Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  “How soon do you think you will be ready?” Duke Dyrund asked.

  “Ready for what, exactly?” Aravon studied the Duke's face.

  Dyrund's expression revealed nothing. “For whatever you're needed to do.” He took a sip of his wine. The pause seemed to drag on for an eternity.

  Aravon pondered the question. His arm hadn't fully healed. Noll had just gotten his cast off, and Skathi had only arrived today. Draian required months of intensive sword drills. They needed more time to work together as a unit, to learn each other's strengths and weaknesses. If General Traighan had taught him one thing, it was the importance of unit cohesion.

  But the Duke wouldn't ask unless he had something important in mind. Something urgent. “Give us a month.”

  The Duke frowned. “A month,” he repeated. His lips twitched, and his brow furrowed in concentration. After a long moment, he nodded. “So be it. One month. And not a day longer.” The worry in his eyes spoke volumes. The war against the Eirdkilrs had to be going poorly if he was in such a hurry.

  The storm behind the Duke's eyes cleared and his easy smile returned. “Now, it's been years since I last ran a training course like the one outside. Seems like the perfect time to show you how it's done.”

  “Are you sure, Your Grace?” Colborn asked.

  “I may be old, but I'm sure I can still beat any of you young hotheads over those obstacles.” He stood, his joints popping audibly. “What do you say to a little friendly wager? Say two golden imperials to the winner?”

  Colborn and Belthar exchanged grins. The Duke had just spoken the magical words.

  Duke Dyrund winked at Aravon. “Captain, do I have your permission to give your men here a good thrashing?”

  Aravon inclined his head. “I think we'd all like to watch that.”

  Yet, as he followed the Duke and his men from the dining room and out toward the obstacle course, he couldn't ignore the burden settling on his shoulders. In one month, they would leave these walls and put themselves in real danger. He'd spent his life in the Legion doing precisely that, but this was different. The burden of protecting these men fell entirely to him.

  And he wasn't certain he was up for the challenge.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aravon drew in a deep breath, sighted on the butt, and released the bowstring. He bit back a frustrated growl as the arrow flew wide. Out of fifteen arrows, he'd hit the target with eight and only come close to the bullseye once. He'd never been a great shot, but he ought to be better than that. Drawing again, he took his time to loose the arrow. Again, it flew wide.

  “The problem's with your arm.”

  Aravon glanced over his shoulder. Skathi sat on a bench just outside the archery yard, a green apple in one hand and a knife in the other.

  “What's that?” he asked.

  The red-haired woman cut a long strip of peel and stuffed it into her mouth. Tucking the knife away, she stood and walked over to him. “Your left arm,” she said around a mouthful of apple peel. “It's throwing everything off.”

  Taking a noisy bite of the fruit, she circled to his left side.

  “Look here. Your elbow's rotated wrong.” She held out her own left arm and twisted it so the elbow was straight up and down. “That's what it's supposed to look like.”

  Aravon looked at his own elbow. It refused to rotate fully, a consequence of his injury. “What can I do about it?”

  “Turn the elbow.” Skathi shoved an errant strand of hair behind her ear. The wind tugged it free a moment later, but she ignored it. “Or, if it comes to it, aim a bit off-center. Do it again.”

  Aravon nocked an arrow and drew the string to his ear.

  “That's another problem,” Skathi said. “You never pull it that far back. Too much strain on your arms and it throws off your aim.” She tapped the right corner of his mouth. “That's where you want to anchor your shot. Right in line with your eye.”

  Aravon adjusted according to her instructions. “How's that?”

  “Better.” She gripped his elbow. “Can you turn it any more than this?”

  He tried and shook his head.

  “Hmm,” she mused. “That'll push your aim a bit to the right. That means you need to compensate by pulling left. But just a hair.”

  Aravon corrected and glanced at her. “Better?” he asked, gritting his teeth. The muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back shivered with the effort of holding the bow drawn.

  Skathi grinned. “Loose and find out.”

  With a gasp, Aravon released. The bowstring twanged and the arrow streaked toward the butt, where it thunked into the target just outside the bullseye.

  “Not bad.” Skathi nodded. “That elbow's going to make accuracy damned difficult, but with a bit of practice, you ought to be able to hit close enough every time.”

  Aravon couldn't help smiling. For the last two days of practice, he'd worried that this would be something else his injury would prevent him from doing. But to hear that he could master it with practice…

  “Thank you!” he said.

  “You got it, Captain.” Skathi smiled. For a moment, her hard façade cracked, and he caught a glimpse of genuine warmth. “Anytime you need help, you know where to find me.”

  “And where will that be?” A new voice cut into the conversation. “In my dreams?”

  Skathi's expression froze, and her eyes went cold, hard.

  Aravon turned. “Noll, isn't it your turn to cook?”

  Noll shook his head. “You can thank the Swordsman it isn't.” His gaze went to Skathi, and he studied her with the look of a buyer examining a broodmare. “Not only do we have a half-decent meal, but it means I get to spend more time with this beautiful thing.”

  A shadow passed over Skathi's face. But instead of confronting Noll, as doubtless she wanted to, she strode toward the racks upon which hung the assortment of bows. She lifted a longbow—another weapon modeled after the Eirdkilrs'—and a quiver filled with twenty broadhead arrows.

  “Hey, doll-face,” Noll said, sliding up beside her, “don't ignore me like this. You know you can't resist my charms.”

  Skathi ignored him and turned back to the archery range.

  “Tell you what?” Noll picked up a bow and a quiver. “I'll make you a bet. You Agrotorae are famous for your shooting.” He gave her a confident grin. “So am I, where I'm from.”

  Skathi met his gaze. “How nice.” She pushed past him, but he gave chase.

  “Look, the terms are simple: you put more arrows into the bullseye than me, I leave you alone. But if I win, you join me in my room for a drink tonight.” He winked. “What d'you say?”

  Skathi shook her head. “Waste of my time.”

  “What?” Noll spoke in a voice loud enough for the men in the training yard to overhear. “Unless you're afraid you can't beat me.”

  Skathi turned. Fire burned in her eyes, but she spoke in a quiet voice. “I fear nothing.”

  “Then take the bet.” Noll spoke in a wheedling tone.

  “If I win, you don't speak to me for a week.”

  “Ouch!” Noll gave her a hurt look. “That's harsh.”

  “Those are my terms,” Skathi replied, folding her arms. “Take them or leave me alone.”

  A grin broadened Noll's hawkish face. “I'll take them!”

  Skathi stepped aside. “Show me how it's done, then.”

  Head held high, his expression confident, Noll set his quiver against the marker post and nocked an arrow. “Watch this.” He loosed. The arrow smacked into the center of the target. “Hah!” he crowed. “And that's how you do it.”

  “One more?” Skathi asked, her voice innocent.

  “Ooh, can't help yourself, can you?” Noll's eyes sparkled as he drew another arrow, aimed, and loosed. “Two for two, dead center!”

  Skathi frowned. “Not quite dead center.”

  Noll squinted at the target. “Course it is.”

  Aravon studied it. “Just a hair off there, Noll.”

&n
bsp; The little scout threw up his hands. “Close enough, Captain.” He turned to Skathi. “Want me to show you again?”

  Skathi gave him a sweet smile. “No, I think I've seen enough.”

  She set down her bow and removed her jacket. Aravon couldn't help staring. She wore a sleeveless vest that revealed the strong curves of her shoulders and arms that even Belthar would envy. Her back was broad, with tanned muscles that rippled as she drew the bowstring to her chin and loosed. The arrow sped toward the target and buried itself in the dead center next to Noll's first shot.

  Noll opened his mouth, but Skathi didn't give him a chance to speak. Her hands flashed as she drew, nocked, and loosed over and over. Nineteen arrows thunked into the target. Only one hit dead center, but every one of them was perfectly aimed. They formed a perfect X on the butt—a message that even Noll couldn't ignore.

  Aravon glanced at her quiver. “You've one left.” He had no trouble imagining where she wanted to put it—a place Noll would find quite uncomfortable.

  She shook her head. “Agrotorae superstition. Never fire your last arrow. It's bad luck to have an empty quiver.”

  Noll's mouth still hung open. With a scowl for the little man, Skathi strode to the rack, replaced her bow and quiver, and left the archery yard.

  Aravon gave Noll an angry shake of his head. “One of these days, Noll, you're going to piss off the wrong person.” He stalked away, leaving the speechless scout alone.

  * * *

  Aravon stood at the entrance to the training yard, arms folded, watching Colborn giving Draian a lesson on bare-handed combat. Both men had cloths wrapped around their knuckles, and Colborn was teaching the Mender a series of jabs, hooks, and a right cross finishing blow. Though Draian had managed to learn the basics of fighting with a sword and shield, he proved utterly useless without a weapon.

  “Keep that elbow down,” Colborn instructed. He gave Draian a sharp jab in the ribs, eliciting a yelp. “And for the love of the Swordsman, keep your face protected.”

  Draian threw up his hands. “Enough of this! I'll take up a sword, but I refuse to put my hands in jeopardy.”

  Colborn's face darkened. “Bare-handed combat is an important part of—”

  “As is delicate surgery, or the precise setting of shattered bone,” Draian cut him off with a glare. “When the time comes, you'll be glad I don't have the swollen and fractured knuckles common among bare-handed fighters.” He shook his head. “I saw enough of those in Icespire to know this is not a style of combat I will risk.”

  “He's right, Colborn,” Aravon spoke up. “The last thing we need is our healer with his hand in a splint because of some silly training accident.”

  “But, Captain,” Colborn protested, “if he can't defend himself without a weapon, he's in trouble.”

  “I know.” Aravon strode toward the two men. “But in this case, I believe the better choice is to focus on his sword and shield work, and not tempt the Mistress' luck when it comes to his hands.”

  Colborn's face hardened, but he nodded. “As you say, Captain.” He turned to Draian. “Grab your weapons and go through the forms I taught you yesterday. Get Belthar and have him spar with you.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” Draian said, giving Colborn a sloppy imitation of the Legion salute. He handed Aravon his cloth wrappings and strode toward the far end of the field, where Belthar focused on his axe practice. Skathi stood by the racks of daggers, and Noll sat on a bench opposite her, watching her with a guarded, wary expression.

  “How about you, Captain?” Colborn asked. “I haven't seen you practice bare-handed yet.”

  Aravon stared down at the cloths. His father had insisted on teaching him the brutish fighting style, and it had saved his life a few times in the shield wall. But that had been years ago. Since accepting his commission, he hadn't had the time, or desire, for the sport.

  But when he looked up, he found six pairs of eyes fixed on him. He knew exactly what went through their minds. They had each proven themselves in one way or another. Colborn with his woodcraft, Skathi with her shooting, Belthar with his size, Draian with his healing skills, and Zaharis with…well, everything he did. Even Noll had earned the respect of the others—all save Skathi—after he showed them how to vault into the saddle without using the stirrups or a mounting block.

  What had he done? He'd begun to establish a rapport with each of them, but hadn't yet proved himself to them. It was ever the way of the Legion.

  No way around this, is there?

  With a sigh, he removed his coat and, after a moment of hesitation, his shirt as well. Six sets of eyes narrowed at the sight of the scars on his chest and back. They needed to see the wounds left by the Eirdkilrs' attack. He set about wrapping his hands. Skathi and Noll abandoned the pretext of ignoring them. Draian didn't bother practicing, and Belthar managed to wander over without appearing too interested.

  Aravon overheard Noll's whisper to Belthar. “Two hundred push-ups says the Lieutenant wins.”

  Belthar shook his head. “No wager.”

  Aravon's gut twisted. So much for my men having confidence in me. Pushing the thought aside, he focused on wrapping his hands. His muscles still ached from the earlier archery practice, but he couldn't back down now. The outcome of this fight would affect how these men and woman perceived him.

  “What are the rules?” he asked Colborn.

  The blond-haired Lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “Rules?”

  “This is a practice session.” Aravon tried to sound confident. “The last thing we want is to walk away from this with broken bones.”

  Colborn nodded. “Right you are. How about first hand or knee on the ground?”

  “Fair enough.” Aravon rolled his head to either side and threw a few experimental punches. The stiffness in his elbow would put him at a disadvantage.

  He stopped just out of Colborn's reach. Shifting his right foot back and to one side, he raised his fists to the guard position. “Ready when you are.”

  “Good luck, Captain!” Draian shouted.

  The call distracted Aravon, and he barely saw Colborn's left hand dart toward his cheek. He twisted his head aside, but the blow caught him on the side of his face. He shuffled out of Colborn's reach. Blood rushed to his face, and his jaw smarted from the blow.

  With a grin, Colborn advanced. He threw three quick jabs, hooked a punch toward Aravon's left side, and brought his right hand around for a powerful cross. One jab caught Aravon in the mouth, splitting his lip. The second blow caught him in the ribs broken by the Eirdkilr club. Pain flared up his side but he hid a wince. The last caught him off-guard and set his head ringing. He stumbled backward, the world whirling around him.

  “Damn!” Noll whispered. “Colborn's a beast.”

  Shaking his head to clear it, Aravon returned to guard position and shuffled toward Colborn. He spat a gob of blood and gave the Lieutenant a respectful nod. Colborn smiled and went on the attack again.

  Aravon didn’t give him time.

  Even as Colborn's left hand shot out in a jab, Aravon ducked to his right and threw a quick punch at the Lieutenant's ribs. When Colborn's left arm came down to protect his side, Aravon's right hand came up in a hook that caught the man across the chin. Though the blow lacked power, it set the Lieutenant on his heels.

  Aravon ignored the shocked gasps of his unit. Just because he hadn't had the time or desire for the sport, it didn't mean his innate skill and years of practice had abandoned him.

  Colborn's grin had faded. He watched the Captain through narrowed eyes, suspicious and hesitant.

  Aravon made the first move. He threw a quick jab, a right-handed body shot, and a double jab that caught Colborn in the face. When his right hook came around, it collided with Colborn's jaw.

  The blow staggered Colborn, sending him stumbling backward. Aravon pursued, throwing quick combinations of punches that forced the Lieutenant to retreat. Colborn tried to respond with his own blows, but Aravon saw them coming. The time h
e'd spent watching Colborn train Draian over the last week had taught him a great deal about the half-Fehlan's fighting style. It relied on quick jabs and heavy right-handed blows. His longer arms gave him a better reach, but Aravon was quicker. When he saw his moment, he drove his fist into Colborn's side, doubling the man over. His over-the-shoulder punch sent the Lieutenant to one knee.

  “End of fight!” Draian called out.

  From his kneeling position, Colborn glared up at the Captain with a mixture of shock and anger in his eyes. When Draian tried to examine the bruises forming on his face, he shoved the Mender away. Ignoring Aravon's outstretched hand, he stalked out of the training yard. A moment later, a growl of rage split the air, accompanied by a loud crash.

  Aravon sighed. Well, that didn't end well.

  “Captain, you've got a new challenger.”

  Aravon spun at Noll's words. Zaharis stood behind him, a broad smile on his face. His hands flashed. “Think you're up for it, Captain?”

  Aravon had no desire to face the Secret Keeper. He'd watched Zaharis at practice and knew he had no chance of triumph. He'd hurried to finish the fight with Colborn because his left arm wouldn't hold up in a prolonged boxing match. The one body shot he'd blocked had set the still-healing joint throbbing.

  But again, he didn't have much choice. If he walked away from this fight, what message would that send his men? With a sigh, he adjusted his wraps and responded to Zaharis in sign language. “Any day.”

  Zaharis fought like no man he'd ever faced. When Aravon threw quick jabs, the Secret Keeper slapped them aside. His body blows struck air as Zaharis flowed out of the way. The man moved like water, his arms a blur as he deflected rather than blocked Aravon's punches. Aravon staggered backward, his head ringing from a flurry of strikes he didn't see coming.