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

by Andy Peloquin

  The nearest men began to weep—not out of fear at the prospect of death, but for their immortal souls. For men like the Fjall warband, battle and death was a religion ingrained into every fiber of their being. Their highest hope was to join their god and fellow warriors at the hallowed feast tables of Seggrholl. Not die as cowards to be cast out and suffer an eternal afterlife of nothingness.

  Throrsson knew that, knew the power it give him over their fates. “Yet I offer you a chance! I offer you Seggrholl.” His voice echoed across the hilltop, carrying with a ferocity that rang out louder than the clashing Eirdkilrs and Deid at the base of the hill. He turned a grim expression on his warriors. “Choose. Die here, dishonored, cast out forever from Striith’s embrace. Or take up your weapons and face the enemy like true Fjall. Die with sword and shield in hand as true warriors.” He waved his bloodstained sword toward the Eirdkilrs. “Go, strike at the Blodsvarri who threatened your families. Earn back your honor and perhaps Striith will grant you an afterlife of true warriors.”

  Sigbrand and a dozen Fjall warriors dumped shields, swords, and axes at the feet of the traitors.

  Throrsson thrust a finger at the weapons. “The choice is yours.”

  The forty-odd remaining warriors stared between the weapons and their Hilmir. A tense silence hung over the hilltop, and it seemed even the sounds of battle from below quietened as the traitors chose their fates.

  One man knelt and reached for a sword and shield. “With this, I regain my honor as a true warrior of Fehl.”

  That opened the floodgates. Every man still alive retrieved weapons and turned to face the enemy. The ranks of Fjall parted, making way for the traitors to march through the lines of warriors, between the barricades, and down the hill.

  “By the will of Striith,” the Hilmir called as the ranks closed behind them, “fight and die like men!”

  The traitorous warriors exchanged glances. They had expected to win, to defeat the Hilmir and serve the Blodsvarri, only to find themselves condemned by their cowardice and treachery. But, with this action, they bought back their chance at an afterlife.

  To their credit, not a single one wavered. Down the hill they charged, moving in an easy, loping run. Silent, without cries to their god or in the name of the Hilmir they had betrayed. A grim band of Fehlan warriors marching to their death. Courageous in the face of certain doom, all for the hope of evading eternal damnation.

  The Eirdkilrs saw them coming from thirty yards away. Contempt twisted the Blodsvarri’s face as she spotted the charging warriors. At her barked command, a hundred Eirdkilrs swiveled to face the Fjall.

  Yet the charge never slowed. Impossible odds or not, they had given their words and they would face death like men. A warrior’s death in battle, as all Fjall craved. It didn’t matter that they would never draw within striking distance of the Blood Queen—they would regain their dignities and die with honor.

  The Eirdkilrs cut the fifty Fjall down in less than a minute. Aravon forced himself to watch the butchery, to not turn away until the last of the warriors fell. They had been traitors, but their final, courageous actions deserved his respect.

  At the Hardrfoss River crossing, the battle had degenerated into swirling chaos. The Eirdkilr and Deid shield walls had broken apart, disintegrated into two lines of shoving, grunting, shouting, and howling warriors. Battering at each other with heavy axes, spears, swords, and clubs, clashing shields, filling the air with curses and war cries. Screams echoed like thunder as men killed and died. Booted feet churned the water to mud, the river turning a gruesome crimson as blood thickened the water.

  Yet the sight sent hope surging through Aravon. The Eirdkilrs had been pushed back at least ten yards, and the Deid had advanced onto the eastern riverbank, spreading out to envelop the enemy line, moving uphill to encircle them from the north. With the forest at their backs, the Eirdkilrs were off-balance.

  “Hilmir!” Aravon called. “Now’s the time for us to strike! We’ve got to help the Deid break the Blood Queen’s back once and for all.”

  “Indeed.” Eirik Throrsson turned to his men. “Come, warriors of the Fjall. Our enemy is on the defensive, and our brothers in arms battle alone. Let us show them the true might of Fjall courage and steel.”

  A voice rose from the crowd in a throaty roar. “Hilmir!” Within seconds, the rest of the Fjall took up the chant. “Hilmir! Hilmir!” Seven hundred and fifty warriors shouted, chanted, and cheered for their chief. Their King.

  Aravon turned, found Belthar hovering at his back. With a nod, Aravon turned to join the flood of Fjall racing through the barricades and down the steep hill toward the Eirdkilrs.

  Howling, piercing Eirdkilr war cries rent the air in that moment. But not from those arrayed around the base of Hangman’s Hill. These came from the southeast, from across the river.

  With a roar, Eirdkilrs boiled from the forests behind the Deid’s position. A stampeding, thundering, screaming tide of blue-stained faces, filthy icebear pelts, and massive weapons. Scores, hundreds, then thousands of the towering barbarians spilled into the grasslands east of the river and charged the Deid warriors holding the crossing.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Aravon sucked in a breath. Impossible! He hadn’t received word from Lord Eidan of enemies approaching from the east, and the Hilmir had insisted the Blood Queen’s forces were limited to the men that now surrounded her. The only enemy force in Fjall lands that large was…

  No! An icy dagger twisted in his spine. They’re from the Bulwark.

  The Blood Queen had pulled her besiegers away from Dagger Garrison to augment the forces assaulting Storbjarg. Knowing that she had the Hilmir on the run wasn’t enough for her—she’d summoned fully two-thirds of that besieging force to guarantee that she crushed him.

  Keeper take her! Aravon cursed himself. She had to have summoned them days ago in case the Deid actually did end up joining battle.

  Neither he nor the Hilmir had expected her to abandon her siege of the Bulwark, much less expect or prepare for a Deid counterattack. Yet the fact that she’d raided Gold Burrows Mine to dissuade the Deid from joining battle proved that she could think far ahead—farther than either Aravon or Throrsson had realized before the ambush at the Waeggbjod. That degree of foresight was terrifying, and exactly what had made the Blood Queen such a fearsome opponent.

  And Aravon’s failure to anticipate her response cost the Deid dearly. Svein Hafgrimsson’s horn blared, two sharp blasts, and the rearmost warriors at the crossing turned to face the rear assault.

  Too late.

  The Eirdkilrs barreled into them at a dead run. The giant barbarians picked up speed slowly, but like a boulder rolling down a mountainside, brought terrible force to bear when at full tilt. They crashed into the Deid warband with the momentum of a Legion cavalry charge. They lacked the weight and bulk of horses, but the blue-faced bastards more than made up for it in ferocity.

  Enormous war axes flashed, sending heads spinning into the river or hacking through arms, cracking ribs, shearing off legs. Spears drove into the Deid, cutting through the tightly packed ranks as effectively as any company of lancers. Skulls crumpled and bones shattered beneath the blows of heavy clubs. Fehlan warriors collapsed or were hurled backward into their comrades as the Eirdkilrs drove their metal-bossed shields into their enemies.

  The tide of Eirdkilrs washed over the Deid like a wave crashing into a sand sculpture. A tenth of the Deid warband died in the charge and initial clash, and the giant barbarians waded into their enemies with howling war cries, eyes blazing with hatred, and relentless savagery.

  Swordsman’s mercy! Aravon’s stomach bottomed out. They’d been a heartbeat away from a victory they’d once believed impossible, only to have it all ripped away again by the Blodsvarri’s cunning.

  The Eirdkilrs pushed the Deid backward across the ford, spreading out to form a solid wall of flesh, muscle, and fury against the warriors Hafgrimsson managed to shout into formation. The Blood Queen�
�s forces, reduced in number and a heartbeat from crumbling, greeted the reinforcements with howling cries that rang with sanguinary glee. They shoved back against the Deid, hurling them backward. Like an anvil striking a hammer, the two Eirdkilr armies closed in on Hafgrimsson’s men from the west and east.

  Deid fell by the hundreds. Bleeding, shrieking, gasping, clutching at torn throats and shattered limbs. The ferocity of the Eirdkilrs shattered their shields, arms, and the courage in their hearts. In an instant, their successful attack turned into a bloody rout.

  Only the narrowness of the river crossing saved the Deid. The Eirdkilrs could only come at them forty or fifty at a time, with the main bulk of their force waiting until the foremost pressed the Deid far enough from the shallow ford that they could spill out onto the slopes of Hangman’s Hill.

  That’s it!

  A desperate plan formed within Aravon’s mind. The Eirdkilrs couldn’t truly surround the Deid at the crossing, but if the Deid tried to hold the ford, they’d be cut down from behind. Yet the Eirdkilrs hadn’t cut off their way of escape. The Deid had pushed the Blood Queen’s forces back enough to encircle them from the north, and they held the lowest twenty yards of the hill.

  There’s only one chance at getting them out alive. The Deid would suffer heavy casualties as they disengaged, but their losses would be far worse if they held fast. We’ve got no choice!

  Whirling, Aravon sought out the Hilmir. Throrsson nodded. “We do what we can to cover them as they pull back up the hill!” Evidently, he’d come to the same conclusion as Aravon.

  “We go now!” Aravon shouted in Fehlan. “They saved our arses. Time to return the favor!”

  Raising his sword, the Hilmir roared. “For Fehl!”

  Seven hundred and fifty Fjall warriors, less than one tenth of the Hilmir’s once-proud warband, took up the cry. Swords and axes clashed against shields. Bloodied, battered, and wounded warriors exhausted from battle raised their voices in thundering war cries. Shouting, screaming, hurling their fury and spite at the enemy that had razed their homes, slaughtered their families and friends, and turned comrades traitor. Defiance blazed in their eyes and steeled their hearts. The ground shuddered beneath their pounding feet as they raced down the hill.

  Aravon strode toward the center barricades and reached for his spear. With a savage yank, he tore the steel head free of the wood and Grimar’s corpse. The traitor’s body thumped to the ground and slid down the short earthen mound, his blood joining that of the Eirdkilrs and Fjall that had fallen there. Aravon didn’t waste time on a curse for the man—he didn’t deserve even that much.

  Gripping the ash shaft of his spear tighter, Aravon turned to join the charge. Belthar’s huge form appeared at his side. “I’ve got your back, Captain!” the big man shouted in his ear. His shoulders were tense, his axe held in white-knuckled hands, but a grim light of determination shone in his eyes.

  Together, the two joined the stream of Fjall racing downhill. The current of fur-clad warriors broke into five long lines that threaded between the spike pits, hurtled the fallen logs, and pelted across the stone-strewn slope. Dozens stumbled over the uneven ground and died beneath the trampling feet of their comrades or brought down the warriors behind and beside them. The Fjall’s charge slowed as they picked their way over the jagged rocks. Aravon managed to keep his feet, though he had to catch Belthar when the big man stumbled. Yet in seconds, they had made it over the stones and resumed their charge down the last thirty yards of the hill.

  “Hilmir!” The Fjall’s roar echoed loud above the din of battle, and the Blodsvarri’s eyes snapped toward them. Disdain flickered across her blood-encrusted face as she ordered her men to meet the charge.

  Throrsson and his warriors smashed into the ranks of Eirdkilrs with a hundred deafening crashes. Shield struck shield, steel met flesh, bones shattered. Blood flowed freely as the Fjall hammered the Eirdkilr line. No longer a solid wall of shields, the Fjall were an unstoppable force of fury, with their Hilmir at the head of their formation—a driving arrowhead that punched into the Eirdkilrs arrayed against the Deid on the western edge of the hill.

  The moment he passed the rocky ground, Aravon broke off from the main force and sprinted right, toward the embattled Deid. His eyes scanned the ranks of warriors for the familiar figure clad in mottled armor. Rangvaldr stood in the shield wall as if born to it. Three rows from the front, pressing forward, his sword thrusting, stabbing, hacking, and chopping over the heads and between the shields of his comrades. Yet unlike the warriors fighting at his side, the Seiomenn had managed to keep his head. At Hafgrimsson’s side, he directed the flow of battle, keeping the encircled Deid warriors from collapsing.

  “Stonekeeper!” Aravon had to shout over the din of battle. Belthar lent his prodigious, booming voice to the endeavor, and together they shouted to the Seiomenn. “Stonekeeper!”

  Rangvaldr’s snarling wolf mask swiveled toward the sound of his code name, and his eyes widened at the sight of Aravon and Belthar.

  The fingers of Aravon’s free hand flashed. “Get the Deid up the hill. Stand with the Fjall.”

  Rangvaldr nodded and swiveled to Chief Svein Hafgrimsson. An instant was all it took to convince the Deid chief to give the order. Hafgrimsson clapped the horn to his lips and blew four sharp blasts.

  The warriors holding the hill had no trouble breaking off—with the steep riverbank at their backs and a reduced force arrayed against them, they could pull away without sustaining heavy casualties. But those crowded at the base of the hill and around the shallow crossing were harder-pressed to stay alive, much less disengage with any semblance of cohesion. Long seconds passed before the Deid even began to retreat up the hill. Hundreds fell in the space of a dozen hammering heartbeats, and still the warriors couldn’t properly separate from their enemies.

  Aravon’s heart sank as he glanced to his left and found the Hilmir embattled, his seven hundred and fifty Fjall facing a force of twice as many Eirdkilrs. The downhill charge had driven the enemy back a few steps, clearing the way for the Deid’s left flank to pull back. But his spear formation had punched too far into the Eirdkilr ranks. The force of Throrsson’s downhill charge had driven a wedge deep into the Blood Queen’s ranks. Too far.

  He wanted to bring down the Blood Queen himself! Aravon realized.

  Now, Throrsson found himself bogged down deep in his enemy’s lines. His momentum slowed, he, Sigbrand, Bjarni, and the score of Fjall beside him struggled to hold their own against more than thrice their number.

  Worse, the Eirdkilrs’ superior numbers were beginning to take a heavy toll on the Fjall’s formation. The barbarians at the Blood Queen’s side had swung around and hammered at the Fjall from the west. Their thrust had pushed the middle of the Hilmir’s formation back, and Throrsson’s men in the lead were in danger of being encircled.

  “Belthar!” Aravon shouted. He didn’t wait to see if the big man followed—he simply raced the ten yards down the hill to where the Hilmir’s warriors were locked in battle with the Eirdkilrs.

  There was no shield wall, no densely-packed ranks of warriors to shove through. The Fjall line had splintered just as it shattered the Eirdkilr line. Now, barbarians and Fehlan swirled around in knots of combat. Men screaming, dying, and hurling curses as they clashed shields, locked swords, or howled defiance at their enemies.

  Aravon raced across the ground, churned to bloody mud by a thousand feet, and leapt into the melee. Whirling his spear around his head, he slapped aside an Eirdkilr club, disemboweled the barbarian with a savage swipe, and drove the sharp tip into another’s neck. The iron-capped butt of his spear crunched into an Eirdkilr with bone-shattering force and the man went down, screaming. Belthar’s axe whistled past Aravon’s head and split the Eirdkilr’s steel skullcap, head, and neck in one powerful chop. Aravon knocked aside a spear thrust at Belthar’s chest and drove his own spear through a leather-clad chest. The barbarian died, screaming and spitting crimson. Gore splashed across Aravon�
��s face and soaked his hands. Hands that had once again clenched in a death grip on the blood-slicked shaft of his spear.

  With Belthar at his side, Aravon carved his way through the battling warriors, surging toward the Hilmir and his warriors. The Eirdkilrs hadn’t yet managed to push the Fjall back enough to encircle them, and Aravon would be damned if he let it happen. Thrusting, hacking, stabbing, slashing, and thrusting, he brought down any Eirdkilr that got in his way. All the while trusting Belthar would guard his back.

  “Hilmir!” Aravon shouted over the din of battle. Clashing steel and screaming men drowned out his voice. His boots slipped on muddy ground and he fell, hard, only to be hauled to his feet by Belthar. Turned in time to drive his spear into the throat of the Eirdkilr that had come up behind the big man. Ducking as Belthar swung his axe to decapitate another barbarian on Aravon’s left.

  Aravon had no time to thank Belthar—he was too busy fighting for his life. For the life of the Hilmir, Bjarni, Colborn, Belthar, and every Fehlan and Princelander that faced the Eirdkilrs.

  The world narrowed in around him, a red haze edging his vision. He saw nothing but the Eirdkilrs that stood between him and Throrsson. Thirty of them, hacking down the Fjall warriors surrounding the Hilmir. Blue-stained faces, blood-soaked furs, and rusting chain mail on bodies far too large to be fully human.

  With a snarl, Aravon hurled himself toward the barbarians and unleashed every bit of pent-up rage and fury.

  The Eirdkilrs had slaughtered his friends and comrades of Sixth Company to a man. They’d slain innocent Eyrr at Oldrsjot and killed half the warriors of Bjornstadt. Draian, their Mender. Hundreds of Princelander miners at Silver Break and Gold Burrows Mines. Three hundred and seventy-eight Legionnaires and Westhaven regulars at Rivergate. Thousands of the Hilmir’s warband, tens of thousands of Fjall citizens. Men, women, and children that had done nothing wrong but strive to exist in the same world as the Eirdkilrs.