With a sigh, Aravon reached into his pouch and drew out the parchment Duke Dyrund had given him. He handed it to Oderus without a word.
The Commander’s eyes went wide as he read the contents. His face turned a deep, furious red. “You dare to usurp my authority?” He flung the letter at Aravon. “You bring me this letter and expect me to believe it comes from Duke Dyrund himself?”
Aravon nodded. “Signed by his own hand.” He, Colborn, and Zaharis had been there when Duke Dyrund penned the letter giving him the authority to command Jade Battalion.
“You serpent!” Oderus snarled. “You expect me to believe that the Duke of Eastfall would simply hand over command to…”
Aravon arched an eyebrow.
“To you?” the commander finished. “Whoever you are, Snarl,” he spat the word like a curse, “until I see the ducal seal of Eastfall, I have no choice but to believe your bona fides are a forgery, and you a fraud.”
Aravon stared open-mouthed at the man. He'd expected such an angry reaction—few officers would willingly hand over command—but the Duke's letter ought to have sufficed.
“Commander, I have no desire to—”
“I desire to have you flogged within an inch of your life,” Oderus raged. “But I will settle for expelling you from my camp.”
A ball of ice settled in the pit of Aravon's stomach. Though he'd known it wouldn’t be easy to convince the Commander, this reaction took him by surprise. Fools didn't last long in the Legion, but stubborn men seemed to thrive when given command.
“Commander, you must—”
“Out!” Oderus roared. “You have delivered your intelligence. Off with you.”
The sound brought four Legionnaires rushing into the tent. Aravon kept his back turned to them, his eyes fixed on the Commander.
“So be it,” he said, his voice heavy. “May the Swordsman guide your blades and strengthen your shields in battle.” Replacing his mask and tucking the Duke's letter into his pocket, he spun on his heel and stalked from the Commander’s tent.
* * *
“Well?” Colborn signed, glancing over Aravon's shoulder. “Where are they?”
Aravon shook his head. If he responded, even in sign language, his fury would get the best of him. The ten-mile hike back to Broken Canyon hadn't cooled his anger. Not even Snarl's antics or cheerful yipping could soothe the fire burning within him.
He wished he was wrong. The Commander was right about the cavalry: a charge of heavy lancers could inflict serious punishment on the Eirdkilrs. But not enough to break them. The Eirdkilrs would storm the shield wall. Without the steep cliffs of Broken Canyon to guard their flanks, Jade Battalion would take heavy casualties.
“What do we do?” Belthar asked. The man looked exhausted—after days of hard travel and their hurried flight from the Eirdkilrs, he'd labored for hours preparing their ambush. An ambush that would have been perfect for the battle ahead.
Broken Canyon stretched on for two miles, cutting between steep foothills. A dried up riverbed was all that remained of the river that had once wended through the hills. The canyon walls were fifty feet high, but accessible only from the north. Anyone coming from the south would be faced with vertical crags of stone.
But thanks to Commander Oderus, the Legion would meet the Eirdkilrs in pitched battle. All because of the man’s belief in the tactical superiority of cavalry.
“We do what the Duke instructed us to,” Aravon replied. “We give the Legion a fighting chance.”
As if on cue, the first of Jade Battalion appeared from the north, a long column that snaked over the hills, marching toward them with the uniform precision that made the Legion the greatest fighting force on Fehl. The heavy lancers led the column. Their heavy plate mail glittered in the sunlight, their long lances like a forest of steel and death. Into the canyon they rode, and the sound of their horses' hooves set the canyon walls thundering.
Next came the Legionnaires, nine hundred and fifty proud men bearing heavy rectangular shields displaying the crossed sword insignia of the Legion over the griffin of Icespire. They moved with the neat precision of men dedicated to battle. Professionals, brave soldiers, one and all.
Commander Oderus rode in the center of his men. His mail gleamed with the neat, unblemished polish of a high-ranked officer, one who rarely saw combat. The plumes of his helmet rose a full foot from its crest, the feathers a bright green. At least the sword hanging at his side showed the wear of battle. He didn't so much as glance up at Aravon and his men as he went.
Aravon hated that the Commander had gone with the cavalry-reliant strategy, but there was little he could do. Oderus was the Commander of Jade Battalion, and if he refused to accept Aravon’s command as signed in Duke Dyrund’s letter, pressing the matter would only make the situation worse for Aravon and his men.
And it’s not like Commander Oderus is totally wrong. Aravon’s gaze traveled south, toward the broad field beyond the mouth of Broken Canyon. He’d seen the field on his way north, and it was as ideal for a cavalry charge as the officer had insisted. And with the weight of the horses, a force of two hundred lancers could inflict serious casualties.
It’s just that he’s too damned stubborn to think there’s another way!
Tactical rigidity numbered among the chief contributors to defeat. The Legion had learned that lesson decades earlier when they insisted on trying to push into Jokull marshlands while maintaining their usual shield walls and solid formations. The bogs, wetlands, and mires of Jokull territory had thrown the Legion columns into disarray, leaving them vulnerable to Jokull attacks. Half a battalion had died before the stubborn Commander finally pulled back. That loss had been the last time the Legion tried to push through Jokull lands—someone had been clever enough to learn their lesson.
He pushed down his feelings of frustration and forced himself to calm. I’ll just have to settle for being grateful he mobilized his men in time.
Even reaching the bluff where Aravon and his men stood had cost him an extra hour. He'd had to hike to the west to ascend the steep hills. To reach their position so soon, Oderus had managed to organize his men and march at an impressive pace, even by Legion standards.
Aravon watched Jade Battalion march through the canyon and into the flat lands beyond. The mouth of the canyon opened onto a narrow stretch of land surrounded by steep cliffs. Half a mile south, a broad expanse of flatland stretched for two miles until reaching dense forest. The field Oderus had chosen for battle lay just one mile south of their position.
“Does he know how many Eirdkilrs he's facing?” Colborn asked.
Aravon shrugged. “I told him.”
“Let me guess: he's relying on his cavalry.” At Aravon's nod, the Lieutenant shook his head. “Swordsman's teeth. That's going to be one hell of an ugly battle.”
“I know,” Aravon responded. “But nothing would sway him.”
“Not even the Duke's letter?” Colborn asked.
“That just made it worse. He nearly had me flogged—only the Prince's letter stayed his hand.”
Colborn snorted. “Idiot.”
“We can't let his men suffer for his stubborn foolishness,” Aravon insisted.
The Lieutenant shook his head. “Not much we can do, just the three of us.”
“Our jobs,” Aravon shot back. “We take advantage of our mobility, get around behind the Eirdkilrs. If we can pick off their leaders, we might be able to break them.” He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the image of Belthar putting one of his crossbow bolts through Hrolf Hrungnir's back.
“What about Noll, Skathi, and Zaharis?” Belthar asked. “They're supposed to meet us here.”
“Wait for them,” Aravon responded. Belthar looked exhausted; this way, he had an excuse for a few hours of rest.
“Colborn and I will keep pace with the army.” He pointed to the forest on the eastern side of the field where Oderus intended to make his stand. “We'll head that way, try to circle around behind the enemy.”
“And,” Colborn added, “if any of the Eirdkilrs try to flank the Legion from the east, we'll run across them in time to raise the alarm.”
Belthar shook his head. “I'm not letting you two go alone.”
“That's an order, Belthar,” Aravon signed back. “Find Skathi and the others, then come find us. We can't fight in the shield wall, but I won't stand by while the Legion faces the enemy.”
Every muscle in Belthar's body screamed defiance and stubborn refusal, but he couldn't ignore a direct order. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “But the minute I find them, we're coming after you. Even if we have to carve through an army of Eirdkilrs to reach you.”
Aravon clasped the big man's hand. “I'd expect no less.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Aravon fought the urge to glance over his shoulder. He needed to keep his eyes fixed on the forest before him—he and Colborn could run into Eirdkilrs at any moment. But he couldn't help worrying about the Legionnaires.
Nine companies, each a hundred men strong, stood in solid shield walls five men deep and twenty wide. Five companies held the front line—at one yard per man, with two yards between each company, the line of Legionnaires stretched roughly a hundred and twenty yards across. Oderus held four companies in the rear, with another fifty men to guard his position. Those four hundred-fifty would provide support, stop the enemy from flanking, and prepare to counterattack as the flow of battle demanded.
Nine hundred shield-bearing Legionnaires was no small force, but they faced more than a thousand Eirdkilrs.
If Oderus fights this like any normal battle, he’s going to lose. And, as the Commander had proven, he was more than comfortable opting for the tried and true tactic of relying on his cavalry.
Aravon had to admit the heavy lancers did look an impressive sight. Two hundred and fifty battle-trained warhorses covered in heavy plate armor gleamed in the sunlight. Oderus had kept them at the rear of their position, wanting to conceal them from the Eirdkilrs until the last moment.
A sound strategy, maybe, if he faced any other enemy.
Conventional wisdom held that no force of infantry could stand before a charging horse. That had been tested and proven in hundreds of battles across Einan and Fehl. But Eirdkilrs weren't the typical infantrymen. They stood a full foot taller than the average Princelander. Aravon had seen horses cut down by the Eirdkilrs' heavy axes. Their longbows had enough power to drive one of the heavy arrows through all but the thickest shield or plate mail.
Five smaller platoons of archers—each fifty strong—waited behind the five Legion companies. Their longbows lacked the power of the Eirdkilrs', but the Agrotorae managed the sort of precision not even the Eirdkilrs could match.
Fourteen hundred men, Aravon thought, shaking his head. It's not enough, not like this.
Colborn's hiss brought him whirling around. The Lieutenant's eyes fixed on him. “Eyes forward, Captain,” he signed.
Aravon ground his teeth but nodded. It took everything within him to keep crawling forward through the forest east of the battlefield.
He felt the rumbling in the ground before he heard it. A low hum, like thunder across the Frozen Sea, growing slowly louder as the Eirdkilrs approached.
Ice slithered down Aravon's spine. They’re coming!
Then the huge figures in shaggy ice bear pelts, chain mail, and leather armor emerged from the forest. In ones and twos at first, then dozens, scores, swelling to hundreds. Hundreds of towering figures clad in filthy white furs, their faces stained a deep blue. Sunlight glittered from the heads of their spears and axes, and the wind whipped at their long, braided hair and beards.
The Eirdkilrs had arrived to battle.
The barbarians stopped, seeming surprised by the presence of the Legion. No doubt they'd expected to fall upon Gallows Garrison before Jade Battalion had a chance to react. When they saw the neat formations, they hesitated.
An imposing figure pushed through the ranks and strode to stand at the head of his men. Taller than the other Eirdkilrs, with a powerful black wood bow in his hands, a bloodstained ice bear fur, and an enormous sword strapped to his back.
Aravon sucked in a breath. Hrolf Hrungnir! The sight of the Eirdkilr set his blood boiling. At least a thousand yards separated him from the leader of the Blodhundrs. Not even Belthar's crossbow could cut him down from this distance. He contemplated racing out to join the Legionnaires—he could face the bastard in the shield wall, cut him down in the melee.
Colborn's hand squeezed his shoulder. “We need to move while they're focused ahead.”
Aravon nodded. Much as he hated to admit it, the Lieutenant was right. He wouldn't have his shot at Hrolf Hrungnir today. But someday, soon, my time will come. His eyes sought out Hrolf Hrungnir. And when it does, no army of Eirdkilrs is going to stop me from avenging my men.
With effort, Aravon forced himself to turn away, to follow Colborn on their stealthy trek through the dense forest. They stepped with caution, their eyes scanning the forest for any sign of movement. The Eirdkilrs tended to travel en masse, with no organized formation. There could be enemies all around them.
The sound of a horn snapped his head toward the battlefield. Hrolf Hrungnir held a horn to his lips, blowing the call to war—a harsh, lugubrious sound that sounded as savage as the barbarians themselves.
With every second, more and more of the barbarians emerged from the forest to join the mass on the far side of the field. The pressure in Aravon's chest tightened as the ranks of the Eirdkilrs swelled. He counted a thousand and still more came.
Aravon’s heart hammered a rapid beat as a Legion cornum sounded from Jade Battalion's position. Oderus had called for an advance. Five companies of Legionnaires marched toward the enemy.
Good! A grim satisfaction settled in Aravon’s gut. He’s sending out the infantry, using them to secure his center. Perhaps the Commander wasn’t utterly arrogant—used correctly in conjunction, cavalry and infantry would inflict massive punishment on an unprepared enemy.
Delighted howls and cries of “Death to the half-men!” echoed from the Eirdkilr ranks. Yet instead of charging, as Aravon had expected, the Eirdkilrs simply drew their longbows. Not just a few score, as he’d encountered in past battles, but hundreds of them, each armed with those blackwood bows longer than Aravon was tall.
Damn it! Aravon’s brow furrowed. The Eirdkilrs had never relied so heavily on their archers—a tactic doubtless learned from the Legion’s reliance on their Agrotorae to soften up the enemy before a charge. Even with their heavy shields to protect them, the Legion companies would take some casualties. Too many, given the number of enemies they face.
Four hundred yards separated the two armies when the first Eirdkilr arrow streaked across the sky. Aravon watched the missile hurtle through the air, a dark shape in a crystal blue sky. The longbows had an average range of three hundred yards, but some could drive an arrow well beyond that. The shaft arrow thumped into the ground just ten yards short of the advancing Legionnaires.
The Legion horn sounded again, stopping the five companies just beyond Eirdkilr bowshot. Jade Battalion's trumpeter played a mocking blast on his horn. The Legionnaires laughed and jeered at the Eirdkilrs.
Hah! Pride glowed in Aravon’s chest. The Legion wouldn’t be bullied or cowed, no matter how many Eirdkilrs howled for their heads.
That glow turned to a grim satisfaction as the barbarians responded as Aravon knew they would. The Eirdkilr archers raced forward to close the distance to the Legionnaires and bring their bows to bear. The storm of arrows began when just three-hundred and fifty yards of open space stood between the two armies.
Aravon didn't need to hear the Legion Captains’ shouted order to know what to expect. Get those shields up, lads! He’d barked that same command a hundred times before.
With the smooth precision fostered through months of practice, five hundred Legionnaires raised shields to form the tortoise formation. Arrows rained down onto the shields in a cac
ophony of clanking and banging that set Aravon’s teeth on edge even from this distance—a sound far more deafening and nerve-wracking beneath the protective carapace. A few found their way through gaps in the shields. Legionnaires fell in ones and twos, but discipline held and the fallen were quickly replaced.
From his vantage point off to the side, Aravon found the scene of battle strangely odd. He'd always been behind the battle line, watching from a position where he could affect the outcome. Now, he was as much an observer as the vultures circling high overhead or the worms trampled under heavy Legion and Eirdkilr boots.
The Legionnaires weathered the storm of arrows with the stoic patience of trained professionals. They'd learned the Eirdkilrs' way of waging war; they would simply wait until the barbarians grew tired of wasting their shafts or ran out of arrows.
And then they’ll charge. Aravon gripped his spear tighter. Keeper help us when they do!
The sound of Hrolf Hrungnir’s horn split the air again, and the stream of Eirdkilr arrows slackened. The last shafts clanked against the Legion shields or thumped into the soft grass. A thick silence descended on the battlefield. For a long moment, neither side moved. Aravon held his breath in expectation.
An Eirdkilr let out a howling war cry. More throats took up the call, until more than a thousand Eirdkilrs chanted, “Death to the half-men!” With a savage yell, the barbarians charged.
Aravon had stood in the shield wall for years and watched an Eirdkilr charge from the rear of the battle line. No matter where he was, the sight of thousands of massive barbarians in their primitive armor, blue war paint, and ragged ice bear pelts had instilled a primal fear in him. His insides curled into a ball as their pounding boots set the ground rumbling. Their savage cries filled the air and set his ears ringing.
The Eirdkilrs cared nothing for formations or unit cohesion. They swarmed across the open ground like a flood of flesh, hair, fur, and steel, a wall of death racing toward the Legions. They had a single-minded purpose: to crash into those organized shields and cut down every Legionnaire that stood before them.
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