The Shield That Drew Close

The second shield tried to wrench itself out of Malket’s hands before he had both boots through the shop door.

Malket caught the rim against his thigh. The shield’s face swung left, its lower edge knocking the doorframe hard enough to rattle the hanging bell. He held on until it stopped.

“Still doing it,” he said.

Orris stepped around the counter. His bandaged hand pulled when he reached for the shield, so he took the weight with his other arm. “Set it down. Let it lie flat.”

Malket lowered it onto the worktable. The shield settled with a heavy wooden knock. Its iron rim bore fresh scrapes along one side.

“Guard nearly went over with it yesterday,” Malket said. “He caught himself. The shield caught the door.”

“Did it pull before he raised it?”

“No. Only when he brought it up.” Malket rested a hand on the rim. “I can take the first one out again tonight. This one stays here until you’re satisfied.”

Orris looked over the face, the grip, the arm loops. There was no obvious break in the wood, and the grip sat straight. When he lifted the shield by its handle, it stayed balanced. When he slipped his forearm through the loops and raised it, the shield dragged left with a stubborn, steady pressure.

He lowered it before it could twist his wrist.

The ward remained bright. He could feel it under the wood, a low, even tension that pressed out from the shield’s center. The pull came from closer in, from the harness against his arm.

“Hold the rim while I work the straps,” Orris said.

Malket braced the shield on the table. Orris tested each loop with his fingertips. The leather was worn but sound. One fastening sat tighter than the others, though it loosened without a struggle. Nothing in the arrangement explained the pull.

He raised the shield again. The same sideways drag caught his forearm.

The material’s voice came in a narrow, anxious insistence: “Closer. Closer. Keep him close.”

Orris lowered it and looked to the inner harness. “There’s something under this loop.”

Malket leaned in. “A splinter?”

“Maybe. I need the strap open.”

He worked a bone pick under the leather seam. The old stitching gave way a thread at a time. His wrapped hand trembled when he held the leather taut, and he paused to set the pick down rather than force it. The cut had started to throb again beneath the linen.

Malket watched his hand. “I can open it.”