The Fehlan villager led them to the northwest side of the village, toward a house that stood just a short distance from the main square. It was small, just five paces wide and six long, with a roof barely higher than Endyn's head. Thick mud had been caked over the woven sticks as weatherproofing. The man said something in Fehlan and motioned toward the house.
With a nod for the bearded villager, Awr turned to the rest of them. "This is us." He strode toward the open door and entered.
The interior was small, far smaller than Duvain had expected. Three wooden steps descended to a single room dug below the level of the ground outside. The people of Saerheim lived simply. The room had no windows or any decorations—only a door and a space to live.
"Damn!" Weasel muttered. "Looks like we're goin’ to be nut to butt in here."
"When the nights get cold," Corporal Awr replied, "you'll be glad for your comrade's body heat."
Weasel turned to glare at them. "Just make sure none of you go pokin’ anythin’ into me when I sleep, eh?"
Duvain rolled his eyes and entered the hovel. He selected a corner of the room and dumped his pack there, making space for Endyn beside him.
Weasel muttered. "Damn, with the big man here, we're goin’ to be even tighter. It'll be like—"
With a rumbling sob, Endyn shoved past Weasel and rushed toward his pack. He nearly ripped the drawstrings open with his frantic pawing.
Duvain's eyes widened. He'd never seen it this bad before.
"What in the bloody hell?" Weasel asked, picking himself up from the ground. "What's gotten into him?"
Ignoring the others, Duvain rushed toward Endyn. "Ditch the armor, I'll get the salve."
Endyn's eyes shot toward the men crowded at the door, but after a moment of hesitation, began ripping at his armor.
Duvain heard the clink of the breastplate falling, followed by the jingling of his mail shirt. By the time he'd dug the jar from his pack, Endyn was out of his gambeson and down to his undertunic, which he pulled over his head with frantic movements.
Duvain gasped at the sight of Endyn's back. The thick, grey scales had grown to the thickness of his finger, the cracks running between them turned an angry red. Sweat and dirt clung to the weeping sores. Pus dribbled from a fresh wound in his side. Endyn scratched at himself frantically, his huge fingers nearly ripping the scaly flesh in his desperation to stifle the itching.
"Endyn, stop!" Duvain shouted. "That'll only make it worse."
Endyn was beyond caring. Tears streamed down his face, and sobs of misery set his shoulders heaving. The dragonskin was worsening at a far faster rate than Duvain had dreamed.
He whirled on the others. "Help me hold his arms!"
Owen, Weasel, and Corporal Rold stood open-mouthed, gaping at the sight of Endyn squirming and pawing at his encrusted flesh.
"Help me!" Duvain shouted again.
Corporal Rold reacted first, seizing Endyn's right arm and tugging it out to the side. Endyn cried out and tried to break free, but Owen and Weasel seized his other arm.
"Get him on the ground!" Duvain shouted. "If he scratches too hard, he'll tear the scales wide open."
The four of them wrestled Endyn flat onto his stomach, no easy task given Endyn's enormous size and strength. The huge man protested, tears streaming. Duvain wept at his brother's misery, but he had no choice. He had to stop Endyn from making the problem worse.
"Whatever you're going to do," Rold shouted, "better get on with it!"
Duvain fumbled the jar lid open and scooped a handful of the cream from within. He slathered it over Endyn's back, coating the scales and the raw, weeping skin with a thick layer. Slowly, Endyn's struggles quieted, and he lay still. Owen, Weasel, and Corporal Rold clung to his arms, breathing heavily.
When Duvain had covered his back, he nodded to them. "You can release him."
The three Legionnaires leapt back as if afraid of getting burned. Rold wiped his palms on his uniform, and Owen simply stared down at his hands, as if expecting to see grey scales form.
Duvain ignored them. He helped Endyn to sit up, and he applied another layer of the salve to his brother's chest. Endyn sobbed, but the cries were more from relief than of pain. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the hut wall.
The smell of the salve filled the hut. The jar was nearly empty by the time Duvain had covered Endyn's enormous chest and torso. He carefully replaced the lid and tucked the jar into his pack, letting out a long, slow breath. He turned to his brother, who gave him a grateful nod. The flow of tears had slowed but not stopped. Though cream soothed the itch and dimmed the burning pain, it didn't alleviate the torment completely.
Even seated, Endyn was nearly as tall as Duvain was standing. Duvain gripped the back of Endyn's neck and leaned his forehead against his brother's. He could find no words, but simply remained there, sharing his brother's suffering in the only way he knew how.
The only sound to break the silence came from the wooden door closing behind his departing comrades.
Chapter Five
"And you're certain this won't affect anyone else?"
Duvain cringed under Captain Lingram's stare. There was no recrimination in the captain's eyes, only concern. He nodded. "No, sir. The healers at the Sanctuary in Voramis spent weeks poking and prodding him, and though they didn't find any solution, they determined it's not contagious." He rolled up his sleeves to reveal his unblemished arms. "I've been touching it for years and not a thing."
Captain Lingram pondered a moment, then nodded. "Then we've no problems." He tapped the hilt of his sword with a long fingernail. "You say the itch gets bad after a few hours in armor?"
Duvain nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Nothing to be done about that, but I'll let Sergeant Brash know your brother may need to take the occasional break to have a moment to himself. Should make it a bit more bearable."
Duvain's eyes widened. "Thank you, Captain!" He'd expected recrimination and vitriol, and the captain's reaction caught him off guard. No one had treated Endyn with such understanding, even compassion.
Captain Lingram gripped Duvain's shoulder. "Man like him, he's the sort who will come in handy if we ever find ourselves in trouble. I've seen commanders use up their men like a wastrel spending gold, and that never turns out well. If Garrow's Canyon taught me one thing, it's always take care of your assets. I'd have died there if not for a one-armed soldier who threw himself in the path of an enemy axe. Lost his other arm, but walked away from that battle alive. One of the few who did. A man's outward appearance or lack of skill never dictates his true limitations. Remember that for when you rise in the ranks."
"I will, sir!"
"Good." Captain Lingram nodded. "Now, I believe Squad Three has the midnight watch."
Duvain snapped a crisp salute. "Aye, Captain!" He turned and marched toward the hut where he and his squad bunked. He understood why Awr and the others had followed Captain Lingram to the Deadheads. He, too, had seen officers who pushed their men to breaking and discarded them when they no longer served a purpose. Captain Lingram was the sort of officer worth following, it seemed.
A shadow passed over Endyn's face as Duvain entered their hut, and his brow furrowed.
"Don't worry, Brother." Duvain gave him a small smile. "Captain says you're good."
The relief in Endyn's eyes mirrored Duvain's own. "Thank you," he rumbled.
Duvain smiled at his brother. "Let's get you into your armor. We've got a watch to stand."
* * *
Duvain's gut clenched as they approached the brazier burning beside the southeast corner of Saerheim. Owen and Weasel sat next to the fire, warming their hands against the chill that had descended on the village after dark. They glanced up at him and Endyn, then quickly looked away.
The two of them and Rold had acted strange since that afternoon—exactly what Endyn feared. They looked at him with new eyes, as if staring at a freak in the Praamian circus. Beyond the basics of their watch, none of t
hem had spoken since the shift began.
Duvain glanced at Endyn. The pain in his brother's eyes didn't come from the dragonskin—the salve would soothe the itching and pain until morning. No, the pain came from the harsh truth: no matter where he went, he would always be an outcast. He had been since a young age, thanks to his height. The dragonskin just compounded the problem.
With a sigh, Duvain turned his back on the fire and took another lap of their patrol.
Rold had paired the two of them together, assigning them a patrol of Saerheim's west side. They'd entered through the western gate earlier than day, and not even animals moved across the empty expanse of ground between the village and the forest. They were essentially guarding the village's rear, certainly a punishment of some sort. With the front line far to the southeast, there was more chance of their wall being overrun by the woodcutter vipers than by Eirdkilrs.
Duvain found himself wishing for a patrol along the eastern wall. The wall ran parallel to the edge of the cliff atop which Saerheim sat, and was really the only direction from which a threat could come. Here in Saerheim, far from the front, there would be no risk of an Eirdkilr attack. He wanted to use the few quiet moments, those not spent in ceaseless patrol, to look out over Cold Lake to the southeast. It would remind him of Hunter's Lake outside of Northpass, the place where he and Endyn had spent many happy hours laughing, splashing, and swimming as boys. The lake's mirror surface would reflect the moonlight, and the stars would glimmer like a thousand sparkling jewels. In the morning, tendrils of mist would creep onto the land like ghosts of legend come to visit the land of the living.
Sighing, he turned his attention back to his patrol. Saerheim was smaller than he'd expected. Roughly two hundred Fehlan made their home here. Most lived in the four massive longhouses fronting the village's main square. The village's only blacksmith had a large house and attached smithy on the southwest corner. Beside him, the weaver, potter, and wheelwright plied their trades in smaller houses. A few families chose to live in their own small houses, made of wattle and daub with thatched roofs barely able to keep out the winter chill.
Back when Weasel had been on speaking terms with them, he'd gone on about how towns and villages among the Fehlan were distinguished by the purpose of the town. Villages existed to farm, herd sheep and cattle, and make the goods they needed to live. Towns did all that, but they also provided a hub for traders to buy and sell goods. Towns thrived on the presence of trade rather than the consumption of their own goods.
The main square was fifty paces on all sides, with a well on the southeastern corner and dominated by a broad courtyard paved with dark grey bluestone. It was here that the people of the village would gather, Weasel said, for their celebrations, festivals, and whatever other "savage" rituals they engaged in. The people here lived simple lives: farmers, shepherds, and woodcutters content to scratch out a comfortable existence from the land. Why they had been sent here was beyond Duvain.
The palisade wall was certainly not of the villagers' doing. According to Owen, a garrison of Legionnaires had erected the structure during the conquest of Fehl a century before.
The Legionnaires had chosen a good site for their fort. Saerheim had been built near enough to the lake for the villagers to have easy access to fresh water, but the village itself sat upon a high cliff. Their position provided excellent visibility of the surrounding area to spot any unwelcome visitors. A single muddy road—wide enough for a horse- or ox-drawn cart to navigate—descended from the eastern gate to the farmlands below. Channels had been cut into the earth to supply the land with water for crops. Aside from the food grown on the farms, the villagers hunted in the woods and caught fish in Cold Lake. Yet, should they find themselves in peril, they could retreat behind the palisade wall and close the gates. A company of Legionnaires could hold off two or three times their number.
Duvain found himself fascinated by the Fehlans. He'd expected fur-clad savages in war paint, as the tales of the Eirdkilr War suggested, but the people here resembled villagers on Einan. They wore tunics and breeches, made from wool and cut in a simple style. The colors, however, were brighter than even the popular cloth in Voramis. The blues, especially, were deep and rich. The product of the glastum plant, he'd heard.
The problem was that none of the Fehlans seemed inclined to talk. If any of the people in the village spoke even basic Einari, they hadn't made an attempt to open dialogue. Indeed, the few they'd encountered that afternoon had quickly scurried the other way when they tried to talk. One had even shot them a venomous glare before striding in the opposite direction.
He contemplated the villagers' dislike of them. Weren't they here to protect Saerheim? Why would the people hate them?
When they reached the end of their next round, they found the brazier abandoned by all but Corporal Awr. Weasel, Owen, and Rold were walking the wooden rampart platforms on the interior of the wall. The grizzled corporal sat alone, his back to the fire, staring off into the night.
"Corporal, you were speaking Fehlan earlier, right?" Duvain asked.
Corporal Awr gave him a sharp look, but said nothing.
"Can you teach me some?"
Awr's look changed to one of mild surprise. "Why?"
Duvain shrugged. "I figure if we're going to be here a while, it could come in handy, knowing a few words."
For a long moment, Awr fixed him with a piercing glare, then shook his head. "Don't waste your time."
It was Duvain's turn to be surprised. "What?"
Awr spoke without meeting Duvain's gaze. "It won't do anything. They aren't going to like you, any way you cut it. After all, we've kicked them out of their homes."
Duvain's eyes widened. He hadn't given it much thought. The village had a few small houses, no doubt each built for a family. If they occupied one of the homes, it meant one of the families had to be evicted. With all fifty-seven men of Fifth Company's Third Platoon, that meant a lot of displaced villagers, no doubt crammed into the longhouses.
Awr stood. "Listen, meat, we're here because we have to be, but none of us want to be—not us, and certainly not the Fehlan. All they want is to be left alone to tend to their farms, cattle, and fish. They'd rather have nothing to do with the war—they'd be perfectly happy if they never saw an Eirdkilr or Einari face. But we've brought that war to them, and they're doing what they do best: surviving. But that doesn’t mean they have to like it, or us."
Duvain swallowed. Awr spoke infrequently—he'd barely said a word over four days of marching, except in response to Captain Lingram or Sergeant Brash's orders—but when he did, he delivered piercing insight.
"Still," Duvain said, hesitant, "I'd still like to learn a bit of the Fehlan tongue."
Awr said nothing for a long moment. Silence stretched on, broken only by the crack of the firewood and the churring trill of a nightjar. Finally, Awr shrugged. "Fine. Not like we've a whole lot better to do around here."
Duvain smiled. "Thank you."
"It'll cost you, though." Awr growled. "Bring me something to drink—wine, ale, or whatever swill is brewed here—and I'll teach you."
Duvain's smile faded. He had no idea where to find liquor. Without his first pay from the Legion, he had no coins to buy with. He'd have to find another way. But how?
A solution presented itself at the end of their watch. One of Squad Four's privates stumbled from his bed mumbling about a hangover. When Duvain offered to take his watch in exchange for the liquor he'd imbibed too much of, the man gladly agreed to the trade.
Worry lined Endyn's face. He looked tired—the hours of endless walking had taken its toll on him.
"Go," Duvain told him. "Rest."
Endyn raised a questioning eyebrow.
"I'll be fine. I couldn't sleep anyway." A yawn forced itself past Duvain's lips.
Endyn snorted.
"Look, I have to do this." Duvain dropped his voice. "You've seen the way the others look at us. Both of us."
Endyn's face clouded,
and pain filled his eyes.
"If doing this will earn me a bit of goodwill with the other squads and Corporal Awr, you know I'm going to." Duvain stifled another yawn without success. "I'll find time to sleep before next watch." The Legion divided their days between rest, drilling and training, and standing guard. He had just volunteered his rest time—he'd be in for a long session of marching, weapons practice, and formation drills. But he'd get through it.
Endyn hesitated, but Duvain shoved him away. "Off with you." His stomach gave a growl nearly as loud as Endyn's snores. "But bring me some chow, will you?"
Nodding, Endyn lumbered away from the watch post. When he disappeared, Duvain groaned and sagged to a seat in front of the dying fire. His feet and back ached, and his armor felt as if it weighed far too much. He wanted nothing more than to rest. Sadly, he wouldn't have a chance to—
"Riders, in the east!" The shout from behind him snapped him from his gloom. Immediately, he was on full alert, his heart racing and adrenaline pumping. A sudden fear raced through him. Were they under attack?
Danver, the Fourth Squad sergeant, rushed past him. "On your feet, Legionnaire!"
Duvain realized he hadn't moved. Panic had rooted him in place. His stomach churned, and he felt as if he'd vomit. He was afraid, and hated himself for it.
The sight of Captain Lingram striding toward the eastern gate galvanized him into action. He stood and rushed after the sergeant, taking his place on the wooden ramparts beside the rest of Squad Four.
He caught a flash of white through the early morning mist rolling off Cold Lake. The sound of pounding hooves drifted toward them. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the tendrils of grey hovering over the water. The horses were coming around the lake, riding straight toward them.
The thundering in his heart rose to a roar, and blood pounded in his ear. He tightened his grip on his spear. His hand was sweaty and shaking. So there was to be a battle with the Eirdkilrs after all.
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