Shields in Shadow Page 7

  There was a reason the Legion of Heroes kept their surgeons and Menders at the rear of their formations, under heavy guard. A physicker could save dozens of men, but during combat they required protection. In a desperate battle—like the one on the Eastmarch—a company could ill-afford to spare the manpower.

  Draian's face fell. “I understand, Captain. Much as I hate to admit it, you're not wrong.”

  Aravon stood and clapped a hand—his left hand, newly freed from the cast—on the Mender's shoulder. “The good news, Draian, is that I know just the man to teach you.”

  Draian's eyebrows rose. “And who's that?” His expression grew worried. “Please don't tell me it's the giant!”

  Giant?

  Aravon shook his head. “No, Draian. Turns out I'm in need of practice as much as you're in need of teaching. We'll be training together.” He grinned. “And we're starting right now.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Are you sure about this?” Draian asked. He stared down at his weapon—a standard Legionnaire short sword—with the expression of a noblewoman touching a dead rat.

  “Come on, Draian, surely you weren't that bad with a sword.” Aravon grinned. He couldn't help his good mood.

  It felt amazing to leave that stuffy room and get away from the endless lectures. He could once again swing a sword. The sun shone bright on him and filled the training yard with the sweet scent of the marsh flowers. Just being outside, with earth beneath his feet and the prospect of physical exertion, lifted a weight from his shoulders.

  Snarl seemed equally excited to be under the blue sky. He chased birds around the training field, filling the air with his high-pitched yapping. Occasionally, he'd leap off the ground, flapping his stubby wings as if trying to fly—unsuccessfully thus far.

  Draian, however, looked less than thrilled. “One instructor told me I wasn't the worst student he'd ever seen, but he'd rather fight beside a straw dummy.”

  Aravon chuckled. His training Sergeant had said something similar—though using a much more colorful analogy involving fighting with one particularly limp, undersized appendage.

  “It's just their way of motivating you,” he told the Mender. “The louder they shout, the more they expect of you.”

  Draian snorted. “Then they must have expected me to be the Swordsman himself reborn.”

  Aravon couldn't help chortling; the Mender's visible dismay and dainty grip on the sword was too comical.

  “Look, it's not as bad as you think.” Aravon raised his own short sword, identical to Draian's. “At least you know which end is which.”

  Draian hefted the blade. “Great. The hard part's all worked out.”

  Laughing, Aravon helped adjust the Mender's grip on the hilt. He spent an hour teaching Draian basic sword stances, correcting his form—truly horrendous, he noted to himself—and practicing a few simple strikes.

  Draian soon gasped for breath, sweat streaming down his bald head and soaking his thin tunic. Aravon found himself breathing hard as well. After weeks in bed, even this small exertion took its toll. Thankfully, the movement worked the stiffness from his shoulder and leg. Ignoring the dull ache in his side, he moved through the basic attacks and blocks alongside the Mender.

  “Please!” Draian wheezed, his sword dropping to his side. “I need a break.”

  Aravon sighed and nodded. “Two minutes, then we're back at it.”

  Draian groaned and turned his eyes heavenward. “Oh, mighty Swordsman, what have I done to deserve this?”

  Aravon chuckled. “Is being overly dramatic something they teach you Menders as well?”

  Draian, too tired to do more than scowl, flopped to the ground and lay on his back, panting.

  “Up!” Aravon told him. He strode over to the Mender and held out a hand. “If you stop moving, your muscles will stiffen, and everything will hurt.”

  “Everything already hurts,” Draian protested.

  “Wait until you start empty-handed combat,” a deep voice said from behind them. “You'll learn the true meaning of hurt then.”

  Aravon turned to see a man at the west entrance to the training yard, arms folded over his chest. He stood a few inches taller than Aravon, with a heavier build, as solid as the wooden post against which he leaned. Instead of the loose tunic and robes of Icespire or the practical jerkin and trousers of an off-duty Legionnaire, he dressed like a Fehlan: a sheepskin vest over a woolen shirt, leather breeches, and sturdy boots that rose to mid-calf.

  Aravon's eyebrows shot up. What's a Fehlan doing here?

  There was no mistaking it: the man had Fehlan blood. It was written in his square jaw, narrow nose, and ice-blue eyes. His long, blond hair hung in braids down to his waist, and his beard had similar braids.

  The man strode toward them, stopping a few feet away and studying Aravon with the expression of an auctioneer sizing up a prized steer.

  “Captain,” Draian panted from the ground, “meet Lieutenant Colborn of Whitevale.”

  Lieutenant? Of Whitevale? Aravon struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. The ruling nobleman of Whitevale, Lord Derran, was vocal in his disdain of their allies to the south. He'd gone so far as to expel any non-Princelander from his city. It seemed odd that anyone so visibly Fehlan would come from Whitevale.

  He managed to swallow his surprise and thrust out a hand. “Captain Aravon, formerly of the Sixth Company.”

  Colborn took his hand and gave it a firm, confident shake. “Good to meet you, sir.” He spoke the Princelander tongue without a hint of the Fehlan accent. “My condolences on your company.”

  Aravon met the man's ice-blue eyes. They held no judgement, only sincerity. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  The man nodded and released his grip. “Good to see you up and around.” His broad face split into a grin. “Belthar won't be happy to lose our wager, but he'll get over it.”

  “Wager?” Aravon asked.

  “How long until you were back on your feet. Belthar had you down for five weeks.” Colborn leaned closer and dropped his voice. “But when I saw Zaharis sneaking into your room, I had a suspicion he'd do something to speed up the process.”

  “I see.” Aravon chewed his lip. “And what were the stakes of this wager?”

  Colborn grinned. “One lap through the marsh around the camp.” His chuckle turned to laughter. “In the nude.”

  Aravon couldn't help himself. Colborn had a hearty, contagious laugh, and the antics reminded him of every Legion camp he'd been in. Soldiers had a knack for finding ways to compete—if brawling and gambling were forbidden, they'd invent creative challenges to one-up each other.

  “Speak of the devil!” Colborn's eyes went to something behind Aravon's shoulder. “Better hope it's not too cold tonight, Belthar.”

  Aravon turned and his eyes went wide. The man striding through the east entrance of the yard stood just under seven feet tall, with shoulders easily half as wide and muscles so thick they reminded Aravon of his father's prized bull. He appeared to have been chiseled from a statue of Balgrid the Giant, from his heavy arms to his blunt, solid features.

  Snarl came racing up to the newcomer and nipped at his boots. Belthar smiled—an expression that transformed his blockish face into something oddly handsome—and knelt to play with the Enfield. After a moment, Snarl's attention wandered toward a bird pecking at the hard-packed ground, and the little creature darted away.

  “Looks like I win the wager, Belthar,” Colborn called out.

  Belthar shrugged. “A nice day for a little jog, I'd say.”

  “Little being the key word, eh?” Colborn waggled his pinky.

  A grin split the big man's face. “Your mother didn't seem to have any complaints.”

  Colborn's smile didn't waver, but his eyes went flat, hard.

  Noticing the tightness in the Lieutenant's expression, Aravon stepped between Colborn and Belthar. “Captain Aravon,” he said, thrusting out a hand.

  “Captain of Garnet Battalion's Sixth Company, aye.
” Belthar's huge hand engulfed his. “General Traighan's son, right?”

  Aravon nodded.

  Belthar's grin broadened. “If you're half the man the stories make your father out to be, we're in good company.”

  Aravon pushed aside the twisting in his gut. “Thank you, Soldier.”

  “Oh, he's no soldier,” Colborn cut in.

  Aravon raised an eyebrow.

  “No, sir,” Belthar said, a hint of color flaring in his ruddy cheeks. “Served in Hightower for the last few years as one of the Duke's regulars, but I was never a Legionnaire.” Something akin to embarrassment lurked in his eyes.

  “No matter,” Aravon said with a dismissive wave. “If you're here, it means you've got something to add. Judging by the look of you, more than a few things.”

  The tension in Belthar's face disappeared, replaced by a warm smile. “Thank you, sir.” He gave the Legionnaire's salute—pounding his right fist to his chest. Respectful, if a bit sloppy. “You won't be disappointed.”

  “I'm sure I won't.” Aravon returned the salute. The movement sent a twinge up his shoulder. “Now, I assume you know your way around a sword?”

  Belthar hesitated. “I'd rather swing an axe any day, but I can carry a blade as well as any man in Hightower.”

  “Good.” Aravon indicated Draian with a nod. “Take him through his paces. Not too rough, but don't take it easy on him. He'll have to learn to fight if he's to serve alongside us.”

  Belthar's eyes narrowed. “He'll be with us? Begging your pardon, Captain, but—”

  “He's a Mender, not an Adept?” Aravon asked.

  Belthar nodded. “Aye.”

  “It's a Mender we'll be needing when we find ourselves bleeding from an Eirdkilr axe.” He raised his left arm and balled his hand into a fist. “Bastards shattered my arm four weeks ago, and look at it now.”

  “Of course, Captain,” Belthar replied.

  “Besides, who's to say a Mender can't learn to swing a blade as well as any Adept, eh?” After spending an hour teaching Draian, he knew the man had a long way to go to reach competence with a blade, much less true skill. But that was something for him to worry about, not Belthar.

  “Aye, Captain.” Belthar saluted again.

  “Enough with the salutes, Belthar. We're not in the Legion.”

  Belthar blushed but nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Aravon glanced at Colborn. The Lieutenant had watched the exchange in silence, eyes fixed on him like a hawk. Now, however, he turned away and strode toward one of the racks of weapons. He selected a pair of blades—a Fehlan long sword and Legion short sword—and set about practicing.

  A curious man, this Colborn. Fehlan and a Lieutenant—an interesting combination. Aravon had seen intelligence in the Lieutenant's eyes. Whatever his story, he clearly seems the capable sort.

  He moved to the racks and scanned the shields. In addition to the rectangular Legionnaire shields, he found the circular shields used by the Eirdkilrs and Fehlans, the bucklers common in Malandria, and the teardrop-shaped shields brought from Nysl, a city far to the north of Einan.

  He lifted a Legionnaire's shield from its place. The weight dragged on his left arm, and a dull ache quickly formed. His elbow joint felt stiff and refused to move properly. When he twisted his arm to hold the shield upright, the pain grew so sharp he had to lower the shield.

  Worry nagged in his mind. Would the pain leave, or had the Eirdkilr club done permanent damage to his arm? He might never hold a shield again.

  He forced himself not to think about it. Returning the shield to its place, he set about practicing the sword strokes taught to every Legionnaire. The short sword weighed little and moved easily. However, with every passing minute, the sense of wrongness increased. The fault lay not with his sword arm—the stiffness would leave as he strengthened it. Instead, the problem was his weapon.

  The Legion's fighting style relied heavily on their shields. The short sword was intended to strike between gaps in a shield wall, where the tight crush of men put his enemy mere inches from his face. But if he couldn't carry a shield, he would be vulnerable with just the two-foot blade for defense. Against the seven-foot tall Eirdkilrs and their enormous axes, clubs, and spears, he'd have little hope of survival.

  Focus, he told himself. One thing at a time. This was his first day back on the training field. He couldn't expect to be in peak condition so soon. His arm would heal and he'd carry a shield once more. He had to.

  “Well, bugger me for a pretty princess. If it ain't Captain Aravon himself, back from the grave.”

  The familiar voice stopped Aravon dead in his tracks. It can't be! He should be dead.

  But when he turned and saw the little man standing at the entrance to the training yard, a terrible feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

  Noll.

  Chapter Nine

  Noll. The best of Sixth Company's ten scouts. A small man, with a hawkish nose, close-set eyes, and a long scar running from his right ear to his chin. He'd failed to return with news of the Eirdkilr ambush—Aravon had simply assumed him dead with the rest of his company. He'd mourned the man along with them.

  Yet there the scout stood, a crutch under his left arm, his right leg still in a plaster cast. Anger twisted his face into a grimace. “How in the bloody hell did you manage to survive?” he snarled.

  Shocked, Aravon couldn't think of an answer. He could only stare, as if at a ghost.

  Colborn intervened. “You're addressing a superior officer, Soldier. Show some respect.”

  “Respect?” Noll's voice rose to a shout. “Respect for the man that lost his entire company, yet somehow managed to wriggle his way out of the thick of things?” He limped toward Aravon, eyes blazing. “Tell me, Captain,” he spat the word like a curse, “did you even stand and fight, or did you tuck your tail between your legs and flee at the first sign of battle?”

  The little man's fury only added to Aravon's astonishment. He couldn't believe the vitriol pouring from Noll's mouth. He tried to answer, to protest that he'd stood and fought, but the words caught in his throat.

  Colborn, however, reacted for him. “Enough!” His tone had the angry bark of a Drill Sergeant. “You forget yourself, Legionnaire. Return to your quarters at once, before you say something you’ll truly regret.”

  “Yes, Noll, come.” Draian hurried toward the little scout. “I told you to stay off that leg for at least two more weeks.”

  “I'll go,” Noll snapped, “but I had to come and see the man that got all my comrades and friends killed.” He thrust a finger at Aravon. “Do their deaths even trouble you, or are they just more men to be used as fodder? You really are your father's son!” He spat a gob of phlegm.

  Aravon didn't move. He simply stood, struck dumb, as Draian dragged Noll away.

  Noll’s final words drifted toward him. “If he's the one leading us, we're bloody doomed!”

  A tense silence hung over the training field. Colborn's fists clenched and relaxed and Belthar shifted from foot to foot, nervous.

  “Get back to it,” Aravon said, his voice quiet.

  The two of them returned to their training without meeting his gaze.

  Aravon settled into the defensive posture the Legion had taught him, and went through the series of strikes and blocks. The simple movements occupied his body and helped him to think.

  Noll had survived the Eirdkilrs—it didn't matter how. His relief at seeing the man alive had shattered beneath the scout's fury. What had he done to deserve such hatred? The scout wouldn't have lashed out from anger alone; something more lay beneath the surface.

  He'd seen the truth in Noll's eyes: the man was hurting—physically and emotionally. Aravon was simply the perfect target upon which to unleash his rage.

  So be it. Aravon owed it to the Legionnaire that had served under his command to weather the fury.

  Noll's presence brought back the memories: of battle, of watching his men fall, of waking in a field of corpses. He'd
almost managed to forget the screams, the shouts and curses, the ring of steel on steel, the stench of death. The beat of his heart, so frantic it nearly burst from his chest. The sweat soaking his tunic and turning his palms sodden. The burning of muscles exhausted from holding a shield and swinging a sword. Between caring for Snarl, his lessons, and now getting back in the training ring, he had found a moment of peace from the guilt.

  The weight settled on his shoulders like a cloak of lead. He'd borne that burden since the day he accepted his command in the Legion. With every loss, every failure, the cloak had grown heavier. Now, it felt as if it would drag him to his doom.

  His strikes came faster, his breath burning in his lungs. Sweat streamed down his face, his arms, his back. His forearms ached from the death grip on his sword hilt. He hacked at the snarling, sneering, howling Eirdkilrs that had laid such a ponderous burden on his shoulders.

  “Captain!” The voice came from far away, barely audible through the blood pounding in his ears. “Captain Aravon!”

  The sound of his name brought him back to reality. He stared unseeing at the man before him. His mind took long seconds to register the familiar, worry-lined expression on the face of Draian.

  “Captain, you have to stop!” Draian shouted.

  Suddenly, Aravon was gasping for breath, every muscle in his body ablaze. His sword arm fell, the weapon too heavy to lift. Pain blazed down his left side and up his left forearm.

  “That's right.” Draian spoke in a gentle tone, as if soothing a horse. “Easy, Captain.”

  Aravon allowed the healer to take the blade from his hands. Draian guided him to a bench and pushed him to a seat.

  The Mender crouched before him and stared into his eyes. “Push yourself too hard, and you'll do more harm than good.” He gripped Aravon's forearm. “Some demons can only be slain by the passage of time, Captain. Killing yourself won't make it any easier to live with the past.”

  Aravon tried to speak, but could find no words. He felt like a drowning man struggling to float in a sea of anger, sorrow, and guilt. Seeing Noll again had hit him like a tidal wave.