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

by Andy Peloquin

  "Here we are, lads!" Weasel gestured toward the tavern. "Best ale in camp."

  "Only ale in camp," Owen whispered. "At least legally."

  One of the Legionnaires, a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and a jawline that could cut diamonds, stepped forward and thrust out a hand to bar their progress. "Not a bloody chance, Deadheads. Not when you smell as bad as you look."

  Another man, slimmer, with angular features, narrow shoulders, and bright scarlet hair, snickered behind him. "There's a pig trough around the back of the tavern. I might be able to convince the tavernkeeper to pour some ale in there for you."

  Weasel shot the red-haired man a rude gesture. "Get bent, Rynale!" He squared up with the other Legionnaire, uncaring that the man towered over him. He gave a little sniff and a theatrical groan. "You don't smell much better yourself, Addyn."

  "Ooh, good insult." Addyn laughed. "You'll have to get a bit more creative if you want to get past me." His eyebrows rose as his eyes fell on Endyn. "Bloody hells, Weasel! You found yourself an ogre roaming the mountains, did you?”

  Endyn's face hardened.

  "No," Duvain stepped forward. "In your mother's bed. Said he was the best lover she'd had since your uncle-father."

  Addyn's face darkened. "Little puppy's got some bark on him, does he?" He moved around Weasel to stare down at Duvain. "What's your name, meat?"

  "Your father," Duvain snapped. Behind him, Endyn chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that resembled a half-growl.

  Addyn's fists clenched, but Endyn stepped forward to loom behind Duvain. Addyn studied Endyn, as if sizing him up.

  "If you don't mind," Owen said, interposing himself between Duvain and Addyn, "we'll just get our ale and be on our way."

  "Not smelling like that, you won't," Rynale sneered.

  Owen shot the man a sweet smile. "You put in a hard day's work sometime, Rynale, and maybe you'll find out what it means to be a real man."

  A third Legionnaire, this one not quite as tall or wide as Addyn, snorted. "Seems like you real men are busy mucking around in shite, while us little nobodies get to do all the fighting." He shook his head, tsking. "It's an unfair world we live in. I know I'd love nothing more than latrine duty."

  "You'll get your chance," Weasel retorted. "Now step aside before I set my ogre here to rearrange your spinal column. I'd say havin’ your head shoved up your ass could improve your looks significantly."

  Endyn loomed over Addyn. Despite his height, the Legionnaire barely reached Endyn's chest. Endyn flexed one huge fist, the size of Addyn's head.

  "Bah!" Addyn stepped aside, pinching his nose. "I doubt the place could get any worse than it already has. Third Platoon is in there, and you know what that means."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Aye, the dog-buggers are wavin’ their pricks around like they know their business."

  Addyn snorted. "All they know to do is stick their fingers in their bungholes. I'll bet even Owen here could figure that out."

  Owen colored and bristled, but Addyn gave a dismissive wave. "Enjoy your ale, Deadheads. And keep the big one on a leash. He gets too much liquor in him, he's likely to collapse and crush half a dozen men." With a one-fingered salute, he turned back to his drink and his squad.

  Weasel hustled them toward the door, where a crowd of men stood between them and their drinks. The little rat-faced Legionnaire slipped through the press of people with the expertise of a thief in a crowd. Heads turned toward them as Endyn ducked beneath the lintel. When he stood, his head nearly scraped the wooden ceiling beams. Men gave way for him, and all eyes followed his progress toward the bar.

  Duvain read tension in Endyn's shoulders, his stiff spine. His brother had no desire to be the center of attention—he'd drawn stares since his fifth birthday. Endyn wanted to be normal, not the freak of nature people had believed him to be for so long.

  Corporal Rold sat at the bar, a tankard of ale clutched in his hands. Despite the crush of Legionnaires, there was an empty chair on either side of the corporal. Perhaps the dagger driven into the wooden bar top had something to do with that. The tavernkeeper shot nervous glances at the blade every time he hustled past, but said nothing.

  The storm brewing in Rold's eyes swelled to a full blown gale as he saw them approach. "Piss off, the lot of you. Only real men drink here."

  "Real man, reportin’ for duty!" Weasel snapped off a mocking salute. "Tavernkeeper, four of your finest ales. On me." With a wink, he hefted a purse.

  "You didn't!" Owen groaned.

  Weasel shrugged. "He was the one stupid enough to get within liftin’ distance of me. Second Platoon ought to know better by now. If Addyn's pockets end up bein’ a few imperials lighter, it will teach him to be more cautious of his belongin’s."

  Four tankards of ale arrived a few moments later, filled to the brim, with a thick layer of froth. Duvain hesitated a moment before taking a sip. The potent taste—a mixture of malted barley, yeast, juniper berries, and herbs he'd never tasted before—set him coughing. Weasel and Owen laughed, and even Endyn smiled.

  Duvain scowled, which only made the two Legionnaires laugh harder. He'd never been much for ale—he'd prefer a good Voramian wine or Nyslian brandy, on the rare occasions he'd managed to scrape together enough coin to buy it. He knew better than to order such "woman's shite" at a Legionnaire's bar. He'd gotten his bollocks kicked in the last time he'd made the mistake.

  Gritting his teeth against the syrupy brew, he forced himself to swallow. Thankfully, Endyn emptied his tankard in a few quick gulps, and Duvain could pour the rest of his into his brother's mug while Owen and Weasel drank deep from theirs. Drinking was one of the few ways to bond with one's fellow comrades—rejecting a drink was paramount to spitting in a fellow Legionnaire's face.

  "You bastard!" A furious roar cut through the commotion in the tavern. The raucous conversations died, and all eyes turned toward the door.

  "Crap," Weasel muttered, and drained the last of his tankard.

  Duvain turned to see Addyn stalking toward them, his face flushed in anger, fists clenched. "You weasel-faced bastard!" The Legionnaire stabbed a finger at Weasel. "You bloody stole my purse."

  "I did no such thing!" Weasel proved a superb actor. He managed to look both offended and outraged, with a hint of dignified mixed in. "If anythin’, I saved your purse! I saw it lyin’ on the ground, and I thought to myself, 'I can't let my good friend Addyn's coin be stolen by a lowlife.' So I picked it up and brought it here for safekeepin’." He dropped the purse into Addyn's hand. "And now it's safe."

  Addyn opened it, his scowl deepening. "There's coins missing."

  "Damned thieves!" Weasel muttered, angry. "I'll be sure to speak to my sergeant in the mornin’, and we'll get to the bottom of this first thing in the—"

  Addyn's fist was a blur in the lamplight. It connected with Weasel's jaw, a meaty thump that echoed through the room. The impact rocked Weasel's head back, where it bounced off the wooden bar. The little man sagged and didn't get up.

  Addyn leaned over the unconscious man. "That'll teach you, you thieving bastard!"

  Rold went from hunched over his mug to on the attack in an instant. His knee came up into Addyn's face, snapping the Legionnaire's head up. He drove his fist into Addyn's gut and swung his elbow around into the side of his head. Addyn followed Weasel to the floor.

  "He's our thieving bastard!" Rold snarled down at the fallen Legionnaire.

  Addyn lay on the filthy bar floor, his eyes glassy and unfocused. After a moment of stunned silence, Rynale and the other man shouted and charged, fists swinging.

  For the first time, the perpetual frown on Rold's face disappeared, replaced by a hint of a smile. The sort of smile a cat gives to a mouse trapped between its paws. Duvain had known many boys and men like Rold—he and Endyn had been their targets all their lives. The corporal wanted the fight. It gave him an excuse to hurt others.

  Roaring in laughter, Rold squared off and met the two charging men. He turned aside
Rynale's punch and drew back his fist to answer with his own, but the other man went low, arms encircling his waist. Rold was slammed backward into the wooden bar counter with bone-jarring force. The two Legionnaires went down to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs and cracking wooden stools.

  Rynale drew back to kick at the prone Rold, but Owen's boot caught him in the fork of the legs. The red-haired Legionnaire went down hard. Another man wearing the same company insignia charged, catching Owen in a grapple. Before Owen could break free of his attacker, a third and fourth Legionnaire rushed to join the fight.

  Duvain knew he had to act. He'd never been much of a fighter, but he'd learned the basics of unarmed combat—hammered into him by the ruthless drill sergeant at basic training. He'd pounded at the straw dummies until his lungs burned and his fists bled. He stepped in the path of the oncoming Legionnaires and lashed out with a right cross at one man's jaw.

  The problem with fighting men instead of dummies—one he'd failed to anticipate—was that real men fought back. His blow barely fazed the man, who answered with a punch of his own. Duvain ducked beneath the powerful swing, only to be caught in the chest by the second strike. Without his armor—they'd left it in the barracks before heading off to the bar—he had nothing but a thin tunic to take the punishment. The impact drove the wind from his lungs and he fell back against the bar, wheezing.

  With a savage grin, the Legionnaire drew back his fist to finish Duvain. A massive shadow loomed over the man, and Endyn's hand engulfed his forearm. Barely grunting with the effort, Endyn lifted the man from his feet and hurled him across the bar, where he crashed to the ground and rolled into a table. The sound of shattering crockery and clattering metal tankards was followed a moment later by a furious roar of rage.

  A new figure stalked toward them. Stocky, bearded, with a scarred face and a voice harder than granite, the man wore a sergeant's colors. An inferno raged in his eyes. "You spilled my drink, you poxy wankers!" He strode toward Endyn and stared up at him. "Are you the one responsible?"

  Endyn didn't have time to react before the sergeant attacked. He drove a fist into Endyn's gut, doubling him over. Duvain winced as the following uppercut caught his brother under the chin.

  Endyn staggered and caught himself against the bar, blinking hard. Shaking his head, he regained his feet and kicked out. His huge boot caught the sergeant in the gut. The force of the blow lifted him from his feet and hurled him backward. His falling body bowled over three more men rushing to join the fight.

  "Enough!" The single word, loud and harsh, cut through the din. All eyes turned toward the door.

  The man Duvain had seen earlier stood there. His eyes held no anger—they held nothing at all. They were ice cold, lifeless, like a walking corpse. The crowd of Legionnaires gave way before him as he strode toward them.

  "Sergeant Brash, sir!" Owen managed to choke past the arm encircling his throat. The man holding him immediately released his grip and stepped out of the way. Owen snapped off a salute, wincing as he swallowed.

  Rold staggered upright, one opponent unconscious at his feet and facing off against two more. At Owen's words, he whirled toward the sergeant and mirrored the salute—an action made difficult by the way he hunched over his left side.

  Duvain helped Endyn to stand. His brother wobbled but stayed upright.

  The sergeant who'd attacked Endyn strode toward them. "Sergeant Brash, get your dogs under control!" He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. "If you don't, I will."

  Brash regarded the man. "Sergeant Chaol." He said nothing else, simply met the man's glare. The two sergeants squared off, their eyes locked on each other. An unspoken war of wills passed between the two of them.

  After a moment, both nodded. "Deadheads," Sergeant Brash called out, not taking his eyes from Sergeant Chaol. "To your barracks, double time."

  "Yes, Sergeant!" Owen struggled to lift Weasel's unconscious form.

  Duvain slipped Weasel's arm over his shoulder and, together, they dragged the limp man from the tavern.

  Duvain cast a worried glance up at Endyn. Blood trickled from Endyn's massive mouth, and a bruise was already forming underneath his jaw. That would hurt like hell in the morning.

  "Damn, Endyn!" Owen whistled softly as they hustled up the muddy alley toward their tent. "You just knocked Sergeant Chaol on his ass. Not many in camp can say the same. You're a good piece of gear." He nodded to Duvain. "The both of you."

  Endyn said nothing, but a ghost of a smile appeared. Duvain grinned and adjusted his grip on Weasel's arm. "Will he be all right?" The unconscious man had begun to come to, though he did little more than mutter incoherently.

  Owen nodded. "Weasel's taken more than his fair share of knocks. He'll hurt bad in the morning, but serves him right for messing with Addyn and the rest of Chaol's crew."

  Duvain chuckled, but it made his chest hurt. The effort of hauling Weasel set him wheezing. He'd do his own share of hurting the following day.

  They reached their tent and deposited the still mumbling Weasel into his bed. The grizzled corporal, Awr, filled the night with his heavy breathing, another empty wineskin hanging limp from his hand. With a wink, Rold muttered about "seeing a woman about a stiff flagpole" and disappeared. Owen excused himself to find some water and wash up before getting to bed.

  The prospect of a bath sounded glorious, but the long morning of marching, the afternoon of digging, and the night's skirmish had left him exhausted. Endyn's fatigue mirrored his own.

  "How bad is it?" Duvain asked.

  Endyn shook his head. "Little bit," he said in his thick, heavy voice.

  "Strip down. Let me take a look."

  After a moment of hesitation, Endyn removed his tunic.

  Duvain winced. Thick, grey scales covered Endyn's broad back, with red, inflamed cracks throughout. Dragonskin, a condition for which the Ministrants at the Sanctuary in Voramis had found no cure. The scales had thickened, grown harder to the touch. They made an eerie clicking as Endyn's movements rubbed them together.

  Duvain strode around Endyn, examining the scales. They'd first appeared on his back, but soon spread along his sides, up his chest, and down across his stomach. Judging by the stiffness of Endyn's posture, the scales had reached his legs.

  "Damn it, Endyn, this is bad!"

  His brother shrugged huge shoulders, but sorrow filled his eyes.

  Duvain dug under his pillow and produced the jar of unguent. "I'll put some on now, but I have to apply it again in the morning if you don't want it to keep getting worse." The salve—a fragrant mixture of rose hips, milk thistle, ground oats, aloe leaf, mint leaves, chamomile, slippery elm, and evening primrose oil—soothed Endyn's skin and softened the scales. But nothing could slow the growth. Eventually, the scales would completely cover Endyn's body. Duvain didn't know how long his brother had left—it could be months or years—but the dragonskin would someday kill him.

  Not if Duvain had a say in it. He'd do everything in his power to keep that day at bay. With a heavy heart, he opened the jar of salve and began the arduous process of applying it to Endyn's huge back, sides, and chest. Endyn was the only family he had left; he couldn't lose him, too.

  Chapter Three

  "Keeper take you!" Weasel shouted up at Endyn, rubbing the back of his head. "First you keep me up last night with your abominable snorin’, then you stink up the barracks, now you can't stop swingin’ that spear around like you're showin’ off your prick for a line of whores. If we were in proper battle, you'd have killed me a dozen times over, and not a single bastard barbarian dead!"

  Endyn colored and hung his head. He hadn't slept well—the dragonskin made him uncomfortable no matter what position he slept in—and the ruck march had left him exhausted. Now, he struggled to master the unfamiliar hewing spear. The forearm-long blade was heavier than a typical spear, and though his muscles could handle it without difficulty, the odd balance threw him off.

  Duvain wanted to stand up for his brothe
r, but the look in Endyn's eyes told him to keep his mouth shut. His own performance in the battle line made Endyn's seem coordinated. He'd crunched the toes of the men behind him, stumbled into Corporal Awr on his right, and knocked Endyn's spear arm wide of a measured thrust. Once, he'd actually managed to drop both his spear and the long, rectangular shield issued to every Legionnaire. And he had been the one to nearly decapitate Weasel.

  "Again, Sergeant!" Captain Lingram shouted. The captain sat atop his horse a short distance away, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched his company perform maneuvers. People as far away as Voramis could see his displeasure.

  "Keep it forward, Endyn," Owen said from behind them. "Weapon toward the enemy at all times."

  "Hewin’ spear like that'll lop a head off," Weasel snarled. "Just make sure it ain't mine."

  Duvain adjusted his grip on his spear and raised his shield. The sergeant had positioned him and Endyn in the third row. The two front ranks held the enemy at bay with shields and short swords, while the third and fourth rows used long spears to strike at the enemy. They were the foremost offensive line, but all they'd accomplished was to butcher their formation in all the wrong ways.

  As Sergeant Brash called the maneuver again, Duvain desperately tried to move in step with the men behind, ahead, and beside him. He stumbled but caught himself before he toppled into Awr. The grizzled corporal shot him a venomous look, menacing despite his red-rimmed, bleary eyes. Awr winced with every barked command, every clank of their mail and breastplate. Duvain didn't envy him—he'd spent one agonizing hour training while hungover and determined never to do it again.

  With a shout, Weasel dropped his weapons and whirled on Endyn. "That's it! I've had enough of your damned fumblin’. "

  "Sorry," Endyn rumbled.

  "Sorry ain't going to cut it when I get a barbarian arrow in my face because you're too stupid and clumsy to keep the formation." Weasel's face darkened to a furious purple.