Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  Owen said nothing. He sat on the wooden rampart, reclined against the wall, a faraway look in his eyes as he stared at the fire. His fingers toyed with a silver sword pendant hanging from a leather thong about his neck.

  Weasel scowled. "Hey, taintwad!" He snapped his fingers in front of Owen's eyes.

  Owen jerked upright. "What?"

  Weasel shook his head. "Snap out of it before Sarge thinks you're nappin’ on watch."

  "I wasn't sleeping," Owen said in a heavy voice.

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Lemme guess, thinkin’ about your girl again?"

  Owen nodded.

  "She give you that?" Weasel asked, indicating the pendant with his chin.

  Owen glanced down and nodded. "Her father taught her to pray to the Swordsman."

  "God of heroes." Weasel snorted.

  "God of war, too." Owen's brow furrowed. "Said it would keep me safe."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Yes, a piece of bleedin' metal is going to keep the barbarians' swords from guttin’ you."

  Owen's face hardened. "At least I have someone to pray to, someone to respect. No doubt you're too good for the gods."

  Weasel shook his head. "Not at all. I just never had much use for heroism. Now, the Watcher in the Dark, god of the night, patron of thieves, that's a god worth talkin’ to."

  "Patron of thieves?" Duvain's eyebrows rose. "I thought the Watcher was the god of justice."

  Weasel shrugged. "To some people he is. I prefer him as the face of vengeance. More poetic, that way." He fixed Duvain with a hard look. "Don't tell me you buy into all that rubbish about the Swordsman, too? Endyn?"

  Endyn shook his head and produced a small crown-shaped pendant made of iron. Duvain had one to match; they'd been the last gift from their mother, who had instilled in them a reverence for the Master, god of virtue and nobility. Though she'd been as lowborn as anyone in the little village of Northpass, she'd had an inner dignity that would have belonged in any court on Einan.

  "Mock all you want," Owen said, "but I'll keep it if it means a better chance of getting home to her safe."

  "How long has it been?" Weasel asked, his tone surprisingly free of mockery.

  Owen sighed. "Two years, eight months, and two days." His brow furrowed. "I'm starting to forget what she looks like."

  "Might be for the best," Weasel said. "You know how these things go. Woman promises a man she'll wait. Man goes off to war, comes home a hero and finds woman in bed with his neighbor. And his neighbor's brother."

  Duvain raised an eyebrow at the oddly specific detail.

  Weasel threw up his hands. "I'm just sayin', you may want to think about findin’ yourself a new dame once you get home. You'll have enough Icespire coin in your pocket to get any girl."

  Owen shook his head. "I don't want any girl. I want Issala."

  "Name like that, she's definitely imaginary." A vulpine grin spread Weasel's rat face. "Or a horse-faced nag."

  Owen scowled. "She was the prettiest girl in the Merchant's Quarter. All the other men were after her, but she picked me. Her father, though…"

  "Didn't want her marryin’ a penniless git like you, eh?" Weasel nodded. "Oldest tale in the book."

  "Not at all," Owen said. "Her father didn't care that I didn't have money. But he said he could never let his daughter marry a man who hadn't served his city with pride. He was a Legionnaire himself. Fought at Garrow's Canyon. With our captain, actually."

  "Wait, you said you're from Voramis?" Weasel asked, and Owen nodded. "And your girl's pa was one of the only four men to walk away from Garrow's Canyon?"

  Again, Owen nodded.

  "Keeper's icy teats!" Weasel whistled. "You're dreamin’ about the daughter of Tiaban Bloodfist, a bona fide war hero? I underestimated you, I did."

  Owen gave him a sad smile. "Can't marry her as long as I'm on this side of the Frozen Sea. I still have two of my four years left to serve."

  "Damn!" Weasel shook his head. "That's a long time to wait."

  Owen nodded. "It is, but she's worth it."

  "If her old man's the Bloodfist, you're damn right she is." Weasel settled back into a comfortable position. "You'd never pay for a drink again, marryin’ into a military legacy like that."

  "Scouts returning!" Rold called from his perch atop the ramparts. "Squad Three, get that gate open."

  Owen, Weasel, Duvain, and Endyn rushed to the eastern gate. With effort, they lifted the heavy locking bar and swung one massive gate open. The two scouts trotted through with a nod of thanks, but didn't stop until they reached Captain Lingram.

  "I wonder what news they're bringing," Duvain pondered aloud.

  Weasel snorted. "Like as not, a whole fat lot of nothin’. We're way behind the front, with an entire army between us and the bastard savages. The worst thing we've got to worry about is the whorefrost." He grinned. "Too bloody cold, and if you fall asleep in her arms, there's a good chance you'll end up dead."

  Owen shook his head. "Not that you'd know. There isn't a whore in the Beggar's Quarter that would come within a league of that diseased lump of flesh you call a prick."

  Weasel grinned. "Tarts ain't my type, Owen. Ask anyone."

  Owen rolled his eyes. "You sleep with one general's wife, and you suddenly think you're the Mistress' gift to women."

  Both Duvain's and Endyn's eyebrows shot up, which only made Weasel's grin broaden.

  "It's how he got his name," Owen said with a disdainful shake of his head. "In all the battles he's fought, he's somehow managed not to get dead. Slippery as a weasel, and about as trustworthy, too. He'll shag any woman within thirty paces—and that's using the term 'woman' generously."

  "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. "This close to 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 Einari, 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 hadn'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, 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 l
ong 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?"