Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  The mercenaries obeyed. Their mottled brown cloaks blended with the shadows of the forest as they returned down the road toward Saerheim, until Duvain lost sight of them in the darkness.

  "As for the rest of you," Captain Lingram said to Duvain and the other Legionnaires, "bring up the rear, and be wary. We're counting on you to alert us if the Eirdkilrs catch up."

  Despite his exhaustion, Duvain snapped a crisp salute. "Aye, sir." He adjusted his grip on his shield and spear and stood straighter.

  With a nod, Captain Lingram strode away, leaving a gaping Lord Virinus.

  Duvain and the other Legionnaires ignored the nobleman, but took their place at the rear of the line without a word. A moment later, Lord Virinus stormed past, muttering dark curses on Captain Lingram.

  Duvain strained his ears, listening for any sign of pursuit. Dread grew heavy within him. Any minute now, the howling of the Eirdkilrs would split the night.

  After the din of battle and the roaring fire, the sounds of night were oddly muted to Duvain. A night owl hooted high in a yew tree, while the chill wind filled the air with the rustling of dry autumn leaves. The clanking of the Legionnaire's armor seemed to echo from the forest around them, amplified by his anxiety. Boots squelched in mud. Children wailed for their beds and their fathers, only to be hushed by mothers who spoke in voices filled with sorrow. They would never see their men again, yet they marched on. Their children had to live.

  Fear hung like a thick pall over them all. They all knew what pursued them, and that knowledge spurred them to move faster. The Eirdkilrs, unencumbered by belongings, children, and the aging, would eventually catch up, and the wave of death would sweep over them. They had every reason to move faster.

  As they rounded a corner in the trail, Duvain caught a glimpse of the muddy patch of ground and fallen logs they'd passed on their way to the village. The Legionnaires gave the pile of logs a wide berth, herding the villagers into the forest to avoid pissing off the woodcutter vipers. Duvain shuddered at the memory of what lived there. Endyn had nearly died—he would have, had not the serpent's fangs struck the dragonskin. The dragonskin had saved him then, as it saved him back at Saerheim.

  "Captain!" A voice pierced the tense silence of the night. Duvain's stomach twisted. It came from behind him.

  He turned to see two of the mercenaries racing toward them, his eyes wide. "They're coming, Captain!" he cried. There was no sign of the other two.

  Captain Lingram appeared at the rear of the train of people and animals. "How far?"

  "They can't be more than five minutes out, sir!" the mercenary gasped, winded.

  "Damn it!" Captain Lingram clenched his fists. He looked at the procession of people and soldiers—they had no way out. "We have to move faster!"

  He shouted in Fehlan, and his words had an immediate effect. Women, children, and the village elders broke into a run, panic on their faces. The drivers of the two carts whipped the draft horses to move faster.

  Duvain, Rold, and the other Legionnaires hustled after them. Duvain couldn't help looking over his shoulders. At any moment, the Eirdkilrs would appear around the bend in the road. He and his fellow Legionnaires would hold the rear in the hope that they could buy enough time for the rest to escape. A desperate hope, one with no chance of success.

  As he cast a fearful glance back, his eyes fell on the pile of fallen logs. An idea struck him like a bolt of lightning. A dangerous, potentially suicidal idea. At this point, they had nothing else.

  "Captain," he called. "Permission to remain in the rear?"

  Captain Lingram shook his head. "Denied, soldier. This is neither the time nor place for a desperate last stand. We have to try to outrun them." His expression and the tone of his voice spoke volumes: he knew they had little hope, but he had to try.

  "Captain, I've got an idea that could buy us a bit of time, but it'll only work if I'm the only one the Eirdkilrs see."

  The captain’s brow furrowed. "What are you thinking?"

  Duvain explained his idea. The captain shook his head. "Not a chance!"

  "It's the only chance, Captain," Duvain insisted. "It'll work—I know it. Get everyone off the road, into the forest. Keep moving north, toward Icespire. I'll catch up as soon as I can." He glanced toward Lord Virinus' mercenaries. "And I'll need someone to guide me."

  One of the two mercenaries, the one named Scathan, stepped forward. "I'll go with him."

  "So will I." Corporal Rold joined them.

  Duvain shook his head. "Corporal, this isn't going to—"

  "Get stuffed, meat." Corporal Rold replied, folding his arms. "I'll be damned if I let you have all the fun. Besides, someone's got to watch your back."

  Duvain glanced up the road. He was glad Endyn had disappeared around a bend—he would have protested or insisted on coming along. He didn't want that. The plan was desperate and foolish, like as not to get him—and anyone who went with him—killed. But it would give Endyn a chance of survival.

  The weeks spent marching and training had helped improve his brother's stamina. Though he was no doubt exhausted, he would keep going as long as he had to. And Duvain's plan might buy enough time for him to have a chance to reach safety.

  Captain Lingram held out a hand. "Show them what a Legionnaire's made of, soldier."

  Duvain gripped it. "It's been an honor, sir." He gave a salute, and the captain returned it. "One favor, Captain?"

  The captain raised an eyebrow.

  "Watch out for my brother, sir." A grin tugged at his lips, and he didn't try to fight it. "Mother'd have my head if anything happened to him."

  The captain's smile matched his own. "I'll keep an eye on him, Legionnaire. But I'm sure your mother would want you to keep an eye on him yourself."

  "I'll see what I can do, Captain."

  Captain Lingram gripped Rold's hand, nodded to the mercenary, and rushed up the road after the retreating villagers.

  Corporal Rold turned to Duvain with a derisive expression. "Time to hear this plan of yours, meat."

  Duvain drew in a deep breath. "We're going to need torches."

  * * *

  Silence hung thick in the forest where the three of them crouched. The tension in Duvain's shoulders mounted with every passing second, knotting so tight he could barely move. He half-expected the barbarians to leap out from the trees and surround them. He forced himself to take deep breaths and keep his eyes fixed on the road that led toward Saerheim. The enemy would come from there.

  Rold muttered in his ear. "If you get me killed, meat, I'm going to be bloody pissed!"

  The corporal's words pushed back Duvain's fear a little. He shrugged. "Pull your head out of your ass, and you've a decent chance of survival."

  Rold chuckled. "Hate to say it, but it turns out you're not the worst Legionnaire in the world."

  "You're too kind," Duvain muttered. He was about to return Rold's insult, but his mouth went suddenly dry. Something moved in the dark. Somethings. Figures coalesced from the shadows, tens, scores, hundreds. Huge, bearded figures wearing white furs and carrying enormous war axes, clubs, and spears.

  The Eirdkilrs had found them.

  "You sure about this?" Rold asked.

  Duvain shrugged. "Not even a little."

  Drawing in a deep breath, Duvain stood and bellowed, "Hey, yak-buggers! Is it true you dye your faces because you're so ugly not even you'd fuck you?"

  The Eirdkilrs whirled toward the sound of his voice, their eyes scanning the darkness for him.

  He made it easy for them. "Here I am!" he shouted and raised the torch he'd kept hidden beneath a fallen tree. "Big fellas like you, it probably takes a whole search party to find a good idea among you. But how's this for encouragement?" He dropped his trousers and shook his arse at them.

  The Eirdkilrs howled and raised their weapons high overhead. The sound of their cries chilled Duvain to the bone. He fumbled with the torch and nearly dropped it.

  "Ugly fuckers, aren't you?" Corporal Rold s
neered. "You lot have all the charm and charisma of a pile of burning dog shite."

  Though the savages didn't understand the words, the tone was crystal clear. With a howl, they charged.

  Duvain, Rold, and the mercenary turned and ran, holding their torches high overhead. The light illuminated their path through the forest and limned them clearly for the Eirdkilrs to see. Ululating cries filling the air, the mass of barbarians surged toward them.

  Right through the muddy ground and over the fallen logs.

  The first screams began a moment after a terrifying whirring pierced the night. Duvain cast one glance backward and shuddered. Dozens of barbarians raced onto the open, muddy field. The woodcutter vipers didn't welcome the intruders. Though Eirdkilrs wore thick furs on their backs, their leather breeches and boots proved no match for the serpents’ powerful fangs. Men writhed on the ground, and the emerald green serpents slithered over them to bite at the next ranks.

  Duvain threw his torch toward the fallen logs, and Rold and Scathan did likewise. Hundreds of woodcutters darted from holes in the ground, their scales whirring like a biting saw. The fire enraged the serpents further, sending them slithering toward the mass of barbarians. Eirdkilrs fell screaming. The crush of warriors prevented the foremost men from retreating. Many farther back died, trampled beneath their comrades' boots in their haste to flee the wrath of the vipers.

  Rold's laughter followed Duvain through the night. "Well I'll be damned," the corporal muttered.

  Duvain had no time for mirth. "You know where you're going?" he asked the mercenary.

  The man nodded. "We'll lead them west a while, then cross the Jokull River and backtrack toward the road to rejoin the rest of the company. If all goes well, we'll meet up with them before midday."

  Midday! Duvain stifled a groan. The fight and flight had drained him, and this last rush of adrenaline left him exhausted. He doubted he could run through the remaining hours before dawn. But what choice did he have? They had to lead the Eirdkilrs away from the rest of their company. It was the only way Endyn, Captain Lingram, and the others would survive. They had to get Branda to Icespire to cement the alliance with Eirik Throrsson and the Fjall. That was why the Deadheads had been sent to Saerheim, and he would be damned if he let a horde of barbarians make them fail.

  He dropped his shield beside a tree, and left his armor a few paces away. Rold did the same. The Eirdkilrs couldn't miss a trail that visible. Besides, the heavy steel breastplate, mail shirt, and shield would only slow them down.

  The night breeze grew suddenly chill, and he shivered. Alone, in the woods, with an army of Eirdkilrs behind them. Things didn't get direr than this.

  But that was what the Legion did. They stood fast even in the most desperate situations. After all that had happened, he truly felt like he belonged. He was a Legionnaire. A Deadhead.

  He turned to Rold with a grin. "It's a nice night for a stroll, isn't it, Corporal?"

  Rold nodded. "That it is, meat. That it is."

  With a sigh, Duvain turned and set off at a jog, following Scathan west. They had a long night ahead of them.

  The End

  Find Out More…

  Return to the world of Fehl in the pages of The Silent Champions, an upcoming military fantasy series by Andy Peloquin.

  Aravon, Captain of the Legion of Heroes Sixth Company, has just watched his entire company massacred by the enemy ambush that nearly took his life.

  When the Prince of Icespire offers him command of a secret group of specially trained warriors and soldiers, he leaps at the chance for vengeance against the Eirdkilrs wreaking havoc on the island continent of Fehl.

  But the apparent chaos of the barbarians' butchery and bloodshed may conceal a much more sinister agenda. Aravon and his band of brothers in arms may find themselves facing off against more than just mortal foes...

  Coming soon!

  * * *

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  About the Author: Andy Peloquin

  I am, first and foremost, a storyteller and an artist--words are my palette. Fantasy is my genre of choice, and I love to explore the darker side of human nature through the filter of fantasy heroes, villains, and everything in between. I'm also a freelance writer, a book lover, and a guy who just loves to meet new people and spend hours talking about my fascination for the worlds I encounter in the pages of fantasy novels.

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  The Wizard of Bastion

  Susan Faw

  Chapter 1

  The Council Chambers

  Sixteen-year-old Ramos limped his way along the fluctuating pavement of the servants’ passage, his gait an uneven lurching step-hop. He worked his way down the dim hallway at the slow pace so as to not trip over the sudden change in elevation presented by the grey marble slabs. He gritted his teeth against the pain that throbbed with every step, ignoring its call. Despite his undersized frame and his gimpy left leg, he was determined to succeed in his task. They had entrusted it to him, he who was considered an idiot by most, a mental half-breed by many and a feeble wizard by all.

  Feeble or not, those with magical ability were prized.

  Magic was rarely found within the natural populace and those who were born with the gift were brought to the two main institutions of magic designed specifically for training the youth in the magical arts: the adept training center within the Wizard’s Keep, located on the highest citadel in the world, in the exact center of Gaia, and the school of Castle Ionia, in the province of Tyr. It was perched on the apex of seven hills which made up the city of Ionia. Built over the centuries, the castle was home to L’Ordre du Coeur Sacré, an order of elemental healers.

  Gifts of healing were most common among the female magical population. The witches manifested their legacy by combining the five basic elements, while the male wizards were gifted in the manipulation of the individual elements.

  None of this was on Ramos’ mind as he hurried across the cold stone floor. Magic would not save him, if he was late.

  The Council of Eight were picky. Every meal had to be served precisely on time and precisely at the perfect temperature. There should be exactly enough and not a morsel more for that was wasteful. Anything less and the one serving them could expect a tongue-lashing severe enough to ground years of age from their face. Ramos’s cherubic countenance did not require such refinement yet, but he still didn’t relish the idea of scraping up against their abrasive tongues. The heavy tray in his hands wobbled as his balance shifted with a lurch, the bowls chattering as they knocked into each other. Soup sloshed from the clay tureen in the center of the tray, washing the air with the fragrant scent of roasted cockerel, leeks, and garlic. Ramos’s stomach growled, rumbling with hunger.

  The chamber doors appeared, as he turned right into the main hallway of the keep. The ancient stone walls towered above him, cold, monolithic stone that sucked any generated heat away as fast as it was exposed. Ramos had the timing down. If he could manage the trip from the kitchens to the council chambers within eight minutes, the soup would arrive hot. Any later than that and the temperature would have dropped enough to cool the broth so that a skin began to form on the surface, a sure sign he was late.

  He hurried down the hallway, his limp more pronounced with every step. Each painful lurch fed Ramos’s simmering anger. It would be a simple matter for the wizards to heal his leg. They had the ability, but they had chosen not to fix it, despite his humble requests.

  Reaching the double doors, he knocked with his foot, then put his back to the door and leaned into it, pushing it open with a grunt while balancing the heavy tray.

  “My lords, your lunch is served.” Ramos turned and limped over to the round table, setting the platter down on the edge and then pushing it toward the center. The wizards ignored hi
m as he picked up the dinnerware and set bowls and cutlery in front of each wizard.

  The men at the table were dressed identically in robes of the finest raw silk. Dyed a deep shade of forest green, the sleeves were embroidered with fantastical creatures and rune-enhanced symbols. Twinned dragons figured prominently in red, stitched onto the backs of the robes. Their heads were thrown back and mouths stretched wide, belching flames that climbed over the shoulders down the sleeves and front of the robes.

  Each wizard had shaved his head, and tattooed above each right ear was the master’s symbol, a staff held by a bejeweled fist. They ignored his entrance, and Ramos quietly went about his duties, listening hard.

  “…rumours of disquiet along the border between Samos and Cassimir that cannot be ignored. Those nations have been peaceful for years. Why this sudden antagonism? I say that trouble stirs in the arid lands.” Wizard Brice pinched his reading glass tighter to his nose as it slid in a familiar attempt to escape his face. He frowned at the parchment in his hand as his eyes scanned its contents.

  “They are rumours. We need proof that the nations are gathering for battle before committing our energies to the problems of the commoner. They would not welcome our interference, no matter how good intentioned.” Wizard Damocles’s placating smile was meant to calm and relax the other nine, but it had the opposite effect.

  “It is our mandate to ensure peace, you dolt!” snarled the youngest of the counsel. Wizard Adonis was a muscular man in his prime, and a century younger than the next closest mage, Wizard Telling. Adonis glared at the assembly. “Anyone with eyes to see should be able to read the signs. The people are having no problem seeing the truth. The signs are everywhere! Drought, in the arid lands, that does not cease. Torrential rains in the swamps of Peca, expanding their size to gobble up the tiny amount of arable land. The rainforests of Bastion are experiencing hurricane after hurricane, stirred up by the sea creatures. Wildfires burn through Tunise destroying crops and forests, and these fires are not stopped by a line drawn in the sand. They jump the borders and enter the neighbouring provinces with abandon.”