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

by Andy Peloquin

  "Whatever it is," Rold said, his voice a mixture of revulsion and incredulity, "it just saved your life."

  The words took a moment to sink in. "What?" Duvain asked.

  "A woodcutter's bite packs enough venom to take down a full squad of men, and then some." Rold tapped the tip of his dagger on the thick scale. "But this shite's so thick the serpent's fangs couldn't get through." He ripped the bottom of Endyn's pants and used the fabric to wipe a stream of clear liquid dribbling down his leg. He held it up to them. "See this? The bastard sprayed his load all over, but his fangs never punctured the skin."

  Face burning with embarrassment, Endyn quickly tugged the pant leg down over the dragonskin.

  Duvain extended a hand to help Endyn up, and Rold did the same. The corporal stared up at Endyn through narrowed eyes. "Does the captain know about…" He gestured to Endyn's leg. "…that?"

  Endyn glanced at Duvain, who shook his head. "No, and he doesn't need to know."

  Rold raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

  Duvain met Rold's, Weasel's, and Owen's eyes in turn. "It won't spread, if that's what you're worried about."

  The three Deadheads exchanged suspicious looks.

  "Look," Duvain insisted, "it's something he's had since he was young, but it can't be passed on. The healers at the Sanctuary said as much."

  After a long moment, Rold shook his head. "Captain still needs to know."

  "It's his way of things." Awr's quiet rasping voice cut in.

  Duvain's head flashed around.

  Awr had come up without a sound. He stood behind Weasel, staring at Endyn, yet without disdain or disgust on his face. "He cares about his men. He's unlike most commanders that way."

  Duvain met Awr's gaze. He could have stared at stone. The man was hard, not cold, but revealing as much as the stone cliffs to the west. "Very well. But I'll tell him."

  Rold scowled. "Chain of command says—"

  "I will tell him." Duvain clenched his fists.

  After a moment, Rold snorted and shrugged. "You have until end of day."

  Duvain's gut clenched, but he nodded. "So be it."

  Rold held his glance for a long moment. The look had as much warmth as if the corporal were staring at a rake or a feather duster. Rold didn't care about him—all that mattered was that his comrades wouldn't get him killed in battle.

  The tension snapped, and Rold turned to the rest of the company. "What are you lot doing, sitting about like doxies on holiday? Back in line!" he roared.

  The rest of the Deadheads hurried to form up. A low mutter ran through the ranks. Duvain hoped none of them had seen Endyn's leg, but there was no mistaking the hushed whispers, the backward glances. They'd seen the woodcutter viper bite Endyn, yet Corporal Rold was treating everything like business as usual. That spawned speculation aplenty.

  The sound of hoofbeats grew louder. Duvain looked up to see Captain Lingram trotting down the line of men toward them.

  "All is well, Corporal?" he asked Awr.

  "Aye, Captain." Awr nodded.

  Rold interjected. "Spot of bother with a nest of woodcutter vipers.” He shot Duvain a look. "Got it sorted out."

  "Good." Captain Lingram nodded. "We've a good deal of ground to cover, and Skelan tells me our path leads through some heavy woods that'll get dark before the sun sets."

  "Aye, sir!" Corporal Rold saluted.

  With a nod, Captain Lingram turned his horse and rode toward the front of the line. A moment later, Sergeant Brash's barked orders of "Company, march!" echoed out.

  Duvain's eyes widened when Weasel darted out of rank to snatch up the decapitated serpent's body.

  Weasel shot him a grin. "Just because they bite like bastards, don't mean they taste like 'em. No sense wastin’ good meat, says I—anythin’ is better than rations."

  Owen shook his head.

  "What?" Weasel protested. "It's not like I'm riskin’ my hide huntin’ them down. Thanks to Endyn here," he winked up at the big man, "we've got ourselves a little somethin’ extra for supper tonight. Gods alone know what sort of grub they'll serve at the Fehlan village."

  He pointed to the muddy patch of ground and the pile of fallen logs. "You see anythin’ like that in these parts, you steer bloody well clear. Even you, big man. That's where they hang out, and I doubt even you can survive for long."

  Endyn nodded. "Got it."

  Duvain noticed that Endyn seemed subdued, shy. He looked at the men around him with wary eyes. The other Deadheads also shot him occasional glances, and a gap had opened around their rank. Sorrow weighed on Duvain, but the reaction came as no surprise. People tended to act like that when they saw Endyn's dragonskin—it was why he kept it hidden.

  Tension lined his brother's face. His jaw muscles worked, and as the hours of marching wore on, the twitching in his hand grew more pronounced. Once, he actually reached up and scratched at his neck. Duvain caught a hint of grey above his collar and cursed. He had to get some of the salve on Endyn's dragonskin before it spread. The fatigue of the march and the emotional turmoil hiding behind Endyn's stony expression would only make things worse.

  From a young age, Endyn had been his mother's favorite, and the arrival of Duvain a few years later did little to change that. Even after he reached his gigantic height, his mother had been gentle, tender with him. Endyn was a gentle soul, one who wanted to be liked and accepted by everyone. His size made him stand out, so he tried to work extra hard to fit in.

  The dragonskin was a curse, one that kept others at bay. The previous day, when the Deadheads found a stream to wash in, Endyn had refused to undress with the others. He'd sat on the bank and watched as Owen, Weasel, Rold, and the other Deadheads relaxed in the cool water. Their cramped tent offered no privacy for him to change, so he would disappear into the woods to scratch the itch away from the eyes of his comrades. But now they knew his shameful secret, and their sidelong glances pained him.

  Duvain hated to see his brother suffer so—physically and emotionally. Though Endyn was the older brother, Duvain had always looked out for him. He'd continue to do so, even if it meant being the one to face Captain Lingram's wrath when he told him Endyn's secret.

  His mood soured as the forest grew denser. The thick canopy blocked out the sunlight, and a chill wind whispered through the woods. The shadows hung heavy about them as they marched through the eerie silence.

  "Bloody trees," Weasel muttered. "You can't trust 'em."

  "Think they'll uproot themselves and bite you?" Owen teased.

  Weasel glared. "'Course not, because I ain't an idiot." He punched Owen's shoulder. "But you never know what's hidin’ in trees that thick."

  The image of a pack of shrieking barbarians ran through Duvain's mind. He'd never seen an Eirdkilr before, but had heard the descriptions: howling savages clad in furs, waving huge weapons, shaking the ground with their war cries. He gripped his shield tighter. With every step, the forests grew more impenetrable, the shadows deepening. Fear thrummed in the back of his mind; his imagination screamed that the densely packed trees concealed an army of Eirdkilrs come to massacre them all.

  He nearly cried in relief as the thick forest gave way to a clearing. The muddy track cut straight across the open ground, climbing a short incline toward a palisade wall. The tension drained from his shoulders. They had reached Saerheim.

  The walls around Saerheim, erected by a Legionnaire company stationed there years earlier, stood roughly three paces tall. Once, the sharpened stakes would have deterred enemies from climbing over; time and weather had dulled the keen points. But the wall stretched a full three hundred paces across, with a heavy gate in the center.

  Beyond the wall, Duvain caught a glimpse of a cliff's edge, with farmland spreading out below. In the distance, a few hundred paces from the cliff, the turquoise water of Cold Lake sparkled in the fading sunlight.

  The gates swung open at their approach.

  "Company, HALT!" Sergeant Brash shouted. The column of Legionnaires stopp
ed just short of the opening gate.

  The man who emerged to greet them had to be closing in on his seventh decade. He wore thick woolen breeches, a sheepskin vest over a simple tunic, and a cloak of heavy fur. His eyes and mouth were lined by sun and mirth, but he walked with a straight back. He smiled and spread his arms. "Greetings, men of Icespire." He spoke Einari with a thick accent.

  Captain Lingram dismounted and strode toward the man. "Elder Asmund of Saerheim, I am Captain Lingram of the Ninth Company. You do us honor with your greeting." He continued speaking, but in a language Duvain didn't recognize.

  The elder's eyes lit up. "You speak our tongue?" he asked in Einari.

  "Not well, I fear." Captain Lingram replied. "The people of the Fjall clan would be ashamed to hear me, believing their lessons wasted."

  Duvain's eyebrows rose. The Fjall were the largest and most powerful of the clans north of the Sawtooth Mountains. Captain Lingram had spent time among them?

  "Few of your kind have tried to learn, so it is a welcome change." He stepped aside and swept an arm toward the open gate. "I welcome you to Saerheim. We have prepared a place for your men to stay while you are here."

  "We have our own tents, and—"

  Elder Asmund shook his head. "The Saer is a cold place at night. Your tents will do little to keep out the cold rolling off the lake. Our structures may be simple, but they are warm."

  Captain Lingram bowed. "You do us honor, Elder Asmund."

  "It is no more than our peace accords demands." The old man's weathered face broke into a smile. "Now, come, enter Saerheim and find rest."

  At the captain's command, the Legionnaires marched into the village.

  Duvain couldn't help staring at everything around him. People dressed in simple garb like Elder Asmund's stared at them as they entered. Women carried baskets of wool, tended cook fires, or hustled after energetic children. The few men they encountered busied themselves applying a fresh layer of daub to the wattle walls of their simple wooden homes.

  The road led from the gate, past a collection of small, single-room houses, toward a broad expanse of paved stone—no doubt Saerheim's main square. Four huge longhouses faced the main square, stretching easily seven or eight paces wide, five paces tall, and at least twenty paces long. These structures were made of sturdy logs, their roofs covered with thick layers of thatching to keep out the chill.

  When the Legionnaires reached the paved stone square, Sergeant Brash called for a halt.

  Endyn gave an audible groan. Duvain glanced up at him. Tears brimmed in his brother's eyes, and he shifted from foot to foot in visible discomfort. He breathed through his massive nostrils, as if struggling to restrain himself. The pain had to be bad.

  Sergeant Brash strode toward them. "Squad Three, get settled into your billets, get some chow, and prepare for midnight watch."

  Corporal Rold snapped a salute. "Yes, Sergeant."

  Sergeant Brash moved on to the next squad, giving orders in his calm, even voice.

  "You heard him, lads!" Weasel turned with a grin. "Midnight's still a ways off. I wonder what sort of trouble we can get into before then."

  "None," Corporal Rold barked. "We're doing exactly as the sergeant says. We stay in quarters until it's time for watch." He stabbed a finger at Weasel's chest. "And lose the jewelry."

  Weasel glanced down at his grisly necklace. "Aww, really, Corporal?"

  Rold snarled. "Now, soldier!" He glanced around. "No need to antagonize the natives further."

  Duvain eyed the villagers of Saerheim. The Fehlan watched them with hooded, studied expressions, turning away whenever he looked at them. None spoke or approached. Though they showed no overt hatred, a tense silence hung in the air. They were not welcome guests.

  Grumbling, Weasel removed his necklace of ears and tucked it into his shirt.

  A middle-aged man with a straw-colored beard strode toward them, speaking in Fehlan. Surprisingly, Corporal Awr responded in the same tongue. The villager raised an eyebrow and tried to engage in conversation with Awr, but the corporal only shrugged. After a moment, the man gave up and gestured for them to follow him.

  The Fehlan villager led them to the northwest side of the village, toward a house that stood just a short distance from the main square. It was small, just five paces wide and six long, with a roof barely higher than Endyn's head. Thick mud had been caked over the woven sticks as weatherproofing. The man said something in Fehlan and motioned toward the house.

  With a nod for the bearded villager, Awr turned to the rest of them. "This is us." He strode toward the open door and entered.

  The interior was small, far smaller than Duvain had expected. Three wooden steps descended to a single room dug below the level of the ground outside. The people of Saerheim lived simply. The room had no windows or any decorations—only a door and a space to live.

  "Damn!" Weasel muttered. "Looks like we're goin’ to be nut to butt in here."

  "When the nights get cold," Corporal Awr replied, "you'll be glad for your comrade's body heat."

  Weasel turned to glare at them. "Just make sure none of you go pokin’ anythin’ into me when I sleep, eh?"

  Duvain rolled his eyes and entered the hovel. He selected a corner of the room and dumped his pack there, making space for Endyn beside him.

  Weasel muttered. "Damn, with the big man here, we're goin’ to be even tighter. It'll be like—"

  With a rumbling sob, Endyn shoved past Weasel and rushed toward his pack. He nearly ripped the drawstrings open with his frantic pawing.

  Duvain's eyes widened. He'd never seen it this bad before.

  "What in the bloody hell?" Weasel asked, picking himself up from the ground. "What's gotten into him?"

  Ignoring the others, Duvain rushed toward Endyn. "Ditch the armor, I'll get the salve."

  Endyn's eyes shot toward the men crowded at the door, but after a moment of hesitation, began ripping at his armor.

  Duvain heard the clink of the breastplate falling, followed by the jingling of his mail shirt. By the time he'd dug the jar from his pack, Endyn was out of his gambeson and down to his undertunic, which he pulled over his head with frantic movements.

  Duvain gasped at the sight of Endyn's back. The thick, grey scales had grown to the thickness of his finger, the cracks running between them turned an angry red. Sweat and dirt clung to the weeping sores. Pus dribbled from a fresh wound in his side. Endyn scratched at himself frantically, his huge fingers nearly ripping the scaly flesh in his desperation to stifle the itching.

  "Endyn, stop!" Duvain shouted. "That'll only make it worse."

  Endyn was beyond caring. Tears streamed down his face, and sobs of misery set his shoulders heaving. The dragonskin was worsening at a far faster rate than Duvain had dreamed.

  He whirled on the others. "Help me hold his arms!"

  Owen, Weasel, and Corporal Rold stood open-mouthed, gaping at the sight of Endyn squirming and pawing at his encrusted flesh.

  "Help me!" Duvain shouted again.

  Corporal Rold reacted first, seizing Endyn's right arm and tugging it out to the side. Endyn cried out and tried to break free, but Owen and Weasel seized his other arm.

  "Get him on the ground!" Duvain shouted. "If he scratches too hard, he'll tear the scales wide open."

  The four of them wrestled Endyn flat onto his stomach, no easy task given Endyn's enormous size and strength. The huge man protested, tears streaming. Duvain wept at his brother's misery, but he had no choice. He had to stop Endyn from making the problem worse.

  "Whatever you're going to do," Rold shouted, "better get on with it!"

  Duvain fumbled the jar lid open and scooped a handful of the cream from within. He slathered it over Endyn's back, coating the scales and the raw, weeping skin with a thick layer. Slowly, Endyn's struggles quieted, and he lay still. Owen, Weasel, and Corporal Rold clung to his arms, breathing heavily.

  When Duvain had covered his back, he nodded to them. "You can release him."
>
  The three Legionnaires leapt back as if afraid of getting burned. Rold wiped his palms on his uniform, and Owen simply stared down at his hands, as if expecting to see grey scales form.

  Duvain ignored them. He helped Endyn to sit up, and he applied another layer of the salve to his brother's chest. Endyn sobbed, but the cries were more from relief than of pain. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the hut wall.

  The smell of the salve filled the hut. The jar was nearly empty by the time Duvain had covered Endyn's enormous chest and torso. He carefully replaced the lid and tucked the jar into his pack, letting out a long, slow breath. He turned to his brother, who gave him a grateful nod. The flow of tears had slowed but not stopped. Though cream soothed the itch and dimmed the burning pain, it didn't alleviate the torment completely.

  Even seated, Endyn was nearly as tall as Duvain was standing. Duvain gripped the back of Endyn's neck and leaned his forehead against his brother's. He could find no words, but simply remained there, sharing his brother's suffering in the only way he knew how.

  The only sound to break the silence came from the wooden door closing behind his departing comrades.

  Chapter Five

  "And you're certain this won't affect anyone else?"

  Duvain cringed under Captain Lingram's stare. There was no recrimination in the captain's eyes, only concern. He nodded. "No, sir. The healers at the Sanctuary in Voramis spent weeks poking and prodding him, and though they didn't find any solution, they determined it's not contagious." He rolled up his sleeves to reveal his unblemished arms. "I've been touching it for years and not a thing."

  Captain Lingram pondered a moment, then nodded. "Then we've no problems." He tapped the hilt of his sword with a long fingernail. "You say the itch gets bad after a few hours in armor?"

  Duvain nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Nothing to be done about that, but I'll let Sergeant Brash know your brother may need to take the occasional break to have a moment to himself. Should make it a bit more bearable."

  Duvain's eyes widened. "Thank you, Captain!" He'd expected recrimination and vitriol, and the captain's reaction caught him off guard. No one had treated Endyn with such understanding, even compassion.