Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  An ear-splitting BOOM shattered the silence and a pillar of fire burst upwards from the fort. Aravon's jaw dropped. Zaharis' alchemical creations had worked!

  Seconds later, another explosion sounded, followed by another bright column of flame.

  Gripping his spear tight, Aravon leapt to his feet and charged with a shout of “For the Legion!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Aravon, Colborn, and Belthar reached the tents before the Eirdkilrs knew what hit them. Befuddled by drink and distracted by their entertainment, the huge barbarians had whirled toward the fort at the explosion. The assault from the rear caught them off-guard.

  Aravon's spear took the nearest in the throat, and he brought the butt end crashing down on the head of another. Belthar's axe laid two low before the Eirdkilrs recovered enough to reach for their weapons. Colborn, bringing up the rear, hacked another down. All the while, they kept up their cries of “For the Legion!”

  Aravon kicked over the brazier, spraying hot coals onto a pair of seated Eirdkilrs. The men howled and slapped at their legs and boots. Using the blade of his spear, Aravon scooped up glowing embers and flicked them toward the nearest tent.

  Belthar had already rushed on, bowling over another Eirdkilr and sending him flying into a nearby campfire. But instead of heading deeper into the camp, he broke to the right. Colborn and Aravon darted left.

  Aravon's spear whirled in the darkness, the blade slashing tent ropes and cutting down Eirdkilrs. He overturned every brazier he passed, aiming for the tents. Their sprint kept them just ahead of the confused shouts and cries of pain behind them. They raced toward the northern edge of the Eirdkilr camp and burst free of the shelters, ducking into the forest.

  Under cover of the shadows, they turned to examine their handiwork. The outermost tents had caught fire, and chaos reigned in the Eirdkilr camp. In the fort, the gleam of fire lit up the sky. The barbarians milled about in confusion. They faced a threat from both directions, but could find no enemy to fight.

  Aravon wanted to rush back in, but Colborn caught his arm. “You'll get yourself killed.”

  Aravon shook his head. “We have to do more. We have to kill more!”

  “We can't.” Colborn signed. “If we get caught in their camp, we're dead. We've caused enough confusion. Trust the plan.”

  Aravon ground his teeth. He'd wanted to cut down more than just a handful of Eirdkilrs—the more they killed here, the fewer would remain for the Legion. Even more, he wanted to storm Anvil Garrison and put an end to Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr once and for all. For the Sixth Company, for Oldrsjot, and, most of all, for Draian.

  But he knew Colborn was right. With the havoc inside Anvil Garrison and the chaos of the attack on both sides, they had done enough to piss off the Eirdkilrs. Skathi, Zaharis, and Noll would keep harassing them until the barbarians were angry enough to move.

  We each have our role to play. He could only hope the explosion had killed the Blodhundr and their commander.

  He nodded to Colborn. “We wait for Belthar, then we move.”

  The Lieutenant released his arm, and Aravon leaned against the tree. His hands shook with the rush of battle. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths.

  Long minutes passed, and still no sign of Belthar. Worry twisted like a worm in Aravon's gut as the shouts of alarm and fury grew louder in the burning camp and fort. Where is he?

  He breathed a sigh of relief as a dark figure slipped through the darkness toward them.

  Belthar's teeth shone white in the shadows. “Now that was fun!” he signed.

  “Let's go,” Aravon replied. “We've got fifty miles to cover and an army of pissed off Eirdkilrs coming for us.”

  He cast one last glance over his shoulder. Noll, Skathi, and Zaharis hid somewhere in the darkness south of Anvil Garrison. The three had the most dangerous part of the plan, but he knew they were up to the task.

  Drawing out the bone whistle, he blew a quick, short blast. First, he had to collect Snarl, then his path led north, toward Anvil Garrison. He, Colborn, and Belthar had their own mission to accomplish.

  * * *

  “Halt, and identify yourself!” A pair of Legion sentries leapt from the bushes and leveled spears at him. “State your name and business at once!”

  Aravon raised his hands. The Prince's silver pendant dangled between his fingers.

  The sentry took it and studied the engraving. “We've heard about these. Commander Oderus says you're some special force working for the Prince.” The man stroked his grey beard and narrowed his eyes at them. “Seems a bit much to believe.”

  Aravon said nothing. The Duke's instructions had been clear: they only identified themselves to the commanding officer.

  The sentry's mouth twisted. “Rannus,” he said without taking his eyes from the three of them, “get to the commander. Let him decide what to do.”

  Aravon ground his teeth. They didn't have time to waste. It had taken them almost half a day of travel to traverse the distance from Anvil Garrison to the Legion camp outside Gallows Garrison. He'd seen no sign of Eirdkilr pursuit, but had little doubt the enemy was on its way right now. The longer the delay, the greater the risk the Eirdkilrs would reach the ambush point before he returned with the Legion. Belthar and Colborn would face the army alone.

  The sentry fixed him with a hard glare. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Aravon recognized the immediate distrust of a career soldier. Anyone not clearly a friendly would be considered an enemy. His appearance—odd-looking armor, Fehlan short sword, long spear, and the greatwolf mask hiding his face—would put even the most lax Legionnaire on full alert.

  A few Legionnaires caught sight of Aravon, and they rushed to support the sentry. Within minutes, a full score of soldiers surrounded him, a solid wall of flesh, steel, and shields. They made no move to attack, but he knew they wouldn't hesitate.

  He felt a sense of pride at their response. They were true Legionnaires—like the men he'd lost in the ambush—soldiers who took their duties seriously.

  After what seemed an eternity, the sentry Rannus returned. “Commander says to bring him,” he told the other sentry.

  The grey-bearded man turned to Aravon. “I'm sure you won't mind an escort, being a friendly and all.”

  Aravon shrugged and motioned for them to lead the way.

  The wooden beams of Gallows Garrison's wall, still under construction, rose two hundred yards to the north of his position at the southern end of Jade Battalion's camp. The Legion had camped on the flat expanse of ground just south of their destroyed garrison.

  He had a strange sense of homesickness as he strode through the Legion camp. He'd spent the last fifteen years of his life in places exactly like this, with men like the ten that flanked him. Career soldiers, fighting for homes, families, or the Prince's coin. He was one of them yet out of place at the same time. He would never have that sense of home again.

  Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed him and his escort as they strode through the camp toward the commander's tent. He didn't need the guides. Every Legion set up their camp in the same neat order, the identical dun-colored square tents erected in precise lines, divided according to companies, platoons, and squads. The smell of a Legion camp—a mixture of mud, draft animals, sweaty men who bathed far too infrequently, and wet canvas and rope—hung thick around him.

  The four guards outside the commander's tent straightened at Aravon's approach. Wary eyes regarded him with distrust, yet they stepped aside to permit him to enter.

  Commander Oderus was a middle-aged man with deep-set eyes, a thick nose, and a strong jaw covered by a beard as dark and thick as his close-cropped hair. He sat behind the folding desk used by all officers in the Legion, poring over a pile of documents. He looked up as Aravon and his escort entered. In one hand, he gripped the Prince's pendant, while the other held a parchment bearing the Prince's seal.

  “I've had word of your coming.” He regarded Aravon with a curious expression. Hi
s gaze held no hostility, but he showed no sign of acceptance. “Unusual, to say the least.”

  Aravon said nothing, though he chafed at the delay.

  “This order from the Prince says that you are to be trusted. I will grant that you are sent here on the Prince's mission, but as for trust?” Oderus' blocky face hardened. “I will determine that myself.”

  Aravon nodded.

  “Take off your mask, if you truly are friendly,” Oderus said.

  Aravon shook his head.

  “And if I order my men to seize you and remove it for you?” the commander asked, arching a bushy eyebrow.

  Aravon made no move, but every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation.

  After a long, silent moment, Oderus nodded and gave a dismissive wave. “Leave us,” he told his men.

  “Commander?” asked one of the Legionnaires, a man bearing the insignia of a Lieutenant.

  “He is the Prince's man. Besides, if he was here to kill me, I doubt he'd dress so…” He regarded Aravon's armor with a curious expression. “…unusually.”

  The Lieutenant hesitated, but his Legion training asserted itself and he snapped a salute. At his order, the rest of the Legionnaires trooped from the tent.

  Oderus stood and strode around his desk, folding his arms across his chest as he studied Aravon. “The Prince's missive insisted that you reveal yourself only to me.”

  Aravon removed his mask. “Of course.” He'd never met Oderus before. He was counting on his strong resemblance to his mother to conceal the high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes he'd inherited from General Traighan. “You may call me Snarl.” He stifled a grin. The idea had come to him as he commanded his Enfield to stay out of sight of the garrison. He'd need a name to call himself—the little creature's name would serve as well as any.

  Oderus extended a hand. “Trandar Oderus, Commander of Jade Battalion.”

  Aravon shook his hand. “What does the Prince's letter say?” he asked, thrusting a chin at the document Oderus still held.

  The commander passed it to him.

  The message was succinct. “To Commander Oderus of Jade Battalion, the men who bear my insignia are to be shown all the trust and respect you would accord me. They will reveal themselves only to you.”

  Aravon nodded and returned the parchment.

  “From what I hear, they're circulating in every Legion camp on Fehl.” Oderus fixed him with a curious glare. “The letter says 'men'. Does that mean there are more of you?”

  “Five more.” Aravon pointed to the south.

  “Five?” Oderus' eyebrows shot up. “Here I thought there was a whole company of you.” His mouth twisted into a frown. “We could use a few hundred more men to face the thousand Eirdkilrs at Anvil Garrison.”

  Aravon shook his head. “Thirteen hundred,” he corrected.

  Oderus narrowed his eyes. “The last report I received from my scouts—”

  “Is wrong.” Aravon strode toward the map of Fehl hanging on the tent wall. He tapped on the black dot representing Anvil Garrison. “There are five hundred inside the fort, including Hrolf Hrungnir and his Blodhundr. Plus, another eight hundred or so camped around it.”

  “Damn!” Oderus cursed. He strode toward his table and scanned one of the parchments. “Their numbers are growing. I fear they may make a move to strike at us soon.” He sighed. “And we're still weeks from Gallows Garrison being strong enough to keep them at bay.”

  “I know,” Aravon said. “Which is precisely why we've been sent.”

  Oderus looked him up and down. “The five of you?”

  “Six,” Aravon corrected.

  “Forgive me.” Oderus shook his head. “Six of you. That makes fourteen hundred and forty six Legionnaires to face thirteen hundred Eirdkilrs. Plus, however many arrive in three days to reinforce their position.”

  “At least another thousand.” Aravon said.

  Oderus' sun-browned face grew pale. “Swordsman protect us,” he breathed and sat heavily in his chair. “Even if we manage to complete the fort, we'll be hard-pressed to hold it.”

  “There's always the alternative,” Aravon offered. “You can march this moment and meet them in battle.”

  “And why in the bloody hell would I do that?” Oderus demanded.

  “Because they're on their way here right now.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Oderus leapt from his chair. “What?”

  Aravon fixed the commander with a firm gaze. “The Eirdkilrs are marching here as we speak.”

  “How do you know that?” Oderus narrowed his eyes.

  “It was my idea.”

  Oderus looked ready to explode. “Are you insane?” His voice rose to a shout and he slammed a hand on his camp table. “You think bringing thirteen bloody hundred Eirdkilrs here is a smart plan? There's no way we can hold, not without the fort. We'll be slaughtered, and the Eirdkilrs will have free run of the entire eastern half of Fehl.”

  “Which is precisely why you're not going to wait for them to attack you here,” Aravon replied simply.

  Oderus' eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” he growled.

  Aravon pointed a finger at a spot on the map, roughly ten miles southwest of Gallows Garrison. “We ambush them there.”

  Oderus studied the map. “Broken Canyon?” He frowned. “And why would the Eirdkilrs be there, when they could simply travel the Eastmarch and strike at us directly?”

  Aravon smiled. “Because my men have led them on a merry chase to the west.”

  This had been a crucial part of his plan. He, Belthar, and Colborn had broken off their attack on the Eirdkilr camp north of Anvil Garrison quickly, but Skathi, Noll, and Zaharis would keep the pressure on from the south until the Eirdkilrs responded. They would continue harrying them from the southwest, pulling the enemy away from the Eastmarch. By the time they faded into the forest, the Eirdkilrs would be far enough west that the fastest way to reach Gallows Garrison would be straight through Broken Canyon. Plus, they would have gone south, buying the Legionnaires a few more hours.

  Belthar and Colborn had set up a few surprises in Broken Canyon. Add to that a Legionnaire shield wall in the narrow canyon, and they had a chance to wipe out the Eirdkilr force in time to retake Anvil Garrison before reinforcements arrived. It was a risky plan—some would call it a foolhardy gamble—but there hadn't been any better options.

  “If we march within the hour, Commander, and push the pace, I believe we can reach Broken Canyon with a few hours to spare. With your men to help, we can mount a proper ambush.”

  “I see.” Oderus frowned at the map. “However, I find one problem with your strategy.”

  Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Oderus fixed him with a stern gaze. “In the canyon, there is no way to mount a cavalry charge.”

  “Of course not, but that is where the shield wall will—”

  “The shield wall is precisely that: a shield. But Jade Battalion has a full complement of two hundred heavy lancers. That is the sort of fighting force that turns the odds of battle in our favor.” The Commander held up a finger. “But only if they can be used properly in an open field.”

  Aravon shook his head. “With all due respect, Commander—”

  Oderus cut him off. “Snarl, whoever you are, I trust that you have a great deal of experience in your field. But this is my field. I have served as commanding officer of Jade Battalion for five years.”

  Aravon ground his teeth. He wished he could tell the man the truth: he had served for fifteen years, and had spent his life listening to the tales of General Traighan, the hero of Steel Gorge. But to the world, Aravon was dead.

  “Even the Eirdkilrs cannot stand before the might of an organized charge of heavy lancers.” Oderus shook his head. “I have shattered many Eirdkilr lines before, and there is nothing that can compare to it.”

  Aravon groaned inwardly. Just my luck that I’d get a former cavalryman as Commander!

  The rivalry
between cavalry and infantry dated back to the first time a mounted warrior looked down his nose at the soldier marching in the mud and dust beside him. A well-formed line of cavalry could inflict massive casualties on enemies, which gave them a sense of superiority that ultimately led to arrogance. Cavalrymen structured their tactics around their cavalry, while infantry-trained officers like Aravon relied more heavily on the Legion shield wall. Both had their advantages in different combat situations, but every good Commander knew to consider both alternatives when preparing for battle.

  “All due respect, sir,” Aravon pressed, “the walls of Broken Canyon give you the best possible defensive position. The Eirdkilrs can hammer away at the Legion for days with little risk of being overrun.”

  “At what cost?” Oderus’ face creased into a grimace. “The shield wall has its place, but on the fields south of Broken Canyon, it is cavalry that will carry the day. With the Eirdkilrs hiding behind the walls of Anvil Garrison, we could do nothing. You have done the impossible and convinced them to abandon their position. For that, you have my thanks. But now it's time for you to leave the task of war to the soldiers.”

  Aravon’s jaw clenched. “Commander, if you will reconsider—”

  “I have reconsidered, and I am certain my course of action is the correct one.” Oderus tapped a spot on the map another mile south of the entrance to Broken Canyon. “This broad, grassy field has ground strong and even for a cavalry charge. We will make our stand there.”

  “Please, Commander Oderus,” he tried one last time, “meeting the Eirdkilrs in pitched battle, even with your heavy lancers, is risking the lives of your men. In the canyon, with our ambush, we could—”

  “Enough!” Oderus’ tone held an edge of anger. “I have listened to you out of respect for the Prince's instructions and the intelligence you bring us. But so long as I am the Commander of the Jade Battalion, I will command as I see fit.”