by David Estes
He glanced at Beorn, whose eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell heavily, as if he was sleeping. Gareth cleared his throat and the man’s eyes cracked open. “Yes, princeling. Ask me what is on your mind.”
Gareth’s mouth went dry. Not because the man had guessed his intentions, but because he was afraid of the answers. Only something bad could explain his mother’s melancholy, the way Guy was unable to meet his eyes, and why his father hadn’t touched his mug of ale all night.
“I—”
“You are the Shield,” Beorn finished for him. “Not a nickname, a title. One your uncle held before you.”
“But—”
“I can’t tell you anything other than that. Your quest tonight will reveal the rest.”
“But—”
“I can tell you this: You were born for greatness, princeling, even if it’s not the greatness you expected or wanted.”
Gareth tried to swallow, but his spit stuck in his throat. He nodded, trying to put on a brave face when all he felt was nervous. When you face the truth, stare back and don’t blink.
He was pretty certain he’d blinked a lot since finding out his brother would be king. Not anymore, he thought, locking his lids open, staring into the darkness gathering on the iron walls of Ferria.
A silence-shattering sound snapped him from his concentration. His entire body jolted as he turned toward it. It seemed to have come from beyond the walls, somewhere in the forest.
A scream.
“Someone needs you,” Beorn said, gesturing toward the gate, which swam open, channeled by some hidden Orian. Gwendolyn Storm perhaps.
“But I’m just—”
“Go!”
The strength of the man’s voice obliterated the dozen excuses he’d been forming. I’m just a boy. I’m not supposed to leave the castle walls at night. I don’t even know who screamed. It’s my name day and I’m supposed to be waiting to go on a quest.
He pushed to his feet and ran, his strides slower than usual due to the weight of the plate surrounding his body. The full belly didn’t help either.
The forest consumed him, metallic branches growing iron tendrils that seemed to beckon to him, reach for him.
A strange sound that was half fear, half determination groaned from the back of his throat and he plunged forward into darkness, raising his arms above his head to ward off an attack from above. Nothing came, and he stumbled, realizing he expected some force to push against him.
A cloud passed somewhere overhead, obliterating what was left of the light from the moons and stars. Skidding, he stopped, his lungs heaving, gouts of breath panting from his lips.
Silence.
What am I doing? he thought. I should go back.
Another shout shredded the still fabric of night, and he flinched. It was closer this time. And familiar somehow.
No. Can’t be. Guy is on his own quest.
But then another shout, more of a war cry, one he’d heard a thousand times during training. Grian, he thought.
Any thoughts of returning to the castle flew from his mind like an ore hawk bursting from a bough. His brothers were in trouble—that was all that mattered. Despite the complete darkness that seemed to block his way forward, he charged ahead with reckless abandon, hoping he wouldn’t run headlong into an iron-sheathed trunk.
He stopped occasionally to listen for more shouts, and each time he did they seemed to come from another direction. Though he was hesitant to leave the relative safety of the path, he eventually cut to the left after hearing another shout, picking his way through metal trees and iron bushes, trying not to cut himself on the sharp edges.
He rounded the trunk of a tree so large around a dozen men could’ve joined hands and still not surrounded it, and then—
Nothing.
He froze. The area in front of him was large and empty, a muted gray murk without the typical black shapes of the forest. Gareth just breathed, in and out, trying to catch his breath, contemplating what to do next. He’d never heard about a clearing this large in Ironwood, especially not so close to the castle.
Somewhere in the distance, a scuffle caught his ear. Shapes emerged, shadowy forms moving through a world of gray. Shouts rolled like thunder, accompanied by lightning strikes of steel meeting steel.
An arc of light blazed forth, surrounding him, so bright after the darkness that he might’ve been looking into the face of the sun, forcing him to shield his eyes with his hands.
Orelights, he thought. Orian channelers would capture the reflection of lanternlight in the ore as it formed. One orelight was usually enough to light a large area, and he’d never seen so many in such close proximity.
More shouts, the sounds of battle approaching. Who is attacking? The west? The north? The south? Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Guy and Grian are in danger.
Something brushed against his side and he jumped, but whatever had touched him seemed to have moved on.
He peered through his fingers, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the clearing, which truly was enormous. Hundreds of soldiers clashed, half of them eastern legionnaires, and the other half an indeterminable enemy clad in crimson armor, their faces hidden.
There! He spotted Grian, now clad in armor, doing battle with a foe twice his size but holding his own, parrying strikes with the perfect form instilled in him by hours spent in the training yard. Every so often he would release his trademark battle cry as he counterattacked.
Gareth started toward him and something slapped against his thigh. He looked down, shocked to find a sword hanging from his waist, sheathed in the scabbard attached to his armor. His mouth dropping open, he pulled it out, a thrill racing through him as the light caught the edge.
This was no practice sword, the edge honed to the sharpness of a razor blade, the point a dagger meant to pierce flesh and bone.
Raising his weapon, he rushed into battle, releasing a cry of his own.
The first soldier he met was one of their own, Horj Drummond, a barrel-chested career legionnaire who occasionally let Gareth and his brothers hold his sword and shield. He almost always bore a smile and jape on his lips.
Not now.
Now his mouth was twisted into a snarl, his eyes dark orbs of fury as he hacked at three crimson opponents at once, kicking one back while whirling to slash another across the shoulder. The third he bull-rushed, smashing the crown of his helm into his midsection, rocking him back.
The sheer violence of the battle was beyond Gareth’s wildest imagination.
Twisting away, Horj regained his feet, noticed Gareth, and shouted, “To Guy! Save the future king!”
Where? Gareth was about to ask, but the legionnaire was already pointing, pushing him toward where he finally spotted Guy.
His heart dropped to his feet.
Guy was also wearing armor, but his helmet was missing, his long ginger locks askew. He was backing away from a red-clad foe, who continued to strike with forceful slashes from a massive broadsword, pushing the prince back. Though Guy tried to block each blow, he was clearly outmatched.
Gareth found his feet, churning his legs as he ran toward his brother, who was all alone, separated from the rest of the soldiers. Another powerful strike, this one knocking the sword from Guy’s fingers. Guy backed away, trying to turn to run, but he wouldn’t make it in time, couldn’t make it in time, not if he was a man grown.
“Arrrrrr!” Gareth yelled, rushing in from the side, throwing himself between the enemy and Guy, bringing his sword up in the nick of time, the impact shuddering from his sword to his hand to his arm, instantly numbing muscle and tendon. Of their own volition, his fingers opened and he dropped the blade. The enemy laughed, swinging his massive weapon from side to side with a flourish.
Guy tried to shoulder his way past Gareth to protect him, but Gareth held him back with one arm. Not this time. I am the Shield. “Stay behind me,” he growled, surprising even himself with the forcefulness of his tone. T
his was truth. This was purpose. To save my brother’s life, he realized. To be his Shield.
Oh Ore, he thought, realization dawning in his mind. His uncle, Coren, didn’t just die in the Battle at the Razor. He died to protect his brother, who was now the king of the realm. Gareth’s father. Coren had been the Shield.
And now I am.
This was the truth his mother had alluded to earlier, when she’d told him not to blink, to face it head on with honor, with loyalty, with duty.
And Gareth, only eight years old, but well on his way to becoming a man, didn’t blink. Not as his enemy kicked him in the chest, rocking him back. Not as the large man loomed over him, his sword raised over his head. He was going to die, yes. He knew. He knew. But he was dying so Guy could live. The brother who had always stood up for him, always protected him, even when he didn’t need him to.
The moment before the blade fell, he realized something else:
Guy knew. This whole time, Guy knew he would be king and that Gareth had been born to protect him.
Goodbye, brother, he thought. Be the great king you were born to be.
The edge of the blade flashed with orelight as it arced downwards.
And then stopped. The tip was a fingerbreadth from his eye, glittering.
What happened? he thought, his breath trapped in his lungs. Had his foe been slain by another? Another truth linked together in his mind, like a broken chain forged anew.
There’s no blood.
Though the intensity of the battle had taken his breath away, he’d yet to see a single drop of blood—not on blade or skin or ground. Even the blade hovering above him was clean.
He frowned.
The blade lifted, his foe tossing it aside, raising a hand to lift his faceplate. His father, Oren Ironclad, King of the Eastern Realm, stared down at him with proud eyes and pursed lips. Were those tears twinkling in his eyes?
“Son, today you became a man. You are ready to take the oaths of the Shield.”
He extended a hand. Finally, Gareth blinked. And then he clasped his father’s hand.
“I give my life for yours, freely and without exception,” Gareth said, repeating the words his father had taught him. He said the words to his brother, Guy, whose expression was serious, but not without emotion. He could almost see the mask fracturing around the edges. “You shall be king, and I your Shield. From this point forward, until the day I die.”
Guy’s lips opened, closed. Opened again. “I shall honor your sacrifice by my service to the realm, by ruling with honor, always maintaining the best interests of our people. Before making any decision, I shall consider what you might’ve done. You shall always be my hidden counsel, my brother, my Shield. From this point forward, until the day I die.”
The last word spoken, there were no cheers from the audience gathered to witness the ceremony. Gareth and Guy clasped hands, and a thousand unspoken words seemed to pass between them. I’m sorry, Guy mouthed.
“I know,” Gareth said. “But you don’t have to be.”
They turned to face those who continued to watch. Heads nodded in appreciation and fists were pressed to chests in a show of loyalty.
Gareth’s father beat his own chest, while simultaneously biting his lip.
Gareth’s mother kissed her fingertips and pushed them toward her sons.
Grian, however, refused to looked at either of them.
“As usual, I might as well not exist,” Grian said. He hadn’t stopped moping since the ceremony. They were supposed to be polishing their armor, but he was playing with a hangnail on his thumb.
Gareth said, “You would rather be the Shield?”
Guy looked away, though he continued to polish his breastplate.
“Yes,” Grian said without hesitation. “I would rather be anything than third. The brother without purpose. Guy will be king, you will be his protector, and I will be forgotten.”
Guy stood suddenly, shoving his armor to the side. “You are so selfish, you know that?” he snapped. He stalked away, slamming the door to the armory behind him.
Grian looked at Gareth. Sighed. “Sorry. I know neither of you chose this. Can you believe Guy knew the whole time and never told either of us?”
Gareth wished his brother wasn’t so fool-headed sometimes. “That’s because he hated it. He still hates it. He would rather the roles were reversed.”
Grian seemed to chew on that for a while, and then finally ripped off the nail and tossed it away. A spot of blood welled from his fingertip. “Sorry,” he said again, sucking on his thumb to stop the bleeding.
“You already said that.”
“I know. It’s just, I feel left out.”
Gareth shook his head. “Ore monkey,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“I said you can be a real ore monkey sometimes.”
Grian was on his feet in an instant. Gareth followed him, refusing to back down. Grian pushed him. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why? It’s true.”
Grian shoved him again, harder. “Why? Because I want to be a part of the Ironclad legacy? Because I want to follow in father’s footsteps, or Uncle Coren’s, or somebody’s?”
“No, because you always act and never think,” Gareth said, jamming a finger against his skull.
That stopped Grian cold. “What are you talking about?”
“You are second in line for the throne, you ore monkey. You could be king someday. That’s more than I can say.”
Grian’s eyes widened. Slowly, a smile worked its way onto his face. “I hadn’t thought of that.” The smile quickly faded. “But first you and Guy would have to…” He trailed off.
“Yes. We would have to die. But I will die before Guy dies. I will die to protect him.”
Grian stepped forward, all fight having left him. He placed a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “I know you will. You are a good brother. And if I ever become king, I will honor both of you.”
Several months had passed, and talk of the Shield and the line of succession had moved on to other topics: the spring harvest; another promising tunnel that might lead through the Mournful Mountains; news of the civil war in the south; and the king’s most recent order to rebuild the Bridge of Triumph in order to mount an attack on the west.
But Gareth hadn’t forgotten. It was the last thing he thought about before bed and the first thing he thought about when he woke up. It was like a shadow haunting his every footstep. One day, he would die. Not of old age or some rare disease or a terrible accident, but to save his brother’s life. It wasn’t so much the fear of death that left him feeling as empty as a dried out husk, but the fact that the day he was born the days had started counting down, like an hourglass turned over, spilling its sand through a glass tube. He wasn’t so young and naïve that he didn’t realize that every man had their own hourglass; it was simply that his was much smaller. For all he knew, he might be halfway through his life already. It was that thought that stole sleep and made him feel uneasy.
In public, he hid his feelings well. He relied on humor and banter more and more to keep from being sucked into the dark hole that seemed to be beneath his feet.
Now, however, as he watched the swift-moving river through Ironwood churn past, he couldn’t help the darkness that surrounded him despite the brilliant light of the noonday sun.
“Ore,” he muttered. I’m pathetic. I bet Uncle Coren never moped around like this. I bet he embraced his role as the Shield. I bet he relished marching into battle to protect his brother.
He was pulled from his thoughts when he spotted something gleaming in the sky. He thought it must be an ore hawk, but then it fell, dropping rapidly toward the forest. It clinked off branches, tumbling awkwardly to the forest floor, landing somewhere on the opposite side of the river.
Something drew him to it. Curiosity perhaps. He stood on the riverbank, considering his options. There was a bridge downstream, but it was a half day’s walk, which meant a full day to return to
this point on the opposite side. During the summer his brothers and he would often swim in this very stream, when the water levels were low and the currents weak. This time of year, however, the river was fed by the ice melt from the Mournful Mountains, turning it into a cold, powerful river.
But that thing that fell…
Gareth pulled his shirt over his head, tugged off his boots, and prepared to jump.
The moment before he leapt he heard a shout from behind, but he was already airborne, his head twisting around to see who had called out.
Cold water and bubbles surrounded him, and something seemed to grab him by the feet, tugging him downward. Thankfully, he’d managed to hold his breath, and his feet found the bottom, pushing off hard as he swam toward the surface. He was a reasonably good swimmer, better than Grian for sure, though not as strong as Guy.
His head burst from the river for a long moment, and he swiveled to see where he was. The forest seemed to be rushing past far too quickly, the current far stronger than it had appeared from dry land.
The force from below grabbed his ankles once more, threatening to pull him under. Just before it did, however, he spotted a fleeting form sprinting along the riverbank. “Gareth!” the form shouted.
Water covered him once more, even as he recognized the voice, the form. Guy.
He pushed that thought from his mind as he struggled against the current, which might’ve been a dozen foes pulling at his arms, his legs. Any ideas of reaching the opposite riverbank vanished as he began to fight for his life.
I’m the Shield, he thought. I can’t die now. I have to save my brother’s life.
But the river had other plans, dragging him across the bottom with a powerful undertow, scraping his exposed stomach and back with sharp stones. There was a brief respite when the current weakened, and he fought his way back to the surface. Guy was even with him now, his strides long. “Hang on!” he shouted. “I’ve got you!”
Panic set in, as Gareth realized what Guy was about to do. “No!” he tried to shout, but a whitecap hit him in the face and turned the word into a gurgle.
