Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  Endyn nodded. "Yes, Sergeant," he rumbled.

  The sergeant's gaze shifted to Duvain. "Goes for you, too. You're a Legionnaire now, so act like it. Long day's march ahead of us, but if you get tired, I'm sure the corporal here will be happy to give you a cup of suck it the fuck up."

  Duvain snapped a salute. "Yes, Sergeant!" He caught himself before saying “sir” again.

  Sergeant Brash's face didn't change. He moved on without a word.

  Rold snorted. "Whatever you do, do not piss the sergeant off. Especially after last night."

  "You mean the fight you started?" Duvain asked.

  He felt Rold's glare burn into the back of his neck. "You've Weasel to thank for that. I just stood up for our company."

  Weasel snorted. "Bull-shite! You're just an ornery bastard who likes to fight."

  "You'll be glad for that when I save your hide on the battlefield," Rold retorted. "Maybe next time, I'll leave you to be pummeled so you'll remember it."

  Weasel's reply was cut off by Sergeant Brash's booming shout. "Company, march!"

  * * *

  Two hours into the march, and Duvain couldn’t wait for the day to be over. His lungs burned and his legs ached despite the slow, steady pace. The straps of his pack dug into his shoulders. He wanted nothing more than to cast off his pack and run free of its burden. Only Rold's presence at his back—and the nervous fear of what the corporal would do if he slowed down their company—kept him moving.

  According to Owen, they'd be expected to cover at least a league to reach their campsite before nightfall. At this rate, Duvain felt as if his feet would be worn to the nub by the time they stopped.

  He cast occasional glances up at Endyn. Sweat streamed down his brother's huge forehead, and his breath came in labored gasps. Beneath the mask of dirt and road dust, his face was pale with the exertion. He looked one gasp away from collapse.

  Fear increased Duvain's burden of weariness. They had left the safety of the Icespire encampment and marched toward the front lines. He'd always known he would fight—he'd signed up for the Legion of Heroes for that very purpose—but now it was all too real. A middling soldier at best, he could march in a straight line most of the time and swing a sword as well as any untrained village boy, but he wasn't cut out for battle. Rear guard or not, they'd been posted too close to the fighting for his comfort.

  And that terrified him more than he cared to admit. He wasn't strong like Endyn, fast like Weasel, or a brawler like Rold. He was just a farmer's son armed with standard issue weapons and filled with a nerve-wracking anticipation.

  Weasel had spent the entire march south cracking wise, but Owen hadn't spoken a word. He marched with hunched shoulders, back abnormally stiff. Perhaps he, too, felt the fear that dragged on Duvain.

  Gritting his teeth against the fire in his legs, spine, and shoulders, he forced himself to match Endyn's pace. He had to stay with his brother, if nothing else. He'd promised as much to his mother before the Bloody Flux claimed her. Endyn needed him as much as he needed Endyn. He gripped his brother's forearm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Endyn smiled through his pain.

  After living among the plains of southern Einan, the terrain around Duvain had an almost magical beauty. Dense forests of oak, pine, elm, and aspen trees stretched in all directions, a sea of greens, browns, and reds that glowed in the bright sunlight. To the west, steep hills rose to vertical rocky cliffs of a brilliant white. To the east, the colors of nature deepened, marking the presence of bogs, marshes, and swamplands. The jagged ridges of the Sawtooth Mountains far to the south held his gaze. His mind filled with images of the mystical creatures—frost bears, white mountain apes, even the fabled ice dragons—that lay in the Frozen Waste beyond.

  The Eirdkilrs lived there as well. He'd heard tales of the huge, shaggy-haired men of the Frozen Waste. Tales that sent a shiver down his spine as surely as the chill of the ice floes of the Frozen Sea. The thought of facing them in battle set his hands quivering. He clenched his fists and thanked the Swordsman, god of war, that they would be stationed far from the front.

  Relief filled him as the sun dipped toward the distant horizon, and the order to make camp came down the line. He fought the urge to drop his pack and sag to the ground. Instead, he forced himself to keep marching until they reached their designated campsite. The moment Sergeant Brash turned away to attend the other platoons under his command, he shrugged out of his pack and sank to the ground with a relieved groan. Endyn did likewise. His face had grown steadily paler throughout the day. He closed his eyes and took deep, ragged breaths.

  Weasel looked down at them, a mischievous grin on his face. "Survived the first day, eh?" He snorted.

  Behind him, a smile tugged at Owen's lips. "Packs feeling heavy?"

  Even Rold's scowl cracked. Grim mirth twinkled in his dark eyes.

  Duvain looked between the three men, then at Endyn. He was the butt of some joke, but what?

  "Made sure you got all your gear, did you?" Weasel failed to stifle a little laugh. "Got enough to keep you goin’ until Saerheim?"

  At this, he and Owen burst out laughing, and Rold chuckled.

  Duvain's confusion didn't abate. He exchanged a puzzled glance with Endyn. "I…I don't get it."

  "Your packs, lads." Corporal Awr's voice drifted over from the patch of grass where he'd taken a seat. "Empty 'em."

  Duvain frowned. He'd taken great pains packing his ruck that morning. "Why?"

  "Do it," Rold snapped. "That's an order."

  After a moment of hesitation, Duvain complied. He spilled the contents of his pack across the ground.

  "You, too." Rold said to Endyn, who followed suit.

  "Funny thing about fresh meat like you is that they never know what all to pack." Weasel crouched over their piles of stuff. "Yep, as I expected!" He held up the cloth-wrapped bundles Duvain had requested from the camp cook. "They came prepared to feast like kings."

  Duvain's forehead wrinkled. "What's wrong with packing a few extra rations?"

  "In the grand scheme of things, not a lot." Owen shook his head. "But when you're marching, you want to stick to the bare essentials. Emphasis on bare!"

  Weasel pawed through Duvain's belongings. "All that armor you're carryin’—helmet, mail shirt, breastplate, gambeson, boots, greaves, bracers, and so on—is goin’ to weigh you down. Throw in your shield, short sword, spear, and throwin’ axes, and the weight adds up." He built a small pile of items off to one side. "There are the things you can't live without: flint for startin’ a fire, all-purpose knife, waterskin, and day's rations. A few extras like your wooden bowl and spoon, and you've got enough to weigh you down."

  He reached for the three glass jars. "But when you start throwin’ in extras, that's when you suffer. The pack gets heavier and heavier with every step, until you end up…well…like this." Weasel's gesture encompassed him and Endyn, sprawled on the ground. "Many an idiot recruit has marched himself into an early grave by packin’ too heavy. Though, to be fair, you all handled it a lot better than expected."

  Duvain scowled. "And you didn't think to tell us before the march?"

  Rold shook his head. "No better lesson than experience. You'll make this mistake exactly once." He reached for one of the glass jars. "Stuff like this, this'll slow you—"

  Duvain swiped the jar and snatched the other two from Weasel's hands. "There's no way I'm getting rid of these." He stuffed them back into the pack.

  "Is that so?" Rold sat up, a cold, spiteful look in his eyes. "And if I ordered you to leave them?"

  "I'd take it up with the sergeant, or captain if I had to." Duvain met Rold's gaze without flinching. He'd go to General Vessach himself if necessary. The salve in those jars was the only thing keeping Endyn's dragonskin at bay.

  Rold snorted and gave a dismissive wave. "Suit yourself. You're the one who'll have to lug it all the way to Saerheim on your back."

  A supply wagon rumbled past, depositing one of the collapsible hide tents the
Legion used for their marching armies. Owen and Weasel stood and set about erecting the shelter.

  Rold sneered at them. "Your highnesses, if you'd be so kind as to help?" His face hardened. "Move."

  With a groan, Duvain forced himself to his feet. Every muscle from his neck to the soles of his feet ached. His standard-issue boots had rubbed three new blisters into his right foot, with a painful four to match on his left. Each step proved more arduous than the last, but the corporal seemed disinclined to be merciful.

  Rold dragged Endyn off to collect firewood from the nearby forest. Duvain had no time to worry for his brother, for Corporal Awr ordered him to lug his fellow Deadheads' packs into the tent. When Rold returned, he set Duvain and Endyn to build the fire, telling them they needed to practice using their flints. Duvain welcomed this last task. He'd had plenty of practice over the freezing winters spent huddling around a tiny fire in the barn. His father had failed to build adequate weatherproofing for their sparse room.

  Dinner was a quick production, thanks to the rations he'd hauled from camp. It grated on Duvain to see the others devouring the food he'd packed for himself and Endyn, but kept his complaints to himself. No sense antagonizing the other Deadheads.

  "As a reward for a hearty meal," Weasel declared, patting his belly, "let me show you somethin’ they don't teach in basic." He produced his wooden spoon and held it up. The handle had been sharpened to a narrow point. "A bit of work, and you've got yourself a skewer to eat with. Handy for those rare occasions when fresh meat's on the menu."

  Duvain and Endyn set about sharpening their spoon handles, listening as Owen and Weasel chatted about their journey to Saerheim. They'd be expected to cover at least four leagues per day, but the General could push them up to eight if the fighting at the front took a turn for the nasty. The thought of covering eight leagues—nearly half the distance between Northpass and Voramis—filled Duvain with dread.

  "At least we've got roads to travel on between here and Saerheim," Owen told them. "Going will be a lot slower after that. All that dense forest and those awful roads—little more than muddy beaten paths, really—will make it hell on the rest of Jade Battalion."

  "Yes, indeed." Weasel leaned back against his back and stretched out. "We definitely snagged the easy duty."

  Owen spent a full half-hour teaching them how to repair their boots. The horsehide exteriors could take a beating, but the woolen interiors would wear out quickly if they got wet. Five layers of laminated leather provided a sturdy sole as well as a bit of cushioning for the feet. Compared to the shoes they'd worn running around Northpass, the boots were a luxury.

  Throughout the meal and into the evening, Duvain kept an eye on Endyn. His brother's hand had begun to twitch, his jaw muscles clenching and relaxing. Duvain was worried. The itching had to be driving Endyn mad. When he caught his brother's attention, he held out the jar. Endyn gave a frantic shake of his head.

  Duvain understood. His brother was embarrassed by the dragonskin—and why shouldn't be he? It had brought him nothing but ridicule and scorn—but he would rather suffer the torment in silence than show weakness. Weakness had earned them beatings from their father and the other boys in the village.

  After a moment, Endyn climbed to his feet and stumbled off into the forest.

  "Where's he going?" Rold demanded.

  "Nature's calling," Duvain lied.

  Rold grunted, but kept his eyes fixed on the forest where Endyn had disappeared.

  "Tell me," Duvain asked, trying to divert the corporal's attention, "what are the Fehlan like?"

  Rold's head snapped around. "What?"

  The ferocity of the corporal's expression surprised Duvain. "The Fehlan. We're going to be staying among them in Saerheim, right? So why are some of them called Fehlan and some Eirdkilrs?"

  Rold snarled. "Do they teach you nothing back across the water?"

  Duvain met his gaze in silence.

  "The name Fehlan literally means 'people of Fehl'. It's a name they gave themselves, but it's like calling us Einari." Rold gestured to each of the men around the fire. "Just like all of us are from different cities—Praamis, Voramis, Malandria, and, in the case of the sergeant, Drash—the Fehlan have their own clans. Each clan has its own name. For example, the people of Saerheim belong to the Deid clan, or the clan of the Cold Lakes."

  "And the Eirdkilrs?" Duvain asked.

  Rold continued, "The people we know as Eirdkilrs are actually of the Tauld clan, or clan of the Great Wastes, as they call it. When they declared war on us, they changed their name to Eirdkilrs. In the Fehlan tongue, Eird means 'half-men'. When you see the size of these savages, you'll understand." He glanced at the forest. "Not quite as big as your brother, but some of them'd give him a run for his money."

  "Eirdkilrs," Duvain tried out the name.

  "That last part of the name don't need a lot of explainin' does it?" Weasel grinned.

  Eirdkilrs. Killers of the half-men. Duvain shuddered.

  Weasel's expression grew somber. "No scout's ever made it past the Sawtooth Mountains to find out just how many of them there are livin’ in the Frozen Wastes. But by last count, we've killed more than ten thousand of the bastards since they first showed their ugly faces ten years ago, yet they still field army after army. They seem to be breedin’ new ones as fast as we can cut them down."

  The nervousness in Duvain's gut returned. The icy hand of fear gripped the back of his neck.

  "But cheer up, meat!" Weasel reached over and slapped his shoulder. "We're stuck far from the front, and there's no way the bastards'll cut through the main force to reach us. We're as safe as anyone can be in this cold, cruel world." He gave a harsh chuckle.

  "Whatever gods you worship, boy," Corporal Awr's rasping voice made the night seem suddenly chill, "get on your knees and pray that's true. Either that, or make your peace with the Long Keeper. We run into any Eirdkilrs, you'll be meeting the god of death face to face."

  Chapter Four

  "Enjoy your holiday, Deadheads!" Dahvynd's voice carried toward them as Second Platoon marched past. "Be sure not to stub your toe or get frostbite while the rest of us are doing real men's work."

  Rold scowled and shot back. "All you'll be doing is finding the enemy's arrows face-first!"

  Weasel had a more eloquent response. Duvain's ears burned at the string of profanity spewing from the little man's mouth. Even Endyn seemed shocked.

  'That's enough, Private," Rold snapped. "That mouth of yours will get you killed, if you keep running it like that."

  "Just givin’ our brothers in arms a fond farewell," Weasel said, snickering. "Motivatin’ them to face the enemy, and all."

  Rold shook his head and shouted, "Company, line!"

  Groaning, Duvain stood from his comfortable seat on the soft grass. When they'd reached the crossroads, the Deadheads had been ordered off the road to allow the rest of the army to pass. The main bulk of the army took the route to the west, toward the front lines. The Deadheads would take the eastern road—though calling the muddy, winding track through the forest a "road" was generous—to reach Saerheim.

  Sergeant Brash and the other four squad sergeants barked orders to hurry the men. As Duvain took his place in line beside Endyn, he couldn't help but feel vulnerable. With the other two platoons of Fifth Shield Company joining the main army force, the Deadheads numbered fewer than sixty, including Captain Lingram. They were on their own. In the next row, Weasel was shaking his head. "This ain't good. The company couldn't hold off a stiff breeze."

  Duvain glanced at the other Deadheads. More than a few had paunches far thicker than Legion regulation permitted. Some sported wounds just shy of debilitating. Only a few bore the professional demeanor of a true Legionnaire—according to Owen, all of those had followed Captain Lingram to the Deadheads after his demotion. Corporal Awr was one of those, as was Sergeant Brash and another of the sergeants. Weasel had estimated they could field twenty men capable of proper battle. The rest—and Weas
el included Duvain and Endyn among that number—would do little more than serve as meat shields and arrow magnets.

  Duvain glanced at Captain Lingram. The captain sat on his horse at the head of the line, his expression somber as he studied his company. No doubt similar thoughts ran through his mind.

  Beside him, Endyn shuffled in place. The twitch in his hand had gotten bad, and he'd begun muttering to himself, the way he always did when the itching grew unbearable. Hours of marching in the heavy armor had to have made the dragonskin uncomfortable. He'd be going mad, but unable to do anything about it without breaking formation—and suffering terrible punishments at the hand of Rold, Brash, and the other officers.

  "The minute we reach Saerheim," Duvain told his brother in a low voice, "we'll get some of that salve on it."

  Endyn met his gaze, and misery filled his expression. The itch was just one of the dragonskin's effects—the thick scales would chap and crack, causing the skin around them to grow red, raw, and painful.

  Duvain felt sorry for his brother, but he could only grip Endyn's massive forearm and squeeze. "You've got this," he whispered. "Just a little longer."

  According to the two scouts assigned to their platoon, Saerheim stood just four hours' march away—two, if they pushed their pace. With the sun still high in the sky, they had no reason to hurry.

  Duvain's feet, legs, and back definitely wanted him either to hurry or not to move at all. His shoulders felt like they'd forever bear the indents of his rucksack. Even though he'd emptied out all the unnecessary items, it still weighed too much. The wooden frame rubbed his back and hips raw. His blisters had worsened with each new day, though thankfully no new ones had formed after Owen instructed him to double up on his woolen socks.

  None of the others seemed to mind the march—no more so than usual, at least. Legionnaires tended to grumble about everything: from the occasional rain to the bloody heat to the blistering, Keeper-damned cold nights to the piss-poor chow. Weasel, in particular, found something new to complain about every hour.