Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  “Understood, Captain.” Draian nodded.

  “Good.” Aravon replaced his mask and motioned for Belthar and Skathi to follow him.

  “Are we looking for anything in particular?” Skathi asked.

  “Fortification options. Avenues of retreat. Opportunities for ambush. Anything and everything that could come in handy if worse turns to worst.”

  The two nodded and fell in step behind him.

  The town of Bjornstadt was larger than the few Fehlan villages Aravon had seen. The six longhouses were roughly a hundred feet long, twenty wide, and nearly twenty tall. The smaller houses surrounded the longhouses and ran toward the bank of the Kalarinna River. The town had risen along the horseshoe bend in the river, forming a U-shaped collection of dwellings that opened onto the hill to the south and southeast.

  Aravon stared at the river. The cliff along the riverbank was only twenty feet high, but the fast-rushing water had worn the stone smooth. No one would be getting up that way, not easily at least.

  They strode through the rest of the town, studying the buildings. Many were solidly built, with wooden walls and a covering of wattle and daub. With the forest nearby, wood was plentiful.

  They entered the main square. Aravon's eyes went to the raised platform in its center. The platform was twenty feet across and three inches off the ground. He studied the odd black stone that formed a ring around the platform. Up close, he marveled at how truly, deeply black it was. He'd seen onyx and obsidian before, but this stone was darker. Impossibly so, with a depth that seemed to draw him into it. It appeared almost liquid, but felt solid to the touch.

  He turned to Belthar and Skathi. “Seen anything like this before?”

  Both shook their head. Aravon resolved to ask Zaharis about it.

  They backtracked to the wagon trail that climbed the hill toward the city. The hill was broad, with a gentle slope on one side and a steep incline on the other. Farmlands spread out along the hillside. A short wall had been built near the top of the hill, but more as a way to prevent heavy rainfall from eroding the farmland soil than as protection.

  Aravon stared down toward the forest. If an attack came, they'd have nowhere to hide, no protective cover to offer shelter. Just a town of Fehlans at their back and open ground ahead.

  “Let's just pray nothing happens, eh?” Belthar signed.

  Aravon nodded. He wondered how the Duke's negotiation with the chief was going. It had only been an hour, but surely the Duke had to be making progress. If anyone could convince the Eyrr chieftain to join their cause, it was—

  The sound of pounding hooves reached him. He whirled, eyes scanning the forest and the road for any sign of movement. Something caught his eyes: a ripple of green and brown among the thick trees. Heart thundering, he tightened his grip on his spear.

  He experienced a moment of relief as the figure burst from the tree line and he saw it was Noll. But he didn't need to see the man's face to recognize the urgency. Noll rode low in his saddle, hunched over his horse. Despite the beast's exhaustion, he urged it up the hill at a gallop.

  Aravon's gut tightened at the scout's approach. He knew what Noll was going to say before the little scout pulled up his horse.

  “The Eirdkilrs are coming!”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “How far, and how many?” Aravon signed.

  “Half a mile. At least thirty of them.”

  Aravon's gut tightened. Thirty Eirdkilrs was a raiding party, but they could do serious damage.

  Noll leapt from his horse. An Eirdkilr arrow fell from the folds of his mottled cloak and clattered to the ground. The little scout stared at it with wide eyes. “Damn,” his fingers said, “I almost didn't see them in time.”

  Aravon whirled toward the southeast again, and this time it was Colborn who emerged from the forest to race up the hill. “Eirdkilr raiding party from the south! Close to fifty, three-quarters of a mile away.”

  A ball of ice formed in the pit of Aravon's stomach. Eighty Eirdkilrs, bloody hell! They had ten minutes, fifteen at most, to mount some sort of defense against a force large enough to raze Bjornstadt.

  “Get ready for them,” he signed to his four men. “Find a way to stop them from reaching us.” He had no idea how—he'd leave it to them to figure out. He had his own task.

  He raced toward the main longhouse, his heart pounding in time with his boots. The Duke's men straightened as he approached. Rendar reached for his short sword, Farrell half-drew his blade, and the other two hefted their shields.

  “Eirdkilrs!” Aravon shouted through the mask. Their faces went white; they'd understood him.

  Ailmaer's Fehlan guards held out a hand to stop him, but he didn't slow. He bulled right through them and banged open the doors to the longhouse. The three men seated around the chieftain's throne spun toward him. The six guards drew swords and stepped forward to meet him.

  “Wait!” the Duke cried in Fehlan. He stood, eyes fixed on Aravon. “What is the meaning of this, Captain?”

  Aravon half-ripped the mask from his face. “Eirdkilrs, half a mile away,” he shouted. “Close to a hundred of them.”

  Rangvaldr stiffened, and the Fehlan guards hesitated, swords still raised to strike Aravon.

  “Y-You must be mistaken.” Ailmaer’s face turned a sickly shade of pale green.

  “You are certain?” the Duke asked.

  Aravon nodded. “Noll and Colborn saw them. Noll nearly caught an arrow for his trouble.”

  Duke Dyrund rounded on Ailmaer. “Chief Ailmaer, you must sound the alarm and let your men know that they are under attack.”

  Ailmaer’s round jaw took on a stubborn set. “Bjornstadt has not faced an attack for more than a century. We are a peaceful people.”

  “If you want to remain living people,” the Duke said, an edge to his voice, “you must take up arms.” He rounded on the chief's guards. “How many swords and shields can you muster?”

  “Not enough.” Rangvaldr, the Seiomenn, spoke instead of the chief. “Twenty, maybe thirty at most.”

  “Then get them ready to fight,” the Duke told him without hesitation. “They must protect their homes.”

  Ailmaer spluttered a protest. “It makes no sense!” His voice echoed in a high-pitched whine. “The Eirdkilrs have come for our goods before.”

  The Duke cut him off with a growl. “Chieftain Ailmaer, if you saw what the Eirdkilrs did to Oldrsjot, you would know this is no raid.” He thrust a finger toward the southeast. “They have come to destroy you. If you do not stand before them, you will die.”

  The chieftain seemed paralyzed by fear and indecision. Rangvaldr stepped forward. “Sound the alarm,” he instructed the chieftain's guards. “Bjornstadt must fight.”

  The Fehlan men hesitated. Their gaze flashed to their chieftain.

  “Now!” the Seiomenn shouted.

  His words galvanized the men to action. They raced from the room, and a moment later, the clanging of an alarm bell rang out across Bjornstadt.

  Duke Dyrund turned toward Aravon. “What's the plan, Captain?”

  Aravon stopped, his mouth half-open. He'd been about to ask the Duke the same question, but Dyrund was putting him in charge?

  “Tell me where you want me and my men.” The Duke drew his sword. “We will face them alongside you.”

  “Not a damned chance.” Aravon's mind set to work on the problem, years of training, lessons, and battle experience guiding his battle plan. “You're staying put in the longhouse, where you can protect the chieftain.”

  It was the Duke's turn to protest, but Aravon cut him off with a shake of his head. “Your Grace, if you fall, our mission fails. Your survival is more important than anything else. Yours, and that of the chieftain.” He glanced at the white-faced Ailmaer. “The men at Gallows Garrison need the Eyrr to survive. The Eyrr need us. We need you. You are to hold this longhouse, understood?”

  The Duke nodded. “Understood, Captain.”

  Aravon turned to Rangva
ldr. To his surprise, the shaman had taken down the broadsword and shield that hung above the chieftain's grand chair. “I battle for my home,” Rangvaldr told him.

  Aravon hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Good.” The man’s determination to fight did him and his clan credit. “Start by coordinating the defense of your people. They may not listen to me, but they will follow your orders.”

  With a nod, Rangvaldr rushed from the longhouse.

  Aravon turned to the Duke. “I'll have Draian stay with you, along with Rendar and Ashtyn.” Syvup looked like he had a few years' experience on the younger men, and Farrell's size made him a better match against the seven-foot Eirdkilrs.

  The Duke nodded. “Yes, Captain.”

  Aravon hurried toward the door, but the Duke's hand on his arm stopped him.

  “Fight well, Aravon,” the Duke told him. “We have need of you yet.”

  “I'll see you when this is over.” He spoke with more confidence than he felt.

  He rushed from the longhouse and emerged into a scene of chaos. The sedentary town of Bjornstadt was gripped in a chaos of shouting, panicking villagers. The bell clanged out the alarm, and people scrambled to and fro. Aravon was almost run down by a mother racing toward her home, a child in her arms.

  “Rendar, Ashtyn, guard the Duke,” he commanded.

  The Duke's men nodded and drew their swords.

  Aravon turned to the Mender. “Draian, keep the Duke alive!”

  The Mender snapped him a Legion salute—he'd clearly been practicing. “Yes, Captain.”

  Aravon hurried toward the edge of the town. At least Draian is safe, he told himself. The Mender would be far from the chaos of battle, in the longhouse beside the Duke, with Rendar and Ashtyn to watch over him. He'd never survive in the crush of battle, and Aravon couldn't spare the attention to watch his back.

  Beyond the last houses, he found a handful of Fehlan warriors rushing around. Colborn had removed his mask to bark orders at them in Fehlan, instructing them to overturn wagons, barrels, and anything else they could find to mount a defense on the hilltop outside the town. They'd need cover from the Eirdkilr arrows.

  He surveyed the terrain at a glance. The Eirdkilrs were coming from both the south and southeast, which meant they'd have to charge uphill. No doubt they'd focus the attack on the gentle incline on the southeastern face of the hill. That meant Aravon had to concentrate his defenses there as well.

  Colborn clearly understood that, for most of his hastily-erected obstacles straddled the path of the wagon trail leading up the hill. The Eirdkilrs from the southeast would hit them first, followed a few minutes later by the force from the south. The steeper incline of the southern face of the hill would slow the Eirdkilrs even more. If they were lucky, they'd have a few minutes between waves of attackers.

  His gut clenched as he studied his pathetically small army. The Eyrr were farmers, woodcutters, and shepherds first, warriors second. Aside from Chief Ailmaer’s personal guard, fewer than twenty Bjornstadters were seasoned warriors. To mount a proper fighting force, Ailmaer would have to summon his warband from their homesteads, farms, and villages around Eyrr territory.

  That left him with far too few warriors to take up arms—him and his five men, Syvup and Farrell, the chieftain's eight guards, twenty warriors, and a motley collection of fifteen men and women that had taken up arms. Chief Ailmaer’s guards and the warriors of Bjornstadt carried steel swords and heavy shields, with skullcaps and chain mail shirts for protection. The rest of the defenders wielded an assortment of maces, pitchforks, pruning hooks, and three swords pitted by rust and disuse. Five of the Fehlans had produced hunting bows and three quivers of arrows that Skathi pronounced “adequate”. With the five quivers carried by Noll, Skathi, and Colborn, they had just over a hundred and fifty arrows. Nowhere near enough to bring down eighty Eirdkilrs.

  He raced down the line and shouted orders to his men, who relayed them to their Fehlan companions. Skathi, Noll, and Colborn would lead the defense of the southeastern hill, along with Farrell, three of the archers, and the chieftain's eight guards. Belthar, Syvup, and Zaharis would hold the southern face of the hill, with the remaining two archers to lend their support. The other Fehlans he divided along the two fronts.

  Aravon had never seen a more pathetic battle line. He drew out the silver pendant Mylena had given him and pressed a kiss to its cold, metallic surface. Swordsman, smile on us this day. If not, they had little chance of survival.

  Then came the waiting, those moments of absolute, breathless stillness before the battle. The Fehlans coughed and shifted nervously. Metal armor and weapons clanked, and quiet whispers passed among the nervous men and women.

  Aravon’s stomach twisted into knots, his heart beating faster with every passing second. Sweat rolled down his face and soaked the back of his shirt. He’d stood in his share of battle lines—the anxiety only went away when the chaos of combat took over. Until then…Aravon gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain calm, to hold his position when every instinct shrieked at him to retreat.

  No running from this fight! They might be outnumbered, but if they fled, everyone in Bjornstadt died. Aravon’s fingers tightened around the haft of his spear. So we stand and, by the Swordsman, we make them bleed.

  Then the first Eirdkilrs lumbered from the forest. Icy feet marched down his spine at the sight of the massive barbarians, all over seven feet tall, their faces stained a deep blue, clad in shaggy ice bear pelts, chain mail shirts, steel skullcaps. All carried enormous axes, spears, and clubs, longer and heavier than any Fehlan weapon. Aravon counted thirty-five, every one of them hardened warriors that lived and breathed war and killing.

  He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and instinctively reached for his shield, only to remember he no longer carried one. He had nothing but his spear and short sword for protection—and whatever Zaharis had done to his armor. The overturned wagon that stood between him and certain death seemed a terribly flimsy barrier to hold off their enemies.

  The Eirdkilrs drew to a halt at the base of the hill. For a moment, they made no move, as if surprised to find resistance. Aravon's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched at the sight of four blood-red cloaks among the mass of white. The Blodhundr had come to Bjornstadt. He ground his teeth; Hrolf Hrungnir, the sword-wielding man that had shot him, wasn't among them.

  He shot a glance at each of his men. Colborn nodded and Noll gave him a vicious grin. Belthar's gaze darted between Skathi and the Eirdkilrs. The Agrotora glared at the enemy, her teeth bared in a snarl. Zaharis' face remained passive as he crouched behind a wagon. His hands, however, were busy rooting around in his pack.

  Aravon replaced his mask and signaled for them to do likewise. The leather, treated by the same alchemical potion used for their armor, would offer a modicum of protection for their faces, necks, and throats.

  Drawing in a long breath, Aravon nodded to Skathi. “Send it!” he signed. And may the Swordsman guide her aim.

  Skathi stood and, stepping out from behind cover, raised her longbow high. Wood creaked in the near-silence as she pulled it back. For a single heartbeat, all was quiet and peaceful. An utter stillness, as if all of nature held its breath. The momentary emptiness before battle.

  The loud twang of her bowstring shattered the moment. The arrow sliced through the blue sky, hurtling like a black finger of death toward the Eirdkilrs. Aravon had heard of the Agrotorae's marksmanship, yet he couldn't help his surprise as one of the massive barbarians fell, an arrow buried in his right eye.

  Skathi loosed a second arrow before the Eirdkilrs recovered from their surprise. This one, released in a hurry, thumped into the grassy hillside just short of the clustered barbarians. They howled and jeered, filling the air with cries of derision. Aravon recognized a few of their words—the Eirdkilr tongue resembled Fehlan, but with a harsher, guttural tone.

  Skathi turned to Colborn and Noll, hands signaling the range of their bows. “Two hundred and thirty yards.�
� The two archers nodded and nocked arrows of their own.

  Ten Eirdkilrs stepped forward. These carried bows nearly as tall as Aravon, made of a black wood. They drew back their enormous bows and answered Skathi with a volley of their own. Ten arrows whistled up the hill and thumped into the ground ten yards short of the earthen wall. Only one managed to wobble all the way to their defensive line. It clanked into a Fehlan shield and clattered off harmlessly.

  The Eirdkilrs raged their fury in a howling cry. Screaming, raging, defiant and echoing with the lust for blood. As the archers put up their bows and drew axes and clubs, the four Blodhundr raised their enormous weapons. “Death to the traitors!” they shrieked. “Death to the half-men!”

  The axes flashed downward, and the Eirdkilrs charged.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The huge figures advanced slowly at first, but their long legs gained speed with every lumbering step. Like rumbling thunder, the sound of their charge grew louder as they reached the base of the hill and rushed up its steep incline, filling the air with their howling war cries.

  Aravon turned to Skathi. “Bring the bastards down!” he signaled.

  Skathi's arms moved, drawing her bowstring back until her arrow's fletching brushed her cheek. She held for a single heartbeat before releasing. The arrow sped downhill and found its mark, cutting down the first Eirdkilr to step foot on the incline. The force of her longbow—nearly as tall as the Eirdkilrs' bows—drove the sharpened steel tip through the barbarian's chain mail shirt. The shaggy-haired man died where he stood.

  The Eirdkilrs behind him collided with his falling bulk, stalling them for a moment. Long enough for Skathi to send another arrow down-range. Another Eirdkilr fell, never to rise.

  Aravon bared his teeth at the charging enemies. Come and get us, you brutes! He gripped his spear tighter and waited, his heart hammering in his chest, until the rest of the Eirdkilrs drew within striking distance. Legion shield or no, he’d make them bleed for every inch of hill they claimed. Skathi’s arrows scythed down a third, a fourth, and still more. Punching through armor, throats, and furs, finding flesh and drawing blood.