Something about the words "sacrifice all" made Aravon's blood run cold. "Who would I be leading?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.
"Men of special talents, men whom the gods have gifted with capabilities beyond swinging a sword and holding a shield." Duke Dyrund folded his arms, his age-lined face growing serious. "Men who are willing to do what needs to be done, and whose loyalties are undivided."
The Duke's question about his loyalty returned to his mind. In light of the recent information, it held more weight.
"I asked you whether you are loyal to the Legion or the Prince," Duke Dyrund went on, adjusting the sleeve of his rich robes. "In the past, when we’ve attempted something like this within the Legion command structure, it never worked as effectively as we’d hoped. So now we’re trying a different route: a force that would operate outside the command of the Legion. Adapting our tactics, just as the Eirdkilrs have done. This company would operate outside any structure—government, military, or otherwise. To all intents and purposes, it would not exist. Only the Prince, myself, and a select few trusted aides would know who you are. You will serve the Prince directly. Your duties would be to carry out his orders." His voice grew solemn. "To the Legion and those you once knew, Captain Aravon is dead."
Aravon's eyebrows shot up. "What?"
Duke Dyrund nodded. "Captain Aravon fell in battle with the Sixth Company."
"But—" Aravon began.
"If anyone knew you still lived," Duke Dyrund said in a quiet voice, "if they knew what you were doing, you would be putting Mylena and the boys in peril."
The simple statement snapped Aravon's mouth shut.
Duke Dyrund shook his head. "For years, we have suspected the Eirdkilrs of planting spies in our midst. So many Fehlans living in Icespire, it's impossible to know if any are in collusion with the enemy." He fixed Aravon with a firm gaze. "As long as no one knows of your involvement, there is no risk to your family. Mylena and your sons will be safe."
"But they'll believe I'm dead!" Aravon's voice rose to a shout.
"They already do." The Duke's quiet words hit Aravon like a blow to the gut. "You've been lying here for three days. News of the Sixth Company reached Icespire before I had your body back here. Your father, Mylena…" He shook his head. "The funeral was held yesterday."
Aravon felt as if someone had sucked the breath from his lungs. He lay back against the pillows, tears streaming down his face. Not for himself, but for Mylena. His wife would be suffering and he couldn't be there to comfort her. Couldn’t be there to watch his sons grow into men. If he accepted this task, accepted the burden that came with it, he would be giving up the things that mattered most to him.
His career as a Legionnaire, his desire to serve and protect the Princelands, had been the driving force that kept him fighting, working, striving to rise in the ranks. He could never match up to his father, he knew, but if he could keep his men alive by being the best Captain he could be, he’d count it a victory.
Yet he’d always known he had a home to return to. A family that awaited him when he had finally done enough—won enough battles, saved enough of his subordinates’ lives, made enough of a mark on the war they fought.
If he accepted the Duke’s request, he would be dead. His wife and sons would believe him gone. Their lives would move on without him. Could he live with that knowledge? Could any number of victories won and lives saved matter enough to make that sacrifice worth it?
When Duke Dyrund spoke again, his voice had lost all trace of command. Instead, it was as a father speaking to a son. "Aravon, I know this is a great deal to ask. More than I ought to, and more than you deserve. But I am not the one doing the asking. Your Prince has requested your service. He has seen the merit of this new plan, and he agrees that you are the one to do it."
Surprise filtered through Aravon’s grief. Prince Toran of Icespire knew of him, a lowly Captain in the Legion of Heroes?
The Duke leaned forward, his expression earnest. "You are a loyal son of Icespire, like your father and his father before him. It's that loyalty the Prince is counting on." He squeezed Aravon's forearm. "What I'm counting on."
Tears brimmed in Aravon's eyes. How can they ask me to abandon my family? To never see his sons or Mylena again—it was too much to ask of him. An unfair request, one the Duke had no right to make. And yet he had. For the sake of the Princelands Aravon and all the Legionnaires had sworn to protect.
"I know what I'm asking of you. If there was any other way…" The Duke's voice broke. When he met Aravon's gaze, moisture glinted in his eyes. "But there isn't. The truth is I need you, Aravon. I need you to help me put an end to all the bloodshed, the death. There's no one else I can entrust this to." He sighed and sat heavily on Aravon's bed. "Without you, my plan fails. No one else has the heart, the courage to do what needs to be done."
A storm of emotions roiled within Aravon. Sorrow at the thought of his family believing him dead. Guilt at the deaths of his men. Fear that he'd never fully recover from the scars to his body and mind. Yet mingled among them was pride at being chosen by the Duke and the Prince, and a sliver of hope that Duke Dyrund's plan could bring about an end to the war.
I could do it, and it would only cost me my family. Mylena and his sons would want for nothing—his estates, inherited from his mother, would see to their every need and ensure a comfortable life—but he’d never see them again. His father would believe him a disappointment. Yet in doing so, he'd be serving his Prince. His actions could save countless others.
The faces of Sixth Company flashed through his mind. His men, the soldiers that had marched at his side, expected him to keep them alive. They had died because he hadn’t anticipated the ambush. Now the Duke offered him a chance to make things right. He could never bring back his men, but maybe, just maybe, making this sacrifice could somehow balance out the deaths of his men. Despite the cost, how could he do anything but accept?
Aravon fixed his gaze on the Duke. He read the truth in the man's eyes; Duke Dyrund knew exactly what he asked but asked anyway. In a way, he carried a burden no less heavy than the one Aravon bore.
"I…" The words stuck on his tongue, but he forced them out. "I will do it."
For a long moment, the Duke remained motionless. Then his fingers closed around Aravon's hand and he squeezed. "Thank you," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. He blew out his breath and seemed to deflate. When he stood, the confident Duke of Eastfall was gone, replaced by a troubled man past his prime, carrying an impossible weight on his shoulders.
He moved to the door, walking slowly, seeming stooped by age and the burden of command. He paused with one hand on the latch. "For what it's worth," he said, meeting Aravon's gaze, "I'm sorry. If there was any other way…"
Aravon nodded. "I know."
Sighing, Duke Dyrund strode from the room and pressed the door gently shut behind him.
Chapter Five
Aravon toyed with the silver pendant around his neck. He played his conversation with the Duke over in his mind. Three restless days and nights in bed didn't make it any easier to swallow the truth of what he'd agreed to do.
Sorrow weighed so heavy it felt as if a mountain crushed his chest. He'd never see his sons again, never take his wife in his arms. He'd known that a life in the Legion would call for sacrifices—he'd spent most of the last fifteen years away from home—but this was one sacrifice he had never expected.
The idea of Rolyn and Adilon living without a father, growing up without him in their lives. Mylena, alone and grieving his death. Worse—and the thought twisted his stomach—finding happiness in the arms of another. That thought alone nearly ripped his heart to shreds, set acid twisting in his stomach. Jaw clenched, he pushed the image aside. If he thought of that, he would never be able to do what he knew he had to do. What he’d agreed to do.
But it was more than just the thought of what he prepared to give up that burdened him. The Duke had said that he was the only one he could t
rust for this. But was he? Was he worthy of the command?
His father's words sprang to his thoughts. "Every commander makes mistakes—from the most competent to the biggest fool of the lot. But a good commander recognizes his errors, accepts them, and takes action to correct them. Once that's done, it's time to move on. Doubt weakens even the strongest arm, turns the bravest heart to ice."
Any one of Aravon's superiors would tell him he'd done nothing wrong. The Eirdkilrs had sprung an impossible ambush on him. In the situation, he'd made the right decision. The Legionnaires had fought to the last man.
That didn't make it any easier to swallow. Even if he hadn't made mistakes, his men had died. That was a burden he'd bear for a long while yet. What would happen if he led this new force of the Duke's handpicked men to a similar fate?
The sound of the door opening snapped him from his melancholy. He struggled to sit up despite the weight of the plaster encasing his arm, hoping to see Duke Dyrund.
"Good afternoon," Draian said in a cheery tone. The Mender had been the only one to enter since the Duke's visit.
The smell of rich mutton broth set Aravon's stomach growling. Draian bore a tray with a steaming bowl, a loaf of bread, and a mug of some fragrant herbal concoction. Setting the tray on the bedside table, the Mender handed Aravon the food. The smell of cinnamon and ginger wafted from the still-warm rye. Aavon gave a little groan of delight. "You've no idea how good this tastes after months of Legion fare."
Draian winced. "Your Legionnaires can cook a meal strong enough to knock down a grown bull, but they don't do a lot for a fellow's enjoyment."
Aravon filled his mouth with the savory fresh bread, too intent on eating to speak. The stew was rich and meaty, with chunks of veggies floating in a broth made of fatty mutton and spiced liberally with cardamom. Just the way his mother used to make it.
While Aravon ate, the Mender set about checking his dressings. Draian had a tendency to mutter to himself while he worked. "No discoloration. Good skin tone." He turned his brown eyes to Aravon's face. "How's the pain?" he asked without pausing in his ministrations.
Aravon shrugged. "Could be worse." He hid a wince; the movement jostled his wounded shoulder and tugged the taut skin of his healing ribs.
"A stoic lot, you Legionnaires." Draian grinned. "Though I suppose that's how they train you, eh?"
Aravon nodded. "You ever stand in the shield wall, Draian?"
"Oh, no," Draian said with a little shake of his head. The bald man rolled up his sleeve to reveal a sword tattooed on his left forearm. The symbol marked him as a cleric of the Swordsman, god of war and heroism.
All of the Swordsman's priests bore the same mark. Adepts, those responsible for training the Legionnaires in martial skills, had the mark on their right arms; Menders, the Swordsman's healers and surgeons, bore the tattoo on their left arms.
Draian winked. "We Menders spend more time on our knees than on the battlefield."
Aravon raised an eyebrow, which elicited a laugh from Draian.
"We're priests, not proper Legionnaires." The Mender gave a dismissive wave. "Oh, they teach us which side of the sword is the pointy end, but not much more." He turned up his palms to Aravon. "These calluses are from wielding a surgeon's saw and needle, not a sword and shield like the Adepts. Now those priests know their way around a blade."
Aravon smiled. "And yet, without you Menders, a lot of good Legionnaires would die. Including this one."
Draian ducked his head, a blush tingeing his cheeks. "Mighty decent of you to say so, Captain."
"I'm no longer Captain of anything.” Aravon shook his head. “Didn't you hear? I'm dead."
Draian grinned. "My condolences on your untimely demise, sir."
Despite himself, Aravon couldn't help a laugh at the absurdity of the statement.
"Good to see you're healing up nicely," Draian tugged the bandage around Aravon's thigh back into place. "In fact, I believe it's time for you to get back on your feet. If you think the leg's up for it, that is."
Aravon nodded. "Even if it isn't, I need to get out of this bed.” He set down the bowl with the last of the stew. “The room's nice and all…"
"But for a man of action like you, this is worse than running through a dragon's nest dipped in gold." Draian picked up the bowl and held it out to Aravon. "First you eat and drink your tea, then we go for a stroll."
"Fair enough." Aravon finished the stew in a gulp and reached for the mug. The herbal tea had a bitter aftertaste, but he drank it down without complaint. “There!”
Draian gave a nod of approval. "Good. The willow bark will help with the pain, and a bit of meat will do wonders for the arm." He examined the plaster on Aravon's shield arm. "How does it feel?"
Aravon gritted his teeth. The injured arm felt thick, the plaster making it clumsy and heavy. Worse, the healing bone and muscles had throbbed all night long. He forced a smile. "Not bad."
Draian snorted. "I've had enough broken bones to recognize a bald-faced lie." He emphasized his words by tapping on his smooth-shaven head. "If it gets too much to bear, I can give you something for the pain."
"Thank you," Aravon said.
"Well, I guess it's time to get you up and on your feet, then." Draian set aside the tray and came around to the head of the bed. He helped Aravon lower his legs to the floor, tying a sling around his shoulder to support the cast and draping Aravon’s right arm over his shoulders. As he stood, a spike of pain flared in Aravon's thigh as blood rushed through his injured leg.
"Give it a minute," Draian told him. "You've been off your feet for more than a week. Your body needs a bit of time to remember what the leg's for."
Slowly, the pain diminished to a dull throbbing. Aravon took a tentative step, leaning on Draian for support. He forced himself to keep moving despite the discomfort. Sweat trickled down his face, but he refused to stop. The door drew nearer one shuffling step at a time. Beyond lay freedom.
A spike of agony shot up his wounded leg. His knee buckled and he would have fallen if not for the Mender’s support.
"Easy!" Draian said, grunting beneath his weight. "Move too quickly and you'll pop a stitch, re-open the wound."
Gritting his teeth, Aravon slowed his pace.
"Better." Draian wiped sweat from Aravon’s brow. "Your leg will heal soon enough. This is just a short jaunt to get your body moving."
"I need to get out of this room," Aravon insisted. "I need daylight."
"We'll get there. But slowly."
Aravon allowed Draian to set the pace—the Mender wasn't kidding about the "slowly". The room couldn't have been longer than fifteen feet, but it took them a full minute to reach the door.
Draian thrust his chin at the latch. "If you'll do the honors, Captain."
Aravon tried to stretch out his unbroken arm, but the wound in his shoulder made his movements stiff, clumsy.
"If scar tissue forms, it could hinder your range of movement," Draian told him. "You've got to move around to keep the muscles supple."
With effort, Aravon lifted the latch and pulled the door open. Warm daylight bathed his face, and a gentle breeze wafted toward him. Only Draian's arm around his waist kept him from running out of the cramped, stuffy room.
The hallway beyond was as simple as the room, though it had a window to let in sunlight and a plain woolen carpet running across the floor. The walls were made of brick and stone rather than wood. As Aravon shuffled into the hallway, he counted five doors on his right and four more to his left. Twenty feet away, an archway opened onto the outside.
Down the hall he limped, trying not to lean too much of his weight on Draian. The faster he could move around under his own power, the sooner he'd be free to return to his Legion.
The thought stopped him cold. No, he could never return. He'd never go back.
Still, he told himself, at least I'll have something new to move on to. That was enough to get him limping forward again.
If Draian found the sudden pau
se odd, he didn't mention it. Instead, he said, "So, what's it like being the son of General Traighan, the hero of Steel Gorge?"
Aravon's stomach tightened.
"Did you join the Legion because of him?" Draian asked.
Aravon nodded. "Seemed like the right thing to do." His father would never have considered any other future for his only son and heir.
"I'm sure he had some amazing stories to tell. Firemount Hill, the storming of Gnottstad, the Battle of Stormcrow Pass."
"He certainly did." It had been all he'd heard from his father. The General had been too busy and important to spend time engaged in what he called "useless play".
"Is it true that—?" the Mender began.
"Draian, I believe the good Captain is growing tired of your nattering." Duke Dyrund's voice came from behind them.
Aravon twisted to look over his shoulder. The Duke strode down the hall toward them. Dust from the road covered him and dark circles of fatigue had formed around his eyes, yet his smile was bright, earnest.
"Your Grace." Draian inclined his head. "How went your trip to Icespire?"
"As well as I’d hoped, and I’m damned glad to return to Eastfall." The Duke shot Aravon a glance. "And not a moment too soon, it seems. How do you feel, Captain? And please, none of your Legionnaire stoicism."
"Tired, Your Grace," Aravon replied.
"To be expected." The Duke inclined his head. "From what Draian tells me, your body's been through a great deal. I'm surprised you're on your feet already."
"Mender's orders, Your Grace." Draian grinned. "A bit of walking will speed up the healing process."
The Duke nodded. "I'm sure you won't mind if I take over. The Captain likely has a few questions he'll want answered."
"Of course, Your Grace." Draian slipped out from beneath Aravon's arm, making space for the Duke. "I'll check on you later, Captain."
"Thank you, Draian," Aravon said.
With a little nod to Aravon and a bow for Duke Dyrund, Draian strode down the corridor and disappeared into one of the rooms.
Shields in Shadow Page 4