A new figure stalked toward them. Stocky, bearded, with a scarred face and a voice harder than granite, the man wore a sergeant's colors. An inferno raged in his eyes. "You spilled my drink, you poxy wankers!" He strode toward Endyn and stared up at him. "Are you the one responsible?"
Endyn didn't have time to react before the sergeant attacked. He drove a fist into Endyn's gut, doubling him over. Duvain winced as the following uppercut caught his brother under the chin.
Endyn staggered and caught himself against the bar, blinking hard. Shaking his head, he regained his feet and kicked out. His huge boot caught the sergeant in the gut. The force of the blow lifted him from his feet and hurled him backward. His falling body bowled over three more men rushing to join the fight.
"Enough!" The single word, loud and harsh, cut through the din. All eyes turned toward the door.
The man Duvain had seen earlier stood there. His eyes held no anger—they held nothing at all. They were ice cold, lifeless, like a walking corpse. The crowd of Legionnaires gave way before him as he strode toward them.
"Sergeant Brash, sir!" Owen managed to choke past the arm encircling his throat. The man holding him immediately released his grip and stepped out of the way. Owen snapped off a salute, wincing as he swallowed.
Rold staggered upright, one opponent unconscious at his feet and facing off against two more. At Owen's words, he whirled toward the sergeant and mirrored the salute—an action made difficult by the way he hunched over his left side.
Duvain helped Endyn to stand. His brother wobbled but stayed upright.
The sergeant who'd attacked Endyn strode toward them. "Sergeant Brash, get your dogs under control!" He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "If you don't, I will."
Brash regarded the man. "Sergeant Gardner." He said nothing else, simply met the man's glare. The two sergeants squared off, their eyes locked on each other. An unspoken war of wills passed between the two of them.
After a moment, both nodded. "Deadheads," Sergeant Brash called out, not taking his eyes from Sergeant Gardner. "To your barracks, double time."
"Yes, Sergeant!" Owen struggled to lift Weasel's unconscious form.
Duvain slipped Weasel's arm over his shoulder and, together, they dragged the limp man from the tavern.
Duvain cast a worried glance up at Endyn. Blood trickled from Endyn's massive mouth, and a bruise was already forming underneath his jaw. That would hurt like hell in the morning.
"Damn, Endyn!" Owen whistled softly as they hustled up the muddy alley toward their tent. "You just knocked Sergeant Gardner on his ass. Not many in camp can say the same. You're a good piece of gear." He nodded to Duvain. "The both of you."
Endyn said nothing, but a ghost of a smile appeared. Duvain grinned and adjusted his grip on Weasel's arm. "Will he be all right?" The unconscious man had begun to come to, though he did little more than mutter incoherently.
Owen nodded. "Weasel's taken more than his fair share of knocks. He'll hurt bad in the morning, but serves him right for messing with Dahvynd and the rest of Gardner's crew."
Duvain chuckled, but it made his chest hurt. The effort of hauling Weasel set him wheezing. He'd do his own share of hurting the following day.
They reached their tent and deposited the still mumbling Weasel into his bed. The grizzled corporal, Awr, filled the night with his heavy breathing, another empty wineskin hanging limp from his hand. With a wink, Rold muttered about "seeing a woman about a stiff flagpole" and disappeared. Owen excused himself to find some water and wash up before getting to bed.
The prospect of a bath sounded glorious, but the long morning of marching, the afternoon of digging, and the night's skirmish had left him exhausted. Endyn's fatigue mirrored his own.
"How bad is it?" Duvain asked.
Endyn shook his head. "Little bit," he said in his thick, heavy voice.
"Strip down. Let me take a look."
After a moment of hesitation, Endyn removed his tunic.
Duvain winced. Thick, grey scales covered Endyn's broad back, with red, inflamed cracks throughout. Dragonskin, a condition for which the Ministrants at the Sanctuary in Voramis had found no cure. The scales had thickened, grown harder to the touch. They made an eerie clicking as Endyn's movements rubbed them together.
Duvain strode around Endyn, examining the scales. They'd first appeared on his back, but soon spread along his sides, up his chest, and down across his stomach. Judging by the stiffness of Endyn's posture, the scales had reached his legs.
"Damn it, Endyn, this is bad!"
His brother shrugged huge shoulders, but sorrow filled his eyes.
Duvain dug under his pillow and produced the jar of unguent. "I'll put some on now, but I have to apply it again in the morning if you don't want it to keep getting worse." The salve—a fragrant mixture of rose hips, milk thistle, ground oats, aloe leaf, mint leaves, chamomile, slippery elm, and evening primrose oil—soothed Endyn's skin and softened the scales. But nothing could slow the growth. Eventually, the scales would completely cover Endyn's body. Duvain didn't know how long his brother had left—it could be months or years—but the dragonskin would someday kill him.
Not if Duvain had a say in it. He'd do everything in his power to keep that day at bay. With a heavy heart, he opened the jar of salve and began the arduous process of applying it to Endyn's huge back, sides, and chest. Endyn was the only family he had left; he couldn't lose him, too.
Chapter Three
"Keeper take you!" Weasel shouted up at Endyn, rubbing the back of his head. "First you keep me up last night with your abominable snorin’, then you stink up the barracks, now you can't stop swingin’ that spear around like you're showin’ off your prick for a line of whores. If we were in proper battle, you'd have killed me a dozen times over, and not a single bastard barbarian dead!"
Endyn colored and hung his head. He hadn't slept well—the dragonskin made him uncomfortable no matter what position he slept in—and the ruck march had left him exhausted. Now, he struggled to master the unfamiliar hewing spear. The forearm-long blade was heavier than a typical spear, and though his muscles could handle it without difficulty, the odd balance threw him off.
Duvain wanted to stand up for his brother, but the look in Endyn's eyes told him to keep his mouth shut. His own performance in the battle line made Endyn's seem coordinated. He'd crunched the toes of the men behind him, stumbled into Corporal Awr on his right, and knocked Endyn's spear arm wide of a measured thrust. Once, he'd actually managed to drop both his spear and the long, rectangular shield issued to every Legionnaire. And he had been the one to nearly decapitate Weasel.
"Again, Sergeant!" Captain Lingram shouted. The captain sat atop his horse a short distance away, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched his company perform maneuvers. People as far away as Voramis could see his displeasure.
"Keep it forward, Endyn," Owen said from behind them. "Weapon toward the enemy at all times."
"Hewin’ spear like that'll lop a head off," Weasel snarled. "Just make sure it ain't mine."
Duvain adjusted his grip on his spear and raised his shield. The sergeant had positioned him and Endyn in the third row. The two front ranks held the enemy at bay with shields and short swords, while the third and fourth rows used long spears to strike at the enemy. They were the foremost offensive line, but all they'd accomplished was to butcher their formation in all the wrong ways.
As Sergeant Brash called the maneuver again, Duvain desperately tried to move in step with the men behind, ahead, and beside him. He stumbled but caught himself before he toppled into Awr. The grizzled corporal shot him a venomous look, menacing despite his red-rimmed, bleary eyes. Awr winced with every barked command, every clank of their mail and breastplate. Duvain didn't envy him—he'd spent one agonizing hour training while hungover and determined never to do it again.
With a shout, Weasel dropped his weapons and whirled on Endyn. "That's it! I've had enough of your damned fumblin’. "
"Sorry," Endyn rumbled.
"Sorry ain't going to cut it when I get a barbarian arrow in my face because you're too stupid and clumsy to keep the formation." Weasel's face darkened to a furious purple.
"Private Cerlin!" Sergeant Brash's voice cracked like a whip. "That's enough."
Weasel's jaw worked. He turned to Captain Lingram. "All due respect, Captain, but this one's just goin’ to get us all killed! He'll do as an arrow magnet, but not a whole Keeper-damned lot more."
"Silence, Private." Captain Lingram dismounted and strode through the parting ranks of Legionnaires toward them. "Are you trying to tell me you were a lot more competent on your first day in drills?"
Weasel reddened. "Sure, but not as bad as—"
"The Legion of Heroes is more than just an army, Private. It's a group of individuals fighting a common enemy, striving to achieve the same goal. Do you know what that goal is, Private?"
"To survive, Captain." Weasel swallowed. "And with him at my back, I don't see much chance of that happenin’."
Captain Lingram's face hardened. "Private, in my years of service, I've learned that you should never discount the man at your back. They may be the only thing standing between you and certain death when the time comes."
Weasel, finally, kept his mouth shut.
The captain met the little man's gaze. "You say he's rubbish at holding the line? Perhaps it's because no one took the time to think about how hard it is for him to hold a line organized for men half his size." He turned to Endyn. "With a bit more room, you think you can manage?"
Endyn hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Captain."
"Good," Captain Lingram said. His eyes came to Duvain. "You're the shield guarding his weapon arm, but give him a bit of room to swing." He moved Duvain a single step to the right. "Keep your shield close, but not so close he can't move."
He strode around Endyn and moved the Legionnaire on the far side a single step away. "In proper formation, this space would be filled by two men." He winked at Endyn. "Seems like you're big enough for two of us, eh?"
Endyn grinned. "Yes, Captain," he rumbled.
With a nod, Captain Lingram strode back to his horse and swung up into the saddle. "Again, Sergeant Brash."
"Company, move!"
* * *
"Well I'll be damned." Weasel dumped the ladle of water over his face. "Turns out the two of you ain’t as useless as you seem."
Owen frowned. "I remember you being a pretty pathetic Legionnaire your first day, Weasel. Hell, even now, you're about as useful as a sack of smashed eggs."
Weasel scowled, bringing a laugh to Owen's face.
"Chuckle it up, fools," Rold snapped. The corporal stood a short distance away. His perpetual scowl had returned. "When they're the ones who get you killed in the battle line, you won't be cracking jokes."
"Give them time, Rold," Owen protested. "They've been here one day. If their drill sergeants were anything like mine, they were more concerned about breaking their spirits than actually getting them ready for war." He dropped his voice to a mutter. "Almost reminds me of you."
"I heard that, you poxy runt." Rold's scowl deepened, and Owen took an instinctive step back. "And if the captain wasn't sitting over there, I'd stick my foot up your ass and wear you around the camp like the world's ugliest, dumbest sandal."
Owen's face tightened. He turned back to Duvain and Endyn. "Look, you two aren't all that great in a fight just yet, but you've got time. We're the Deadheads—we're not going to battle any time soon."
The high, ringing sound of a horn reverberated through the camp. All of them glanced toward the entrance to the training ground. A rider galloped across the barren field, horse kicking up clods of dirt churned to mud by their boots. He reined in before Captain Lingram. Though Duvain couldn't hear the brief exchange, he caught a glimpse of white as the messenger took a scroll from his pouch and handed it to the captain. With a salute, he rode off.
"That can't be good," Rold muttered.
Duvain followed Rold, Owen, and Weasel toward the captain. Awr stood beside Captain Lingram, engaged in a quiet conversation.
"I don't like it," Corporal Awr was saying.
"We've our orders, Corporal." Captain Lingram's voice held an odd tightness, and a new tension lined his face. "Ours not to question."
"Aye, Captain." Awr snapped a salute.
The captain raised his voice to address them all. "Fifth Shield Company, we have been given marching orders."
A worm of anxiety squirmed in Duvain's gut. He'd expected their company, the Deadheads, the dregs of the Legion of Heroes, would remain in camp. But the captain's face told a different story.
Captain Lingram held up the parchment. "Jade Battalion is to reinforce our troops at Hangman's Hill, and that includes us."
Duvain's gut clenched. They were going to the front line? He wanted to vomit.
"But our orders are to remain at Saerheim, where we will provide support and a rear guard for the main force." The captain clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his head. "We may not be fighting the Eirdkilrs directly, men, but we are still charged with safeguarding the supply route in case of emergency. That is as much an honor as meeting the enemy head on."
Rold gave a quiet snort beside Duvain. "Honor, my hairy arse."
Captain Lingram held up a finger. "We move out within the hour. Check your gear, break down your tents, and prepare to march. We have been summoned, men, and we will answer the call to arms." With a salute, he mounted his horse and trotted off the field.
For a moment, none of the men of Fifth Company moved. They exchanged glances, as if struggling to believe their ears.
"You heard the captain!" Sergeant Brash's words, eerily quiet and calm, broke the silence. "One hour, lads. Be ready." He didn't need to shout; the assurance in his voice had enough effect. The knots of men rushed toward their tents to break camp.
"Get a move on, meat!" Rold shoved Duvain toward the encampment. "We've our marching orders. Any thought of desertion, and I'll string you up by your innards, got it?" The look in Rold's eyes made it clear: the corporal would enjoy carrying out his threat.
Duvain nodded. "You've nothing to fear from us. We're Legionnaires, just like you." He only wished his voice didn't quaver so much, or that he felt a fraction as confident as he tried to sound.
* * *
Duvain's pack weighed twice as much as it ought to. He couldn't get the straps to sit on his shoulders right, and it felt as if it would drag him backward. During basic training, he'd gone on enough ruck marches to know not to expect a featherweight load, but this was too much. How could they possibly expect him to haul such a heavy pack and march all day long?
Endyn actually groaned as he struggled to slip his arms through the straps of his oversized pack. The dragonskin made his movements stiff and clumsy, and the heavy ruck would rub the scales raw.
"Is it bad?" Duvain asked.
Endyn hesitated, his jaw tight, and gave a half-hearted shrug.
Duvain fumbled at his pack's drawstring. "We've got time to apply a bit of the salve before—"
"Move it, you hedge-born yokels!" Rold's voice appeared in the tent a moment before his bearded face. "The other companies are already in line, and you two are dawdling like a pair of moonstruck milkmaids."
Endyn met Duvain's gaze. Though his brother's face was stony, pain filled the big man's eyes. "Let's go," he rumbled. There was no helping it. Endyn would have to tough it out until they had a chance to rest.
Groaning beneath the burden of their packs, they hurried after Rold. All around them, the soldiers of Jade Battalion hastened to tear down their tents, stow their equipment, and don armor. The men moved with the speed of practiced experience. Less than an hour had passed since the captain gave orders to move, and already a long line of Legionnaires streamed toward the companies waiting on the road, following him through the camp.
The Legion of Heroes was on the move.
Fifth Shield Co
mpany held position at the rear of a league-long column of men, horses, and wagons. The Deadheads, the men of the company's Third Platoon, stood at the back.
Rold shoved Duvain into place behind Owen. "You and the arrow-magnet," he nodded to Endyn, "go here, where I can keep an eye on you." He lowered his voice. "Keep the pace, keep your mouth shut, and we'll get through the day fine."
Duvain cast a glance at the sky. The sun had reached its peak—they had at least five hours of marching before calling a halt to rest. Days this far south in Fehl were longer than on the enormous continent of Einan, the nights shorter.
"How far is Saerheim?" he asked Owen.
"Not sure," the Legionnaire answered without turning his head. "Four, five days, maybe more. Cavalry'd get there faster, but us dust-eaters got no choice but to hoof it."
"Pleasant enough day for a walk, though," Weasel said, humor in his voice. "I figure this little jaunt is as good a hump as you're goin’ to get until you make it home to that pretty imaginary girl of yours, Owen."
Duvain didn't catch Owen's retort, but his middle finger salute conveyed the message.
"From Saerheim, the main army's got at least another two or three days' march to the front. They've got to cross some rough terrain, so goin’ is a bit slower." Weasel hitched up his chain mail shirt and scratched vigorously at his rear. "But we've got the cushy job. Sittin’ around a Fehl village, eatin’, dinkin’, standin’ watch. All very humdrum and dull." He turned now and grinned at Duvain. "Just the way I like it."
Owen shook his head. "Just remember, no adding to your ear collection while in Saerheim. They're all friendly Fehl, allied with Icespire and aiding us in our war efforts against the Eirdkilrs."
Weasel muttered something that sounded like "can't tell the Keeper-damned savages apart".
Sergeant Brash marched down the line, inspecting the men and their gear. He tightened the strap on Owen's pack and snapped an order for Weasel to tighten the laces on his boots. When he reached Endyn, he gave him a cold-eyed stare. "You slow us down, we'll cut you loose. Got it?"
Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection Page 47
