Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  No one knew the exact date of the War of Gods, but it had left its mark on the world. Aravon had heard stories of the Chasm of the Lost, the massive tear in the ground left by the battle between the Swordsman and the Great Destroyer. Some legends even held that the continent of Fehl had once been part of the mainland before the cataclysmic battle ripped it loose and set it adrift in the Frozen Sea.

  “If Enfields exist,” he found himself asking, “does that mean these Abiarazi exist as well?”

  Zaharis shook his head. “No. The gods drove them from the world.”

  Aravon nodded. It made sense. If demons roamed the earth, they would have been noticed—it was impossible to miss the mounds of corpses and the scorched earth left in their wakes. Besides, nothing could live for four thousand years.

  “What about the Serenii?” Belthar piped up. “They were real, too, right? They were the ones who built Icespire, weren't they?”

  The Serenii were an ancient race that lived around the time of the War of Gods. They were said to be the original inhabitants of Einan, but had disappeared from the world long ago.

  Colborn snorted. “Surely you don't believe those fanciful tales, Belthar! Here I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Belthar blushed. “But—”

  “The big man is right, Colborn. The Serenii did exist.” Zaharis had to spell out the letters of the word. “Many of the discoveries made in the Temple of Whispers are thanks to Serenii writings. Fragments of writings, more like. Einan is dotted with monuments they left behind. The Black Spire in Praamis, for example. Or Icespire itself.”

  Aravon's eyebrows darted up. He'd heard the rumors—no Fehlan, Princelander, or Einari craftsman could match the sheer artifice of the breathtaking spire that gave the city its name—but hadn't lent them much credence.

  “Told you,” Belthar muttered to Colborn.

  Colborn narrowed his eyes. “So, if the Serenii built all these things, why haven't they returned?” He folded his arms and leaned back against a tree with a skeptical expression. “Seems like they'd want to reclaim their lands.”

  Zaharis shook his head. “No one knows. There are no records that far back, not that I know of.” He shrugged. “But it's better this way. Legends say they had powerful magicks.”

  This elicited a snort from Colborn. “Magic? Please!” He rolled his eyes. “Magic doesn't exist.”

  “It doesn't?” Zaharis gave him a little smile. From within his robes, he produced a small phial filled with a curious blue liquid. He held out a hand to Skathi. “An arrow, please.”

  Skathi raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  Zaharis pointed to one of the wooden shafts she'd spent the evening working on. “Trust me.” He grinned at her.

  The skepticism never left her face, but she handed him an arrow.

  “Watch,” the Secret Keeper said. Carefully, he removed the cork from the top of the phial and poured a single drop onto the sharpened tip of the arrow.

  Aravon leaned forward. Belthar, Syvup, and Duke Dyrund did likewise. Skathi's eyes followed the Secret Keeper's hands as he placed the tip of the arrow into the fire. Only Colborn remained unmoving, arms folded across his chest.

  The tip of the wooden arrow suddenly flared bright, the fire a white so dazzling it seemed to light up the darkness for a dozen feet in every direction. All of them, even Colborn, flinched back from the brilliance.

  Zaharis removed the arrow from the fire and watched as the flame slowly dimmed and died. He blew on the tip until the glow faded and only blackened wood remained.

  “Look.” He held the arrow out to Colborn.

  Colborn's eyes went wide. “Impossible!”

  Aravon took the shaft. The tip had changed from wood to a dark grey rock. He tapped it; his nail clacked against it like real stone.

  Belthar, Syvup, Duke Dyrund, and the others passed it around. Even Draian seemed impressed.

  “And that's the source of your magic?” Colborn asked, thrusting a finger at the little vial in Zaharis' hand.

  The Secret Keeper shrugged. “Perhaps. It does many wondrous things—some we don't understand, some we do. We call it the Elixir of Creation. It was found in a Serenii chamber hidden beneath the city of Voramis. But in a limited quantity only. Very limited. After decades of searching, my order discovered what looked like a recipe to make it.” He tapped his notebook. “I was sent to Fehl to find the ingredients.”

  Aravon's brow furrowed. “They're not found on Einan?”

  Zaharis shook his head. “Some, not all. Some once grew there, but no longer.” He gestured at the land around them. “The land of Fehl has flora and fauna found nowhere else. While my Secret Keeper brethren search the Princelands, I seek to find it among the Fehlans.”

  Aravon nodded. He'd often puzzled over Zaharis' reasons for joining them. The Secret Keepers had a reputation for guarding their secrets with ruthless zeal. Some even whispered that they cut out their priests' tongues. But this explained it. Zaharis had agreed to accompany them in large part to fulfill his own mission. As long as it didn't interfere with the Duke's commands or their operations, he was a welcome addition to their force.

  Zaharis tucked the bottle away and drew out his book. He had clearly finished speaking, for he paid no attention to the rest of the quiet conversation around the fireplace. Any attempts to draw him into further conversation were met with a furious glare.

  Aravon tuned out the sound of Colborn teasing Belthar and allowed his mind to wander toward the next step of their journey. They'd covered close to a hundred miles before the setting sun forced them to call a halt. Summer nights lasted roughly six hours, so he'd get less than two hours of sleep after his watch before they resumed their journey. They would reach Hightower by the tenth hour the following day. At this pace, they'd arrive in Bjornstadt just in time for the Duke's meeting with the Eyrr chieftain.

  In Eastfall, they could use the paved roads that intersected the Duke's lands. Once past Hightower, south of the Chain, the broad Eastmarch would make for fast travel. But there was the matter of the dirt roads and wagon tracks to reach Bjornstadt. The horses couldn't sustain the fast pace indefinitely. They would arrive to the Eyrr town exhausted.

  The real problem wasn't the distance. The Eirdkilrs held Anvil Garrison, fewer than a hundred and fifty miles from their destination. The farther south they went, the greater the risk of an attack.

  Thoughts of the Eirdkilrs brought back memories of the ambush. Even after all this time, he still saw the faces of the Sixth Company when he closed his eyes. Smelled the thick, cloying odor of rotting flesh pressed atop him as he struggled to pull himself out from beneath the mountain of corpses—corpses that had once belonged to his friends and comrades. He tried to force them from his mind in an effort to rest, but they refused to leave him alone. The cries of battle and death echoed in his ears as he drifted into troubled sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  Aravon's tension mounted as they approached Hightower. Many of the Duke's regulars in the city had served beside him during his early days in the Legion. Any one of them could recognize his voice, his stance, the way he sat a horse. He couldn’t help feeling glad the Duke would take charge of any interactions as they passed through—better that than risk his identity being discovered so early into their mission.

  Not a single guard questioned them as they passed. None so much as raised a hand or spoke a word of greeting. The grizzled, hard-eyed men at the gate simply stood aside to make way for the Duke’s fast-moving column.

  The Eastmarch ran straight through Hightower, allowing them to maintain their steady pace despite passing through the densely populated city. Hightower numbered among the largest cities in the Princelands, and second only in Eastfall to the Duke's own Wolfden Castle. The thick stone walls were high and patrolled by more guards than occupied any other city in the Chain. Even the houses were built with more stone and brick than wood, with roofs of tile instead of thatch.

  Aravon’s brow furrowed as they ro
de through the city. Despite the late morning hour, the cobblestone streets were oddly clear of the early morning traffic—even the wooden stalls of the usually-flourishing marketplace had been emptied, leaving only empty lanes and fluttering canvas.

  Their company crossed the stronghold in less than twenty minutes and found the south gate open, the drawbridge down. As they rode across the steel-banded drawbridge, Aravon tried hard not to look down at the deep moat dug across the southern face of the keep. In the history of Hightower, no Eirdkilr or Fehlan army had ever crossed or breached the city walls.

  A burden settled on his shoulders the moment his horse's hooves touched the paved stone road of the Eastmarch. They had left behind the safety of the Chain—the strongholds, towers, and outposts guarding the border between the Fehlan clans and the Princelands. Now, they rode into territory held by their enemies—or those who sheltered the Eirdkilrs that had slaughtered his Sixth Company to a man.

  Once out of sight of the city, he called for a halt, just long enough to switch up their formation. Noll and Colborn, the two most familiar with the terrain, he dispatched to ride a mile ahead of their group. They would scout the route along the Eastmarch for any threat and find a suitable campsite for the night.

  Belthar rode in the lead of their column, Skathi at his side. Belthar stole the occasional sidelong glance at the red-haired woman but never said a word. Skathi ignored him, too busy scanning the forest bordering the Eastmarch. Despite her relaxed posture in the saddle, she never released her grip on the short horse bow.

  Duke Dyrund, Aravon, Zaharis, and Draian rode next. Zaharis and Aravon flanked the Duke and their healer. The Duke's four men brought up the rear. They made no protest or complaint as Aravon gave them their orders, though they looked to the Duke for his nod of approval. In a way, Aravon found it comforting. If he was making a mistake, the Duke would have corrected him.

  The Legion had erected outposts at fifty-mile intervals along the Eastmarch. The Legionnaires on the walls of the first outpost paid them little heed as they rode past. They paused for a night of rest just ten miles north of the second outpost.

  No one spoke much that night. They made camp a few hundred yards from the Eastmarch, using a hollow for cover from the wind and anyone traveling down the broad avenue. Aravon had insisted on keeping their presence as minimal as possible, so they had only a small fire to keep back the evening chill.

  Belthar sat in silence, his fingers toying with the braided strip of leather around his wrist. His eyes followed Noll's movements as the scout skirted Skathi’s position to take his place beside the fire. Even two days later, Noll still gave Skathi a wide berth. Aravon knew he had to settle the grievance between the pair, but couldn't summon the energy. The long day of riding had taken its toll.

  Zaharis, ever the marvel, produced a pair of glass globes similar to his quickfire lamps. Instead of blue and red, however, these contained green and yellow liquid. When he placed them together in the bottom of their small pot, the globes emanated enough heat to bring the water to a rolling boil. The Secret Keeper did wonders with their dried beef, but the meal was as quiet as the rest of their journey.

  Aravon had little doubt his comrades felt much as he did. The Eirdkilrs holding Anvil Garrison accounted for just a fraction of the enemy force. Duke Dyrund had shared the news of Eirdkilr raids on Fehlan towns and villages to the south. They stole, pillaged, and looted from the clans, leaving death and destruction in their wake. The Eirdkilrs had made their attitudes clear long ago: the Fehlan clans that aligned with the Eird were traitors to their race, deserving of death for selling their lands and their souls to the half-men.

  The next morning dawned cold, made even colder by the meal of dry caseum cheese and barley-and-honey bars. Noll and Colborn mounted up and rode out of camp without a word. Ten minutes later, the rest of their column followed.

  They kept the horses at a trot, each trying their best to ignore the aches and pains inflicted on their bodies by the punishing pace. For the first time, Aravon was glad for the mask—he preferred to hide his gloomy expression from his men.

  He found himself missing Snarl. The little Enfield's antics always cheered him up. But more than Snarl's energy, he missed the companionship. With the little fox creature, he could stop being the leader and simply enjoy the simple comfort of being with a friend. Over the last few weeks, Snarl had become just that: a friend.

  He shot a silent prayer to the Swordsman. Watch over him and bring him safely back to me. His fingers toyed with Mylena's pendant around his neck. Had she said the same prayer the last time he rode out of Icespire? Had she knelt with his sons every night and beseeched the god of heroism on his behalf? And now? Did they still keep up with their nightly prayers, or had the news of his death shattered their faith? The thought twisted a dagger in his gut.

  The morning guards at the next garrison watched them pass without a word. By the time they covered half the distance to Scythe Garrison, the third outpost south of the Chain, the sun had risen well above the treetops, bathing the landscape in a golden brilliance. The warmth and brightness pushed back some of Aravon's melancholy.

  Despite himself, he couldn't help worrying about Colborn and Noll. They had instructions to only ride back if they ran across danger. If they encountered no enemies—as was the hope, this far north of the Eirdkilrs' last known position—they wouldn't meet up with the main group until night fell.

  At the midday break, while the others rested, Aravon found himself pacing and casting nervous glances toward the south.

  “They'll be fine.”

  Aravon whirled toward the voice. He'd been so preoccupied that he hadn't heard the Duke come up behind him. He cursed himself for his inattention.

  “I-I know,” he said at last.

  “But you can't help it.” The Duke nodded. “It's the commander's curse. Your losses and mistakes haunt you.” He gave Aravon a little grin. “Sound about right?”

  Aravon met the Duke's eyes. He saw no condemnation there, only understanding. “It's just…” He swallowed. “The last time I was in command…”

  “Men died.” Duke Dyrund gripped his arm. “Men always die, Aravon. It's war.”

  A ball of anger curled in Aravon's gut. “And that's not a problem?”

  “Of course it is,” the Duke said. “I still remember all the men who died under my command. But that can't stop you from doing what needs to be done. From moving forward.”

  He gripped Aravon's shoulders and turned to face him. “Listen, Aravon. You're right to be concerned for your men, but you can't let that worry paralyze you. You can't control every situation. All you can do is make sure your men are prepared.” He fixed Aravon with a stern stare. “Are they capable of carrying out this task?”

  Aravon didn't have to think before answering. “Yes.” Noll had been the best of the Sixth Company scouts. Aravon had seen Colborn move through the marshes with no more noise than the wind whispering in the reeds.

  “Then trust in their training.” He tapped Aravon's chest. “Trust your training. You can't do everything, but you don't have to. Your job is to lead, to make the decisions for them. Focus on making those decisions and trust that your men are capable of the jobs you've given them.”

  Aravon glanced over his shoulder at the men and woman sitting on the ground. Taking a deep breath, he nodded. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  The Duke gave him a little smile. “Your father once told me much the same thing. I figured it was time I returned the favor.”

  “Of course,” Aravon said stiffly. “The General was a wise man. Everyone said so.”

  Duke Dyrund's expression grew odd. “He loved you, you know? In his own way.”

  “He had a funny way of showing it.” Aravon's voice was quiet.

  “A wife's death changes a man,” the Duke responded, equally quietly. “He tried his best.”

  Aravon met the Duke's eyes. “Perhaps that will be comforting someday.” The knot in his chest tightened, squeezing
his heart. “But for now, I believe it's time we resume our ride. We need to be past Scythe Garrison within the hour.”

  “Of course.” The Duke made no remark on the sudden shift in conversation.

  With a little bow, Aravon turned and gave the command to mount up.

  * * *

  Colborn and Noll waited for them a few hundred yards north of Scythe Garrison. Aravon's stomach clenched. They wouldn't have paused unless something was wrong.

  “What's the matter?” he signed. After a few days of nothing but hand-speak, they had mastered all but the most complex words and abstract concepts.

  “They're giving us crap,” Colborn replied in the hand language. “Not letting us pass.”

  “Did you show them the Prince's pendant?” Aravon asked.

  Colborn nodded and shrugged.

  “I'll handle this,” the Duke said. He spurred his horse to the front of the line. Aravon allowed the Duke's guards to pass before he brought up the rear, flanked by his six companions.

  “Any other trouble?” he asked Colborn.

  “Not even a bear shitting in the woods,” Colborn replied with a grin. He'd picked up Zaharis' silent language far quicker than the rest of them.

  “Eyes sharp,” Aravon replied. “Never know where they're hiding.”

  Colborn nodded. “Got it.”

  They followed the Duke in silence as he rode up to the gate of Scythe Garrison, showed the Prince's pendant, and demanded to speak with the commander of the outpost. Within minutes, they were ushered past—with Captain Rayvon's sincere apologies—and continued their trek down the Eastmarch.

  Aravon found himself counting the mile markers. They would travel south another thirty-odd miles before turning east. The road that led from the Eastmarch toward Bjornstadt was a wagon track: broad, but little more than mud and wheel-carved dirt.

  The Duke had told them five days. That meant they needed to reach Bjornstadt tomorrow. At this pace, it would be close. Even if they rode until the night grew too dark to see, they would have to wake before dawn and push hard the following day.