Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  “That's the other half of the plan. Once we get them out from behind the fortress, we're going to lure them into an ambush.”

  “Six does not an effective ambush make,” Skathi said.

  “Which is why we get the Legionnaires at Gallows Garrison.” Aravon drew out the letter the Duke had penned and signed for him. “Duke Dyrund has given me the authority to command Jade Battalion. We can use those fourteen hundred Legionnaires to set an ambush and catch the Eirdkilrs by surprise. With any luck, we'll be able to drive them far enough back to retake Anvil Garrison. From the Duke's reports, the garrison is still in good condition. With fourteen hundred men and the stone walls of Anvil Garrison, those reinforcements will have no hope of getting past.”

  “Just one small problem with that plan,” Noll said. “How in the bloody hell d'you expect to get the Eirdkilrs out of Anvil Garrison?”

  Aravon grinned and clapped Zaharis on the shoulder. “Why, with our very own secret weapon, of course!”

  Zaharis' trick with the dust, whatever it was, had given Aravon the idea. Secret Keepers were renowned for their alchemical skills. He'd hoped Zaharis could come up with something to work on the Eirdkilrs in the garrison.

  The Secret Keeper's grin matched his own. “Oh, I'm looking forward to this.”

  “There's still the matter of our company,” Noll told him. “We're down a man.”

  Aravon nodded. “But we've all learned the basics of Draian's healing arts.” His heart panged at the Mender's name. “Between us, we ought to be able to keep each other alive.”

  Zaharis' hands flashed. “I've a trick or two that will help if any of you clumsy oafs get too badly hurt.” He forced a smile, his humor belied by the darkness in his eyes—a darkness mirrored in the grim expressions of his men.

  Draian hadn’t just been their healer—though he’d been damned good at his Mender’s arts—but a comrade, a friend. The loss was fresh in their minds and hearts, and Aravon knew they would all feel it keenly in the days to come. Yet they had already spent enough time in mourning. They had a mission to complete. Their personal feelings couldn’t prevent them from doing what needed to be done. Jade Battalion—and the future of the war against the Eirdkilrs—rested on their shoulders.

  Aravon met the eyes of each of his company in turn. “Six may not be a full Legion, but these six are worth a damned bloody lot. I've been watching you for weeks now.”

  “Not at all creepy,” Noll whispered to Belthar.

  Aravon ignored the little scout. “I've seen your mettle, and I know what each of you is made of. You proved me right today. Every one of you leapt into the battle without hesitation. You stood fast in the face of impossible odds and, somehow, you managed to pull off a victory.”

  “We,” Zaharis corrected.

  Aravon nodded. “Well, looks like impossible just got a little bit harder. But that's what we've been trained to do. So let's get out there and bloody do it!”

  Five pairs of eyes met his, but none spoke. After a long, tense moment, Skathi broke the silence. “It's a nice night for a walk, isn't it, Captain?”

  * * *

  Aravon was surprised when Duke Dyrund pulled him into an embrace. “Your father would have been so proud, Aravon,” the Duke whispered.

  The words brought the familiar tightening to Aravon's gut. In a way, Noll had been right to say he was just like his father. General Traighan would have done precisely the same, going off on some hopeless mission to protect his men. That trait had nearly gotten him killed more times than he could count. He bore his share of scars to prove it.

  After a moment, the Duke broke off. “I will do my best to convince Ailmaer to send reinforcements.” His eyes held doubt; he had a better chance of convincing the Frozen Sea to thaw, but few men could out-stubborn Duke Dyrund. “Do what you can, but you are more important to Icespire alive than dead, understood?”

  Aravon nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  The Duke chuckled. “Then by the power vested in me by Prince Toran of Icespire, I formally command you to go and give those Eirdkilr bastards a taste of hell.”

  Aravon snapped a crisp salute. “Yes, sir!” A smile tugged at his lips. “If anything goes wrong, tell Mylena and the boys…” He trailed off. He'd forgotten his family thought he was dead.

  “They will know the truth, Aravon,” the Duke replied, all trace of mirth gone from his face.

  “Thank you.” He hurried back toward the edge of the camp, where his unit awaited him.

  They stood geared and ready for battle, packs slung over their shoulder. His instruction to “only pack what you can carry” had a different meaning for each of them. Belthar's pack was nearly as tall as Noll and likely weighed more. The huge man would carry most of the food supply for their journey, though they all had enough rations for a couple of days. Zaharis' knowledge of the local flora would enable them to supplement their diet with plants, nuts, seeds, and berries. Between Noll and Skathi, they ought to be able to bring down birds, hares, and small game.

  Zaharis' pack wasn't much smaller than Belthar's. Aravon had no idea what it contained—the Secret Keeper refused to let anyone get a look at its contents—but made no comment. Zaharis' trick with the red dust proved he had a few tricks up his sleeve. They'd need every one of them to survive their attack on the Eirdkilrs.

  Skathi traveled light on personal belongings but refused to relinquish the short horse bow or her second quiver of arrows. She, Noll, and Colborn had spent an hour that afternoon cutting the Odarian steel arrowheads free of the Eirdkilr corpses. They'd fashion new arrows on the go. Belthar had recovered the two bolts for his crossbow, which now hung from his back along with his axe. He'd had to abandon the shield.

  Noll, accustomed to the life of a scout, also traveled with few belongings. He carried a bow, a single quiver of arrows, and a trio of long-bladed daggers. Aravon had little doubt he had more weapons secreted around his person. A man like Noll would never be caught defenseless.

  Colborn looked every inch the Fehlan, with his hide pack, braided beard and hair, and Fehlan shield. His two swords hung in sheaths on his hips, and across his shoulder he'd slung the black wooden longbow taken from an Eirdkilr corpse.

  Aravon himself carried his spear, short sword, and one long-bladed dagger. His pack held an assortment of Fehlan clothing, oil for his weapons, whetstones, and other standard Legion equipment. Plus, one leather skin filled with ayrag. On a cold night, without a fire to drive back the chill, it did a man good to have something strong to drink.

  “You sure we can't take those horses?” Noll cast a longing glance toward the stable where the Duke's Kostarasar chargers were bedding down for the night. “It'd make a long trip a whole lot easier.”

  “Much as I wish we could,” Aravon said with a shake of his head, “we're cutting through forest too dense for the horses. It's the best way to follow the Eirdkilrs' trail back to Anvil Garrison.”

  Colborn had come up with the plan, and the Duke agreed. They would backtrack the trail the Eirdkilrs had used to reach Bjornstadt from their position in the southeast. The Eirdkilrs would have chosen the quickest route, meaning it would be the quickest for them to reach Anvil Garrison without returning to the Eastmarch. And, if another raiding party was on its way here, he and his men would encounter the enemy in time to return with warning for the Duke and Chief Ailmaer. Perhaps they could even lay a trap or ambush to do some serious damage.

  Whatever happened, their path led through the dense forests of the Eyrr land. Horses would just slow them down and force them to travel the better-known paths and routes. To truly have the element of surprise, they could leave no sign of their passage. Even if that meant making the journey on foot.

  He drew in a deep breath. So this is us. His eyes roamed the men and woman before him. He reached for Mylena's silver sword, but remembered he'd left it with Draian. Swordsman have mercy on us.

  Instead, he lifted the Mender's oval-shaped pendant from his neck and held it aloft.
It dangled from its leather thong, the Prince's insignia glinting in the moonlight.

  “For Draian,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “For Draian,” Skathi intoned. Her face had gone solemn, her eyes dark.

  “For Draian,” the others echoed.

  Zaharis' hands flashed. “We make them pay. Every last one of them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  They departed before midnight, without fanfare or so much as a farewell to the Duke. None of that mattered—only their mission mattered.

  Colborn took point, leading their small group by twenty yards. His tracking skills and knowledge of the terrain made him the best choice. Despite their massive size, the Eirdkilrs had learned the Fehlan tricks of moving through the forest while leaving little trace. Aravon caught only a few of the indications that the barbarians had passed. But Colborn seemed confident in his route and Aravon trusted his Lieutenant's skills.

  He and Zaharis formed the center of their little column. The Secret Keeper seemed to flow like liquid shadow through the trees. Aravon felt loud and clumsy by comparison, though he was certain most people felt that way next to the nimble Secret Keeper.

  Noll held his place twenty paces behind them, just within eyesight but far enough back that he could melt into the shadows in case of an ambush. Another twenty yards back, Belthar and Skathi brought up the rear.

  Snarl padded along beside him. The Enfield made no more noise than Colborn or Zaharis, though Aravon caught the occasional tac as claws struck stone. Snarl's presence was comforting. Aravon felt as if he'd been missing a part of himself since leaving Camp Marshal, but now, with his Enfield at his side, he almost felt whole.

  Save for the empty space between him and Zaharis. He'd spread out their column so they could move unseen and provide support for each other in case of ambush, but there had been an unspoken agreement that they all needed to protect Draian. Now, there was one less comrade to guard.

  Guilt descended on his shoulders like a stifling cloak. He gritted his teeth against the emotions roiling with him. He'd gone over the battle a hundred times and come to the same conclusion every time. He had done everything he could to keep the Mender alive. They all had.

  The Mender had been assigned to the safest place in the battle—if any such thing existed. He'd had the Duke and his men to watch his back, and the protection of the sturdy longhouse. The rest of their unit had fought to stem the tide of Eirdkilrs from getting past. But they were outnumbered and fighting with an army of untrained men against the Keeper-damned Eirdkilrs. None of them could have prevented that small force from breaking past and rampaging through Bjornstadt.

  He hadn't made a mistake; it was just the Long Keeper's own luck. He couldn't blame himself or any of the others. More than that, he had to let the guilt go. The more emotional he was, the harder it proved to think logically. And he'd need clear-headed logic to come up with a strategy to somehow defeat the Eirdkilrs.

  They had three days of travel to figure it out. Nearly one hundred and twenty miles of Fehlan wilderness stood between them and Anvil Garrison. On foot, they'd cover three to four miles per hour. He did quick calculations in his mind—if they could keep up a steady pace, they had around thirty-five hours of marching ahead.

  But he knew they couldn't sustain the pace, at least not for long. Weeks of rigorous training, days of hard riding, and the battle had taken a toll on them. His body cried out for rest. His shoulders and ribs throbbed and his face felt heavy, swollen.

  And he was in the best shape of the unit. Noll had taken a nasty cut to the side of his face, laying open his cheek to the bone. Belthar had done a decent job of patching him up, but they had to be careful to avoid infection.

  Colborn's shield arm hung in a sling. The arm wasn't broken, but he'd wrenched his shoulder bad enough that he had to keep it immobile for a few days. Despite the Lieutenant's stubborn insistence, Aravon had commanded him to wear the sling. If he wasn't the best one for the job of tracking the Eirdkilr route back to Anvil Garrison, Aravon would have ordered him to hang back with the rest of their little column.

  Skathi had refused to let any of them look at her wounds, but she winced with every step. She breathed a bit harder than she ought to. When she stopped, she hunched to protect her left side.

  Belthar was the worst off. He'd taken wounds to the arms, head, and legs—none grave, but enough of them that they threatened to slow him down. His armor was scratched and scuffed, with one long slash along the abdomen. Were it not for Zaharis' alchemical treatment of the leather, the axe blow would have opened his gut. Aravon still worried about internal bleeding.

  None of his unit made any protest as they moved out. Every one of them moved at a steady, determined pace. They had a mission and would see it through. Wounds be damned.

  Aravon let his mind wander back to the problem of Anvil Garrison and the Eirdkilrs, but his eyes never stopped roaming the thick darkness of the forest. The canopy blotted out all but the faintest traces of the moonlight. A chill breeze whipped the branches and leaves in a frenzy, filling the air with the sounds of rustling.

  He was glad for the hours he'd spent training at night in the marshlands in Eastfall. He had grown adept at distinguishing the features of the terrain, the shape of trees, the movement of branches from enemy combatants and forest creatures. They had to keep their speed slower after dark—both for fear of losing the Eirdkilrs' trail and making a misstep—but Colborn led them with confidence. At this pace, they'd cover at least fifteen miles in the four hours remaining before dawn.

  A hand on his shoulder snapped his head around.

  Zaharis held something out to him. “Eat.”

  Aravon took it with a nod of thanks. His teeth sank into a firm bar made from grainy barley, dates, and honey. He munched as he walked. Zaharis did likewise. For the first time, he realized how hungry he was. He'd barely eaten after the battle. During the funeral, he'd been more intent on drowning his emotions with ayrag than replenishing the energy burned in combat. Once he finished the bar, he dug into his pack for a hard trail biscuit. With every bite, his vigor returned. The darkness seemed to lose its grim edge.

  A sense of renewed hope filled him. They might be on an impossible mission, but between the six of them, they'd find some way to get it done.

  * * *

  Silence reigned in their camp. Exhaustion held each of them in a firm grip. Belthar lay wrapped in his heavy cloak, head pillowed on his pack. Skathi reclined against a rock, whittling to pass the time, her eyelids drooping. The only movement from Colborn and Noll was the rise and fall of their chests. Even Snarl slept curled into a ball at Skathi's feet.

  Zaharis alone showed no sign of fatigue. Though Aravon had the watch, the Secret Keeper seemed unwilling to rest.

  Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen him sleeping. Once, he'd caught Zaharis with his eyes closed, but the Secret Keeper insisted it was meditation, not a nap.

  “Zaharis,” he whispered.

  The Secret Keeper looked up from writing in his book.

  Aravon's fingers flashed. “Can't sleep?”

  Zaharis shrugged. “I don't sleep. Not much, at least.”

  Aravon's brow furrowed beneath his leather mask. “Why not?”

  “Secret Keeper training,” Zaharis replied. “From a young age, we're trained to rely on as little sleep as possible. How can we ever gather all the secrets of this world if we waste time in rest?”

  Aravon inclined his head. “Don't you ever get tired?”

  “Not really. Used to it, I guess.”

  Aravon nodded. “A handy skill to have.”

  “Sometimes.” Zaharis' hands hesitated. “I've forgotten what dreams are like. I miss them, in a way.”

  The words caught Aravon by surprise. His dreams of late had been filled with the memories of the ambush on the Eastmarch. “More often than not, they're another burden.”

  “Perhaps,” Zaharis replied, “but there are days I'd give anything to escape. Like
today.” His eyes scanned the figures around the camp. Aravon didn't need to read minds to know the Secret Keeper was thinking of their fallen comrade.

  “At least we have more important things to keep us awake,” Zaharis said.

  “Any thoughts on our plan?” Aravon asked.

  Zaharis nodded. “I'll need to find a few things, but I believe I can make something sufficiently nasty to get the Eirdkilrs out of Anvil Garrison. Even those bastards can only handle so much stink.”

  Aravon's mind ran wild with images of hurling a surfeit of angry skunks over the stone walls of Anvil Garrison. He was certain Zaharis' plan would be far more effective.

  “What will you need?”

  Zaharis squinted down at his book, and his fingers flashed in a few words Aravon didn't recognize. His understanding of local herbology had only extended to Draian's lessons on healing and Colborn's food-finding lectures.

  “We should be able to find them along the way,” Zaharis told him. “The—” he spelled out the letters for Arctic demonroot, “—grows along riverbanks.”

  Aravon nodded. “We cross the Smar River tomorrow.”

  “Good.” He remained still for a moment, then his fingers moved slowly. “You did right by him, Captain. You tried.”

  A lump formed in Aravon's throat. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  With a nod, Zaharis returned his attention to his book.

  * * *

  Colborn shook Aravon awake after what seemed two minutes after he laid down to rest. The Lieutenant's eyes were rimmed red from lack of sleep, but he offered his good hand to help Aravon stand.

  “How's the arm?” Aravon asked in the hand language.

  “Great. Only hurts when I breathe.”

  Aravon chuckled. “Next time, it might be better not to get hit.”

  Colborn's one-fingered response was a hand gesture all Legionnaires knew. Meeting the man's eyes, Aravon saw no sign of anger, only grim determination. The same expression filled the four sets of eyes staring back at him.