Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  “Let's move.” Aravon signed. Without a sound, they set off.

  The four-hour rest had done them all good. They moved with renewed vigor, and Aravon's head no longer felt thick with wool. The beginnings of a plan began to take shape in his mind.

  They hadn't gone a mile before Zaharis whirled toward him, hands flashing. Aravon was immediately on the alert. He brought his spear up in a defensive position, eyes scanning the trees for any sign of attack.

  Silence met him. He glanced down at Snarl—the Enfield stared off into the forest with the alert stance of a hound that had spotted a rabbit, not a bear.

  His gaze returned to the Secret Keeper. “What?” he asked.

  Zaharis had already shrugged out of his pack and was racing up a nearby slope. Colborn came charging back, but stopped at the sight of the running Secret Keeper. “What's with him?”

  Aravon shrugged. “I'll find out.” Slipping out of his own pack, he followed Zaharis up the hill.

  The hill rose at a steep angle for fifty yards before cresting in a rocky hollow. Pale blue flowers dotted the summit of the hill, carpeting the ground as it descended into the bowl. Zaharis was darting around the hollow, bending over to study the flowers.

  “Zaharis!” Aravon called. Zaharis ignored him. He called out the man's name again. The mask muffled his voice, but he had no doubt the Secret Keeper heard him.

  He strode into the hollow, trampling the flowers.

  Zaharis whirled. “Stop!” He signed. “Don't take another step.”

  Aravon froze. The urgency in the Secret Keeper's posture was something he'd never seen before.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  For long moments, Zaharis didn't respond. He was too busy moving around the little hollow, squinting down at the flowers. When he finally straightened, there was a dejected slump to his shoulders.

  “Nothing,” the Secret Keeper said. “Nothing but a lot of Keeper-damned Watcher's Bloom.”

  Aravon had never seen Zaharis act so strangely. It reminded him of the previous day, when Zaharis had nearly attacked him for interrupting his study of the little purple flowers.

  “Zaharis, what's going on?”

  Zaharis cast one last glance around the hollow, then shook his head. His fingers spelled out the letters for two words. “Ice saffron.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow—an expression rendered useless by the leather mask. “What is ice saffron?”

  Zaharis gestured around him. “For a moment, I thought it was this.”

  Aravon moved toward the Secret Keeper. Zaharis made no protest as he trampled the flowers. “Explain. Explain why you suddenly abandoned your position and broke away from the rest of us.”

  The Secret Keeper met his eyes, and Aravon saw something new there: sorrow.

  “I told you I was sent here by the Secret Keepers of Voramis to catalogue the flora and fauna of Fehl.” He hesitated. “That wasn't quite the full truth.” For a long moment, his hands were still. “I was expelled from the Secret Keeper order ten years ago.”

  Aravon's eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  Zaharis nodded. His hands flashed so fast Aravon struggled to keep up. “In my studies of the plants of Fehl, I found historical texts with numerous mentions of a plant called ice saffron by the people that lived here thousands of years ago. But that was all I found—just mentions, with a vague description.” He gestured around him. “Pale blue flowers with crimson threads, growing in a cluster on thick stems up to two feet long. For ten years, I've been searching Fehl to try to find it. I believe it's one of the ingredients needed to make the Elixir of Creation.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “My superiors at the Temple of Whispers see it as a fool's errand. No one we spoke to had ever heard of any such thing as ice saffron. No one believes it exists. I was ordered to stop searching, to return to the studies assigned to me. But I cannot.” He shook his head. “I found a book that spoke of it in the same passage as a mention of the Serenii. I know it's real. And if I can find it, if I can prove that it exists, I can return to my order. I can live.”

  “You can live?” Aravon asked. “What does that mean?”

  Zaharis met his eyes, and there was hardness in the man's gaze. “How many Secret Keepers do you know?”

  “Counting you?” Aravon held up one finger.

  Zaharis nodded. “No one else on this world guards their secrets with such zeal.” He removed his mask and, with a moment's hesitation, opened his mouth.

  Aravon flinched. Where Zaharis' tongue should have been, only a stump of flesh remained. “Bloody hell!”

  Zaharis replaced his mask. “They do this to us when we first take our vows to serve the Mistress. There is no 'after' for us. Once we swear that oath, we serve until we die. Either by natural causes, or…”

  A sick feeling rose in the pit of Aravon's stomach. “They tried to kill you?”

  “Came too close to succeeding,” Zaharis replied. “I've spent the last ten years in hiding. If they even suspected I still lived, they would hunt me down and kill me. And you. And Duke Dyrund, and everyone I've ever spoken to.” He shook his head. “Knowledge is power, Aravon, and the Secret Keepers guard that power with single-minded purpose. We uncover the secrets of the world. There are many secrets too dangerous to be trusted to mankind.”

  “Like the secret of the Elixir of Creation?” Aravon asked.

  Zaharis nodded. “Ice saffron is the final ingredient. It is my life's quest to find it. I must succeed, for it is the only way I can have any life at all.”

  Aravon digested everything he'd just learned. The conversation had given him a new insight into Zaharis few in the world had ever seen.

  “Let us help you,” he told the man. “We need you, now more than ever. You are our brother, and we will do what we can to aid you in your quest.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” The worry drained from Zaharis' eyes, and his shoulders relaxed. “I feared what you would say if I told you. That you would not be willing to let me go.”

  Zaharis was right. Aravon didn't want to think of what would happen when Zaharis succeeded. They couldn't lose the Secret Keeper and the Mender so close together.

  “But I will demand one promise from you,” Aravon said.

  Zaharis stiffened.

  “Swear that you will not run off like this again. What if there were Eirdkilrs here, or lying in ambush below? We are strongest when we stick together.”

  The Secret Keeper nodded. “In the name of the Mistress, goddess of hidden truths and whispered secrets, I swear it.”

  Aravon held out a hand, and Zaharis clasped it. “We live or die as a unit.”

  “The company of the damned,” Zaharis replied. A hint of humor sparkled in the Secret Keeper's eyes. “Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

  Aravon shook his head. “A tad too doom and gloom for me.”

  Zaharis shrugged. “I'll come up with something better. After all, what is a company without a name?” He and Aravon strode toward the mouth of the bowl, but the Secret Keeper stopped to gather a handful of the pale blue flowers.

  “By the way,” he signed to Aravon without looking up, “you'll want to wipe the sap off your boots as soon as possible.”

  Aravon glanced down at the sticky fluid from the flowers he'd crushed.

  “Watcher's Bloom is among the most poisonous plants on Einan.” When he looked up, a nasty gleam filled his eyes. “Which is precisely why we're going to use it against the Eirdkilrs.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Damn! They're not going to make it easy for us, are they?

  Aravon peered over the lip of the hill at the mass of Eirdkilrs below. The barbarians had set up a makeshift camp around Anvil Garrison, and a sea of crude hide tents dotted the hillside. Thick, greasy smoke rose from dozens of cookfires, the smell of roasting meat—Legion horses, Aravon suspected—hung thick in the air. A cacophony of sounds issued from the camp: the barbarians shouted, fought, and shouted some more. Hundreds of barbarians
raised their voice in war songs—terribly off-tune, even by Eirdkilr standards.

  Aravon slid back down the hill and flitted from tree to tree. A few hundred yards of forest stood between him and the meeting point where he'd meet the rest of his men.

  Skathi and Belthar awaited him in a shallow depression between two hills. The archer gave a grim shake of her head. “There's a bloody lot of them,” she signed. “I counted at least two hundred on the west side.”

  “Two-fifty at least,” Belthar corrected.

  Skathi shot him a glare.

  “At least another hundred on the northwest.” Aravon crouched and drew a crude rectangle in the dirt. “Either of you get a good look inside?”

  The two shook their heads. “Western side is all lowlands and open spaces,” Skathi said. “And covered by too many Eirdkilrs to get through.”

  Aravon nodded. Anvil Garrison had been built by the Legion during their conquest of the Jarnleikr, one of the more fractious clans of Fehl. They'd chosen the site of the fortress for its excellent sight lines on the flat lowlands to the south. With stone walls nearly twenty feet high and buildings made of brick rather than wood, the garrison was one of the most fortified places south of the Chain. The Eastmarch passed along the east, and the forest to the north and south had been cleared back. No one could reach the walls of Anvil Garrison unseen.

  Their task of driving the Eirdkilrs out would not be an easy one. If it was easy, he reminded himself, anyone could do it.

  He scratched three short lines into the dirt on the western side of his rectangle, then added another line at the northwestern corner. He'd sent Noll and Colborn to scout the fortress' south side. Zaharis would cover the eastern side. The hills to the east would give the Secret Keeper the high ground to study the Eirdkilrs within the fort. When the others returned with their reports, he'd have a better idea of how many enemies they faced.

  Waiting was always the hardest for Aravon. He couldn't help worrying about Zaharis, Noll, and Colborn. He trusted their skills—they could move through the terrain unseen and unheard better than anyone he'd met—but danger surrounded them on all sides. One single misstep would alert the army of Eirdkilrs to their presence. If any of them were captured, there'd be no hope of rescue.

  He occupied himself by going over the plan for the twentieth time that night. Get the Eirdkilrs out of Anvil Garrison, bait them into marching north, and lay a trap for them. Three simple steps, with a thousand ways each could go wrong. Worse, he'd have to split up their team.

  The sound of rustling leaves set him on full alert. He threw himself face-down into the dirt, eyes scanning the forest. Moonlight dappled the ground, but the absence of any wind told him someone was coming. He gripped his spear and prepared for the worst.

  A low whistle, like the cry of a night bird, cut through the night.

  Aravon relaxed. He returned the call. A moment later, Noll slid into the hollow, Colborn at his heels.

  “Four hundred to the south,” Noll reported.

  Aravon glanced to Colborn. The Lieutenant nodded confirmation. Aravon scratched four lines into the dirt on the south side of his rectangle.

  “Did you get a chance to look inside?” he asked.

  Colborn turned to Noll. The little scout shook his head. “Not clearly. I saw maybe a hundred, but there was enough noise for a thousand.”

  Grimacing, Aravon wrote one line within the rectangle. Zaharis' report would fill in the final details of their enemy, but the picture was grim. With more than seven hundred Eirdkilrs camped around the fort, they were looking at over a thousand enemies.

  Minutes ticked by in tense silence. No one moved, not even their hands in silent communication. They were all focused on what came next and their roles to play.

  The plan had taken shape over the four-day journey. Belthar's wounds had slowed their pace. No one complained. Colborn hadn't once poked fun at the big man; if anything, he'd been the one to support Belthar the most. He'd stood an extra watch so Belthar could sleep. Noll had even slipped Belthar a few extra bites of his rations—without Belthar knowing, of course. Zaharis had finally called a halt long enough to brew up one of his marvelous healing potions. They'd all moved more easily after a small dose of whatever was in that bitter-tasting tea.

  Belthar still hadn't fully healed, which was why he would accompany Aravon to the Legion camp at Gallows Garrison. Colborn would as well. The mask hid the Lieutenant's face, but the stiffness in his left arm and the gingerness of his movements spoke volumes.

  Relief filled Aravon as Zaharis slipped through the trees and ducked into the hollow beside them. His report was succinct: a hundred Eirdkilrs had set up camp on the Eastmarch. Another five hundred held the Garrison.

  Aravon scratched the marks into his crude map. Thirteen hundred Eirdkilrs against fourteen hundred Legionnaires. Tension knotted in his gut. Bad odds.

  Zaharis' hands flashed. “The Blodhundr are there. The one with the sword.”

  Something hard and cold tightened in Aravon's chest. Hrolf Hrungnir was within reach.

  Five pairs of eyes fixed on him. They all knew their orders but looked to him for command. The burden of leadership weighed heavy; the Duke had chosen him to bear it, and they had as well.

  Aravon drew in a deep breath. “Zaharis, Noll, Skathi, take the south and west.” His hands flashed in the darkness. “Colborn, Belthar, you're with me on the north side.”

  The five nodded. They'd been over the plan a dozen times. Each knew their role and he trusted them to carry it out.

  Zaharis reached into his pack and produced four leather pouches. He handed two to Skathi and the others to Belthar. “Get them as close to the center of the camp as possible.”

  The two nodded. Skathi's accuracy made her the logical choice for their team. Belthar's crossbow had enough power to send the massive bolts up to five hundred yards.

  Zaharis drew out two pairs of the yellow and green globes. “Keep them separated until you're ready to shoot. They'll need to strike stone to shatter. The liquid within will do the rest.”

  Belthar and Skathi accepted the glass orbs.

  Aravon glanced at the five faces around him. “Make as much chaos and confusion as possible, but above all, get out of there alive.” Jade Battalion would need every sword and bow to survive the fight.

  “I'll keep these two in line,” Skathi told him. “Worry about your own ass.” After a long moment, she added, “Sir.”

  Aravon chuckled. “Go. We move in one hour.”

  * * *

  To Aravon, it seemed the hour dragged on far too slowly. He kept glancing at Colborn. The Lieutenant had an uncanny ability to mark the passage of time by the position of the moon. Every time he looked over, Colborn shook his head. Eventually, he signed, “I'll tell you when.”

  Not for the first time, Aravon questioned the wisdom of their plan. He hadn't been able to come up with a better one. They had to deal with these Eirdkilrs before reinforcements arrived. The Duke had agreed with him. His men as well. Still, the thought of bringing thirteen hundred Eirdkilrs howling down on Jade Battalion didn't sit right with him.

  Snarl seemed to sense his agitation. The little Enfield nuzzled against his hands, and Aravon occupied himself by stroking Snarl's soft fox fur. He dug a piece of dried beef from his pack. Snarl wolfed it down and gave a little bark of delight.

  Belthar's elbow nudged him.

  “It's time, Captain,” Colborn signed.

  No turning back now. Taking a deep breath, Aravon nodded. “Stay,” he whispered into Snarl's ear.

  Colborn took the lead, with Belthar in the middle and Aravon bringing up the rear. They slipped through the forest without a sound. The dense canopy cast deep shadows on the ground. Unless they were unlucky enough to stumble across an Eirdkilr patrol, they should be able to get within bowshot of Anvil Garrison.

  The average crossbow had an effective killing range of seventy to one hundred yards, but could punch a bolt through leather armor at up to thre
e hundred yards. Belthar's bow was anything but average, capable of driving its long bolts up to five hundred yards.

  Just enough to get Zaharis' pouches and glass orbs over Anvil Garrison's wall.

  The Legion had cleared the tree line back to three hundred yards around the garrison. An army of Eirdkilrs was encamped on the open ground around the fort. Belthar would have to fire from within the forest and arc the bolt high enough to get over the twenty-foot stone walls. With the weight of the two pouches and the pair of glass orbs, it would be a difficult shot for even an expert archer like Skathi.

  But Aravon had to trust his men. Both Skathi and Belthar had insisted they could do it. Aravon had no doubt about Skathi's ability. Colborn seemed to trust Belthar to make the shot, and Aravon had to rely on his Lieutenant's judgement. After all, that was why he had a Lieutenant. Colborn was a second set of eyes, a second mind, and a second commander to evaluate their unit's capabilities.

  They stopped just within the tree line. The nearest of the Eirdkilr tents stood less than thirty yards away. A group of boisterous barbarians crowded around a brazier, laughing and drinking. Beyond, two Eirdkilrs pounded at each other bare-fisted, while another group egged them on with shouts and jeers.

  Belthar drew his crossbow and pulled one of the three-foot-long bolts from their quiver on his back and sliced the gut holding the Odarian steel head in place. With a bit of twine, he secured the two pouches to the arrow. Each pouch held some of the powdered Watcher's Bloom Zaharis had mixed up, along with one of the two orbs.

  Despite the evening chill, sweat trickled down Belthar's face as he raised the crossbow to his shoulder. Colborn stood behind him, helping him to adjust his position and the angle of the weapon.

  “Deep breath,” Colborn signed. “Hold it in for three seconds, aim for the tower, and squeeze. Exhale after you shoot.”

  Belthar nodded. He drew in a deep breath, held it, and gripped the trigger. The bowstring thrummed and the bolt sped off into the night.

  Aravon's eyes locked onto Anvil Garrison. For long moments, nothing happened. Worry spiked within him. Had Belthar's bolt gone wide? Had the wind or the weight of the pouches carried it off course? Had it struck dirt instead of the stone fort? A thousand different problems raced through his mind in an instant.