Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  Skathi slid down the rope, but a storm brewed in her eyes as she stalked toward them. Aravon had no time to react before she balled her fist and punched Noll square across the jaw.

  Noll's head snapped back. His knees wobbled and he would have fallen had Belthar not caught him.

  “You little creep!” Skathi shouted. “Enjoy that, did you?”

  Dazed, Noll shook his head.

  “Skathi!” Aravon's voice cracked like a whip. “What's the meaning of this?”

  The red-haired woman whirled, eyes blazing. “This bastard,” she snarled, stabbing a finger at Noll, “thought it would be fun to cop a feel.”

  Noll protested. “I was just helping you—”

  “Helping, my ass!” Skathi shouted.

  Noll's face went rigid, as if struggling to keep a snappy retort from coming out.

  “Is that true, Noll?” Aravon demanded.

  “No, sir!” Noll shook his head. “I would never—”

  Aravon gripped the little scout's collar and pulled him close. “Is. That. True. Noll?”

  Noll flinched beneath his anger. For an answer, his gaze dropped from the Captain's.

  Aravon’s punch caught the little scout in the jaw and snapped his head around. The force of the blow rocked Noll back and his legs sagged, his knees buckling. He hit the ground hard and lay, stunned, for long seconds, blinking up at Aravon. Surprise was etched into every line of the scout’s face, as if disbelieving what had just happened.

  But Aravon wanted to make his stance on the matter clear in no uncertain terms. He fixed Noll with a harsh glare. “Skathi,” he said without breaking eye contact with the scout, “you’re the one he laid hands on. What would you suggest I do with him?”

  Noll's eyes widened and his hand went to his jaw.

  Now Aravon broke off his gaze and fixed each member of his company with a solemn stare. “This isn't the Legion. We don't have rules and regulations to handle these situations.” He turned back to Noll. “That means we sort this out ourselves. Our way. You messed with Skathi, so it’s her choice what to do about it.”

  “Oh, I can think of an idea or two, sir.” A dangerous light shone in Skathi's eyes, and her right hand dropped to the dagger on her belt.

  “Captain, if I may make a suggestion,” Colborn interjected.

  Aravon turned to the Lieutenant. “I'm listening.”

  “We settle this the Eirdkilr way.”

  Noll's face went pale.

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

  “All Eirdkilr grievances are settled one way.” Colborn drew a pair of daggers and held them out to Skathi and Noll. “A battle to the death. Seems a simple solution to me.”

  “He can always re-run the course, Captain,” Belthar rumbled. “This time with Skathi giving him that sort of helping hand.”

  “Helping dagger, more like.” Skathi's blade appeared in her hand. “I'm game.”

  Noll glanced at the dagger, at Skathi, and back at the weapon in Colborn’s hand.

  “Or,” Colborn continued, “we pretend we're bloody civilized.” His voice lowered to a growl as he snarled at Noll. “And you remember that we need to be a cohesive unit in order to have any chance of success. That anything you do that makes it harder for her to focus on doing her job means you’re increasing the chances we all end up dead.”

  Noll swallowed. “I like that last one.”

  Colborn turned to Skathi. “What will it be? I'm happy to let you carve him to pieces, but I've a feeling we'll need him in the days to come.”

  Skathi let out a low growl. A dangerous light flashed in her eyes.

  “I-I'm sorry!” Noll spit out before she could respond. “Truly, I am.” He was no coward, but even a blind man could see Skathi was ready to take him apart piece by piece. From what they'd seen of her over the last month, no one had any doubt who would win.

  Skathi ground her teeth. “Swear.”

  Noll's eyebrows rose. “What?”

  Skathi stepped toward him, and the scout cringed back. “Swear to me that you will never lay a hand on me again.”

  “I-I swear!” Noll's words came out in a rush. “By the thirteen gods of Einan, and by my mother's soul, I swear it.”

  Aravon glanced at Skathi. After a moment, the tension in her face drained away and she sheathed her dagger. “Good enough.” The anger hadn't gone from her eyes, however.

  Aravon scowled down at Noll. “This is the last I expect to hear on this subject. Ever. Is that understood?”

  Noll nodded. “Yes, Captain.” No one offered to help him to rise. With a grimace, he picked himself up, brushed the dirt from the seat of his pants, and rubbed his bruised jaw, refusing to meet the eyes of those around him.

  “We've got another week before the Duke comes.” Aravon turned toward his Lieutenant. “Colborn, I expect you to come up with a similar challenge in the marshes for tomorrow or the day after.”

  Colborn nodded. “I've got just the place.”

  Aravon turned to the Secret Keeper. “Zaharis, I want you to help me come up with another obstacle course, and I'll have Polus, Clem, and the others build it for us as quickly as possible.”

  He met the gaze of each of his unit in turn. “We need to push ourselves harder than ever this last week. When the Duke comes, there will be no more practice runs, no more t—”

  “Riders approaching!” Clem's shout echoed through the camp. After a moment, he shouted again. “It's the Duke.”

  Colborn frowned. “I thought we had another week.”

  Aravon's gut tightened. “So did I.”

  He strode toward the gate, a gnawing sensation in his belly. The Duke, Lord Eidan, and four more men charged through the gate in a thunder of hooves, kicking up dust behind them. One look at the lines on the Duke's face told Aravon he was right to be worried.

  Duke Dyrund threw himself from his horse without a greeting for Clem.

  “Your Grace, what brings you to Camp Marshal?” Aravon asked. “We weren't expecting you—”

  “For another week, I know.” The Duke gave a dismissive wave. “But I couldn't wait any longer.”

  Aravon's blood ran cold. In all the years he'd known Duke Dyrund, he'd never seen the man like this. The Duke seemed to have aged a decade in the last three weeks. The grey at his temples and sprinkled in his beard gave him a haggard appearance. Dust and mud from the road covered him but he made no move to straighten his rich robes.

  “The time has come, Aravon,” the Duke said, his eyes somber. “We need you now before it's too late.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Duke Dyrund stalked toward the entrance to the barracks. Aravon hurried after him.

  “What's the matter, Duke?” Worry nagged in his gut. “What's happened?”

  The Duke didn't speak until he reached the War Room. A heavy oaken table occupied the center of the chamber, into which an artist had carved a detailed topographic map of the continent of Fehl from Icespire in the north to the Wastelands south of the Sawtooth Mountains. More maps, charts, scrolls, and reports sat upon the shelves lining every wall of the room.

  Duke Dyrund bent over the table, frowning. “Here.” He pointed a finger to a spot roughly three hundred and fifty miles south of the Chain. “This is the source of all our troubles.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. The Duke's finger indicated what had once been Anvil Garrison.

  Duke Dyrund met his gaze. “It appears the Eirdkilrs have changed tactics. They didn't simply destroy the garrison as we believed.” His expression darkened. “They've dug in and are using our own fortifications against us.”

  Aravon's eyes narrowed. “What are they doing?”

  Duke Dyrund turned to Lord Eidan. The slim nobleman stepped forward and cleared his throat. “At last report,” he said in his oddly deep voice, “there were close to five hundred Eirdkilrs camped within the walls of Anvil Garrison, with at least six hundred more occupying the surrounding countryside.”

  Aravon's e
yebrows shot up. More than a thousand Eirdkilrs? No force that large had been seen on Fehl since the Battle of Firemount Hill, nearly thirty years earlier.

  “And they're just holding the garrison?” he asked.

  Lord Eidan shook his head. “They're using it as a staging ground.”

  Aravon's eyes flashed to the Duke. “But that's—”

  “Totally unlike them, I know.” Duke Dyrund passed a hand over his face. “This group of Eirdkilrs, it seems, has abandoned their hit and run tactics in favor of holding the garrison. Which means they control the Eastmarch all the way to the Sawtooth Mountains. The scouts we've sent to check on the garrisons further south report total destruction, but for some reason the Eirdkilrs have decided that Anvil Garrison was worth holding.”

  Aravon leaned over the map. Anvil Garrison stood in Jarnleikr territory, built by Legionnaires more than two centuries ago. It stood atop high ground and provided a clear view of the south and east for ten miles. Its position alongside the Eastmarch meant any Fehlan commerce or Legion reinforcements would pass the Eirdkilr-held fortress. The stone walls and keep had held every Eirdkilr attack at bay.

  Until now.

  If the Eirdkilrs are using it as a staging ground, it will give them easy access to the Eyrr and Jarnleikr clans. Though these Fehlan clans hadn't aligned with the Princelanders, they had proven amenable to negotiations.

  “Are they attacking?” Aravon asked.

  Duke Dyrund nodded. “It seems they're leaving the Fjall clan alone for now, but they're raiding both the Jarnleikr and Eyrr. Neither of those clans can stand up to the Eirdkilrs alone—that's largely what made them willing to negotiate. But the Eirdkilrs are doing massive damage to the settlements and villages of these clans. Instead of simply raiding, they are taking everything, killing the populace, and scorching the earth behind them.”

  Aravon winced. “And what of the Legion? Can't they drive the Eirdkilrs out?”

  Duke Dyrund gave a slow shake of his head. “Alas, the war in the west has strained the Legion's resources to the maximum.”

  Lord Eidan cleared his throat again, an irritating habit. “Azure Battalion in the west was able to send three companies to reinforce Jade Battalion, sent by the Prince to reinforce the eastern positions. Jade Battalion is holding firm at what was once Gallows Garrison, trying their best to rebuild. But our eyes and ears in the south have warned of a fresh influx of Eirdkilrs from beyond the Sawtooth Mountains. Even now, there are close to a thousand more barbarians marching to join their kin at Anvil Garrison.”

  Fear twisted a dagger in Aravon's gut. Twenty-five hundred Eirdkilrs could easily overwhelm Jade Battalion, even with reinforcements.

  “To compound the problem, Jade Battalion has been having trouble repairing Gallows Garrison. Add to that the difficulty with logistics and a limited availability of suitable building materials, and progress has gone far slower than we'd like. There is little hope that they will be able to erect effective defenses should the Eirdkilrs decide to mount a raid.”

  Jade Battalion had fewer than a thousand men under its commands. The additional three hundred from Azure Battalion wouldn't even the odds against the Eirdkilrs. If the Eirdkilrs decided to raid, Aravon had no doubt of the outcome.

  “And there is no other place from which to draw reinforcements?” Aravon asked. He ran a finger along the line marking the border between the Princelands and the Fehlan wilds. “Surely the Chain could spare a few hundred men to—”

  “No.” The Duke's voice, quiet, held a weariness Aravon had never seen. “Every one of them is needed where they are. Already they are stretched thin, and nowhere more so than in Eastfall and Oldcrest.”

  “And the Princelands?”

  Again the Duke shook his head. “The Prince has emptied his coffers to pay for the last shipment of Legionnaires. The next will not arrive for another three months at least.”

  Aravon's gut tightened. “Is there no hope?”

  “There is,” the Duke said, his voice slow, “but it will only come from the Fehlans.”

  Aravon scanned the map. “You want to ask the Eyrr for aid?”

  Duke Dyrund nodded. “They are the ones that will suffer most if the Eirdkilrs retain their hold on Anvil Garrison, and even more so if our forces are driven back to the Chain. With their help, we may have a chance of liberating the garrison.” He met Aravon's eyes. “I have arranged a meeting with Chieftain Ailmaer in five days. I want you and your men to accompany me.”

  Aravon's brow furrowed.

  The Duke spoke first. “I know I promised you a month, but I cannot grant you any more time. You are needed now. All of you. Your strength and skill may not be enough to turn the tide, but I'll be damned if I don't throw everything I can at this problem. I am seeking to win by the only means I can; it is up to you and your men to do the same.”

  Aravon drew a deep breath. He had been dreading this day, but thought he had time. Now, the summons had come, and he would answer.

  He spoke in a quiet voice. “When do we leave?”

  * * *

  “One hour?” Noll demanded. “No offense, Captain, but that's—”

  “That's an order,” Aravon cut him off with a slash of his hand. “The Duke is our superior officer, and he’s given us a mission. We do as he says without question. Is that understood?”

  Noll nodded, but his expression held a great deal of reluctance.

  Aravon scanned the rest of his small company. “Anyone else?”

  Skathi nodded. A fire of eagerness burned in her eyes, and she was the first to race away to pack her gear. Belthar acquiesced more slowly, but no less eager. Zaharis and Colborn saluted and moved away.

  Only Draian remained behind. His face had gone pale. “I-It's really happening, isn't it?”

  Aravon nodded. “It is.” He rested a hand on the Mender's shoulder. “Think you're up for it?”

  Draian opened his mouth, but no sound came out. After a moment, he blew out his breath. “It's what we've been training for, so I know I ought to be ready.” His face fell. “When the High Adept told me I was to be sent on a special mission for the Swordsman, I assumed it would be to join one of the Legions as a Mender. But this…” He swallowed. “This is different.”

  “I know.” Aravon tried to sound more confident than he felt. “I know it is a great deal to ask of any man, and more so of a man that has dedicated his life to healing. But it is what is being asked of us. All of us. If our actions can save the lives of many, is it not right that we heed the call?”

  Draian nodded, and the fear faded from his expression. “You are right, Captain. I know in my heart we are doing the right thing.” He gave a shaky smile. “Alas, my head tells me that we're insane.”

  Aravon laughed. “Your heart has never led you astray, Mender. It certainly does seem like madness, but I'm confident that between the seven of us, there's nothing even an army of Eirdkilrs can do to stop us.”

  Draian grinned. “Yes, sir!” He gave the Legion salute. “With your permission, I'll be off to pack.”

  At his nod, the Mender hurried into the barracks. Aravon followed a few moments later. His steps were slower, a weight on his shoulders. The moment they stepped out of the gates of Camp Marshal, the burden of his men's survival would rest on him. In all their training, he'd allowed himself to forget the truth. Now, the enormity of what they intended to do settled on him.

  He paused at the entrance to his room. Such a small space, yet so safe. He scanned the few belongings in the room. None of it mattered to him. Everything he needed would be provided by the Duke. He kept only the Swordsman pendant around his neck, his last remnant of his former life. The life with Mylena and his sons—one he'd never return to now. Sorrow twisted in his chest, a fist of iron gripping his heart. He’d wrestled with his emotions for weeks and the burden had not grown easier to bear. Yet, the knowledge of what his actions would do—save lives, protect the Princelands, perhaps even hasten the end of the war—brought a measure of acceptance
. Though his choice had not been easy, it had been right. That had to be enough.

  He caught a glimpse of his face in the little mirror hanging over the wash basin. The month's worth of facial hair seemed so out of place. Legion regulations required daily shaving, but Colborn had encouraged them all to grow out their facial hair to match the Fehlan style of wearing long beards.

  Colborn and Belthar met him halfway down the corridor to the War Room. They, too, had empty hands. Aravon noticed a braided leather thong slung around Belthar's wrist but didn't ask where it had come from. Even soldiers needed some privacy.

  When they reached the War Room, the Duke was seated, a sheaf of parchments in his hands. Lord Eidan sat beside him, working his way through a similar pile.

  The Duke looked up as they entered. “Good. As soon as you are all here, we can give you the mission details.”

  Zaharis arrived next, a heavy-looking sack slung over his shoulders. Draian and Skathi followed a few minutes later. The Mender had a small leather chest tucked under one arm. Noll came last, dragging his feet, reluctance visible in his expression. He gave Skathi a wide berth as he scooted around the side of the large table.

  Duke Dyrund set down his stack of parchments and stood. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice heavy, “the war with the Eirdkilrs has not been going well.” He repeated everything he'd told Aravon earlier. “But there's more.”

  Aravon's eyebrows rose.

  Duke Dyrund turned to regard him. “I’m given to understand that there were certain…unique Eirdkilrs among the force that ambushed you?”

  Aravon was confused. “Unique?”

  The Duke scanned one of the parchments. “They wear red furs instead of the typical white.” He squinted at Aravon. “Is that correct?”

  Aravon nodded. Ice seeped into his gut. At least twenty of the ones that had ambushed him had worn the bloodstained red cloaks. “Who are they?”

  “They call themselves the Blodhundr—the Bloodhounds. They follow a war chieftain named Hrolf Hrungnir. According to rumors, he alone among the Eirdkilrs wields a sword.”