A cry of “Death to the Eirdkilrs!” echoed from behind the barbarians' positions. Fifteen Fehlans charged from within a longhouse to fall on the Eirdkilrs from the rear. Duke Dyrund, Zaharis, and Belthar rushed from the opposite side of the square.
But the arrow had come from atop the longhouse. Colborn stood balanced on the sloping roof, his arms a blur as he nocked, drew, and released one after another. His longbow, modeled after the Eirdkilrs' own weapons, drove arrows through leather armor and chain mail. All around the square, barbarians cried out as broad-headed arrows shredded muscle and shattered bones.
An enraged roar echoed in the square. Aravon's eyes sought out the source: Hrolf Hrungnir.
The barbarian leader shouted at his men, raging at them to turn and meet the enemy from behind. His massive sword hacked through a Fehlan's torso and he spun to slash at another. Backed by the force of his mighty arms, the blade cleaved wood, leather armor, and flesh alike.
Aravon's eyes darted around until he caught a glimpse of his spear, still embedded in the fallen Eirdkilr. Ducking beneath a savage swipe of an enemy axe, he leapt over a fallen Eyrr warrior and raced through the square toward his abandoned weapon. His fingers closed around the shaft and he ripped it free with a mighty tug.
He spun toward Hrolf Hrungnir, and found himself in an all-too-familiar position. The barbarian had sheathed his sword and drawn his massive longbow. A broad-headed arrow aimed straight at Aravon's heart. With that same mocking smile he'd given Aravon on the Eastmarch, he released.
Every muscle in Aravon's body tensed in expectation of the devastating missile. It never came.
The moment before Hrolf Hrungnir's fingers loosed the bowstring, something struck the Blodhundr leader from the rear. The arrow flew wide to strike down an Eirdkilr at the far end of the square.
Hrolf Hrungnir staggered forward again, and Aravon caught a glimpse of two red-fletched arrows protruding from the man's left shoulder and upper arm. The huge barbarian leapt around his men as more missiles sliced through the air. Two familiar figures wearing mottled armor raced up the wagon trail. Noll and Skathi never stopped firing as they ran.
Aravon found himself suddenly able to move, and he charged the massive Eirdkilr chieftain. Hrolf Hrungnir's war-painted face split into a broad grin as he caught sight of Aravon. “Leave him to me!” he roared to his men.
The Eirdkilrs between them split, and Aravon had a clear path to reach Hrolf Hrungnir. He charged, his spear held in a loose, low grip.
“Come and die, little half-man!” Hrolf Hrungnir crowed in Fehlan.
A cry bubbled up from Aravon's chest and burst from his lips. “For the Sixth!” He drove his spear straight at Hrolf Hrungnir's heart.
The spearhead clanged off the Eirdkilr's sword, flying wide. Aravon spun the spear with the impact, bringing the metal-shod butt swinging around to strike at Hrolf Hrungnir's head. The blow crashed into the Eirdkilr's helmet with a loud spang of iron striking steel. The force staggered Hrolf Hrungnir back a step.
Aravon gave chase, pressing his advantage. The spear whirled in his hands, a blur of steel and wood. He struck at Hrolf Hrungnir from all sides. The Eirdkilr gave ground, his huge sword moving with impossible speed to block and deflect. Aravon couldn't let him catch his breath, couldn't let him strike back.
Something slammed into him from the side, bringing him down to the ground. His face slammed into the white stone of the square. His head rang, the world spinning around him. Fetid breath washed over him as an Eirdkilr wrapped huge hands around his neck and squeezed. Aravon gasped for air, but the barbarian's bulk trapped him. His hands fumbled for his belt dagger.
Fingers closing around the leather-wrapped hilt, Aravon tore the blade free and drove it into the Eirdkilr’s face. The barbarian screamed as the dagger sliced through soft flesh. Blood gushed over Aravon, hot and thick, sliding down his neck and seeping beneath the collar of his armor. He pushed against the Eirdkilr’s bulk, shoving the man off him and rolling free. He left his blood-soaked blade embedded in the brute’s eye.
He came to his knees in time to see Hrolf Hrungnir looming over him, sword held high overhead. Aravon threw himself to the side. The sword clanged off the stone an inch from his side, leaving a massive crack.
Hrolf Hrungnir gave chase, hacking and slashing with his enormous sword. Aravon ducked a decapitating strike and turned aside the backhand swing. Hrolf Hrungnir struck at him, an overhand blow too fast for Aravon to follow. He had no time to do anything but throw up his spear in a two-handed block.
Wood shuddered and gave a terrible crack. Pain screamed through Aravon's face as the tip of Hrolf Hrungnir's sword carved a line of fire from his forehead to his chin. He backpedaled out of the barbarian's range of attack.
Aravon touched a hand to his face. It came away wet with blood. His mask hung loose, half-severed by the sword. Had it not been treated with the same alchemical potion Zaharis used for the armor, he had no doubt the blow would have gone through his jaw and severed his artery. He stared down at the two halves of his spear.
Hrolf Hrungnir's laughter boomed above the chaos of battle in the square. “Pathetic half-man!”
He gave chase, and Aravon retreated from the massive barbarian. Hrolf Hrungnir hacked at him with his long blade, using the weight and reach of his sword to deadly advantage. Aravon cried out as the sword bit into the meat of his thigh. He fell to one knee, and Hrolf Hrungnir's sword came down on the longer half of his shattered spear. The steel head spun away.
The world slowed to a crawl. Triumph shone in Hrolf Hrungnir’s eyes as he raised his sword high overhead to strike at the kneeling Aravon.
But Aravon wasn’t helpless. A cry of rage burst from his lips. “For the Sixth!” Twisting the band of metal near the butt end of the shattered spear, Aravon thrust the six-inch spike into Hrolf Hrungnir's chest. The sharpened iron tip, driven by the force of Aravon's body, punched through leather armor and into the flesh beneath.
Hrolf Hrungnir’s eyes flew wide, shock and confusion twisting his blue-stained face. He staggered backward, clumsy, stumbling. His sword fell from his fingers, clattering to the stone square. He coughed, blood gushing from his mouth and dripping onto his greying, braided beard.
Growling, Aravon shoved the spike deeper, twisting the broken end of the spear to widen the hole in the Eirdkilr’s chest. Hrolf Hrungnir’s legs gave out and he collapsed, his chain mail clattering on the marble courtyard. His ice-blue eyes remained fixed on Aravon's, panic and fear etched into his expression. His mouth worked soundlessly as the blood filling his lungs cut off his words.
Aravon bent low over the savage and whispered in his ear. “Death to the Eirdkilrs.” With a savage yank, he pulled the spike free.
Hrolf Hrungnir made no protest.
Chapter Forty-Two
A howl of fury echoed behind Aravon. He turned to see three Blodhundr charging him, weapons raised to strike down the half-man that had killed their leader.
Aravon searched the ground for a weapon. He couldn't hope to lift Hrolf Hrungnir's enormous blade. His spear shattered, he had nothing but his short sword.
Before he could draw, an enormous figure in mottled leather armor hurtled into the three Eirdkilrs. They collapsed in a tangled heap of limbs.
Belthar found his feet first. Raising his axe, he shouted in Fehlan. “Come on, then!”
One of the Eirdkilrs scrambled for his fallen weapon, but the other two advanced on Belthar with axes larger than his. They loomed over him, their faces twisted in savage snarls.
Belthar didn't wait for them to attack. He swiped at the Eirdkilr on the right, then brought his axe around in a quick two-handed blow that plowed destruction into the second barbarian's side. He didn't bother to tug the weapon free but drew a dagger in his left hand and, ducking a high swipe, drove the short blade into the Eirdkilr's knee. The barbarian howled and staggered backward. Belthar ripped his axe from the fallen enemy and advanced on the limping man.
Aravon's heart stop
ped as the third Eirdkilr raised the spear he'd retrieved from a fallen comrade. He opened his mouth to cry out.
An arrow with the red fletching of the Agrotorae sprouted in the Eirdkilr's throat. The barbarian stumbled backward and collapsed, twitching, coughing blood.
Belthar had finished off the second man and whirled to find the last of his enemies on the ground. He shot a glance toward the center of the square.
“We're even,” Skathi signaled to him in sign language.
Belthar nodded and turned toward Aravon. “You hurt, Captain?”
Aravon shook his head, but he groaned as Belthar pulled him up. His armor must have turned aside more blows than he'd realized. He'd feel the pain for days yet.
Suddenly, he realized the sounds of battle had faded. Men groaned, cried, cursed, and shouted for help, but the clash of steel had fallen silent.
Aravon glanced around. Dozens of huge bodies wearing the blood-red pelts of the Blodhundr lay on the ground. The last of the Eirdkilrs had fallen.
At the far end of the square, an Eirdkilr staggered to his feet and rushed toward the wagon trail. Aravon instinctively reached for his spear, then remembered it was shattered. His eyes fell on the Agrotora.
“Skathi!” he shouted.
Skathi spun at his call. Her eyes followed his pointing finger. She reached for an arrow, but hesitated. Only one remained in her quiver.
“Stop him, damn it!” Aravon shouted again.
Skathi's hand moved away from the arrow in her quiver, instead reaching toward the shaft embedded in an Eirdkilr's back. She ripped it free, nocked it to her bow, and fired. The arrow leapt toward the fleeing Eirdkilr, punching into the base of his spine. The barbarian fell facedown, splatting in the crimson muck. He didn't rise, didn’t so much as twitch.
Aravon shot a glare at her, fingers flashing. “You nearly let him get away.”
She shook her head. “I told you,” she signed, “it's bad luck to have an empty quiver.” Turning away, she drew a dagger and finished off the wounded Eirdkilr scrabbling for the spear on the ground beside her right foot.
Aravon ground his teeth, but he had no energy to press the issue. Exhaustion washed over him as the heat of battle faded. He forced himself to stand when he wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep. They had won.
But at what cost? Scores of Fehlan corpses littered the square. Fewer than twenty Eyrr warriors remained standing. Twenty of what had to have been more than two hundred at the onset of the battle. The Eirdkilrs had taken a heavy toll in Fehlan blood.
Aravon strode toward the center of the square, trying his best to ignore the pain in his face, shoulder, and chest. Duke Dyrund stood a short distance away. His face creased into a broad grin at the sight of Aravon. “Swordsman's beard, Aravon, it's good to see you alive!” He drew Aravon into a hug.
Aravon returned the embrace. “Can't disagree on that count, Your Grace.” He gave a little grin. “Though a part of me thinks I should be offended at your surprise.”
Duke Dyrund laughed, but it quickly turned into a wince.
Aravon began. “Your Grace—”
The Duke waved him away. “It's nothing. One of the bastards got a lucky blow to my ribs.” He hunched over his left side. “A few days of rest ought to set it right.”
Aravon raised an eyebrow, but knew better than to say anything. Duke Dyrund had the same Legionnaires' stoicism shared by his father.
“Besides,” the Duke said, “you've got your own wounds to worry about.” He frowned. “That face looks bad.”
Aravon gave the same dismissive wave. “Like you said, nothing a few days of rest can't fix.”
The Duke snorted. “A few dozen stitches, more like! It'll leave a scar. And that mask…” He clucked his tongue. “I ought to dock your pay for the cost of the repairs.”
“Pay?” Aravon arched an eyebrow, a move that sent a flash of pain through his face. “That's the first I've heard of any recompense beyond cold meals and long nights spent on the road.”
The Duke chuckled. “Join the Prince's Legion, see the world, eh?” His face grew serious. “But what in the frozen hell are you doing here? How did you think to return?”
Aravon told him everything that had happened since they left: baiting the Eirdkilrs, the near-defeat of Jade Battalion, the victory at Broken Canyon, and the discovery that Hrolf Hrungnir and the Blodhundr had abandoned the battlefield.
“You made the right decision, coming here.” The Duke rested a hand on Aravon's shoulder. “Had you not, the war for Fehl would have taken a turn for the worse.”
“Not to mention, we'd all be dead,” came the familiar voice of Rangvaldr from behind him.
Aravon turned to see the shaman striding toward them. “Good to see you made it through in one piece.” He pointed at the Fehlan man's forehead, where blood dripped from a long, jagged slice.
Rangvaldr laughed. “Turns out a hard head comes in handy.” He rapped his skull with his knuckles. “It's kept me alive more times than I could count.”
Aravon's brow furrowed. “Where's the chieftain?” He hadn't seen Ailmaer in the shield wall or the battle in the main square.
Rangvaldr frowned. “With the women and children in the main longhouse.” He shook his head. “Of course, he insisted that he was there to protect them.”
“Likely the other way around, I suspect.” Aravon glanced at the Fehlans around him. Four of the surviving Eyrr warriors were shieldmaidens; they had fought with every bit of skill and bravery as their men had.
Duke Dyrund's mouth drew into a line. “I fear that the Eirdkilrs succeeded today, even though we repelled their attack.” He sighed. “This was at least half of the Eyrr warband. The rest were a few days from reaching Bjornstadt. Now, when they do arrive, there is little hope Ailmaer will send them to join the war on the Eirdkilrs. He will insist that there is a greater need to defend the Eyrr lands.”
Rangvaldr gave a disgusted shake of his head. “Our chieftain is a man of business and trade, not a warrior. He does not understand that our best hope lies in throwing the Eirdkilrs back, rather than bribing them with tributes or defending our lands from their attack.” He turned to the Duke. “I will do my best to help you convince him, but I agree with your assessment. The Eyrr will not join the fight against the Eirdkilrs.”
“But at least Anvil Garrison has been recaptured,” Duke Dyrund said, turning to Aravon. “I received word today that your ploy succeeded. Jade Battalion is digging in even now to repel the Eirdkilr reinforcements. It will be a difficult battle, but the walls of Anvil Garrison will stand strong.”
“The others will be glad to know our efforts were not in vain,” Aravon said.
“Not in the least!” Duke Dyrund gripped his shoulder. “If nothing else, you proved that I was right to place my confidence in you. Each one of you.”
The words lifted a burden from Aravon's shoulders. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The Duke shook his head. “No, Aravon, thank you. I—and all of Bjornstadt—owe you and yours our lives.”
Aravon nodded. He had no words. He turned away to hide the sudden rush of warmth suffusing his cheeks.
All around the main square, the remaining Fehlan warriors moved among the bodies, searching for wounded friends and putting still-living foes out of their misery. Belthar, Skathi, and Noll stood in a knot at one side of the plaza, speaking in hushed tones. Colborn and Zaharis helped a wounded Fehlan toward the main longhouse where the Laeknir, the Fehlan healers, had begun treating the worst of them.
“If you will excuse me,” Rangvaldr said, “my people need me.” He lifted the amulet from around his neck and rushed toward the man staggering between Colborn and Zaharis. On the Seiomenn's instructions, the two helped the wounded Fehlan to the ground. Rangvaldr knelt over him and muttered words Aravon did not understand. The blue stone in the pendant seemed to glow with an inner light, filling the air with a cerulean glow.
Aravon found himself moving closer as Rangvaldr touched the a
mulet to the man's head. His jaw dropped. The blood leaking from the gaping wound in the Fehlan's side slowed from a steady stream to a trickle. The wounded man's face relaxed, the pain fading, and he closed his eyes. Within moments, his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep.
Zaharis' eyes widened at sight of the stones. “What are they?” he asked.
Rangvaldr smiled. “These are the Eyrr holy stones. They are passed down from one Seiomenn to the next.”
The Secret Keeper studied them. “How do they work? How do they do…” He waved at the wounded Fehlan. “…whatever that was?”
Rangvaldr shook his head. “They contain the power of our gods. We must recite the prayer to activate them, and they channel the gods' power into the body of those in need of healing.”
Skepticism filled Zaharis' eyes. “So they're magical?” he asked, with a derisive flick of his fingers at the last word.
Rangvaldr smiled. “I know you do not believe in such, my friend. But you have seen them work for yourself. Can you explain their power with your science or alchemy?”
After a long moment, Zaharis shook his head.
“Perhaps there is no need for an explanation,” Rangvaldr said. “Perhaps, it is enough to trust that the gods of my people care enough to help those in need. As a priest yourself, surely such belief has its role in your service.”
Zaharis inclined his head. “Belief is the driving force that impels us all, Seiomenn.”
“Indeed.” Rangvaldr nodded. “The ways of the divine are beyond our reckoning.” He raised the amulet. “Let us be grateful that they deign to share their power with us, and that their power can be used to save lives.”
The shaman stood with a groan and, tucking the necklace under his shirt, turned to Aravon. “Will you allow me to treat your wounds, Captain? Perhaps the gods of my people will show their gratitude for your bravery in protecting us.”
Aravon waved him away. “There are many in greater need of healing than I.”
Shields in Shadow Page 34