thousands of Legionnaires before. Many men never recovered fully from whatever had shattered their spirits.

  But Aravon couldn’t let that happen to the Secret Keeper. His friend.

  “Here’s the truth.” He fixed Zaharis with a solemn stare. “I don’t know whether you’ll ever find what you seek. I don’t know if you’ll ever solve the mystery of the Elixir of Creation or unlock the Serenii’s secrets. But that won’t matter. Not to me, not to the Duke, to Rangvaldr, or anyone else in our company. Because we’re all better off just for knowing you and fighting beside you. Your life, your actions and choices, they’re the only reason we’re still alive. Remember that, Zaharis. Remember what you mean to us.”

  The sorrow didn’t fully leave Zaharis’ eyes, but he managed a smile midway between sadness and gratitude. “Thank you, Captain.” Distaste twisted his face and he stared down at his hands. The sap of the blue flower turned his hands sticky, making it difficult to form the hand signals. Yet curiosity blazed in his eyes, and he moved his hand closer to his face to sniff at the liquid. A slow smile tugged at his lips. “Turns out it wasn’t such a waste, after all.”

  Aravon cocked his head.

  “In my hunt for ice saffron, I’ve read about this plant. Winter’s Mist, it is called.” He scooped up the crushed blue petals with caution. “Mixed with the grapes fermenting for icewine, it makes a heady brew—one a friend of mine jokingly called the Elixir of Destruction.” His smile turned wry, yet for a moment, the sadness retreated. “Hangovers that not even Drunkard’s Salvation can cure.”

  “Your Secret Keepers learned from hard experience?” Aravon chuckled.

  “More often than not, yes.” Zaharis stood, cradling the delicate, bruised petals in his hand. “But on its own, it can be a potent painkiller and cleansing agent. Speeds up healing, too.”

  “Hah!” Aravon clapped the Secret Keeper on the back. “The gods provide.”

  Zaharis nodded, slowly. “Aye, so they do,” he signed one-handed. “Give me half an hour, and I’ll mix up something that’ll have the Hilmir back on his feet by daybreak.”

  Hope surged within Aravon. “Best news I’ve heard all night, my friend.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Throrsson sputtered and coughed, gagging as the contents of Zaharis’ quickly-brewed remedy slid down his throat. Yet, as his eyelids fluttered open, color re
turned to his cheeks and his eyes were bright, alert. He even managed to sit up with Aravon’s help, and leaned back against the cave wall with only a little groan of pain.

  “What…?” Confusion twisted his face as his eyes darted around. He seemed surprised to find himself in a cave, and his perplexity deepened at the sight of Aravon and Zaharis crouching over him. Then his confusion gave way to dark shadows of sorrow, anger, and dismay. “My men.”

  “Fought with the bravery and skill for which the Fjall are renowned.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, his tone gentle. “When this is over, all of Fehl will know that your men died as true warriors. Not bound and butchered by the Blodsvarri, but on their feet with steel in their hearts and hands.”

  Throrsson’s expression hardened. “Who are you, Captain Snarl?” His ice-blue eyes drilled into Aravon. “What manner of man risks his life as you did?”

  “A man who knows that the Hilmir’s life is worth more than a hundred of the finest Fjall warriors,” Aravon replied without hesitation. “Not because of his skill at arms, but because of his mind, his courage.” He leaned forward. “And what he represents to his men: hope, strength, and the promise of a better future. It is what Kings have always been. That, Hilmir, is more powerful than the sharpest sword and the strongest shield.”

  “Wise words. Words I would expect from the Duke of Eastfall.” Throrsson’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “I can see why he brought you and your comrades.” His eyes darted to Zaharis, who sat nearby grinding the pale blue petals of the Winter’s Mist flowers to a paste in his mortar. “Tell me that what I saw back there, the wall of fire and those thunderclaps loosed by Striith himself, that was not simply my imagination.”

  Aravon chuckled. “You’ve our Magicmaker there to thank for that display.” The stiffening of Zaharis’ shoulders only made Aravon smile broader; Rangvaldr truly had chosen the Secret Keeper’s code name well.

  “And you to thank for my life.” Throrsson reached out a hand, with only barely a wince. “Your actions prove you have the courage of any Fjall.”

  Aravon gripped the Hilmir’s forearm. “An honor.”

  “And the foolhardiness of a Princelander.” Throrsson shook his shaggy head. “I’d have beaten that behavior out of my warriors long ago.”

  Zaharis snorted. “If only he knew what other antics we’ve pulled,” he signed.

  Aravon chuckled and turned back to the Hilmir. “Let’s just say the risk was worth the reward. We’ve got you out of the Blodsvarri’s clutches. Now, all we need to do is get you back to your warband and—”

  “What of Storbjarg?” Throrsson growled. “Have you heard anything of my city?”

  Aravon’s eyes darkened. “No.” He hadn’t heard from Skathi on the fate of the Hilmir’s city…or Duke Dyrund. That worried him. “But my people should already be there now. They’ll assess the situation and send a report on the situation.”

  Throrsson tried to climb to his feet. “I must go to them,” he rumbled. Yet he’d barely risen halfway before his knees gave out and he wobbled, collapsing against the wall.

  Aravon caught the huge warrior just before he toppled to the side. “Not a good idea right now, Hilmir.” He pushed Throrsson back down to a sitting position—a task made easy by the man’s exhaustion and weakness from loss of blood. “You need food, drink, and rest before you try to travel.”

  “I cannot fail my city, too.” Throrsson’s voice was firm, his spirit strong despite his physical weakness.

  “Then stay alive.” Aravon gripped the man’s shoulder hard. “Live long enough to collect your warband and march with the Deid to face the Blodsvarri in proper battle. That is how you honor the warriors who fell yesterday.”

  Throrsson’s jaw muscles worked, setting his braided beard twitching, yet he relented and leaned back against the earthen wall.

  “Here.” Aravon drew out his waterskin and the small bundle of rations remaining to him. Throrsson hesitated, but Aravon insisted. “Eat, drink, and recover your strength. You will need it. As soon as you feel up to it, we’re moving out.”

  Zaharis caught Aravon’s attention with a snap of his fingers. “I’ll have another dose of this brew ready in an hour. Longer infusion time will make it more potent. Should help with the pain and keep him on his feet as we head out.”

  “Good.” Aravon turned back to the Hilmir. “My man will have something ready soon. His brew will keep you going until we can get back to safety.”

  Throrsson’s brow furrowed as he studied Zaharis crushing the blue petals. “You know, if my Seiomenn was here, he might believe that flower to be Reginkunnr.” He gave Aravon a wry smile. “But it cannot truly be the Flower Divine.”

  Zaharis was immediately on full alert. “Ask him what he’s talking about!” Excitement sparkled in his eyes.

  “What is this flower?” Aravon asked.

  “An ancient legend of the Fjall, nothing more.” Throrsson gave a dismissive wave, sending crumbs of the hard tack in his hands flying. “A plant given to mankind by Striith, a test of courage and a chance at immortality.”

  Zaharis glanced at Aravon, hope etched into every line of his face.

  “And your legends,” Aravon pressed. “Did they say where to find it, this Flower Divine?”

  Throrsson shrugged. “The Reginkunnr was said to grow only in the bitterest cold, yet for those brave enough to travel the wastes of Fehl, it offered a reward fit for the gods themselves.” He shook his head. “But that was long ago, in the days when the old, deep ice covered the lands. The days of Gunnarsdottir and Asvard Giantsbane. Even if such a legend was true, no one on Fehl has seen the Flower Divine.”

  The momentary excitement in Zaharis’ eyes died, the darkness returning to his eyes.

  “Such legends are a thing of the past,” Throrsson said. “We must look to the future—a future that we will never see if the Blood Queen has her way. She would see the Fjall destroyed, would claim our lands as her own.” He sat straighter, raised a clenched fist. “Not as long as I draw breath and have strength to swing a sword!”

  Aravon nodded. “You know where we are, yes?” he asked. “How far we will have to travel to rejoin your men and the Deid warband?”

  “These are my lands!” Throrsson’s eyes flashed. “The Tauld may have laid claim to them, but my people have fought and died for them since the days of the first Grimafaegir brotherhood. I know them as well as I know my own city.”

  “Good.” Aravon turned to Zaharis. “Think that’ll keep him going long enough to rejoin the others?”

  “It’ll dull the pain for a few hours, at least,” Zaharis signed. “If I get a chance to forage a bit, especially in dense forests, I ought to be able to come up with a few things to keep him on his feet.”

  “Excellent.” A plan had already begun to formulate in Aravon’s mind. “As soon as Zaharis is done, we’re out of here. What’s the nearest place we can get out of the flatlands and find decent cover?” he asked Throrsson.

  “Blarskogr, the Grim Forest, ten miles north of here.”

  Aravon grimaced. That’s a long way to run. No way they could ride double—the weight of two full-grown men would tire out even the hardy Kostarasar chargers. He and Zaharis would have to switch off riding and running, and they’d cover far less ground than if they’d had a third horse. But, at the moment, they had little choice.

  “So we use the cover of darkness to make for the forest,” Aravon continued. “Once there, we take shelter in the trees, and I’ll send word to my people. Get a report on Storbjarg, the Deid, and the Fjall warband. Someone will be keeping an eye on the Blood Queen.” Colborn, Noll, and Rangvaldr would all be awaiting word from him, but they wouldn’t be caught sitting on their arses. “We regroup with the others and make plans on how to hit back at the enemy.”

  “Hit back?” Throrsson raised an eyebrow. “With nearly five thousand of my warband dead or ill with Wraithfever, that leaves far too few to face the Tauld.”

  “We have the Deid,” Ara
von said. “And the Legion at Dagger—”

  “No!” Throrsson shook his head.

  Aravon bit down on an angry retort. Now wasn’t the time for such stubbornness, but shouting at Throrsson would do little good. He needed to think and talk like the Duke. Diplomacy and tact could convince the Hilmir. “All due respect, but you said it yourself. You have too few to face the enemy, even with the Deid.“

  “I will not hear of it.” Throrsson set his jaw, stubborn, his blunt features growing mulish. “The Legion will not step foot on Fjall lands as long as I still live!”

  Aravon clenched his teeth, but forced his voice to sound calm. “So be it.” He didn’t give up on the thought, simply tucked it away for later. It was more than likely the Hilmir would find himself forced to change his mind as the situation demanded. “We regroup, plan a new offensive, and strike the Blood Queen where it hurts most. She might have anticipated your ambush at the Waeggbjod, but she couldn’t have known about the Deid.” If she had, she wouldn’t have remained at the site of battle and indulged in her torturous fantasies.

  “And,” Aravon continued as a new thought struck him, “she couldn’t have known about the two thousand Fjall lying in wait.” The realization brought a measure of hope. “That means she won’t know how many men are holding Storbjarg, or that fully one-fifth of your warband is somewhere they can strike at her. We’ve got an advantage, one we can use to put some serious hurt on her at the right time and place.”

  Throrsson’s eyes narrowed. “I see the Duke didn’t bring you solely for your skill with that spear.” He thrust his chin at Aravon’s weapon. “Again I ask, who are you, Captain Snarl? Your mind is not that of a hired sword, or a nobleman like that fool who rode beside the Duke. You are a soldier, a commander of men. You have an authority that any leader would recognize.”

  Aravon inclined his head. “I was an officer in the Legion of Heroes, until the Eirdkilrs slaughtered my men.” That bit of information couldn’t hurt; Eirik Throrsson couldn’t possibly know him by name or face, though his father had a reputation among the Fehlans on both sides of the conflict. “But the Duke chose me to lead his hand-picked soldiers because he trusts me to look beyond the shield wall. I may not bear the title of Hilmir, but with our minds together, we can come up with a plan that the Blodsvarri will never be able to predict.”