Ragged Heroes

by Andy Peloquin

  Endyn, surprised by the captain's interest, managed to rumble out, "F-Fine, sir."

  "Good," Captain Lingram said, but without really listening. His brow had a deep line down the middle. He seemed distracted, out of sorts. He usually paid attention to everything around him, yet now his eyes never focused on anything.

  "Is everything well, Captain?" Duvain asked.

  "What's that?" Captain Lingram looked up, and the light returned to his eyes. "Oh, yes, of course." He nodded.

  The captain's distraction worried Duvain. Something had to be seriously wrong to make Captain Lingram look worried. But he didn't know the captain well enough to persist.

  Without another word to them, the captain strode away.

  "It's bad." Awr's rasping voice sounded quietly from behind them. "I don't know what's got under his skin, but he only gets like that when the sky's about to break open and piss acid."

  "But what could it be?" Rold demanded. "You heard the last scouting report, just like I did. Not even a hint of any Eirdkilr getting past the front lines. In fact, General Vessach seemed in high spirits. He'd planned something special for the savages."

  "Might be that's it," Awr said. "Vessach's competent enough, but the Eirdkilrs are smart. Captain may know something we—"

  "You Keeper-damned useless heathen witch!" A high-pitched shout cut off Awr's words. "You're trying to poison her!"

  All eyes darted toward the small hut, and to the elegantly-clad figure stomping out the front door. Lord Virinus held the old woman by the arm, dragging her along behind him. She looked like a cornered wildcat, protesting and spitting what could only be Fehlan curses. With a vicious snarl, the nobleman shoved the old woman. She stumbled but caught herself nimbly and unleashed a fresh torrent of angry words on him.

  Lord Virinus waved a slim finger in her face. "I bring her to you to heal her, and all you've done is make things worse with your ridiculous potions and poultices and witchcraft."

  The old woman—the village healer, Duvain had learned—was uncowed by Lord Virinus' rage. Though she barely reached his chest, she had no problem squaring off with him, meeting his anger with an acerbic stream of Fehlan that needed no translation.

  "My lord!" A breathless Captain Lingram raced toward them. "My lord, what is the matter?"

  Lord Virinus rounded on the captain, his tone apoplectic. "This savage is killing my guest. She—"

  "Lord Virinus." Captain Lingram cut off the nobleman with a voice hard as iron. "While I can appreciate your concerns, remember where we are."

  "Wading in the mud and filth of barbarians and ignorants!" Lord Virinus' voice rose to a shout.

  "We are in their home," Captain Lingram said, "where they have done nothing but welcome us and provide us the best they can."

  "The best?" The nobleman's voice turned shrill. "I haven't had a proper meal in the last week, and I sleep on a mat of reeds rather than a real bed. Under any other circumstances, this would be an insult!"

  "But we aren't under other circumstances." The captain spoke in a cold, calm voice. "We have each been given a command by our superiors, and we are to make the best of the situation. Which I took to mean accepting the hospitality of our allies and not insulting their revered elders."

  "It's no insult if it is the truth!" Lord Virinus shouted. "After all this time, the girl has shown no sign of recovering. That…that crone has spent every day applying one foul brew or poultice after another, to no effect. If anything, the girl is getting worse."

  For the first time, it seemed he noticed the crowd of Legionnaires that had gathered—soldiers loved anything that distracted them from the drudgery of their mundane rituals. "And do your men have nothing better to do than stand around lolly-gagging?"

  Captain Lingram turned and nodded to the assorted Legionnaires. "Back to work, or back to your tasks, men. This doesn't concern you." He turned back to Lord Virinus. "I'd be happy to listen to your concerns, my lord, but perhaps somewhere more private?" He gestured toward the small, muddy track that ran between Lord Virinus' hut and the northern longhouse.

  With a snort, the nobleman stomped off. Captain Lingram followed, his expression as tight as his stiff shoulders.

  Owen and Endyn returned their attention to their post at the northwest corner of the wall, but Weasel turned to Duvain. "Seems like a good time to patrol along the north wall, doesn't it?" He winked. "Never know what sort of enemies could be hidin’ out there."

  Duvain understood. He shot a questioning glance at Rold.

  The corporal nodded. "Good thinking, Private. Keep your eyes open."

  With a crisp salute, Weasel began to march eastward along north wall—toward to the place where Captain Lingram and Lord Virinus stood arguing.

  "…must understand who she is, Captain," Lord Virinus was saying in a clipped tone. "Eirik Throrsson is more than just the leader of clan Fjall—he is the only one who might unite the rest of the clans against the Eirdkilrs. The future of the war depends on this alliance. Duke Dyrund went to great lengths to make peace with the Fjall. It is only by the Minstrel's mercy that I was not struck down by the same fever that claimed him, half our escort, and soon the Hilmir's daughter. Were that to happen, calling it a diplomatic fiasco would be the understatement of the epoch."

  "I can appreciate that, my lord." Captain Lingram inclined his head. "What you and the Duke have accomplished with Throrsson is truly admirable. His wisdom will be sorely missed."

  Lord Virinus' lips pressed into a thin line, and he scanned the captain’s expression as if expecting an insult hidden in those words.

  Captain Lingram's face could have been carved from stone. "With the Duke's passing, you are the Prince's envoy to the Fehlan. And we are among the Deid, the oldest of our Fehlan allies among the Fehlan. Insulting one of their elders would be like slapping Prince Toran in the face."

  Lord Virinus' eyes narrowed. "Nonsense!"

  "You've spent time among the Fehlan, my lord," Captain Lingram replied. "You know how they venerate their elders. Eira is considered one of the greatest healers not only among the Deid, but all the Fehlan clans."

  Lord Virinus snorted. "Bloody Minstrel have mercy!"

  Captain Lingram didn't dignify that with an answer. "Your frustrations at our guest's wellbeing are valid, but we must remember that we are in Saerheim, not Icespire."

  The nobleman ground his teeth. "Very well, Captain." The words came out in an almost-sneer. "If you feel so strongly about it, you smooth things over with the natives." He shook a finger in the captain's face. "But mark my words, that crone isn't coming near Branda again!"

  The captain shrugged. "I will relay your message to Elder Asmund and Eira." With a stiff nod, he turned and strode toward the main longhouse.

  Duvain kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and did his best to keep his pace even. The last thing he needed was to attract the ire of Lord Virinus. He and Weasel reached the northeast corner of the wall, turned, and marched back to Corporal Rold at the northwest.

  "Well?"

  Weasel relayed the information they'd gleaned from the captain's conversation.

  "By the Watcher," growled Rold. "Branda, the daughter of Eirik Throrsson? If the Fjall join the war against the Eirdkilrs—"

  "Things would end a lot more quickly," Weasel finished. "But if she dies…" He drew his thumb across his throat.

  "The most powerful clan leader in Fehlan history becomes our enemy." For the first time, genuine fear echoed in Rold's voice. He made the sign of the Watcher. "Keeper have mercy on us if that day ever comes."

  * * *

  Duvain labored under the weight of his two packs. His own armor and ruck weighed enough to slow him down, but Sergeant Brash, in a particularly foul mood, had loaded them all up with double weight. They'd barely marched five hundred paces from camp, but already fatigue threatened to drag him to the ground.

  "Company, shield wall!" Sergeant Brash shouted. "Spear formation."

  Squad Three weren't alone in their misery.
Sergeant Brash had dragged Squads Two and Four along for good measure. Squad Five only escaped by merit of snoring the day away after a long midnight shift. Squad One had called out insults and gibes from their position on the ramparts. More than one marching Legionnaire had growled at the "lucky bastards on watch".

  With the three squads, thirty-two men stood in the shield wall. Sergeant Brash barked out the orders from ahead of the line, while the sergeants of Squads Two and Four snapped and snarled at any Legionnaire too slow to respond to commands.

  With an exhausted groan, Duvain hitched up the packs and struggled to take his place in line without losing his grip on his shield and spear. He shook his head as Endyn tried to help support the load. The last thing his brother needed was to piss off Sergeant Brash any more than he already had. Endyn's performance in the last few drill sessions had not improved.

  The sergeant loved to push them to their limits. When on forced marches, he'd wait until they were exhausted, then order them to form a shield line and advance in tight formation. During line drills, he'd have them fast-march in every direction until their legs ached and they couldn't remember which way they were originally headed. He'd call new formations, speeds, and patterns of movement before they'd finished forming up the last one.

  Duvain understood the need for such drills—after all, they needed to be prepared to face any enemy anywhere—but basic training had been nowhere near as challenging. The exertion had strengthened his muscles, but his body suffered under the strain. He was one mistake away from snapping. Or collapsing.

  Endyn tripped over his own feet and stumbled forward. His hewing spear knocked off Weasel's helmet, and his massive knee struck Owen in the back.

  "Keeper take it!" Weasel shouted, whirling on Endyn. "When are you goin’ to learn—?"

  "Easy, Weasel." Owen interposed himself, rubbing his back. "Give him a break."

  Weasel's voice rose. "A break? What the bloody hell for?" He snarled up at Endyn. "There's no way you're a Deadhead. You're not even fit to be a Legionnaire."

  Endyn mumbled an apology, but Weasel launched into a tirade, cussing him out for his uselessness. Sergeant Brash made no move to stop the tongue-lashing. When Weasel finally ran out of insults, all the sergeant said was, "Back in line, soldier."

  Red-faced, eyes downcast, Endyn took his place beside Duvain.

  "How the Keeper's name did he even get into the Legion?" Weasel muttered in a voice loud enough for Endyn to hear.

  "Forward march, double time!" Sergeant Brash shouted. He'd abandoned the shield wall practice…for now. No doubt he'd spring it on them again when they least expected it.

  As they marched, Duvain felt himself flagging. His shoulders ached, his lungs burned, and his head began to spin. He couldn't keep it up much longer, not with the double load.

  "Embrace the suck, soldier," Rold muttered behind him. "Fight through it, or you're nothing more than an air thief and don't deserve to wear Legion colors."

  The corporal's words caught Duvain by surprise. Beneath the insult, there was genuine concern for his wellbeing. Rold actually wanted him to succeed.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself onward. One foot in front of the other, though it felt as if molten lead filled his legs. He'd get through this hell one Keeper-damned step at a time.

  "Company, halt!"

  At the sergeant’s shout, Duvain's head snapped up. They'd come around a bend in the forest track. A short distance away, a team of draft horses struggled to pull a wagon free of the thick mud.

  "Ho, Deadheads!" shouted one of the two Legion guards accompanying the wagon. "Give us a hand, won't you?"

  "Got yourselves stuck again, Eltin?" Rold shouted. "That's the third time this week, way I hear it."

  The Legionnaire Eltin scowled. "Just for that, I'll make sure the quartermaster gives you a tankard of piss instead of ale."

  Sergeant Brash turned to them. "Company, rest!" he called.

  With a groan, Duvain dropped his two packs and sagged to the ground, uncaring of the mud seeping into his breeches. He was just glad to be free of his burden.

  "On your feet, meat!" Sergeant Brash shouted.

  Duvain's heart sank. The sergeant stared at him, his eyes cold and hard. He marched toward Duvain and crouched beside him. "Last one to the gate, first one to the heavy lifting." He only shouted when giving orders, yet every Legionnaire feared his quiet, calm voice.

  Duvain wanted to weep. He had nothing left—he doubted he could even stand, much less march over to the wagon and be of any use.

  Sergeant Brash's eyes held no mercy. "On your feet." His eyes were cold, dangerous. "Now."

  Duvain struggled to rise. Every muscle in his body protested. Tears of frustration and anger brimmed in his eyes. It felt he was lifting the weight of the world on his shoulders as he fought to one knee, then…

  A huge hand rested on his shoulder. Endyn shook his head. "I've got it." Dropping his pack beside Duvain, he strode toward the mired wagon.

  "Get back in line, soldier." Sergeant Brash stepped in front of Endyn. "I gave your brother an order."

  "Let me do it, Sergeant," Endyn rumbled. "Please."

  Sergeant Brash locked eyes with the big Legionnaire. "Is that how this is, meat?" He spoke to Duvain without taking his gaze from Endyn. "Are you that weak you're willing to let your brother here carry your burden for you?"

  Duvain realized Sergeant Brash spoke to him. "No, Sergeant." He staggered to his feet, but Endyn whirled—a startling movement from one so large—and shook his head. Duvain yielded to the drag of his pack and sagged again.

  "Let me, Sergeant." Endyn's thick voice carried across the line of Deadheads.

  "Let anyone do it, Sergeant!" Eltin called. "We're burning daylight here."

  Sergeant Brash narrowed his eyes. "You sure you want to do this, meat?" His voice held a dangerous tone.

  Endyn nodded. "I've got this."

  "So be it." Sergeant Brash stepped aside. "You've got it. Alone."

  Duvain's eyes widened. Barrels, crates, and boxes of supplies were piled high on the back of the wagon. The load required two enormous draft horses to haul it, and all their struggles had failed to drag the wagon out of the muck. "But Sergeant—"

  "Sit your candy ass down, soldier!" Brash's voice was cold, hard. "You let your brother fight your battles for you, so by the Swordsman, he's going to fight it."

  Endyn didn't hesitate. Squaring his shoulders, he lumbered toward the rear of the wagon and gripped the wagon's backboard in his huge hands.

  "Eltin, get your boys out of there," Sergeant Brash called.

  "What's that now?" Eltin said, his expression puzzled.

  "Big man's going to haul the wagon out of the muck for you. Isn't that right, soldier?" The sergeant didn't need to sneer—the utter absence of expression conveyed his disdain to perfection.

  Endyn nodded. "Yes, Sergeant."

  Sergeant Brash took the lead reins of the draft horses and waved Eltin away. "We've got this."

  Eltin exchanged glances with his fellow Legionnaire and the three teamsters riding with the wagon. They shrugged and stepped aside.

  "Suit yourself," Eltin said. "Just get it done before nightfall, eh? I've got a schedule to keep."

  The sergeant gave him a withering glare, and Eltin snapped his mouth shut.

  "You ready, soldier?" Brash called out.

  Endyn nodded.

  "Push." The single word, spoken in a quiet voice, came out so cold and hard it could have been cut from the icebergs floating in the Frozen Sea.

  The sergeant tugged on the lead rope, and the draft horses leaned into their traces. Endyn's face reddened with the exertion as he shoved, and a groan escaped his lips.

  The wagon didn't budge.

  "Again," Sergeant Brash said in the same low tone.

  Teeth gritted, spine arching, Endyn pushed once more. The muscles on his forearms corded with the effort. Still, the wagon remained firmly mired. Duvain sucked in a breath as Endyn's bo
ots slipped on the muddy ground. His rear foot flew out and he fell to one knee, gasping for breath.

  "No man wins a fight alone," Sergeant Brash said. "You succeed and fail as a unit. Every man carries their weight, or we all die."

  Sweat trickled down Endyn's flushed face. His eyes were closed, and he sucked in deep breaths. Yet his expression remained unyielding. Duvain had met few men who could challenge his brother's stubbornness. He simply refused to quit—he'd done so when his father worked him harder than any of the other farmhands, and he did so now. Climbing to his feet, he dug his toes into the muddy ground, filled his lungs, and threw his weight against the wagon once more.

  Shaking his head, Sergeant Brash tugged on the lead reins. The horses added their weight and strength to Endyn's effort. Nothing. A low rumble echoed from Endyn's throat, growing louder and stronger until it rose to a roar.

  Duvain's heart stopped. Endyn was overexerting himself. He couldn't take the strain much longer. He couldn't—

  With a wet sucking sound, the wagon wheels rolled free of the mire.

  "Bugger me sideways!" Weasel muttered. Rold and Owen drew in sharp breaths.

  Endyn sagged to his knees, his arms and head hanging down.

  Exhaustion forgotten, Duvain rushed toward his brother. Owen appeared on the other side, lending his support to the huge man.

  "You idiot!" Duvain whispered in Endyn's ear. "Why'd you do that?" Owen appeared on the other side, lending his support to the huge man.

  Endyn looked up with a tired smile. "Mother made me promise to look out for you."

  Duvain swallowed. Their mother had been the only good thing in their young lives. She'd sheltered them from their father's wrath, wiped away Endyn's tears when the boys of Northpass called him "freak" or "monster". Even now, from beyond the grave, she looked after them. He gripped his brother's shoulder and helped him lumber around the wagon.

  Endyn moved slowly. The exertion had taken a toll on him. Duvain feared his brother would collapse if he let go of him—the healers of the Sanctuary had warned against such effort. His heart, as enlarged as the rest of him, couldn't bear the strain.