Shields in Shadow Page 2

  The string twanged. A dark streak hurtled toward him and punched through his right thigh. The impact tore his legs from beneath him. He screamed as he collapsed atop his shattered left arm.

  He tried to struggle upright, but an immense bulk collapsed atop him. His head rang. Blood filled his mouth, his nose, his eyes. His arms refused to cooperate, refused to heed his commands to get up. He had to get up. Had to stand and fight beside his men.

  A tingling numbness spread through his limbs. Shadows hovered on the edge of his vision. The pounding of his heart sounded like a torrent in his ears.

  Have…to fight!

  His struggles weakened, exhaustion claiming him, his determination drowned beneath the pain. Like a man sucked beneath quicksand, Aravon succumbed to agony and blood loss.

  * * *

  He awoke with a gasp, so weak it barely registered in his ears. Darkness, thick and cloying, pressed in around him on all sides. He could barely draw breath.

  Yet he still lived. The pain alone told him as much.

  Something pressed on his back, his legs, his head. Agony flared in his arms and legs as he tried to move, but the burden atop him shifted slightly. Enough for him to catch a glimpse of starlight and a gulp of fresh air.

  Hard stone grated against his ribs. Something sharp sliced through his right boot. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he wriggled like a worm, trying to break free of whatever pressed him to the earth. He forced himself not to panic, to keep moving, struggling against the weight crushing him to the stony road.

  He emerged with a gasp and sucked in a lungful of cool air. Night met his gaze as he shoved his right arm out into the night and clawed his way free. Agony radiated through the wound in his shoulder, yet he bit back a cry and dragged himself one-handed over the mound of…corpses, he realized. A shudder ran down his spine. His fingers dug into lifeless flesh and steel armor turned icy in the chill night. The thick, cracking substance on his head, neck, face, and arms could only be dried blood. The blood of his fellow Legionnaires and Eirdkilrs.

  With a final heave, he dragged his legs free of the pile and collapsed onto the Eastmarch. He lay for long seconds on his back, pulling one agonized breath after another into his lungs. It seemed an eternity before he could sit upright and glance around.

  He almost wished he hadn’t. Starlight illuminated the bearded faces of two Eirdkilrs that had fallen atop him, the night’s shadows making their blue war paint appear somehow bestial, demonic. Four of Aravon’s Legionnaires surrounded the barbarians, their eyes wide and unseeing. Dried, crusted blood stained their shattered skulls, shredded faces, and slashed throats. The smell of death—rotting flesh, the metallic stink of blood, the foul reek of men voiding bladders and bowels in terror and agony—hung thick, a suffocating miasma that pressed in around him, seeping into his nostrils, choking the air from his lungs.

  His gaze roamed the battlefield, horror and the chill night wind setting his skin crawling. Every one of his Legionnaires lay dead. The Mistress’ luck had been with him; the corpses of fallen Eirdkilrs and Legionnaires had protected him from the vicious stabbing blades of the barbarians finishing off their fallen prey.

  But fortune hadn’t smiled on his men. Eirdkilrs didn’t take trophies—they simply delighted in torturing the wounded to death. Far too many had died slowly, their skin peeled in strips, scalps and ears removed, some with their eyes cut out. Moonlight bathed the agony-twisted faces of men that had marched at his side for years.

  Acid surged in Aravon’s stomach and rose to his throat. He’d faced battle before, but this…this was wanton slaughter! Hundreds of corpses littered the Eastmarch. Legionnaires lay still and silent in the night, never to rise again, never to swing swords or lift shields. The Eirdkilrs had butchered his entire company…and hadn't stopped with the Legionnaires. The carters lay a short distance away—none had escaped. The gold was gone.

  Here and there, Eirdkilr bodies lay sprawled among those of his men. The Sixth Company hadn't died without a fight. Though caught by surprise, outnumbered, and overwhelmed, they had rallied to their Captain's call. With the courage of true soldiers, they had formed ranks, raised their shields, and joined battle.

  To what end? To die at the hands of the Eirdkilrs, as had so many sons of the Principality of Icespire and the kingdoms across the Frozen Sea.

  Sorrow welled within Captain Aravon. He wanted to shout, to rail at the heavens, but dared not. Even the slightest sound could be overheard by any Eirdkilrs still in the area. And the arrows still lodged in his shoulder and side made even the simple act of drawing breath agonizing.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, he dragged himself to his feet. He scanned the road one last time, desperate for a sign that even one of his men survived. Moonlight shone on pale faces and slack, unmoving limbs. Only the hoarse song of crows and the whispering night wind met his ears.

  Three yards from where he stood, Lieutenant Naif lay where he had fallen, the Eirdkilr spear still embedded in the back of his head. Captain Aravon turned away—he couldn't bear to see the man's face. A burden settled on his shoulders. He'd have to look the Lieutenant's daughters in the eyes and tell them of their father's heroism. Naif had saved his life and died in the bargain.

  Tears streamed down Aravon's face. Everywhere he looked, he saw the faces of the men he had served with for the last three years. Sergeant Bytin. Corporal Older. Strom, Hortin, Enthos, and Dreault—men whose children would never see their fathers again.

  He wanted to call out to them, to bid them rise. It was foolishness, but his mind recoiled from the harsh truth. Every man that he’d commanded, that had followed him loyally for years, lay dead.

  Blinking away tears, he staggered away from the scene of carnage. He had no time for sorrow. He alone had lived through the ambush. He had to survive. Had to remember these brave men, to speak of their courage until their last breaths. He owed that much to his men, the fallen soldiers of the Legion's Sixth Company.

  Chapter Two

  Swordsman’s beard! With a groan, Aravon sagged against a nearby tree. He'd been walking for what seemed like hours. The wound in his leg made each step agony. His boot squelched with every step—the loss of blood left him weak.

  Every muscle in his body cried at him to lie down, to close his eyes, to let exhaustion overtake him. He refused to give in. It didn't matter that the nearest Legion outpost stood more than twenty miles away. He would walk, shuffle, or crawl until his strength gave out again.

  His vision swam as he pushed himself upright. He leaned against the tree until the darkness stopped spinning. Biting down on a grunt, he forced his feet to shuffle forward. One step at a time. Fatigue threatened to shatter his consciousness, but he forced his mind to focus on the problem at hand.

  The Eirdkilrs shouldn't have been here, not this far north. The recent rash of barbarian raids had all occurred near Shield Garrison, two hundred miles farther south. Sixth Company had been prepared for enemies as they approached Anvil Garrison—they'd been sent to reinforce the three hundred Legionnaires stationed there after Eirdkilr raids took a toll on the companies—but this was too far into Legion-held territory.

  How were we caught unaware? There'd been no sign of the barbarians at dawn when they set out on the day's march, and his scouts hadn't reported anything amiss throughout the day.

  No, he realized, they hadn't reported at all. He had simply assumed their not reporting meant the way was clear. He'd been confident that no raiding party of Eirdkilrs would risk attacking them—so confident he hadn't been prepared for a small army.

  There had to have been easily four hundred Eirdkilrs. Four hundred, this far to the northeast. It seemed impossible that such a large force slipped through Legion-patrolled territory unseen.

  And what of those with the red furs?

  All Eirdkilrs wore the dirty white pelts of Wasteland ice bears—furs thick enough to keep out the cold and turn aside a sword stroke. But these Eirdkilrs with the red pelts, that was somethi
ng new. He had no doubt the archer with the greatsword had been in command of this force.

  The questions whirled through his mind, adding to his exhaustion. He didn't have enough information to decipher what had happened. But one thought repeated over and over: the Sixth Company is gone. A hundred men, wiped out in an ambush he hadn't seen coming.

  Guilt settled like a lead cloak atop his shoulders. He was their commander, and he'd failed to protect them. They had died because of his lack of foresight.

  I failed them.

  Worse than that—he'd outlived them. He would have gladly fought and died for any one of those under his command. That was the responsibility he'd assumed when he accepted the commission as their Captain. But they were dead, and he still lived.

  He stiffened as his ears caught a quiet sound in the forest beside him. He reached for his sword, but his scabbard hung empty. Clamping his teeth down on a groan of pain, he reached for the only weapon remaining to him: his belt dagger.

  He couldn't outrun the Eirdkilrs, but he'd be damned if they took him alive. A low growl started in the back of his throat.

  "Come on, then!" he snarled. "Get this over with. I won't cower or beg, but I'll die on my feet like a true Legionnaire."

  The rustling noise grew louder as it approached, and Aravon tensed in expectation. He'd fight until his last breath. He'd make Icespire, the Legion, and his father proud.

  The figure that emerged from the forest had four legs rather than two, a wet nose, and dark liquid eyes.

  Aravon's breath came out in a ragged gasp, and he dropped his right arm to his side. "Blessed Swordsman!" He nearly wept in relief. Somehow, his mount had survived the ambush.

  The horse nickered at him as he fumbled for the saddlebags, desperate for a sip of the water and a bite of the food he'd packed. His numb fingers found an empty saddle. The bags had fallen off in the horse's flight.

  But at least he had a horse. He wouldn't have to walk the twenty miles to Anvil Garrison. He shot a silent prayer of thanks to the Swordsman and touched the pendant around his neck. The jewelry, a silver sword two inches long, had been a present from Mylena. "May it bring you the Swordsman's favor," she'd told him the day she'd hung it around his neck. "And may it bring you back to me."

  I'm coming home. Somehow, he'd make it back. He'd keep his promise to return.

  He brought the pendant to his lips and kissed it. The movement sent a wave of pain shooting down his right arm. He craned his neck but couldn't get a clear view of the arrow still embedded in the muscle. With his left arm broken—the throbbing in his forearm made it very clear how much damage had been done—he couldn't pull out the arrow. Even the slightest movement sent waves of pain radiating up the limb.

  Biting back a groan, he reached up for the saddle horn and raised his left leg into the stirrup. His right leg protested as he swung it over the horse's back. Fresh blood stained the bandage he'd wrapped around the thigh, and the horse's movement jostled the arrow. He dared not remove it for fear of bleeding out.

  With a click of his tongue, he set the horse into motion. Slow at first, a gentle walk as he fought not to pass out from the pain. The ride proved agonizing, but Aravon forced himself not to cry out at each jolt and jostle. He let his horse set the pace and focused simply on staying upright in the saddle.

  His eyes roamed in all directions, searching the night for any sign of threat. The Eirdkilrs couldn't have advanced too far northward in the hours since the ambush, but if he ran into them, he'd be in trouble. He doubted he could cling to his horse's back if it broke into a gallop.

  The world whirled around him, and he closed his eyes to stop his head swimming. The faces of his men floated in the darkness. The sounds of their screams, defiant and determined, agonized, weak, cursing the enemy as they died. A deafening cacophony of shattering shields, skulls, and limbs, drowned beneath the roars of his Legionnaires and the howling of the Eirdkilrs. The stink of rotting corpses, the metallic tang of blood hanging over the Eastmarch. He didn't push the sensations away. He would honor their lives and their deaths by remembering them.

  The spinning grew more violent, and he found himself floating. The cool night breeze seemed to hold him aloft, suspend him in the air for a long moment. Then he slammed back to earth with jarring force. Stars spun in his vision and his head rang, the taste of fresh blood filling his mouth. He swallowed, suddenly realizing how desperately thirsty he was.

  He tried to sit up, but his body refused to heed his commands. Ice seeped through his veins, turning his arms and legs to stone. The chill drove back the pain and, with it, all sensation. His heart pounded a frantic beat.

  He was dying. He'd spent enough time among the Legion's Menders to know that the rapid heartbeat was his body's attempt to cope with the loss of blood. But, in a way, death would be a just fate. He, the Captain of Garnet Battalion's Sixth Company, would join his Legionnaires in the arms of the Long Keeper.

  Sorrow coursed through Aravon. Images flashed before his eyes: his wife Mylena, with her chestnut tresses and tear-rimmed eyes, kissed him one last time. His sons, Rolyn and Adilon, clung to his legs, their expressions mirroring their mother's sorrow.

  Another face filled his mind: a stern face, with a hard jaw and cold grey eyes. Those eyes filled with disappointment as a messenger delivered to General Traighan the news of his son's death.

  That look of disappointment, ever-ready on the General's face, drove a spike of pain into Aravon's heart. He was glad he wouldn't have to see it again. General Traighan would never again have to tell him how much he had let him down.

  I'm sorry, Father, he thought as darkness overtook him. I tried my best.

  In the end, it hadn't been enough.

  * * *

  He awoke with a gasp. Pain raced up and down his right side. He lay flat on his back, yet somehow the ground moved beneath him.

  No, he realized, not lying on hard ground. The smell of wood, hay, and horse dung filtered through his exhaustion. A wagon.

  He tried to raise his head.

  "Captain?" The voice called to him as if from across a vast expanse. An unfamiliar face hovered over him. His eyes, blurred by fatigue, couldn't focus on the man's features. "…hear me, Captain?"

  He tried to answer, but his parched lips refused to form words. A weak groan escaped.

  "…got you, Captain…taking you…safe."

  The words barely registered. Try as he might, he couldn't force his mind to focus on the man. He was too tired, too weak from blood loss. He closed his eyes and allowed exhaustion to drag him under.

  Safe. He clung to the word, repeating it over and over. Safe.

  Chapter Three

  Aravon awoke with a gasp. Dim light flickered in the corner of his vision.

  "Steady on, Captain." A man hovered over him, the concern written on his face echoed in his deep voice. "Move around too much and you might worsen the damage."

  Aravon struggled to focus. In the faint light, he made out a bald head and thick beard. The rest of the man's features swam in and out of focus. He tried to sit up. "M-my…men!" Thirst thickened his tongue and slurred his words.

  "Here." The man tipped a cup to his lips, and a trickle of cool liquid slid down his throat. Aravon sucked greedily until the man pulled the cup away. "Not too much, now. Wine'll dull the pain but slow your body's healing."

  "Sixth…Company," Aravon managed to gasp out.

  A shadow passed over the man's eyes. "Sorry, Captain."

  So it was true. Aravon slumped back into bed, sorrow sapping his will to struggle. It hadn't just been a fever nightmare. The Eirdkilrs had overrun them. His men lay dead on the paved stones of the Eastmarch, slaughtered to a man. Even the draft animals and the supply teamsters. Sheer, wanton cruelty was ever the way of the Eirdkilr savages.

  His brow furrowed. "How…?" He swallowed hard—the sip of wine had done little to alleviate his thirst.

  "How did you get here?" the man asked.

  Aravon nodded. The movemen
t set his head aching where the falling barbarian had struck him. The rest of his aches reminded him of their presence as well: the wounds in his legs, ribs, and shoulder hurt the worst. Plaster held his left arm immobilized from bicep to wrist. The dull pain told him the bone had been set.

  "Draian." A new voice came from behind the man hovering over him. The voice held confidence, a tone of command accustomed to obedience.

  "Ahh, my lord." The man, Draian, turned and bowed. "He's just wakening now."

  Aravon squinted up at the man who came to stand beside his bed. His eyes refused to focus on the man's features; the effort set his head spinning.

  "How is he?" the newcomer asked.

  Draian nodded. "He'll recover, given time."

  "Alas, time is something we can ill-afford. Can you give him something to speed up…"

  The conversation faded, and the whirling of the room slowed and stopped. Aravon floated in a dark, silent void. He could not summon the will to move, but he could not sleep.

  He saw the faces again: the hundred men who had died under his command; the blue-stained faces of the Eirdkilrs twisted in savage glee as they hacked through his Legionnaires.

  Mylena's face came next. Tears streaked her mascara and tracked black lines down her hollow, pale cheeks. She whispered his name and clung to the pendant around her neck: a silver sword, the twin to the one he wore.

  The faces of his sons joined hers. Rolyn, who had been just six the day he'd chased Aravon's horse out of the gate of their home. Four-year-old Adilon, more bashful than his older brother, had hidden behind Mylena's skirts. They had been like strangers to him, these sons of his. His career in the Legion of Heroes had kept him away from Icespire.

  General Traighan's stern, disapproving visage haunted him. His cheeks remained dry, no sign of sorrow in his cold grey eyes, as he received news of the Sixth Company's defeat and his son's death.