Throughout the meal and into the evening, Duvain kept an eye on Endyn. His brother's hand had begun to twitch, his jaw muscles clenching and relaxing. Duvain was worried. The itching had to be driving Endyn mad. When he caught his brother's attention, he held out the jar. Endyn gave a frantic shake of his head.
Duvain understood. His brother was embarrassed by the dragonskin—and why shouldn't be he? It had brought him nothing but ridicule and scorn—but he would rather suffer the torment in silence than show weakness. Weakness had earned them beatings from their father and the other boys in the village.
After a moment, Endyn climbed to his feet and stumbled off into the forest.
"Where's he going?" Rold demanded.
"Nature's calling," Duvain lied.
Rold grunted, but kept his eyes fixed on the forest where Endyn had disappeared.
"Tell me," Duvain asked, trying to divert the corporal's attention, "what are the Fehlans like?"
Rold's head snapped around. "What?"
The ferocity of the corporal's expression surprised Duvain. "The Fehlans. Dagger Garrison’s located in their lands, right? I’ve been wondering why are some of them called Fehlans and some Eirdkilrs?"
Rold snarled. "Do they teach you nothing back across the water?"
Duvain met his gaze in silence.
"The name Fehlan literally means 'people of Fehl'. It's a name they gave themselves, but it's like calling us Einari." Rold gestured to each of the men around the fire. "Just like all of us are from different cities—Praamis, Voramis, Malandria, and, in the case of the sergeant, Drash—the Fehlans have their own clans. Each clan has its own name. For example, the people who once owned the land where Dagger Garrison stands are of the Deid clan, or the clan of the Cold Lakes."
"And the Eirdkilrs?" Duvain asked.
Rold continued, "The people we know as Eirdkilrs are actually of the Tauld clan, or clan of the Great Wastes, as they call the Wasteland south of the Sawtooth Mountains. When they declared war on us, they changed their name to Eirdkilrs. In the Fehlan tongue, Eird means 'half-men'. When you see the size of these savages, you'll understand." He glanced at the forest. "Not quite as big as your brother, but some of them'd give him a run for his money."
"Eirdkilrs," Duvain tried out the name.
"That last part of the name don't need a lot of explainin' does it?" Weasel grinned.
Eirdkilrs. Killers of the half-men. Duvain shuddered.
Weasel's expression grew somber. "No scout's ever made it past the Sawtooth Mountains to find out just how many of them there are livin’ in the frozen Wasteland. But we've killed tens of thousands of the bastards since they first showed their ugly faces more than a century years ago, yet they still field army after army. They seem to be breedin’ new ones as fast as we can cut them down."
The nervousness in Duvain's gut returned. The icy hand of fear gripped the back of his neck.
"But cheer up, meat!" Weasel reached over and slapped his shoulder. "We're safe behind the walls of Dagger Garrison, and there's no way the bastards'll cut through solid stone to reach us. We're as safe as anyone can be in this cold, cruel world." He gave a harsh chuckle.
"Whatever gods you worship, boy," Corporal Awr's rasping voice made the night seem suddenly chill, "get on your knees and pray that's true. Either that, or make your peace with the Long Keeper. When we square off against the Eirdkilrs, you'll be meeting the god of death face to face."
Chapter Four
"Keep up, Deadheads!" Addyn's voice carried toward them as Second Platoon marched past. "Be sure not to stub your toe or get frostbite while the rest of us are doing real men's work."
Rold scowled and shot back. "All you'll be doing is finding the enemy's arrows face-first!"
Weasel had a more eloquent response. Duvain's ears burned at the string of profanity spewing from the little man's mouth. Even Endyn seemed shocked.
'That's enough, Private," Rold snapped. "That mouth of yours will get you killed, if you keep running it like that."
"Just givin’ our brothers in arms a rousing call to arms," Weasel said, snickering. "Motivatin’ them to face the enemy, and all."
Rold shook his head and shouted, "Company, line!"
Groaning, Duvain stood from his comfortable seat on the soft grass. When they'd reached the crossroads, the Deadheads had been ordered off the road to allow the rest of the army to pass. Though why, Duvain didn’t know. Neither did Owen, Weasel, or any of the others, apparently.
But no sooner had the last of the Legionnaires marched past, than Sergeant Brash and the other four squad sergeants barked orders to hurry the men.
Duvain glanced at Captain Lingram. The captain sat on his horse at the head of the line, his expression somber as he studied his company.
Beside him, Endyn shuffled in place. The twitch in his hand had gotten bad, and he'd begun muttering to himself, the way he always did when the itching grew unbearable. Weeks of marching in the heavy armor had to have made the dragonskin uncomfortable. He'd be going mad, but unable to do anything about it without breaking formation—and suffering terrible punishments at the hand of Rold, Brash, and the other officers. Worse, the supply of unguent was nearly exhausted.
"The minute we break camp tonight," Duvain told his brother in a low voice, "we'll get some of that salve on it."
Endyn met his gaze, and misery filled his expression. The itch was just one of the dragonskin's effects—the thick scales would chap and crack, causing the skin around them to grow red, raw, and painful.
Duvain felt sorry for his brother, but he could only grip Endyn's massive forearm and squeeze. "You've got this," he whispered. "Just a little longer."
“Any idea what this is about?” Owen whispered to Weasel.
“Not a bleedin’ clue.” Weasel shrugged. “But the Captain’ll tell us what we need to know when he figgers we need to know it.”
Captain Lingram remained silent, as if waiting for the last dust of the departing Legionnaires to settle and leave the Deadheads alone on the Westmarch. Duvain’s nerves grew more ragged with every quiet minute. Something told him a change in the aforementioned plans to march to Dagger Garrison was coming. A change he wouldn’t like.
His eyes scanned the thick woods bordering the Legion-built stone highway. After living among the plains of southern Einan, the terrain around Duvain had an almost magical beauty. Dense forests of oak, pine, elm, and aspen trees stretched in all directions, a sea of greens, browns, and reds that glowed in the bright sunlight. To the west, steep hills rose to vertical rocky cliffs of a brilliant white. To the east, the colors of nature deepened, marking the presence of bogs, marshes, and swamplands. His gaze drifted south, as if expecting to see the jagged ridges of the Sawtooth Mountains far beyond the horizon. His mind filled with images of the mystical creatures—frost bears, white mountain apes, even the fabled ice dragons—that were said to occupy the icy Wastelands beyond.
The Eirdkilrs lived there as well. He'd heard tales of the huge, shaggy-haired men of the Wastelands. Tales that sent a shiver down his spine as surely as the chill of the ice floes of the Frozen Sea. The thought of facing them in battle set his hands quivering.
“We’ve just received new orders from Commander Galerius.” Captain Lingram’s voice snapped Duvain back to attention. “We are to march to Saerheim, where we’ll take up residence among the Deid and provide support for our Fehlan allies." The captain clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his head. "We may not be fighting the Eirdkilrs directly, men, but our duty is no less important. As much an honor as meeting the enemy head on."
Rold gave a quiet snort beside Duvain. "Honor, my hairy arse."
The captain turned to Sergeant Awr. “We move out at once. Saerheim is two days and a half of fast-march, so we’ve no time to waste.” Despite his calm expression, his tone held a hint of urgency Duvain didn’t understand. “Move out!”
At the shouted order, the line of Legionnaires broke into a march, heading south in pursuit of
their departing comrades.
“Hah!” Weasel laughed softly. “Y’hear that, lads? For once, the gods show us their smiles instead of their puckered arseholes!” He hitched up his chain mail shirt and scratched vigorously at his rear. "Marchin’ll be rough through all that dense forest and those awful roads—little more than muddy beaten paths, really. But once we reach Saerheim, we've got the cushy job. Providin’ support means sittin’ around that Fehlan village, eatin’, drinkin’, standin’ watch. All very humdrum and dull." He turned now and grinned at Duvain. "Just the way I like it."
Owen shook his head. "Just remember, no adding to your ear collection while in Saerheim. They're all friendly Fehlans, allied with the Princelands and aiding us in our war efforts against the Eirdkilrs."
Weasel muttered something that sounded like "can't tell the Keeper-damned savages apart".
Duvain cast a worried glance at Endyn. His brother needed rest to give his dragonskin time to heal and the unguent to soothe the pain.
At the crossroads, Captain Lingram led the way east, down a road as bad as Weasel had described. Calling the muddy, winding track through the forest a "road" was far too generous. Yet Duvain welcomed the change in direction and posting. He gave silent thanks to the Swordsman, god of war, that they would be stationed far from the front. Someplace safe and quiet, like a little Fehlan village in the middle of nowhere. After the stories he’d heard of the Eirdkilrs over the last weeks of marching—stories vastly different from the tales of glory and heroism told by Legion recruiters in Voramis—he had no desire to face the enemy head-on.
Especially not with the men surrounding him. The Deadheads numbered fewer than one hundred and twenty, including Captain Lingram. More than a few had paunches far thicker than Legion regulation permitted. Some sported wounds just shy of debilitating. Only a few bore the professional demeanor of true Legionnaires—according to Owen, all of those had followed Captain Lingram to the Deadheads after his demotion. Corporal Awr was one of those, as was Sergeant Brash and another of the sergeants.
In the next row, Weasel was shaking his head. "This ain't good. The company couldn't hold off a stiff breeze."
A week earlier, Weasel had estimated Ninth Company could field twenty men capable of proper battle. The rest—and Weasel included Duvain and Endyn among that number—would do little more than serve as meat shields and arrow magnets.
But we’re not going to fight, he told himself. We’re just going to guard a village far from the front.
Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t shake the doubt that nagged at the back of his mind.
* * *
“Four more hours!” Weasel crowed. “Four more hours until we put up our feet and enjoy the easy life!”
After two cold nights in the forest and the better part of three days spent marching down the muddy wagon road, Duvain was more than ready to buy into Weasel’s idea of their new assignment. His feet, legs, and back definitely wanted him either to hurry or not to move at all. His shoulders felt like they'd forever bear the indents of his rucksack. Even though he'd emptied out all the unnecessary items, it still weighed too much. The wooden frame rubbed his back and hips raw. His blisters had worsened with each new day, though thankfully no new ones had formed after Owen instructed him to double up on his woolen socks.
None of the others seemed to mind the march—no more so than usual, at least. Legionnaires tended to grumble about everything: from the occasional rain to the bloody heat to the blistering, Keeper-damned cold nights to the piss-poor chow. Weasel, in particular, found something new to complain about every hour.
As if on cue, Weasel took up a rant about the ugly backside of the Legionnaire marching in front of him. The man ignored him as Weasel spouted nonsense about his womanly shoulders, bullish hips, and flat arse. By the time he got to "chicken legs", Owen had had enough.
"Shut up, Weasel!" he snapped. "Can you just keep your mouth shut for a Watcher-damned minute? I'd rather listen to Endyn's snoring than your constant whingeing."
Endyn colored. The previous night, in a moment of irritation, Rold had described Endyn's snoring as "a cross between a constipated horse fart and the braying of a drunk donkey". None of the other Deadheads appeared to care that Endyn could do nothing about the problem, another side effect of whatever caused him to grow to his massive size.
Weasel remained unfazed by Owen's outburst. "Talkin’ helps to pass the time. Not all of us believe in the righteousness of our cause like you do." Disdain echoed in his voice.
"Of course," Owen snarled. "It's all about the gold with you!"
"Why shouldn't it be?" Weasel asked. "Most of us are only here because it's the best way to earn a livin’. When you're good at somethin’, you find a way to use that skill to turn a coin. Just so happens most of us are pretty darned good at killin’."
Owen snorted. "How noble of you."
"Nobility is for the pompous lords and ladies." Weasel's shrug jostled his pack. "Some of us don't have the luxury of nobility. Either we join the Legion, get drafted into a gang, or swing at the end of a hangman's noose. I know which I choose. Besides," he gestured to the forest around him, "I get the chance to see the world. Before I joined, I never thought I'd get out of Lower Voramis, much less the city. Now, I've seen more of the world than I ever expected. I don't mind dyin’ away from the piss-hole I was raised in. Not all of us have somethin’ to return home to."
Duvain found himself nodding. He and Endyn had joined because Northfield had no longer felt like home after the death of their parents. Everywhere he looked, he saw the pain of his childhood, his life under his father's boot, watching Endyn suffer for his condition. The Legion had given him a way out, both him and Endyn. And a hope for a future. The coins they'd earn serving here would go a long way toward setting up a life. What he'd do after his service, he didn't know, but it was enough that he'd have options—something he never had in Northfield.
He allowed himself the luxury of daydreaming. Images of what his future could hold distracted him from the drudgery of marching. It took little effort to keep in step with Weasel's back, and the rest of his attention could go toward imagining a bright, hopeful future.
As they marched, the woods grew denser, thickening in a way only old-growth forests could. The muddy track wound through the towering trees, and it seemed the yew, elm, and oak branches reached toward them, welcoming them with leafy boughs. The pine and aspen trees grew straight and tall, reaching conceited heads high into the sky. A cool wind whispered all around them, turning the shade of the forest decidedly chilly.
Around a bend in the road, they came upon a patch of open, muddy ground that spread out a few hundred paces from the west side of the road. Fallen trees and dead logs littered the space. The track curved around the expanse. As the column passed the open space, a sound filtered into Duvain's ears. Almost like someone was cutting wood, similar to the sounds he'd heard back at the lumber camp outside Northfield.
He glanced around, nervous. Maybe the Fehlan were working nearby?
"Woodcutters!" the shout came from two rows back. Real fear echoed in the cry.
He jerked around, scanning the forest for any sign of attack. He had no idea why woodcutters would be a source of concern, but this close to the front, he wouldn't take chances.
His eyes darted through the trees, but no barbarians charged from the woods, no war cries broke the silence. Instead, a flicker of movement on the ground caught his attention.
A serpent darted from beneath a fallen log. Though not large—barely the length of Duvain's forearm—it had bulging eyes, shielded nostrils, and a short, rounded snout. It slithered in an odd sidewinding undulation, and the movement set its emerald green and bone white scales rubbing against each other with a buzzing sound like a steel saw biting into a thick tree trunk.
The man behind Duvain cried out and leapt back. Endyn never saw the viper before it buried its fangs in his leg. His eyes went wide in fear, and he froze as the snake's jaws clamped tight on h
is calf. Rold reacted before either of them—he drew his short sword and chopped off the serpent's head in one stroke. The body twitched and writhed, flopping around.
"Back!" Rold shouted. He seized Endyn by the collar and dragged him away from the muddy expanse. Even as he did, two more of the green, scaled vipers reared up from the ground. They coiled like a figure eight, head poised in the center, ready to lash out at the nearest Legionnaire. All the while, their scales made the terrifying whirring sound.
Weasel's dagger took one in the head, pinning it to the sand. The other darted toward the column of marching men, only to be met by the metal rim of a Legionnaire's shield.
The sawing sound grew louder for a moment, then slowly quietened.
"Damn it!" Rold cursed. "A Keeper-damned woodcutter viper pit." His finger indicated the patch of fallen logs a short distance from the road. "Deadheads, keep well away from there if you don't want to end up dead like this one."
Endyn's eyes went wide. "Dead?" he rumbled.
Weasel's face was pale. "Woodcutters are high on the list of don't-fuck-with snakes. Little bastards burrow into the sand and sleep the day away. They're bloody feisty if pissed off. And the venom's enough to kill a grown man twenty times over. Anyone who gets bit…" He trailed off, his eyes darting away. "Sorry, Endyn."
Rold was kneeling, his knife already out and sawing at Endyn's pants. Cloth tore, and the corporal scanned Endyn's leg.
"Bloody Minstrel!" he recoiled, nearly falling onto his ass. "What in the frozen hell is that?"
Weasel gasped at the sight of Endyn's leg, and Owen's face had gone a strange green. Duvain's heart sank. He recognized the patches of scaled skin, the red cracks covering Endyn's shin and calf to the ankle. The dragonskin had spread. It was worse than he expected.
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