Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  Yet still they came. Even as their comrades fell one by one, up the hill they raced without pause. Mouths agape and a savage war howl ululating from their throats. Steel axes and spearheads glinting in the sunlight. Screaming, wailing death that came for Aravon and his comrades.

  Aravon glanced around. The Fehlans beside him shifted nervously, fear turning their faces pale and sapping the steel from their hands.

  “Hold!” he shouted in Fehlan. “Stand strong. You fight for your families!”

  His words restored a measure of their confidence, but only a fraction. The sound of the Eirdkilrs' war cry had sapped the courage from the hearts of men with far more experience.

  Yet, Aravon knew that as long as he and his warriors held fast, the Fehlans would as well. We’ve just got to keep them from getting into Bjornstadt! Away from the women and children, Duke Dyrund, and Draian.

  Skathi's stream of fire never slackened. She moved with the precision any clockmaker would envy—drawing, nocking, pulling back, and loosing in a steady rhythm. Eirdkilrs fell in the teeth of her steel-tipped arrows. Colborn joined her before the Eirdkilrs had covered half the distance up the hill, and Noll added his arrows as well. The scout’s shorter bow lacked the range of Skathi's, but his aim proved no less deadly. The three of them whittled down the Eirdkilr numbers at the steady pace of farmers scything wheat. Twelve barbarians fell to their feather-shafted missiles. Two more struggled at the back of the pack, arrows in their legs slowing them down.

  And still the rest came on, implacable, inexorable, a wall of death racing toward the pitiful line of defenders clustered before Bjornstadt.

  Fifty yards. Aravon’s gut clenched as they closed the distance. Twenty Eirdkilrs, head and shoulders taller than the men they faced, with mighty muscles and heavy weapons capable of cleaving, crushing, and eviscerating. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten. He gripped his spear tighter. Five.

  Aravon whirled to shout at Colborn, but the Lieutenant had already put up his bow and drawn his swords. Blades held at the ready, posed to strike at the first Eirdkilr that leapt over the wall. Beside him, Farrell and the Fehlan warriors crouched in anticipation of the impact.

  Aravon turned back to his position, to the pitifully weak wagon that stood between him and the enemy. He squared his shoulders, loosened his muscles, and braced to meet the implacable charge.

  Swordsman, guide my arm!

  Then the first Eirdkilr reached him. The world slowed to a crawl in that instant. He was keenly aware of everything: the thrumming of Skathi and Noll's bowstrings, the smooth shaft of his spear in his hand, the pounding of his pulse. His gaze fixed on the Eirdkilr two yards in front of him. A huge barbarian, nearly seven feet tall, with an axe far too large for any Princelander to wield. The Eirdkilr’s gaze locked with his. Hatred and bloodlust swam within those ice-blue eyes. He had come to kill his enemies—there would be no mercy.

  Aravon gritted his teeth. Come on, then! He had no intention of showing mercy either.

  Adrenaline coursed through Aravon’s veins, fueling his muscles with energy. Spear held in a low grip, eyes fixed on the towering giant, he waited. Waited for the right moment to strike.

  It came a heartbeat later. The Eirdkilr slowed to maneuver around the tongue of the overturned wagon and, for a single moment, his eyes dropped to the obstacle. In that instant, Aravon thrust. The Odarian steel spearhead punched through the Eirdkilr's studded leather vest with terrible ease. Growling, Aravon pushed until the eight-inch barb caught against the man’s enormous chest. With a savage twist, he ripped the long spearhead free. Blood gushed from the ragged wound, spraying Aravon’s masked face and chest, and the Eirdkilr sagged. An expression of mixed rage and shock flitted across his features, then he collapsed face-first in the mud with a loud splat.

  A howl of rage snapped Aravon’s attention upward. Another Eirdkilr raced toward him, club held high. Aravon brought the metal-capped butt of his spear across and down toward his enemy's knee. Iron shattered bone, and the Eirdkilr fell with a cry of pain. Aravon's spear whirled once over his head and he drove the tip straight down into the barbarian's throat.

  Another Eirdkilr charged, thrusting a spear at Aravon’s chest. Aravon spun his spear, knocking the blow aside, and lashed out. His spearhead slashed the barbarian’s throat, shearing through a braided beard and gristle. Aravon drove the butt of his spear into the Eirdkilr’s chest, sending him stumbling. Gushing blood, gurgling, hands clasped to the wound in his throat. The barbarian slumped on weakened legs and lay still.

  Aravon ached to climb on the wagon, to look around and search for his men, but he couldn’t spare the precious seconds. He was too busy fighting to stay alive, and keeping as many of those beside him alive as possible. One of the Fehlan warriors fell to an Eirdkilr axe. A blow of a massive club shattered a Fehlan shield to splinters, crunching through the arm, face, and skull of the man beneath. The Fehlan woman beside him fell back with a spear wound in her gut, her legs sagging. An Eirdkilr stood over her, leaning on his spear, twisting the head slowly. Glee blazed in his eyes as the woman screamed in agony.

  Aravon drove his own spear through the Eirdkilr’s blue-stained face. Steel punched through bone, hair, and flesh, snapping the barbarian’s head to the side. He slumped, dead before he hit the ground. As dead as the Fehlan woman he’d slain.

  Then another Eirdkilr came on, howling, shrieking, swinging his huge axe toward Aravon’s head. Aravon barely ducked the blow, and the axe crashed into the wagon, spraying splinters into the side of his masked face. Something like a needle pricked in the side of Aravon’s neck, but he was too busy exploding upward, driving his spear up under the Eirdkilr’s chin, through his throat, and into his skull.

  The Eirdkilr gave a wet, weak grunt and toppled backward, his blond beard stained a gruesome crimson. Behind him, blood turned the hillside muddy, soaking into the patches of green grass. The screams of the wounded and dying rang in time with the clash of steel and the roaring battle cries of the Eirdkilrs.

  Two Eirdkilrs charged their position, but fell to Eyrr axes and swords before Aravon could strike. In the instant that the hulking bodies blocked the enemy from advancing, Aravon risked a glance to his left, toward the defenders holding the wagon trail. Skathi had fallen a few paces back, her hands a blur of motion as she nocked, drew, and released. Noll was engaged in a baiting game with a massive Eirdkilr. He ducked and dodged the swipes of the massive axe, darting in to slash with his short sword and dagger. With every attack, the Eirdkilr bled more.

  Colborn was locked in combat with two Eirdkilrs. They had backed him against the wagon, between the two wooden shafts. The thick shafts gave him some cover but kept him from retreating or evading.

  Damn it! Aravon turned to race toward Colborn—he had to get to the Lieutenant before the enemy overwhelmed him.

  Yet he’d taken just one step when an Eirdkilr charged him, howling, axe gleaming in the brilliant sunlight.

  Aravon skidded to a halt so suddenly his boots slipped on blood-slicked grass. He threw his arms out to catch himself, barely arresting his fall. Off-balance, he barely managed to duck as the Eirdkilr’s axe whistled toward his head. The enormous blade sliced through the air an inch away from his helmet, the flat of the blade scraping off his backplate. The Eirdkilr’s knee came up and slammed into Aravon’s chest. The blow hurled Aravon backward and he slammed into the wooden wagon. His teeth snapped down on his tongue, flooding his mouth with the warm, metallic taste of blood.

  Yet the wagon saved his life. He pushed off the solid frame in time to duck beneath a high axe strike. Spear whirling, he knocked aside the spiked tip of his enemy's axe. When the Eirdkilr brought the heavy weapon spinning around in a disemboweling swipe, Aravon was already moving, his spear slicing upward. The razor sharp spearhead laid open the man's throat from sternum to chin.

  Darting around the falling body, he prepared to race to Colborn's defense. It proved unnecessary. Colborn was dragging the edge of his short sword across the throat of one
Eirdkilr. Skathi's arrow protruded from the side of the other's neck.

  A step removed from the battle, Aravon found himself with a moment to breathe, to regroup his racing thoughts. He scanned the battlefield in a second. Twelve of the thirty-five Eirdkilrs remained. Farrell, Noll, and seven of the chieftain's guards still stood—the eighth lay sprawled on the ground, his head a mess of crushed bone and gore.

  Cries of agony brought him spinning around. Three of the Fehlan volunteers were down, and two more fell beneath a hail of arrows. He ducked behind the wagon in time to avoid a fresh storm of shafts.

  His eyes went wide as he stared down the hill. Keeper’s teeth!

  The second Eirdkilr raiding party had arrived.

  Fifty or more Eirdkilrs clustered just beyond the tree line. The incline was steep, but the distance shorter than the southern face of the hill. Thirty of the barbarians sent a stream of arrows flying toward the defenders, forcing Belthar, Syvup, Zaharis, and the others to crouch behind cover. The clank and clamor of arrows striking shields, overturned wagons, and the low stone wall filled the air, sharpening Aravon’s focus to ice-cold clarity.

  Behind him, at the southeastern front, two more of the chieftain's guards had fallen. Colborn and Skathi had their hands full—they wouldn't be able to help Belthar and Zaharis.

  It’s up to me. Without him, their position would fall.

  Without hesitation, Aravon leapt out from behind the wagon. Risking the arrow storm, he bent and snatched up one of the fallen Eirdkilrs' bows, tearing a handful of arrows loose from the slain barbarian’s quiver. The bow had a surprising heft to it, its limbs as thick as his spear. When he nocked an arrow, his left arm quivered with the effort of pulling it to full draw. He could barely hold it long enough to aim high before the string twanged free of his grip. The arrow sped barely halfway down the hill before thumping into the grass.

  Cursing, straining with the effort, he drew and released again. This time, he managed to send the arrow far enough, but his elbow pulled his aim to the left. His third arrow found its mark, punching through the chain mail shirt and driving into an Eirdkilr's thigh. His fourth arrow ricocheted off an Eirdkilr's skullcap.

  But his actions had the desired effect. A few of the bowmen turned toward him, trying to pinpoint the threat. He dropped the bow and ducked behind the wagon just as the arrows sped uphill toward him. But grim satisfaction brought a smile to his lips as Belthar, no longer pinned down, stood, aimed, and pulled the trigger on his crossbow.

  The bolt leapt through the air too fast for Aravon to follow. An Eirdkilr flew backward, crashing into the man behind him. The two men fell in a tangled heap. Neither rose.

  Take that, you bastards! Aravon wanted to snarl a curse but didn’t dare waste the energy. They’d only taken down a fraction of the enemies arrayed against them—it would take every shred of strength to bring down the rest.

  The hail of arrows slowed as the Eirdkilrs realized their futility. The defenders hid behind barrels, overturned wagons, or, in Zaharis' case, in the shadow of the low earthen wall.

  What the fiery hell is he doing? Aravon wanted to shout at the Secret Keeper—he was too far in front of the others. The Eirdkilrs would catch him alone. The Secret Keeper could hold his own, but not against fifty barbarians. The idiot’s going to get himself killed!

  But as he raised his voice to call Zaharis back, the red-cloaked Eirdkilr leading this new force howled, and the Eirdkilrs charged.

  Aravon had hazarded a guess that the Eirdkilrs would avoid the steepest section of the hill. He'd set up the barricades to take advantage of the Eirdkilrs' exhaustion at the uphill climb. His guess had proven correct. Their force split into two streams of men charging up the hill. That, and the fact that they charged in a ragged line, gave the defenders a chance of survival. Had the Eirdkilrs advanced in an organized formation, his little army would have had no hope.

  The two archers stationed on the southern front loosed shafts into the approaching mass of men. Accuracy meant nothing when shooting at such a large force. Their bows, however, lacked the strength of the Eirdkilr weapons. Two Eirdkilrs fell beneath their arrows, but the rest of their missiles flew wide or thunked into the heavy Eirdkilr shields.

  Belthar stood, raising his reloaded crossbow, and squeezed the trigger. Another bolt sped toward the enemy, taking down another Eirdkilr. Belthar stowed the crossbow and raised his axe high.

  Even through the mask, Aravon could hear the big man's roar. “Bring it on, you sons of bitches!”

  Give them hell, Belthar!

  The big man charged downhill, his axe swinging in a vicious blur of steel. Backed by the force of his huge arms, it sheared through an Eirdkilr's arm and chain mail shirt to bite deep into his side. Instead of trying to pull his axe free, Belthar simply ripped the falling man's club from his grip and brought it whirling around to slam into the shield of the next man. He battered the shield wide and drove the butt of the club into the Eirdkilr's stomach. When the barbarian doubled over, Belthar brought the heavy wooden cudgel down onto the man's skullcap with bone-crushing force.

  Syvup guarded Belthar's back. His sword darted out to strike at an Eirdkilr attempting to flank the huge man. He caught the thrust of a hewing spear on his shield and responded with a low chop at his opponent's knee. When the man fell, a swipe of Syvup's sword opened his throat.

  Aravon glanced toward Zaharis, who still remained on the ground behind the low earthen wall. The hill's incline made the climb slower going for the Eirdkilrs on his side of the line. They had yet to reach the obstacle. One of the Fehlan archers’ arrows cut down another huge barbarian. The man slumped forward, his helmeted head bouncing off stone with a loud ring of steel.

  Zaharis leapt to his feet and vaulted the wall. His appearance startled the Eirdkilrs. The moment of hesitation cost them. The Secret Keeper's spiked mace crushed knees, elbows, hands, and faces with breathtaking grace and precision. Yet he couldn't hold them back alone. The Eirdkilrs howled in delight at seeing Zaharis fighting out front, and they rushed toward his position.

  Damned fool! Aravon cursed, racing down the hill toward Zaharis. He's going to get himself killed.

  He hadn't gone two steps when Zaharis hurled something at the converging barbarians. The object, a small leather pouch, landed in the midst of the massed Eirdkilrs. Red dust billowed up from the pouch's open mouth. The Eirdkilrs ran into the cloud of dust, and immediately began coughing. Their coughs turned to cries of pain. They clawed at their eyes, mouths, and throats.

  Zaharis whirled and raced uphill. Arrows zipped past him, one catching him a glancing blow on his shoulder. The force threw him off-balance and he staggered.

  Aravon's gaze went to the figure standing behind the rest, halfway up the hill. The Eirdkilr was taller than his comrades, a cloak of bloodstained fur slung over his back. The muscles of his arms bunched as he drew back the bow and aimed at the stumbling Zaharis.

  Time slowed for Aravon. He waited for the inevitable moment when the Eirdkilr would release the bowstring. Zaharis couldn't avoid the arrow he couldn't see. Worse, there was nothing Aravon could do to stop it.

  An arrow suddenly sprouted from the man's throat. The Eirdkilr's fingers released their grip on the string, and his black-shafted missile flew wide. Blood trickled down his neck and stained his leather vest as he slumped.

  Aravon's momentary hope died as his eyes took in the axe strapped to the dying man's back. It wasn't Hrolf Hrungnir, just one more of his Blodhundr.

  A charging Eirdkilr snapped him back to the present. His heart clutched in his chest as the huge club whistled toward his head. Somehow, Aravon managed to bring his spear up in time to knock the blow wide. The force of the strike knocked him off-balance, but Aravon spun with the impact and thrust the iron-shod end of his spear into the man's throat. His hand slid down to the metal grip and, with a savage twist, he drove the spike through the Eirdkilr's spine.

  The Eirdkilr gasped and sagged like a dropped fish, his huge body crash
ing atop the bloodstained corpse of the Fehlan warrior he’d just slain.

  Aravon whirled at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, but found himself face to face with Skathi. Her hands flashed as she raced past. “Help Belthar.”

  Aravon followed her gaze, and his blood turned to ice. Belthar and Syvup were retreating beneath a heavy press of Eirdkilrs. Syvup's shield arm hung limp and only the strength of his sword arm kept the Eirdkilr weapons at bay. Belthar had regained his axe and swung it two-handed at the Eirdkilrs clustered around him. But there were simply too many. Too many towering figures surging up the hill, and too few defenders to hold it.

  In seconds, they would be overrun.

  Not a bloody chance!

  Aravon broke into a mad dash a heartbeat behind Skathi, his boots pounding through the blood-churned mud atop the hill. He caught up to the archer in a second and raced past. Skathi’s arrows zipped past his head, so close Aravon could feel the wind on his neck. With fewer than fifty yards separating her from her targets, every one of her arrows found their marks. Four Eirdkilrs at the rear of the charging column fell. Belthar cut down two in the lead. In the five seconds it took Aravon to reach the battle line, the desperate battle had become an even match.

  Aravon hurled himself at an Eirdkilr poised to strike down a Fehlan. The shaft of his spear shivered beneath the blow of a club, and he twisted to knock the weapon aside. The Eirdkilr's shield slammed into him with the force of a charging horse. He stumbled backward, pain flaring in his face and chest. Before he could recover, the Eirdkilr pursued him, a second howling savage on the first’s heels. Staggering, slipping in the muck, Aravon retreated from the vicious thrusts of the eight-foot spear.

  He blocked and ducked, his spear whirling like a quarterstaff. The Eirdkilr couldn't match his speed, but his strength far surpassed Aravon's. Before Aravon could bring his spear blade around, the huge barbarian lunged forward. Aravon was hurled to the ground. He landed on his back, his head striking the ground. Though his helmet softened the impact, the world spun around him.