Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

  The Heroes’ Tales

  Reaper of the Flame by M.L. Spencer

  Blood and Stone by Phil Tucker

  Another Chosen One by Daniel Parsons

  The Skincutter’s Daughter by Joshua Robertson

  The Thorn Witch L.F. Oake

  A Tale of Two Thieves by Sara C. Roethle

  Whips, Toothpicks, and Doorstoppers by Stevie Collier

  Heart of a Shadow Child by Brandon Bar

  Broken Honor by Megan Haskell

  The Wolf’s Law by Jonathan Yanez

  Falling Ashes by Laura Greenwood

  Curse the Dead by Logan Keys

  Warmarked by David Estes

  Death Bane by J.T. Williams

  Redemption Day by Jason Paul Rice

  Ragged Heroes by Andy Peloquin

  The Wizard of Bastion by Susan Faw

  The Last Ashosi by Oz Monroe

  Reaper of the Flame

  M.L. Spencer

  Arjun stared down at the small girl drowning in his arms. He didn’t know her name, which upset him. He wondered what it could be. He supposed it didn’t matter; the girl’s name would just be a helpful addition to his prayers.

  He gripped the girl more tightly as her struggles grew desperate, frantic. He locked his arms, clutching her against him as her bony elbows ground into his ribs, her legs churning the water. He held her there until her frail little body finally gave up and relaxed into death. Her black hair rose to float on the calming surface of the water, along with the embroidered fabric of her skirt. Her legs stretched away from him, bobbing on the surface.

  All around, frogs and birds resumed their melody. The whistling-blur of cicadas whirled up to speed from the dense growth along the riverbank. The noise was loud, drowning out the thunder of his pulse.

  He let go of the child, keeping his eyes on her as she floated away, turning slowly on the current. She took her time about leaving him, as if reluctant to go. He stood there in the frigid water of the river, feeling conflicted. In some ways he was glad. Glad to help, glad to speed her on her journey to the next life. Before her fragile innocence could become distorted by years, warped into something hateful, something wicked and cruel.

  He started sloshing toward the shore but stopped, frustrated by his own confusion. Why had he come here? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter; nothing mattered anymore. He shot a glance back over his shoulder at the body of the child riding the river away from him. Had it all been just a dream?

  No. She was still there, moving on to a better place.

  He trudged through the water, struggled on to the riverbank. His clothing was drenched, his body shivering. Fumbling, he groped through the rushes until he found it: a fruit the little girl had been holding before he’d knocked her into the water. It had rolled away, coming to rest in the red clay along the river’s edge.

  He lifted the mango and bit into it, lips smacking as he slurped its thick juices. The flesh was sweet, over-ripe. It squished in his hands, dribbling down his face and drooling from his chin. He didn’t care; he devoured the fruit. The flesh felt good in his belly, filling him with warmth even as his skin shivered from the cold of the river.

  Somewhere downstream, a little girl floated quietly to the next life.

  * * *

  “Kneel.”

  Arjun Khalal knelt in the line of men on the edge of the Big Hole. He knelt because it didn’t matter anymore. His father was dead, his brother, his mother, his sisters… his own wife and infant sons. They were all there, down below, in the bottom of the pit.

  Waiting for him.

  He could smell the heady stench of their rot. It made him gag. This close to the hole, the miasma created by the decomposition of so many corpses wrung tears from his eyes. It was like a palpable wall of festering decay that corroded his throat and clawed at his eyes.

  Behind him, his brightly-clad captors conferred amongst themselves in hushed voices. He didn’t know what they were waiting for. He leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of the bottom of the hole. But it was too deep, and he was too far away from the edge. All he could see was the cliff across from him on the other side.

  Large black birds wheeled above them in the air. The summer heat seared his skin, unforgiving. A breeze caressed his face, stirred from the direction of the river and the jungle. Arjun closed his eyes, taking comfort in the feel of it.

  * * *

  Like everyone else, he’d welcomed the Kavera when they’d first arrived in Daro Province, selling false hopes and lies for a price none thought to question. They’d overthrown the oppressive Ravesh regime, liberating a burgeoning population of peasants who had suffered greatly under its rule. At first, everything seemed better.

  Then, a year later, the Cleansing began.

  It started with the followers of the lesser temples; they were the first to disappear. No one knew where they had gone. Distant screams were heard in the night. Dwellings were found vacant the next day, emptied of provisions; walls and dirt floors streaked with blood. Entire families vanished.

  Then, weeks later, the smell came to Daro Province like an unwelcome visitor invading in the night. The villages sent out search parties to look for the source of the malodor. One by one, those parties disappeared. The miasma grew, became a thick cloud of choking horror. It covered Daro Province like a suffocating blanket of rot. The common folk began to panic.

  But it was already too late.

  * * *

  Arjun Khalal stared out across the opening of the wide hole, tears eroding the dirt that covered his face. His executioners moved forward to the line of men, taking up position at their backs. Circling crows called down from the sky, eager for the feast.

  Foul vapors rose in visible distortions from the pit, searing his lungs.

  His wife and children were down there somewhere, their corpses turning to liquid in the heat. He wanted to see them again. Perhaps his body would fall beside theirs. Perhaps their spirits would encounter each other in the next life. Or perhaps they would never meet again. It was impossible to know.

  The Flame is both creation and destruction…

  The opening in the ground was enormous, a natural sinkhole where the Kavera had thrown the bodies of the downtrodden, covered them with dirt, then piled more corpses on top. After months, estimates of the dead numbered in the tens of thousands. No one knew for certain the actual total.

  The Flame dwells within each of us…

  Arjun stared across the gaping maw and wept. His brothers lingered silently on their knees beside him. He knew his tears shamed them, but there was little he could do about it. The last of the Hira went courageously to their martyrdom. It was their time to pass on the Flame.

  The soul is the Flame…

  There was a shout. Then the first man was wrestled toward the edge of the pit. Peshra, one of the Five Elders of the Hira. One of his captors wielded a long, curved dagger. There, at the edge of the pit, Peshra’s throat was sawed open. Blood welled from the gash, spreading down the front of his shirt. He made a gurgling sound, struggling for air through the fluids drowning his throat.

  The men gave him a shove, casting Peshra’s body into the hole.

  The purpose of the soul is to help one another…

  Arjun closed his eyes as they dragged the next man toward the cavernous maw. There was a short, ragged scream that ended in a scraping noise. Arjun flinched. He groped within, scra
mbling for courage he wasn’t sure he had.

  The Flame is both conflict and peace…

  One by one, his brothers were slain and cast into the pit. One by one, their flames were extinguished. Some ended in screams. Some ended in silence. The sharp odor of feces added to the smell of decay.

  I am a Seeker of the Flame…

  It was Arjun’s turn. His captors wrenched him forward. They wrestled him toward the wide opening in the ground. He could smell the reek of their sweat, almost as powerful as the stench rising from the pit. They cast him down to the ground by the hole’s rocky edge.

  At last, Arjun had a view of the mounded corpses of his brothers, his mothers, his fathers, his sisters, his sons. Broken, unmoving. Crawling with vermin, infested with disease and decay. A gruesome mosaic of colorful clothing. Large birds spread their wings, pecking and squawking as they hopped from limb to limb. A thick cloud of flies bloomed up from the hole, swirled for a moment, then dove back down again.

  Arjun’s eyes widened in horror, his jaw hanging slack.

  He saw the glint of the knife just as it came for his throat.

  At that moment, something broke inside him.

  The Flame inside can burn…

  He swept out with his foot, knocking the nearest man off his feet. Then he sprang toward the other two guards, shoving them backward over the edge.

  His momentum carried him after them. Their terrified shrieks accompanied him all the way down into the pit.

  * * *

  Arjun became aware of darkness and oozing stench. He woke from a dream in which the snake-nosed deva Varudra handed him back his own flame with a look of contempt in his slivered eyes.

  Take it, his dream-self seemed to be arguing with Varudra. I don’t want it anymore! Please, let me move on!

  But the snake-nosed deva shook his head.

  And so Arjun found himself awake, buried amongst the litter of dead. His whole body assaulted him with pain. The festering stench of decay hit him in the face like a brick, wringing his stomach like a rag. He turned his head and spewed his guts all over the bed of flesh beneath him. He kept retching, coughing out fluids and choking on rot until he was empty inside, wracked with dry heaves that wouldn’t quit.

  He opened his eyes but couldn’t see. He was alive but wished he wasn’t. He lay in his grave, already buried amongst the dead. His clothing was soaked through. Maggots wormed and wriggled against his skin. He felt a stabbing pain in his foot: probably the bite of a rat.

  Arjun screamed, howling his soul’s torment. He squirmed and writhed, desperate to wrench his body out from between the thick clot of cadavers. But he was too packed in, pinned by the crushing weight of the corpses piled against him, on top of him, beneath him, smothering him with gore. He burrowed his hand into a gap between limbs and pried, trying to create enough of an airspace just to breathe.

  Somehow, he worked his hand out of the thick mound of flesh. He flexed his fingers, groping at the air. He wrenched his arm out and then his shoulder; finally, his head. It was like being born all over again, like clawing his way out of a rotten womb. The walls of flesh caved in behind him, gripping his legs. Trying to trap him again, he suspected.

  Arjun struggled on, at last freeing his feet. It was as if the dead didn’t want to give him up. He flopped forward, landing face-down on a thick mat of human hair.

  Rats scurried away into hiding. Then they came right back out again.

  Arjun considered the advancing rodents and let out a sobbing whine, caving in to desperation. He tried to stand. But the pain was too great; both of his legs were surely broken. Tears pricked his eyes as he stared up at the sides of the Big Hole. The walls of the sinkhole were steep and sheer. There were no paths leading out of the pit.

  He would die here, he realized. But not quickly.

  Would he die by thirst, or by hunger? Hunger would be the worst; he knew to what unthinkable lengths starvation could drive a man. Would he prey on rats, or would the rats devour him first? Other, darker endings tormented his mind. He stared around at the limbs of his brethren.

  He didn’t want to die like this. He sat down on the mounding heap of corpses and wailed. Ducking his chin between his legs, Arjun wrapped his arms around his head. Then he curled up into a tight ball and wept.

  * * *

  He awoke to a plague of flies. They roamed over his skin, landing on his face and eyes.

  His throat was sore and swollen from breathing the acrid fumes of decay. The very air was caustic; it was becoming hard just to breathe. The stench ate away at the lining of his airways.

  Arjun rolled over onto his back, stirring up a blanket of insects that rose, swarming, only to settle right back down again. He gazed unblinking at the wide opening of the hole. The sky above was a fierce blue, adorned with white and wispy clouds. He lay there, gasping for air with tightening lungs. A fly landed on his cracked lips, wandered into his mouth.

  He knew, now, what manner of death would claim him. At least it would be sooner rather than later; that was some comfort. His throat stung as if scalded. Each breath came harder than the last.

  He turned his head to the side and stared into the swollen, graying face of a man he had known well. Arjun recoiled in horror. He tried to squirm away from the corpse, only to be confronted by yet another. A bloated hand lay before him. A woman’s hand with long, maggoty fingers, draped with many silver chains that extended to a bracelet strangling an engorged wrist. It reminded him of a piece of jewelry his wife had owned.

  There are many paths to the Flame…

  A fly buzzed against his ear. It crawled around in there, tickling, tormenting. He lay back, staring up into the blue, blue sky. Watching the backdrop of clouds moving behind the fixed mouth of the hole.

  A shadow fell across him.

  A man stood at the edge of the rim, blocking out the light of the sun.

  Fear kicked up the pace of Arjun’s heart, sending it racing ahead at a furious pace. Then hope washed over him. If the man was Ravesh, perhaps he would have the compassion to finish him off. If the man was Kavera…well, there was still a chance he would do him the same mercy.

  Arjun lifted his head and opened his mouth to call out, but the noise that escaped his lips was pathetic and weak. He tried again, straining, producing only a rasping hiss. Desperate, he flailed his stiff arms at the sky.

  The man turned away.

  Choking on misery, Arjun tried calling out to him again. Guttural, dry moans escaped his lips. A fly buzzed out of his mouth. Tears dribbled down his cheeks. He let his arms fall limply back to his sides.

  Arjun gave up after that. He lay back in a space between two distended, festering men. Choking on acrid fumes and fly larvae, he cried himself either to sleep or to death. He had no way of knowing which.

  * * *

  In the fever-dream, he saw the devi Vrishi floating pink flower petals on a mirror-glass surface. She scooped one petal up in her hand and held it outstretched toward him with a smile. Then she squeezed her hand, crushing the fragile petal, water dribbling through her fingers. Her grin deepened, became transfixed.

  Arjun snapped awake, shivering and bleary, drenched in cold layers of sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force a scream past swollen lips. All that escaped was a thin gurgle that drowned in desperation.

  The pile of decomposing flesh slid away.

  He was lying on his back on a straw pallet, blanketed by darkness.

  He felt confused. Had he already passed beyond and been reborn? Was he, then, a spirit-flame, wandering the infinite betweenness, waiting to be rekindled?

  No… he was still himself, still Arjun Khalal. And, so far as he could tell, he was even still alive. His body throbbed with shivering pain. Searing heat burned through every bone. Each breath he took dragged broken ribs through the tissues of his lungs. His eyes leaked a continuous stream of water down his face.

  “Victory belongs to the light.”

  The voice of an old man revolved toward h
im through the darkness.

  “… the light,” he whispered. The ancient greeting wheezed past his raw lips. He couldn’t see beyond the shadows and the corruption in his eyes. The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He moved his head, trying to orient toward the sound, spilling fresh tears down his cheeks.

  “You saved me. Why?”

  A scuffing noise told him the old man hovered over him. The sound of phlegm rattled in a throat.

  “There was rumor that the Hira were martyred. I did not believe it. I felt compelled to discover the truth with my own eyes. They were” ―the frothy sound of clearing sputum― “… into the hole. But I found one alive, one whose flame still yet burned. So I fled and sought help from the village.”

  Arjun listened to this, marveling. “Why was I spared?” He couldn’t fathom the answer.

  “You were spared so that you might live to fulfill your vows,” the voice hissed, suddenly very close against his ear.

  Startled, Arjun flinched away. The motion brought more pain, so much that he almost cried out. He gritted his teeth against it, groaning.

  The old man was right. Arjun was an initiated warrior of the Light; he’d been administered the ritual oaths to defend the oppressed and persecuted. His most sacred obligation, his singular duty, now impossible to accomplish.

  “You wasted your time.” He sighed with bitter resolve. “I cannot defend the oppressed with broken arms and mangled legs. You saved a cripple, old man.”

  Arjun supposed the man was a hermit; what else could he be? Otherwise, that craggy, wet voice would be known to him. He knew every man of Daro Province. A cold, pervasive feeling settled over him. He whispered, “What is your name?”

  “Call me Sajhi.”

  So the old man was a hermit, probably a guru of some sort. One who had given up all worldly possessions, even his own name.

  “Sajhi, I cannot see. I cannot stand. I cannot fight…”

  “Only one of your legs is broken, and the break is clean. You will heal. You may never have full use of your right arm. But you will learn to compensate. Now, rest.”