Thog groaned. “Keeper’s teeth, Kolt, that’s cruel!” He threw up his hands. “Gladabar could sleep a week straight if you let him.”
“Fair point.” Koltun inclined his head. “But, if it makes you feel better, I promise I’ll wake him up before sunset.”
Thog scowled. “How kind.”
Koltun hid a smile. “That’s why you lot put me in charge, isn’t it?”
Again Thog muttered under his breath, something that Koltun chose not to hear. He turned to Caela. “Come on. Best we get back to camp and get the others ready to move out the moment Dayn’s ready.”
Caela nodded. “Though we might have to raid the Legion storehouse to restock our supplies. We’re a bit low after the last few weeks of travel.”
Koltun grimaced. “No way around it?” he asked. “We’ve got to deal with Sergeant Pellyn?”
“Not we.” Caela nudged his arm with her hip as she turned to stride back toward the mouth of the tunnel. “That’s why we put you in charge, isn’t it?”
* * *
“Supplies for fourteen, plus feed for the horses, spare blankets, and furs, eh?” Sergeant Pellyn squinted down his bulbous, red-veined nose at Koltun. “And you expect I’ll just hand them over to you without a written order from Captain Hadrick, eh?”
Koltun gritted his teeth. The rotund quartermaster had an irritating habit of phrasing everything as a question and ending it with that infuriating “eh?” sound. But his even worse habit was being a stickler for military rules and regulations when it came to his pathetically small kingdom that was the storehouse.
“We need the supplies and you’ve got them.” Koltun tried to keep the steely edge of frustration out of his tone, and failed miserably. “And you know full well that Captain Hadrick would sign the written order.” Lieutenant Vorris would do it, actually; Koltun would do anything to avoid the self-satisfied Captain. “You really going to make me go and fetch it?”
“I’m not making you do anything, eh, Sergeant Koltun?” Sergeant Pellyn lifted his round nose into the air, an expression of haughty disdain twisting his pudgy cheeks. “You Screaming Howlers aren’t as special as you believe you are, are you? You’ve got to follow Legion regulations as much as anyone else in camp, eh?”
That wasn’t precisely true. The Screaming Howlers received direct orders from Prince Toran, relayed through Duke Dyrund and General Traighan. They operated outside the traditional Legion chain of command, yet were still Legionnaires as much as the fat bastard holding court in the supplies warehouse.
But he’d waste his breath trying to explain to Sergeant Pellyn the nuances of their position in the Legion of Heroes’ hierarchy. All that mattered was that he got the supplies they’d need to get across the Sawtooth Mountains and back into Legion-held territory. Much as he’d love to thrash the truculent Sergeant, it wouldn’t get him what he needed any faster.
“Fine,” growled Koltun. “I’ll get your poxy written order.”
“Signed by the Captain, eh?” Sergeant Pellyn put special emphasis on the word. “No one else, eh?”
Koltun’s jaw clenched. “Aye. But you’d best start working on putting it together and have it ready by the time I return.”
A smug smile spread across Sergeant Pellyn’s round face. “Of course.” His tone held a self-congratulatory tone, as if he’d just won some major victory. “I’ll hop to and get right on that, eh?”
Koltun stomped away from the warehouse, his fists clenched to keep them by his side. If he didn’t, Sergeant Pellyn might find himself with far fewer teeth.
Mud splattered his boots and trouser legs as he marched through the sodden streets of Highcliff Motte. The warehouse stood on the southwestern corner of the fortress, built up against the cliff that served as the protective barrier guarding the fort’s western edge. A similar cliff loomed on the eastern side, and high stone walls blocked off the Cliffpass to the north and south. Highcliff Motte had been built astride the pass—one of only two through the jagged Sawtooth Mountains—effectively sealing the Cliffpass and the Fehlan wilds to the north from the icy Wastelands to the south.
Ox-drawn wagons rumbled past, laden with more supplies brought over the mountains. Those wagons would depart as soon as they had unloaded, heading north with the silver extracted from East Silver Shaft, the mine two miles north along the Cliffpass. Those too ill to stand guard would be permitted to ride along. No wounded would make the return journey—Highcliff Motte hadn’t seen battle in the better part of thirty years, and the closest the Legionnaires here came to real wounds were those inflicted on each other during training or drunken brawls. The Menders in camp could attend to the more common problems: trench foot, frostbite, and dysentery.
Koltun grimaced. The Legionnaires around him had grown fat, lazy, and accustomed to comfort. A handful of soldiers sat in a nearby wooden hut, warm in their blankets, gambling, drinking, and taking their ease. They wore no armor and their shields and swords leaned against the walls behind them. In the next house, a simple structure of wattle-and-daub, another group lay snoring, their muddy boots discarded carelessly at the entrance to their hovel.
So much for the Legion’s finest. Were it not for Swordsman Adept Datarr forcing them to attend daily training sessions and the established watch schedule, most of them would never rouse from their bedrolls.
No, Koltun told himself, that’s not quite fair. Many of the Legionnaires had allowed themselves to relax, to enjoy the easy life of this remote outpost. Yet there were those who remained true soldiers. A trio of men sat polishing their armor and sharpening weapons, while a fourth scraped mud from his comrades’ boots. Only a handful—fewer than half of the Legionnaires posted in Highcliff Motte, Lieutenant Vorris among them –engaged in training with gusto and carried about their duties with a soldier’s pride.
An errant gust of wind rolling off the mountain sent a shiver down Koltun’s spine. He hitched his cloak up higher to keep out the chill. Too late. The cold had seeped into his bones. A deep, throbbing ache settled into his left forearm. He rubbed at it, trying in vain to warm up the muscle and loosen the joint. The Eirdkilr axe that had shattered his arm and ended his career as a Legionnaire left him a painful daily reminder of his past failings.
How many died that day? Regret twisted like a cold knife in his belly. How many would have lived had we been led by a proper commander?
The Battle of Marrow’s Gulch had gone down as one of the worst defeats sustained in Legion history. Koltun had been unfortunate enough to be present that day. He hadn’t stood in the battle line—he was too short to hold a shield—but had watched from his Captain’s side as the Eirdkilrs carved their way through Pearl Battalion’s Sixth and Eighth Companies. General Traighan had arrived with Jade Battalion in time to pluck the battle from the jaws of defeat, but Commander Tureyn’s incompetence had gotten too many good soldiers killed. Court-martial and humiliating return to his hometown of Malandria was a fate far better than he deserved.
With a growl, Koltun pushed the thought away, into the back of his mind. To the past, where it belonged. Twenty-four years, and still the battle returned to haunt him. No matter how he tried, he could only ignore it for so long.
It, and all the other burdens that came from a long military career. All the friends that had died, the soldiers who had fallen at his side. Men he might have been able to save had he been a little quicker, a little more skilled, or a little more courageous.
Or, the thought came bitter, a little larger. Far too many times, he’d cursed his stunted size—it had prevented him from joining the shield wall and fighting as a “proper” Legionnaire. He hadn’t felt a true soldier until the day he first touched a crossbow. Watching that bolt fly, straight and true, had changed his life.
“Ho, Sergeant!” A voice snapped him from his thoughts.
Koltun focused his eyes on the source. A short, stocky man with hair and beard of jet black stood outside the hut given to the Screaming Howlers. As he always did when off-duty, Burgo
wore no shirt or jacket, but stood clad only in the thick layer of hair that sprouted from every inch of his body. How the man could stand the cold remained a mystery and subject of much debate among the Screaming Howlers. None of them had ever once heard Burgo complain about even a slight chill.
At least he’s wearing pants today, Koltun thought.
“Packed and ready to move, sir,” Burgo said. “Though our packs are awfully light.” He spoke with the accent of a Westhavener, a man of the Princelands. “By your beaming smile, I take it you’ve had a pleasant chat with the good Sergeant Pellyn.”
“A real charmer, he is.” Koltun scowled. “Insisted I get a written order from Captain Hadrick.”
“Ahh, of course.” Burgo raised his thick, heavily-muscled arms wide in a stretch that thrust his muscles forward, letting the wind ruffle his chest hair. “And after what you did to Ardem and his cronies, he won’t exactly be in a generous mood.”
Koltun gave a noncommittal grunt, trying to bite down on his irritation.
“Good luck, Sarge!” Burgo called as he turned back toward the door of their hut. “Give me an Eirdkilr army over commissioned officers, I always say.”
Koltun wasn’t inclined to disagree. He’d met plenty of good officers over the course of his career, but far more proved the opposite. Men who had bought their way into a commission rarely tended to be in the Legion for anything more than the title, rank, and a chance at glory. Captain Hadrick definitely counted among that number.
Sergeant Pellyn had known just how to twist the dagger in Koltun’s gut. His insistence on proper protocol forced Koltun to speak with Captain Hadrick when he’d far rather have Lieutenant Vorris draft up the order.
Grimacing, he strode toward the stone building at the center of Highcliff Motte that served as the fortress’ command post.
Highcliff Motte wasn’t a particularly large fortress—just fifty yards from east to west, the width of the Cliffpass, and five hundred from north to south—sizeable enough to hold a single Legion company with the accompanying civilians that kept the garrison operational. There was no need for more; according to what little intelligence had been gathered, the Eirdkilrs’ few towns and villages were hundreds of miles to the west, just south of Snowpass. With Snowpass Keep firmly under the barbarians’ control, they had free rein to cross the Sawtooth Mountains into southern Fehl. None had bothered to make the arduous trek across the desolate Wastelands in more than five decades.
In truth, the Legion’s presence here was chiefly for show. The base had been manned to maintain a presence in southeastern Fehl, close to the fractious Myrr and Bein. Indeed, the wagons that brought supplies and carted away the sick and wounded passed through the Myrr city of Kaldrborg, just north of the foothills bordering the Sawtooth Mountains.
No Eirdkilr force had ever breached the forty-foot wall guarding the southern edge of the Cliffpass. No enemy had gotten through the massive gate of iron, wood, and steel barring the entrance. There was no fear of attack, and that attitude had been at once tangible the moment Koltun and the Screaming Howlers rode into the fortress.
Now, they had a chance to leave, to get out of this frozen nightmare of a garrison. All he had to do was endure one more conversation with Captain Hadrick, procure the written order for supplies, and he and his soldiers would be on their way. North once more, back to the warmth of the Princelands, hopefully never to return to this desolate outpost on the edge of the Keeper-forsaken Wastelands.
Koltun’s jaw clenched as he caught sight of Captain Hadrick standing in the door of the command building. Let’s get this over with and get the bloody hell away from this place.
“Captain,” he called out, “if I might have a word with you?”
Captain Hadrick looked up from his conversation with his aides. A scowl flickered across his face as he recognized Koltun. “Not now, Sergeant. I’m quite busy with—”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Koltun pushed on, “but all I need is a written order to get supplies for my soldiers.”
Captain Hadrick raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?” He actually appeared smug. “Go see Sergeant Pellyn about that. I need not waste my time with such trifles.”
Koltun bit back on an angry retort; losing his temper wouldn’t help anything. “I already went, Captain. Sergeant Pellyn said he’d give us nothing without a written order.”
“He did, did he?” The Captain’s face positively radiated an air of superiority. “If so—”
Whatever he’d been about to say was drowned out by the blast of a horn. The brassy, blaring sound rang out across Highcliff Motte, a sound that seemed to freeze everyone in the fortress. For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one spoke. All eyes turned toward the southern wall, disbelief etched into every face as if they’d imagined that sound.
But it came again a second later, clear, ringing, carrying through the utter stillness. The battle horn of the Legion, a horn that had not been blown in Highcliff Motte for more than five decades.
Chapter Four
The second blast of the battle horn snapped Koltun from his momentary shock. It didn’t matter that the enemy shouldn’t be attacking here, and hadn’t for longer than he’d been alive. That call to arms was all that mattered.
He spun toward the south and raced through the streets, his boots pounding through the mud. The horn sounded again, echoing high and piercing across Highcliff Motte. Suddenly, the fortress behind Koltun exploded into a frenzy of motion, shouted orders, and the clatter of weapons.
Koltun’s eyes never left his destination. His legs pumped, covering the distance to the nearest staircase ascending to the ramparts atop the walls. He raced up the stairs as quickly as he could—gone was any memory of aching joints, the fatigue of riding, or irritation at Captain Hadrick. The only thing in his mind was the reason for that horn.
He reached the rampart before the horn rang a fourth time. By then, every Legionnaire on watch atop the wall had clustered along the southern edge, staring down the broad Cliffpass toward the icy Wastelands below.
“Keeper’s teeth!” One scrawny Princelander had gone white in the face, his shield hanging from nerveless fingers. “So many of them!”
Koltun reached the wall, but the parapet was too high for him to peer over unaided. He spotted a wooden crate one of the soldiers had used for a seat and, dragging it toward the wall, leapt atop it to join the soldiers in peering over the stone lip.
The sight that greeted him sent shivers down his spine.
Two mounted riders raced up the Cliffpass. “Eirdkilrs!” one shouted, his voice hoarse. Even swathed in furs and masks covering their faces, Koltun recognized them as the scouts that had ridden out the previous night. Two of the original eight-man company. They hunched over their saddles, clinging to their horses’ manes as if to a lifeline, their pace frantic and desperate to eke every shred of strength out of their tired mounts.
A sight out of the frozen hell followed in their wake.
Where the icy Wastelands south of the Cliffpass had been silent, undisturbed snow mere moments earlier, it had now come to life. Hints of dark, filthy brown, beige, and black mingled with the dazzling white, but it was the vivid blue that stood out most among the tundra. Eirdkilrs, hundreds of them, with faces stained blue for war.
A forest of wood and steel glinted in the bright daylight. Eirdkilr axes, spears, and clubs gripped in massive hands rose high into the air. The horn had given away their position; now, they raised their voices in the howling, ululating war cry. The shrieking call thundered up the Cliffpass, reverberated off the high stone walls bordering the fortress, and rolled over the defenders holding the wall.
Fear twisted in Koltun’s gut, and a momentary dread rooted him in place. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the fur-clad figures that now surged up the mountain pass toward Highcliff Motte. Toward him.
“Get that bloody gate open!” barked a gruff voice. “Now, damn you!”
The shouted order snapped Koltun from his momentary stupor. D
iscipline honed by decades of battle slammed into place, like a protective shield separating his instincts from the panic clawing at his mind. Instantly, his hand darted toward his chest to grip the strap holding his crossbow in place on his back.
But his crossbow wasn’t there.
Koltun growled a curse. The lackadaisical attitude in Highcliff Motte had infected him. He’d been so critical of the Legionnaires, but he, too, had simply neglected to carry his weapons. His crossbow, the weapon that made him a Screaming Howler, leaned against the wall of his hut.
Even as he turned to race back down the stairs, a shadow fell across him. Burgo, now clad in full armor, loomed over him, his dark eyes locked on the horde of barbarians racing up the Cliffpass toward them. He looked away only long enough to hold out a crossbow and the leather quiver that held his bolts.
“Thought you might need these,” the Westhavener muttered, his voice all but swallowed by the commotion filling Highcliff Motte.
“Bless you!” Koltun snatched the weapon from his comrade and slung the quiver strap over his shoulder. The weight of the crossbow and bolts pushed back the last traces of emotion. His hands moved by rote, snatching the goat’s foot lever from his belt, hooking it onto the string, and pulling back to span the crossbow. Settling a bolt into place in the cradle, he gripped the heavy wooden stock and brought it up to his shoulder. Five seconds was all he needed to load, aim, and loose.
He sighted down the length of the bolt’s wooden shaft, and the world swam into perfect focus. Beyond the gleaming, wickedly sharp steel tip, the enemy raced up the hill toward him. Yet with the feel of the wood against his shoulder and cheek, the feel of the metal trigger mechanism gripped gently in his fingers, he felt no fear, no panic. Only the detached, cool calm of a professional, a soldier trained to kill.
His mind took in the enemy in a single glance. Five or six hundred at least, nearly a quarter-mile down the Cliffpass. The Eirdkilrs had crossed almost half the distance from the flat tundra below, and they’d reach the southern walls of Highcliff Motte in a matter of minutes.
The Last March: A Grimdark Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 6) Page 3