Ragged Heroes

by Andy Peloquin

  Owen moved as if in a trance, reaching for Duvain and helping him to stand. Duvain winced at the pain in his arm; with the fog of battle retreating, he was fully aware of its presence now. He needed Owen's help to climb down the ladder from the parapet.

  He shot a glance at Endyn. His brother had a cut on his forehead and a mud stain on his knees, but otherwise looked unharmed.

  "Corporal Rold!" Captain Lingram's voice cut through the night. "Status report." The captain strode toward them, his face a mask of concern.

  Rold leapt from the parapet, landing on the ground beside Duvain, and pushed through the Legionnaires to meet the captain a short distance away. "Situation's dire, sir." He spoke in a voice too low for the men on the wall to hear, but Duvain caught everything as he limped past. "We've no hope of holding. We can stall them, but…"

  "Understood." The captain nodded. "How long do we have?"

  Rold shrugged. "They took a beating in that first round, so they'll retreat for a few minutes to lick their wounds before trying again. But they'll be back on us in five, ten minutes at most."

  Captain Lingram's face hardened. "Then we've got to make use of the time."

  Rold's face went blank. "Orders, Captain?"

  Duvain slowed further. The fate of the Deadheads rested on Captain Lingram's next words.

  The captain drew in a deep breath. "We've got to get as many of the villagers out of here as we can. Lord Virinus and his entourage as well. I want your squad heading up the flight."

  "My squad?" Rold asked. "With respect, sir, the big one's our best hope of holding the gate as long as possible. Squad Three may not be the Legion's finest, but—"

  "Corporal, you have your orders." Captain Lingram's voice brooked no dissent. "Get your men to the wagons and get the people moving."

  "And you, sir?" Rold asked.

  "I'll be commanding the rear guard, buying the rest of you time to escape."

  "Not a bloody chance." A new voice entered the discussion: Sergeant Brash's. "You can stuff that order up your keister, with all due respect, sir."

  Duvain stopped, unable to help himself listening to the debate.

  Captain Lingram's expression grew angry. "Sergeant, while I appreciate—"

  "Appreciate nothing, sir." The sergeant spoke in his cold, quiet voice. "You know as well as I do that you're the best chance of any of us making it back to Icespire in one piece. You know the terrain better than any of us, and you're one of the few that speaks enough Fehlan to communicate with the villagers. That makes you the best man to head up the retreat party."

  "He's right, Captain." Awr had joined the debate now. "And you know it. It's just your Keeper-damned pride and loyalty that's talking you into staying. We both know how that'd turn out.”

  Captain Lingram's face hardened. "I thought my soldiers had more respect than this."

  "We've all the respect in the world, Captain," Brash replied. "Which is why we're all going to tell you that we'll knock you out cold and tie you to the wagons before we let you command the rear guard."

  Captain Lingram's eyes narrowed. "You speak of mutiny, Sergeant."

  "Call it what you will, captain." Brash shrugged. "Whatever it takes to get you out of here in one piece."

  "Damn it, Brash, I won't stand by and let you do this!" Captain Lingram's voice rose to a shout.

  "Begging your pardon, sir, but I'm not giving you much choice." Brash folded his arms over his chest. "After what you did for me in Garrow's Canyon, I owe you. Seems like as fine a time as any to make good on that debt."

  Captain Lingram tried to speak, but Awr cut him off. "You've a part to play in all this, Captain. You've got to get the Fjall chieftain's daughter back to Icespire and make sure that treaty gets signed. Would you really trust Lord Virinus with command of your men?"

  The captain's brow furrowed.

  "He'd get everyone killed before daybreak." Awr shook his head. "The rest of them are counting on you, sir." He saluted. "Brash and I'll mind the village in your absence. Might even have a nice warm meal prepared for you when you get back."

  Captain Lingram tried to speak, but no words came. He swallowed and tried again. "How many can you spare?"

  Sergeant Brash turned back to study the walls. "With fifteen, I can hold long enough for you to get out."

  Awr nodded. "We'll keep them busy for you, Captain."

  Captain Lingram's eyes narrowed. "Awr, you don’t have to do this. There's no debt between us."

  "That's where you're wrong, sir." Awr gestured to his throat. "The bastards would've finished the job if it weren't for you. It cost you everything to stand up to that cunt Virinus for me. Not a day's gone by that I want to tell you to take it back, to sit down and let them hang me for thievery. You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me."

  "I did what was right, Awr. You were trying to feed your family. You didn't deserve—"

  "And that right is what got you sent here in the first place." The corporal folded his arms. "I won't let your pig-headed insistence on being a good man get you killed."

  Sergeant Brash and Corporal Awr straightened and gave Captain Lingram a solemn salute. "It was an honor, sir," Brash said.

  The captain returned the salute with a hard expression. "Make the bastards pay, Sergeant."

  "Aye, sir." Sergeant Brash nodded. He turned to Awr and clapped the corporal on the back. "Seems like a nice night to dance with the Long Keeper, doesn't it, Corporal?"

  "That it does, Sergeant." Awr returned the grin. "And I've got my dance shoes all polished and ready for the party." With a nod to the captain, he turned and strode with Brash toward the east gate.

  Captain Lingram watched them go, unable to take his eyes from them. When he finally turned away, tears glimmered in his eyes.

  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. "As you know, it's imperative for me to reach Icespire with our guest."

  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. "As commanding officer of this garrison, I—"

  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.

  Twenty Legionnaires formed the shield wall—two 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 way the villagers would escape.

  It took two 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 Icespire. 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 th
e 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.