Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  If so, he’d probably earned it by rights. Hardwin was not proud of what he’d done in this war to get by, but he’d survived. A thing that most of his friends and leaders had failed to do.

  It was still night, and this felt like a dream to the Captain. The light would come, he thought, and this would all turn back. The army would not be walking this way with rotting flesh, decaying where they stood. He’d wake from this nightmare to find it had all been a dream spelled sleep…and Hardwin wouldn’t have to try to explain to his men that they were using black magic—forbidden magic—to win a war.

  He arrived and his second in command waited at his tent. “The men are worried, sir. They think you’ve been spelled.”

  “I think so, too,” Hardwin muttered. “Prepare yourself,” he added, “for what I am about to tell you is overwhelming.”

  The young man stared at his Captain with bated breath.

  “The witch is coming with an army of dead men. They will fight the Immortals along with us.”

  And the Captain poured both himself and the young Lieutenant a drink. It was going to be a long night.

  The young man sat down, mouth agape, and took his cup. He emptied it, put it down, and then opened his mouth to speak. Then closed it once more.

  “That’s about the sum of it,” Hardwin said. “But what choice do we have?”

  “Have you seen them?” the Lieutenant stuttered. “The dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s real? It’s not a story to trick me?”

  Hardwin shook his head. The Lieutenant turned paler than a white horse.

  “You should prepare the men,” Hardwin said and the young man nodded but was slow to do his bidding.

  It would be quite a task, so Hardwin set to helping him.

  They thought it might be best to gather the men into formation for when the others arrived.

  Hardwin felt they only did so because they thought this was a tale told by a crazy Captain who’d lost one too many battles. He sort of hoped that would be the case, and that the witch would disappear into the ether of the night, but no…

  Not far off, he saw her form, purposely marching along, with tens of thousands behind her.

  He stood tall and waited.

  But what he really needed was more drink.

  Chapter 8

  The witch could see the Captain waiting for her, braced, pale—still unsure if this was real.

  She remembered well when magic first came into her life and how much of a surprise it had been. She’d been given two children to care for in repayment of magic stolen from a druid. Also, he’d cursed her with everlasting life so that the babes would have her as long as they needed.

  But that was then and this was now. Magic was the very fabric of her life as it were. It folded neatly into every crevice of Esa, hugging tightly to each nuance, and so, it was difficult to see precisely through Hardwin’s eyes when she came down the hill with her army of dead.

  The sun began to rise, and the glare shone down on each face of the living army. All of what she’d expected to find: the horror, disgust, betrayal, fear, and even awe could be seen clearly at a distance.

  Her own army wasn’t quiet either. It moaned, and groaned, and creaked, and squished.

  The Captain was growing greener by the second.

  Regret pulled at his features, but Esa figured he was in for a penny, and these were his pound.

  “Captain,” she said, rather energetic even without sleep. “I have brought you your army.”

  Luckily, before Hardwin could lose his composure, a rider from the east came running.

  His horse flew down the lane as if wizard’s fire was on his heels.

  “Captain! My Captain!”

  The Lieutenant and the Captain shared a look as the horse arrived then spooked at the army of dead.

  The soldier leapt off still running, tripping, and almost falling to get to their side.

  He ignored the creatures and only looked on to his Captain. “They are here,” he said, breathless. “The Immortal forces are but a few minutes behind me!”

  “Ready the men!” the Captain called out the order. “Where are you going?” he asked Esa, grabbing her by the arm to stop her.

  He was alarmed, seeing her fleeing, and he wasn’t ready to lead her creation.

  “Don’t worry, Captain. If I am to go to war, I’d like to wear the proper attire is all.”

  She brushed him from her arm, smiled and said, “Steel yourself, Captain. You will prevail. And the dead will wait for my order when I return.”

  She whistled then, and her horse came charging through. Esa mounted, waved, and then kicked her heels, and off she went.

  The horse thundered out of camp toward the main road back to her house.

  She flew down the lane, riding hard, until the horse lathered and blew in and out, but she made good time now that the ground had dried.

  Once home, she leapt from the saddle and went through the door, cursing the men for leaving it open.

  Her hat was on the table, and the black cape, too.

  Most witches don’t use a wand. It’s not as if the sticks have power. But Esa had one that was for decoration, and it would be useful in focusing her power with the new followers.

  She placed her hat on, the point reaching for the sky, tied her cape, and she mounted once again, feeling far more herself than before.

  She made it back just in time to see the Immortal forces crest the top of the hill.

  “My, my,” Esa said, seeing the golden, shiny metal the Immortals wore.

  “Yes,” said Hardwin, his face austere more than usual. “Are you prepared, Esa?”

  His eyes took in her hat and cape, where she sat still mounted on her horse. She nodded, raised her wand, and pointed at the hill.

  As one, her army turned their heads.

  Then what was or wasn’t of their bodies started marching through the encampment for the hill adjacent from where they had come.

  The living army watched them make their slow trek toward their enemy.

  Esa rode to the middle and joined them.

  Hardwin could hardly leave her to do the hardest work, so he signaled and his Lieutenant brought his horse.

  Mounted, he galloped after her.

  When he caught up, they rode side by side.

  The Immortal leaders watched from the top of the hill as their own forces marched downward. If they were surprised by the dead army, they did not show it.

  Their long pale hair flew in the breeze. Both women and men were leaders.

  Hardwin had been right, Esa thought, the Immortals look nearly giant compared to the humans.

  But they could be killed, and that was all that mattered.

  Esa lifted her wand and shook it high above her head.

  The first in their army picked up speed, and more followed. They shambled more swiftly, then they started to run.

  Esa kicked the horse into a gallop, and Hardwin pulled his sword, holding it as high as she did her wand.

  His men would see the gleam of his metal—a signal for all to attack.

  He heard the men shouting and now rushing behind them, filtering through the dead, to aid in the battle.

  The dead rushed headlong into spears of the Immortals. Swords as long as their bodies cut them in half.

  But they crawled onward.

  Even with limbs missing, they’d still manage to attack the Immortals. Some still had weapons and they fought, albeit without form, chopping at the Immortals roughly. But with so many, the odds were in their favor, and blades were hitting their mark often enough to cause major damage to the Immortal forces.

  Esa rode her horse well, her wand doing the fighting, and she orchestrated as many attacks as she could manage.

  Hardwin found himself unhorsed after an immortal speared his charger in the eye.

  With a battle cry of anger, Hardwin brought the giant down by cutting his heels then his throat.

  A woman with a g
iant hammer rained blows down on his head, but he parried them effectively until she left a side open, and he cut into her stomach.

  After that, it was a blur for Hardwin—of flesh and teeth from the dead side, and blood and pain from both his army and the Immortals. His own pain he could not feel.

  The battle went on until the night. Until the bodies piled so high it was difficult to do more than crawl across them to fight the enemy.

  Esa had been unhorsed by mid-day, and now she fought the Immortals with her own powers, shocking them with lightning or turning them into toads.

  The ground was littered with squashed guts from both sides stepping on her transformed victims.

  When darkness fell, a horn sounded in the distance.

  At first, Esa wasn’t sure what it was, but then, the men on her side began to cry out. They screamed a yell of victory so loud it hurt her ears.

  The Immortals were retreating.

  And just in time.

  Because Esa knew that her magic had run its course. From midnight to midnight the army would live once more, but soon they would return never to rise again.

  Chapter 9

  “Captain!” she called picking through the bodies in the darkness.

  The Immortals were gone, and when the moon was highest, the dead army had fallen silent.

  Now, there was an eerie quiet across an endless battlefield.

  The wounded had all been collected, but Hardwin was not among them.

  He must be dead, Esa thought, fighting a bitter resentment and sadness that threatened to overwhelm her. “You shouldn’t care, Esa. He had just cut your head off, hadn’t he?”

  “Hardwin!” she called.

  She promised the frantic Lieutenant that she would find him. He had enough on his hands with the wounded.

  “All right you,” she said to her wand. “You’ve done a good job today, but I need you once more.”

  She focused her energy and a small light spun out of her wand, dancing in the air like a sprite.

  Esa followed it until it landed in a pile of bodies.

  Pulling an Immortal from the top, she thought she heard a groan. “Captain?”

  “Esa?”

  “Oh, Hardwin!”

  She pulled more bodies from him, and he sucked in a breath.

  His pale face was very still, and his eyes were half shut. “Did we…Did we win?” he wheezed so quietly she had to put an ear to his mouth to understand.

  Esa bent over him, hands clasped around his cold one. “Yes. Yes, Hardwin, you won. The Castles of man are safe.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Good.”

  His eyes opened but he wasn’t looking at her. Rather, the stars.

  Esa knew that look, she’d seen it so many times. “Here,” she said, angry that her voice shook with tears. “Let me help with the pain.”

  Wand to his head, the wrinkles there flattened out. He relaxed. “What can I do?” Esa asked.

  He whispered, “Just sit with me a while.”

  “Okay.”

  Into the silence he finally spoke again between long pauses in his breathing. “Promise me…”

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Promise me you will help.”

  “Who? The King?”

  “Yes.”

  She had to lean down again to hear more.

  “They will return. Anna. My Anna…”

  And then he was gone.

  “Hardwin!” she cried.

  Esa leaned over her knees and let the tears fall for the good captain.

  When she was sure that he was cold, and she was finished, she rose and dusted herself off.

  Esa fixed her cape and her hat, deciding that her wand would be a permanent fixture since it had proved so worthy.

  She returned to the camp and met with the Lieutenant, offering her help for those who were wounded.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Without your army, we were sure to have lost.”

  She nodded. “I promised I would help.”

  “Did you find him?” he asked.

  “I did.”

  The Lieutenant’s expression turned sad. But there was a glimmer of hope in his gaze. “I guess we’re in charge now.”

  Esa met his eye with a firm nod. “I suppose.”

  The better men have all died, thought Esa. Although, the Lieutenant was a brawny young man, the kind of lad who was strong. Just the type she’d be interested in, if she were looking.

  The End

  * * *

  Continue the Curse the Stars series book one releasing in February 2018

  www.logansfiction.com

  * * *

  About the Author

  Logan Keys writes in horror, fantasy, both young adult and adult, and even some romance. She brings darkness and light into all of her stories no matter the genre, and her focus is almost always compelling and gripping characters.

  Read More from Logan Keys

  www.logansfiction.com

  Warmarked

  A Short Story from The Fatemarked Epic

  David Estes

  Map of the Four Kingdoms

  To view a downloadable map online: http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com/p/fatemarked-map-of-four-kingdoms.html

  The Northern Kingdom, Darrin- Circa 528

  Tarin Sheary was counting crows again. It was something he did at the end of a battle. He figured there was a ratio between the number of dead and the number of crows. It stood to reason that more corpses meant more food meant more crows.

  And today there were a damn lot of crows.

  A murder of them, he remembered. Not a flock or herd, but a murder.

  Strangely appropriate for the occasion.

  The snow was falling in sheets, but the crows didn’t seem to mind, pecking away. Hired laborers waded through them, piling bodies atop carts to be burned later. In the heart of winter, the ground was frozen solid and burial was impossible.

  Just north of the battlefield were the blade-like spires of the castle city of Darrin, the easternmost stronghold in the northern kingdom. The frontlines of the century-old war against the east. Toward the sea stood the dark cliffs known as the Razor, though they were now nearly invisible, obscured by the heavy snowfall.

  The battle had lasted almost a day, until the northerners had finally gained the advantage, routing the easterners and pushing them back toward the Mournful Mountains.

  Finally, the shadowy voice in Tarin’s head had faded away, the last of its bloodlust sated.

  I hate you, Tarin thought now, but, of course, there was no answer. The evil inside him only ever responded on its own terms.

  “Armored lug,” a voice said, drawing Tarin’s gaze away from the carnage of the battlefield.

  Frozen hell, Tarin thought, why won’t this man leave me alone? Sir Draconius sauntered up, his silver armor polished to a shine only several hours after the battle had concluded. His jet-black hair was slicked to either side in a part and his jaw smooth shaven. Several men were gathered around him, probably hoping for some post-battle entertainment.

  Once, what felt like a lifetime ago, Tarin had caused the knight to flee from the melee field during a tourney. Eventually, Draconius’s shame had chased him from competing in any more tournaments, his reputation marred beyond recovery.

  And, yes, he held a grudge.

  “How many men did you kill today, lug?” Draconius asked, standing before him. Tarin didn’t meet his eyes, focusing on the man’s thick boots. He breathed evenly, deeply, trying to control the thing inside him.

  From the darkest recesses of his mind, the monster whispered, He is yours. It was the same thing it had said on that first meeting with Draconius. It wasn’t a threat, but a promise.

  Of blood.

  “No,” Tarin hissed under his breath. He couldn’t release the monster, not outside of battle. Even then he kept a tight rein on it.

  “What was that, lug? I couldn’t hear you.”

  Tarin couldn’t help himself�
��his eyes darted upward. The sneer. The heavy brows. The slicked-back hair. The polished armor. Everything about this man angered him.

  “I said you should go.”

  There. He saw it. The slight wince. The white fear, darting across the knight’s face like a snake through the underbrush. Even after all these years, Sir Draconius, once a great tourney champion, still feared him.

  And that made him a dangerous man.

  Still, the knight recovered smoothly, forcing out a believable laugh. “C’mon, boys, this lug isn’t worth our time. Let him brood.”

  The small group turned and sauntered away, and Tarin held his breath until they were out of sight, finally releasing it in a blast of hot air that misted through the snowflakes. He unclenched his hands, feeling the ache in his palms where his fingers had dug in. His entire body sagged, the pent-up energy deflating like a bladder filled with air. He wanted to kill that man so badly.

  Why reject what your heart wants?

  The monster’s question cut to the core of him, because he didn’t have an answer. Tarin didn’t want to be a monster, but sometimes the line between him and the evil inside him was so blurred he couldn’t make out which side he was on.

  I would’ve died, he reminded himself. When he was eight years old, an incurable disease had entered his body, sapping him of strength, withering him until he was all skin and bones. He’d lied to his best friend, Princess Annise Gäric, telling her he would get better, even though he knew it was impossible.

  Until it was.

  His mother, with the help of Annise’s mother, the queen, had procured the services of a witch. The craggy old woman had mixed a steaming, foul-smelling concoction and forced it down his throat. Something had changed in him that day.

  No, he thought, something had invaded me.

  The monster. It had saved him and changed him. Not only his body, which grew stronger than seasoned warriors thrice his age, but his mind too. Even when resting, he always felt on the brink of anger, of violence. Only sheer strength of will held the monster at bay, and even that was tenuous at best.