Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection

by Andy Peloquin

  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 than 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.

  Saerheim had become a lively place for Heilirkvam, the annual festival commemorating the arrival of winter and departure of the harvest months. It was a celebration of a good year, an ode to summer and life, and a night to be filled with poetry, songs, and dancing.

  Duvain understood little of what was being said, but he could certainly enjoy the bright colors of the festival. The smell of fresh-baked bread had permeated the village all day, and the rich, meaty scent of roasting pig, venison, and poultry hung thick around him. His stomach growled with anticipation of the feast.

  He was fortunate: Squad Three would be off duty during the festivities. The Legionnaires of Squad Five had shot furious glares their way as they donned their polished armor and prepared for the night watch. The on-duty Legionnaires would be able to watch the ceremony only from the fringes as their patrol patterns permitted. But not too closely. Sergeant Brash had promised a flogging to any man caught away from his post. The sergeant wouldn't be attending the party, all the better to keep a sharp eye on his comrades.

  A few of the night watch had tried to switch duties with them, especially Duvain, who had proven amenable to such bargains in the past. They'd offered him coins, liquor, trinkets, and other valuables—things he could have used, but which held no allure for him now. He wouldn't miss the celebration for anything.

  Winter Festival in Northpass had been the one time of year he'd looked forward to. The little town had come alive with decorations, music, food, dancing, and laughter. People didn't stare at Endyn, for they were too busy having a good time to care. His brother had actually had a chance to step out and enjoy himself as well.

  He checked his equipment one last time. He'd polished his armor to a bright sheen and buffed his boots until his hands ached. He had even taken pains to wash his extra tunic in the lake. He felt clean for the first time in weeks.

  Endyn looked a fine sight in his armor. The brightness of Endyn's breastplate—crafted specially for him by a Legion armorer back in Voramis—outshone his own. A smile played on his big face. He enjoyed the Winter Festival as much as Duvain.

  Owen and Rold had also paid extra attention to the state of their gear—they almost might have passed for respectable Legionnaires. Weasel, however, looked utterly miserable in his freshly polished arm
or. Opting for sleep rather than caring for his gear, he'd emerged from the roundhouse looking like he'd lost a battle with a muddy stick. Which had prompted a very angry, very loud lecture from Corporal Rold, and a stream of invective at the "dirty runt". Weasel had only just finished the thorough buffing of his breastplate after a full hour of listening to the corporal promise all manner of inventive disciplines—including digging for gold with nothing but his pencil-prick and running all the way back to Icespire in the buff—for disrespecting their squad.

  The villagers of Saerheim had set out sawn tree trunks for chairs, arranging them in a broad circle around an empty space in the middle of the square. The clearing needed no boundary to outline it—the very stones themselves seemed to shine with an inner light. In the daylight, they appeared unremarkable, aside from their color: a black somehow darker than any onyx or obsidian he'd seen. But when the sun set, the stones had come alive, radiating a soothing glow that pushed back the shadows.

  The one night he'd been in Icespire, he'd seen the city's namesake crystalline tower light up the same way. According to Weasel, the tower had been built by the ancient Serenii as a lighthouse and observatory from which to study the Frozen Sea.

  Whatever the origin, Duvain couldn't help marveling at the stones' unique properties. He'd never seen anything like it on Einan.

  Corporal Awr was already seated when they reached the square, face buried in a tankard. He hadn't lost his usual somber mien, but he seemed a bit less dour than usual. From beneath hooded brows, he watched the laughing, playing children, the woman dressed in their colorful finery, and the men in their elegant furs and tunics.

  "Corporal," Owen nodded and took a seat beside the man. Awr responded with a grunt.

  "Is that more ayrag?" Weasel asked.

  Awr nodded.

  "Damn," Weasel groaned. He patted his stomach. "I've had the shits for three days now. That stuff don't sit well with me."

  Awr shrugged and took another long swig of his drink.

  One of the older men of Saerheim, a man who tilled the fields beside Cold Lake, approached with four large tankards. He said something in the Fehlan language; Duvain caught the words "welcome" and "night", but not much else.

  Awr gave a two-word response and a nod, bringing a smile to the man's face. He held out the tankards for Weasel, Owen, Rold, and Duvain.

  Endyn's brow furrowed, and a shadow passed across his face. Duvain could see his brother's mind working, his pain at being left out.

  With a grin, the villager disappeared into a nearby longhouse. When he emerged a moment later, he carried a wooden vessel that was more cauldron than cup—easily half the size of a small barrel. Laughing, he presented it to Endyn and said something in the Fehlan tongue.

  "Big cup for a big warrior, he says," Awr translated.

  Endyn blushed, which only made the man's grin broader.

  Duvain chuckled. "Look at that, Brother." He slapped Endyn's shoulder. "They like you."

  Endyn bowed in thanks, and the Fehlan man responded in kind. Duvain waited for Awr to translate, but the corporal had his face buried in his mug.

  "What did he say?" Endyn asked.

  Duvain hesitated. "It sounded like he was saying 'thank you'. I think there was something about one of the houses in there, but I'm not sure."

  "Oh." A grin broadened Endyn's huge face. He rumbled out a word that sounded like the Fehlan equivalent of “thank you”. The villager laughed and gestured toward the hide containers that held the ayrag.

  Endyn stood and went over to fill his massive bowl.

  When his brother returned to his seat, Duvain cocked an eyebrow. "Since when have you been learning Fehlan?"

  Endyn shrugged. "Listening to you and Awr."

  "And why is he thanking you?" Duvain asked.

  Endyn's face turned a bright pink. "I…helped them fix one of the houses," he rumbled.

  Weasel snorted. "Held up the bloody roof single-handed, more like." He shook his head and gave a wicked grin. "Strong as an ox, your brother, even if he's almost as ugly."

  Endyn said nothing, but took a long pull from his drinking bowl. When he wiped the line of ayrag from his mouth, a ghost of a smile remained.

  A steady stream of Fehlans trickled into the square, until the open space was awash with laughing, talking, drinking men and women. Children darted among the adults, shouting and playing the sort of games youngsters enjoyed when the adults' backs were turned. Duvain counted close to two hundred people. Everyone in Saerheim had arrived for the festivities.

  Someone produced a bone whistle, and soon a high-pitched tune drifted through the open square, adding to the refrain of the baker on the terracotta pipe and the blacksmith on his hide-skin drum. When the tinkle of bronze hand bells entered the fray, the celebration began in earnest.

  The people of Saerheim certainly knew how to celebrate. Their dancing was like nothing Duvain had seen in Northpass. Men and women formed into two long lines facing each other. They followed the rhythm of the song with clapping hands, boots clacking against the stone of the square, keeping pace with their fellows. Back and forward they went, a combat of smiles, laughter, whirling skirts, and kicking feet.

  Duvain, Endyn, and the other Legionnaires stomped and clapped in time with the music, adding their shouts and cries to the happy mix. For a few minutes, Duvain forgot where he was, but let himself be drawn into the marvelous new ceremony. He'd never experienced anything like it. These people led such simple lives, yet they celebrated that simplicity with such abandon. He was grinning like a fool and loving every minute of it.

  Finally the music died down, and the breathless, laughing villagers surged toward the food and drink. The ayrag flowed freely, accompanied by mouth-watering food: roasted pork and goat, smoked fish, cooked grains, and the last autumn fruits and vegetables. The Fehlan language filled the square as two hundred people carried on a multitude of conversations.

  No one invited the Legionnaires to join in. The villagers of Saerheim treated them with courtesy and served them along with the rest, but the language barrier caused a rift that could not be bridged. Awr, the only one who spoke the Fehlan tongue, refused to be drawn into any conversations. He remained hunched over his tankard, only moving to refill it when it was empty.

  Duvain couldn't help watching the young women of Saerheim, with their long, flaxen tresses, pink cheeks, and strong features. Many of them rivaled even his height, a fact he found fascinating. He didn't try to strike up a conversation—he was too shy to talk to them, even in his own language—but found nothing wrong with simply observing them. They seemed aware of his eyes on them, and a few even looked his way with inviting smiles.

  A tug on his sleeve snapped him around. Before him stood the young boy he'd seen hiding in Eira's skirts days before. He wore the colorful festive clothing like all the other children of Saerheim, and someone had clearly taken pains to scrub his face and hands, though his white-blond hair stuck out at wild angles.

  With a broad smile, the boy rattled off a string of Fehlan words and held out a piece of bread. Duvain didn't need to understand the language to understand the gesture. When Duvain took the bread, the boy darted away. Duvain shouted a "thank you" after the fleeing child, who took refuge in the safety of his mother's skirts. His big blue eyes followed Duvain's movements as he broke the bread and stuffed a piece in his mouth. He exaggerated his enjoyment of the food, which elicited another shy smile.

  One of the older men brought over a platter of food for them. Weasel and Rold dug in without a word, but Endyn and Duvain both used their limited Fehlan to offer their gratitude. The man smiled and gave them a polite nod before returning to the others. Owen sat in silence next to Awr, an odd expression—a mixture of longing and sorrow—on his face.

  When Weasel noticed Owen's expression, he rolled his eyes. "Keeper's beard, Owen! Not this again."

  Owen looked over to him and gave a sad shake of his head. "Can't help it. Issala would have loved this. The dancing, th
e singing, the celebration of life."

  "Of course she would!" Weasel shook his head. "Awr here's the only one who hates a party."

  Awr scowled but didn't rise to the bait.

  "Look," Weasel said, "you're just goin’ to make things worse if you keep thinkin’ about it. You've still got two years left before you see her. Might as well make the most of the life you've got." A sly grin broadened his face, and his eyes went to the pretty brunette he'd been eyeing all night. "And let me tell you, life here ain't all that bad."

  "Keep it in your pants, Weasel," Rold snapped. "Captain's orders."

  Weasel's head snapped around, and his eyebrows rose. "You serious?"

  Rold nodded. "Like a sword to the gut. Lord Virinus has already pissed off the natives enough for one lifetime—the man's no bloody diplomat, he's made that much clear, just a man rich enough to throw his influence and gold around to feel powerful. His treatment of the healer hasn't won him any allies. The last thing we need is someone getting in the family way and complaining to the captain."

  A nasty smile spread Weasel's face. "Oh, there're plenty of means around that particular outcome."

  Rold gripped Weasel's collar and yanked his face close. "Lay one finger on those girls, and Sarge has given me the thumbs up to slice your little prick off. Got it?"

  Weasel scowled, but muttered, "Got it."

  Rold looked at Duvain, Endyn, and Owen in turn. "Captain's made it crystal clear: enjoy the celebration, but keep your hands to yourselves. The Fehlans get mighty prickly when it comes to their daughters."

  "Daughters are worth a fortune," Awr explained. "Fehlan fathers try to marry them off to the right men with a big enough dowry, set themselves up for life."

  Duvain was disappointed, but he nodded. "Understood." Endyn nodded his comprehension as well.

  "Good." Rold raised his tankard. "Then drink up and enjoy the party. Our watch doesn't roll around until dawn."

  A drum beat sounded, and all eyes turned toward the cleared space in the center of the square. The blacksmith pounded on his hide drums, the rhythm changing from festive to somber. The villagers quickly rushed to take their seats around the stage.