Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  But that's not right! I'm still alive.

  Aravon struggled back toward consciousness. He hadn't died with his company.

  How? The question pushed through the whirling chaos of his mind. How did I get here? And where is here?

  Though it required a superhuman effort, Aravon forced his eyes to open.

  "He's coming back." Draian's voice sounded distant.

  Aravon focused on that sound, used it to drag himself out of his exhausted stupor.

  "Can you give him something to keep him awake a while longer?" the second voice asked.

  "I can, but…"

  "Do it." There was no hesitation, no question in that voice.

  So familiar…

  Something warm and spicy slipped down Aravon's throat. A rush of warmth surged in his chest and his heart hammered faster, faster, pounding so hard his ribs ached. Energy coursed within his veins. When he opened his eyes again, the world around him swam into focus.

  The room was small and sparse, with rough ceiling beams and unadorned wooden walls. A candle burned on a table beside his bed. A camp chair, the sort carried by Legion officers, sat opposite the simple door.

  Draian bent over him, a wooden cup in his hand. He was a tall man, nearly six feet in height, with strong hands but slim shoulders. The light of the candle glinted off his bald head. He had dark, close-set eyes and the heavy nose common among the men of Icespire, and his thick beard brushed Aravon's chest as he straightened.

  But it was the man beside Draian, the man with the familiar voice, which drew Aravon's attention. Tall, taller even than Aravon himself, with the broad shoulders and chest of a career soldier. Intelligence gleamed in his blue eyes. The dark brown beard covering his square jaw was dusted with white, mirrored by the fringes of grey at his temples.

  Aravon knew that face well. "Duke Dyrund!" he gasped.

  "Aravon, it is good to see you remain in the land of the living." Sammael Dyrund, Duke of Eastfall, the largest and second wealthiest province on Fehl, clasped Aravon's right hand in his strong hands. "You had us worried."

  "For a moment, I feared the Keeper would claim me, too." Aravon looked away. Shame burned his cheeks. He hadn't feared—he'd hoped.

  "But Draian here assures me you will make a full recovery." Duke Dyrund turned to the other man. "Isn't that right?"

  Draian nodded. "The wounds to your shoulder and leg weren't serious, but the arm had to be re-broken and set properly."

  Aravon tried to sit up and groaned at the pain lancing his side.

  "And those ribs," Draian added with a shake of his head, "you’re lucky you inherited your father's iron bones. They kept the arrow from striking any major organs."

  Aravon glanced down at his left arm. "How long will I need the cast?"

  Draian ran a hand over his smooth-shaven head. "Seven weeks, maybe eight. The bones were shattered; they'll need time to heal properly if you're to regain use of the arm."

  Eight weeks! Aravon ground his teeth. He had no desire to lie around, not while the Eirdkilrs were killing Legionnaires.

  Duke Dyrund loomed over him, his blue eyes as somber as the frown that furrowed his brow. "You're to remain in bed until the Mender here gives you the all-clear. Understood?"

  Aravon nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

  "Good." Duke Dyrund turned to Draian. "Is there anything else you can do for him?"

  "At the moment, the best thing for him is rest. And, if you can bring yourself, Captain, have a bit of that." Draian pointed to the pitcher on the table beside Aravon's bed. "Wine mixed with a few healing herbs." He wagged his finger. "But just a bit."

  "Understood," Aravon said. "Draian, was it?"

  "Indeed it is, Captain." Draian turned to Duke Dyrund. "With your permission, Your Grace, I'll check on our other guest."

  "Of course." The Duke gave a dismissive wave.

  With a bow, Draian left the room.

  Duke Dyrund stood over Aravon's bed, staring down at him in silence. Even after the door had closed behind the departing Mender, he said not a word, simply fixed Aravon with a solemn expression as hard as the stone floor.

  Aravon's gut tightened. He knew what the Duke was going to say. And it truly was his fault.

  "Duke Dyrund, I take full responsibility for—"

  "Oh, Aravon, please!" The Duke cut him off with a slash of his hand. "I've known you since you were old enough to sit a horse, and your father before you. You're no witless fool."

  Aravon swallowed. "Sir, I—"

  "Tell me what happened." Duke Dyrund's voice was quiet. "Exactly what happened."

  Aravon recounted every detail—from the moment they'd left Gallows Garrison at dawn to the ambush at the first hour after noon. Then how he'd awoken at night to find his company slaughtered. Shame burned his cheeks as he told of leaving his fallen soldiers behind to save himself.

  "None of that, Aravon." The Duke's eyes flashed. "You are a soldier. Your mission, first and foremost, is to survive. At any cost."

  Aravon could not meet the Duke's gaze. The words sounded empty to him.

  "Did you run from the fight?" the Duke asked.

  Aravon's face hardened. "No."

  "Did your men throw down their weapons and flee, or surrender?"

  Anger flared bright in Aravon's chest. "The Legionnaires of Sixth Company fought like true soldiers.” He clenched his fist, despite the ache that burned in his wounded shoulder. “Every man among them died with sword and shield in hand."

  "Then stop blaming yourself for what happened." Duke Dyrund's strong hand gripped Aravon's left shoulder. "The Eirdkilrs caught you off-guard. I read the reports—your men gave as good as they got. Took nearly a hundred of the bastards down. No one will doubt their courage or their mettle. And you should stop doubting yours."

  Aravon opened his mouth, but a lump in his throat cut off his words.

  "Look at me, Aravon." Duke Dyrund's voice was strong, warm. "I've stood in my share of battle lines. Many of them beside your father. Before Traighan was a General, he was a Captain like you. He lost men, too. We all did." A shadow passed over the Duke's blue eyes, and it took him a moment to recover. "But you can't let guilt drag you down. If you do, you'll be of no use to anyone."

  Aravon wanted to argue, but he couldn't deny the Duke's words. He had seen too many former Legionnaires carrying the burden of their actions, their losses. The Eirdkilr Wars chewed men up and spat them out piecemeal. Few survived unscathed; many walked away with physical wounds, all bore emotional scars.

  Aravon swallowed. "Where am I?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "Near Wolfden Castle," Duke Dyrund answered, "in Eastfall."

  Aravon's brow furrowed. Eastfall was nearly six hundred miles from the site of the ambush. "How did I get here?" He had a faint memory of a jostling wagon. "Who found me?"

  With a sigh, Duke Dyrund pulled the camp chair beside the bed and sat. "When I received news of the Eirdkilr presence near Anvil Garrison, I knew I had to warn you. I dispatched a special messenger with all haste, but alas, the warning arrived too late to save the Sixth Company."

  "And Anvil Garrison?" Aravon asked.

  Duke Dyrund shook his head. "Destroyed. Every Legionnaire slaughtered, every building burned to the ground." He ran a hand through his hair; it had gone thinner and greyer than Aravon remembered from the Duke's last visit to his father's house ten years earlier.

  Aravon clenched his right fist, wincing at the tension in his shoulder.

  "But on the return journey," the Duke said, "my messenger found you lying in the road, unconscious and minutes from the Keeper's arms. He arranged to have you transported here on my orders."

  Aravon frowned. "Why here? Why not to Gallows Garrison? Or to any of the other outposts south of the Chain?"

  The Chain was the name given to the string of forts and outposts that stretched from the eastern coast of Fehl to the western shoreline, separating the lands of the Fehlan clans from the Princelands.

  Duke Dyrund h
esitated a long moment before speaking. "Because you are dead."

  Aravon blinked, confused. "What?"

  Duke Dyrund pursed his lips and steepled his fingers. He held Aravon's gaze, the silence stretched on for a full minute. He had just opened his mouth to speak when a knock sounded at the door.

  "Come," the Duke said.

  The man who entered the room had the lean, well-dressed look of a nobleman rather than a warrior, and hands better-suited to holding a pen or ledger than wielding a sword. His features were on the handsome side of plain, accentuated by a long hooked nose, prominent cheekbones, and lips permanently pressed into a frown.

  "Your Grace, you are needed in the War Room," the man said. His voice was oddly deep, the sort one would expect from a baritone at the Icespire Royal Theatre.

  "Thank you, Lord Eidan." Duke Dyrund's face twisted in displeasure.

  "Your Grace." Lord Eidan bowed. He fixed Captain Aravon with an appraising stare, sizing him up. His green eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts before he turned and left the room.

  Duke Dyrund stood with a groan, his joints popping. "Ahh, the curse of old age. Grey hair, creaking joints, and a bit extra tucked away in the larder." He patted his stomach, still as flat as the day he'd exchanged his Legion breastplate for the robes of the Prince's Council. "I'd say the experience is a trade-off, but what man wouldn't want back the sprightliness of his youth?"

  Aravon returned the wry smile.

  The Duke's expression grew somber, his voice solemn. "I will return in one hour, Aravon, and when I do, we will speak of the real reason I had you brought here. But until then, I want you to ask yourself: where does your true loyalty lie? With the Legion or your Prince?"

  The question caught Aravon by surprise. He gaped, at a loss for words, his fatigue-numbed mind too stunned to form an answer.

  "Think long and hard, Aravon," the Duke said, running a hand through his hair once more. "Your future depends on your answer." With that, he turned and strode from the room.

  Chapter Four

  Duke Dyrund's question repeated in Aravon's mind for the hundredth time in the last hour. Where do my loyalties lie?

  As a citizen of Icespire, he had been raised in service to Prince Trildan, father to the now-Prince Toran. Yet when he'd chosen to follow in his father's footsteps, he'd sworn an oath to serve the Legion of Heroes.

  The Legion had been his home for nearly fifteen years. Since joining at the age of eighteen, he'd dedicated himself to its service. Yet it had been to protect the Principality of Icespire—all six territories and the hundreds of thousands of people that lived there. Beyond his father's friends, he had no allies or comrades outside the Legion.

  So who was he truly: Aravon the Legionnaire, or Aravon the loyal son of Icespire?

  He grappled with the question until his head ached and he wanted to rest. And still he could find no answer.

  The door opened, and Duke Dyrund entered. His expression was grave, a somber look in his eyes. He said nothing as he lowered himself into the chair beside Aravon's bed. After a long moment, he passed his hands over his face.

  "Gallows Garrison has fallen."

  Aravon bolted upright, forgetting his pain. "What? When?"

  "Yesterday." Duke Dyrund spoke in a solemn tone. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose. "The Eirdkilrs overran them. The Legion's reinforcements arrived too late to prevent the massacre and the destruction of the fort."

  Hatred and anger blazed hot within Aravon. He'd spent the last fifteen years of his life fighting the Eirdkilrs and their allies among the Fehlan clans. He had seen the horrors they could inflict upon their enemies—those they called Eird, half-men, those that had come from Einan across the Frozen Sea and settled the lands around Icespire. Men like him, like his father, his sons. The Eirdkilrs fought with one objective: to drive all Princelanders from Fehl until only true Fehlans remained. It didn't matter that the Princelanders had lived on Fehl for more than six hundred years; to the Eirdkilrs, they were invaders to be eradicated.

  Aravon had joined the Legion of Heroes to protect his family, as well as to honor his father, formerly one of the highest-ranking Generals in the Legion. He'd fought and died beside men from Icespire, Praamis, Voramis, Malandria, Nysl, and other cities on the continent of Einan. Though he'd never traveled across the Frozen Sea to the mainland, the men of the Legion had become his brothers.

  The Eirdkilrs sought to slaughter them all.

  He bowed his head in a moment of silence for the fallen men of Gallows and Anvil Garrisons. In a way, their deaths added to his burden of guilt. Had he made it to Anvil Garrison, they could have held against the Eirdkilrs, and Gallows Garrison would never have fallen. Those lives, snuffed out at the end of an Eirdkilr spear or axe, were on his head as well.

  "I grow weary of seeing good men die," Duke Dyrund spoke in a slow, tired voice. "Too many have fallen in this war against the Eirdkilrs. There must be an end to the hostilities."

  "The only way to do that is to drive the Eirdkilrs back across the Sawtooth Mountains," Aravon said, his words edged with anger.

  "For a hundred years, we have been trying to do precisely that." Duke Dyrund shook his head. "Yet their allies among the Fehlans shelter, feed, and aid them in the fight. Even if we had a hundred thousand Legionnaires, the continent of Fehl is large enough for the Eirdkilrs to hide from us. We must find a new approach to this war."

  Aravon said nothing. He knew the Duke well enough to know the man was working up to a point.

  Duke Dyrund's blue eyes fixed on him. "What if I told you that I had a way to change the face of this war?" His strong jaw clenched. "A way to do more than just react to the threat of the Eirdkilrs. A way to not just fight, but to win?"

  "I'd listen very carefully," Aravon said.

  Duke Dyrund gave him a wry smile. "You resemble the General a great deal, in many ways. Your skill with a sword, your innate ability to command, your bravery." His smile took on a sharp edge. "Not in this, though. For all his greatness, Traighan was never able to think beyond the Legion."

  Those last words piqued Aravon's interest. Duke Dyrund was a thirty-year veteran of the Legion, but the last five years had proven that his mind didn't operate like a military strategist. Aravon knew the man as a shrewd negotiator and clever tactician. His abilities at diplomacy had made him one of Prince Toran's most trusted emissaries to the Fehlans. He had been the one to broker a peace with the Deid and Vidr clans. If he suggested something new, it was worth listening to.

  "The Legion is the shield against the Eirdkilrs," Duke Dyrund said, raising a clenched fist, "and a hammer to crush our enemies. But this is not an enemy the Legion can defeat by fighting a conventional war. The Eirdkilrs do not use conventional tactics. There are no shield walls to storm, no clever strategies for cutting through an organized battle line. Our enemy hides in the shadows to strike from cover or swarm over a town or garrison. When the Legion is sent after them, they melt away. There are no cities to lay siege to, no supply trains to cut off. To face them the way we always have would be folly."

  Aravon agreed with the Duke—he'd voiced the same opinion to his superiors in the Legion and earned their ire for his pains.

  Duke Dyrund shook his head. "Let the Legion be our shield, our hammer. We need something more. We need a dagger, a weapon wielded in secret, concealed from the enemy, poised to strike. We need men who can do things the Legion with its solid structure of command and organization is incapable of."

  He rose to his feet and paced around the small room. "The Legion will serve when there is a battle to wage, but we need men who can think beyond the shield wall, beyond the charge of cavalry and the flight of arrows. We need men who are shields in shadow, weapons the enemy will never see coming until they strike."

  Aravon narrowed his eyes. He didn't quite understand what the Duke had in mind, but the ferocity in the man's eyes filled him with confidence. He’s clearly given his plan, whatever it is, a great deal of thought. His
father had trusted the man with his life, both in the shield wall and in the cutthroat politics of the Princelands. If General Traighan trusted the Duke, he should as well.

  "What do you have in mind?" he asked.

  Duke Dyrund whirled on him, eyes alight. "A secret force, one that operates independent of the Legion. A company of men trained to do things no Legionnaire could do." He gripped the footboard of Aravon's bed with such force the wood creaked. "Every time we face them in the field, we take heavy losses. The time has come for us to do what they do, use their tactics against them. Strike at their weak spots then melt away into the shadows. Go where they do not expect us to be, find where they are most vulnerable, and exploit those vulnerabilities."

  He leaned forward, and a low urgency echoed in his voice. "Do whatever we must to ensure something like this never happens again."

  The notion seemed strange to Aravon, yet it held appeal. "If such a force existed, it could change the face of the war."

  "Precisely!" Duke Dyrund's voice rose with excitement. He stabbed a finger at Aravon. "And I want you to lead this force."

  Aravon had expected the Duke to try to recruit him, but to lead? After what had happened to his men? He opened his mouth to protest.

  "It must be you, Aravon." The Duke spoke in a low voice, his eyes darting around as if afraid of being overheard. "There is no one else for the task."

  "But, Duke—"

  "Your father fought by my side for more than a decade, and a more steadfast man I never met." Duke Dyrund gripped his shoulder. "You inherited that iron will from him, but from everything I’ve seen of you, all of General Tinian tells me, you have a mind capable of greater flexibility and adaptability than your father ever had. Perhaps even more than any Commander or Captain in the Legion today."

  Surprise coursed through Aravon and he blushed at the praise—this from a man he respected so highly.

  "But martial skills and intuition are only a fraction of what I need. What the Princelands need. " Duke Dyrund leaned closer. "I believe you are the man for the job because you are a man of courage, of morals, a man who is willing to sacrifice all for the sake of the greater good."