Ragged Heroes: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 5)

by Andy Peloquin

  "Your mother didn't seem to mind it," Weasel retorted.

  The insult rolled off Owen without effect. "Look, I get you're nervous," he told Duvain. "Even this far from enemy territory, it's normal for a tenderfoot to get a bit antsy. That's why we're on watch, and that's why the scouts go out. The Legion's trained to prepare for anything. But even Captain Lingram will tell you there's not much out here that can kill you besides bears and snakes."

  "That, and our bloody Lord Virinus." Weasel's face creased into a scowl. "I'll be keepin’ out of his way, thank you very much."

  Duvain nodded and leaned against the wall, listening to the sound of Weasel and Owen's conversation. They were right. He was worrying for nothing. He chalked it up to the nervousness of inexperience. But after long minutes of trying to relax, he couldn't.

  He got to his feet with a groan. "If it's all the same to you, I'll do another round of the walls. Just to be sure."

  Weasel gave him a dismissive wave. "Suit yourself! If it gets you to shut up and stop worryin’, do what you have to."

  Duvain climbed onto the palisade ramparts and strode along its length. His eyes searched the shadows of the forest for any signs of life. He occasionally thought he spotted movement, but it always proved to be the leaves and branches blown in the chill evening wind. Tension knotted his shoulders. Yet no matter how hard he stared, the nagging doubts in his mind proved unfounded.

  There was nothing to fear out there.

  * * *

  Endyn winced as he set down his breastplate and reached for his helmet. He'd made a right turn when Sergeant Brash shouted to wheel left, and had earned a shield rim in the ribs for his effort. The sergeant's reprimand had been quiet but effective. Endyn hadn't made a mistake the rest of the practice.

  Duvain tried not to think about his own failures. He'd started to get the hang of marching in the shield wall and moving in time with the shouted orders, but he still had a long way to go before he'd feel ready for battle. The disdain in Rold's eyes cemented that belief.

  Weasel looked up from where he sat, working on his own gear. A sly grin twisted his face. "You may be rubbish in the shield wall, big man, but, by the Keeper, you polish your helmet with the best of them!"

  Endyn stared down at his helm, then back up at Weasel. A moment later, understanding dawned, and his face turned a dark scarlet.

  Weasel snickered, and Rold and Owen added their chuckles. Endyn ducked his head and focused on his task, but the harder he worked, the more Weasel laughed. Face aflame, he set aside the helmet and reached for his boot.

  He dropped the boot and leapt to his feet with an uncharacteristic cry, eyes wide. Duvain's pulse spiked in alarm. Were they under attack? A moment later, his worry faded as a hideous creature crawled from Endyn's boot. Long, segmented, with scores of tiny legs and vicious pincers, the critter's bite could cause swelling, fever, chills, weakness, and, in some cases, even proved fatal.

  Weasel's mirth turned to full-bellied guffaws. Endyn's eyes darted between the centipede and the small Legionnaire, his face darkening. Seeing Endyn's expression, Weasel darted from the longhouse and out into the main square, laughter echoing in his wake. With a scowl and shake of his head, Rold set aside his armor and stalked out of the longhouse.

  Endyn's fists clenched and relaxed, and he sucked in great angry breaths through his nostrils. Duvain hadn't seen his brother this furious since the time Mal the miller's son had blackened his eye. In his rage, Endyn had nearly snapped the older boy's spine. His brother had been fourteen at the time—now, at his full size and strength, he'd crush Weasel's head in his huge hands without breaking a sweat.

  Owen spoke first. "Easy, big guy." He looked up from his polishing, a little smile on his face. "Pranks like this don't deserve a beating—they deserve a bit of payback."

  Endyn's brows knit. "What?" he rumbled. "What do you mean?"

  Owen set aside his breastplate and reached for his mail shirt. "Weasel's earned a thrashing, but that'll just get you in trouble. Brawling's forbidden in the Legion, especially when it comes to someone of your size pounding on a needle-prick like Weasel. But nowhere in the regulations is it forbidden from getting a bit of justice in your own way. As long as it's not flashy and doesn't keep Weasel from standing shift or drilling, you can get creative."

  Endyn's expression grew pensive, and he returned to his seat to resume his care of his equipment. Duvain caught his brother's eye and raised an eyebrow. Endyn gave a little smile. Clearly, vengeance against Weasel would come—they just needed to figure out how.

  The sound of a clearing throat drew his attention upward. A white-haired woman stood at the boundary of the space they'd marked for the Legion, just within the curtain of hanging furs that offered a modicum of privacy.

  Duvain had seen her before. She had to be at least in her eighth decade, her back slightly stooped, yet she moved with speed and grace that belied her. Her hands were always moving, her eyes darting around. He didn't need to speak the Fehlan tongue to recognize the tone of command in her voice.

  She rattled off a string of words in her language. Duvain searched for Awr, but the grizzled corporal had gone in search of drink rather than care for his gear. Only Owen and Endyn remained beside him.

  He fumbled for the few words he'd learned. He stammered out what he hoped was a greeting in Fehlan—either that, or he'd just bid her farewell.

  The old woman rolled her eyes, and the acid in her voice made her opinion on his grasp of the Fehlan tongue plain. She said something in her sharp, curt tone.

  Duvain didn't understand a single word. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I—"

  She thrust something at him: a wooden bowl, containing a thick green paste that reeked of herbs, spices, and something earthy. His brow furrowed. What did she want him to do with it?

  She thrust a gnarled finger at the bowl, then at Endyn.

  "For him?" Duvain indicated Endyn.

  The woman nodded. She patted her chest and pointed at the paste once more.

  Duvain's eyes widened. Endyn had tried to hide his dragonskin from the villagers, but the wide-open longhouse offered little privacy. More than a few of the people of Saerheim, including Elder Asmund, had caught glimpses of the thick grey scales. Yet the Fehlans' reaction lacked the disgust of the Legionnaires. They saw him as an oddity—he was far taller than any Princelander, taller even than the Eirdkilrs, and had the strange incrustation covering his body—but not something to be shunned. No more so than the rest of the men who had invaded their village.

  Duvain mimed applying the cream to his chest. The woman nodded and thrust the bowl at him again.

  He took it and bowed. "Thank you."

  The woman gave him a smile, revealing three white teeth among a sea of pink gums. With a final string of Fehlan words Duvain didn't understand, she disappeared into the shadows of the longhouse.

  A small shadow remained in her wake: a boy, no older than four or five, peeked from behind a hanging fur, his grey eyes wide in curiosity. Duvain smiled and waved. The boy squeaked and fled after the retreating matriarch.

  Chuckling, Duvain turned to Endyn. "Hey, look at this." He held out the bowl. "They made it for you."

  Endyn sniffed at the bowl and recoiled with disgust.

  "Not to eat, idiot!" Duvain rolled his eyes. He motioned to Endyn's chest. "For the dragonskin."

  Endyn's eyebrows shot up. "Are you sure?" he rumbled. "Is it safe?"

  Duvain studied the paste. The potent mixture of herbs and spices made his eyes water, but he had no idea what it contained. After a moment of hesitation, he shrugged. "I don't know. But if they were trying to poison us, I doubt they'd start with the two lowest-ranking Deadheads."

  Endyn's expression remained dubious.

  "Your call, Brother, but maybe it can help?" Duvain met his brother's gaze. Endyn had been forcing a brave face, but Duvain knew the truth: the dragonskin was worsening. The patches of scaled skin grew thicker every day, and the Sanctuary healers' ointment had
n't prevented the painful cracks and inflammation.

  With a sigh, Endyn nodded. "Do it."

  Owen looked up as Endyn struggled with his shirt. His face turned a shade of pale, but he offered, "Here, let me help."

  Endyn's face darkened, but he made no protest as Owen helped him tug the tunic over his head.

  Duvain scooped up a small amount of the paste. "Tell me if this stuff hurts." He applied a thin layer to a small section of Endyn's back where the cracked skin was red and inflamed. The smell of infection had grown stronger.

  "How's that?" Owen asked, genuine concern in his eyes.

  Endyn hissed. "Burns a little." After a moment, however, the tension in his face dissipated. "Huh. Better."

  Duvain stared down at the paste with interest. He sniffed it again. He'd have to ask the old woman for the recipe.

  As he covered Endyn's back with the stuff, he noticed a burning sensation in his hands. The sting grew more painful with every passing minute. By the time he'd finished, his hands were red and felt hot and sensitive to the touch.

  He'd experienced that sensation once before: he'd made the foolish mistake of rubbing his eyes after eating the spicy red peppers his mother grew in her herb garden. Something in those peppers burned not only the tongue, but the skin as well. The more sensitive the skin, the stronger the burn.

  He glanced down at his hands, at Endyn's boot, and back up at his brother. A slow smile spread his face. "I think I've just found out how we get back at Weasel."

  Endyn's rumbling chuckle brought a lightness to Duvain's chest. It felt good to see his brother smile after so much pain.

  Chapter Seven

  "Keeper take it, Weasel!" Rold snarled. "If you need to relieve yourself, just drop your britches and get on with it."

  "I-I'm fine, Corporal." Sweat trickled down Weasel's forehead. He'd shifted back and forth for the last fifteen minutes, his face growing redder by the second. "Really."

  Duvain did his best not to look at Weasel. If he did, he knew he'd burst out laughing.

  "If you were fine, you nob-gobbling buffoon, you wouldn't be hopping around like a one-legged nitwit at an ass-kicking party." Rold's face went hard. "Is there something you'd like to explain to me, soldier?"

  "No, Corporal." Weasel shook his head, but his face had taken on a desperate expression. After another long minute of wiggling, he'd had enough. "Keeper's twisted gobnards, it burns!" With this, he ripped off his breeches and underwear and, tackle flapping in the wind, raced toward a nearby longhouse. He thrust his hands into one of barrels set to collect rainwater falling off the eaves and splashed water frantically over his crotch.

  Endyn's snort turned into a rumbling chuckle. Duvain elbowed him, but struggled to discipline his own expression. Rold shot the pair of them a suspicious glance. "You two know what's going on?"

  "No, Corporal!" Duvain said. "Might be those diseases are finally getting the best of him."

  Corporal Rold's brow furrowed. "Or someone put something in Weasel's underwear."

  "Might be that, too, sir." Duvain plastered his most innocent expression. "Can't truly say for certain."

  After a moment, the severity on Rold's face gave way to a smile. "Fair enough, meat."

  "You bastards!" Weasel shouted. Judging by the water splashed over his boots and the sodden ground beneath him, he'd emptied nearly a quarter of the enormous barrel. "I know it was one of you tossers. When I find out who did it—"

  He swallowed his words as Captain Lingram emerged from the longhouse where he'd been billeted. With a look of pure horror, face going pale as a corpse, Weasel raced out of the captain's eyesight, toward the back entrance to their longhouse. Duvain had never seen anyone run so fast.

  Deep in conversation with one of the two scouts, Captain Lingram either didn't notice Weasel or pretended not to. After a brief exchange, the scout saluted and strode toward his horse. Captain Lingram watched the man ride out of the gate, then turned toward their guard post.

  "Squad Three, it seems Sergeant Brash has taken pity on you and given you the morning watch."

  Corporal Rold saluted. "Aye, Captain. Either that, or the pricks of Squad Five pissed him off worse than we did."

  "As you say." He lifted his eyes to Endyn. "How fares your health, soldier?"

  Endyn, surprised by the captain's interest, managed to rumble out, "F-Fine, sir."

  "Good," Captain Lingram said, but without really listening. His brow had a deep line down the middle. He seemed distracted, out of sorts. He usually paid attention to everything around him, yet now his eyes never focused on anything.

  "Is everything well, Captain?" Duvain asked.

  "What's that?" Captain Lingram looked up, and the light returned to his eyes. "Oh, yes, of course." He nodded.

  The captain's distraction worried Duvain. Something had to be seriously wrong to make Captain Lingram look worried. But he didn't know the captain well enough to persist.

  Without another word to them, the captain strode away.

  "It's bad." Awr's rasping voice sounded quietly from behind them. "I don't know what's got under his skin, but he only gets like that when the sky's about to break open and piss acid."

  "But what could it be?" Rold demanded. "You heard the last scouting report, just like I did. Not even a hint of any Eirdkilrs in Deid lands. Until we receive word from Commander Galerius, we continue on as commanded."

  "Might be that's it," Awr said. "Galerius is competent enough, but the Eirdkilrs are smart. Captain may know something we—"

  "You Keeper-damned useless heathen witch!" A high-pitched shout cut off Awr's words. "You're trying to poison her!"

  All eyes darted toward the small hut, and to the elegantly-clad figure stomping out the front door. Lord Virinus held the old woman by the arm, dragging her along behind him. She looked like a cornered wildcat, protesting and spitting what could only be Fehlan curses. With a vicious snarl, the nobleman shoved the old woman. She stumbled but caught herself nimbly and unleashed a fresh torrent of angry words on him.

  Lord Virinus waved a slim finger in her face. "I bring her to you to heal her, and all you've done is make things worse with your ridiculous potions and poultices and witchcraft."

  The old woman—the village healer, Duvain had learned—was uncowed by Lord Virinus' rage. Though she barely reached his chest, she had no problem squaring off with him, meeting his anger with an acerbic stream of Fehlan that needed no translation.

  "My lord!" A breathless Captain Lingram raced toward them. "My lord, what is the matter?"

  Lord Virinus rounded on the captain, his tone apoplectic. "This savage is killing my guest. She—"

  "Lord Virinus." Captain Lingram cut off the nobleman with a voice hard as iron. "While I can appreciate your concerns, remember where we are."

  "Wading in the mud and filth of barbarians and ignorants!" Lord Virinus' voice rose to a shout.

  "We are in their home," Captain Lingram said, "where they have done nothing but welcome us and provide us the best they can."

  "The best?" The nobleman's voice turned shrill. "I haven't had a proper meal in the last week, and I sleep on a mat of reeds rather than a real bed. Under any other circumstances, this would be an insult!"

  "But we aren't under other circumstances." The captain spoke in a cold, calm voice. "We have each been given a command by our superiors, and we are to make the best of the situation. Which I took to mean accepting the hospitality of our allies and not insulting their revered elders."

  "It's no insult if it is the truth!" Lord Virinus shouted. "After all this time, the girl has shown no sign of recovering. That…that crone has spent every day applying one foul brew or poultice after another, to no effect. If anything, the girl is getting worse. The way things are going, she’ll wind up dead long before Duke Dyrund’s rider reaches us!"

  For the first time, it seemed he noticed the crowd of Legionnaires that had gathered—soldiers loved anything that distracted them from the drudgery of their mundane ri
tuals. "And do your men have nothing better to do than stand around lolly-gagging?"

  Captain Lingram turned and nodded to the assorted Legionnaires. "Back to work, or back to your tasks, men. This doesn't concern you." He turned back to Lord Virinus. "I'd be happy to listen to your concerns, my lord, but perhaps somewhere more private?" He gestured toward the small, muddy track that ran between Lord Virinus' hut and the northern longhouse.

  With a snort, the nobleman stomped off. Captain Lingram followed, his expression as tight as his stiff shoulders.

  Owen and Endyn returned their attention to their post at the northwest corner of the wall, but Weasel turned to Duvain. "Seems like a good time to patrol along the north wall, doesn't it?" He winked. "Never know what sort of enemies could be hidin’ out there."

  Duvain understood. He shot a questioning glance at Rold.

  The corporal nodded. "Good thinking, Private. Keep your eyes open."

  With a crisp salute, Weasel began to march eastward along north wall—toward to the place where Captain Lingram and Lord Virinus stood arguing.

  "…must understand who she is, Captain," Lord Virinus was saying in a clipped tone. "Eirik Throrsson is more than just the leader of clan Fjall—he is the only one who might unite the rest of the clans against the Eirdkilrs. The future of the war depends on this alliance. Duke Dyrund went to great lengths to make peace with the Fjall. It is only by the Minstrel's mercy that I was not struck down by the same fever that claimed him, half our escort, and soon the Hilmir's daughter. Were that to happen, calling it a diplomatic fiasco would be the understatement of the epoch."

  "I can appreciate that, my lord." Captain Lingram inclined his head. "What you and the Duke have accomplished with Throrsson is truly admirable. His wisdom will be sorely missed."

  Lord Virinus' lips pressed into a thin line, and he scanned the captain’s expression as if expecting an insult hidden in those words.

  Captain Lingram's face could have been carved from stone. "With the Duke's passing, you are the Prince's envoy to the Fehlans. And we are among the Deid, the oldest of our Fehlan allies. Insulting one of their elders would be like slapping Prince Toran in the face."