Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  As they marched, Weasel went off on a rant about the ugly backside of the Legionnaire marching in front of him. The man ignored him as Weasel spouted nonsense about his womanly shoulders, bullish hips, and flat arse. By the time he got to "chicken legs", Owen had had enough.

  "Shut up, Weasel!" he snapped. "Can you just keep your mouth shut for a Watcher-damned minute? I'd rather listen to Endyn's snoring than your constant whingeing."

  Endyn colored. The previous night, in a moment of irritation, Rold had described Endyn's snoring as "a cross between a constipated horse fart and the braying of a drunk donkey". None of the other Deadheads appeared to care that Endyn could do nothing about the problem, another side effect of whatever caused him to grow to his massive size.

  Weasel remained unfazed by Owen's outburst. "Talkin’ helps to pass the time. Not all of us believe in the righteousness of our cause like you do." Disdain echoed in his voice.

  "Of course," Owen snarled. "It's all about the gold with you!"

  "Why shouldn't it be?" Weasel asked. "Most of us are only here because it's the best way to earn a livin’. When you're good at somethin’, you find a way to use that skill to turn a coin. Just so happens most of us are pretty darned good at killin’."

  Owen snorted. "How noble of you."

  "Nobility is for the pompous lords and ladies." Weasel's shrug jostled his pack. "Some of us don't have the luxury of nobility. Either we join the Legion, get drafted into a gang, or swing at the end of a hangman's noose. I know which I choose. Besides," he gestured to the forest around him, "I get the chance to see the world. Before I joined, I never thought I'd get out of Lower Voramis, much less the city. Now, I've seen more of the world than I ever expected. I don't mind dyin’ away from the piss-hole I was raised in. Not all of us have somethin’ to return home to."

  Duvain found himself nodding. He and Endyn had joined because Northpass had no longer felt like home after the death of their parents. Everywhere he looked, he saw the pain of his childhood, his life under his father's boot, watching Endyn suffer for his condition. The Legion had given him a way out, both him and Endyn. And a hope for a future. The coins they'd earn serving here would go a long way toward setting up a life. What he'd do after his service, he didn't know, but it was enough that he'd have options—something he never had in Northpass.

  He allowed himself the luxury of daydreaming. Images of what his future could hold distracted him from the drudgery of marching. It took little effort to keep in step with Weasel's back, and the rest of his attention could go toward imagining a bright, hopeful future.

  As they marched, the woods grew denser, thickening in a way only old-growth forests could. The muddy track wound through the towering trees, and it seemed the yew, elm, and oak branches reached toward them, welcoming them with leafy boughs. The pine and aspen trees grew straight and tall, reaching conceited heads high into the sky. A cool wind whispered all around them, turning the shade of the forest decidedly chilly.

  Around a bend in the road, they came upon a patch of open, muddy ground that spread out a few hundred paces from the west side of the road. Fallen trees and dead logs littered the space. The track curved around the expanse. As the column passed the open space, a sound filtered into Duvain's ears. Almost like someone was cutting wood, similar to the sounds he'd heard back at the lumber camp outside Northpass.

  He glanced around, nervous. Maybe the Fehlan were working nearby?

  "Woodcutters!" the shout came from two rows back. Real fear echoed in the cry.

  He jerked around, scanning the forest for any sign of attack. He had no idea why woodcutters would be a source of concern, but this close to the front, he wouldn't take chances.

  His eyes darted through the trees, but no barbarians charged from the woods, no war cries broke the silence. Instead, a flicker of movement on the ground caught his attention.

  A serpent darted from beneath a fallen log. Though not large—barely the length of Duvain's forearm—it had bulging eyes, shielded nostrils, and a short, rounded snout. It slithered in an odd sidewinding undulation, and the movement set its emerald green and bone white scales rubbing against each other with a buzzing sound like a steel saw biting into a thick tree trunk.

  The man behind Duvain cried out and leapt back. Endyn never saw the viper before it buried its fangs in his leg. His eyes went wide in fear, and he froze as the snake's jaws clamped tight on his calf. Rold reacted before either of them—he drew his short sword and chopped off the serpent's head in one stroke. The body twitched and writhed, flopping around.

  "Back!" Rold shouted. He seized Endyn by the collar and dragged him away from the muddy expanse. Even as he did, two more of the green, scaled vipers reared up from the ground. They coiled like a figure eight, head poised in the center, ready to lash out at the nearest Legionnaire. All the while, their scales made the terrifying whirring sound.

  Weasel's dagger took one in the head, pinning it to the sand. The other darted toward the column of marching men, only to be met by the metal rim of a Legionnaire's shield.

  The sawing sound grew louder for a moment, then slowly quietened.

  "Damn it!" Rold cursed. "A Keeper-damned woodcutter viper pit." His finger indicated the patch of fallen logs a short distance from the road. "Deadheads, keep well away from there if you don't want to end up dead like this one."

  Endyn's eyes went wide. "Dead?" he rumbled.

  Weasel's face was pale. "Woodcutters are high on the list of don't-fuck-with snakes. Little bastards burrow into the sand and sleep the day away. They're bloody feisty if pissed off. And the venom's enough to kill a grown man twenty times over. Anyone who gets bit…" He trailed off, his eyes darting away. "Sorry, Endyn."

  Rold was kneeling, his knife already out and sawing at Endyn's pants. Cloth tore, and the corporal scanned Endyn's leg.

  "Bloody Minstrel!" he recoiled, nearly falling onto his ass. "What in the frozen hell is that?"

  Weasel gasped at the sight of Endyn's leg, and Owen's face had gone a strange green. Duvain's heart sank. He recognized the patches of scaled skin, the red cracks covering Endyn's shin and calf to the ankle. The dragonskin had spread. It was worse than he expected.

  "Whatever it is," Rold said, his voice a mixture of revulsion and incredulity, "it just saved your life."

  The words took a moment to sink in. "What?" Duvain asked.

  "A woodcutter's bite packs enough venom to take down a full squad of men, and then some." Rold tapped the tip of his dagger on the thick scale. "But this shite's so thick the serpent's fangs couldn't get through." He ripped the bottom of Endyn's pants and used the fabric to wipe a stream of clear liquid dribbling down his leg. He held it up to them. "See this? The bastard sprayed his load all over, but his fangs never punctured the skin."

  Face burning with embarrassment, Endyn quickly tugged the pant leg down over the dragonskin.

  Duvain extended a hand to help Endyn up, and Rold did the same. The corporal stared up at Endyn through narrowed eyes. "Does the captain know about…" He gestured to Endyn's leg. "…that?"

  Endyn glanced at Duvain, who shook his head. "No, and he doesn't need to know."

  Rold raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

  Duvain met Rold's, Weasel's, and Owen's eyes in turn. "It won't spread, if that's what you're worried about."

  The three Deadheads exchanged suspicious looks.

  "Look," Duvain insisted, "it's something he's had since he was young, but it can't be passed on. The healers at the Sanctuary said as much."

  After a long moment, Rold shook his head. "Captain still needs to know."

  "It's his way of things." Awr's quiet rasping voice cut in.

  Duvain's head flashed around.

  Awr had come up without a sound. He stood behind Weasel, staring at Endyn, yet without disdain or disgust on his face. "He cares about his men. He's unlike most commanders that way."

  Duvain met Awr's gaze. He could have stared at stone. The man was hard, not cold, but revealing
as much as the stone cliffs to the west. "Very well. But I'll tell him."

  Rold scowled. "Chain of command says—"

  "I will tell him." Duvain clenched his fists.

  After a moment, Rold snorted and shrugged. "You have until end of day."

  Duvain's gut clenched, but he nodded. "So be it."

  Rold held his glance for a long moment. The look had as much warmth as if the corporal were staring at a rake or a feather duster. Rold didn't care about him—all that mattered was that his comrades wouldn't get him killed in battle.

  The tension snapped, and Rold turned to the rest of the company. "What are you lot doing, sitting about like doxies on holiday? Back in line!" he roared.

  The rest of the Deadheads hurried to form up. A low mutter ran through the ranks. Duvain hoped none of them had seen Endyn's leg, but there was no mistaking the hushed whispers, the backward glances. They'd seen the woodcutter viper bite Endyn, yet Corporal Rold was treating everything like business as usual. That spawned speculation aplenty.

  The sound of hoofbeats grew louder. Duvain looked up to see Captain Lingram trotting down the line of men toward them.

  "All is well, Corporal?" he asked Awr.

  "Aye, Captain." Awr nodded.

  Rold interjected. "Spot of bother with a nest of woodcutter vipers.” He shot Duvain a look. "Got it sorted out."

  "Good." Captain Lingram nodded. "We've a good deal of ground to cover, and Skelan tells me our path leads through some heavy woods that'll get dark before the sun sets."

  "Aye, sir!" Corporal Rold saluted.

  With a nod, Captain Lingram turned his horse and rode toward the front of the line. A moment later, Sergeant Brash's barked orders of "Company, march!" echoed out.

  Duvain's eyes widened when Weasel darted out of rank to snatch up the decapitated serpent's body.

  Weasel shot him a grin. "Just because they bite like bastards, don't mean they taste like 'em. No sense wastin’ good meat, says I—anythin’ is better than rations."

  Owen shook his head.

  "What?" Weasel protested. "It's not like I'm riskin’ my hide huntin’ them down. Thanks to Endyn here," he winked up at the big man, "we've got ourselves a little somethin’ extra for supper tonight. Gods alone know what sort of grub they'll serve at the Fehlan village."

  He pointed to the muddy patch of ground and the pile of fallen logs. "You see anythin’ like that in these parts, you steer bloody well clear. Even you, big man. That's where they hang out, and I doubt even you can survive for long."

  Endyn nodded. "Got it."

  Duvain noticed that Endyn seemed subdued, shy. He looked at the men around him with wary eyes. The other Deadheads also shot him occasional glances, and a gap had opened around their rank. Sorrow weighed on Duvain, but the reaction came as no surprise. People tended to act like that when they saw Endyn's dragonskin—it was why he kept it hidden.

  Tension lined his brother's face. His jaw muscles worked, and as the hours of marching wore on, the twitching in his hand grew more pronounced. Once, he actually reached up and scratched at his neck. Duvain caught a hint of grey above his collar and cursed. He had to get some of the salve on Endyn's dragonskin before it spread. The fatigue of the march and the emotional turmoil hiding behind Endyn's stony expression would only make things worse.

  From a young age, Endyn had been his mother's favorite, and the arrival of Duvain a few years later did little to change that. Even after he reached his gigantic height, his mother had been gentle, tender with him. Endyn was a gentle soul, one who wanted to be liked and accepted by everyone. His size made him stand out, so he tried to work extra hard to fit in.

  The dragonskin was a curse, one that kept others at bay. The previous day, when the Deadheads found a stream to wash in, Endyn had refused to undress with the others. He'd sat on the bank and watched as Owen, Weasel, Rold, and the other Deadheads relaxed in the cool water. Their cramped tent offered no privacy for him to change, so he would disappear into the woods to scratch the itch away from the eyes of his comrades. But now they knew his shameful secret, and their sidelong glances pained him.

  Duvain hated to see his brother suffer so—physically and emotionally. Though Endyn was the older brother, Duvain had always looked out for him. He'd continue to do so, even if it meant being the one to face Captain Lingram's wrath when he told him Endyn's secret.

  His mood soured as the forest grew denser. The thick canopy blocked out the sunlight, and a chill wind whispered through the woods. The shadows hung heavy about them as they marched through the eerie silence.

  "Bloody trees," Weasel muttered. "You can't trust 'em."

  "Think they'll uproot themselves and bite you?" Owen teased.

  Weasel glared. "'Course not, because I ain't an idiot." He punched Owen's shoulder. "But you never know what's hidin’ in trees that thick."

  The image of a pack of howling barbarians ran through Duvain's mind. He'd never seen an Eirdkilr before, but had heard the descriptions: howling savages clad in furs, waving huge weapons, shaking the ground with their war cries. He gripped his shield tighter. With every step, the forests grew more impenetrable, the shadows deepening. Fear thrummed the back of his mind; his imagination screamed that the densely packed trees concealed an army of Eirdkilrs come to massacre them all.

  He nearly cried in relief as the thick forest gave way to a clearing. The muddy track cut straight across the open ground, climbing a short incline toward a palisade wall. The tension drained from his shoulders. They had reached Saerheim.

  The walls around Saerheim, erected by a Legionnaire company stationed there years earlier, stood roughly three paces tall. Once, the sharpened stakes would have deterred enemies from climbing over; time and weather had dulled the keen points. But the wall stretched a full three hundred paces across, with a heavy gate in the center.

  Beyond the wall, Duvain caught a glimpse of a cliff's edge, with farmland spreading out below. In the distance, a few hundred paces from the cliff, the blue water of Cold Lake sparkled in the fading sunlight.

  The gates swung open at their approach.

  "Company, HALT!" Sergeant Brash shouted. The column of Legionnaires stopped just short of the opening gate.

  The man who emerged to greet them had to be closing in on his seventh decade. He wore thick woolen breeches, a sheepskin vest over a simple tunic, and a cloak of heavy fur. His eyes and mouth were lined by sun and mirth, but he walked with a straight back. He smiled and spread his arms. "Greetings, men of Icespire." He spoke Einari with a thick accent.

  Captain Lingram dismounted and strode toward the man. "Elder Asmund of Saerheim, I am Captain Lingram of the Fifth Shield Company. You do us honor with your greeting." He continued speaking, but in a language Duvain didn't recognize.

  The elder's eyes lit up. "You speak our tongue?" he asked in Einari.

  "Not well, I fear." Captain Lingram replied. "The people of the Fjall clan would be ashamed to hear me, believing their lessons wasted."

  Duvain's eyebrows rose. The Fjall were the largest and most powerful of the clans north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Captain Lingram had spent time among them?

  "Few of your kind have tried to learn, so it is a welcome change." He stepped aside and swept an arm toward the open gate. "I welcome you to Saerheim. We have prepared a place for your men to stay while you are here."

  "We have our own tents, and—"

  Elder Asmund shook his head. "The Saer is a cold place at night. Your tents will do little to keep out the cold rolling off the lake. Our structures may be simple, but they are warm."

  Captain Lingram bowed. "You do us honor, Elder Asmund."

  "It is no more than our peace accords demands." The old man's weathered face broke into a smile. "Now, come, enter Saerheim and find rest."

  At the captain's command, the Legionnaires marched into the village.

  Duvain couldn't help staring at everything around him. People dressed in simple garb like Elder Asmund's stared at them as they en
tered. Women carried baskets of wool, tended cook fires, or hustled after energetic children. The few men they encountered busied themselves applying a fresh layer of daub to the wattle walls of their simple wooden homes.

  The road led from the gate, past a collection of small, single-room houses, toward a broad expanse of paved stone—no doubt Saerheim's main square. Four huge longhouses faced the main square, stretching easily seven or eight paces wide, five paces tall, and at least twenty paces long. These structures were made of sturdy logs, their roofs covered with thick layers of thatching to keep out the chill.

  When the Legionnaires reached the paved stone square, Sergeant Brash called for a halt.

  Endyn gave an audible groan. Duvain glanced up at him. Tears brimmed in his brother's eyes, and he shifted from foot to foot in visible discomfort. He breathed through his massive nostrils, as if struggling to restrain himself. The pain had to be bad.

  Sergeant Brash strode toward them. "Squad Three, get settled into your billets, get some chow, and prepare for midnight watch."

  Corporal Rold snapped a salute. "Yes, Sergeant."

  Sergeant Brash moved on to the next squad, giving orders in his calm, even voice.

  "You heard him, lads!" Weasel turned with a grin. "Midnight's still a ways off. I wonder what sort of trouble we can get into before then."

  "None," Corporal Rold barked. "We're doing exactly as the sergeant says. We stay in quarters until it's time for watch." He stabbed a finger at Weasel's chest. "And lose the jewelry."

  Weasel glanced down at his grisly necklace. "Aww, really, Corporal?"

  Rold snarled. "Now, soldier!" He glanced around. "No need to antagonize the natives further."

  Duvain eyed the villagers of Saerheim. The Fehlan watched them with hooded, studied expressions, turning away whenever he looked at them. None spoke or approached. Though they showed no overt hatred, a tense silence hung in the air. They were not welcome guests.

  Grumbling, Weasel removed his necklace of ears and tucked it into his shirt.

  A middle-aged man with a straw-colored beard strode toward them, speaking in Fehlan. Surprisingly, Corporal Awr responded in the same tongue. The villager raised an eyebrow and tried to engage in conversation with Awr, but the corporal only shrugged. After a moment, the man gave up and gestured for them to follow him.