Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  It felt like…

  Like…

  Living.

  He hated the thought, but it was too late to consider it, too late to do anything but give in to the monster, which became him—or perhaps he became the monster—smashing, pounding, destroying everything in his path. He was dimly aware of his fellow soldiers joining the bloody fray, but they were shadows next to each enemy, which stood out like figures bathed in sunlight. Targets.

  He hit each target, one by one, until there were none left, the rest fleeing in earnest for the mountains, their numbers so few that any threat of a counterattack was unlikely.

  Tarin looked around at the field of death. Soldiers on both sides lay dead and dying. The badly injured cried out for help. A tall figure astride a horse caught his attention. The Ice Lord. In his bloodlust, Tarin had forgotten about the white-haired skinmarked man. His lips were pulled into a thin smile, like he’d relished the ending of lives. For he, too, had killed, in his own way. All around him were what looked like ice sculptures. But no, they were legionnaires, easterners bearing the crossed sword sigil on a field of black on their armor. Turned to ice by a power beyond Tarin’s comprehension. They stood, frozen in various positions—swords in mid-strike, shields raised, some falling, some ducking, some raising their hands as if that would protect them against the brutal magic they faced.

  The Ice Lord whispered something to his horse and the beast reared up, kicking over one of the frozen soldiers.

  Shattering on the ground.

  Tarin hadn’t felt like keeping his usual vigil on the edge of the battlefield. He didn’t want to see the crows. Didn’t want to watch as the remaining ice soldiers were crushed. Didn’t want to think about the fact that he and the Ice Lord were more similar than different.

  So he stalked through the city, half-hoping that one of the blade-like spires of the castle would come crashing down atop him. It was the only way he could fathom to kill the thing inside him.

  For he had not the strength to do it himself.

  He hadn’t even had the presence of mind to confirm Jonathan had survived the battle. He hated himself for that. What kind of person…

  He didn’t finish the question, for the answer was always there, in his mind.

  A monster, the monster finished.

  “Go away,” he muttered, earning himself several strange looks from passersby.

  He stopped when he heard voices around the bend to an alley he was planning on taking. Curling wisps of smoke trickled out, dispersing in the cold air. “The Ice Lord is gone,” a gruff voice said.

  “Already?” a second voice said.

  “Aye. Our scouts are already reporting the enemy is in full retreat. They’ll wait for reinforcements before even considering another attack. Could be months. Old Icy got other battles to win.”

  “I’ll smoke to that.”

  Tarin stepped into view, the two soldiers stumbling to their feet, dropping their pipes in the snow. “Frozen hell, man,” the gruff-voiced one said.

  Tarin said, “The Ice Lord is gone?”

  The man nodded. Tarin saw the way his hand was now resting on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip. The other man’s positioning was the same, his lips parted slightly.

  Why are they looking at me like that? Tarin wondered. Though he was used to being stared at, his presence in Darrin had become somewhat more commonplace over the last few years. People still gave him a wide berth, but the open gawking had faded away years earlier.

  He looked down at his armor, hoping for a clue.

  Oh, yes, that voice said, filled with sickening glee.

  Blood pumped from somewhere behind the top of his chest plate, forming a dark river along the face of his black armor.

  He hadn’t even felt the injury, but now his knees felt weak.

  Get to the barracks, the monster hissed. Sleep. I will heal you. Tarin hated that the voice comforted him. Hated that once more he would have to rely on the thing inside him to save him.

  We can help each other. Always. You are mine and I am yours.

  Tarin was suddenly too weary to argue. He stumbled past the surprised soldiers, leaving a trail of blood in the snow in his wake.

  The blood was as black as the night.

  Tarin awoke what felt like days later. A voice hissed, “Time to get yours.” It took Tarin a moment to realize it wasn’t a threat or a promise by the monster, but words spoken by another familiar voice.

  Sir Draconius.

  He tried to lunge at the knight, but something gripped him around the soldiers. He opened his mouth to protest only for it to be filled with a vile-tasting liquid. He attempted to spew it out, but Draconius’s strong hands forced his mouth shut, pinching his nose.

  Memories flashed. Him as a boy, the witch forcing her burning concoction down his throat.

  And then the pain had started.

  Now, bitter warmth flowed through him. The heat intensified, an inferno now. Everything seemed to slow down. Voices murmured, but they spoke only nonsense words, seeming to come from a great distance.

  The world turned to gray turned to black and then

  Nothing.

  “ARRRRRRR!” Tarin roared, thrashing against some invisible force. Spittle flew from his lips but was blocked by his steel mesh face covering, dribbling down his chin.

  His entire body felt filled with fire, and, for once, the monster inside him was eerily silent.

  He stopped fighting when he realized two things: One, that he was chained to a post in a kneeling position; and two, that several men stood before him, watching with undisguised glee. The space was dark, but lit by several torches ensconced in the wall, illuminating the cellar. Barrels were mounted on racks set against the walls. A wine cellar, Tarin thought.

  One of the men stepped forward. Draconius. His face was clean, his dark hair dry. He was dressed in a fine scarlet doublet and pressed black trousers. A thin ornamental blade hung from his belt. He shook his head. “It was too easy,” he said, thoughtfully. “After all these years, a concentrated sleeping draught was all it took to bring the great Armored Knight to his knees.” The men behind him whistled. They were his usual posse of washed-up tourney knights who Tarin had defeated many times. But that was years ago…

  Clearly, it was like yesterday to Draconius. “You ruined me,” he spat. “I was the people’s champion. And then you threw it all away to become a soldier?”

  Tarin said nothing. There was nothing to say. It was all true. It didn’t matter that he’d only been nine years old at the time. He’d been weak then, unable to control the monster inside him.

  I am still weak, he thought. Half a decade had changed nothing. Perhaps I deserve this.

  “No rebuttal, Armored Knight?” Draconius said with a sneer. “No more attempts to break these chains? I must say, I’m disappointed. I thought you’d have more fight in you. At least make this interesting.”

  Tarin didn’t move. Barely breathed. He was listening for the return of the monster. Nothing. It was silent. Even if it did return, he was determined to fight it off. This was his penance for all the blood he’d spilt. This would be his end.

  Something felt wrong, but he tamped the feeling down.

  “You will not be silent forever,” the knight said. It sounded like a promise. “But first, the big reveal!” Draconius said the last with all the gusto of a festival announcer.

  No, Tarin thought. It was a fate worse than death. Having someone see him. The monster behind the armor. He didn’t want to see the fear in their eyes, nor the disgust.

  But he also wouldn’t beg. He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

  Rough fingers on his mesh face mask.

  The cool air brushing his dark lips, his pale white face, the black protruding veins.

  It never came.

  Instead, a bell tolled somewhere in the distance, the rattling peal familiar to soldiers of the north. The call to arms.

  The enemy had been sighted.

  T
arin’s eyes flashed open and he saw the moment of indecision laid bare on Draconius’s face. The knight wanted to stay, to torment his new plaything, but he feared being labeled a deserter, the punishment for which was death.

  With a frustrated snarl, he turned away and barked at his comrades to leave. As a group, they departed the cellar, Draconius throwing one final frustrated look at Tarin before vanishing, the door slamming behind him.

  Other than the distant clamor of the war bells, all was silent. Tarin’s mind raced. The last battle had been a decisive victory for the north. The easterners shouldn’t be attacking so soon. The west? he thought, but immediately dismissed the notion. Darrin was too far east—miles away from the western stronghold of Bethany. Attacks from the west always came through Raider’s Pass or via sea at Blackstone.

  It had to be the easterners. They fooled us, Tarin thought. They fooled the Ice Lord into thinking Darrin was safe.

  He left.

  The more Tarin thought about it, the more he knew it was true. The east must’ve only sent a fragment of their full force against the Ice Lord, holding back a much larger battalion under the cover of the mountains. As soon as Darrin let down its guard…

  I must save them, he thought. If it is the last thing I do…

  “No!” Tarin roared, straining against the dozens of thick chains wrapped around his chest, arms, torso, and thighs. But his was the strength of a mere man. A large man, aye, but not powerful enough to break one chain, let alone the dozens of steel links that held him.

  And though it pained him more than any wound he’d ever suffered in battle, he cried out for the monster. “Please,” he said. “I need you.”

  Nothing. Not a hiss or a whisper or the susurration of a dark wind. Was the monster truly gone at last? Had the key been a simple sleeping draught all along?

  A pulse of heat, distant at first, but growing stronger and stronger, culminating in a long hiss that seemed to fill the entirety of Tarin’s mind.

  Yessss. You need me. And I need you.

  Tarin shouted again, feeling an extraordinary strength fortify his bones and muscles, turning them to raw power and steel. The chains clanked and shrieked, but held. He shouted again, the sound so rough it scraped against the insides of his throat. There was a popping sound, a bolt being ripped from a stone casing, then another. One of the chains sagged and then fell away.

  The monster and Tarin were one now, an inferno with no end and no beginning, searing through steel, through stone, about to be unleashed on his enemies…

  The remaining chains tightened, cutting into his armor, pressing the plate into his skin, bruising it. He fought and strained and screamed and—

  The chains held.

  After several minutes he stopped, his chest heaving, his body aching. The monster was silent too, as exhausted as he was.

  Defeated.

  Neither of them had ever known defeat, and it was indeed a bitter pill to swallow. Worse, however, was the knowledge that many northerners would die on this day because he was too weak to break his bonds and fight. If Sir Jonathan still lived, he would die. Darrin would fall. And then what? Would the easterners conquer the north, one castle at a time, eventually taking Castle Hill?

  As far as he knew, his parents still lived there. And, of course, Annise…

  He was about to assault the chains once more when the door creaked open. “Arme?” a familiar voice said. A beautiful, impossible voice.

  Sir Jonathan stepped inside the room, flickering flamelight dancing across his expression as he took in the sight of Tarin chained to the post. “Frozen hell,” he said. “Draconius?”

  Tarin nodded. “Can you help me?” He could hear the fourteen-year-old boy in his voice, though it still maintained the deep timber of a man.

  “Of course,” Jonathan said, striding across and drawing his steel.

  “You aren’t angry?”

  Jonathan laughed, inspecting the chains, raising an eyebrow when he picked up the ones Tarin had managed to pull from the stone wall. “No. I’m not angry. I was worried. I’ve been searching for you for two days.”

  Somehow that made Tarin feel even worse. “But I left the battlefield without you. I didn’t even look for you.”

  “And you owe me a night of drinks for it,” Jonathan said, moving around behind him. He went silent for a moment and then there was the sound of steel ringing against steel several times. The remaining chains fell away and Tarin almost collapsed on his face, barely managing to catch his weight with his hands.

  Jonathan helped him up, holding his shoulders. Looking into his eyes with a fierceness the knight typically reserved only for battle. “I know you have your demons, old friend. We all do. I am always here to talk, if you need me, but I will not force them out of you. Only you can do that.”

  Tarin felt tears prick at his eyes, but he swiftly blinked them away. It wasn’t the time or the place. “Thank you,” he said. “For not giving up on me.”

  Jonathan clasped his armored arm, hand to elbow. “Never. Now, we have a battle to win, and then we can deal with Sir Draconius.”

  Tarin nodded, allowing several bricks to fall from the wall in his mind. The monster slipped through, ravenous. Yesss, it hissed.

  It wasn’t long before Tarin lost sight of Sir Jonathan, the battle raging all around them both. The prior two exchanges were minor skirmishes next to the intensity and violence of the current clash.

  They were losing.

  The hidden force the easterners had mustered was at least five thousand strong, with near on five hundred mounted. The defenders of Darrin were outnumbered, slowly being pushed back toward the dark spires of the castle they were sworn to protect.

  After leaving the wine cellar, Tarin had shoved the monster further back into his mind, erecting a thicker wall between them, only allowing a small portion of his influence to slip through the cracks.

  It wasn’t enough. Now Tarin found himself exhausted and surrounded by six legionnaires. Four were human, broad-shouldered men in blood-spattered armor, their reddish-brown hair worn long to their shoulders. They gripped broadswords with the practiced ease of lifelong warriors.

  They were the least of Tarin’s worries. The two Orians, one male, one female, moved with the grace of rushing water. The male wielded a pike, spinning it like a baton in a parade, the deadly point flashing with each turn. The female bore a weapon of strange design, a dual-pointed knife that she gripped by a smooth metal handle set between the blades.

  Tarin spun around, the Morningstar trailing behind like a spiked moon in orbit. His foes kept their distance, warded back by the long range of the chain.

  Release me.

  Tarin’s grip tightened at the snake-like voice in his head.

  It felt like being on the edge of a precipice, looking down into a shadowy abyss. Jumping would not kill him, he knew, but it would change him forever. Fully giving into the monster would obliterate the thin line that currently separated them.

  The only problem: He couldn’t turn away from the abyss either, because behind him was another chasm, flickering with fire. There was no escape. And he could not fail the kingdom he’d vowed to protect, the only thing he had left.

  So he jumped.

  The monster screamed, the sound so powerful it burst from his own lips. He lunged at two of his foes, who seemed surprised by the speed and intensity of his attack. His Morningstar hit each of their helms in succession, a one-two blow that swept them both from their feet.

  Tarin whirled about, sensing an attack from behind, and a haze fell over his vision, sheening everything in a crimson glaze. The snow was pink, streaked with lakes and rivers of dark blood. His enemies and foes alike were rose-colored, and they seemed to move like shadows, fuzzy around the edges. And he realized:

  I am seeing as the monster sees.

  Frozen hell, what have I done?

  What you had to, was the reply.

  Energy surged through him and Tarin raised his arm to deflect a blow
from one of the remaining human legionnaires, following through with a powerful elbow to the man’s face. Something crunched beneath the blow—bones—but Tarin was already throwing himself to the opposite side to kick another man in the ribs. He doubled over and Tarin roped the Morningstar’s chain around his throat, twisting it sharply to the side.

  The man fell, dead before he hit the ground.

  The Orians were wary of him now. The male’s long flaxen hair seemed to float about his shoulders as he circled Tarin. The female, a tall woman with piercing pink eyes was still, watching, still gripping her strange weapon. The male held his pike on his shoulder, as if he might throw it at any moment. Tarin’s senses were heightened, and he realized the distraction the moment before the trap was sprung. It was the slight whitening of her knuckles that gave her away.

  Tarin darted left just as, with a deft flick of her wrist, she threw the dual-bladed weapon. It spun narrowly past him. He planted his foot through the packed snow, finding purchase on the dirt beneath, cutting back to the right. His eyes never left the females, and she had already drawn another of the same weapon, preparing to throw it.

  She never got the chance.

  Though she tried to duck, Tarin’s Morningstar was a steel bird in flight, and it rarely missed its mark. The carnage was fuel to the monster’s fire, and Tarin felt a grim excitement pulsing through him as she fell, headless.

  The Orian pikeman fled, but Tarin was not himself. All he saw was red. He wanted them all to die. If they were all dead, they could no longer threaten him or these lands. He charged forward, but the Orian—like most of his kind—was fleet of foot, leaping corpses and dodging those who were still locked in hand to hand combat.

  Tarin whipped his Morningstar around, releasing the handle at the last moment, watching the spiked ball soar, arcing slightly before coming down against the Orian’s back. The sudden impact knocked the fleet-footed male off balance and he fell. The ball didn’t roll free. It had pierced his armor and embedded itself in his flesh.