Ragged Heroes: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 5)

by Andy Peloquin

  "Shut it, both of you twats!" Corporal Awr growled in his rasping voice. He fixed Duvain with a hard stare. "Captain Lingram stood up to a nobleman who was abusing his power. He took it upon himself to intervene when no one else would. He saved a man's life, and it cost him his career."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "No way you can know that, Awr. You're just a corpor—"

  "I was there." The power in the man's quiet voice held more power than an ear-splitting shout. "He stood over the flogged man's body, sword in hand, facing down half the pissant lord's guards. Not a trace of fear in him, our Blacksword. He'd have fought and died, too, but the nobleman was too cowardly to cut him down. It wouldn't have gone over well, that sort of death."

  Duvain exchanged glances with Endyn. This half of the story hadn't reached the mainland—he doubted it ever would.

  "But that Keeper-accursed lordling has a father with just the wrong amount of influence on Fehl. One whisper in the wrong ears and Captain Lingram gets a shitty new demotion. That's how he ended up as head of our company, doing duties of a lieutenant." His face grew grim, dour. "No way he ever reaches commander now."

  "Why not?" Duvain glanced at Owen, Weasel, and Awr in turn. "You've called the company Deadheads twice now. What's that mean?"

  "Means we're the side of the Legion of Heroes you don't see in the parades, lad," Awr's voice was quiet, hard. "The kind they don't talk about when they're recruiting fresh-faced lads like you."

  Duvain's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

  "See that hideous necklace around Weasel's neck?" Awr motioned to the chain of ears. "He got most of those from the wrong barbies. Friendlies, the lot of them."

  "How was I supposed to know?" Weasel asked, throwing up his hands. "They all look the same."

  Awr scowled. "Owen here can't stand the sight of blood."

  Owen colored. "Awr!" he protested.

  Duvain raised an eyebrow.

  Owen's red deepened in embarrassment. "I…I didn't know before I joined."

  "Gets proper sick, he does." Weasel's grin broadened his face, making it even uglier. "Vomitin’, shakes, the works."

  Owen scowled. "At least—"

  "I don't know what you did to get yourselves sent here," Awr continued, cutting off Owen with a scowl, "but it means you're one of us. You're a dreg." With a sneer, he shouldered past Duvain and out of the tent.

  "Damn!" Weasel's eyebrows rose. "I ain't heard him speak that many words in months. Now you lot show up and he's talkin’ like a bleedin' orator."

  Owen rolled his eyes. "Anyways, that's the Deadheads for you."

  "Seems like we'll fit right in," Duvain said with a smile.

  "Meat!" Corporal Rold's harsh voice jarred Duvain to the bone. The corporal burst into the tent, glaring at them. "What in the bloody hell are you doing jack-jawing like a Blackfall doxy in a crowd of blind men? I said stow your gear and get your asses moving!"

  "Sir, yes sir!" Duvain straightened, Endyn following suit.

  "Ditch the sir sandwich, meat! It's Corporal, not 'sir yes sir'!"

  "Yes, s—" Duvain swallowed. "Yes, Corporal! Gear's stowed, sir. Ready for duty."

  "Good." Corporal Rold thrust a finger toward the open door. "You're off to do every soldier's favorite job. Owen, Weasel, seems like they need a couple of someones to show them the ropes."

  "But Corporal—"

  The bearded man loomed tall over the rat-faced soldier. "Not a word, Weasel, unless you'd rather do the job by yourself!"

  Weasel's mouth snapped shut.

  "Good," Rold snarled. "Now get the bloody hell out of here before I lose my patience."

  Duvain noticed how Owen and Weasel gave the corporal a wide berth, and he determined to do likewise. Rold's eyes tracked Endyn as the big man shuffled from the room. A sinking feeling rose in the pit of Duvain's stomach. Rold had found a target, and Endyn would suffer.

  * * *

  Duvain fell to his knees, retching, emptying his meager rations into the span of muddy trench they'd just dug.

  "Watcher's teeth! Not again!" Weasel grumbled. He leapt backward, out of range of Duvain's vomit. "Least you can do is point your spew the other way! These boots'll be hard enough to clean without your gettin’ sick inside them."

  Duvain wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet. His stomach was empty, but the foul smell of the latrine trenches twisted his stomach in knots. On his father's farm, he'd spent years mucking stables and hauling away horse and oxen droppings—this was far, far worse. The entire western half of the camp did their business in these latrine trenches. The meat-heavy diet of soldiers did little favors to reduce the stench of their meals on the way out.

  Not for the first time, Duvain cast an envious glance at Endyn. His brother stood a short distance away, halfway through digging his own trench. They still had far too much ground to break before cutting off for the night. Endyn's strong arms made him the perfect candidate for hauling massive clumps of dirt in the wheelbarrow. He got to escape the trenches every once in a while, while Duvain was stuck down here, where the smell was overpowering enough to…

  His stomach emptied again. Little more than watery acid came out.

  "Keeper's taint," Weasel muttered. "Much more of that, and you'll start bringin’ up blood."

  "Duvain." Endyn's voice was clumsy. His thick tongue and heavy jaw struggled to form words, and they came out mangled. He rarely spoke because of it. "Here." He set the wheelbarrow down and reached for Duvain's shovel.

  "No, Endyn." Duvain tried to tug the handle from his brother's massive hands—with less success than an infant tugging at a donkey's bridle. "I've got this."

  Endyn fixed him with a stern glare and shook his head. "Go."

  Duvain read the stubbornness in his brother's eyes. He'd never match Endyn's physical strength, but it was his brother's strength of will that was the true marvel. Endyn bore the burden of his dragonskin in near-silence, never complaining, rarely even admitting his pain or discomfort. Once his mind was made up, not even King Gavian himself could change Endyn's mind.

  Concern filled his brother's expression. Duvain reddened, but Endyn's eyes bore no trace of accusation. Endyn's huge size and slowness had been one of the primary reasons they'd been sent to the Deadheads, but it was really Duvain's fault. Duvain had never been strong as a boy, and the illness that claimed his parents had left him weak. He could carry a shield and swing a sword, but more than a few minutes of effort left him exhausted. His stomach was weak, his senses too delicate for such potent smells. The army's training had pounded strength and stamina into him, but his muscles hadn't grown like Endyn's. He'd nearly been kicked out of the Legion—only Endyn's insistence and the demand for shields and swords had convinced their drill sergeant to send them across the Frozen Sea to Icespire and the legions stationed here.

  Face burning, Duvain released his grip on the shovel handle and climbed out of the trenches. He gripped the wheelbarrow handles and pushed it toward the pile of dirt. He hated that his brother had to take care of him—Endyn had his own troubles to worry about. He'd thought joining the Legion would help him become strong. If anything, it had shown him how much he needed Endyn's help.

  A man stood watching nearby, silent, his face hard. He wore a sergeant's uniform, and though he wasn't particularly large, there was something looming about him. Captain Lingram had been a large presence of confidence and concern, but this man radiated menace enough for a giant twice his size.

  Duvain nodded as he passed, but had to fight back a shudder as he met the man's eyes. The eyes were cold—colder even than the Frozen Sea—with the dispassion of a reptile studying its prey.

  He hurried to empty the wheelbarrow onto the growing mound of dirt and rushed back to the trench. The last thing he wanted was to see the anger or censure in those blue eyes. Those eyes held no approval or acceptance—they saw only weakness to be culled. The way the sergeant's gaze followed him, Duvain had no doubt he was the weakness that would be dealt with.

&nbs
p; Chapter Two

  From the slump of Endyn's shoulders and the weariness on his face, Duvain knew his brother was close to collapse. After hours of digging, Endyn moved stiffly; the dragonskin had to be getting to him, irritated by sweat and chafing beneath his heavy armor. Exhaustion would make things worse.

  Duvain felt ready to collapse as well. They'd dug a latrine trench close to forty paces long, two paces deep, and six paces wide—military standard, according to Owen. He and Endyn had done enough digging on their father's farm to know their way around a shovel, but the work had left his back, arms, shoulders, and legs aching.

  Owen and Weasel, however, showed little sign of fatigue.

  "Quittin' time, lads!" With a cheery grin, Weasel thrust his shovel into the ground and spat into the trench. "Not bad for a first day of work. You embraced the suck as well as any recruit, I suppose."

  Weasel glanced at Duvain. "You know what that means, don'tcha?" He held out a hand to help Duvain out of the trench. "Nothin’ like a visit to The Old Wolf after a day like today. A drink'll sort you right out."

  Duvain couldn't believe the man. Sweat soaked his tunic and the padding beneath his armor, and foul-smelling mud covered his legs, arms, face, and boots. Right now, he had no desire to do anything but bathe. Or sleep. No, bathe first, then sleep.

  Owen shook his head. "I'd rather go someplace where beer is better than piss water. Besides, at The Old Wolf, you're more likely to get knifed or beaten than served a decent meal. Old Hartha hasn't cooked anything close to half-edible since his fifth decade. And he's pushing a hundred, easy."

  Weasel shrugged. "Better than the chow they serve at the mess room." He shuddered.

  "It's that bad?" Duvain asked.

  Weasel's expression grew grim. "About the same as what me dearly departed mum used to make back in the Beggar's Quarter. Except she didn't shit in my food, like they do here." He glared at Owen.

  "You took your chances when you pissed me off," Owen said with a satisfied grin. "Maybe you'll mind your mouth next time. Your lips are looser than a two-copper Praamian tart."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Well, all that's said and done, time for us to be gettin’ a drink." He turned to the brothers. "At least there's one good thing about this bleedin' cold: there's more'n enough ice to keep the drinks frosty."

  For the first time, Duvain noticed the chill that had descended with the setting sun. A whistling wind carried cold through the camp, setting him shivering. A distinct smell of ice hung on the air.

  "Gets bloody cold at night here." Owen said. "It's why we spend our time at The Old Wolf."

  Weasel grinned. "Fightin’ is always a good way to keep warm."

  Duvain shot Endyn a glance. His brother's face was tight; he needed to get out of the armor and apply some of that salve before the dragonskin got too bad.

  "Come on, lads!" Owen slapped Duvain's back. "First drink's on Weasel. Deadhead tradition."

  "Hey now!" Weasel protested. "That ain't fair—"

  "Run your mouth a bit faster next time, and you won't be stuck with the tab." Owen grinned.

  Grumbling, Weasel motioned for them to follow.

  Owen explained on the way. "First drink of the night's always on the last man to call it. Though, knowing Weasel, he'll end up taking a few coins from one of the other companies. Man hasn't paid for his own ale since the day I met him. It's why we always make sure he's stuck with the tab." He studied Duvain. "You get your first pay, yet?"

  Duvain shook his head. "They said we get it after our first week."

  "Bloody money-grubbin’ pricks," Weasel growled. "We didn't get paid until after the first month."

  Owen rolled his eyes. "You'd think with all the riches we're pulling out of these hills, the cake-eating powers that be would be a bit happier to fork over our rightful pay."

  Duvain's eyebrows rose. "Riches?"

  "Ah, right," Weasel sneered. "I forget you all back across the sea only hear the rosy side of things."

  Owen's face fell. "Weasel, that's not—"

  "Don't let this one"—Weasel jerked a thumb at Owen—"tell you this war had anythin’ to do with Prince and country. For some, like him, it may be good and well to serve for patriotism, but that ain't the reason most of us are here. Especially not the ones at the top."

  His rat-like face darkened. "There's gold in those hills. A bleedin' lot of it. Enough to fill every bathtub in Voramis, Praamis, and Malandria and then some. Silver, too, along with plenty of precious stones. All of which our gracious hosts of Icespire are itchin' to get their hands on."

  Duvain exchanged a glance with Endyn. His brother's face mirrored his own surprise. The tales of glory and honor fighting to protect Einan from the savage Eirdkilrs hadn't included any mention of riches.

  Weasel snorted. "Half the gold flowin’ around the south of Einan has come from these hills. It's what brought us Einari here in the first place, five hundred years ago."

  Duvain's brow furrowed. "I thought we came to punish the raiders that tried to invade Einan."

  Owen inclined his head. "Aye, there's a bit of that, as well. The Fehlan raiders pissed off the wrong people back when, so they sent an army first to wipe out their ships, then invade their land. But some lucky bastard found himself lost in a mountain filled with gold, and that's when muckety-mucks decided the land of Fehl needed a bit of civilization. They started a settlement here and kept shipping more and more men across the water. Eventually, the settlement grew into a city, which became what we know as the city of Icespire."

  Duvain cast a glance back. The glassy surface of Icespire itself caught the fading rays of sunlight, gleaming in myriad hues of orange, red, and purple.

  Owen continued. "The bigger the city grew, the more us Einari kept coming and taking more land from the Fehlans. That's when the gold really started flowing. And would have kept on flowing, had the Eirdkilrs not decided they'd had enough of us."

  Everyone in the south of Einan knew the grisly tales of the Eirdkilrs, a massive tribe of barbarians that lived in the deep, winter-laden south of Fehl. No one had ever seen where they came from, but they outnumbered the other barbarian tribes that lived north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Anyone brave or foolish enough to travel south beyond the mountain range never returned.

  "When they decided it was time for us to give them their land back, they started coming through the Sawtooth Mountains and pushing back the small colonies and settlements established. That's when the lords of Icespire called for help from the big cities on Einan."

  Malandria, Praamis, and Voramis were the main cities to send armies across the ocean, but many smaller cities had joined in the fight as well. Not for patriotism or colonization, it seemed.

  Weasel shook his head. "The Eirdkilrs wanted to charge the Icespire lords more for the gold than they was willin’ to pay. The noblemen decided it was easier to pay soldiers and mercenaries than the savages. Thus, we find ourselves on this glorious side of the world, along with all the other sods too dumb, ugly, or useless to find other employment."

  "You speak so kindly of yourself," Owen chuckled.

  Weasel shrugged. "I know what I am and what I ain't. I never had a problem with my role in things. Here, I get paid to do what I woulda done back home. Except I ain't fightin’ in a gang on the streets of Praamis. Though, given this bloody freeze, I'm almost tempted to go back to that life. Hunger ain't nothin’ compared to the Keeper-damned cold."

  Duvain glanced at Endyn. As expected, his brother had pulled his cloak tighter against the chill. Endyn's dragonskin was sensitive to the chill, which only made things worse. He couldn't get out of his clothes to relieve the terrible itching, but the more he bundled up, the more the sweat added to his discomfort. Endyn's jaw was clenched tight; his brother was suffering, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

  Not much the healers at the Sanctuary could do either. They'd tried all manner of salves, unguents, and potions to treat the strange rash they called dragonskin. One had even called
in a Secret Keeper, who'd poked and prodded at the flaking, crusted patches of skin in silence for an hour before shrugging and walking out. The Ministrants had given Endyn a salve that reduced the itching and soothed some of the irritation, but did little for the hardening. On the bad days, Endyn could hardly move for the thick scales covering his chest, shoulders, and arms.

  And that was just the rash. The healers hadn't found an explanation for Endyn's abnormal growth either. He'd been born the same size as any of the other Northfield kids—or so his mother had said—but by his tenth birthday, he'd been taller than both their parents. Endyn grew and kept on growing until his father had no choice but to build a special, oversized room in the barn. He and Duvain had lived there until the day they left home, with only each other and the animals for company.

  That had saved them when the Bloody Flux hit, or so the Bloody Minstrel priests had said. The Trouveres had droned on about evading most of the noxious vapors of death that swept through their house. Duvain had caught a bit of the Flux, the cause of his weakness, but the priests had insisted they were blessed to have survived when their mother, father, and so many others of Northfield succumbed.

  Even though Duvain recovered from the Flux, Endyn's sicknesses had never been explained. No one had found a cure or treatment. Though he tried not to show how much it bothered him, Duvain knew his brother well enough to recognize the signs. Endyn wanted to go and rest, but he wouldn't show his discomfort. They had already been relegated to the Deadheads, the dregs of the Legion of Heroes, because of Endyn's strange conditions and Duvain's weakness.

  The sea of tents ended, and beyond stood the only proper structure Duvain had seen outside Icespire. The Old Wolf was aptly named: the wooden building had faded and gone grey, fraying around the edges, with a tired look. Hard-drinking soldiers caused the sort of damage no tavernkeeper could ever fully repair. The roof wouldn't survive the heavy winter, not the way it sagged beneath the weight of its thatch.

  A tumult of shouts and laughter echoed within the tavern, but a handful of Legionnaires stood outside, drinking in the cool, night air rather than suffer the stale, stinking reek of sweating men, vomit, and yeasty ale.