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

Author:Andy Peloquin [Peloquin, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Fantasy Fiends Publishing Inc.
Published: 2019-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

Aravon had heard of the Fjall’s sacrificial temples—the Blotahorgr, or “the place of blood and worship”—but never seen one in person. As with the wall of Storbjarg, he found himself impressed by the sheer size and scope of the construction.

Built from the same stone as the city wall with the same near-black mortar, the Blotahorgr was a massive dome that stood fully thirty feet high and sixty feet across. While many Princelander priests adorned their temples with marble, gold, or precious stone, the exterior of the Fjall’s temple was a glittering surface of black. The ghoulstone seemed even darker now that the sun had set, and the light of flickering torches reflected off the temple, casting eerie shadows.

Yet it was the temple’s interior that stood as the true marvel. The entire surface of the floor was paved with the same deeper-than-black ghoulstone, and the wooden pillars and support beams had been stained red—doubtless with the blood of slaughtered victims, enemies, or sacrificial animals. Suspended from the rafters hung hundreds, perhaps thousands of swords. Copper, bronze, iron, and steel blades, their sharp tips dangling over the heads of the five men who stood within the Blotahorgr.

Gyrd took his place at Throrsson’s left hand, with Grimar standing a step behind and to the right of the Hilmir. Throrsson’s right arm was wrapped around the shoulder of his son, Bjarni. Though the young man’s fever had broken, he still appeared gaunt, weakened by the disease. Yet he stood tall, clad in a warrior’s furs and chain mail, sword on his belt. In his eyes glimmered the same warrior’s spirit Aravon had seen among so many Legionnaires before—walking wounded determined to stand in the shield wall and fight the enemy beside their comrades, pain or injury be damned.

Behind the sacrificial altar stood a man, doubtless the Seiomenn of Storbjarg, with a beard and braided hair of pure white that had been dyed into long, lank streaks of red, black, and purple. Aravon glanced to the man’s neck, expecting to see a holy stone similar to Rangvaldr’s, but found none. It seemed not all Seiomenn had magical gemstones—perhaps that explained why Wraithfever had spread so widely among the Fjall.

The Seiomenn pounded an animal-hide drum and he chanted in an unfamiliar language—one that sounded like Fehlan, but far older, with a poetic intonation that flowed with the beat of the music, the clacking of the myriad bones entwined in his beard. The mélange of sounds echoed off the stone floors, rising to fill the temple and mingling with the thick haze of smoke that emanated from a stone bowl atop the sacrificial altar.

“You come to us with talk of peace, men of the Princelands.” The Hilmir’s voice rang in the temple, a deep, booming cadence that harmonized with the ceremonial music and chanting. “Yet we do not bandy our words, do not waste our breath on clever tricks of the tongue!”

The sudden tightening of Aravon’s stomach had nothing to do with the reek of smoke or the bloody décor.

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