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

by Andy Peloquin

  Captain Lingram gripped Duvain's shoulder. "Man like him, he's the sort who will come in handy if we ever find ourselves in trouble. I've seen commanders use up their men like a wastrel spending gold, and that never turns out well. If Garrow's Canyon taught me one thing, it's always take care of your assets. I'd have died there if not for a one-armed soldier who threw himself in the path of an enemy axe. Lost his other arm, but walked away from that battle alive. One of the few who did. A man's outward appearance or lack of skill never dictates his true limitations. Remember that for when you rise in the ranks."

  "I will, sir!"

  "Good." Captain Lingram nodded. "Now, I believe Squad Three has the midnight watch."

  Duvain snapped a crisp salute. "Aye, Captain!" He turned and marched toward the hut where he and his squad bunked. He understood why Awr and the others had followed Captain Lingram to the Deadheads. He, too, had seen officers who pushed their men to breaking and discarded them when they no longer served a purpose. Captain Lingram was the sort of officer worth following, it seemed.

  A shadow passed over Endyn's face as Duvain entered their hut, and his brow furrowed.

  "Don't worry, Brother." Duvain gave him a small smile. "Captain says you're good."

  The relief in Endyn's eyes mirrored Duvain's own. "Thank you," he rumbled.

  Duvain smiled at his brother. "Let's get you into your armor. We've got a watch to stand."

  * * *

  Duvain's gut clenched as they approached the brazier burning beside the southeast corner of Saerheim. Owen and Weasel sat next to the fire, warming their hands against the chill that had descended on the village after dark. They glanced up at him and Endyn, then quickly looked away.

  The two of them and Rold had acted strange since that afternoon—exactly what Endyn feared. They looked at him with new eyes, as if staring at a freak in the Praamian circus. Beyond the basics of their watch, none of them had spoken since the shift began.

  Duvain glanced at Endyn. The pain in his brother's eyes didn't come from the dragonskin—the salve would soothe the itching and pain until morning. No, the pain came from the harsh truth: no matter where he went, he would always be an outcast. He had been since a young age, thanks to his height. The dragonskin just compounded the problem.

  With a sigh, Duvain turned his back on the fire and took another lap of their patrol.

  Rold had paired the two of them together, assigning them a patrol of Saerheim's west side. They'd entered through the western gate earlier than day, and not even animals moved across the empty expanse of ground between the village and the forest. They were essentially guarding the village's rear, certainly a punishment of some sort. With the front line far to the southeast, there was more chance of their wall being overrun by the woodcutter vipers than by Eirdkilrs.

  Duvain found himself wishing for a patrol along the eastern wall. The wall ran parallel to the edge of the cliff atop which Saerheim sat, and was really the only direction from which a threat could come. Here in Saerheim, far from the front, there would be no risk of an Eirdkilr attack. He wanted to use the few quiet moments, those not spent in ceaseless patrol, to look out over Cold Lake to the southwest. It reminded him of Hunter's Lake outside of Northfield, the place where he and Endyn had spent many happy hours laughing, splashing, and swimming as boys. The lake's mirror surface reflected the moonlight, and the stars glimmered like a thousand sparkling jewels. In the morning, tendrils of mist would creep onto the land like ghosts of legend come to visit the land of the living.

  Sighing, he turned his attention back to his patrol. Saerheim was smaller than he'd expected. Roughly three hundred Fehlans made their home here. Most lived in the four massive longhouses fronting the village's main square. The village's only blacksmith had a large house and attached smithy on the southwest corner. Beside him, the weaver, potter, and wheelwright plied their trades in smaller houses. A few families chose to live in their own small houses, made of wattle and daub with thatched roofs barely able to keep out the winter chill.

  Back when Weasel had been on speaking terms with them, he'd gone on about how towns and villages among the Fehlan were distinguished by the purpose of the settlement. Villages existed to farm, herd sheep and cattle, and make the goods they needed to live. Towns did all that, but they also provided a hub for traders to buy and sell goods, thriving on the presence of trade rather than the consumption of their own produce.

  The main square was fifty paces on all sides, with a well on the southeastern corner and dominated by a broad courtyard paved with dark grey bluestone. It was here that the people of the village would gather, Weasel said, for their celebrations, festivals, and whatever other "savage" rituals they engaged in. The people here lived simple lives: farmers, shepherds, and woodcutters content to scratch out a comfortable existence from the land. Why they had been sent here was beyond Duvain.

  The palisade wall was certainly not of the villagers' doing. According to Owen, a garrison of Legionnaires had erected the structure during the conquest of Fehl a century before.

  The Legionnaires had chosen a good site for their fort. Saerheim had been built near enough to the lake for the villagers to have easy access to fresh water, but the village itself sat upon a high cliff. Their position provided excellent visibility of the surrounding area to spot any unwelcome visitors. A single muddy road—wide enough for a horse- or ox-drawn cart to navigate—descended from the eastern gate to the farmlands below. Channels had been cut into the earth to supply the land with water for crops. Aside from the food grown on the farms, the villagers hunted in the woods and caught fish in Cold Lake. Yet, should they find themselves in peril, they could retreat behind the palisade wall and close the gates. A company of Legionnaires could hold off two or three times their number.

  Duvain found himself fascinated by the Fehlans. He'd expected fur-clad savages in war paint, as the tales of the Eirdkilr War suggested, but the people here resembled villagers on Einan. They wore tunics and breeches, made from wool and cut in a simple style. The colors, however, were brighter than even the popular cloth in Voramis. The blues, especially, were deep and rich. The product of the glastum plant, he'd heard.

  The problem was that none of the Fehlans seemed inclined to talk. If any of the people in the village spoke even basic Einari, they hadn't made an attempt to open dialogue. Indeed, the few they'd encountered that afternoon had quickly scurried the other way when they tried to talk. One had even shot them a venomous glare before striding in the opposite direction.

  He contemplated the villagers' dislike of them. Weren't they here to protect Saerheim? Why would the people hate them?

  When they reached the end of their next round, they found the brazier abandoned by all but Corporal Awr. Weasel, Owen, and Rold were walking the wooden rampart platforms on the interior of the wall. The grizzled corporal sat alone, his back to the fire, staring off into the night.

  "Corporal, you were speaking Fehlan earlier, right?" Duvain asked.

  Corporal Awr gave him a sharp look, but said nothing.

  "Can you teach me some?"

  Awr's look changed to one of mild surprise. "Why?"

  Duvain shrugged. "I figure if we're going to be here a while, it could come in handy, knowing a few words."

  For a long moment, Awr fixed him with a piercing glare, then shook his head. "Don't waste your time."

  It was Duvain's turn to be surprised. "What?"

  Awr spoke without meeting Duvain's gaze. "It won't do anything. They aren't going to like you, any way you cut it. After all, we've kicked them out of their homes."

  Duvain's eyes widened. He hadn't given it much thought. The village had a few small houses, no doubt each built for a family. If they occupied one of the homes, it meant one of the families had to be evicted. With all one hundred-twenty men of Ninth Company, that meant a lot of displaced villagers, no doubt crammed into the longhouses.

  Awr stood. "Listen, meat, we're here because we have to be, but none of us want to be�
��not us, and certainly not the Fehlan. All they want is to be left alone to tend to their farms, cattle, and fish. They'd rather have nothing to do with the war—they'd be perfectly happy if they never saw an Eirdkilr, Princelander, or Einari face. But we've brought that war to them, and they're doing what they do best: surviving. But that doesn’t mean they have to like it, or us."

  Duvain swallowed. Awr spoke infrequently—he'd barely said a word over four days of marching, except in response to Captain Lingram or Sergeant Brash's orders—but when he did, he delivered piercing insight.

  "Still," Duvain said, hesitant, "I'd still like to learn a bit of the Fehlan tongue."

  Awr said nothing for a long moment. Silence stretched on, broken only by the crack of the firewood and the churring trill of a nightjar. Finally, Awr shrugged. "Fine. Not like we've a whole lot better to do around here."

  Duvain smiled. "Thank you."

  "It'll cost you, though." Awr growled. "Bring me something to drink—wine, ale, or whatever swill is brewed here—and I'll teach you."

  Duvain's smile faded. He had no idea where to find liquor. Without his first pay from the Legion, he had no coins to buy with. He'd have to find another way. But how?

  A solution presented itself at the end of their watch. One of Squad Four's privates stumbled from his bed mumbling about a hangover. When Duvain offered to take his watch in exchange for the liquor he'd imbibed too much of, the man gladly agreed to the trade.

  Worry lined Endyn's face. He looked tired—the hours of endless walking had taken its toll on him.

  "Go," Duvain told him. "Rest."

  Endyn raised a questioning eyebrow.

  "I'll be fine. I couldn't sleep anyway." A yawn forced itself past Duvain's lips.

  Endyn snorted.

  "Look, I have to do this." Duvain dropped his voice. "You've seen the way the others look at us. Both of us."

  Endyn's face clouded, and pain filled his eyes.

  "If doing this will earn me a bit of goodwill with the other squads and Corporal Awr, you know I'm going to." Duvain stifled another yawn without success. "I'll find time to sleep before next watch." The Legion divided their days between rest, drilling and training, and standing guard. He had just volunteered his rest time—he'd be in for a long session of marching, weapons practice, and formation drills. But he'd get through it.

  Endyn hesitated, but Duvain shoved him away. "Off with you." His stomach gave a growl nearly as loud as Endyn's snores. "But bring me some chow, will you?"

  Nodding, Endyn lumbered away from the watch post. When he disappeared, Duvain groaned and sagged to a seat in front of the dying fire. His feet and back ached, and his armor felt as if it weighed far too much. He wanted nothing more than to rest. Sadly, he wouldn't have a chance to—

  "Riders, in the east!" The shout from behind him snapped him from his gloom. Immediately, he was on full alert, his heart racing and adrenaline pumping. A sudden fear raced through him. Were they under attack?

  Danver, the Fourth Squad sergeant, rushed past him. "On your feet, Legionnaire!"

  Duvain realized he hadn't moved. Panic had rooted him in place. His stomach churned, and he felt as if he'd vomit. He was afraid, and hated himself for it.

  The sight of Captain Lingram striding toward the eastern gate galvanized him into action. He stood and rushed after the sergeant, taking his place on the wooden ramparts beside the rest of Squad Four.

  He caught a flash of white through the early morning mist rolling off Cold Lake. The sound of pounding hooves drifted toward them. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the tendrils of grey hovering over the water. The horses were coming around the lake, riding straight toward them.

  The thundering in his heart rose to a roar, and blood pounded in his ear. He tightened his grip on his spear. His hand was sweaty and shaking. So there was to be a battle with the Eirdkilrs after all.

  "I wonder who that is," said the man beside him.

  Duvain frowned. There was no fear in the man's voice, only curiosity. He glanced at the men crowded at the east gate beside him. Private Kipper, one of the men who had come to the Deadheads with Captain Lingram, stood alert but not in a fighting stance. His shield rested on the ground, and his sword remained sheathed.

  Duvain's eyes darted back to the horses. They'd come closer, though the mist and distance turned them into little more than blurred forms.

  The horses! He cursed himself for a fool. All the tales of the Eirdkilrs told that the massive barbarians didn't ride horses. Their size made it nearly impossible for them to ride—no horse could carry Endyn or anyone nearly that large—and horses wouldn't survive in the Frozen Wastes. They had shaggy-haired, horned wild oxen that hauled their supplies, but they marched and fought on foot.

  So who could the riders be?

  The tightness in Duvain's gut slowly relaxed, and his tension turned to curiosity as well. He watched, transfixed, as the figures drew closer.

  He got a better look at them as their horses labored up the incline toward the gate. Four men rode in a protective circle around a fifth figure. The four wore mottled brown robes, fur cloaks, and leather armor, but bore no insignia or mark of rank. Mercenaries, perhaps, or a nobleman's private guards.

  The fifth man wore a cloak of costlier furs—Duvain had no idea what animals had died for that garment, but it looked expensive—and he rode a destrier instead of the coursers ridden by the others. The sword hanging at his hip had a gilded hilt, the sort fancied by wealthy noblemen in Einan. The scabbard showed signs of wear, and mud spattered his fancy boots, but he somehow managed to look haughty even when covered in road dust. Definitely a nobleman.

  Captain Lingram appeared on the rampart beside him. His face tensed as he studied the approaching riders. "Open the gate," he commanded in a tight voice.

  The gate swung open just as the five riders reached it. They reined in just inside, and the well-dressed rider glanced around. "Who is in command?"

  "I am," Captain Lingram said, his words flat, hard.

  Surprise broke through the exhaustion on the man's face. A moment later, his expression contorted, changing from fatigue and relief to a sneering snarl. "Lingram." His voice had a whiny, nasal quality, matched by the petulant look on his narrow, angular face. He would have been handsome had it not been for the large ears protruding from the mess of brown hair flopping around his face. His blue eyes were ice cold as they regarded the captain.

  "Lord Virinus." Captain Lingram gave a stiff bow. "I trust the Duke’s mission went well?"

  A sneer twisted Lord Virinus' face. "The details of my mission are highly sensitive. What you already know is all you need to know."

  "Of course, my lord." The captain's jaw worked. He turned to regard the men beside the gate, and his eyes rested on Duvain. "Soldier, will you escort Lord Virinus to the house prepared for him?"

  Duvain tried not to register his surprise. "Aye, Captain!" He saluted.

  Captain Lingram turned back to the nobleman. "The Fehlans have graciously made space for you in the main longhouse."

  "The main longhouse?" Disdain marred Lord Virinus' face. "They expect me to room in the same place where they house their livestock and crops for the winter?"

  The captain's face grew hard. "It is a rare honor for—"

  "Honor?" The nobleman shook his head. "Call it what you will, but I will not. I expect lodgings that offer the privacy I am due as a lord of Icespire and Duke Dyrund’s personal aide."

  Captain Lingram, clearly struggling to control himself, nodded. "Of course, my lord." He turned to Duvain. "Soldier, Lord Virinus will be billeting in the hut where your squad is, and you will take the space in the main longhouse."

  Duvain wanted to protest—Endyn would hate being in such a public place, where people stared at him even more than they already did—but knew better. "Yes, Captain!" With a salute, he raced toward his hut.

  He banged the door open, earning a shout from Rold and a growl from Awr. Their fury only increased as h
e told them the reason for interrupting their rest.

  "Lord Virinus?" Awr bolted upright at the nobleman's name. "Did you say Lord Virinus?"

  Duvain nodded. "He's demanding the privacy—"

  "Bloody cake-eating bastard!" Awr's sword slid from its sheath, and he stalked toward the door clad in just his boots and undertunic.

  "Awr!" Rold snapped. He threw himself between his fellow corporal and the door. "Don't do anything stupid."

  Awr glared at Rold. The fury burning in his eyes would have melted all the ice in the Frozen Sea. He was shorter but broader in the shoulder. "Move," he growled.

  Rold shook his head. "Not a damned chance. We both know what'll happen if I do."

  "And you think he deserves any less?" Awr demanded. "After what he did, he'd be lucky to get off with just my sword buried in his gut."

  "You'd be throwing your life away," Rold insisted.

  "Like you care," Awr sneered.

  "Not even a little," Rold replied, "but you're one of the few men who pass for a true soldier in this place. You think I want to put my life in the hands of men like this one"—he jerked a thumb at Endyn, who was watching the whole thing from his bedroll—"so close to the front lines?"

  Awr tightened his grip on his blade. "If you know what's good for you, Rold, you'll get the bloody hell out of my way."

  Rold's eyes flicked to Awr's sword, then back to the corporal. "No."

  "Keeper damn you, Rold, I'll—"

  "Corporal!" Captain Lingram's voice echoed in the tiny hut.

  Awr snapped to attention, his spine stiff. "Captain, sir." He saluted.

  Captain Lingram strode closer, and Rold moved aside. "Do we have a problem, Corporal?"

  Awr's jaw worked. "Captain…" he started.

  "Corporal, let me make one thing abundantly clear." Steel echoed in the captain’s voice—his tone brooked no dissent. "Our true orders are to protect Lord Virinus as he returns from a classified mission with Duke Dyrund. He has with him something that will prove critical in our efforts against the Eirdkilrs. Which means it's in our best interest to keep him from harm for as long as he remains under our charge." He lowered his voice to a menacing growl. "Despite any personal feelings on the matter. Is that understood?"