Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  Folktales and epic ballads spoke of the great heroes of legend facing those odds in glorious battle. More often than not, the heroes ended up dead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Snarl seemed excited by the flurry of activity that seized Camp Marshal. He darted around Aravon's legs, yipping in his high-pitched voice. Occasionally, he'd take to the skies for a short flight, circling Aravon's head before returning to the ground.

  The Enfield's enthusiasm stood in stark contrast with the hesitation roiling within Aravon. He'd never had cause to doubt his abilities before. If anything, his service in the Legion had been easy, marked by one victory after another.

  But after the Eirdkilrs' ambush, he couldn't help the nervousness. Out there, beyond the safety of Camp Marshal, he couldn't protect his men. What’s to stop me from leading them into another ambush and getting them all killed?

  Snarl landed in a tangled heap of limbs, furry tail, and taloned pawns, but was up in a flash. He barked as he darted toward Skathi, raced between her legs, and charged back toward Aravon.

  “He's in a mood today,” Skathi said with a grin.

  Aravon nodded. “This is the most action he's seen in his life. He's bound to be excited.”

  “You not so much, eh?” The woman cocked an eyebrow at him. “I've seen that same expression on men being led to the hangman. Surely it's not all that bad. The seven of us against an army of Eirdkilrs.” She gave him a wry smile. “We're in for a real treat.”

  Aravon drew in a deep breath, held it, and slowly released it, expelling the doubts, fears, and concerns for the future. He had to focus on one thing at a time. For now, that meant reaching Bjornstadt for their meeting with Chief Ailmaer of the Eyrr. He could worry about what came next after.

  “It's what we signed up for,” he told Skathi. “If it was easy, anyone would do it.”

  She nodded. “Never liked easy much.” With a grin, she swung up into her saddle. “Not much fun in it.”

  Aravon chuckled. “You'd have made one hell of a Legionnaire.”

  “Never!” She gave him a mock offended look. “I'm far too good for your Legion.”

  He laughed. It felt good, even if just for a moment.

  The sound brought Snarl spinning around, and the little Enfield charged back toward him. He leapt into the air, wings flapping, and swooped toward Aravon. At the last moment, he curled in his wings and plopped into Aravon's arms.

  The Enfield had grown heavier and larger in the last weeks, and his face had grown, his fur turning a rich orange shot with white. Aravon had no idea how quickly Enfields grew to maturity, but in his mind, Snarl was little more than a pup. Or a kit, or nestling, or whatever one called an infant Enfield. He couldn't put Snarl in the sort of danger he would certainly face beyond Camp Marshal.

  “Looks like it's time for us to part ways.” He knelt and set Snarl on the ground. “You'll be safer here.”

  Snarl looked up at him with his amber-colored eyes, and his vulpine face seemed to droop. He gave a little whining bark.

  “It's for the best, Snarl.” A lump rose in Aravon's throat. After more than a month with the Enfield, he'd grown fond of the creature. “You'll be safe here.”

  “Actually, Captain,” came the voice of Duke Dyrund, “your little friend has a mission of his own.”

  Aravon turned to see Duke Dyrund striding toward him. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the creature padding along at the Duke's heels. Another Enfield, this one much larger than Snarl, with three-inch talons that dug grooves into the earth with each step.

  “A mission, Your Grace?” Aravon asked.

  The Duke nodded. “Skyclaw here will show him the way.” He knelt and gave the older Enfield a pat on the head, stroking the soft white fur on its back. The creature rubbed against the Duke's legs. After a moment, Duke Dyrund straightened, put an odd-looking whistle to his lips, and blew. The whistle let out a long, shrill note.

  The sound had an immediate effect on Skyclaw. His wings snapped out, fully three feet long and adorned with thick feathers of a lustrous golden hue. Skyclaw took a step forward, crouched, and leapt into the air, massive wings bearing him aloft with ease.

  Snarl stared up at Skyclaw, at Aravon, and again at Skyclaw. His wings flapped, and he too crouched as if preparing to fly. But he hesitated. He seemed torn between the desire to follow Skyclaw and staying with Aravon.

  “Go, Snarl!” Aravon encouraged. “Follow Skyclaw.”

  With a little yip, Snarl leapt high into the air and took off after Skyclaw, wings beating the air. A little ball of sorrow formed in Aravon’s gut as he watched Snarl fly away.

  “Don't worry.” Duke Dyrund rested a hand on his shoulder. “Skyclaw will take care of him.”

  Aravon nodded. “I'll miss the little guy, but given where we're going—”

  “Oh no!” The Duke shook his head. “He's not leaving you.”

  Aravon's brow furrowed. “I-I don't understand.” He glanced at the two small figures high in the sky.

  Duke Dyrund smiled. “He'll be back soon enough. Skyclaw is just showing him the way to Wolfden Castle and Icespire.”

  The words did little to alleviate Aravon's confusion.

  The Duke explained. “The Enfields are our way of communicating without relying on messengers. The eagle half of him will always want to fly free, and we harness that in the same way we use homing pigeons. They're smarter than carrier pigeons, and far more resourceful.” He tapped Aravon's chest with a finger. “But the fox half of him will want to find the alpha of his pack. That's why he spent the last weeks living with you. He will always return to you. It's what makes him the perfect choice to communicate with each other over long distances.”

  Aravon's eyebrows rose. He hadn't bothered to think of how the Duke would send instructions or orders for their missions.

  “Enfields are masters of both the skies and ground. If it is too dangerous to fly, they sneak through the forest like foxes. If the ground is perilous, they take to the skies.” The Duke smiled. “The fact that they're believed to be creatures of legend means no one will think to hunt them down. They're in less danger than any messenger birds—or horseback messengers—for that matter. To the Eirdkilrs and Fehlans, they appear like any fox or eagle.”

  He produced a whistle from his pouch and handed it to Aravon. “But with this, you can call him to you. His fox ears have excellent hearing, and the whistle will guide him to you anywhere on Fehl.”

  Aravon studied the whistle. Small, made of bone, it looked like the pipes he'd whittled as a child. The end had a hole to thread a leather loop or silver necklace. He strung it from the same necklace that held Mylena's pendant and hung it beside the silver sword pendant and the Prince's insignia.

  “Come, Captain.” Duke Dyrund clapped him on the back. “We must depart.”

  They strode toward the stables, where they found the rest of their small company mounted. In addition to his six men, the Duke had brought along four guards—introduced as Rendar, Farrell, Ashtyn, and Syvup.

  “I trust these men with my life,” Duke Dyrund told Aravon and the others. “Each one of them is from Wolfden Castle, and they have served me well for years.”

  Aravon regarded the four. Rendar was a small, lean man that had the wary-eyed look of a scout—or a thief. Farrell couldn't quite match Belthar in size, but the differences were minor. Ashtyn and Syvup looked ordinary enough, but the way their hands hovered near the hilts of their long swords and the confidence in the way they sat their horses spoke of military experience—either in the Legion or the Duke's regulars.

  Aravon nodded to them, and they returned the gesture. He turned to the Duke. “We await your word, Your Grace.”

  Duke Dyrund looked over the eleven men gathered around him. “I do not need to remind you of the importance of our mission, but I will anyway.” His face grew somber. “The future of the Princelands, and perhaps all of Fehl, rests on its outcome. As we ride, think of home, of your loved ones, and remember that you
do this for them.” With a click of his tongue, he set his horse into motion.

  Their journey had begun

  * * *

  Aravon marveled at their speed. They'd ridden for almost an hour, and already they'd reached the ninth mile-marker since leaving Camp Marshal.

  Legion horses could manage eight miles per hour at a fast trot, though they tended to match the three to four mile-per-hour pace of the marching men. But these horses, Kostarasar chargers bred by Duke Dyrund, far surpassed their speed—and showed no signs of tiring.

  The chargers had wide foreheads, short necks, broad withers and deep chests, sloping shoulders thick with muscle, and long, powerful legs. Their manes and tails were coarse, with a double coat the Duke said kept them warm in the cold of southern Fehl. The name Kostarasar was a Fehlan word meaning “fleet-footed”. According to the Duke, they were bred from Odarian chargers—some of the fastest horses on the Einan mainland—and the rugged ice ponies of the Fehlan tribes near the Sawtooth Mountains.

  Aravon estimated their speed at roughly ten miles per hour and calculated the distance to Bjornstadt. Two hundred and fifty miles stood between Camp Marshal and Hightower, the fortress guarding the Eastmarch. They'd have to cover another two hundred and fifty miles beyond the Chain, then turn off the broad, paved Eastmarch and cut through fifty to a hundred miles of forest paths, muddy wagon trails, and overgrown roads.

  And all that in five days. If the horses could maintain their speed, they could cover over a hundred miles per day. Long days spent in the saddle for twelve hours or more, a punishing pace at the best of times.

  But the Duke had made it clear to all of them. They had to reach Bjornstadt as soon as possible—before the Eirdkilrs made a move against the Legion at Gallows Garrison. Aravon didn't want to think what would happen if the full twenty-five hundred barbarians faced off against fewer than fourteen hundred Legionnaires.

  In a pitched battle, Legionnaires could hold their own against an equal number of Eirdkilrs. The shield wall protected the Legion from the barbarians' arrows and proved a firm obstacle that not even the Eirdkilrs' charging bulk could assail. Backed by Agrotorae and siege weapons—ballistae and the newfangled onagers developed in Odaron—the Legion of Heroes could withstand even the fiercest assault.

  But facing nearly two-to-one odds without solid walls to hide behind and no siege engines, the Legion at Gallows Garrison had no hope of defeating nearly twice its number. Their only chance of survival lay in sending reinforcements. None would come from the western front—the Fehlans of the Eyrr clan were their last hope.

  Unless they could find a way to whittle down the Eirdkilrs' numbers. He'd mentioned the thought to Colborn and Zaharis before they left Camp Marshal; between the three of them, they ought to be able to come up with something. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it was all he had.

  His thoughts turned to the men and woman under his command. Well, under the Duke's command, at the moment. Colborn, Noll, and, Draian rode at the head of the column, with Duke Dyrund, Aravon, Zaharis, and the Duke's four men in the center. Belthar and Skathi brought up the rear. Their greatwolf masks kept out some of the dust kicked up by the others' horses. Some.

  They weren't expecting an attack, at least not inside the Princelands, but the formation would give them the best chance of fighting off an ambush or any bandits or highwaymen foolish enough to waylay such a large force of armed, mounted men. Then again, he hadn’t expected the Eirdkilr ambush on Sixth Company—he wouldn’t take chances with the Duke’s safety, even in what should be “friendly” territory.

  He cast a final glance over his shoulder. The trees of Black Marsh had grown smaller since his last look. With every passing heartbeat, they rode toward danger. He had spent his whole adult life doing precisely that. So what is it about this that seems so different? Try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. They were going to war. And this war was more likely to get them killed than anything he'd faced before.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Bloody hell!” Zaharis signed. “This is good.” He emphasized his words by shoveling another large spoonful of the stew into his mouth.

  Aravon nodded and turned to Farrell. “You know your cooking's good when a Secret Keeper compliments it.”

  The Duke's man blushed and turned back to the pot hanging over their campfire. Big man or no, he could cook. He'd produced a packet of herbs and spices from his gear and, together with a few of Zaharis' ingredients, turned their salted pork into a hearty stew, complete with root vegetables and trail biscuits fresh from Wolfden Castle's oven. Like every Legionnaire, Aravon knew the food would grow progressively worse the farther they ranged from home, so he made sure to enjoy every bite.

  “Make sure to save some for Noll and Rendar,” he told Farrell.

  The two men had drawn the first watch—the worst watch after a long day of riding. Their camp in the copse of a sparse ash forest shouldn't draw much attention, but the Duke wouldn't take chances. They needed speed over stealth for this mission. The faster they reached their destination, the better. But he refused to abandon the caution learned over decades in the Legion. That meant finding the safest places to camp and having a watch rotation.

  Aravon had drawn the midnight watch with Zaharis. He'd get few hours of sleep this night, but his nerves were too thin to sleep anyway. It was always this way the first nights out of camp.

  He massaged his face. The mask had chafed all day long, and his lips felt thick from wearing the heavy leather. He—and no doubt the rest of his men—hated the masks, but they'd come in handy when riding past Ashvale. He'd actually spent a few summers playing with the sons of Master Drast, Ashvale's resident blacksmith. The Duke could be recognized, but he and his men were to remain faceless.

  Not for the first time, he was glad he'd learned Zaharis' hand language, and that he'd insisted the others learn as well. It was their only way to communicate while wearing the masks.

  But now, hidden by shadow, they could remove the thick leather. Aravon had never been so happy to wipe his mouth.

  His traveling companions sat around the fire as well, each absorbed with their own activities. Duke Dyrund was busy scanning a sheaf of parchments he'd brought with him. Zaharis had loaned him a pair of small glass globes that produced blue and red light when held close together. Quickfire lamps, he'd called them.

  Colborn, Belthar, Ashtyn, and Syvup were engaged in the pastime every soldier knew well: weapon maintenance. Belthar's whetstone ground over the blade of his huge axe, and he paused every few strokes to test the edge. Colborn and the other two cared for their swords. Even steel would rust without a protective coating, and the leather scabbards would crack unless oiled.

  Skathi leaned against a thick tree trunk, a carving knife in one hand and a long, straight stick in the other. Off-duty Agrotorae kept themselves occupied by fashioning new arrows. “Never know when you'll need another,” a gruff, grey-haired Agrotora had once told him. Skathi would need fletching and arrowheads to finish her new arrows, but at least she could prepare the shafts.

  Zaharis had emptied his bowl and gotten as comfortable as he could manage on the hard ground. From his pack, he drew a small book, another pair of quickfire lamps, and a stick of charcoal. Brow furrowed in concentration, he set about writing in that strange Secret Keeper script of his.

  “What are you writing, Zaharis?” Colborn asked. “Keeping track of how many times Belthar broke wind today?”

  His words elicited a chuckle from Syvup and Ashtyn. Belthar scowled, and Aravon didn't miss the way his eyes darted toward Skathi as he blushed. The woman appeared too preoccupied by her work—or too dignified—to take note of the Lieutenant's gibe.

  Zaharis shook his head. “Flora and fauna,” he signed. “There are many fascinating things in Eastfall.” He returned his attention to the book.

  “What did he say?” Belthar asked. “I didn't understand what he said before 'fascinating things'.”

  “Plants and animals,�
�� Colborn replied. He turned to Zaharis. “Sort of odd pastime to have, isn't it?”

  Zaharis' eyes lifted, and there was a fire burning there. “Not a hobby. My life's work.” His fingers moved with angry precision.

  “Whoa, easy!” Colborn held up his hands in defensive gesture. “I didn't mean anything by it.” He signed an apology to the Secret Keeper. “What do you mean, your life's work?”

  Sighing, Zaharis snapped the book shut. His hands moved quickly, and Aravon struggled to keep up with his silent speech. “The Secret Keepers sent me to Fehl to catalogue the flora and fauna unique to the continent, many found nowhere on Einan.” He turned to Aravon. “Like Snarl.”

  “They don't have Enfields on the mainland?” he asked. It struck him how odd the question was. He had just spoken of the legendary creature in the same way one would talk of a dog or cow, the most normal thing in the world.

  Zaharis shook his head. “On Einan, legends speak mostly of…” His hands flashed two words Aravon didn't recognize. At the blank looks in their eyes, Zaharis tried again. This time, he spelled out the words using the signs for each letter one at a time.

  “Abiarazi?” Aravon's brow furrowed. “Never heard of them.”

  “You wouldn't,” Zaharis replied, “not by that name.” His expression grew somber. “You know them as...” He paused, then spelled out the word.

  “Demons?” Belthar's eyebrows rose. “Everyone knows about them. But why did you call them Abeezarazi?”

  “Abiarazi,” Zaharis corrected him. “The name they called themselves when they walked Einan long ago.”

  As a child, Aravon had loved hearing the legends of the War of Gods, the ancient battle between the twelve gods of Einan and Kharna, the Great Destroyer. Kharna had summoned demons to fight as his army. He would have triumphed, but the Swordsman, god of heroes, had sacrificed himself to give the other gods a chance to capture and imprison the Destroyer. They had purged Einan of the demons—the Abiarazi—some four or five thousand years earlier.