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

by Andy Peloquin

  Duvain set off without a word. The captain deserved a moment alone.

  "They're staying to die," Owen whispered.

  Duvain nodded. "Die like Legionnaires." It was as much as anyone in the Legion of Heroes could ask for.

  The villagers bustled about the town square, under the shouted commands of one of the other sergeants. Duvain stumbled through the mess of men and into the main longhouse where Eira had set up her makeshift infirmary.

  One of the young women assisting the healer directed Duvain to take a seat. After a quick glance at his arm, she rattled off a question in Fehlan and held up a needle and catgut thread. Duvain nodded. The woman scurried away, returning a moment later with a bowl of water and a cloth. She bathed the wound, eliciting a wince from Duvain, and set about stitching it up. Duvain gritted his teeth against the pain and bit back a cry. So many of the others were far worse off than he; it would dishonor their suffering if he cried out.

  Four men lay silent on the pallets, eyes wide and unseeing. Another Legionnaire screamed as Eira wrestled with the shaft of an arrow buried in his gut. Blood pumped from two more arrows in his thigh and shoulder. His cries grew weaker as the pool of crimson around him widened, until he fell unconscious. The healer cursed in Fehlan and moved on to the next Legionnaire.

  The young woman said something in Fehlan, gathered up her bowl, and left. Duvain studied his arm—the stitching was crude, but at least the wound would heal. He'd bear a nasty scar for the rest of his life. He'd be lucky to get away with just a scar.

  The smell of death hung thick in the longhouse. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the stench of loosening bowels, accentuated by the pungent aroma of Eira's potions, poultices, and salves. Smoke from the fire burning in the earthen pit filled the enclosed space.

  Duvain's brow furrowed. No, that couldn't be right. The few embers in the firepit emitted little smoke and no heat. The smell of burning straw came a moment later. He glanced at the roof, and his eyes went wide at the sight. The wooden ceiling beams and dry thatch of the longhouse was ablaze.

  "Get out!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Fire!"

  Eira turned to him, and he pointed upward. "Fire!" he shouted again.

  The healer followed his finger, her eyes widening at sight of the burning roof. Without hesitation, she barked orders to her assistants, and they scrambled to finish tying the dressings on the two Legionnaires they tended. Duvain raced toward the nearest wounded, a Legionnaire with his arm in a sling and a bandage around his head.

  "Can you stand?" he shouted.

  The man fixed him with a blank stare.

  "The longhouse is burning!" Duvain reached for the man's good arm and tried to help him stand.

  The Legionnaire stared dumbly at him, fresh blood staining the bandage on his head.

  "Owen!" Duvain shouted. "Owen!"

  Owen appeared a moment later. His face turned a nauseated green at the sight of so much blood, but Duvain's shouts drew his attention.

  "We have to get them out of here before the longhouse burns down!"

  Nodding, Owen stooped to help another wounded Legionnaire to stand.

  Duvain half-dragged, half-carried the man outside the longhouse. Horror thrummed through him at the sight that greeted him.

  Saerheim burned.

  Fire consumed the thatched roofs of the longhouses. Smoke hung thick in the air, setting him coughing. The Legionnaire beside him grunted, and the weight on Duvain's shoulder suddenly lessened. He whirled, wide-eyed. The man lay on his back, a flaming arrow buried in his chest.

  "Duvain!" A thick voice echoed above the crackle of flames. "Duvain!"

  Duvain recognized the voice. "Endyn!" he shouted. "Over here."

  A massive figure lumbered through the choking grey clouds. Endyn's face creased into a relieved smile. "We need to get out of here!" he shouted.

  "I know, but we can't leave the wounded." Duvain turned back to the main longhouse. Owen had a wounded man's arm slung over his shoulder. A moment later, Eira appeared at the door, supporting another Legionnaire.

  Duvain rushed past them and into the longhouse. Smoke, so thick Duvain could hardly see, set him coughing. A terrible heat filled the air, constricting his lungs. His eyes scanned the murky haze for any sign of movement.

  His foot struck something hard and he stumbled, falling forward. He cried out as pain raced up his injured arm. Looking down, he glimpsed a body through the smoke. One of the healer's assistants. She wasn't moving.

  With his good hand, Duvain grasped her collar and dragged her toward the door. Soot filled his lungs, setting him coughing. The heat in the longhouse intensified as the fire spread down the walls. A wooden beam collapsed not five paces from his head, and another crashed to the ground somewhere in the back of the smoke-filled longhouse. The building crumbled around him, but he couldn't drag the unconscious woman any faster.

  Endyn's bulk materialized beside him. He bent, lifted the woman, and slung her over his shoulder. "Let's go!" he shouted.

  Duvain stumbled after him out into the night. A heartbeat after he staggered through the open door, the longhouse's central beam crashed to the ground. The roof collapsed, bringing down the walls with a thunderous roar. Dust and smoke billowed around them.

  "This way!" Endyn cried.

  Duvain rushed after his brother. Outside, the wind kept the smoke at bay enough that they could see their way. The light of the burning village illuminated the outlines of the people rushing toward the west gate. Women, children, and the aged huddled just within the gate, surrounded by the thirty remaining Legionnaires. Captain Lingram, Lord Virinus, and the four mercenaries were there as well. Two of the mercenaries gripped a hastily-improvised litter, upon which lay the small form of a girl. Branda, daughter of Eirik Throrsson.

  The men of Saerheim, however, marched in the opposite direction—toward the east gate and the Eirdkilrs waiting there. Their faces were grim, set in hard expressions. Duvain read it in their eyes: they knew their pitchforks, scythes, and rusted weapons couldn't hope to match the Eirdkilrs' weapons, but they would fight to give their families a chance to escape.

  "Soldier, is that the last of the wounded?" Captain Lingram shouted at Endyn.

  Endyn hesitated. "The longhouse collapsed."

  "We got out the ones we could, Captain," Duvain answered.

  Captain Lingram's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "That's all anyone could ask for."

  "Captain, if we are to make our escape, we must move now!" Lord Virinus snapped. "Nothing matters more than the safety of the Hilmir’s daughter."

  The captain nodded. "I understand, my lord. I have no desire to hesitate any longer than necessary, but the retreat must be coordinated."

  Lord Virinus drew himself up to his full, less-than-impressive height. "I command you to—"

  Captain Lingram rounded on him, his eyes flashing hotter than the burning village. "You surrendered your right to command, my lord. Until we are safely back in Icespire, I am in charge here. Do not forget it."

  Lord Virinus bristled, but Captain Lingram's glare silenced him.

  Expression sorrowful, Captain Lingram glanced toward the east side of the camp, where the Legionnaires and villagers fought to buy them time to escape. Clearly he wanted to be with them, but he knew his duty lay in protecting the villagers, Lord Virinus' company, and his men still alive. With a sad shake of his head, he turned back to the people assembled at the gate.

  "All right, lads," he said in a quiet voice, "it's time to go."

  Chapter Twelve

  Duvain forced himself to take slow, steady breaths. The fear roiling in his stomach threatened to overwhelm him. Judging by the nervous shifting of the men beside him, dismay held them all in its icy grip.

  Thirty Legionnaires formed the shield wall—three ranks deep, and ten men long—barely enough to span the broad gate. Duvain had no doubt the Eirdkilrs would overrun them easily, but Captain Lingram's orders had been clear. They had to stand. It was the only wa
y the villagers would escape.

  It took three hundred people a surprising amount of time to leave. Two heavily-laden wagons had evacuated the soldiers too wounded to stand, along with enough supplies for the journey to Sentry Garrison. The villagers had left behind everything they couldn't carry—their entire lives' work burned in their longhouses, but they had no choice but to flee.

  If only they'd flee faster! Close to fifty villagers crowded toward the gate, waiting for their turn to leave. The exodus could only have taken ten minutes, but to Duvain, it felt like a lifetime.

  The cries of the Legionnaires holding the east gate drifted through the crackling of the burning longhouses. Every sound pierced Duvain's heart. He knew what was happening at the gate. Sergeant Brash, Corporal Awr, and their Legionnaires fought beside the men of Saerheim to give them a chance to survive. They faced Eirdkilrs in the thousands, and they numbered fewer than forty. It was only a matter of time.

  Time ran out sooner than Duvain expected. Huge figures appeared in the smoke, racing around the village, filling the night with bestial war cries. Two, three, five, six. Six Eirdkilrs, massive men with beards as shaggy as the Wasteland ice bear pelts they wore. They gripped massive war clubs, axes, and spears far too heavy for any but the strongest Legionnaire to lift. Duvain had no desire to see the carnage those weapons could wreak. He gritted his teeth and whispered a silent prayer to the Swordsman that the barbarians would be too busy with the burning houses to notice them.

  Icy blue Eirdkilr eyes came to rest on the line of Legionnaires, and vicious grins split their huge faces. Howling into the sky, they hefted their weapons and charged. Their long legs ate up the ground at an impossible pace—or maybe it was just Duvain's fear that sped everything up. His mouth went dry, and his arms refused to respond to his commands to raise his shield.

  The pack of Eirdkilrs crashed into the shield wall with bone-jarring force. The front rank of Legionnaires stumbled back, and a shield rim slammed into Duvain's face. Blood filled his mouth. The taste snapped him from his stupor. Lifting his spear, he thrust it toward the barbarian pressing against the Legionnaire to his right. The spear head struck a glancing blow, bouncing off the thick, white hides slung over the barbarian's back. With a wild cry, the Eirdkilr raised his axe and brought it smashing down onto a stocky Legionnaire in the front row. The man—Duvain didn't know his name— barely managed to raise his shield to block the blow. He cried out as the impact shattered his arm and drove him to one knee.

  Duvain struck again, and this time the spear found its target. The blade cut a long gash across the barbarian's cheek. The Eirdkilr whirled toward him and unleashed a war cry, raising his axe to strike. Another Legionnaire brought the savage down with the thrust of a short sword into his gut. When the Eirdkilr fell to his knees, the same soldier tore out his throat with the edge of his blade.

  Something big and heavy slammed into Duvain's left side. He turned and raised his sword to defend himself, but it was only Endyn. His brother had been knocked into him by the Legionnaire in front of him. The soldier in the front row fell without a scream, an Eirdkilr axe splitting him from crown to shoulder. The barbarian released his grip on the heavy battle axe and drew his sword. Endyn's hewing spear removed his head in one great, sweeping motion. The barbarian's decapitated body fell backward, spraying blood.

  The sudden rush of battle faded as the last Eirdkilr fell beneath the stabbing Legionnaire short swords. Duvain stared wildly around, unable to believe it. They'd survived!

  Not all of them. Four Legionnaires had fallen to the Eirdkilrs, and two more were too badly wounded to keep fighting.

  "Legionnaires, fall back!"

  The cry came from the gate. Captain Lingram stood there, beckoning for them. The gate was clear, and the retreating backs of the fleeing villagers could be seen disappearing into the darkness.

  "Double time!" Corporal Rold shouted. Wiping blood—his own, and that of the man who'd died beside him—from his eyes, he reached for one of the wounded Legionnaires and helped him up. "Let's go, soldier!"

  "My arm!" the man screamed. His sword arm ended just below the shoulder; the rest lay on the ground.

  "We'll get you a new one, soldier!" Rold snapped. "For now, we run."

  The man's cries of agony grew louder as he stumbled after Rold. Duvain found himself rooted to the spot. He couldn't flee—his feet refused to heed his commands to move. He couldn't tear his eyes from the lifeless bodies around him. Eirdkilr lay beside Legionnaire, each equally silent and motionless in death.

  "Duvain!" Endyn's cry filtered through the blood pounding in his ears. "Let's go!"

  Duvain moved, slowly, as if lead filled his legs, stumbling after his retreating company.

  Beside the gate, the last wagon waited for the wounded soldiers. The driver fought for control of his horse, which reared and plunged, its eyes wide. The smell of blood and smoke drove it wild with fear.

  The beast let out a terrified shriek and reared once more. It took Duvain's mind a moment to register the arrow that had suddenly sprouted from the horse's neck. Beside him, the driver fell with a cough, hurled to the side by an invisible hand. He lay where he'd fallen, blood trickling from the arrow lodged in his throat.

  "Enemy contact!" Rold shouted. "About face, lads!"

  The corporal seized Duvain's arm and whirled him about. At the far end of the main square, a few hundred paces away, dozens of Eirdkilrs appeared through the smoke. Ten of them carried bows, which they drew back and loosed at the huddled Legionnaires. Duvain ducked behind his shield as the arrows thunked into the earth around him.

  "The gates!" Captain Lingram shouted. "Get to the gates!"

  Duvain watched from behind his shield as Weasel, Owen, and two other Legionnaires rushed toward the open gate. He knew it would be futile—the Eirdkilrs would swarm over them in a matter of minutes.

  A looming figure lumbered past him. Endyn. His brother raced not toward the gate, but in the direction of the cart. The horse's protests had quieted, its struggles weakening as the blood gushed from the arrow wound in its neck. With a quiet moan, it fell and lay still.

  "Endyn, what are you doing?" Duvain screamed.

  "Help me!" Endyn cried. Drawing his sword, he cut the horse's traces and seized the cart's wheels.

  Duvain suddenly understood. Closing the gate would do little, but Endyn had found a way to block them.

  He raced toward Endyn. "Owen!" he cried, thrusting a finger toward the nearest burning home. "Get fire."

  With a nod, Owen raced off.

  The barbarians' howls of delight filled the night, adding to the clatter of arrows thumping into the earth around Duvain, Endyn, and Weasel. Endyn heaved on the wagon, dragging it toward the gate.

  "Corporal, we need to get the wounded out of here!" Duvain shouted. "We'll hold them off, at least a little while."

  Rold's jaw had taken on a stubborn set. "You're idiots if you think this'll work."

  Duvain ignored him. He reached the wagon and gripped one of the shafts, lending his weight and strength to Endyn's. Weasel did the same with the other shaft.

  The wagon, loaded with provisions, weighed more than Duvain had expected. Even after Rold got the wounded off the wagon and on their feet, the three of them struggled to move it even a hand's breadth. He cast a glance back and his heart sank. The horse's struggles had cracked the front axle.

  But that didn't stop him from pulling for all he was worth. They had to cover the escape, no matter what. If they didn't, Awr, Brash, and the other Legionnaires at the east gate would have sacrificed their lives for nothing.

  The approaching Eirdkilrs seemed to understand what they were doing. Arrows whistled down around the three of them, and Endyn grunted as one pinged off his breastplate. Duvain ducked into the protective cover of the wagon.

  Weasel had nowhere to hide. He shrieked and fell, an arrow piercing his leg. Without a shield, he couldn't protect himself from the arrows. Howling in pain, he crawled under the wagon.


  Endyn cried out. Duvain's eyes widened—an arrow protruded from the side of his breastplate. A moment later, another thunked into his upper shoulder, followed by another in his leg. But the big Legionnaire refused to fall. With a grimace, he leaned forward and dragged the wagon onward.

  Duvain had a choice: help Endyn or shield him from the arrows. It was no choice at all. Releasing his grip on the wagon, he dove for a fallen Legionnaire's shield and raced around Endyn. He took up position between his brother and the oncoming barbarians. Arrows thumped into the shield as Duvain tried to block the incoming shafts.

  Too many slipped past. Every time Duvain looked back, a new shaft had pierced Endyn's chest, shoulder, back, sides, and legs. The barbarians loosed as they raced toward the struggling Legionnaires. Within seconds, Duvain knew they'd be overwhelmed.

  "Endyn!" he screamed.

  With a cry, Endyn threw his weight into dragging the wagon. The wheels creaked forward for a moment before, with an ominous crack, the axle snapped. The wagon tilted precariously—right toward the open gate. Duvain shielded Endyn as his brother raced around to the side of the wagon, crouched, pressed his shoulder against the underside of the wagon, and heaved. His muscles corded, his huge legs driving upward. A thunderous roar rumbled from his throat. Slowly, the wagon wheels lifted from the ground, and it toppled over onto its side with a tremendous crash.

  Endyn sagged, exhausted. The effort had taken everything out of him.

  "Get over the wagon!" Duvain shouted.

  Endyn struggled to his feet and tried to scramble up onto the wagon bed. His arms trembled, exhausted from the effort, and he fell.

  Duvain's gaze darted toward the oncoming Eirdkilrs. They had reached the well, and closed the remaining distance to the gate at full speed. Their howling war cries grew louder as they drew closer.

  A small figure appeared from the thick smoke. Owen raced toward them, a torch held in his hands.

  Duvain's gut tightened. The Eirdkilrs spotted the racing Legionnaire, and their bows turned toward him. More than a dozen barbarians loosed at the same time. The shafts streaked through the darkness toward Owen.