Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  "You took your chances when you pissed me off," Owen said with a satisfied grin. "Maybe you'll mind your mouth next time. Your lips are looser than a two-copper Praamian tart."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Well, all that's said and done, time for us to be gettin’ a drink." He turned to the brothers. "At least there's one good thing about this bleedin' cold: there's more'n enough ice to keep the drinks frosty."

  For the first time, Duvain noticed the chill that had descended with the setting sun. A whistling wind carried cold through the camp, setting him shivering. A distinct smell of ice hung on the air.

  "Gets bloody cold at night here." Owen said. "It's why we spend our time at The Old Wolf."

  Weasel grinned. "Fightin’ is always a good way to keep warm."

  Duvain shot Endyn a glance. His brother's face was tight; he needed to get out of the armor and apply some of that salve before the dragonskin got too bad.

  "Come on, lads!" Owen slapped Duvain's back. "First drink's on Weasel. Deadhead tradition."

  "Hey now!" Weasel protested. "That ain't fair—"

  "Run your mouth a bit faster next time, and you won't be stuck with the tab." Owen grinned.

  Grumbling, Weasel motioned for them to follow.

  Owen explained on the way. "First drink of the night's always on the last man to call it. Though, knowing Weasel, he'll end up taking a few coins from one of the other companies. Man hasn't paid for his own ale since the day I met him. It's why we always make sure he's stuck with the tab." He studied Duvain.

  "You get your first pay, yet?"

  Duvain shook his head. "They said we get it after our first week."

  "Bloody money-grubbin’ pricks," Weasel growled. "We didn't get paid until after the first month."

  Owen rolled his eyes. "You'd think with all the riches we're pulling out of these hills, the cake-eating powers that be would be a bit happier to fork over our rightful pay."

  Duvain's eyebrows rose. "Riches?"

  "Ah, right," Weasel sneered. "I forget you all back across the sea only hear the rosy side of things."

  Owen's face fell. "Weasel, that's not—"

  "Don't let this one"—Weasel jerked a thumb at Owen—"tell you this war had anythin’ to do with King and country. For some, like him, it may be good and well to serve for patriotism, but that ain't the reason most of us are here. Especially not the ones at the top."

  His rat-like face darkened. "There's gold in those hills. A bleedin' lot of it. Enough to fill every bathtub in Voramis, Praamis, and Malandria and then some. Silver, too, along with plenty of precious stones. All of which our gracious hosts of Icespire are itchin' to get their hands on."

  Duvain exchanged a glance with Endyn. His brother's face mirrored his own surprise. The tales of glory and honor fighting to protect Einan from the savage Eirdkilrs hadn't included any mention of riches.

  Weasel snorted. "Half the gold flowin’ around the south of Einan has come from these hills. It's what brought us Einari here in the first place, five hundred years ago."

  Duvain's brow furrowed. "I thought we came to punish the raiders that tried to invade Einan."

  Owen inclined his head. "Aye, there's a bit of that, as well. The Fehlan raiders pissed off the wrong people back when, so they sent an army first to wipe out their ships, then invade their land. But some lucky bastard found himself lost in a mountain filled with gold, and that's when muckety-mucks decided the land of Fehl needed a bit of civilization. They started a settlement here and kept shipping more and more men across the water. Eventually, the settlement grew into a city, which became what we know as the city of Icespire."

  Duvain cast a glance back. The glassy surface of Icespire itself caught the fading rays of sunlight, gleaming in myriad hues of orange, red, and purple.

  Owen continued. "The bigger the city grew, the more us Einari kept coming and taking more land from the Fehlans. That's when the gold really started flowing. And would have kept on flowing, had the Eirdkilrs not decided they'd had enough of us."

  Everyone in the south of Einan knew the grisly tales of the Eirdkilrs, a massive tribe of barbarians that lived in the deep, winter-laden south of Fehl. No one had ever seen where they came from, but they outnumbered the other barbarian tribes that lived north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Anyone brave or foolish enough to travel south beyond the mountain range never returned.

  "When they decided it was time for us to give them their land back, they started coming through the Sawtooth Mountains and pushing back the small colonies and settlements established. That's when the lords of Icespire called for help from the big cities on Einan."

  Malandria, Praamis, and Voramis were the main cities to send armies across the ocean, but many smaller cities had joined in the fight as well. Not for patriotism or colonization, it seemed.

  Weasel shook his head. "The Eirdkilrs wanted to charge the Icespire lords more for the gold than they was willin’ to pay. The noblemen decided it was easier to pay soldiers and mercenaries than the savages. Thus, we find ourselves on this glorious side of the world, along with all the other sods too dumb, ugly, or useless to find other employment."

  "You speak so kindly of yourself," Owen chuckled.

  Weasel shrugged. "I know what I am and what I ain't. I never had a problem with my role in things. Here, I get paid to do what I woulda done back home. Except I ain't fightin’ in a gang on the streets of Praamis. Though, given this bloody freeze, I'm almost tempted to go back to that life. Hunger ain't nothin’ compared to the Keeper-damned cold."

  Duvain glanced at Endyn. As expected, his brother had pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. Endyn's dragonskin was sensitive to the chill, which only made things worse. He couldn't get out of his clothes to relieve the terrible itching, but the more he bundled up, the more the sweat added to his discomfort. Endyn's jaw was clenched tight; his brother was suffering, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

  Not much the healers at the Sanctuary could do either. They'd tried all manner of salves, unguents, and potions to treat the strange rash they called dragonskin. One had even called in a Secret Keeper, who'd poked and prodded at the flaking, crusted patches of skin in silence for an hour before shrugging and walking out. The Ministrants had given Endyn a salve that reduced the itching and soothed some of the irritation, but did little for the hardening. On the bad days, Endyn could hardly move for the thick scales covering his chest, shoulders, and arms.

  And that was just the rash. The healers hadn't found an explanation for Endyn's abnormal growth either. He'd been born the same size as any of the other Northpass kids—or so his mother had said—but by his tenth birthday, he'd been taller than both their parents. Endyn grew and kept on growing until his father had no choice but to build a special, oversized room in the barn. He and Duvain had lived there until the day they left home, with only each other and the animals for company.

  That had saved them when the Bloody Flux hit, or so the Bloody Minstrel priests had said. The Trouveres had droned on about evading most of the noxious vapors of death that swept through their house. Duvain had caught a bit of the Flux, the cause of his weakness, but the priests had insisted they were blessed to have survived when their mother, father, and so many others of Northpass succumbed.

  Even though Duvain recovered from the Flux, Endyn's sicknesses had never been explained. No one had found a cure or treatment. Though he tried not to show how much it bothered him, Duvain knew his brother well enough to recognize the signs. Endyn wanted to go and rest, but he wouldn't show his discomfort. They had already been relegated to the Deadheads, the dregs of the Legion of Heroes, because of Endyn's strange conditions and Duvain's weakness.

  The sea of tents ended, and beyond stood the only proper structure Duvain had seen outside Icespire. The Old Wolf was aptly named: the wooden building had faded and gone grey, fraying around the edges, with a tired look. Hard-drinking soldiers caused the sort of damage no tavernkeeper could ever fully repair. The roof wouldn't survi
ve the heavy winter, not the way it sagged beneath the weight of its thatch.

  A tumult of shouts and laughter echoed within the tavern, but a handful of Legionnaires stood outside, drinking in the cool, night air rather than suffer the stale, stinking reek of sweating men, vomit, and yeasty ale.

  "Here we are, lads!" Weasel gestured toward the tavern. "Best ale in camp."

  "Only ale in camp," Owen whispered. "At least legally."

  One of the Legionnaires, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and a jawline that could cut diamonds, stepped forward and thrust out a hand to bar their progress. "Not a bloody chance, Deadheads. Not when you smell as bad as you look."

  Another man, slimmer, with angular features, narrow shoulders, and bright scarlet hair, snickered behind him. "There's a pig trough around the back of the tavern. I might be able to convince the tavernkeeper to pour some ale in there for you."

  Weasel shot the red-haired man a rude gesture. "Get bent, Indar!" He squared up with the other Legionnaire, uncaring that the man towered over him. He gave a little sniff and a theatrical groan. "You don't smell much better yourself, Dahvynd."

  "Ooh, good insult." Dahvynd laughed. "You'll have to get a bit more creative if you want to get past me." His eyebrows rose as his eyes fell on Endyn. "Bloody hells, Weasel! You found yourself an ogre roaming the mountains, did you?”

  Endyn's face hardened.

  "No," Duvain stepped forward. "In your mother's bed. Said he was the best lover she'd had since your uncle-father."

  Dahvynd's face darkened. "Little puppy's got some bark on him, does he?" He moved around Weasel to stare down at Duvain. "What's your name, meat?"

  "Your father," Duvain snapped. Behind him, Endyn chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that resembled a half-growl.

  Dahvynd's fists clenched, but Endyn stepped forward to loom behind Duvain. Dahvynd studied Endyn, as if sizing him up.

  "If you don't mind," Owen said, interposing himself between Duvain and Dahvynd, "we'll just get our ale and be on our way."

  "Not smelling like that, you won't," Indar sneered.

  Owen shot the man a sweet smile. "You put in a hard day's work sometime, Indar, and maybe you'll find out what it means to be a real man."

  A third Legionnaire, this one not quite as tall or wide as Dahvynd, snorted. "Seems like you real men are busy mucking around in shite, while us little nobodies get to do all the fighting." He shook his head, tsking. "It's an unfair world we live in. I know I'd love nothing more than latrine duty."

  "You'll get your chance," Weasel retorted. "Now step aside before I set my ogre here to rearrange your spinal column. I'd say havin’ your head shoved up your ass could improve your looks significantly."

  Endyn loomed over Dahvynd. Despite his height, the Legionnaire barely reached Endyn's chest. Endyn flexed one huge fist, the size of Dahvynd's head.

  "Bah!" Dahvynd stepped aside, pinching his nose. "I doubt the place could get any worse than it already has. Third Platoon is in there, and you know what that means."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Aye, the dog-buggers are wavin’ their pricks around like they know their business."

  Dahvynd snorted. "All they know to do is stick their fingers in their bungholes. I'll bet even Owen here could figure that out."

  Owen colored and bristled, but Dahvynd gave a dismissive wave. "Enjoy your ale, Deadheads. And keep the big one on a leash. He gets too much liquor in him, he's likely to collapse and crush half a dozen men." With a one-fingered salute, he turned back to his drink and his squad.

  Weasel hustled them toward the door, where a crowd of men stood between them and their drinks. The little rat-faced Legionnaire slipped through the press of people with the expertise of a thief in a crowd. Heads turned toward them as Endyn ducked beneath the lintel. When he stood, his head nearly scraped the wooden ceiling beams. Men gave way for him, and all eyes followed his progress toward the bar.

  Duvain read tension in Endyn's shoulders, his stiff spine. His brother had no desire to be the center of attention—he'd drawn stares since his fifth birthday. Endyn wanted to be normal, not the freak of nature people had believed him to be for so long.

  Corporal Rold sat at the bar, a tankard of ale clutched in his hands. Despite the crush of Legionnaires, there was an empty chair on either side of the corporal. Perhaps the dagger driven into the wooden bar top had something to do with that. The tavernkeeper shot nervous glances at the blade every time he hustled past, but said nothing.

  The storm brewing in Rold's eyes swelled to a full blown gale as he saw them approach. "Piss off, the lot of you. Only real men drink here."

  "Real man, reportin’ for duty!" Weasel snapped off a mocking salute. "Tavernkeeper, four of your finest ales. On me." With a wink, he hefted a purse.

  "You didn't!" Owen groaned.

  Weasel shrugged. "He was the one stupid enough to get within liftin’ distance of me. Second Platoon ought to know better by now. If Dahvynd's pockets end up bein’ a few imperials lighter, it will teach him to be more cautious of his belongin’s."

  Four tankards of ale arrived a few moments later, filled to the brim, with a thick layer of froth. Duvain hesitated a moment before taking a sip. The potent taste—a mixture of malted barley, yeast, juniper berries, and herbs he'd never tasted before—set him coughing. Weasel and Owen laughed, and even Endyn smiled.

  Duvain scowled, which only made the two Legionnaires laugh harder. He'd never been much for ale—he'd prefer a good Voramian wine or Nyslian brandy, on the rare occasions he'd managed to scrape together enough coin to buy it. He knew better than to order such "woman's shite" at a Legionnaire's bar. He'd gotten his bollocks kicked in the last time he'd made the mistake.

  Gritting his teeth against the syrupy brew, he forced himself to swallow. Thankfully, Endyn emptied his tankard in a few quick gulps, and Duvain could pour the rest of his into his brother's mug while Owen and Weasel drank deep from theirs. Drinking was one of the few ways to bond with one's fellow comrades—rejecting a drink was paramount to spitting in a fellow Legionnaire's face.

  "You bastard!" A furious roar cut through the commotion in the tavern. The raucous conversations died, and all eyes turned toward the door.

  "Crap," Weasel muttered, and drained the last of his tankard.

  Duvain turned to see Dahvynd stalking toward them, his face flushed in anger, fists clenched. "You weasel-faced bastard!" The Legionnaire stabbed a finger at Weasel. "You bloody stole my purse."

  "I did no such thing!" Weasel proved a superb actor. He managed to look both offended and outraged, with a hint of dignified mixed in. "If anythin’, I saved your purse! I saw it lyin’ on the ground, and I thought to myself, 'I can't let my good friend Dahvynd's coin be stolen by a lowlife.' So I picked it up and brought it here for safekeepin’." He dropped the purse into Dahvynd's hand. "And now it's safe."

  Dahvynd opened it, his scowl deepening. "There's coins missing."

  "Damned thieves!" Weasel muttered, angry. "I'll be sure to speak to my sergeant in the mornin’, and we'll get to the bottom of this first thing in the—"

  Dahvynd's fist was a blur in the lamplight. It connected with Weasel's jaw, a meaty thump that echoed through the room. The impact rocked Weasel's head back, where it bounced off the wooden bar. The little man sagged and didn't get up.

  Dahvynd leaned over the unconscious man. "That'll teach you, you thieving bastard!"

  Rold went from hunched over his mug to on the attack in an instant. His knee came up into Dahvynd's face, snapping the Legionnaire's head up. He drove his fist into Dahvynd's gut and swung his elbow around into the side of his head. Dahvynd followed Weasel to the floor.

  "He's our thieving bastard!" Rold snarled down at the fallen Legionnaire.

  Dahvynd lay on the filthy bar floor, his eyes glassy and unfocused. After a moment of stunned silence, Indar and the other man shouted and charged, fists swinging.

  For the first time, the perpetual frown on Rold's face disappeared, replaced by a
hint of a smile. The sort of smile a cat gives to a mouse trapped between its paws. Duvain had known many boys and men like Rold—he and Endyn had been their targets all their lives. The corporal wanted the fight. It gave him an excuse to hurt others.

  Roaring in laughter, Rold squared off and met the two charging men. He turned aside Indar's punch and drew back his fist to answer with his own, but the other man went low, arms encircling his waist. Rold was slammed backward into the wooden bar counter with bone-jarring force. The two Legionnaires went down to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs and cracking wooden stools.

  Indar drew back to kick at the prone Rold, but Owen's boot caught him in the fork of the legs. The red-haired Legionnaire went down hard. Another man wearing the same company insignia charged, catching Owen in a grapple. Before Owen could break free of his attacker, a third and fourth Legionnaire rushed to join the fight.

  Duvain knew he had to act. He'd never been much of a fighter, but he'd learned the basics of unarmed combat—hammered into him by the ruthless drill sergeant at basic training. He'd pounded at the straw dummies until his lungs burned and his fists bled. He stepped in the path of the oncoming Legionnaires and lashed out with a right cross at one man's jaw.

  The problem with fighting men instead of dummies—one he'd failed to anticipate—was that real men fought back. His blow barely fazed the man, who answered with a punch of his own. Duvain ducked beneath the powerful swing, only to be caught in the chest by the second strike. Without his armor—they'd left it in the barracks before heading off to the bar—he had nothing but a thin tunic to take the punishment. The impact drove the wind from his lungs and he fell back against the bar, wheezing.

  With a savage grin, the Legionnaire drew back his fist to finish Duvain. A massive shadow loomed over the man, and Endyn's hand engulfed his forearm. Barely grunting with the effort, Endyn lifted the man from his feet and hurled him across the bar, where he crashed to the ground and rolled into a table. The sound of shattering crockery and clattering metal tankards was followed a moment later by a furious roar of rage.