Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  An image flashed through Aravon's mind: a man with an enormous two-handed sword strapped to his back stood apart from the body of Eirdkilrs. He held a longbow, the glinting steel tip of an arrow aimed at Aravon.

  He tried to speak, but found his mouth suddenly dry. He swallowed and nodded. “We met.”

  “We haven't been able to learn a great deal about them,” the Duke said, studying the parchments, “but we do know they are particularly cruel, more savage than the rest of the Eirdkilrs. Our reports say that they were the ones responsible for the destruction of Anvil Garrison and Gallows Garrison.” His brow furrowed. “The ones who died in battle were the lucky ones. The rest were impaled on spikes. I hear some lived for days.”

  Aravon's gut clenched. He'd heard of the torments inflicted upon the Princelanders by the Eirdkilrs. But this…this is far worse.

  “Our scouts place them in Anvil Garrison,” Lord Eidan spoke up. “They are leading the raids against the Eyrr and Jarnleikr clans.”

  The Duke met Aravon's eyes. “I don't need to tell you how imperative it is that we put a stop to their savagery. Once we arrive at Bjornstadt and the meeting with Chief Ailmaer is complete, it will be your job to hunt down and eliminate Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr.”

  Aravon's mouth curled up in a savage smile. “It will be my pleasure, Duke.” He glanced at Noll; a desire for revenge sparkled in the little scout's eyes as well.

  “Good.” The Duke nodded. “For now, the priority is to reach Bjornstadt in five days. We will have to ride hard, but we must remember the safety of Jade Battalion and the entire eastern arena hangs in the balance.”

  “We are ready, Your Grace,” Colborn spoke. His brow furrowed. “But is it even possible to cover the distance to Bjornstadt in so little time? It is more than three hundred miles south of the Chain!”

  The mainland kingdoms of Einan used the antiquated system of paces and leagues, distances that changed according to each city. However, Prince Toran's grandfather—together with the Secret Keepers—had created and established a unified system of feet, yards, and miles. The standardized measurements made mapmaking far more of a quantifiable science than an art form, with distances both consistent and reliable.

  The Duke nodded. “Even now, I am having my own Kostarasar chargers brought—a surprisingly challenging thing to keep secret. They have been bred for faster travel, and they are capable of lasting longer than Legion or even Fehlan mounts.” He gave a little smile. “Allow me a small amount of presumption when I say there are no horses like them anywhere on Fehl. Perhaps not even on Einan.”

  Aravon exchanged a glance with Colborn. Legion commanders and officers rode the best warhorses on Fehl. Yet he had often heard the Duke speak with his father about his specially bred horses. He had to see these mounts in action for himself.

  “Your Grace,” Lord Eidan said. When the Duke turned, the nobleman hefted a sack.

  “Ah, yes.” The Duke nodded and took the bag. “From the moment you leave these walls, there are two things that you must have on you at all times.”

  He opened the sack and dropped what looked like a long strip of leather onto the table. “These are to be both your disguises and the marks to identify you to those around you.”

  Aravon and the others leaned in. The strip of leather was a mask tooled with the snarling features of a Fehlan greatwolf. Two massive canines protruded from long jaws, and rows of sharp teeth seemed to come alive in the mask's mouth.

  “You must wear them always, but especially when you find yourselves among the Legion, the people of the Princelands, and anyone who could recognize you.” The Duke met their eyes in turn. “I have spoken with each of you about the importance of utter secrecy. Everyone you know and who once knew you believes you are dead. These masks will ensure that continues to be the case.”

  Aravon lifted one and strapped it over his face. The mask covered his entire face, with two holes for his eyes and pin-sized openings to make it possible for him to breathe.

  Duke Dyrund gave them a look that was half-sorrowful, half-apologetic. “These masks will conceal your faces from everyone. The world will see these greatwolves.”

  Noll scowled at his mask. “They're bloody hard to talk in.”

  “That is the point,” the Duke replied. “We cannot risk your voices being recognized, just as with your faces.”

  Noll opened his mouth to protest, but Aravon held up a hand. “He is right, Noll.” He met the eyes of the rest of his men. “If anyone finds out we’re alive, it could put our families in danger. We cannot take the risk.”

  Belthar, Skathi, and Draian looked displeased. Colborn and Zaharis, however, showed no displeasure. They simply stared at their masks with stoic expressions.

  “Faceless and voiceless,” the Duke intoned, “you are to be the champions of Icespire. Answerable only to myself and to the Prince. Loyal to us only, as well.” He nodded to Lord Eidan. “Ardenas here will see to the communication of your orders. You will have orders, but how you carry them out will be left to you. You will be free to move around and operate as you see fit.”

  He met each of their eyes in turn. “You have been brought together because you are the ones best-suited to do what needs to be done. Each of you has a role to play. Together, you will be the Prince's shields and swords, operating from the shadows.”

  Reaching into the sack, he drew out a necklace. “Together with those masks, these pendants will be the mark to identify you to any Princelander or Einari you meet. Every commander in the Legion has received word of your presence, and they have passed the word down to their men. All you need do is show them these pendants and you will be recognized as the Prince's men.”

  He dropped seven pendants on the table. Aravon took one and studied it. The small oval-shaped discs of silver displayed the etched outline of the Prince's insignia: a griffin wielding a sword and torch. Truth, intelligence, justice, honor, and valor.

  Without a word, Aravon slipped the necklace over his head and nestled it beside Mylena's Swordsman pendant.

  “Few outside this room will ever know what you've done.” The Duke spoke in a somber voice. “Your company has no title. Indeed, your names may never be recorded in the history of Icespire. But your Prince and your lands have need of you. Will you answer the call?”

  Without hesitation, Aravon saluted. “We seek no recognition, Your Grace. We simply seek to serve.”

  After a moment, Noll saluted as well. Belthar, Skathi, and Colborn pressed their hands to their chests. Draian and Zaharis did likewise.

  The Duke nodded. “Then let us go forth, nameless company. The world has need of its silent champions.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Aravon checked his pack for the third time, as he'd learned in the Legion. Aside from the standard Legionnaire equipment—flint and steel, all-purpose knife, waterskin, three days of strict rations, wooden bowl, and spoon—he had three changes of Fehlan clothing and a single set of Princelander robes. To blend in if they ever returned north of the Chain, Colborn told him.

  Now he stood in the smithy, waiting patiently as Polus, the blacksmith rummaged among the many tools and weapons stored on racks.

  “It ought to be around here somewhere,” the heavy-set, bearded smith grumbled to himself. He scratched his head and studied a pile of pig iron off to one side of the workshop. “I just left it here with the other spears, but…” Frowning, he resumed digging into the pile.

  Rolling his eyes, Zaharis strode toward a nearby rack and lifted a spear from the wall.

  “Oi, watch yer fingers!” Polus shouted at Zaharis. “Don't ye go touching…oh, there it is!” The blacksmith snatched the spear from the Secret Keeper's hands and thrust it toward Aravon. “Quite the work of art, if I say so myself.”

  The spear had a narrow head close to eighteen inches long, with a barb at the end of the haft.

  “Blade like this,” Polus said, pointing to the spearhead, “that'll punch straight through an Eirdkilr mail shirt or
studded vest like a butter through hot knife…er, a hot butter through knife…er, a knife through hot butter. Yes, that's the one.” He grinned up at Aravon. “Best Odarian steel the Prince’s coin can buy.”

  Aravon studied the spearhead. It had a brighter sheen than the typical Voramian steel blades he'd seen. The city of Odaron, far to the north of the continent of Einan, produced a higher-quality steel than the rest of Einan. Only Odarian smiths and alchemists knew the secrets that went into the steel, but Aravon knew it was stronger and less prone to damage and rust than regular steel.

  “As fer yer friend's modification,” Polus shot a glance at Zaharis, “I couldn't get my hands on more Odarian steel, so I had to make do with what was at hand.”

  “Modification?” Aravon asked.

  Polus' beefy finger tapped a band of metal two feet from the iron-capped end of the spear. “Give 'er a twist.”

  Aravon did as instructed. The movement sent a spike jutting from the butt.

  “Iron like that'll rust if ye aren't careful, so make sure to treat it right.” Polus gave him a grin. “But ye never know when an extra blade like that'll save yer life. Plus, from what yer silent friend tells me, a bit of extra heft'll come in handy.”

  Aravon brought the iron-capped end of the spear swinging around. The movement reminded him of swinging a heavy quarterstaff. The weight would take a bit of getting used to, but the added metal helped to balance out the long spearhead. The razor-sharp tip of the spear gave him a slashing and stabbing weapon, and the butt end could do serious clubbing damage.

  He glanced at Zaharis and formed the gesture for “Thank you” with his right hand. Though he could comprehend most of what Zaharis told him, his fingers still moved clumsily. The Secret Keeper must have understood, for he grinned and gave Aravon a nod.

  “Anything else ye need, just take it from the racks.” Polus motioned to the weapons on the wall. “Most of 'em are Odarian steel, but there're a few regular steel blades among them. Find what suits yer fancy—Duke's orders.”

  “Thank you, Polus,” Aravon said.

  “T'aint nothing,” the blacksmith answered. His smile deepened to a solemn expression. “From what I hear, it's us that owe the lot of ye thanks. Seems the least I c'n do.”

  Aravon blushed and could find no words.

  The blacksmith, as if aware of what he'd said, ducked away and turned back to rummaging among his tools, mumbling to himself to fill the awkward silence.

  Aravon turned to scan the racks of weapons. His eyes immediately went to the standard Legion-issue short sword. He stopped himself from reaching for it, and instead opted for a Fehlan blade. Though a bit longer and heavier, it was short enough he'd be confident using it within close range. And, given that he'd be among the Fehlans, it would blend in better. The sword came with a leather and wood scabbard decorated in the classic Fehlan patterns of whorls and swirling lines interspersed with runes.

  Draian entered the smithy, followed by Belthar and Colborn. The Lieutenant chose a Fehlan blade slightly longer than Aravon's, with a short sword for his off-hand. He slung a round Eirdkilr shield across his back, tucked a pair of long seaxes into his belt, and completed his ensemble with a longbow—the sort used by the Eirdkilrs. He loaded Draian up with a Fehlan longsword, a round shield, and a single dagger.

  Belthar, of course, selected the largest axe from the racks. He swung it with a gleeful expression. The Odarian steel heads sang as they sliced the air. He added a short sword and a pair of heavy, broad seaxes.

  “Oi, big man!” Polus called out. “See what I've got fer ye.” From behind the counter, the blacksmith produced the largest crossbow Aravon had ever seen—more like a small ballista, really. The limbs had to be at least four feet across, with a stock of solid oak. Belthar grunted as he strained to cock the bow.

  “See what one of these'll do to those Eirdkilr bastards.” Polus held up a bolt as long as Aravon's arm and an inch-and-a-half thick. The short, four-sided tip could punch through armor.

  Belthar slid the bolt into place and aimed down the crossbow's sight. When he pulled the trigger, the enormous bolt hurtled through the air like a streak of lightning. Shards of wood exploded outward as it punched halfway through the solid door to the smithy.

  “Not m'door!” Polus cried.

  Belthar gave him an apologetic grin and patted the crossbow's stock. “I love it.”

  A moment later, the door flew open and a scowling Skathi stalked into the smithy. “Who in the Keeper's name is dumb enough to do that?” She stabbed a finger at the bolt embedded in the door. “Nearly took my damned eye out!”

  Belthar turned a shade of red any tomato would envy.

  Skathi's gaze fell on the big man and his crossbow. She strode toward him, eyes flashing. “You keep that damned thing pointed at the barbarians, y'hear? I see it coming near me, and I'll put an end to the both of you.” A dagger appeared in her hand, and she waved it menacingly at Belthar.

  The big man mumbled a hasty apology and rushed out of the smithy, crossbow in hand.

  “Ye fergot yer bolts!” Polus cried after him. Belthar didn't turn around.

  Aravon chuckled. “I'll see that he gets them.” He grunted beneath the burden. The weight of the five bolts in the quiver gave him a new appreciation for Belthar's strength.

  Noll slunk into the smithy and, with a hasty look at Skathi, turned to the weapons on the far wall. Ever since that morning's incident, he'd been smart enough to give the woman a wide berth. However, Aravon knew he'd have to ensure no bad blood remained between them. Their squad couldn't survive such strife in the ranks.

  Skathi chose a longbow taller than she was, along with a short horse bow. Three quivers of arrows and four daggers—one for throwing, a push blade, and two straight-edged, double-bladed knives—completed her weaponry.

  Aravon raised an eyebrow at Noll's choice of weapon. “Don't you think the Legion short sword will stand out in Fehl?”

  The little scout glanced down at the sword. “I'm pretty sure enough Legionnaire swords have been collected from the battlefields that one more won't stand out. Besides, I've grown sort of…fond of it, you know?” He gave Aravon an odd expression. “It reminds me of who I was. Even if the world thinks I'm dead, I'll know the truth.”

  Aravon nodded. Noll had echoed the same thing he'd been feeling. He had Mylena's pendant to remind him who he was and where he was from. He, at least, knew he still lived.

  Zaharis waved to get his attention. “Come with me,” he said.

  Curious, Aravon followed.

  The Secret Keeper led them into another room adjoining the smithy. There, laid out upon the table, sat seven sets of leather armor.

  Zaharis signed, “Legion armor is too visible. We need something different. Better.”

  Aravon stared down at the armor. Someone had painted or stained the leather with an odd assortment of dark green, light green, black, ochre, and greenish-brown splotches.

  Colborn, who had joined him, gave the Secret Keeper a surprised expression. “You went with the Fehlan camouflage?”

  Zaharis nodded and grinned. “It'll blend in nicely, right?”

  Aravon turned to Colborn. “What is Fehlan camouflage?”

  The Lieutenant pointed to the odd splotchy pattern. “Fehlan hunters use it to blend in with the forest. The colors mix with the shadows of a tree line or the dappling of the sunlight through the leaves. It breaks up the solid outline of a man and makes him all but invisible. These are meant for forests and marshlands—those who live closer to the ice-covered Sawtooth Mountains use white and various shades of grey.”

  Zaharis produced matching cloaks. “For warmth as well,” he signed.

  Aravon lifted the armor. It weighed more than any leather armor he'd encountered.

  Zaharis' hands flashed. “A special brew of mine. It hardens the leather.” His grin widened. “Harder than steel. Lighter, too, and dulls the noise.”

  Aravon and the others donned the armor over their simple Feh
lan clothing. Zaharis, clearly uncomfortable without his muted brown Secret Keeper robes, did likewise. The armor weighed less than mail and a breastplate, but it lacked the creak that made leather armor so irritating. Aravon decided it was better not to test out its stopping power just yet.

  “You said some 'special brew'?” he asked Zaharis. “Like a Secret Keeper alchemical concoction?” His command of the silent hand signals was lacking the nuances and more complicated words, so Zaharis kept the words simple. He'd only learned the sign for “brew” after finding the Secret Keeper doling out a bitter-smelling liquor over a game of dice with Noll and Belthar.

  Zaharis nodded. “Made it myself!” Pride shone in his eyes. Aravon had learned that Zaharis took great pride in his alchemical research and discoveries. It often kept him up at night—in the weeks since he'd known the man, he'd never seen him sleep.

  The leather armor came with helmets in the Fehlan style—simple steel skull caps—but with the addition of an aventail, a curtain of treated leather that covered their throats, necks, and shoulders. The greatwolf masks completed their appearance.

  Which, Aravon had to admit, are pretty fearsome. The Duke's craftsmen had taken great pains to make their masks as terrifying as possible. The snarling wolf's face had been tooled into the leather in exquisite detail. Together with the odd-patterned leather armor and their Fehlan weapons, they looked sufficiently menacing.

  No matter how hard he tried, Aravon couldn't push away the worry nagging at the back of his mind. He comforted himself with the knowledge that they'd be riding under the Duke's command. He could stay focused on keeping his men in line and let the Duke worry about taking charge. With all the years he'd spent in the Legion, as Duke of Eastfall, and navigating the ruthless world of Icespire politics, Duke Dyrund would prove the better choice to lead.

  He looked at his little company. Seven of us against twenty-five hundred Eirdkilrs. A stone settled in the pit of his stomach. Not the sort of odds I'd take on a good day.