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

by Andy Peloquin

  Awr's silence dragged on for heart-pounding seconds before he replied. "Aye, Captain." Vitriol tinged his words; he could have poisoned an entire platoon with the acid in his tone.

  "Good." Captain Lingram stepped back. "Now, as Duvain here said, this building will be turned over to Lord Virinus, and you will be billeted in the main longhouse."

  Endyn stiffened, his expression tightening.

  "Get your gear and clear out at once. You have two hours to settle in, then Sergeant Brash will be running you through drills." Captain Lingram's gaze fixed on Awr. "I trust this will be the last time I hear anything on this particular subject?"

  Awr answered through clenched teeth. "Aye, Captain."

  "Good. Then you have your orders." With a nod to Corporal Rold, he strode from the tent.

  Like a good soldier, Awr went about stuffing his gear into his pack. Rold, Owen, and Weasel gave him a wide berth, but they all watched him from the corners of their eyes. The grizzled corporal kept up a steady stream of curses under his breath. "Useless as a soup sandwich" and "cake-eating ponce" counted among the kindest of words he had for Lord Virinus.

  When Awr slung his pack over his shoulder, Rold hurried to do the same, and motioned for Owen to follow. Clearly they meant to keep Awr from doing anything stupid.

  When the others had gone, Duvain turned to Weasel. "What was that all about?"

  "Remember how I said he pissed in the wrong man's boots?" Weasel asked.

  Duvain nodded.

  "They were Lord Virinus' boots."

  Duvain's eyes widened.

  Weasel frowned. "I couldn't figure it before, but it's startin’ to make sense, us comin’ here. There ain't no reason this little village should matter to anyone. And it don't. We're only here to guard the toff because he's afraid of a few savages. His father’s got enough clout to get a whole platoon to do his biddin’." A wry grin twisted his lips. "Not too much clout, though. Not enough to make Commander Galerius consider it worth sparing Ninth Company’s best, even on Duke Dyrund’s orders. Bloody bootless fop!" Shaking his head, he shouldered his ruck and strode from the hut.

  Duvain looked over at Endyn. "How is it?" His brother moved without wincing, but Duvain knew the salve would only alleviate the discomfort for a short time.

  Endyn shrugged.

  Duvain drew in a breath. "Don't let it get that bad again, you hear me?"

  Endyn grimaced and nodded.

  "Let's go." Together, they exited the hut, their packs and bedrolls slung over their shoulders. Lord Virinus stood outside, his arms folded across his chest. Beneath his costly fur cloak, he wore dull brown clothing that still managed to look more stylish than practical. Duvain stifled a snigger as he pictured the nobleman marching in his high-heeled riding boots.

  Three of his guards had dismounted and stood in a defensive position around him. Their clothes showed no trace of finery, but were the simple, utilitarian robes of fighting men. Their leather armor had been as well-maintained as the Legionnaires’ mail shirts and breastplates, but they bore the marks of use. They moved with the self-confident poise of career warriors—very much at odds with the nobleman's assumed hauteur.

  Lord Virinus tapped his toes. "What's the delay, Captain? After a long night of riding, I expect a bit more professionalism and alacrity than this."

  Captain Lingram's expression tightened. "You may enter, my lord."

  "Not much to look at," Lord Virinus muttered as he strode toward the hut. After a cursory examination, he shook his head. "Abysmal, but what choice do we have?"

  He turned to one of the two guards. "Bring her."

  Saluting, the guard turned back to the horses. The fourth guard had remained in his saddle. At Lord Virinus' command, he removed his heavy fur cloak. Duvain's eyes widened. A young girl sat in the saddle behind the man. Thick bands of cloth bound her to the man's back. Her long tresses were the pale yellow only seen among the Fehlan, and despite her tender age—not yet a young woman—her features were as strong and pronounced as any in Saerheim.

  Duvain's mind raced. What was Lord Virinus doing with a Fehlan girl? A captive? Someone he'd found on his travels? A slave? No, that couldn't be. Slavery had been outlawed by Prince Toran of Icespire decades before. So what, then? And why was she bound to the man's saddle?

  His last question was answered when the mounted man removed the straps and the girl sagged into the arms of the waiting guards. Her eyelids flickered open, but her gaze was glassy, unfocused. Sweat trickled down her face and stained her thin garments. Fever tinged her cheeks bright red, and she mumbled incoherently. She made no protest as one of the guards gathered her into his arms and carried her into the hut.

  A sick Fehlan girl? Duvain's imagination ran wild. Already, the few Legionnaires within eyeshot had turned to each other, no doubt speculating about her identity.

  With a scowl for Captain Lingram and the Legionnaires, Lord Virinus turned, stalked inside the hut, and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter Six

  Growing up, Duvain had believed the spinsters of Northfield to be the worst gossips in Einan. With far too much time on their hands, the biddies had concocted all manner of spurious rumors: the widower blacksmith was having an affair with a visiting nobleman's wife, the mayor had a predilection for enjoying the company of his horse a bit too much, and the tanner's youngest daughter practiced witchcraft—the only explanation for the odd pox scars on her face. Even the local Beggar Priest failed to escape their notice; according to their wagging tongues, he spent donated coin on ale at the Northfield Inn rather than on caring for the poor. No tale was too small to be inflamed out of proportion, twisted, or dissected.

  Those women had nothing on Legionnaires.

  In the two days since Lord Virinus' arrival, every rumor had been discussed and discarded a dozen times over. Of particular interest was the girl he'd brought. Her Fehlan features left no doubt of her parentage. But if not his daughter, who was she? More than a few Legionnaires whispered that the nobleman's taste in women ran far too young for the people of Icespire, but the savages had no such restrictions on age. Some even wondered if she was his slave, his mistress, or a barbarian witch disguised as an innocent child.

  His presence and the secrecy of his mission also received its share of argument. Many called him a spy who had penetrated deep behind enemy lines, while others insisted he was on a scouting trip studying the Eirdkilrs' positions. His four protectors—definitely mercenaries or private guards, given their unkempt appearance and non-standard issue clothing and weapons—gave no answer to the multitude of questions. In fact, they tended to avoid most of the off-duty Legionnaires. When not standing watch before Lord Virinus' commandeered home, they spent their time amongst themselves, talking in low voices. Duvain had caught a few words of Fehlan when they spoke.

  His lessons with Awr had proceeded slowly. He could exchange a few greetings in Fehlan, but little more. However, as long as he kept the liquor flowing, the grizzled corporal kept teaching him. He'd picked up a few more words while off duty in the longhouse. Elder Asmund had given Squad Three a corner of the longhouse with a bit of privacy—for which Endyn was grateful—but the constant movement of villagers in and out of the structure gave him a chance to hear them speak. Always in hushed tones, though, with wary, even suspicious glances at them.

  Every member of Squad Three had pressed Awr for details on Captain Lingram's history with Lord Virinus, but he refused to expound. When questioned about Lord Virinus' mystery guest, Awr had simply said the girl was important—important enough to delay the nobleman's travels as she convalesced. Whether he knew more or remained as in the dark as they, he didn't let on.

  That proved the only sliver of excitement or intrigue in what had become very long, very boring days. Sergeant Brash began their days with a thorough examination of their quarters, followed by a detailed inspection of their armor and weapons. Failure to meet his exacting standards resulted in either an additional turn at watch or an extra-brutal
training session.

  Before morning chow—decent food, thanks to the villagers providing meat, vegetables, and grains from their meager stores—Corporal Awr pushed them through a ruck march. They trooped around the village in full armor, packs loaded on their backs. When Awr was in a truly foul mood—a lot more common since Lord Virinus' arrival—he'd take them a full three leagues through dense forest, thick brush, and muddy trails. By end of the first day, Duvain had come to dread the end of their march. Awr vented his frustration by setting them running up the steep hill beyond the east gate. On the last run, Duvain would have fainted if not for Rold's hand on his back, pushing him onward. Endyn didn't fare much better. His brother fatigued quickly, and Squads Two and Three had done hundreds of push-ups—in full armor and their packs—Awr's sadistic way of encouraging Endyn to recover from his exhaustion faster.

  Meal times gave them a few minutes to recover before the endless base duties: fortifying the palisade ramparts, digging ditches and latrines, cleaning their cramped quarters, and providing muscle power for whatever tasks the villagers needed to prepare Saerheim for the coming winter.

  Then came the drills. Oh, so many drills! Formation practice bled into quick-time marches, rapid redirectioning, and recovery from a collapsed shield wall. Awr and Rold usually spent their last hour of training hammering tactics into their heads, then finished with extra weapons practice. On the bad days, they'd spend another hour marching at top speed. Stragglers would be left in the dense forests to find their own way back to the village.

  Thankfully, the quality of the evening meal had improved over the dinners served back at Icespire. The villagers grew their own herbs and spices, and one of the mess officers even spoke enough of the Fehlan tongue to learn a few Saerheim tricks for turning dried meat, stale bread, and withered root vegetables into surprisingly edible meals.

  If they were lucky, they had an hour or two of personal time—usually spent polishing, sharpening, and mending their gear. Awr lost himself in the bottom of a wineskin or mug of ale whenever possible. Weasel, Owen, and Rold diced and gambled. Endyn joined in whenever they allowed him, but retreated when they stared as if he'd infect them with his dragonskin. Duvain had tried in vain to explain that the condition wasn't contagious. They'd simply given him the cold shoulder as well.

  The rest of the Deadheads were friendly enough. They invited him and Endyn to gamble, drink, and swap stories with them, though they still shot odd glances at Endyn. The fact that he'd survived a woodcutter viper's bite made him phenomenon enough, but Duvain suspected Weasel or Rold had talked about Endyn's condition.

  Every man in Ninth Company stood one of the three eight-hour watch shifts. Most of the Legionnaires in the other four squads hated night shift, but Duvain preferred it. The chill cooled Endyn's skin, preventing the dragonskin from growing worse. Though the armor still rubbed the skin raw, at least he didn't have to worry about sweating. However, some nights grew terribly cold, exacerbating the pain of the dragonskin.

  Tonight, Squad Three had evening watch, which ended at midnight. Duvain, on patrol of the south wall with Endyn, caught a glimpse of Captain Lingram sitting in the main square. The captain was talking with Elder Asmund and sharing a cup of drikke—a potent brew made of fermented malt, hops, yeast, juniper boughs, and sugar. The captain appeared relaxed, at ease with Elder Asmund, speaking in Fehlan. Duvain only caught occasion snatches of their conversation but understood none of it.

  Duvain wasn't the only one watching the captain. Lord Virinus stood at the door of his hut, his gaze fixed on the two men lounging in the main square. Even from this distance, Duvain caught the unmistakable venom in his expression. Duvain had noticed that Lord Virinus' eyes followed the captain's movements. Just as Awr's glare tracked the nobleman.

  "What do you think," Weasel was asking as Duvain and Endyn reached the brazier at the northeast corner of the wall. "After nearly a week sittin’ around holdin’ our pricks and doin’ piss-all, I find myself wondering what’s so important we got dragged all the way out here. Not that I mind a lot of doin’ nothin’, but I'd rather be doin’ it back in camp, or behind the walls of Dagger Garrison."

  Owen said nothing. He sat on the wooden rampart, reclined against the wall, a faraway look in his eyes as he stared at the fire. His fingers toyed with a silver sword pendant hanging from a leather thong about his neck.

  Weasel scowled. "Hey, taintwad!" He snapped his fingers in front of Owen's eyes.

  Owen jerked upright. "What?"

  Weasel shook his head. "Snap out of it before Sarge thinks you're nappin’ on watch."

  "I wasn't sleeping," Owen said in a heavy voice.

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Lemme guess, thinkin’ about your girl again?"

  Owen nodded.

  "She give you that?" Weasel asked, indicating the pendant with his chin.

  Owen glanced down and nodded. "Her father taught her to pray to the Swordsman."

  "God of heroes." Weasel snorted.

  "God of war, too." Owen's brow furrowed. "Said it would keep me safe."

  Weasel rolled his eyes. "Yes, a piece of bleedin' metal is going to keep the barbarians' swords from guttin’ you."

  Owen's face hardened. "At least I have someone to pray to, someone to respect. No doubt you're too good for the gods."

  Weasel shook his head. "Not at all. I just never had much use for heroism. Now, the Watcher in the Dark, god of the night, patron of thieves, that's a god worth talkin’ to."

  "Patron of thieves?" Duvain's eyebrows rose. "I thought the Watcher was the god of justice."

  Weasel shrugged. "To some people he is. I prefer him as the face of vengeance. More poetic, that way." He fixed Duvain with a hard look. "Don't tell me you buy into all that rubbish about the Swordsman, too? Endyn?"

  Endyn shook his head and produced a small crown-shaped pendant made of iron. Duvain had one to match; they'd been the last gift from their mother, who had instilled in them a reverence for the Master, god of virtue and nobility. Though she'd been as lowborn as anyone in the little village of Northfield, she'd had an inner dignity that would have belonged in any court on Einan.

  "Mock all you want," Owen said, "but I'll keep it if it means a better chance of getting home to her safe."

  "How long has it been?" Weasel asked, his tone surprisingly free of mockery.

  Owen sighed. "Two years, eight months, and two days." His brow furrowed. "I'm starting to forget what she looks like."

  "Might be for the best," Weasel said. "You know how these things go. Woman promises a man she'll wait. Man goes off to war, comes home a hero and finds woman in bed with his neighbor. And his neighbor's brother."

  Duvain raised an eyebrow at the oddly specific detail.

  Weasel threw up his hands. "I'm just sayin', you may want to think about findin’ yourself a new dame once you get home. You'll have enough Icespire coin in your pocket to get any girl."

  Owen shook his head. "I don't want any girl. I want Issala."

  "Name like that, she's definitely imaginary." A vulpine grin spread Weasel's rat face. "Or a horse-faced nag."

  Owen scowled. "She was the prettiest girl in the Merchant's Quarter. All the other men were after her, but she picked me. Her father, though…"

  "Didn't want her marryin’ a penniless git like you, eh?" Weasel nodded. "Oldest tale in the book."

  "Not at all," Owen said. "Her father didn't care that I didn't have money. But he said he could never let his daughter marry a man who hadn't served his city with pride. He was a Legionnaire himself. Fought at Garrow's Canyon. With our captain, actually."

  "Wait, you said you're from Praamis?" Weasel asked, and Owen nodded. "And your girl's pa was one of the only four men to walk away from Garrow's Canyon?"

  Again, Owen nodded.

  "Keeper's icy teats!" Weasel whistled. "You're dreamin’ about the daughter of Tiaban Bloodfist, a bona fide war hero? I underestimated you, I did."

  Owen gave him a sad smile. "Can't marry her as long
as I'm on this side of the Frozen Sea. I still have two of my four years left to serve."

  "Damn!" Weasel shook his head. "That's a long time to wait."

  Owen nodded. "It is, but she's worth it."

  "If her old man's the Bloodfist, you're damn right she is." Weasel settled back into a comfortable position. "You'd never pay for a drink again, marryin’ into a military legacy like that."

  "Scouts returning!" Rold called from his perch atop the ramparts. "Squad Three, get that gate open."

  Owen, Weasel, Duvain, and Endyn rushed to the eastern gate. With effort, they lifted the heavy locking bar and swung one massive gate open. The two scouts trotted through with a nod of thanks, but didn't stop until they reached Captain Lingram.

  "I wonder what news they're bringing," Duvain pondered aloud.

  Weasel snorted. "Like as not, a whole fat lot of nothin’. We're way behind the front, with an entire army between us and the bastard savages. The worst thing we've got to worry about is the whorefrost." He grinned. "Too bloody cold, and if you fall asleep in her arms, there's a good chance you'll end up dead."

  Owen shook his head. "Not that you'd know. There isn't a whore in the Beggar's Quarter that would come within a league of that diseased lump of flesh you call a prick."

  Weasel grinned. "Tarts ain't my type, Owen. Ask anyone."

  Owen rolled his eyes. "You sleep with one general's wife, and you suddenly think you're the Mistress' gift to women."

  Both Duvain's and Endyn's eyebrows shot up, which only made Weasel's grin broaden.

  "It's how he got his name," Owen said with a disdainful shake of his head. "In all the battles he's fought, he's somehow managed not to get dead. Slippery as a weasel, and about as trustworthy, too. He'll shag any woman within thirty paces—and that's using the term 'woman' generously."