Shields in Shadow: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 1) by Andy Peloquin

Author:Andy Peloquin [Peloquin, Andy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Fantasy Fiends Publishing Inc.
Published: 2019-09-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

“How far, and how many?” Aravon signed.

“Half a mile. At least thirty of them.”

Aravon's gut tightened. Thirty Eirdkilrs was a raiding party, but they could do serious damage.

Noll leapt from his horse. An Eirdkilr arrow fell from the folds of his mottled cloak and clattered to the ground. The little scout stared at it with wide eyes. “Damn,” his fingers said, “I almost didn't see them in time.”

Aravon whirled toward the southeast again, and this time it was Colborn who emerged from the forest to race up the hill. “Eirdkilr raiding party from the south! Close to fifty, three-quarters of a mile away.”

A ball of ice formed in the pit of Aravon's stomach. Eighty Eirdkilrs, bloody hell! They had ten minutes, fifteen at most, to mount some sort of defense against a force large enough to raze Bjornstadt.

“Get ready for them,” he signed to his four men. “Find a way to stop them from reaching us.” He had no idea how—he'd leave it to them to figure out. He had his own task.

He raced toward the main longhouse, his heart pounding in time with his boots. The Duke's men straightened as he approached. Rendar reached for his short sword, Farrell half-drew his blade, and the other two hefted their shields.

“Eirdkilrs!” Aravon shouted through the mask. Their faces went white; they'd understood him.

Ailmaer's Fehlan guards held out a hand to stop him, but he didn't slow. He bulled right through them and banged open the doors to the longhouse. The three men seated around the chieftain's throne spun toward him. The six guards drew swords and stepped forward to meet him.

“Wait!” the Duke cried in Fehlan. He stood, eyes fixed on Aravon. “What is the meaning of this, Captain?”

Aravon half-ripped the mask from his face. “Eirdkilrs, half a mile away,” he shouted. “Close to a hundred of them.”

Rangvaldr stiffened, and the Fehlan guards hesitated, swords still raised to strike Aravon.

“Y-You must be mistaken.” Ailmaer’s face turned a sickly shade of pale green.

“You are certain?” the Duke asked.

Aravon nodded. “Noll and Colborn saw them. Noll nearly caught an arrow for his trouble.”

Duke Dyrund rounded on Ailmaer. “Chief Ailmaer, you must sound the alarm and let your men know that they are under attack.”

Ailmaer’s round jaw took on a stubborn set. “Bjornstadt has not faced an attack for more than a century. We are a peaceful people.”

“If you want to remain living people,” the Duke said, an edge to his voice, “you must take up arms.” He rounded on the chief's guards. “How many swords and shields can you muster?”

“Not enough.” Rangvaldr, the Seiomenn, spoke instead of the chief. “Twenty, maybe thirty at most.”

“Then get them ready to fight,” the Duke told him without hesitation. “They must protect their homes.”

Ailmaer spluttered a protest. “It makes no sense!” His voice echoed in a high-pitched whine. “The Eirdkilrs have come for our goods before.”

The Duke cut him off with a growl. “Chieftain Ailmaer, if you saw what the Eirdkilrs did to Oldrsjot, you would know this is no raid.

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