Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  "I wonder who that is," said the man beside him.

  Duvain frowned. There was no fear in the man's voice, only curiosity. He glanced at the men crowded at the east gate beside him. Private Kipper, one of the men who had come to the Deadheads with Captain Lingram, stood alert but not in a fighting stance. His shield rested on the ground, and his sword remained sheathed.

  Duvain's eyes darted back to the horses. They'd come closer, though the mist and distance turned them into little more than blurred forms.

  The horses! He cursed himself for a fool. All the tales of the Eirdkilrs told that the massive barbarians didn't ride horses. Their size made it nearly impossible for them to ride—no horse could carry Endyn or anyone nearly that large—and horses wouldn't survive in the Frozen Wastes. They had shaggy-haired, horned wild oxen that hauled their supplies, but they marched and fought on foot.

  So who could the riders be?

  The tightness in Duvain's gut slowly relaxed, and his tension turned to curiosity as well. He watched, transfixed, as the figures drew closer.

  He got a better look at them as their horses labored up the incline toward the gate. Four men rode in a protective circle around a fifth figure. The four wore mottled brown robes, fur cloaks, and leather armor, but bore no insignia or mark of rank. Mercenaries, perhaps, or a nobleman's private guards.

  The fifth man wore a cloak of costlier furs—Duvain had no idea what animals had died for that garment, but it looked expensive—and he rode a destrier instead of the coursers ridden by the others. The sword hanging at his hip had a gilded hilt, the sort fancied by wealthy noblemen in Einan. The scabbard showed signs of wear, and mud spattered his fancy boots, but he somehow managed to look haughty even when covered in road dust. Definitely a nobleman.

  Captain Lingram appeared on the rampart beside him. His face tensed as he studied the approaching riders. "Open the gate," he commanded in a tight voice.

  The gate swung open just as the five riders reached it. They reined in just inside, and the well-dressed rider glanced around. "Who is in command?"

  "I am," Captain Lingram said, his words flat, hard.

  Surprise registered on the man's face, followed by a snarl twisting his lips. "Lingram." His voice had a whiny, nasal quality, matched by the petulant look on his narrow, angular face. He would have been handsome had it not been for the large ears protruding from the mess of brown hair flopping around his face. His blue eyes were ice cold as they regarded the captain.

  "Lord Virinus." Captain Lingram gave a stiff bow. "I trust your mission went well?"

  A sneer twisted Lord Virinus' face. "The details of my mission are highly sensitive, and for the general’s ears only."

  "Of course, my lord." The captain's jaw worked. He turned to regard the men beside the gate, and his eyes rested on Duvain. "Soldier, will you escort Lord Virinus to the house prepared for him?"

  Duvain tried not to register his surprise. "Aye, Captain!" He saluted.

  Captain Lingram turned back to the nobleman. "The Fehlan have graciously made space for you in the main longhouse."

  "The main longhouse?" Disdain marred Lord Virinus' face. "They expect me to room in the same place where they house their livestock and crops for the winter?"

  The captain's face grew hard. "It is a rare honor for—"

  "Honor?" The nobleman shook his head. "Call it what you will, but I will not. I expect lodgings that offer the privacy I am due as a lord of Icespire."

  Captain Lingram, clearly struggling to control himself, nodded. "Of course, my lord." He turned to Duvain. "Soldier, Lord Virinus will be billeting in the hut where your squad is, and you will take the space in the main longhouse."

  Duvain wanted to protest—Endyn would hate being in such a public place, where people stared at him even more than they already did—but knew better. "Yes, Captain!" With a salute, he raced toward his hut.

  He banged the door open, earning a shout from Rold and a growl from Awr. Their fury only increased as he told them the reason for interrupting their rest.

  "Lord Virinus?" Awr bolted upright at the nobleman's name. "Did you say Lord Virinus?"

  Duvain nodded. "He's demanding the privacy—"

  "Bloody cake-eating bastard!" Awr's sword slid from its sheath, and he stalked toward the door clad in just his boots and undertunic.

  "Awr!" Rold snapped. He threw himself between his fellow corporal and the door. "Don't do anything stupid."

  Awr glared at Rold. The fury burning in his eyes would have melted all the ice in the Frozen Sea. He was shorter but broader in the shoulder. "Move," he growled.

  Rold shook his head. "Not a damned chance. We both know what'll happen if I do."

  "And you think he deserves any less?" Awr demanded. "After what he did, he'd be lucky to get off with just my sword buried in his gut."

  "You'd be throwing your life away," Rold insisted.

  "Like you care," Awr sneered.

  "Not even a little," Rold replied, "but you're one of the few men who pass for a true soldier in this place. You think I want to put my life in the hands of men like this one"—he jerked a thumb at Endyn, who was watching the whole thing from his bedroll—"so close to the front lines?"

  Awr tightened his grip on his blade. "If you know what's good for you, Rold, you'll get the bloody hell out of my way."

  Rold's eyes flicked to Awr's sword, then back to the corporal. "No."

  "Keeper damn you, Rold, I'll—"

  "Corporal!" Captain Lingram's voice echoed in the tiny hut.

  Awr snapped to attention, his spine stiff. "Captain, sir." He saluted.

  Captain Lingram strode closer, and Rold moved aside. "Do we have a problem, Corporal?"

  Awr's jaw worked. "Captain…" he started.

  "Corporal, let me make one thing abundantly clear." Steel echoed in the captain’s voice—his tone brooked no dissent. "Our true orders are to provide an escort to Lord Virinus as he returns from a classified mission. He has information that will prove critical in our efforts against the Eirdkilrs. Which means it's in our best interest to keep him from harm." He lowered his voice to a menacing growl. "Despite any personal feelings on the matter. Is that understood?"

  Awr's silence dragged on for heart-pounding seconds before he replied. "Aye, Captain." Vitriol tinged his words; he could have poisoned an entire platoon with the acid in his tone.

  "Good." Captain Lingram stepped back. "Now, as Duvain here said, this building will be turned over to Lord Virinus, and you will be billeted in the main longhouse."

  Endyn stiffened, his expression tightening.

  "Get your gear and clear out at once. You have two hours to settle in, then Sergeant Brash will be running you through drills." Captain Lingram's gaze fixed on Awr. "I trust this will be the last time I hear anything on this particular subject?"

  Awr answered through clenched teeth. "Aye, Captain."

  "Good. Then you have your orders." With a nod to Corporal Rold, he strode from the tent.

  Like a good soldier, Awr went about stuffing his gear into his pack. Rold, Owen, and Weasel gave him a wide berth, but they all watched him from the corners of their eyes. The grizzled corporal kept up a steady stream of curses under his breath. "Useless as a soup sandwich" and "cake-eating ponce" counted among the kindest of words he had for Lord Virinus.

  When Awr slung his pack over his shoulder, Rold hurried to do the same, and motioned for Owen to follow. Clearly they meant to keep Awr from doing anything stupid.

  When the others had gone, Duvain turned to Weasel. "What was that all about?"

  "Remember how I said he pissed in the wrong man's boots?" Weasel asked.

  Duvain nodded.

  "They were Lord Virinus' boots."

  Duvain's eyes widened.

  Weasel frowned. "I couldn't figure it before, but it's startin’ to make sense, us comin’ here. There ain't no reason this little village should matter to anyone. And it don't. We're only here to escort the toff because he's afraid of a
few savages. He's got enough clout to get a whole platoon to do his biddin’." A wry grin twisted his lips. "Not too much clout, though. He got stuck with us. Bloody bootless fop!" Shaking his head, he shouldered his ruck and strode from the hut.

  Duvain looked over at Endyn. "How is it?" His brother moved without wincing, but Duvain knew the salve would only alleviate the discomfort for a short time.

  Endyn shrugged.

  Duvain drew in a breath. "Don't let it get that bad again, you hear me?"

  Endyn grimaced and nodded.

  "Let's go." Together, they exited the hut, their packs and bedrolls slung over their shoulders. Lord Virinus stood outside, his arms folded across his chest. Beneath his costly fur cloak, he wore dull brown clothing that still managed to look more stylish than practical. Duvain stifled a snigger as he pictured the nobleman marching in his high-heeled riding boots.

  Three of his guards had dismounted and stood in a defensive position around him. Their clothes showed no trace of finery, but were the simple, utilitarian robes of fighting men. Their leather armor had been as well-maintained as the Legionnaires’ mail shirts and breastplates, but they bore the marks of use. They moved with the self-confident poise of career warriors—very much at odds with the nobleman's assumed hauteur.

  Lord Virinus tapped his toes. "What's the delay, Captain? After a long night of riding, I expect a bit more professionalism and alacrity than this."

  Captain Lingram's expression tightened. "You may enter, my lord."

  "Not much to look at," Lord Virinus muttered as he strode toward the hut. After a cursory examination, he shook his head. "Abysmal, but what choice do we have?"

  He turned to one of the two guards. "Bring her."

  Saluting, the guard turned back to the horses. The fourth guard had remained in his saddle. At Lord Virinus' command, he removed his heavy fur cloak. Duvain's eyes widened. A young girl sat in the saddle behind the man. Thick bands of cloth bound her to the man's back. Her long tresses were the pale yellow only seen among the Fehlan, and despite her tender age—not yet a young woman—her features were as strong and pronounced as any in Saerheim.

  Duvain's mind raced. What was Lord Virinus doing with a Fehlan girl? A captive? Someone he'd found on his travels? A slave? No, that couldn't be. Slavery had been outlawed by Prince Toran of Icespire decades before. So what, then? And why was she bound to the man's saddle?

  His last question was answered when the mounted man removed the straps and the girl sagged into the arms of the waiting guards. Her eyelids flickered open, but her gaze was glassy, unfocused. Sweat trickled down her face and stained her thin garments. Fever tinged her cheeks bright red, and she mumbled incoherently. She made no protest as one of the guards gathered her into his arms and carried her into the hut.

  A sick Fehlan girl? Duvain's imagination ran wild. Already, the few Legionnaires within eyeshot had turned to each other, no doubt speculating about her identity.

  With a scowl for Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires, Lord Virinus turned, stalked inside the hut, and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Six

  Growing up, Duvain had believed the spinsters of Northpass to be the worst gossips in Einan. With far too much time on their hands, the biddies had concocted all manner of spurious rumors: the widower blacksmith was having an affair with a visiting nobleman's wife, the mayor had a predilection for enjoying the company of his horse a bit too much, and the tanner's youngest daughter practiced witchcraft—the only explanation for the odd pox scars on her face. Even the local Beggar Priest failed to escape their notice; according to their wagging tongues, he spent donated coin on ale at the Northpass Inn rather than on caring for the poor. No tale was too small to be inflamed out of proportion, twisted, or dissected.

  Those women had nothing on Legionnaires.

  In the five days since Lord Virinus' arrival, every rumor had been discussed and discarded a dozen times over. Of particular interest was the girl he'd brought. Her Fehlan features left no doubt of her parentage. But if not his daughter, who was she? More than a few Legionnaires whispered that the nobleman's taste in women ran far too young for the people of Icespire, but the savages had no such restrictions on age. Some even wondered if she was his slave, his mistress, or a barbarian witch disguised as an innocent child.

  His presence and the secrecy of his mission also received its share of argument. Many called him a spy who had penetrated deep behind enemy lines, while others insisted he was on a scouting trip studying the Eirdkilrs' positions. His four protectors—definitely mercenaries or private guards, given their unkempt appearance and non-standard issue clothing and weapons—gave no answer to the multitude of questions. In fact, they tended to avoid most of the off-duty Legionnaires. When not standing watch before Lord Virinus' commandeered home, they spent their time amongst themselves, talking in low voices. Duvain had caught a few words of Fehlan when they spoke.

  His lessons with Awr had proceeded slowly. He could exchange a few greetings in Fehlan, but little more. However, as long as he kept the liquor flowing, the grizzled corporal kept teaching him. He'd picked up a few more words while off duty in the longhouse. Elder Asmund had given Squad Three a corner of the longhouse with a bit of privacy—for which Endyn was grateful—but the constant movement of villagers in and out of the structure gave him a chance to hear them speak. Always in hushed tones, though, with wary, even suspicious glances at them.

  Every member of Squad Three had pressed Awr for details on Captain Lingram's history with Lord Virinus, but he refused to expound. When questioned about Lord Virinus' mystery guest, Awr had simply said the girl was important—important enough to delay the nobleman's travels as she convalesced. Whether he knew more or remained as in the dark as they, he didn't let on.

  That proved the only sliver of excitement or intrigue in what had become very long, very boring days. Sergeant Brash began their days with a thorough examination of their quarters, followed by a detailed inspection of their armor and weapons. Failure to meet his exacting standards resulted in either an additional turn at watch or an extra-brutal training session.

  Before morning chow—decent food, thanks to the villagers providing meat, vegetables, and grains from their meager stores—Corporal Awr pushed them through a ruck march. They trooped around the village in full armor, packs loaded on their backs. When Awr was in a truly foul mood—a lot more common since Lord Virinus' arrival—he'd take them a full three leagues through dense forest, thick brush, and muddy trails. By the third day, Duvain had come to dread the end of their march. Awr vented his frustration by setting them running up the steep hill beyond the east gate. On the last run, Duvain would have fainted if not for Rold's hand on his back, pushing him onward. Endyn didn't fare much better. His brother fatigued quickly, and Squads Two and Three had done hundreds of push-ups—in full armor and their packs—Awr's sadistic way of encouraging Endyn to recover from his exhaustion faster.

  Meal times gave them a few minutes to recover before the endless base duties: fortifying the palisade ramparts, digging ditches and latrines, cleaning their cramped quarters, and providing muscle power for whatever tasks the villagers needed to prepare Saerheim for the coming winter.

  Then came the drills. Oh, so many drills! Formation practice bled into quick-time marches, rapid redirectioning, and recovery from a collapsed shield wall. Awr and Rold usually spent their last hour of training hammering tactics into their heads, then finished with extra weapons practice. On the bad days, they'd spend another hour marching at top speed. Stragglers would be left in the dense forests to find their own way back to the village.

  Thankfully, the quality of the evening meal had improved over the dinners served back at Icespire. The villagers grew their own herbs and spices, and one of the mess officers even spoke enough Fehlan to learn a few Saerheim tricks for turning dried meat, stale bread, and withered root vegetables into surprisingly edible meals.

  If they were lucky, they had an hour or two of personal
time—usually spent polishing, sharpening, and mending their gear. Awr lost himself in the bottom of a wineskin or mug of ale whenever possible. Weasel, Owen, and Rold diced and gambled. Endyn joined in whenever they allowed him, but retreated when they stared as if he'd infect them with his dragonskin. Duvain had tried in vain to explain that the condition wasn't contagious. They'd simply given him the cold shoulder as well.

  The rest of the Deadheads were friendly enough. They invited him and Endyn to gamble, drink, and swap stories with them, though they still shot odd glances at Endyn. The fact that he'd survived a woodcutter viper's bite made him phenomenon enough, but Duvain suspected Weasel or Rold had talked about Endyn's condition.

  Every man in Fifth Shield Company stood one of the three eight-hour watch shifts. Most of the Legionnaires in the other four squads hated night shift, but Duvain preferred it. The chill cooled Endyn's skin, preventing the dragonskin from growing worse. Though the armor still rubbed the skin raw, at least he didn't have to worry about sweating. However, some nights grew terribly cold, exacerbating the pain of the dragonskin.

  Tonight, Squad Three had evening watch, which ended at midnight. Duvain, on patrol of the south wall with Endyn, caught a glimpse of Captain Lingram sitting in the main square. The captain was talking with Elder Asmund and sharing a cup of drikke—a potent brew made of fermented malt, hops, yeast, juniper boughs, and sugar. The captain appeared relaxed, at ease with Elder Asmund, speaking in Fehlan. Duvain only caught occasion snatches of their conversation but understood none of it.

  Duvain wasn't the only one watching the captain. Lord Virinus stood at the door of his hut, his gaze fixed on the two men lounging in the main square. Even from this distance, Duvain caught the unmistakable venom in his expression. Duvain had noticed that Lord Virinus' eyes followed the captain's movements. Just as Awr's glare tracked the nobleman.

  "This is gettin’ silly," Weasel was saying as Duvain and Endyn reached the brazier at the northeast corner of the wall. "We've been here nearly a week, sittin’ around holdin’ our pricks and doin’ piss-all. Not that I mind a lot of doin’ nothin’, but I'd rather be doin’ it back in camp."