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

by Andy Peloquin

  "Private Cerlin!" Sergeant Brash's voice cracked like a whip. "That's enough."

  Weasel's jaw worked. He turned to Captain Lingram. "All due respect, Captain, but this one's just goin’ to get us all killed! He'll do as an arrow magnet, but not a whole Keeper-damned lot more."

  "Silence, Private." Captain Lingram dismounted and strode through the parting ranks of Legionnaires toward them. "Are you trying to tell me you were a lot more competent on your first day in drills?"

  Weasel reddened. "Sure, but not as bad as—"

  "The Legion of Heroes is more than just an army, Private. It's a group of individuals fighting a common enemy, striving to achieve the same goal. Do you know what that goal is, Private?"

  "To survive, Captain." Weasel swallowed. "And with him at my back, I don't see much chance of that happenin’."

  Captain Lingram's face hardened. "Private, in my years of service, I've learned that you should never discount the man at your back. They may be the only thing standing between you and certain death when the time comes."

  Weasel, finally, kept his mouth shut.

  The captain met the little man's gaze. "You say he's rubbish at holding the line? Perhaps it's because no one took the time to think about how hard it is for him to hold a line organized for men half his size." He turned to Endyn. "With a bit more room, you think you can manage?"

  Endyn hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, Captain."

  "Good," Captain Lingram said. His eyes came to Duvain. "You're the shield guarding his weapon arm, but give him a bit of room to swing." He moved Duvain a single step to the right. "Keep your shield close, but not so close he can't move."

  He strode around Endyn and moved the Legionnaire on the far side a single step away. "In proper formation, this space would be filled by two men." He winked at Endyn. "Seems like you're big enough for two of us, eh?"

  Endyn grinned. "Yes, Captain," he rumbled.

  With a nod, Captain Lingram strode back to his horse and swung up into the saddle. "Again, Sergeant Brash."

  "Company, move!"

  * * *

  "Well I'll be damned." Weasel dumped the ladle of water over his face. "Turns out the two of you ain’t as useless as you seem."

  Owen frowned. "I remember you being a pretty pathetic Legionnaire your first day, Weasel. Hell, even now, you're about as useful as a sack of smashed eggs."

  Weasel scowled, bringing a laugh to Owen's face.

  "Chuckle it up, fools," Rold snapped. The corporal stood a short distance away. His perpetual scowl had returned. "When they're the ones who get you killed in the battle line, you won't be cracking jokes."

  "Give them time, Rold," Owen protested. "They've been here one day. If their drill sergeants were anything like mine, they were more concerned about breaking their spirits than actually getting them ready for war." He dropped his voice to a mutter. "Almost reminds me of you."

  "I heard that, you poxy runt." Rold's scowl deepened, and Owen took an instinctive step back. "And if the captain wasn't sitting over there, I'd stick my foot up your ass and wear you around the camp like the world's ugliest, dumbest sandal."

  Owen's face tightened. He turned back to Duvain and Endyn. "Look, you two aren't all that great in a fight just yet, but you've got time. We're the Deadheads—we're not going to battle any time soon."

  The high, ringing sound of a horn reverberated through the camp. All of them glanced toward the entrance to the training ground. A rider galloped across the barren field, horse kicking up clods of dirt churned to mud by their boots. He reined in before Captain Lingram. Though Duvain couldn't hear the brief exchange, he caught a glimpse of white as the messenger took a scroll from his pouch and handed it to the captain. With a salute, he rode off.

  "That can't be good," Rold muttered.

  Duvain followed Rold, Owen, and Weasel toward the captain. Awr stood beside Captain Lingram, engaged in a quiet conversation.

  "I don't like it," Corporal Awr was saying.

  "We've our orders, Corporal." Captain Lingram's voice held an odd tightness, and a new tension lined his face. "Ours not to question."

  "Aye, Captain." Awr snapped a salute.

  The captain raised his voice to address them all. "Ninth Company, we have been given marching orders."

  A worm of anxiety squirmed in Duvain's gut. He'd expected their company, the Deadheads, the dregs of the Legion of Heroes, would remain in camp. But the captain's face told a different story.

  Captain Lingram held up the parchment. "Onyx Battalion is to reinforce our troops at Dagger Garrison, and that includes us."

  Duvain's gut clenched. They were going so close to the front line? He wanted to vomit.

  Captain Lingram held up a finger. "We move out within the hour. Check your gear, break down your tents, and prepare to march. We have been summoned, men, and we will answer the call to arms." With a salute, he mounted his horse and trotted off the field.

  For a moment, none of the men of Ninth Company moved. They exchanged glances, as if struggling to believe their ears.

  "You heard the captain!" Sergeant Brash's words, eerily quiet and calm, broke the silence. "One hour, lads. Be ready." He didn't need to shout; the assurance in his voice had enough effect. The knots of men rushed toward their tents to break camp.

  "Get a move on, meat!" Rold shoved Duvain toward the encampment. "We've our marching orders. Any thought of desertion, and I'll string you up by your innards, got it?" The look in Rold's eyes made it clear: the corporal would enjoy carrying out his threat.

  Duvain nodded. "You've nothing to fear from us. We're Legionnaires, just like you." He only wished his voice didn't quaver so much, or that he felt a fraction as confident as he tried to sound.

  * * *

  Duvain's pack weighed twice as much as it ought to. He couldn't get the straps to sit on his shoulders right, and it felt as if it would drag him backward. During basic training, he'd gone on enough ruck marches to know not to expect a featherweight load, but this was too much. How could they possibly expect him to haul such a heavy pack and march all day long?

  Endyn actually groaned as he struggled to slip his arms through the straps of his oversized pack. The dragonskin made his movements stiff and clumsy, and the heavy ruck would rub the scales raw.

  "Is it bad?" Duvain asked.

  Endyn hesitated, his jaw tight, and gave a half-hearted shrug.

  Duvain fumbled at his pack's drawstring. "We've got time to apply a bit of the salve before—"

  "Move it, you hedge-born yokels!" Rold's voice appeared in the tent a moment before his bearded face. "The other companies are already in line, and you two are dawdling like a pair of moonstruck milkmaids."

  Endyn met Duvain's gaze. Though his brother's face was stony, pain filled the big man's eyes. "Let's go," he rumbled. There was no helping it. Endyn would have to tough it out until they had a chance to rest.

  Groaning beneath the burden of their packs, they hurried after Rold. All around them, the soldiers of Onyx Battalion hastened to tear down their tents, stow their equipment, and don armor. The men moved with the speed of practiced experience. Less than an hour had passed since the captain gave orders to move, and already a long line of Legionnaires streamed toward the companies waiting on the road, following him through the camp.

  The Legion of Heroes was on the move.

  Ninth Company held position at the rear of a league-long column of men, horses, and wagons. The Deadheads, the men of the company's Third Platoon, stood at the back.

  Rold shoved Duvain into place behind Owen. "You and the arrow-magnet," he nodded to Endyn, "go here, where I can keep an eye on you." He lowered his voice. "Keep the pace, keep your mouth shut, and we'll get through the day fine."

  Duvain cast a glance at the sky. The sun had reached its peak—they had at least five hours of marching before calling a halt to rest. Days this far south in Fehl were longer than on the mainland, and the nights shorter.

  "How far is Dagger Garrison?" he asked O
wen.

  "Not sure," the Legionnaire answered without turning his head. "Six, maybe seven hundred miles. Cavalry'd get there faster, but us dust-eaters got no choice but to hoof it."

  "Pleasant enough day for a walk, though," Weasel said, humor in his voice. "I figure this little jaunt is as good a hump as you're goin’ to get until you make it home to that pretty imaginary girl of yours, Owen."

  Duvain didn't catch Owen's retort, but his middle finger salute conveyed the message.

  Sergeant Brash marched down the line, inspecting the men and their gear. He tightened the strap on Owen's pack and snapped an order for Weasel to tighten the laces on his boots. When he reached Endyn, he gave him a cold-eyed stare. "You slow us down, we'll cut you loose. Got it?"

  Endyn nodded. "Yes, Sergeant," he rumbled.

  The sergeant's gaze shifted to Duvain. "Goes for you, too. You're a Legionnaire now, so act like it. Long day's march ahead of us, but if you get tired, I'm sure the corporal here will be happy to give you a cup of suck it the fuck up."

  Duvain snapped a salute. "Yes, Sergeant!" He caught himself before saying “sir” again.

  Sergeant Brash's face didn't change. He moved on without a word.

  Rold snorted. "Whatever you do, do not piss the sergeant off. Especially after last night."

  "You mean the fight you started?" Duvain asked.

  He felt Rold's glare burn into the back of his neck. "You've Weasel to thank for that. I just stood up for our company."

  Weasel snorted. "Bull-shite! You're just an ornery bastard who likes to fight."

  "You'll be glad for that when I save your hide on the battlefield," Rold retorted. "Maybe next time, I'll leave you to be pummeled so you'll remember it."

  Weasel's reply was cut off by Sergeant Brash's booming shout. "Company, march!"

  * * *

  Two hours into the march, and Duvain couldn’t wait for the day to be over. His lungs burned and his legs ached despite the slow, steady pace across the flatlands south of Icespire. The straps of his pack dug into his shoulders. He wanted nothing more than to cast off his pack and run free of its burden. Only Rold's presence at his back—and the nervous fear of what the corporal would do if he slowed down their company—kept him moving.

  According to Owen, they'd be expected to cover at least twenty miles to reach their campsite before nightfall. At this rate, Duvain felt as if his feet would be worn to the nub by the time they stopped. He couldn’t begin to imagine how painful everything would feel after weeks of daily marches to reach Saerheim.

  He cast occasional glances up at Endyn. Sweat streamed down his brother's huge forehead, and his breath came in labored gasps. Beneath the mask of dirt and road dust, his face was pale with the exertion. He looked one gasp away from collapse.

  Fear increased Duvain's burden of weariness. They had left the safety of the Icespire encampment and marched toward the front lines. He'd always known he would fight—he'd signed up for the Legion of Heroes for that very purpose—but now it was all too real. A middling soldier at best, he could march in a straight line most of the time and swing a sword as well as any untrained village boy, but he wasn't cut out for battle. Rear guard or not, they'd been posted too close to the fighting for his comfort.

  And that terrified him more than he cared to admit. He wasn't strong like Endyn, fast like Weasel, or a brawler like Rold. He was just a farmer's son armed with standard issue weapons and filled with a nerve-wracking anticipation.

  Weasel had spent the entire march south cracking wise, but Owen hadn't spoken a word. He marched with hunched shoulders, back abnormally stiff. Perhaps he, too, felt the fear that dragged on Duvain.

  Gritting his teeth against the fire in his legs, spine, and shoulders, he forced himself to match Endyn's pace. He had to stay with his brother, if nothing else. He'd promised as much to his mother before the Bloody Flux claimed her. Endyn needed him as much as he needed Endyn. He gripped his brother's forearm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Endyn smiled through his pain.

  Relief filled him as the sun dipped toward the flat western horizon, and the order to make camp came down the line. He fought the urge to drop his pack and sag to the ground. Instead, he forced himself to keep marching until they reached their designated campsite amid a stand of cedar trees. The moment Sergeant Brash turned away to attend the other platoons under his command, he shrugged out of his pack and sank to the ground with a relieved groan. Endyn did likewise. His face had grown steadily paler throughout the day. He closed his eyes and took deep, ragged breaths.

  Weasel looked down at them, a mischievous grin on his face. "Survived the first day, eh?" He snorted.

  Behind him, a smile tugged at Owen's lips. "Packs feeling heavy?"

  Even Rold's scowl cracked. Grim mirth twinkled in his dark eyes.

  Duvain looked between the three men, then at Endyn. He was the butt of some joke, but what?

  "Made sure you got all your gear, did you?" Weasel failed to stifle a little laugh. "Got enough to keep you goin’ until Dagger Garrison?"

  At this, he and Owen burst out laughing, and Rold chuckled.

  Duvain's confusion didn't abate. He exchanged a puzzled glance with Endyn. "I…I don't get it."

  "Your packs, lads." Corporal Awr's voice drifted over from the patch of grass where he'd taken a seat. "Empty 'em."

  Duvain frowned. He'd taken great pains packing his ruck that morning. "Why?"

  "Do it," Rold snapped. "That's an order."

  After a moment of hesitation, Duvain complied. He spilled the contents of his pack across the ground.

  "You, too." Rold said to Endyn, who followed suit.

  "Funny thing about fresh meat like you is that they never know what all to pack." Weasel crouched over their piles of stuff. "Yep, as I expected!" He held up the cloth-wrapped bundles Duvain had requested from the camp cook. "They came prepared to feast like kings."

  Duvain's forehead wrinkled. "What's wrong with packing a few extra rations?"

  "In the grand scheme of things, not a lot." Owen shook his head. "But when you're marching, you want to stick to the bare essentials. Emphasis on bare!"

  Weasel pawed through Duvain's belongings. "All that armor you're carryin’—helmet, mail shirt, breastplate, gambeson, boots, greaves, bracers, and so on—is goin’ to weigh you down. Throw in your shield, short sword, and spear, and the weight adds up." He built a small pile of items off to one side. "There are the things you can't live without: flint for startin’ a fire, all-purpose knife, waterskin, and day's rations. A few extras like your wooden bowl and spoon, and you've got enough to weigh you down."

  He reached for the three glass jars. "But when you start throwin’ in extras, that's when you suffer. The pack gets heavier and heavier with every step, until you end up…well…like this." Weasel's gesture encompassed him and Endyn, sprawled on the ground. "Many an idiot recruit has marched himself into an early grave by packin’ too heavy. Though, to be fair, you all handled it a lot better than expected."

  Duvain scowled. "And you didn't think to tell us before the march?"

  Rold shook his head. "No better lesson than experience. You'll make this mistake exactly once." He reached for one of the glass jars. "Stuff like this, this'll slow you—"

  Duvain swiped the jar and snatched the other two from Weasel's hands. "There's no way I'm getting rid of these." He stuffed them back into the pack.

  "Is that so?" Rold sat up, a cold, spiteful look in his eyes. "And if I ordered you to leave them?"

  "I'd take it up with the sergeant, or captain if I had to." Duvain met Rold's gaze without flinching. He'd go to Commander Galerius himself if necessary. The salve in those jars was the only thing keeping Endyn's dragonskin at bay.

  Rold snorted and gave a dismissive wave. "Suit yourself. You're the one who'll have to lug it all the way to Dagger Garrison on your back."

  A supply wagon rumbled past, depositing one of the collapsible hide tents the Legion used for their marching armies. Owen and
Weasel stood and set about erecting the shelter.

  Rold sneered at them. "Your highnesses, if you'd be so kind as to help?" His face hardened. "Move."

  With a groan, Duvain forced himself to his feet. Every muscle from his neck to the soles of his feet ached. His standard-issue boots had rubbed three new blisters into his right foot, with a painful four to match on his left. Each step proved more arduous than the last, but the corporal seemed disinclined to be merciful.

  Rold dragged Endyn off to collect firewood from the nearby forest. Duvain had no time to worry for his brother, for Corporal Awr ordered him to lug his fellow Deadheads' packs into the tent. When Rold returned, he set Duvain and Endyn to build the fire, telling them they needed to practice using their flints. Duvain welcomed this last task. He'd had plenty of practice over the freezing winters spent huddling around a tiny fire in the barn. His father had failed to build adequate weatherproofing for their sparse room.

  Dinner was a quick production, thanks to the rations he'd hauled from camp. It grated on Duvain to see the others devouring the food he'd packed for himself and Endyn, but kept his complaints to himself. No sense antagonizing the other Deadheads.

  "As a reward for a hearty meal," Weasel declared, patting his belly, "let me show you somethin’ they don't teach in basic." He produced his wooden spoon and held it up. The handle had been sharpened to a narrow point. "A bit of work, and you've got yourself a skewer to eat with. Handy for those rare occasions when fresh meat's on the menu."

  Duvain and Endyn set about sharpening their spoon handles, listening as Owen and Weasel chatted about their journey to Dagger Garrison. They'd be expected to cover at least twenty-five miles per day, but the General could push them up to thirty if the situation on the western front took a turn for the nasty. The thought of covering six hundred miles—fifty times the distance between Northfield and Voramis—filled Duvain with dread.

  Owen spent a full half-hour teaching them how to repair their boots. The horsehide exteriors could take a beating, but the woolen interiors would wear out quickly if they got wet. Five layers of laminated leather provided a sturdy sole as well as a bit of cushioning for the feet. Compared to the shoes they'd worn running around Northfield, the boots were a luxury.