“For a strong man like you,” Aravon spoke before Belthar could, “five hundred push-ups shouldn't be a problem.” He clapped Colborn on the shoulder. “I doubt anyone else could keep up.”
With a grin, Belthar threw himself to the ground and began counting aloud.
Colborn narrowed his eyes, but Aravon kept his expression blank. After a moment, Colborn joined Belthar, and the competition began anew.
Aravon chuckled to himself as he walked toward the nearest obstacle. Draian was still struggling to climb the wall.
“You can do it, Draian,” Aravon encouraged.
The Mender muttered a reply that Aravon chose not to hear.
“How's your patient” he asked.
Draian, suspended fifteen feet in the air, shot him a surprised glance. “Noll?”
Aravon nodded.
“Hurting,” the Mender replied. “His leg'll heal. As for the wounds on his soul…” He grunted with the effort of hauling himself over the lip of the wall. “I'll do what I can.”
“Mind if I pay him a visit?”
Draian hesitated, sitting atop the wall. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but are you sure that’s wise? After yesterday, it seems to me you're the last one he'd want to see.”
“I know,” Aravon said, “but I still have to do it.”
“Then, yes.” Draian inclined his head. “You're welcome to pay him a visit.”
“Thank you.” Aravon turned away. “And good luck with this, Draian. You've got a long way to go.”
Again, he chose not to hear the Mender's reply—one better-suited to a sailor's mouth than a priest's.
* * *
Aravon hesitated outside the plain wooden door. The room stood two doors from his own, but the short stroll down the hall had felt like a trek across Fehl. The burden settled on his shoulders once more.
Taking a deep breath, he knocked.
“Come,” Noll replied.
Aravon pushed open the door. “May I come in?”
Noll sat in a chair, blanket draped over his lap. His face hardened at the sight of Aravon but he nodded. “You're the Captain.” He removed the blanket and sat straighter, his spine as rigid as his expression.
Aravon closed the door behind him. Noll's room was identical to his, equally sparse and small, but with a small window set high in the wall. He wondered why he didn't merit a bit of sunlight like the scout did.
“Something you need, Captain?” Noll asked.
“I've come to talk to you.”
“Of course.” Noll nodded. His tone was flat, his voice had an edge. “Come to chew me out for yesterday. You're in your right. I was insubordinate in front of the others.”
“No.” Aravon shook his head. “I've come to check on you.”
Surprise glinted through the anger in Noll's eyes. “Check on me?”
Aravon motioned to the bed. “May I?” At Noll's nod, he sat. “How's the leg?”
“It'll heal.” Noll's tone was curt.
“How'd it happen?” Aravon asked.
“Ambushed by the Eirdkilrs. My horse took a few arrows and bolted in a panic. Try as I might, I couldn’t control the damned thing until it finally died. Falling right on top of me.” Noll gave a bitter laugh and stabbed a finger at his leg. “Saved my life, but when I awoke, I wished they'd finished me off. More so when I heard what happened to the Sixth.”
“That's why I've come,” Aravon said.
Noll's eyes narrowed.
“I…” Aravon drew in a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Noll.”
Noll reacted as if he'd been struck. “What?”
Aravon passed a hand over his eyes. “For what happened to the Sixth, to all your friends. I'm sorry.”
“Why?” Noll demanded. “Why are you saying this? Trying to ease your guilt at not fighting and dying with the rest of them?”
“No.” Aravon’s jaw muscles worked. “My conscience is clear on that. Once the fighting started, I and every man of the Sixth Company gave everything. Right up until the end.” He let out a long breath. “No, I’m sorry because I didn’t see it coming like I should have. When none of the scouts returned, I thought the way was clear. It should have been clear.” A lump formed in his throat. “There shouldn't have been any Eirdkilrs on the road.”
“Which is why you were caught by surprise,” Noll replied. “We all were. Even me.” His brow furrowed. “Wait, you said that none of the scouts returned?”
Aravon nodded. “The last word I had was from Omnall and Trend at midday. I just assumed the rest of you—”
“So Rhyver didn't find you? Or Ardon?” Noll's voice had gone dead serious.
“No. No one.” It was Aravon's turn to be puzzled. “Why?”
Noll's face went pale. “When we found Anvil Garrison under attack, we came racing back to you with the news. The Eirdkilrs cut us off, but I was certain Rhyver and Ardon broke free. I thought they'd gotten the news to you.”
“What news?” Aravon asked.
“The Eirdkilrs had taken Anvil Garrison, but instead of burning it, they were holding it.”
Aravon digested the information. “If I would have known…” Had he known, he could have turned the Sixth back, perhaps avoided the ambush altogether.
“Yeah.” Noll’s expression grew grave. “One of us should have made it back in time.” His eyes reflected a hint of the guilt Aravon had carried since awakening on the Eastmarch amidst the remains of his slaughtered company. The same guilt at surviving when his comrades had died. The guilt that came with thinking that, had he done something different, had he just been a bit smarter or tried harder, he might not be here.
Aravon knew that pain all too well—he carried it like a weight on his heart. But that was his duty as Captain, his burden to bear. Not Noll’s.
With a sigh, he stood. “You tried, Noll. All of you. Rhyver, Ardon, they were good men, and I have no doubt they died like true Legionnaires.” He placed a hand on the little man's shoulder. “It won't bring them back, but at least there's that bit of comfort.”
It didn't feel comforting to him, but as Captain, he bore the duty of wearing a brave face.
Noll nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Aravon squeezed Noll's shoulder once, then turned to leave.
“Captain?”
Aravon glanced at the little man.
“It wasn’t right, sir.” Noll dropped his eyes. “ What I said yesterday.”
“I understand, Soldier. You were angry.” Aravon gave him a sad smile. “We all do and say things we regret when we're hurt.”
“I was angry, Captain,” Noll said, nodding. “Fiery hell, I still bloody well am.” A harsh light blazed in his eyes. “But at the Eirdkilrs, for what they did. It ain’t fair to let it out on you.”
“I appreciate that, Noll.” Aravon met the man's gaze. “And I'm expecting you to heal up and get back on your feet. Captain's orders.”
“Yes, sir.” Noll snapped a crisp Legion salute.
“I'm going to need you, Noll. I'll need all of you. We're here to make sure they never hurt another one of us.”
Noll's face creased into a vicious smile. “Looking forward to it, sir.”
Chapter Eleven
With a growl of frustration, Aravon dropped the heavy Legionnaire shield. He'd given his arm a week, but still the elbow remained stiff and awkward when he tried to hold the shield. Even just a few minutes of practice made his arm ache; he could only imagine the pain if he actually tried to fight. The impact of a heavy axe or club—or, far worse, a charging Eirdkilr—could do serious damage.
The training yard fell silent. Aravon looked up to find the eyes of Draian, Zaharis, Belthar, and Colborn fixed on him. They quickly went back to work when he caught their eyes. The sound of Colborn and Draian's clashing swords filled the air a moment later, accompanied by the lightning-quick thump, thump, thump of Zaharis' fists and feet striking the straw dummy.
Aravon drew in a deep breath and retrieved his shield to replace it on the rack. He had a
n odd sense of finality as he hung the short Legionnaire sword beside it. He couldn't imagine life without the two-foot blade that had hung by his side for fifteen years, but it would no longer suffice. He had to find a new way to fight.
He scanned the rest of the weapons sitting on the racks. Duke Dyrund had provided his special unit with every imaginable tool of the trade. Long, thin fencing blades hung above broad swords, curved blades Aravon had heard called scimitars, and a pair of enormous two-handed flammards favored by the Keeper’s Blades of Shalandra. Knives of every conceivable shape and size—throwing knives, Fehlan seaxes, push daggers, stilettos, Praamian dirks, even one of the twisting tri-bladed daggers carried by the Steel Company mercenaries from Odaron—hung in sheaths.
The next rack contained spiked maces, morning stars, flails, and a dozen more variations on bludgeoning weapons. He moved past the rack of longbows without hesitation—he'd never been a strong archer, and his recovering left arm would make drawing a bow difficult. He hesitated at the rack of double- and single-bladed axes. Every Legionnaire knew how to wield an axe—in desperate times, an enemy's weapon could be the only option at hand.
He picked up a single-bladed axe and gave it a few experimental swings. It moved well enough, but he had more experience felling trees than hewing flesh and bone. He'd never match Belthar's skill.
He glanced over at the big man. Belthar had chosen an axe nearly as large as those wielded by the seven-foot Eirdkilrs, with two enormous steel blades that sang through the air as he swung it. The thing had to weigh almost as much as a Legionnaire's shield, but his strong arms maneuvered it with surprising ease. Aravon winced as Belthar brought it crashing into one of the training dummies set up around the yard. Straw exploded and shards of wood flew in every direction beneath the impact.
Aravon replaced the axe and moved on. The next rack held a row of spears, javelins, glaives, and halberds. He almost moved on, but something stopped him. Hesitant, he lifted one and stepped back.
The spear was six and a half feet long, with a steel blade accounting for nearly two of those feet. The ash shaft felt solid, with a good heft, and it rested comfortably in his hand. Legionnaires in the third and fourth ranks of the shield wall used similar spears. But without a shield, he'd have to adapt his fighting style.
Instead of settling into the typical Legionnaire stance, he adopted a fighting stance used by quarterstaff fighters. Even when he'd been too young to swing a sword, his father had insisted he learn to fight. Though the General called the staff a “bloody sheepherder's weapon”, he'd brought in tutors to teach his son.
Aravon couldn't remember the more advanced moves, but he'd gone over the most basic quarterstaff strikes, blocks, and forms too many times to forget. With slow, precise movements, he settled into the simplest sequence.
As he moved, he paid attention to the sensations in his left arm. The circular motions of the quarterstaff highlighted the stiffness in his still-healing joints and muscles, but there was no pain. His right hand did most of the work, while his left served as the pivot to anchor the power of his blows. The steel head flashed in the sunlight as he thrust, slashed, and spun the spear. After completing the simple form, he returned to his starting position and grounded the wooden butt.
Not bad. He studied the spear. This could work.
He turned to find the others watching him again. Instead of turning away this time, they nodded.
He spent the next hour moving through the few forms he could remember. Slow at first, but gradually building up his speed as his body adapted. Instead of the forward and backward movements of the shield wall, fighting with a spear required fluidity and balance. Where strength was a prerequisite for a Legionnaire, this required grace and agility.
When he looked up, Zaharis stood a short distance away. Sweat gleamed on the Secret Keeper's forehead and dripped down his bare torso. He removed the cloth wrappings from his hands and lifted a spear from the rack.
Aravon watched the Secret Keeper move. Zaharis flowed from one strike to the next, his body fluid as he blocked, twisted aside from an imaginary strike, and returned a thrust that would have crushed an enemy's throat. His spear whirled through the air, never stopping, never hesitating in its attack.
When the Secret Keeper finally finished the sequence, Aravon clapped. “Impressive.”
Zaharis grinned, and his fingers flashed in the silent hand language.
Over the last week, Aravon had learned to recognize a few dozen words. He caught the “you” and the question in the Secret Keeper's words.
He hazarded a guess. “You can teach me?”
Zaharis nodded. His hands flashed again. Aravon recognized the gesture for “dawn”.
“Really? So early?”
Zaharis nodded again. His moving fingers made the sign for “work” and “lessons”.
Aravon shrugged. He didn't have a clue what the Secret Keeper was saying, but if Zaharis said dawn, dawn it would be. “I'll be here.” Now, he'd have to talk to Colborn about ending their evening outings earlier, if only so he could catch a few hours of sleep.
Zaharis held a hand out for Aravon's spear. Curious, Aravon handed it to him. Zaharis pointed to the butt then to his own spear. The weapon he'd chosen had bands of steel wrapped around the end.
“Will it help the balance?” Aravon asked.
The Secret Keeper handed him his weapon and Aravon tested it. Though shorter than the one he'd chosen, the spear proved heavier, with a better distribution of balance for swinging as well as thrusting. When he whirled it over his head, he found it had a good heft.
“Seems like a good choice.” Aravon handed the spear back to Zaharis. “Enough power to do damage with both ends.”
Zaharis nodded. His hands flashed.
Aravon caught the gesture for “Polus”. “That's a good idea. I'll talk to Polus about adding the butt.”
Zaharis shook his head and tapped his chest, his hands signaling “idea”.
“You want to do it?” Aravon asked. “What do you have in mind?”
Zaharis gave him an enigmatic smile, and his hands remained silent.
Aravon studied the man. Secret Keepers had a reputation for living up to their name, but they were the foremost alchemists on Einan. He couldn't begin to imagine what Zaharis had planned. But, given what he knew of the man, it could be well worth trusting him.
Aravon shrugged. “I leave it in your hands.”
Zaharis nodded. He hefted Aravon's spear with one hand, his other flashing the gesture for “like”.
Aravon guessed at the meaning. “Do I like this spear?”
Zaharis' head bobbed.
Aravon studied it. “It's a good choice. Long enough to keep even an Eirdkilr at bay but not so long it'll get in my way.”
“Good,” Zaharis' hands told him. “Tomorrow, dawn.”
“So be it.” Aravon almost clapped the Secret Keeper on the back, but remembered how sweaty the man was in time to avoid contact. “Tomorrow at dawn it is.”
“Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence!” Belthar's voice boomed out across the training yard behind him.
Aravon turned to see Noll striding toward them, a broad smile on his face. “Even the lap of luxury grows tiresome for a man of action,” he said.
Belthar looked him up and down. “And what about for you?”
Noll returned the scrutiny, which took much longer given Belthar's prodigious size.
“Noll,” Aravon spoke before the little man could retort. “Good to see you up and about.” He strode toward the scout and held out his hand.
Noll clasped it with a nod. “I'd have to agree with you on that.” He inclined his head to Zaharis. “Whatever was in that draught of yours worked like magic.”
Zaharis looked appalled. His hands flashed.
Draian chuckled. “He says, 'Magic, my’…uh…” He shot a disapproving glance at Zaharis. “…’foot. It's science!'“
Noll's grin made his face seem even more hawkis
h. “Whatever it was, it worked.” He nodded at Draian. “Between the two of you, I'm back on my feet far sooner than I expected.”
The gratitude in Noll's eyes spoke volumes. Men crushed beneath their horses often failed to recover the ability to walk. For a scout like Noll, mobility on horseback and his own two feet were the most important things in the world.
Belthar exchanged a familiar greeting with Noll. Aravon had heard the noise of their gambling down the hall. It seemed Noll had also ignored Draian's advice against drinking wine.
Colborn looked the little man over. “Scout, eh?”
Noll nodded. “Sixth Company, Garnet Battalion, Lieutenant.” His eyes flashed toward Aravon.
Colborn shook his hand. “Good. We'll need the help to teach this one—” He jerked a thumb toward Belthar. “—to move quietly. Big brute makes enough noise the Eirdkilrs will hear him coming from across the Sawtooth Mountains.”
Belthar colored. “Maybe you can teach the Lieutenant to, uh…” He trailed off with a pensive frown.
Colborn patted Belthar's huge arm. “Keep thinking, Belthar. When you come up with a good rejoinder, you'll know where to find me.” Gesturing to Draian, he strode across the practice yard to resume their training.
Aravon watched the pair for a minute. Every one of their company had spent time over the last week training with the Mender. Colborn had insisted Draian fight with a straight-bladed, three-foot long sword and a round Eirdkilr shield—albeit a much smaller version. Draian no longer stumbled when he moved, and he turned aside most of Colborn's attacks. Given a few months, Colborn could actually turn him into a decent warrior.
The half-Fehlan Lieutenant intrigued Aravon. He'd gone out with the man every night, and Colborn had been a surprisingly patient teacher in the ways of woodcraft and stealth. He interacted well with the other men but left the duties of command to Aravon. Yet, hidden beneath his laid-back demeanor, Aravon sensed strength. Like an iron sword, the Lieutenant had both a hard edge and the potential to snap in the wrong circumstances. Aravon wanted to uncover more about the man, but all his attempts to get Colborn to open up had failed.
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