Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  Duvain stashed his ruck—heavy after the long march from the dock—beneath the bunk and did the same with Endyn's.

  He cast a glance up at his brother. "You good, Endyn?"

  Endyn's eyes darted around the tent. Two pairs of bunk beds ran down each side of the tent. All were empty save for a grizzled man sitting on the bottom of the rearmost bunk. He paid them little heed—his focus was entirely on the leather wineskin in his hands.

  Endyn nodded, his jaw clenched tight. Duvain knew his brother had an aversion to getting undressed with witnesses. He'd wait until he was alone.

  Duvain removed the jar of unguent from his pack and set it on the top bunk, beneath the straw-stuffed pillow. "It's here if you need it."

  "What's this, now?" A new voice greeted them. "Fresh meat, Owen?"

  The newcomer that slunk into the tent was a shifty-eyed, rat-faced man with the wary, darting gaze of a career criminal. He walked on the balls of his feet, as if prepared to flee at a moment's notice. But the truly remarkable thing about him was his jewelry: a leather thong hanging around his neck, threaded with what looked like thick mushrooms. When Duvain got a closer look, he recoiled. They were human ears!

  "Duvain and Endyn," Owen said. "Brothers, right?"

  Duvain nodded.

  Owen gestured. "This paragon of cleanliness is Weasel."

  Weasel scowled. "Now, that ain't nice, Owen. We can't all go around smellin’ of lavender and lilies like you."

  Owen gave Weasel a grin. "Sure, but at least I've got the good sense to wash before and after I visit the ladies down at the Soldier's Rest. Minstrel knows I don't want half the diseases you've got."

  "Better a diseased prick than a useless one, says I." Weasel gave a suggestive thrust of his hips. "Oh right, yer savin’ yourself for the missus back home, ain'tcha?"

  Owen's face hardened. "You know I am."

  Weasel turned to Duvain and Endyn with a cruel grin. "Says he's got a wife back in Praamis waitin’ for him. Knowin’ the ladies like I do, I doubt very much she's doin’ any sort of waitin’. Too much coin to be made in the right trade, if you catch my drift."

  Owen's face reddened, and he opened his mouth to retort.

  "Though, I very much doubt any missus exists at all!" Weasel continued before Owen got a word out. "I don't know no one here who can verify that particular claim. A lady back in Praamis, hah!" He shook his head. "Ain't nobody waitin’ at home for any of us. It's why we came over here, innit?"

  In Duvain and Endyn's case, Weasel wasn't far off. Their father and mother had died the year before—the Bloody Flux had claimed them, along with fully one third of their village of Northpass—leaving them with a barren tract of land they had no desire to farm. Dreams of a better life in the city of Voramis had called to them. Reality had been less kind. After a few weeks wasted in a fruitless search for work, with no coin to their name, they'd been wooed into the Legion of Heroes by a silver-tongued recruiter. The tales of glory and wealth held appeal—the promise of gold for their service and the spoils of war sold them on the idea. Six months of hard training, three weeks' march overland, another month on a ship, and a week of marching later, they had more than their fair share of sores and blisters. They hadn't seen gold or glory in all that time.

  "Stop pissing with Owen, Weasel." The grizzled man at the back of the bunkhouse spoke for the first time. He threw the wineskin, now empty, aside and, standing, strode toward them. Grey showed at his temples and peppered his beard, and his face showed the signs of wear. A thick scar—either from sword or rope, Duvain didn't know—ran across his throat, hardening his voice to a harsh rasp. "You'll put him in a mood, and you know how our gruel will turn out when he's in a mood."

  Owen's face brightened from a furious purple to a smug pink. "You never did guess what that mystery ingredient in yesterday's soup was, did you?"

  Weasel turned an interesting shade of disgusted green. "If I find out you put somethin’ in my food, I'll gut you like—Captain, sir!" He trailed off, his mouth clamping shut as he straightened and saluted. Owen and the grizzled man did likewise, Endyn and Duvain following suit a moment too late.

  The captain was a tall, handsome man with broad shoulders, long blond hair tied back in a tail, and a serious face. He had a confident gait, and he moved with shoulders thrown back, head held high, and hand never far from his sword. A man of action and war, with the poise and self-assurance that only came through years of experience. Yet for all his professionalism, his eyes held none of the arrogance Duvain had found in other officers.

  "So this is what they send me?" He studied the brothers. Duvain felt himself shrinking before those piercing green eyes. "Not a lot to work with, from what I hear."

  Duvain snapped a salute. "Captain, we'll fight hard and work harder, sir!"

  "Indeed." The captain stroked his smooth-shaven chin with a strong hand that bore no scars—a sign that he knew his way around a sword. "It's all I can ask for, I suppose."

  He turned his attention from Duvain up to Endyn. The big man tensed, his spine going rigid. Duvain didn't need to see his expression to know Endyn had grown nervous, no doubt expecting something derogatory from the captain, as he'd received from so many others in the past.

  The captain only nodded. "You'll be a good addition to the ranks, once you're fully trained." He turned to the grizzled man. "Corporal Awr, drills at first light. Put the big one in the middle rank."

  "Hewing spear, sir?" the corporal asked. "Shieldbreaker'll be too heavy, but I reckon a pig-sticker'd do the trick."

  "Aye." The captain's eyes narrowed. He addressed Endyn. "Strong, but not too quick, am I right?"

  Endyn colored, but nodded.

  "There's no shame in it, soldier. We've all got our strengths." He held out his hand. "I trust you've got a good grip?"

  Endyn took the captain's hand and squeezed, his massive forearm cording.

  "You'll do, soldier." The captain turned back to Awr. "Anchor the formation on him, with the brother—" He shot a questioning glance at Duvain, who nodded. "—on his right. He'll need someone looking out for him. Once he gets the hang of the shield wall, he'll be a bloody hurricane."

  "Aye, Captain." Corporal Awr snapped off a salute. The grizzled man treated the captain with a deference that struck Duvain as odd, given his previously taciturn demeanor.

  "At ease, Corporal." The captain turned to Duvain and Endyn. "Welcome to the Deadheads, soldiers." With a nod, he turned and strode from the barracks.

  As soon as he disappeared from sight, Owen and Weasel deflated. Owen let out a long breath. "No matter how many times I see him, I can't get over the fact that it's really him."

  "Him?" Duvain asked.

  "Captain Lingram." Weasel's brow furrowed. "Surely you've heard of him across the waters!"

  Of course they had—everyone from Malandria in the north to Praamis in the east had heard of Captain Lingram, the Blacksword, Hero of Garrow's Canyon. He and a company of fewer than a hundred Legions had faced down four hundred Eirdkilrs in the canyon. The barbarians had hurled themselves against the Legionnaire's shields. Captain Lingram stood firm, refusing to give ground, intent on cutting off their advance into friendly territory. The captain had been one of the four men to walk out of that battle alive. Not a single Eirdkilr had survived. He'd received an honor from both the King of Voramis and the Prince of Icespire. Some had even whispered that he was being granted a patent of nobility.

  "A shame what they've done to him." Owen shook his head. "He deserved better."

  "What do you mean?" The tales of Lingram Blacksword had been filled with platitudes and honor; the private's words held a dark, dangerous undertone.

  Owen frowned. "Captain Lingram should have been commander, even general, by now, but he's here stuck with Deadheads."

  "Some say he pissed in the wrong man's boots," Weasel said, shaking his head.

  "Way I hear it, he slept with the wrong lordling's wife." Owen turned to the rat-faced man. "No wait, that was you."


  Weasel grinned. "Nothin’ I enjoy more than beddin’ a noblewoman. There's somethin’ wonderful about soilin’ a fresh, clean—"

  "Shut it, both of you twats!" Corporal Awr growled in his rasping voice. He fixed Duvain with a hard stare. "Captain Lingram stood up to a nobleman who was abusing his power. He took it upon himself to intervene when no one else would. He saved a man's life, and it cost him his career."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "No way you can know that, Awr. You're just a corpor—"

  "I was there." The power in the man's quiet voice held more power than an ear-splitting shout. "He stood over the flogged man's body, sword in hand, facing down half the pissant lord's guards. Not a trace of fear in him, our Blacksword. He'd have fought and died, too, but the nobleman was too cowardly to cut him down. It wouldn't have gone over well, that sort of death."

  Duvain exchanged glances with Endyn. This half of the story hadn't reached the mainland—he doubted it ever would.

  "But that Keeper-accursed lordling has influence on the mainland. He whispered in the wrong ears, got Captain Lingram demoted. That's how he ended up as head of our company, doing duties of a lieutenant." His face grew grim, dour. "No way he ever reaches commander now."

  "Why not?" Duvain glanced at Owen, Weasel, and Awr in turn. "You've called the company Deadheads twice now. What's that mean?"

  "Means we're the side of the Legion of Heroes you don't see in the parades, lad," Awr's voice was quiet, hard. "The kind they don't talk about when they're recruiting fresh-faced lads like you."

  Duvain's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

  "See that hideous necklace around Weasel's neck?" Awr motioned to the chain of ears. "He got most of those from the wrong barbies. Friendlies, the lot of them."

  "How was I supposed to know?" Weasel asked, throwing up his hands. "They all look the same."

  Awr scowled. "Owen here can't stand the sight of blood."

  Owen colored. "Awr!" he protested.

  Duvain raised an eyebrow.

  Owen's red deepened in embarrassment. "I…I didn't know before I joined."

  "Gets proper sick, he does." Weasel's grin broadened his face, making it even uglier. "Vomitin’, shakes, the works."

  Owen scowled. "At least—"

  "I don't know what you did to get yourselves sent here," Awr continued, cutting off Owen with a scowl, "but it means you're one of us. You're a dreg." With a sneer, he shouldered past Duvain and out of the tent.

  "Damn!" Weasel's eyebrows rose. "I ain't heard him speak that many words in months. Now you lot show up and he's talkin’ like a bleedin' orator."

  Owen rolled his eyes. "Anyways, that's the Deadheads for you."

  "Seems like we'll fit right in," Duvain said with a smile.

  "Meat!" Corporal Rold's harsh voice jarred Duvain to the bone. The corporal burst into the tent, glaring at them. "What in the bloody hell are you doing jack-jawing like a Blackfall doxy in a crowd of blind men? I said stow your gear and get your asses moving!"

  "Sir, yes sir!" Duvain straightened, Endyn following suit.

  "Ditch the sir sandwich, meat! It's Corporal, not 'sir yes sir'!"

  "Yes, s—" Duvain swallowed. "Yes, Corporal! Gear's stowed, sir. Ready for duty."

  "Good." Corporal Rold thrust a finger toward the open door. "You're off to do every soldier's favorite job. Owen, Weasel, seems like they need a couple of someones to show them the ropes."

  "But Corporal—"

  The bearded man loomed tall over the rat-faced soldier. "Not a word, Weasel, unless you'd rather do the job by yourself!"

  Weasel's mouth snapped shut.

  "Good," Rold snarled. "Now get the bloody hell out of here before I lose my patience."

  Duvain noticed how Owen and Weasel gave the corporal a wide berth, and he determined to do likewise. Rold's eyes tracked Endyn as the big man shuffled from the room. A sinking feeling rose in the pit of Duvain's stomach. Rold had found a target, and Endyn would suffer.

  * * *

  Duvain fell to his knees, retching, emptying his meager rations into the span of muddy trench they'd just dug.

  "Watcher's teeth! Not again!" Weasel grumbled. He leapt backward, out of range of Duvain's vomit. "Least you can do is point your spew the other way! These boots'll be hard enough to clean without your gettin’ sick inside them."

  Duvain wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet. His stomach was empty, but the foul smell of the latrine trenches twisted his stomach in knots. On his father's farm, he'd spent years mucking stables and hauling away horse and oxen droppings—this was far, far worse. The entire western half of the camp did their business in these latrine trenches. The meat-heavy diet of soldiers did little favors to reduce the stench of their meals on the way out.

  Not for the first time, Duvain cast an envious glance at Endyn. His brother stood a short distance away, halfway through digging his own trench. They still had far too much ground to break before cutting off for the night. Endyn's strong arms made him the perfect candidate for hauling massive clumps of dirt in the wheelbarrow. He got to escape the trenches every once in a while, while Duvain was stuck down here, where the smell was overpowering enough to…

  His stomach emptied again. Little more than watery acid came out.

  "Keeper's taint," Weasel muttered. "Much more of that, and you'll start bringin’ up blood."

  "Duvain." Endyn's voice was clumsy. His thick tongue and heavy jaw struggled to form words, and they came out mangled. He rarely spoke because of it. "Here." He set the wheelbarrow down and reached for Duvain's shovel.

  "No, Endyn." Duvain tried to tug the handle from his brother's massive hands—with less success than an infant tugging at a donkey's bridle. "I've got this."

  Endyn fixed him with a stern glare and shook his head. "Go."

  Duvain read the stubbornness in his brother's eyes. He'd never match Endyn's physical strength, but it was his brother's strength of will that was the true marvel. Endyn bore the burden of his dragonskin in near-silence, never complaining, rarely even admitting his pain or discomfort. Once his mind was made up, not even King Gavian himself could change Endyn's mind.

  Concern filled his brother's expression. Duvain reddened, but Endyn's eyes bore no trace of accusation. Endyn's huge size and slowness had been one of the primary reasons they'd been sent to the Deadheads, but it was really Duvain's fault. Duvain had never been strong as a boy, and the illness that claimed his parents had left him weak. He could carry a shield and swing a sword, but more than a few minutes of effort left him exhausted. His stomach was weak, his senses too delicate for such potent smells. The army's training had pounded strength and stamina into him, but his muscles hadn't grown like Endyn's. He'd nearly been kicked out of the Legion—only Endyn's insistence and the demand for shields and swords had convinced their drill sergeant to send them across the Frozen Sea to Icespire and the legions stationed here.

  Face burning, Duvain released his grip on the shovel handle and climbed out of the trenches. He gripped the wheelbarrow handles and pushed it toward the pile of dirt. He hated that his brother had to take care of him—Endyn had his own troubles to worry about. He'd thought joining the Legion would help him become strong. If anything, it had shown him how much he needed Endyn's help.

  A man stood watching nearby, silent, his face hard. He wore a sergeant's uniform, and though he wasn't particularly large, there was something looming about him. Captain Lingram had been a large presence of confidence and concern, but this man radiated menace enough for a giant twice his size.

  Duvain nodded as he passed, but had to fight back a shudder as he met the man's eyes. The eyes were cold—colder even than the Frozen Sea—with the dispassion of a reptile studying its prey.

  He hurried to empty the wheelbarrow onto the growing mound of dirt and rushed back to the trench. The last thing he wanted was to see the anger or censure in those blue eyes. Those eyes held no approval or acceptance—they saw only weakness to be culled. The way the sergean
t's gaze followed him, Duvain had no doubt he was the weakness that would be dealt with.

  Chapter Two

  From the slump of Endyn's shoulders and the weariness on his face, Duvain knew his brother was close to collapse. After hours of digging, Endyn moved stiffly; the dragonskin had to be getting to him, irritated by sweat and chafing beneath his heavy armor. Exhaustion would make things worse.

  Duvain felt ready to collapse as well. They'd dug a latrine trench close to forty paces long, two paces deep, and six paces wide—military standard, according to Owen. He and Endyn had done enough digging on their father's farm to know their way around a shovel, but the work had left his back, arms, shoulders, and legs aching.

  Owen and Weasel, however, showed little sign of fatigue.

  "Quittin' time, lads!" With a cheery grin, Weasel thrust his shovel into the ground and spat into the trench. "Not bad for a first day of work. You embraced the suck as well as any recruit, I suppose."

  Weasel glanced at Duvain. "You know what that means, don'tcha?" He held out a hand to help Duvain out of the trench. "Nothin’ like a visit to The Old Wolf after a day like today. A drink'll sort you right out."

  Duvain couldn't believe the man. Sweat soaked his tunic and the padding beneath his armor, and foul-smelling mud covered his legs, arms, face, and boots. Right now, he had no desire to do anything but bathe. Or sleep. No, bathe first, then sleep.

  Owen shook his head. "I'd rather go someplace where beer is better than piss water. Besides, at The Old Wolf, you're more likely to get knifed or beaten than served a decent meal. Old Hartha hasn't cooked anything close to half-edible since his fifth decade. And he's pushing a hundred, easy."

  Weasel shrugged. "Better than the chow they serve at the mess room." He shuddered.

  "It's that bad?" Duvain asked.

  Weasel's expression grew grim. "About the same as what me dearly departed mum used to make back in the Beggar's Quarter. Except she didn't shit in my food, like they do here." He glared at Owen.