Arrows whistled from behind the Legionnaires, barely clearing their helmets. The shafts struck the ranks of Eirdkilrs, bringing them down in twos and threes. Skathi, Noll, and Belthar stood at the front of the centermost company of Agrotorae. The red-haired woman and scout worked their bows, while Belthar stood before the two of them, a discarded Legionnaire's shield held up to protect them.
The rain of arrows bought the Legionnaires another breath. They fell back a step, then another. The gap between the two armies broadened to two yards, then three, then five. The Legionnaires regained their formation and began a slow, organized retreat.
The Eirdkilrs recovered from their surprise. With a howl, they threw themselves toward the enemy again.
But Zaharis was riding back along the line of retreating Legionnaires, his hands flashing out again and again. The Eirdkilrs fell back, hesitant to face the vicious assault again.
Nothing happened. No explosions, no sudden gouts of fire.
The Eirdkilr horn sounded, and the barbarians renewed their attack. The Legion was ready for them this time. An unbroken line of shields met the charge. Instead of five separate companies, the Legionnaires formed a long, unbroken line five men deep and fifty wide. Three hundred out of five hundred. The Legion had taken a heavy loss, but they weren't out of the fight.
The Captain that had given the order motioned for his men to surround Aravon. “As for the matter of striking the Commander, we will deal with it later. For now, what are your orders, sir?”
Aravon pointed to Broken Canyon a mile behind them. “We need to get there.” He wanted to rip the mask off, but he couldn't let the man see his face on the off-chance, however slim, he'd be recognized. He'd briefly met this Captain on one of his visits to the Legion camp in Icespire. Lord Elodon Phonnis, a nobleman from Praamis across the Frozen Sea. A man of honor and courage. “The canyon's narrow enough to stop a direct charge, and we've the cliffs to guard our flanks. The Eirdkilrs will have no choice but to come at us head on.”
The Eirdkilrs outnumbered them by at least two or three hundred men. Broken Canyon was their only hope.
After a moment, Captain Phonnis nodded. He relayed the instructions to the other Captains, and messengers thundered toward the retreating companies.
Aravon glanced up at the sky. Sunset lay just a couple of hours off. He had no doubt the Eirdkilrs would harry them every step of the way until it grew too dark to continue battle. They just had to hold on, had to keep fighting until they reached Broken Canyon.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Aravon heaved a sigh of relief when the Eirdkilrs finally broke off their attack with the setting sun. The last of the Legionnaires retreated into the safety of the canyon. They had survived. For now.
Not all of them had made it to the canyon. All but twenty of the heavy lancers had fallen on the field; again and again, the brave souls had hurled themselves into the teeth of the Eirdkilrs to buy the infantry time to retreat. Without shields for protection, the Agrotorae had sustained losses when the Eirdkilrs loosed volley after volley of arrows.
With the butchered cavalry and fallen infantry, Legion casualties totaled more than four hundred. Close to two hundred were too gravely wounded to fight. That left eight hundred Legionnaires to face roughly nine hundred Eirdkilrs. One in every four still standing bore wounds. By the slumped shoulders and silent, vacant stares of the men and women sitting in the camp, Aravon knew the prospect of tomorrow's battle filled them with the same cold, gut-wrenching dread that twisted his stomach in knots.
Captain Phonnis had sent a detachment to retrieve the fallen and dead. A full company of Legionnaires held the mouth of the canyon—the four rearmost companies would rotate the watch through the night. They had to hold their position, and the Eirdkilrs had been known to launch surprise attacks under the cover of darkness.
Aravon found himself aching to walk among the Legionnaires as he once had. Nights like tonight, after sustaining heavy losses, could find even the stoutest hearts filled with doubt. Every man and woman here had lost friends and comrades. No one walked away from that unscathed.
His respect for Captain Phonnis grew as he watched the man take a moment at each knot of huddled Legionnaires. He'd make a joke, speak a comforting word, and simply offer strength with his presence. It was what a leader ought to do.
As the Captain led him toward the Commander’s tent, Aravon couldn’t help overhearing the cries and wails of the wounded. Eirdkilr axes, clubs, and spears crushed skulls, shattered bones, carved through tendons and muscles, and severed limbs. Arrows driven by powerful Eirdkilr longbows could punch through chain mail and padded gambesons. Many of the Legion's wounded would bleed to death, fall victim to infection, succumb to the severity of their injuries, or be taken by exposure and shock. The Menders did what they could, but even they were unable to hold the Long Keeper at bay given the severity of some wounds.
Aravon had heard them called the Bloody Corpsemen. “All they're good for is turning wounded soldiers into corpses,” a grizzled Legion Sergeant had told him the night after his first battle. The man's scornful tone had changed a week later when a Mender saved his sword arm from being amputated.
A company of Menders had accompanied those sent to collect the Legion's fallen. They had the unenviable task of determining which of the wounded on the battlefield were too severely injured to recover. They administered the Swordsman's final rites before their stiletto blades ended all pain and suffering.
The sight of the men in their grey and red Mender's tunics brought a lump to Aravon's throat. He couldn't help thinking of the last man he'd seen in those robes.
If Draian was here, he'd be working alongside them, trying to save as many as he could. Perhaps one more pair of hands could have made a difference, could have saved one more life.
His escort led him away from the Mender tents. The four Legionnaires surrounding him halted at the entrance to Commander Oderus' tent. Captain Phonnis and two other Captains— Imming and Perthan, both also from the city of Praamis—kept a firm grip on Aravon as they ushered him through the tent flap.
Commander Oderus was in the middle of shouting at a tall, blond-haired Eastfallian woman wearing the armor of the Agrotorae and the insignia of the company Captain.
“…don't need to tell you how absolutely idiotic that maneuver was!” The Commander’s face was an interesting purplish red. “Who knows how many of our own men died with an Agrotorae arrow in the back!”
The woman stood with her arms by her side, her back rigid, the muscles in her jaw working. Aravon knew she ached to retort, yet also knew she would hold her tongue. Though the Agrotorae weren't officially part of the Legion, they had to adhere to the same chain of command.
Skathi, however, had no such reservations. Despite the Duke's orders, she had removed her mask. Fury blazed bright and hot on her face as she stepped forward. “And how many more would have died had we not intervened?” She stabbed an accusing finger at the Commander. “We are the only thing that prevented your mistake from turning today into an utter disaster.”
Commander Oderus rounded on her. “Why you little—”
“Commander,” Aravon said, his voice quiet and dangerous, “I would think very carefully before finishing that sentence. You may command Jade Battalion, but you have no authority over my men.” He turned to Skathi with a warning look in his eyes. “While she may lack the respect you are due as Commander, she is not wrong. Their brave actions were the only thing that kept the entire line from crumbling. Had the Eirdkilrs managed to overwhelm the foremost rank, they would have carved their way through these soldiers.” He thrust a finger at the Agrotora Captain. “Their quick thinking saved lives today.”
“Of course you'd say that,” Oderus snarled. “She is one of yours, after all. Undisciplined and insubordinate, the lot of you.” He turned and stalked toward Aravon. “Captains, take this man Snarl and his accomplices and throw them in the stockade at once. When we return to Gallows Garrison, they will
face a military tribunal and answer for their crimes.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Crimes?”
Anger flashed in Oderus' eyes. “Disobeying a direct command. Assaulting a superior officer.”
“All due respect, Commander, but I am technically the officer in charge.” Aravon drew out Duke Dyrund's letter. “As clearly outlined in the Duke's message to you.”
“And what proof have you that it is genuine?” Oderus gave a dismissive wave. “Anyone can scribble on a piece of paper and forge a signature.”
Captain Perthan spoke up. “From Duke Dyrund, you said?”
Aravon nodded.
The Captain turned to his Commander. “Sir, in my duties as Captain of the messengers, I have communicated directly with the Duke on numerous occasions. I am familiar with his script and his signature.” He held a hand out to Aravon. “If I could see the letter, I could verify the veracity of this man's claim.”
Aravon handed him the letter before the Commander could respond. Oderus' frown deepened as the Captain studied the parchment. After a moment, he met the Commander’s eyes. “It appears genuine, sir.”
Aravon took the letter and turned back to Oderus. “There is your proof.”
“Be that as it may,” Oderus shook his head, “you assaulted me. As a Commander of the Legion, I am within my right to demand your imprisonment and trial.”
Aravon met the Commander’s gaze without flinching. “Perhaps so. But it was the actions of me and my men that turned the tide of battle.” He didn't bring up the fact that it was Oderus' plan—going against his counsel—that had put them in the position in the first place. “Tomorrow, when the Eirdkilrs renew their attack, do you have a stratagem beyond forming a shield wall and hoping they wear themselves out before they slaughter us all?”
The Commander spluttered. “G-Given our circumstances…”
“They outnumber us, Commander,” Aravon stepped toward Oderus. “If we meet them in pitched battle, we will lose. I say this not as a reflection on the bravery or prowess of your men. It is a simple fact, one that all of your Captains will agree with.” He turned toward Phonnis. “Is that not so?”
The Praamian Captain nodded without hesitation. “The shield wall will only hold so long, once they throw everything at us.” The other two Captains added their agreement.
“And I take it you have some sort of plan?” Oderus sneered. “Some miracle or trick of your man's magic that will save the day?”
“No miracle,” Aravon replied. “But I believe I have a way that we can turn the tables on the Eirdkilrs.” He turned toward the tall blond-haired archer. “And it all hinges on your Agrotorae…”
* * *
“Thank you, Captain.”
Aravon turned to regard Skathi with a raised eyebrow. “For what?”
She met his gaze, and there was a hard edge to her expression. “For standing up for us. Even though he was right—that plan was absolutely foolhardy and I have no doubt Legionnaires died because of it.”
“But more would have died had you not.” Aravon turned to stare in her eyes. “You were chosen by the Duke to do precisely what you did. It was a risk, but it paid off.” He gave her a little smile. “Trust your men, he told me, our first night after the Chain. You proved him right today.”
In the torchlight, Aravon thought he caught a hint of a blush on her cheeks. She quickly replaced her mask and responded in their silent hand language. “I'll be off to see to our arrangements.” She half-turned, then stopped. “I think you need to have a chat with Belthar.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“He has a bad habit of trying to protect me when he should be covering his own arse.” She shook her head. “Being distracted like that, it’s going to get him killed one of these days!”
Aravon suppressed a grin. “I'll be sure to give him a piece of my mind.”
With a nod, Skathi strode off toward the section of canyon where the Agrotorae huddled in the cold.
Aravon watched her go, then shook his head in disbelief. Instead of turning back toward the camp, he strode deeper into the darkness of the canyon. Once he had put a few hundred yards between himself and the last of the Legionnaires, he drew out the bone whistle from his pouch and blew it. A few moments later, the quiet flapping of wings sounded in the canyon.
Snarl's eyes shone bright yellow in the darkness. The Enfield gave a little yip and bounded toward Aravon. Aravon gathered him up into his arms. “Worried about me, were you?”
He'd ordered the Enfield to stay hidden, but he was almost certain he'd caught a glint of red among the vultures circling high overhead.
“I need you to get a message to the Duke,” he told the Enfield. Snarl stared up at him. Intelligence burned in the Enfield's eyes. Aravon drew out the small scrap of parchment he'd used to pen a note to Duke Dyrund and inserted it into the tube on Snarl's collar. The letter detailed what had happened to Anvil Garrison. No doubt the Duke had his own spies, but this information would reach him within hours rather than days.
Securing the cap on the tube, Aravon drew out a small piece of cloth and held it out for Snarl to sniff. Duke Dyrund had given him the cloth, covered in his scent and wrapped in waxed parchment to preserve the odor, as a way to let the Enfield know where to go. He had another cloth for Lord Eidan in Icespire. Attached to each cloth was a metallic trinket—a gold disc for Duke Dyrund, silver for Lord Eidan. Over time, Snarl would come to associate each cloth and trinket with its corresponding recipient, so he would still know where to go by sight even when the scent faded.
“Swordsman watch over you,” he whispered in Snarl's ear. He almost didn't want to let the little Enfield go. The softness of his fur and his simple joy at being near Aravon made nights like tonight easier. But Aravon’s message to the Duke was more important than his own comfort. With one last scratch of Snarl's scruff, he placed the whistle to his lips and trilled a long note.
Snarl yipped and leapt into the air. His wings bore him aloft, and he soon disappeared into the darkness of the canyon.
After a long moment, Aravon turned and strode back toward the camp.
He found Colborn, Belthar, Zaharis, and Noll sitting in the darkness a short distance from the camp. An outcropping of rocks hid them from the view of the Legionnaires. They had taken the opportunity to remove their masks and now sat in silence—doubtless the grim mood of the rest of the camp had infected them.
The four of them looked up at his approach. “Where's Skathi?” Belthar asked, glancing behind Aravon. “I saw her follow the Agrotorae Captain to the Commander’s tent.”
“Oderus was pissed!” Noll's voice had a mocking tone. “Is it true that you knocked him out, Captain?”
Aravon ignored the scout. “Skathi's filling in the Agrotorae on our plan for tomorrow. Noll, I'll need you to go find her. She's got a job for you.”
Noll stood and nodded. “Aye, Captain.” He replaced his mask and hurried toward the archers' camp.
“How's the arm?” Aravon asked Belthar.
The big man glanced down at the bloodstained bandage around his forearm. “I've cut myself worse shaving.”
Zaharis rolled his eyes. “Big tough guy, eh?”
Aravon grinned. “Skathi's got it in her mind you're putting yourself in danger trying to protect her.”
Belthar colored. “N-No, Captain. Just watching her back, is all.”
Colborn's hands flashed behind Belthar's back. “Backside, more like.”
“Fair enough.” Aravon nodded, trying hard not to smile. “But do you think she wants saving?”
Confusion twisted Belthar's face into a frown.
“You trying to save her sends a message that she's too weak to protect herself.”
Belthar's eyebrows shot up. “Captain, I never—”
“I know.” Aravon nodded. He'd had to learn the same lesson with Mylena. His wife could give even Skathi a few pointers on being fiercely independent and headstrong. It was one of the things that had m
ade him fall so absolutely in love with her from the start. “Watch her back, Belthar, but don't be her hero. Swordsman knows she doesn't need one.”
“And don't watch her back too closely,” Colborn added with a wink. “You've got to think about staying alive as well.”
“Understood, Captain.” Belthar's blush deepened.
Aravon's eyes went to the Lieutenant. “Colborn, I—”
“No need to explain, Captain.” The Lieutenant shook his head. “You did what you had to. Saved the Legion.”
“We are strongest together.” Aravon clenched his fist. “It was foolish of me to go alone. Either one of us could have caught an Eirdkilr arrow—you in the forest, me on my idiotic sprint toward the Legion lines.”
“It seems idiotic was just what the day called for, sir.” Colborn gave him a nod. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
Aravon turned to Zaharis. “And you, Secret Keeper, what in the bloody hell was that?”
Zaharis grinned. “I managed to whip something up on the ride back from Anvil Garrison.” His casual expression, like that of a man flicking away a bug, seemed so at odds with his actions. He'd saved hundreds of men from being slaughtered yet made like it was nothing. Aravon found that simple humility a welcome change after dealing with men like Oderus.
“Where did you get the horses?” he asked.
“Noll,” Zaharis signed. “Sneaky bastard managed to set off a stampede in the Eirdkilr camp.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow. The Eirdkilrs captured the Legion horses for food. They were usually kept near the cookfires—Noll had to have crept through hundreds of Eirdkilrs to reach them.
“Bought us time to keep ahead of the bastards. We had to shake them by riding the long way to the west, but at least we got here in time.”
“Any chance you can whip something up for tomorrow?”
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