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

by Andy Peloquin

  Lord Virinus' eyes narrowed. "Nonsense!"

  "If you’ve spent time among the Fehlans, my lord," Captain Lingram replied in a voice that made it clear he expected Lord Virinus had not done so, "you will know how they venerate their elders. Eira is considered one of the greatest healers not only among the people of Saerheim, but all of clan Deid."

  Lord Virinus snorted. "Bloody Minstrel have mercy!"

  Captain Lingram didn't dignify that with an answer. "Your frustrations at our guest's wellbeing are valid, but we must remember that we are in Saerheim, not Icespire."

  The nobleman ground his teeth. "Very well, Captain." The words came out in an almost-sneer. "If you feel so strongly about it, you smooth things over with the natives." He shook a finger in the captain's face. "But mark my words, that crone isn't coming near Branda again! No one sees her until the Duke’s rider arrives."

  The captain shrugged. "I will relay your message to Elder Asmund and Eira." With a stiff nod, he turned and strode toward the main longhouse.

  Duvain kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and did his best to keep his pace even. The last thing he needed was to attract the ire of Lord Virinus. He and Weasel reached the northeast corner of the wall, turned, and marched back to Corporal Rold at the northwest.

  "Well?"

  Weasel relayed the information they'd gleaned from the captain's conversation.

  "By the Watcher," growled Rold. "Branda, the daughter of Eirik Throrsson? If the Fjall join the war against the Eirdkilrs—"

  "Things would end a lot more quickly," Weasel finished. "But if she dies…" He drew his thumb across his throat.

  "The most powerful clan leader in Fehlan history becomes our enemy." For the first time, genuine fear echoed in Rold's voice. He made the sign of the Watcher. "Keeper have mercy on us if that day ever comes."

  * * *

  Duvain labored under the weight of his two packs. His own armor and ruck weighed enough to slow him down, but Sergeant Brash, in a particularly foul mood, had loaded them all up with double weight. They'd barely marched five hundred paces from camp, but already fatigue threatened to drag him to the ground.

  "Company, shield wall!" Sergeant Brash shouted. "Spear formation."

  Squad Three weren't alone in their misery. Sergeant Brash had dragged Squads Two and Four along for good measure. Squad Five only escaped by merit of snoring the day away after a long midnight shift. Squad One had called out insults and gibes from their position on the ramparts. More than one marching Legionnaire had growled at the "lucky bastards on watch".

  With the three squads, thirty-two men stood in the shield wall. Sergeant Brash barked out the orders from ahead of the line, while the sergeants of Squads Two and Four snapped and snarled at any Legionnaire too slow to respond to commands.

  With an exhausted groan, Duvain hitched up the packs and struggled to take his place in line without losing his grip on his shield and spear. He shook his head as Endyn tried to help support the load. The last thing his brother needed was to piss off Sergeant Brash any more than he already had. Endyn's performance in the last few drill sessions had not improved.

  The sergeant loved to push them to their limits. When on forced marches, he'd wait until they were exhausted, then order them to form a shield line and advance in tight formation. During line drills, he'd have them fast-march in every direction until their legs ached and they couldn't remember which way they were originally headed. He'd call new formations, speeds, and patterns of movement before they'd finished forming up the last one.

  Duvain understood the need for such drills—after all, they needed to be prepared to face any enemy anywhere—but basic training had been nowhere near as challenging. The exertion had strengthened his muscles, but his body suffered under the strain. He was one mistake away from snapping. Or collapsing.

  Endyn tripped over his own feet and stumbled forward. His hewing spear knocked off Weasel's helmet, and his massive knee struck Owen in the back.

  "Keeper take it!" Weasel shouted, whirling on Endyn. "When are you goin’ to learn—?"

  "Easy, Weasel." Owen interposed himself, rubbing his back. "Give him a break."

  Weasel's voice rose. "A break? What the bloody hell for?" He snarled up at Endyn. "There's no way you're a Deadhead. You're not even fit to be a Legionnaire."

  Endyn mumbled an apology, but Weasel launched into a tirade, cussing him out for his uselessness. Sergeant Brash made no move to stop the tongue-lashing. When Weasel finally ran out of insults, all the sergeant said was, "Back in line, soldier."

  Red-faced, eyes downcast, Endyn took his place beside Duvain.

  "How the Keeper's name did he even get into the Legion?" Weasel muttered in a voice loud enough for Endyn to hear.

  "Forward march, double time!" Sergeant Brash shouted. He'd abandoned the shield wall practice…for now. No doubt he'd spring it on them again when they least expected it.

  As they marched, Duvain felt himself flagging. His shoulders ached, his lungs burned, and his head began to spin. He couldn't keep it up much longer, not with the double load.

  "Embrace the suck, soldier," Rold muttered behind him. "Fight through it, or you're nothing more than an air thief and don't deserve to wear Legion colors."

  The corporal's words caught Duvain by surprise. Beneath the insult, there was genuine concern for his wellbeing. Rold actually wanted him to succeed.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself onward. One foot in front of the other, though it felt as if molten lead filled his legs. He'd get through this hell one Keeper-damned step at a time.

  "Company, halt!"

  At the sergeant’s shout, Duvain's head snapped up. They'd come around a bend in the forest track. A short distance away, a team of draft horses struggled to pull a wagon free of the thick mud.

  "Ho, Deadheads!" shouted one of the two Legion guards accompanying the wagon. "Give us a hand, won't you?"

  "Got yourselves stuck again, Eltin?" Rold shouted. "That's the third time this week, way I hear it."

  The Legionnaire Eltin scowled. "Just for that, I'll make sure the quartermaster gives you a tankard of piss instead of ale."

  Sergeant Brash turned to them. "Company, rest!" he called.

  With a groan, Duvain dropped his two packs and sagged to the ground, uncaring of the mud seeping into his breeches. He was just glad to be free of his burden.

  "On your feet, meat!" Sergeant Brash shouted.

  Duvain's heart sank. The sergeant stared at him, his eyes cold and hard. He marched toward Duvain and crouched beside him. "Last one to the gate, first one to the heavy lifting." He only shouted when giving orders, yet every Legionnaire feared his quiet, calm voice.

  Duvain wanted to weep. He had nothing left—he doubted he could even stand, much less march over to the wagon and be of any use.

  Sergeant Brash's eyes held no mercy. "On your feet." His eyes were cold, dangerous. "Now."

  Duvain struggled to rise. Every muscle in his body protested. Tears of frustration and anger brimmed in his eyes. It felt he was lifting the weight of the world on his shoulders as he fought to one knee, then…

  A huge hand rested on his shoulder. Endyn shook his head. "I've got it." Dropping his pack beside Duvain, he strode toward the mired wagon.

  "Get back in line, soldier." Sergeant Brash stepped in front of Endyn. "I gave your brother an order."

  "Let me do it, Sergeant," Endyn rumbled. "Please."

  Sergeant Brash locked eyes with the big Legionnaire. "Is that how this is, meat?" He spoke to Duvain without taking his gaze from Endyn. "Are you that weak you're willing to let your brother here carry your burden for you?"

  Duvain realized Sergeant Brash spoke to him. "No, Sergeant." He staggered to his feet, but Endyn whirled—a startling movement from one so large—and shook his head. Duvain yielded to the drag of his pack and sagged again.

  "Let me, Sergeant." Endyn's thick voice carried across the line of Deadheads.

  "Let anyone do it, Sergeant!" Eltin
called. "We're burning daylight here."

  Sergeant Brash narrowed his eyes. "You sure you want to do this, meat?" His voice held a dangerous tone.

  Endyn nodded. "I've got this."

  "So be it." Sergeant Brash stepped aside. "You've got it. Alone."

  Duvain's eyes widened. Barrels, crates, and boxes of supplies were piled high on the back of the wagon. The load required two enormous draft horses to haul it, and all their struggles had failed to drag the wagon out of the muck. "But Sergeant—"

  "Sit your candy ass down, soldier!" Brash's voice was cold, hard. "You let your brother fight your battles for you, so by the Swordsman, he's going to fight it."

  Endyn didn't hesitate. Squaring his shoulders, he lumbered toward the rear of the wagon and gripped the wagon's backboard in his huge hands.

  "Eltin, get your boys out of there," Sergeant Brash called.

  "What's that now?" Eltin said, his expression puzzled.

  "Big man's going to haul the wagon out of the muck for you. Isn't that right, soldier?" The sergeant didn't need to sneer—the utter absence of expression conveyed his disdain to perfection.

  Endyn nodded. "Yes, Sergeant."

  Sergeant Brash took the lead reins of the draft horses and waved Eltin away. "We've got this."

  Eltin exchanged glances with his fellow Legionnaire and the three teamsters riding with the wagon. They shrugged and stepped aside.

  "Suit yourself," Eltin said. "Just get it done before nightfall, eh? I've got a schedule to keep."

  The sergeant gave him a withering glare, and Eltin snapped his mouth shut.

  "You ready, soldier?" Brash called out.

  Endyn nodded.

  "Push." The single word, spoken in a quiet voice, came out so cold and hard it could have been cut from the icebergs floating in the Frozen Sea.

  The sergeant tugged on the lead rope, and the draft horses leaned into their traces. Endyn's face reddened with the exertion as he shoved, and a groan escaped his lips.

  The wagon didn't budge.

  "Again," Sergeant Brash said in the same low tone.

  Teeth gritted, spine arching, Endyn pushed once more. The muscles on his forearms corded with the effort. Still, the wagon remained firmly mired. Duvain sucked in a breath as Endyn's boots slipped on the muddy ground. His rear foot flew out and he fell to one knee, gasping for breath.

  "No man wins a fight alone," Sergeant Brash said. "You succeed and fail as a unit. Every man carries their weight, or we all die."

  Sweat trickled down Endyn's flushed face. His eyes were closed, and he sucked in deep breaths. Yet his expression remained unyielding. Duvain had met few men who could challenge his brother's stubbornness. He simply refused to quit—he'd done so when his father worked him harder than any of the other farmhands, and he did so now. Climbing to his feet, he dug his toes into the muddy ground, filled his lungs, and threw his weight against the wagon once more.

  Shaking his head, Sergeant Brash tugged on the lead reins. The horses added their weight and strength to Endyn's effort. Nothing. A low rumble echoed from Endyn's throat, growing louder and stronger until it rose to a roar.

  Duvain's heart stopped. Endyn was overexerting himself. He couldn't take the strain much longer. He couldn't—

  With a wet sucking sound, the wagon wheels rolled free of the mire.

  "Bugger me sideways!" Weasel muttered. Rold and Owen drew in sharp breaths.

  Endyn sagged to his knees, his arms and head hanging down.

  Exhaustion forgotten, Duvain rushed toward his brother. Owen appeared on the other side, lending his support to the huge man.

  "You idiot!" Duvain whispered in Endyn's ear. "Why'd you do that?" Owen appeared on the other side, lending his support to the huge man.

  Endyn looked up with a tired smile. "Mother made me promise to look out for you."

  Duvain swallowed. Their mother had been the only good thing in their young lives. She'd sheltered them from their father's wrath, wiped away Endyn's tears when the boys of Northfield called him "freak" or "monster". Even now, from beyond the grave, she looked after them. He gripped his brother's shoulder and helped him lumber around the wagon.

  Endyn moved slowly. The exertion had taken a toll on him. Duvain feared his brother would collapse if he let go of him—the healers of the Sanctuary had warned against such effort. His heart, as enlarged as the rest of him, couldn't bear the strain.

  But Endyn didn't collapse. He stopped in front of Sergeant Brash, who remained standing at the head of the wagon, the lead rope still in his hands.

  Endyn straightened to his full towering height. "Permission to return to the line, Sergeant," he said.

  Sergeant Brash nodded.

  With a salute, Endyn, Duvain, and Owen marched toward the column of Legionnaires and took their place in the marching line. With effort, he shouldered his pack. Though his shoulders drooped, he held his head high.

  After a moment, Sergeant Brash returned to the head of the column. "Enough for one day," he said quietly. "Back to camp."

  Without a word, the column of Legionnaires made an about-face and began the short march back to the village.

  Duvain spoke in a voice pitched for Weasel's ears. "Still wondering why he made it into the Legion, Weasel?"

  For once, the little man had no reply.

  * * *

  "Aren't you goin’ to share any of that?" Weasel asked.

  Awr ignored him and continued emptying the wineskin. He'd bartered for it—well, Duvain had worked for it—with the quartermaster, and he seemed disinclined to spare even a drop.

  "Come on, Awr," Weasel whined. "All we've got is this rancid goat's milk." He shook his cup, sloshing the pale white liquid.

  "Not rancid," Owen said, rolling his eyes. "Fermented."

  Duvain took a sip from his cup. The pungent ayrag, made from fermented goat or cow's milk, left a taste of almonds on his tongue. He vastly preferred it to the ale back at Icespire, but it couldn't hold a candle to a Nyslian vintage or a good Voramian Snowblossom wine.

  Endyn sat in silence a short distance from the group. He had emptied his tankard long ago, and was lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the ground.

  "He's a bit of an odd one, ain't he?" Weasel asked, inclining his head toward the big man.

  Duvain's brow furrowed. "No. He's just—"

  "Sure he is," Weasel persisted. "He's always off on his lonesome, or hangin’ around you. I get that you two are brothers, but surely you're no better than the rest of us."

  The statement surprised Duvain. "Better than you?"

  Weasel took another mouthful of ayrag. "You keep your own company, spend every free moment hoverin’ around each other, and he don't talk to the rest of us. Seems odd, is all. When it comes to battle, it's the bond between soldiers as keeps 'em alive."

  Duvain's jaw dropped. This was the last thing he'd expected from any of them—Weasel most of all. The rat-faced Legionnaire had been the most vocal in his disgust after seeing Endyn's dragonskin. He'd been the one to pull the prank on Endyn.

  "He…" Duvain took a deep breath. How could he explain that Endyn felt rejected, both because of his size—a deformity, according to the Ministrants at the Sanctuary in Voramis—and the dragonskin? His words came out in a slow, hesitant voice. "He's not used to fitting in, I guess."

  "Story of our lives, kid," Awr said. He took another long drink of wine. "Deadheads is for misfits and freaks." He indicated Weasel. "Bloodthirsty cunt." He thrust a finger at Owen. "Soldier afraid of blood." He indicated Rold and himself. "Career soldier and disgraced ex-convict."

  Weasel shrugged. "Seems like fucked-up skin makes him right at home." He raised his voice to a shout. "Oi, big man!"

  Endyn looked up.

  "Yeah, you." Weasel waved him over. "No reason to be a stranger, now."

  Endyn shot a glance at Duvain, who gave a tiny shrug. He'd wanted so much for the others to accept them, but he'd resigned himself to being an outsider. Endyn's happiness mattered more t
han his own—he'd made a promise to his mother to watch out for him. But if the rest of Squad Three was welcoming his brother…

  Endyn stood with a groan and lumbered over.

  "Here you go." Weasel handed him his half-full tankard. "I can't stand this stuff, so you might as well drink it."

  Endyn hesitated. He'd grown wary of Weasel after the centipede prank.

  "No trick," Weasel insisted. "Take it. After today, you earned it."

  Endyn accepted and, bringing the tankard slowly to his lips, took a hesitant sip. After a moment, he downed the rest of the contents. That was the closest Weasel would come to an apology for his earlier remarks.

  "Though I'd be real thorough checkin’ your bedroll later," Weasel said to no one in particular. "I hear there's centipedes squirmin’ around the longhouse."

  Endyn voiced his anger with a growl and reached down for Weasel's collar. He lifted the little man physically from the ground and shook him like a dog shaking a rat.

  "Take it easy!" Weasel cried. "Just a joke, I swear!"

  Endyn held Weasel up to his face, fixing him with a furious glare. After a moment, a smile cracked his scowl. "Joke," he rumbled. "Good one."

  Weasel's fear faded, replaced by disbelief. "You bastard!" he shrieked and lashed out with a half-hearted punch at Endyn's chest. The blow had as much effect as a mosquito pricking a bear. But when Endyn put him down, the little man was smiling.

  Duvain's heart lightened. It was as close as the Legionnaires could come to acceptance. For someone who had been an outsider his whole life, it was more than enough.

  Chapter Eight

  Duvain couldn’t help his fascination at the transformation that had gripped Saerheim. Colorful garlands festooned the longhouses, and the last autumn leaves had been carefully gathered and strewn over the ground of the main square like a carpet of red, yellow, and orange. The villagers of Saerheim wore their finest clothing, bright-hued tunics, breeches, vests, and cloaks dyed purple, green, and blue. A pair of musicians—the baker and blacksmith, oddly enough—sat at one corner of the square, filling the air with the sounds of pipe and drum.