Shields in Shadow

by Andy Peloquin

  Zaharis nodded without hesitation. “By my calculations, the odds of your being correct were too high to ignore. The risk of the Blodhundr retreating to Anvil Garrison was outweighed by the potential threat to the Duke and the Eyrr.”

  The Secret Keeper's words lifted the tension from Aravon's shoulders. Zaharis numbered among the cleverest men Aravon knew—if he'd come to the same conclusion, it had a higher chance of being the right one.

  “Besides,” Zaharis continued, “do you think we would have followed you without hesitation if we thought you were wrong?”

  The question caught Aravon by surprise. “I'd hope you would have the confidence in me to speak up.”

  “Precisely.” The Secret Keeper met his gaze. No hesitation or doubt filled his eyes, only calm trust. “You've made the right decision every time thus far. You've proven yourself the Captain the Duke hoped you'd be. But more than that, you've proven yourself the man we need you to be.”

  Zaharis gave him a little smile. “We trust you, Captain.”

  Those words, spoken with such sincerity and honesty, left Aravon speechless.

  * * *

  Aravon awoke the instant before Belthar shook him awake. He took the big man's outstretched hand and pulled himself to his feet. The first pink rays of dawn had begun to show over the horizon. The time had come.

  Skathi busied herself tying her quiver to her saddle. Noll sat in his saddle already, munching on a handful of toasted barley and oats. Colborn and Zaharis gave him silent nods and finished stuffing their bundles of food into their packs.

  Aravon mounted up without a word. None were needed. A tense silence gripped the six of them in an iron vise. They all knew what lay ahead. Doubtless the thought consumed each of them as it did Aravon. Yet no fear shone in the eyes that met his, only grim determination. Pride burned bright in his chest. These brave soldiers rode into the teeth of the storm without a shred of hesitation.

  With a silent nod, he gave the signal to move out.

  A chill wind whipped at Aravon's cloak as they rode, and he hunched lower in his saddle. The forest around him grew brighter as the sun climbed into the sky. Warmth drove back the morning chill. The world filled with shades of brown, green, red, and gold, and the breeze carried the scent of damp earth, flowering trees, and decaying vegetation—the Fehlan wilds in all their savage glory.

  Yet Aravon had eyes only for the road ahead of him. His gaze fixed on the back of Colborn, riding ten paces in the lead. The sound of Stormfoot's hooves pounded in his ears, amplified by the rush of blood. The tension in his shoulders increased with every passing minute until he felt his neck was made of knotted steel. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat bringing the question to his mind: Will we arrive in time?

  No matter how fast he rode, he couldn’t be certain.

  They thundered through the crumbling ruins of Oldrsjot without pause. The scorched earth and crumbling, blackened wooden beams seemed oddly stark and barren against the vivid colors of the forest. A harsh reminder of the Eirdkilrs' true nature.

  They kept the horses at a steady gait that ate up the miles. The sun wheeled high overhead as they rode. Finally, Aravon slowed them to a halt just five miles from Bjornstadt.

  “Any sign of them?” he asked Colborn and Noll.

  Both shook their heads.

  Good. Aravon nodded. He hadn't seen any trace of the Eirdkilrs' passage either. Hope surged within him. The Eirdkilrs traveled on foot—they'd need to stop and rest as well. Perhaps we outpaced the bastards.

  “The minute we reach Bjornstadt,” he signaled, “I'll find Duke Dyrund. The rest of you, coordinate the defenses. We're going to have minutes to prepare, not hours.”

  All five of his company signaled their understanding.

  Aravon dug his heels into Stormfoot's flanks, and their little column resumed the journey toward Bjornstadt.

  Anxiety thrummed like a taut bowstring within him. His eyes never stopped roving the forest, his ears straining to hear the crack of a branch snapping under a heavy foot or the creak of Eirdkilr armor. Silence.

  His gut clenched. The silence was too thick. No birds chirped around him. The wind itself seemed to have fallen still.

  Something’s off. The image of the Eirdkilr ambush on the Eastmarch flashed through his mind.

  He sawed on Stormfoot's reins, pulling the horse to a stop. His men reined in beside him.

  “What is it?” Colborn asked.

  “Listen,” Aravon said.

  Silence descended on their little company, broken only by the sound of the horses' heavy breathing.

  A sound reached Aravon's ears, faint, distant. Could it be his imagination?

  No, it came again. The unmistakable clash of steel and the cries and shouts of battle.

  Bjornstadt was under attack.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Eirdkilrs had reached the Eyrr.

  Duke Dyrund!

  Without hesitation, Aravon spurred Stormfoot to a gallop. Within moments, the Kostarasar charger left the other horses behind. He had less than a mile to cover, but every second would cost Fehlan lives. How long the battle had raged, he didn't know. The Duke could ill-afford delay.

  The sounds of combat grew louder with each passing heartbeat. He didn't know if the Eirdkilrs left a rear guard—he'd have to chance it. He needed to get close enough to the battle to see what was happening, to formulate a desperate plan of counterattack.

  Around the next bend, the trees opened up onto the cleared hill before Bjornstadt. Aravon's gut tightened as he caught sight of the massive figures lumbering toward the Eyrr town. Every one of them wore the bloodstained cloaks of Blodhundr. Already, scores had reached the lines of defenders formed up along the hilltop.

  Aravon had no illusions that a horseback charge would have any effect. He sawed at Stormfoot's reins and spurred the horse into the forest east of the wagon trail. A glance behind him revealed his men closing the gap. They'd seen him duck into the thick trees and would follow.

  He stopped twenty yards from the wagon trail and leapt from Stormfoot's back. Wrapping the reins loosely around a tree, Aravon crept through the dense forest toward Bjornstadt. Thirty yards, forty yards, fifty, until a gap in the thick trees gave him a clear view of the town.

  The massive, shaggy-cloaked Eirdkilrs surged up the hill from both south and southeast. The Fehlans had erected a waist-high wall of stone and wood across the entire hill. It provided little more than a barrier for the seven-foot Eirdkilrs, but it slowed them long enough for the defenders to have a fighting chance.

  Yet, even as Aravon watched, more and more Eirdkilrs reached the wall to strike at the Fehlans. The defenders' front line would break in minutes.

  Aravon scanned the battlefield, and his blood ran cold. More than a hundred Eirdkilrs between him and Duke Dyrund. And these were Blodhundr, warriors even more savage than the rest of their kind. Bjornstadt would burn and every man, woman, and child within would die. .

  He half-turned as the brush rustled behind him. Colborn's mottled armor concealed him even ten yards away.

  The Lieutenant crouched beside Aravon. “It's bad,” he signed.

  Aravon nodded. “Worse than I expected. Almost a hundred and twenty of them.”

  The other four joined them. “What's our move, Captain?” Noll asked.

  Aravon drew in a deep breath. A plan had begun to take shape in his mind from the moment he laid eyes on the ragged barbarians surging toward Bjornstadt, but it was a dangerous plan. Suicidal, even.

  But what other choice do we have? They couldn't let Duke Dyrund die.

  “Skathi, Noll, stick to the cover of the forest and pick them off from the back. Whittle down their numbers, even if you have to use every arrow in your quivers.” He shot a glance at Skathi. “Stay mobile, stay out of sight, and keep moving. I can't spare anyone to cover you if they turn and hunt you down.”

  Skathi nodded. “Understood, Captain.”

  “Wait until we're clear, then r
ip into them.”

  The two signaled understanding.

  Belthar stiffened as Skathi disappeared into the forest, Noll at her heels. He cast one glance at her retreating back before returning his gaze to Aravon.

  “Belthar, Zaharis, Colborn, you're with me.” Aravon thrust a finger at the swirling mass of barbarians. “We're going right through them.”

  Colborn shot a glance at Zaharis. “A tad suicidal, isn't it?”

  Aravon nodded. “Probably. But the Duke is counting on us. If the Eyrr fall, all of Fehl falls.”

  The destruction of Bjornstadt would signal to the rest of the Fehlan clans that the Legion was incapable of protecting them. No other clans would join their alliance against the Eirdkilrs. They might even lose allied clans. If all of Fehl threw in with the Eirdkilrs, the Chain would fall within weeks.

  Colborn hesitated, then signed. “Well, damn. It's a beautiful enough day to die, I suppose.”

  Aravon turned to Belthar. “Think you can cut me a way through their ranks?”

  Belthar drew his crossbow and patted the enormous wooden stock. “I've just the thing.”

  “Zaharis?” Aravon shot a glance at the Secret Keeper. “Got anything handy?”

  Zaharis hesitated. “I'm low on supplies. Might be best to save it for a 'just in case', Captain.”

  Aravon's heart sank. Zaharis' alchemy had saved them three times already. It had to be too much to ask for another miracle.

  “So be it.” Aravon pointed to the southeastern side of the hill, where enemy ranks were thickest. “We go through there. Hit them hard, move fast, and punch through no matter what. We protect the Duke at all costs.”

  The three nodded. Taking a deep breath, Aravon motioned for Colborn to take the lead. The Lieutenant drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and slipped through the trees. Belthar followed, with Aravon and Zaharis at the big man's back.

  The Eirdkilrs, intent on the battle ahead and confident in their victory, hadn't left a rear guard. No one noticed their small group racing from the thick forest toward the hill. Colborn loosed his first arrow without pausing. The steel head punched through the back of an Eirdkilr's skull, just beneath the rim of his helmet. The collapsing barbarian brought down the man beside him.

  Colborn's second arrow drove into an Eirdkilr's armored back, and his third took another barbarian low in the spine. He managed to get off a fourth shot—driving the arrow between an enemy's ribs—before the first Eirdkilr turned toward them. With a howl of rage, the barbarian raised his axe and prepared to meet Colborn's rush.

  The Lieutenant leapt aside, clearing the way for Belthar. The enormous crossbow in his hands sang the deep thrum of death. The three-foot bolt split the air between them, and the impact hurled the Eirdkilr from his feet, into the man behind him. The two fell, impaled by the massive missile.

  Belthar had no time to reload, but the heavy crossbow had more than one way to kill. Spinning it around in his hands, Belthar jammed the heavy stock into an Eirdkilr's face. The man's war painted nose, jaw, and cheeks crumpled inward.

  Colborn leapt past Belthar to strike down an Eirdkilr that had half-turned at the fall of his neighbor. Colborn's long sword opened his throat, and his short sword slashed a long gash down the forearm of another barbarian. The attack bought Belthar time to draw his axe. The slaughter began in earnest.

  Colborn was the tip of their formation, hacking at the Eirdkilrs' heads with his long sword or driving his short sword into their spines. Those who turned to face the new threat met Belthar's whirling axe or Aravon's thrusting spear. The long Odarian steel blade, backed by the force of Aravon's fury, punched through chain mail and leather armor. A few managed to swing their shields around to block, but Belthar's strength was a match for theirs. Zaharis brought up the rear, his mace crushing throats, knees, elbows, and faces.

  Over a hundred Eirdkilrs attacked a defensive line that stretched easily three hundred yards across. They clustered to strike at the Fehlan defenders, leaving gaps in their formations. It was through these gaps that Colborn led them. Instead of driving through the heart of the Eirdkilr line, they cut a jagged path perpendicular to the defensive wall.

  The Eirdkilrs, shocked by the enemies that had suddenly appeared in their midst, seemed unable to respond to the attack. Their surprise cost them dearly. Many, too concentrated on the battle and the promise of blood ahead of them, fell to blows they never saw coming.

  Yet the crush of men proved tighter than Aravon had anticipated. Colborn's forward momentum slowed, and Belthar's axe found Eirdkilr shields barring its path. Aravon's spear never stopped its whirling, but no matter how many enemies fell beneath the onslaught, more replaced them. He grunted as a thrusting spear opened a line of fire along the back of his arm.

  Aravon knew they had seconds before the enemy surrounded them. The instant their forward momentum ceased, they would be cut down.

  “Zaharis!” he shouted. “Now would be time for that 'just in case'!” He cast a glance over his shoulder. The Secret Keeper was too busy to reply. His mace and the breathtaking fluidity of his movements were the only thing keeping the Eirdkilr weapons at bay.

  A massive barbarian loomed before him, club raised to strike. Aravon drove his spear into the man's gut. Pain twisted the Eirdkilr's blue-stained face as he gripped the shaft of the spear, falling to his knees. Aravon tried to rip the blade free but the barbarian refused to release it.

  A wild howl split the air behind him. Instinct saved him; he ducked, and an Eirdkilr axe breezed a hair's breadth from the top of his skull. Ripping his short sword free of its sheath, he rammed it up under the Eirdkilr's armor to pierce the barbarian's heart.

  It felt awkward to wield the short sword in his left hand, but he wouldn’t relinquish his spear. He hacked at the dying Eirdkilr's hands. Fingers fell away, and his spear was suddenly free.

  Before he could raise it, the next enemy was already upon him. The massive axe descended toward his neck. His muscles seemed to move in slow motion as he fought to raise his short sword in a hopeless block.

  Something whistled through the air and thwacked into the Eirdkilr's chest. The impact threw the man backward, and the descending strike glanced off Aravon's breastplate. Standard leather armor would have cracked; his alchemically-treated armor held. Pain flared in his chest from the force of the strike, and he staggered backward.

  Zaharis steadied him and propelled him back into the fight. As Aravon whirled his spear around his head, another red-shafted Agrotorae arrow brought down an Eirdkilr on Colborn's left. The long spear blade killed an axe-wielding barbarian. Colborn's swords sliced through an Eirdkilr's knee, and Belthar's axe removed the falling man's head.

  And then Aravon saw it: a sword, six feet long, made of crude steel, gripped in the hand of a tall, heavy-shouldered Eirdkilr in the heart of the barbarian army less than thirty yards from him. He'd recognize the yellowed bones threaded through the grey, braided beard and massive bloodstained ice bear pelt anywhere.

  Hrolf Hrungnir.

  The leader of the Blodhundr shouted at his men to “kill the half-men!” The barbarian's sole focus lay on the defenders before him.

  For a single moment, the world around Aravon disappeared. Only he and Hrolf Hrungnir remained, floating in a silent void. Aravon felt the solid ash shaft of his spear in his hand. He could throw it, strike the barbarian down from behind. Just as Hrolf Hrungnir's men had done to the Sixth Company on the Eastmarch.

  A burning desire for vengeance rose within Aravon. He hated the barbarian, hated what he'd done—not just to Aravon's men, but to all the Fehlans that had suffered.

  The moment passed. The red haze passed from before Aravon's eyes, and logic triumphed over hatred. He couldn't afford to hurl his spear—armed with only a short sword, he'd be easy pickings for the Eirdkilrs. Worse, he'd put his men in danger.

  With a growl of rage, he brought the spear whirling around and down. The razor-sharp blade opened an Eirdkilr's throat and chopped through another's wrist. T
he metal-shod butt end shattered a savage's knee. Aravon dimly heard the crunch of Zaharis' mace as he pushed forward.

  And then they were through the lines of Eirdkilrs. Three yards of empty ground stood between them and the low stone wall. Aravon followed Colborn and Belthar as they raced toward the wall and vaulted it without hesitation.

  An Eyrr warrior cried out and raised his sword to strike at the new enemy, but a tall, imposing figure stepped in the way. “Hold!” he cried in Fehlan. “They're with us.”

  A smile broke out on Rangvaldr’s bloodstained face. “And they've come just in time!”

  Chapter Forty

  A howling Eirdkilr interrupted their reunion. The shaggy-haired barbarian clambered over the wall and raised his club to strike at a nearby Fehlan. Rangvaldr's sword knocked the club wide while Belthar's axe sheared through the Eirdkilr's shield arm. The shrieking war cry turned into a shrill of pain, then a wet gurgle as the tip of Colborn's sword severed his windpipe.

  “I can't tell you how glad I am to see you!” Rangvaldr said. “But tell me there are more of you.”

  Aravon nodded. “Two more.” He turned aside an Eirdkilr spear with a quick parry, then drove the metal-shod butt of his own into the side of the man's neck. “Keeping the bastards in the back distracted.”

  Rangvaldr growled. “Not to sound like I'm complaining,” the Seiomenn said, grunting as an Eirdkilr club slammed against his shield, “but six might not be enough.” He punctuated his words by thrusting his sword into an enemy's face. He lowered his shoulder and drove his shield into the staggering man. The barbarian fell backward, over the wall. His flailing knocked down two of his comrades.

  “It's all you get!” Aravon snarled. A club crashed into his chest, knocking him backward. He fell hard. Gasping for breath, he tried to rise but found his legs refused his commands. The Eirdkilr took two running steps toward him, then something bright and heavy slashed through his leg. The barbarian tottered and collapsed. He crawled toward Aravon, his face a mixture of rage and pain, a crude dagger gripped in his hand.