Ragged Heroes

by Andy Peloquin

  Elder Asmund strode into the cleared space and began to speak. The man's strong voice had a hypnotic rhythmic quality that reverberated across the square. Duvain found himself leaning forward to pay closer attention. Though he caught only an occasional word or phrase, he guessed it was a speech celebrating the end of the harvest or the arrival of winter.

  Applause greeted the end of the speech, and Elder Asmund took a seat at the front of the crowd. All eyes turned toward the main longhouse.

  Captain Lingram appeared in the doorway, dressed in his finest clothing, his armor polished to a brilliant sheen. A woman clung to his arm. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any of the other women in Saerheim. Her flaxen hair hung long and silky down to her waist, and she was tall—almost as tall as the captain—and lean. In her left hand, she gripped a stick that she swung across the ground, using it to navigate through the square.

  The captain escorted the blind woman through the rows of seated villagers, helping her to step over the boundary logs and onto the stage. Her arm lingered for a moment on his before she released him.

  "Now that ain't fair!" Weasel protested. "Why does he—?"

  "Captain's prerogative," Rold cut him off with a sharp smile.

  More than a few in the crowd caught it as well. Someone shouted something in the Fehlan tongue, eliciting an embarrassed smile from the captain. The blind woman answered in a sharp tone that brought laughter to the crowd, but there was no anger in her voice. The people of Saerheim clearly enjoyed this part of the spectacle.

  One of the villagers placed a stringed instrument in her hands. The instrument resembled a harp, but with a hollow body that echoed and amplified the sound of the strings. When she strummed it, the strings resonated with a deep, throaty pitch that Duvain found alluring.

  She started slowly, a rhythm that came quietly at first but grew in strength as each strum built upon the last. A tenuous sound, almost hesitant, yet holding the promise of growth. One of the hand bells joined her, adding into the building melody. When she opened her mouth and began to sing, Duvain was lost.

  The words didn't matter—the music and her sonorous voice carried him along. From behind her, a willowy figure dressed in bright green scarves glided onto the stage. She was young and beautiful, graceful, with a supple body and fair skin. She danced to the tune of the music, her movements airy, playful, like a river sprite or fairy.

  The rhythm of the music changed. From slow to chirpy and energetic, with a happy tone that brightened the light glowing stones and the torches ringing the stage. Another figure appeared on the stage, this one clad in bright yellow. Strong and confident, he twirled the young woman in his arms and lifted her high over his head. His power added to her grace, and her beauty enhanced his strength.

  Duvain caught the word for "summer" among the lyrics of the song, and suddenly he understood. Spring and summer. Beauty and life.

  The tune changed again, this time changing to a deeper, richer tone, melodious. It seemed the trees themselves bent toward the sound. The two dancers threw off their green and yellow clothing, revealing robes of orange and red beneath. The coming of autumn.

  From behind the singer, another figure appeared. Elder Asmund, dressed in grey and white, with a long white cloak hanging from his shoulders. When he stepped onto the stage, the notes floating up from the lyre shifted lower. The drum added a quiet beat, which only increased the menace of the cloaked figure. Winter had come.

  The man in grey and white stalked toward the dancing couple, who frolicked unaware of him. They twirled and spun, eyes locked on each other, faces radiant. Duvain found himself holding his breath as the white-robed man drew closer, reaching toward them with outstretched arm. He and the crowd sighed when the couple glided away at the last moment.

  Winter pursued autumn. Though the colorful figures eluded their pursuer, the red and orange scarves hanging from their clothing fell with every step. The ground was soon littered with the bright-colored cloths. Beneath the scarves, the dancers wore dull brown robes. A bone pipe added its high-pitched wailing to the tune.

  Melancholy mingled with despair in Duvain's chest. The music touched something deep inside him, and the lyrics and dance brought tears to his eyes. He knew the inevitable was coming: winter would triumph.

  At last, the cloaked figure caught up to the two lovers, drawing them into the embrace of his white and grey robe. The young man and woman remained intertwined as they disappeared beneath the cloak, and the music fell to a quiet, mournful tune. A few final notes of the pipe, and it fell silent. The drum and hand bells faded into the night. Only the strumming lyre remained, accompanied by the haunting sound of the woman's singing.

  Finally, her voice trailed off, leaving the lyre to carry them to the end. Yet, in those last moments, the tune changed again. The song remained deep and forlorn, yet here and there a few of the bright, cheery notes were sprinkled in. From beneath one corner of the white and grey robe, a green-gloved hand appeared.

  Silence.

  Thunderous applause broke from the crowd, and the people rose to their feet. With a broad grin, Elder Asmund lifted his cloak and helped the two dancers to stand. They swept a bow, which brought fresh cheers. The three of them supported the blind woman as the crowd shouted and whistled their approval. Though she blushed, a broad smile spread across her face.

  Duvain found himself at a loss for words. Judging by the expressions of the others beside him, they felt something similar. Endyn brushed a tear from his cheek, and Owen swallowed hard. Weasel buried his face in his mug.

  Oddly enough, Awr was smiling—an expression Duvain had never seen before.

  "Always loved that," the grizzled man rasped. He spoke to no one in particular. "She's better than anyone I've seen in Storbjarg."

  Duvain's eyebrows rose. Storbjarg was the largest Fehlan village—almost a city, really—home to the Fjall clan. When had Awr been among the Fjall?

  Before Duvain could say anything, an enraged shout echoed across the square. He whirled toward the source of the sound: Lord Virinus' hut. The nobleman himself was striding toward the village square, dragging a struggling Eira in his wake.

  "Legionnaires, to me!" the nobleman shouted.

  Whether entranced by the song or shocked by the fury in Lord Virinus' voice, none of the Legionnaires moved.

  "To me!" the nobleman cried again. He dragged the ancient healer through the crowd and onto the stage, where he hurled her to the bluestone courtyard.

  Captain Lingram stepped onto the stage. "What is the meaning of this, Lord Virinus?" he demanded.

  Lord Virinus' face was twisted in a mask of rage. "Captain Lingram, I demand you execute this witch at once!"

  Chapter Nine

  The villagers were on their feet in an instant. Angry shouts echoed from the crowd, and a couple of men surged toward the old woman to help her up to her feet.

  "Captain Lingram," Lord Virinus snapped, "I have given you a command."

  "I heard you, my lord." Captain Lingram's face could have been made from flint, so hard was his expression. "But I don't believe I understood."

  "What's not to understand?" Lord Virinus thrust a finger at the healer. "That witch went against my instructions and administered more of her foul concoctions to my guest. As a noble of Icespire and commander of this military outpost—pathetic as it may be—I am fully within my rights to have her executed."

  "My lord," Captain Lingram protested, "this is no outpost. This is a village. Their village."

  "As long as I am here in my capacity as Envoy of the Prince and your Legionnaires are stationed here, this is considered by the laws of Icespire to be a military outpost."

  "Be that as it may," Captain Lingram gave a dismissive wave, "surely you cannot expect me to execute her. She was doing her duty—she is Saerheim's healer, after all."

  "And if that duty leads to the death of my charge?" Lord Virinus demanded. "By then, it will be too late—not only for the innocent girl who lies ill, but for our
alliance with the Fjall."

  The name of the clan, well known to all Fehlans, brought a gasp from the crowd. The villagers muttered amongst themselves, shooting glances at the hut Lord Virinus had claimed for his own.

  A hand gripped Duvain's shoulder. "Move, now," Awr rasped in his ear.

  Duvain shot the corporal a look. "What are we doing?" he asked from the corner of his mouth.

  "Supporting our captain." Awr's face had gone cold, dead, but fury burned in his eyes. "Just in case he needs us." His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

  Slowly, Duvain stood, trying hard not to jangle his armor. He followed Awr and Rold as they slipped through the crowd. A few of the villagers they moved aside shot them angry glares, but their expressions changed as Awr muttered a few words in Fehlan. Some of the men of Saerheim broke from the crowd and hurried toward their homes.

  Duvain's gut clenched. This could get ugly very quickly.

  "My lord, I fully understand how important the girl's life is. Indeed, important enough that I and my entire company of men have been sent to safeguard her." Captain Lingram gestured to the healer. "But Eira was only trying to help. Duke Dyrund would—"

  "The Duke is dead!" Lord Virinus shouted. "Taken by the same fever that even now ravages the girl. The same fever that would destroy all we've worked so hard for."

  The old woman held up a wooden bowl and rattled off a stream of angry words in Fehlan. Captain Lingram listened, then turned back to the nobleman.

  "She says the fever is about to break, but only if you allow her to help." He pointed to the bowl. "That poultice should bring her temperature down and restore her to consciousness. By tomorrow, she would be able to eat solid food."

  The old woman continued speaking, and Captain Lingram translated. "She has seen the sickness before—The Wasting Decay, they call it. It is a stubborn illness, one that weakens the body until it can no longer fight for itself. If you keep her away from the girl, she will die."

  Lord Virinus' lips twisted into a sneer. "Of course she'd say that! She would say anything to save her life."

  Captain Lingram spoke in a quiet voice. "I believe her."

  The nobleman's eyebrows rose. "You'd take the word of a savage?"

  "Not a savage, my lord. A Fehlan. One of our allies."

  The sneer returned to Lord Virinus' face.

  "They may lead simple lives, my lord," Captain Lingram said, "but there is wisdom in their ways. Their healers may not live in temples or wear shining white robes. But I've seen what they can do."

  The captain shot a glance at Awr. "They have brought men back from the brink of death. When I lay dying from my wounds, they did the impossible. I only stand here today because of them." He looked at Endyn. "But more importantly, they have shown us compassion when they have only reason to resent us." He thrust a finger at the old healer. "I have watched her provide comfort and relief to my men since our arrival. She has done nothing but help. So yes, my lord. I will take her word when she says that she believes she can cure the fever. Only a fool would ignore advice from one so experienced."

  Lord Virinus recoiled as if slapped. "You call me a fool, Captain? Insulting your superiors is—"

  "I gave no insult." Captain Lingram shook his head. "I simply made a statement; whether you choose to embody that fool or not is entirely your decision."

  Lord Virinus took a step closer. "And if I choose to exercise my prerogative and simply order her execution?" There was no mistaking the menace in his voice.

  "I would entreat you to reconsider, my lord." Captain Lingram said, simply. "You fear the repercussions of what would happen if Eirik Throrsson's daughter dies, and rightly so. But what will happen when the other tribes discover you executed their healer? One of the most revered among all the clans?"

  "Nothing!" Lord Virinus spat. "They are our subjects."

  "Allies," Captain Lingram corrected.

  "Vassals!" The nobleman's voice rose to a shout. "They pledged their loyalty to the Prince long ago." He gestured around. "Why else do you think we can simply march into their village and demand they house us?"

  Captain Lingram shook his head. "My lord, if you order her execution, you will doom the alliance between Icespire and the Fjall. Perhaps all the clans."

  "Nonsense." The nobleman snorted. "They will do nothing, because we are the only thing standing between them and the Eirdkilrs." He raised his voice so all the Legionnaires around him could hear. "That's right, the Eirdkilrs have sworn to exterminate any Fehlan who aid us in our war. They have wiped out Elfr and Skoglund already, and decimated the Eyrirrim. Why else do you think the Hilmir himself was so willing to talk peace? We are their only hope of survival."

  He turned his attention back to Captain Lingram, and spoke in a low, menacing voice. "We are their only hope."

  By now, Awr had maneuvered into position behind Captain Lingram. At his command, Duvain, Endyn, and the others of Squad Three spread out. They'd keep the angry villagers back, give Captain Lingram time to control the situation. The look in Awr's eyes spoke clearly: if it came down to it, they'd be ready to jump to Captain Lingram's orders.

  "But what happens when we become worse than the monsters they fear, Lord Virinus?" The captain's tone matched the nobleman's, but filled with ice and steel. "That is how revolts begin."

  "Revolts that are always crushed." Lord Virinus shook a clenched fist. "They cannot hope to survive against us."

  "With the Eirdkilrs on one side and the rest of Fehl at our backs, what are our chances then?"

  Lord Virinus' face creased into a scowl. "What do you know of such things, Captain?" He spoke the last word as an insult. "I learned diplomacy at the feet of Duke Dyrund himself. But, you, you are just a soldier, not accustomed to the ways of politics."

  "Perhaps," Captain Lingram admitted, inclining his head, "but I've spent enough time among the Fehlan to know that this will not end well."

  "We'll see about that," Lord Virinus snapped.

  Duvain had been watching Lord Virinus so intently that he'd failed to notice the four men moving into position behind the nobleman. The mercenaries were no-nonsense, hard men with wary eyes. Their hands hovered near their sword hilts as they watched their lord.

  "Be ready," Awr rumbled.

  "Corporal, this is madness!" Owen whispered. "Surely you can't expect us to—"

  "Lord Virinus, I will say it one last time: please reconsider your orders." Captain Lingram's tone turned pleading. "This will only end badly."

  Lord Virinus’ jaw set into a stubborn. "Captain Lingram, as your superior officer, I am giving you a direct command." He thrust a finger toward the healer. "You are to carry out her execution immediately."

  Though only a few villagers spoke Einari, clearly they understood the nobleman's words. Hand axes, scythes, and even a few old swords sprouted in Fehlan hands, and a line of men formed between Eira and the nobleman.

  "Captain, you have your orders," Lord Virinus shouted.

  "No." The single word, spoken with such determination, rocked Lord Virinus to the core.

  "What?" The nobleman demanded. "You refuse to carry out a command from your superior officer?"

  "This command, I do." Captain Lingram's voice remained calm, but his back was rigid, his shoulders tense.

  "You bastard!" Lord Virinus' sneer transformed into a vicious smile. "You've finally done it. You've finally given me an excuse to have you court-martialed." He waved at the Legionnaires in the crowd. "I've dozens of witnesses who saw you refuse a direct order from your commanding officer. Your days in the Legion are finished."

  "I didn't see anything of the sort," Awr rasped. He turned to Duvain. "Did you?"

  After a moment of hesitation, Duvain shook his head. "No, Corporal!"

  Awr turned to Endyn and Owen. "In fact, none of us did, did we, lads?"

  "Sorry, Corporal!" Weasel replied. "Had a bit too much of the ayrag! Damned alcohol's messin’ with my eyesight. I couldn't tell you if I was lookin’ at a man or a h
orse's ass."

  Lord Virinus' eyes went wide, and his expression grew enraged. "Why you little hedge-born pissant!" He spoke through clenched teeth. "I'll have your head for that. All of your heads!"

  Captain Lingram shot a disapproving glare at Awr and the rest of them. "Enough of this, Virinus. If you intend to have me court-martialed when we return to Icespire, so be it. I will hold my head high and give testimony in the Swordsman's Court."

  "When they hear that you disobeyed a direct command—" Lord Virinus began.

  "My orders from General Vessach were to protect you, to keep you safe." He dropped his voice. "Even if that means from yourself."

  The nobleman's face grew livid. "And there he is: Lingram the Bold. Lingram the Hero." Disgust twisted his face. "You think you're better than me because you earned some ridiculous nom de guerre for fighting. Any lowborn whorespawn can fight and die. And that's exactly what you are, what you've always been. I saw it in your eyes even when we were boys running around my father's estate. You resented the fact that you were the stable boy and I the lord's son. You've always been jealous of me, and now you get your moment to take it out on me." He spread his arms wide. "Congratulations, Lingram. You've won."

  The captain shook his head. "I never hated you, Myron. If anything, I admired you. You and your father both. I wanted to be like you. It drove me to join the Legion so I could earn a name you both would be proud of."

  This revelation hit Lord Virinus like a blow to the gut.

  "But the boy I knew became the man that stands before me." Captain Lingram gave a sad shake of his head. "A man driven by pettiness, greed, and a desire for power. That is not a man I admire."

  "So you turn against me?" Lord Virinus took a step closer, his four mercenaries at his heels. "You defy me in public, humiliate me, then do it again in front of your own Legion?"

  "Get ready," Awr muttered.

  A small gesture from Captain Lingram held them at bay. "I did not mean to humiliate you, Myron. I simply could not stand by while you raised a hand against a man who deserved better than to swing from a hangman's rope. Just as I will not stand by now."