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

by Andy Peloquin

  Duke Dyrund. Thoughts of the Duke’s fever-bright face and gaunt frame set a blaze of fury in his chest. The Eirdkilrs had been the ones to blame for that. They had forced him into hiding, which had exposed him to the Wraithfever. Because of them, Aravon had nearly lost one of the most important people in his life.

  And he’d be damned if they didn’t pay for it.

  His spear whirled, darted, struck, and stabbed, felling Eirdkilrs before they saw him coming. Rage burned in his veins, drove back his pain until nothing remained but the desire to kill. To make the Eirdkilrs suffer as they had made Gyrd and the Hilmir’s warriors suffer near the Waeggbjod.

  Then, so suddenly it staggered him, he had broken through the ranks of Eirdkilrs and drawn within two steps of Throrsson, Bjarni, and Sigbrand. “Hilmir!” he screamed. “We need to—”

  Pain exploded in his right side. The blow hurled him backward and knocked him to the ground. A heavy boot stamped down hard on his right arm, pinning his spear to the ground. Stunned and reeling, Aravon barely managed to look up in time to see the Eirdkilr standing over him, axe upraised to strike.

  Steel flashed and the barbarian’s head spun from his shoulders. Blood sprayed over Aravon. Aravon managed to turn away in time to keep it from his eyes, but the hot, warm fluid seeped down his mask and into the collar of his leather armor. When he turned back, Belthar stood over him, legs spread in a defensive stance, protecting Aravon with his axe and his hulking body.

  Aravon tugged at his right arm, found his spear trapped beneath the body of the headless Eirdkilr. With pain racing along his side, he rose to his feet and struggled to free his spear. He’d just torn it out from beneath the dead enemy and spun back to the battle when he caught sight of the Eirdkilr charging Belthar. The big man, so focused on protecting Aravon, never saw it coming.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  “Belthar!” Aravon screamed.

  The huge club smashed into the side of Belthar’s huge head with bone-shattering force. The big man went down hard, sprawling in the bloody mud.

  A wordless cry of rage burst from Aravon’s lips and he drove his spear into the Eirdkilr’s chest. So hard it punched through steel, ribs, organs, and out the barbarian’s back. When he tore it free, the Eirdkilr collapsed forward, his huge body slumping atop Belthar.

  Aravon had no time to see if Belthar still lived—no time to do anything but grab Belthar’s arm with his free hand and set about dragging the man backward, up the hill. An Eirdkilr charged, forcing him to drop the big man’s wrist and use both hands to turn aside the blow. Cutting down the man with a vicious slash of his spear, Aravon grabbed Belthar again and struggled.

  In vain. Aravon was strong, but Belthar had to weigh nearly as much as a bloody horse, with the bulk of the dead Eirdkilr atop him.

  Swordsman, help me!

  Rangvaldr appeared at Aravon’s side, seizing Belthar’s other arm. Together, the two of them dragged the big man out from beneath the dead Eirdkilr, through the swirling knots of combat, and back up the hill.

  “Fall back!” Eirik Throrsson’s booming voice rang out from just ahead of Aravon. “Back!”

  The Fjall broke off their combat as best they could, leaving dozens of corpses—Fehlan and Eirdkilr—sprawled on the muddy, blood-soaked ground. Throrsson’s attack had bought the Deid a few seconds, time enough to pull back and retreat up the hill. Not without casualties. Fewer than two thousand Fehlans survived to join the shield wall forming on the slope forty yards above the Eirdkilrs’ position at the crossing and the base of Hangman’s Hill.

  To Aravon’s relief, the Eirdkilrs didn’t give chase. The Blood Queen’s remaining eight or nine hundred were exhausted from non-stop fighting for…Keeper’s teeth, has it already been two hours?

  Even the Eirdkilrs from the Bulwark seemed unwilling to pursue battle, for the moment. They’d traveled more than a hundred and twenty miles across Fjall lands to reach Hangman’s Hill, doubtless setting a punishing pace to arrive in time. Ferocity and impossible strength and stamina aside, the Eirdkilrs were still human and as such, needed rest, air, and sustenance as much as any Princelander or Fehlan. Their war cries had given way to gasping, panting breaths, too exhausted to howl at their enemies.

  But one look at the smug satisfaction that stained the Blood Queen’s face told Aravon exactly what she was thinking. And she was right. She had them trapped. With her reinforcements once more holding the crossing and the bridge destroyed, the Hilmir had nowhere to run.

  Worse. In saving the Deid, he’d given up the advantage of the steep hill, the barricades atop the summit, and his traps. Throrsson had relinquished anything that might have compensated for his reduced numbers. Even with the remaining fourteen hundred Deid joining ranks with the Hilmir’s six hundred, the Eirdkilrs outnumbered them three to two.

  Yet, to their credit, neither the Deid or Fjall warband faltered. Exhaustion lined their bloodstained faces, but not a one showed any sign of cowardice, any desire to retreat. They stood firm, shields locked together, Hafgrimsson’s gray greatwolf beside the heavy black bear that was Eirik Throrsson. Defiance, hatred, and determination blazed in the eyes of every Fehlan in that line.

  The Blood Queen was no longer simply a threat; she had murdered their people, destroyed their homes, and slain their comrades. The blood of brothers, kinsmen, and friends turned the ground to mud beneath their feet. Every man in the shield wall line would die here rather than surrender to the Blodsvarri.

  Pride glowed within Aravon. They weren’t Legionnaires, yet in that moment, there was no one beside whom he’d rather stand and fight. Men battling for their homes, their lives, and their futures.

  He tensed as the Eirdkilr ranks parted and the Blood Queen strode forward.

  “Eirik Throrsson!” Fire blazed in the Blodsvarri’s eyes, a violent edge to her voice. “The might of the Fjall die here this day, and with them, their traitorous cousins of the Deid. Your collusion with the wretched Eird has doomed you.”

  “Save your venomous words, Vigdis Orridottir.” Throrsson spat. “It will do you no good. Your power on Fehl is shattered, and it is we who have shattered it. Slink home to your master and tell him you have failed. Then we will see how Tyr Farbjodr rewards those who disappoint him!”

  The Blood Queen’s high-pitched laughter rang out, echoed off the steep hillside. “Proud words, Hilmir. Worthy of your great-grandfather. And you will die just as he did, a bearhound shorn of claws and stripped of fur. Only this time, there will be no one left to mourn you. Your warriors will face the Tolfraedr, even if I have to rip them from Seggrholl with my own hands. Their corpses will feed the Bein for years to come. And your proud head, Hilmir of the Fjall, will be mounted at—”

  The Blood Queen’s head suddenly snapped to the side, as if someone had driven a fist into her temple. No, not a fist. Aravon’s eyes flew wide as he recognized the red fletching of the arrow that sprouted from the side of her neck. The woman toppled, gurgling, blood spraying from the torn vein beside her throat.

  Aravon whirled to his right. A lone figure stood on the hill across the Hardrfoss. Clad in mottled leather armor and clutching a longbow, with a quiver of red-fletched arrows slung over his shoulder.

  Yes! A defiant laugh burst from Aravon’s lips as Noll drew another arrow, nocked, and raised his bow.

  But the scout hadn’t come alone. From the woods behind him, a full company of lightly-armored Agrotorae spilled out onto the hill. Arrows already nocked, they drew back and, at a command from the dark-haired woman in the lead, loosed. Two hundred and fifty arrows whistled through the air and rained down death onto the Eirdkilrs gathered at the ford.

  Then came a new sound, like the rumbling of distant thunder, growing louder with every heartbeat. Two hundred warhorses clad in heavy plate armor burst into view from the western forest, a gleaming line of heavily-armored soldiers bearing long, steel-tipped lances. Lances that lowered toward the Eirdkilrs amassed at the Hardrfoss crossing. The column of glimmering steel close
d the distance to the enemy in the space of a half-dozen heartbeats.

  The Eirdkilrs, caught off-guard by the suddenness of the assault and their leader’s death, barely managed to turn in time to face the new threat. The Agrotorae had kept up a steady rate of fire all the time, loosing ten shafts each in the time it took the cavalry to close. Yet with the precision that made them so damned effective in battle, the stream of arrows slacked off two seconds before the cavalry tore into the Eirdkilrs.

  Even prepared, with their huge shields for protection, the Eirdkilrs could not stand before the towering warhorses and the force of that charge. Lances punched through wooden shields, chain mail, and barbarian flesh. Drawing long, heavy swords with a curved blade designed for slashing, the cavalry raked across the front of the Eirdkilr’s hastily formed line. Barbarians died by the scores, their screams swallowed beneath the rumbling boom of the horses’ hooves.

  Then the cavalry was across the ford and splashing onto the flat land spread out at the base of the hill. Heavy sabers rose and fell, Eirdkilr blood sprayed, and the horses pounded past along the front of the line. Steel-clad mounts trampled the silent corpse of the Blood Queen into the crimson-tinged muck and mire. Down the wall of Eirdkilrs they raced, swords cutting down enemies by the dozen. Just before they got bogged down in the marshlands east of the hill, they wheeled left and pounded a few yards up the hill. With military precision, they circled back around to the west and galloped in front of the Fehlan line with a salute of their bloodied swords.

  The Fjall and Deid roared, hurling insults not at the Legion horsemen, but at the stunned ranks of Eirdkilrs. Their cheers redoubled as shield-bearing Legionnaires marched out of the forest on the eastern side of the Hardrfoss. Hundreds, all bearing the black armor of Onyx Battalion, forming up quickly into shield walls of solid black. With the slow, determined pace of professional soldiers, they advanced toward the scattered, disorganized Eirdkilrs holding the crossing.

  Aravon saw the look in the Eirdkilrs’ eyes: their center of gravity was shattered, their forces in disarray, surrounded by far too many men to defeat. Exhausted from battle and long travel, bloodied by Fjall, Deid, and Legion attacks.

  For the first time in Aravon’s memory, the Eirdkilrs broke. With howls of rage, they turned and fled into the marshes to the west and the forests to the south. So swiftly, it seemed the barbarians were there one moment and gone the next. But within less than thirty seconds, the Eirdkilrs were streaming out of sight and crashing through the trees and wetlands.

  No Fjall or Deid gave chase. None of them so much as moved, doubtless as surprised as Aravon by the Eirdkilrs’ flight. Yet after a long moment, cheers and shouts of triumph burst from Fehlan throats. Two thousand of the Hilmir and Hafgrimsson’s men took up the cries, until the sound of their elation echoed off the hills and set the nearby forests trembling,

  Realization struck Aravon like a hammer blow. We won! A triumphant laugh bubbled in his chest, and he let it loose. By the Swordsman, we bloody did it! Against all odds, in the face of certain defeat, they had defeated the Blood Queen.

  A wave of exhaustion settled over Aravon like a leaden blanket. He was tired, so damned tired. He’d have fallen if he hadn’t had his spear to lean on, would have dropped his spear had it not been resting against the ground. The injuries in his shoulders, chest, and side returned with a vengeance, setting every muscle in his body throbbing. He doubted he’d ever pry his right hand loose of his spear; his fingers had formed stiff claws, his glove caked in sticky, crusting blood.

  Yet he welcomed the pain. It meant he was alive. Alive, and victorious.

  Four horsemen splashed across the Hardrfoss and trotted up the hill toward them. The foremost, a man with the dark hair, manicured beard, and angular features common to mainlanders, wore the high-plumed helmet of the Legion Commander. To his right and left rode two Captains, likely his aides. And in the rear came Noll, his compact frame seeming even smaller on the enormous Kostarasar charger that towered over the Legionnaires’ horses.

  The Legion commander drew his horse to a halt before Throrsson. “Heil og sael, Hilmir,” he said, his Fehlan bearing the heavy accent of the mainland city of Voramis. “I am Galerius, Commander of Onyx Battalion.” He gave a crisp Legion salute and leaned forward in his saddle, grinning down at Throrsson. “Seems we arrived just in time.”

  Aravon’s spine stiffened. The Hilmir’s face revealed no trace of mirth, but his eyes had gone dark, angry. “I told your Duke the Legion was not welcome on Fjall soil,” he growled.

  Aravon snorted. “Technically, we’re not on Fjall soil.” He gestured to the hill behind them. “The Deid did claim this land in the Battle of Banamadrhaed.”

  “Aye, so we did!” Pride shone in Chief Svein Hafgrimsson’s eyes. “And, as we proved today, the Deid are every bit the warriors the Fjall believe themselves to be.”

  Throrsson’s jaw muscles worked, and his bushy eyebrows drew together. But to Aravon’s relief, a slow smile played across his lips and he gave Hafgrimsson a curt nod. “Indeed.” He held out a hand to the Deid chief. “And for that, you have our gratitude.”

  The Deid chief clasped his hand. “Save your gratitude. Send us a dozen casks of Ornntadr mead and we’ll call it even.”

  Throrsson grunted. “We’re not that grateful.” With a shake of his head, he turned back to the Legion officer. “As for you, Commander Galerius of Onyx Battalion, perhaps, this once, I will not begrudge the Legion presence here.”

  “Generous of you.” Sarcasm tinged Galerius’ tone. “Now, Hilmir, if we’re done with the pleasantries, it is time the Deid, Fjall, and Princelands speak of what to do about the three thousand Eirdkilrs that just abandoned the field. Not to mention , those still occupying Fjall lands.”

  “As long as you understand that the Legion is not welcome in my kingdom,” Throrsson retorted, “we will have that conversation.”

  Aravon didn’t bother listening to Commander Galerius’ response. He’d fulfilled his duty to the Hilmir, and with the Duke opening the way for negotiations, Commander Galerius had a decent shot at convincing Throrsson to let the Legion and Hafgrimsson’s Deid warriors lend a hand. And, though he’d never met Commander Galerius, Aravon knew of the man’s reputation. A decent officer, respected among his fellow Commanders and the Legionnaires under his command, and a strategist on par with the best on Fehl. He would handle the negotiations and plans for the future well enough.

  Now, Aravon had to focus on his own men. He turned to the scout sitting mounted behind the two Legion aides. “You cut it awfully close, Noll,” Aravon signed one-handed.

  The Legion could cover upwards of thirty miles a day if pushed. Hammer Garrison, where Aravon had sent Noll to intercept Onyx Battalion, was little more than a hundred miles away. At top speed, they should have reached Hangman’s Hill the previous night.

  He shook his head. “And here I thought you Legion scouts worked quickly.”

  Noll nudged his horse into a walk, moving around the conversing Hilmir, Hafgrimsson, and Commander Galerius. “You know how I like to make an entrance.” He shrugged. “Took the Commander a while to accept my bona fides, even with the Prince’s insignia. And, it turns out Legionnaires march far too damned slowly for a scout like me.” A snort echoed from beneath his mask. “I’m just glad Skathi didn’t make the shot before I did.”

  “She’s not here.” Aravon shook his head.

  “And you’re lucky she wasn’t.” Colborn’s voice echoed from behind Aravon. As he came to stand on Aravon’s right, he switched to the silent hand language, as well. “She’d never let you hear the end of it for missing.”

  “Missing?” The word burst from Noll’s lips. The heads of the two Legion aides, Commander Galerius, and both Fehlan chiefs turned toward him.

  Noll ducked his head and moved closer to Aravon, away from the conversing warriors behind him. “I didn’t miss,” he said in the silent hand language. He thrust a finger toward the trampled, mangled corpse lying face-up in
the grass. The red fletching of Noll’s arrow still protruded from the Blood Queen’s neck. “I got her dead center.”

  “Oh?” Colborn cocked his head. “I’d have sworn you were aiming for her eyes.”

  Noll’s crude gesture wasn’t suitable for even rough company, but Aravon was too glad to see the scout here to bother correcting him.

  “Belthar and Rangvaldr?” Colborn signed.

  Aravon’s gut tightened, worry humming through his bones. Belthar had taken a bad head wound protecting him. He hadn’t had time to check on the big man, but now that the battle was over…

  He spun toward the spot where he’d left Belthar after dragging him out of the battle line. There, Rangvaldr knelt over the big man. The Seiomenn had removed Belthar’s helmet, revealing an ugly, bloody mess on the side of Belthar’s head. Rangvaldr had the Eyrr holy stone pendant pressed to his masked face. Slowly, the blue gemstone brightened, gleaming with an inner light, bathing him in a soft cerulean glow. Rangvaldr pressed the stone to the bloodied side of Belthar’s head and remained kneeling, head bowed.

  As Aravon had seen at Bjornstadt, the holy stones worked their magic instantly. The trickle of blood from Belthar’s scalp slowed and stopped. Flesh re-knit before Aravon’s eyes, the wound sealing itself, the bruises fading, though not disappearing altogether.

  But the healing magic worked. Belthar’s eyelids fluttered open, and his glassy eyes slowly focused on the faces of the four men standing over him.

  Relief flooded Aravon, and he knelt at Belthar’s side. “Welcome back, Ursus.”

  “Wha…” Belthar’s voice was heavy, his word slurring. When he tried to sit upright, he groaned and his eyes wobbled.

  “Easy.” Aravon pressed a hand to the man’s enormous shoulder. “That head wound’s bad. Even with the Stonekeeper’s magic, you’re going to be out of it for a while.”

  “I-I’ll be fine, sir.” With laborious effort, Belthar shoved himself up onto one elbow, then managed to sit. “Just knocked a few bats loose in my attic.”