The Last March: A Grimdark Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 6)

by Andy Peloquin

  And then what? The question echoed in Koltun’s thoughts. Will they risk the attack?

  Then his gaze drifted south, beyond the clustered barbarians in their shaggy fur pelts. The Wastelands seemed to come alive. Like maggots writhing on a corpse of ice, towering figures rose from seemingly nowhere, gripping weapons and shaking off the powdery white snow that had served as their cloak.

  Keeper’s teeth! Koltun’s eyes flew wide at the sight. So many! He stopped counting at two thousand, and still more appeared from beneath the concealing shroud of snow.

  “The clever cunts!” Burgo growled.

  Koltun’s gut twisted. We couldn’t have seen this coming! Even had the Legionnaires on watch been the keenest-eyed in the Princelands, they’d had no chance of spotting the Eirdkilrs moving through the Wastelands, likely only traveling at night. The bastard barbarians had crept up on the fortress, using the cover of the snow and their white furs as camouflage. They’d lain in wait until the time to spring their trap—doubtless they’d intended to launch their assault that night, under cover of darkness.

  The scouts had stolen their element of surprise, but the Eirdkilrs’ plan of attack had only been foiled, not defeated. The weight of numbers tipped heavily in their favor.

  A thunderous rumbling echoed from behind and below him, accompanied by the clattering of horses’ hooves as the two scouts rode up the road from the now-sealed gate. Koltun glanced over his shoulder and spotted Captain Hadrick marching— not running, marching—down the road, flanked by his aides. Of Lieutenant Vorris, Koltun saw no sign.

  Even from the distance, he could overhear the scouts’ report—or as much of it as he needed to. “…saw them when it was too late…bastards took down Eren and the others, and we barely escaped with our lives!”

  Panic flashed across Captain Hadrick’s face. His mouth hung agape and he seemed frozen by shock, utterly unprepared and uncertain what to do.

  “Man the walls!” A shout cut through the din of the fortress. Lieutenant Vorris raced up the staircase, fully armored and helmeted, shield and sword in hand. “All hands to your stations, double quick!”

  The orders rang out through Highcliff Motte with a note of command that galvanized the Legionnaires into action. Scores of soldiers raced up the stairs and onto the parapets, joining their comrades atop the wall. Most stared in stunned surprise and horror at the enemy below, but Lieutenant Vorris’ commands kept them moving, kept them preparing for battle.

  “Shields up!” the Lieutenant cried. “Beware arrows!”

  Koltun stared down the length of his crossbow bolt at the enemy. None of the Eirdkilrs had drawn bows…yet. The barbarians had proven themselves damned good marksmen, and their enormous longbows could drive an arrow through all but the thickest Legion breastplate.

  Yet the Eirdkilrs weren’t the only ones with ranged weapons. A grim smile twisted Koltun’s lips as he watched the giant barbarians closing the distance. Eight hundred yards. Seven hundred. Six.

  Come on, you bastards. His left hand tightened around the crossbow’s grip, the fingers of his right caressing the trigger mechanism. Just a little closer.

  Five hundred yards. Four hundred-fifty. He drew in a deep breath, pressed his cheek against the smooth wooden stock. The world disappeared around him as he sighted on the barbarian leading the charge. A huge man with far too many missing teeth, lank hair, and eyes a fiery blue as deep as the war paint staining his face. Koltun lowered the bolt, just a fraction, and squeezed the trigger.

  The string snapped forward with a loud twang and the bolt leapt forward. A loud shrieking wail tore the air, silenced a heartbeat later as the steel-tipped missile punched through the Eirdkilr’s throat. The impact hurled the giant backward, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying into the barbarians surging up the road behind him.

  Koltun was already reloading. Movements made fluid by endless repetition: draw the goat’s foot lever, hook onto the string, span the crossbow, replace the goat’s foot, slide the bolt into its cradle, and lift the crossbow to his cheek. He paused only a heartbeat, just long enough to sight on the next barbarian in line. In that instant, another wail echoed from Burgo’s crossbow. Koltun loosed his bolt, sending a screaming missile straight into the chest of the man beside the one slumping with Burgo’s shaft driven into his chest.

  Four hundred yards was the maximum range of their crossbows, but the Eirdkilrs closed the distance with terrifying speed. As quickly as he could reload, he loosed the screaming bolts, taking down one Eirdkilr after another. Burgo’s crossbow string twanged in time with his, and more distant wails joined the chorus of death raining down on the Eirdkilrs.

  “Down!” A shout echoed from behind Koltun. He barely had to duck to find cover behind the lip of the wall—one of the perks of his size—but Burgo dropped into a low crouch. Not a moment too soon. A hailstorm of Eirdkilr arrows zipped over the walls. One clanked off the shield that had suddenly appeared in the spot where Burgo had stood a moment earlier. Another pinged off Koltun’s helmet and spun away into the empty air over Highcliff Motte.

  Koltun paused, just long enough to get a sense of the enemy archers, then popped up, raised his crossbow, and loosed. The screaming bolt punched into the throat of an Eirdkilr that had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow. Burgo stood, loosed, and ducked again, and his missile drove into another Eirdkilr archer’s eye.

  “They’re focused on reaching the wall,” Koltun shouted up to Lieutenant Vorris, who still held his shield up to cover Burgo and Koltun. “The archers are just trying to keep us distracted.”

  Over the last decade as a crossbowman, he’d learned to read the Eirdkilrs’ attack patterns based on how they utilized their longbows. Volleys en masse meant the barbarians intended to do as much damage as possible—usually to a stationary company of Legionnaires—before a charge. When only a few archers loosed, it was the Eirdkilrs’ attempt to force the Legionnaires to shelter behind their shields as they prepared for a direct assault.

  But that’d be suicide here! Koltun’s mind raced. There’s no way they can take these walls.

  He popped up, bolt cradled and ready to loose, and sent a howling missile into the mass of Eirdkilrs now a mere hundred yards away. Though the Eirdkilrs numbered in the thousands—perhaps as many as three thousand, counting those still appearing in the icy Wastelands—they had no ladders, grappling hooks, or siege tools. At least none he could see.

  So how in the bloody hell do they plan to get in here?

  His answer came a few seconds later. As the Eirdkilrs closed the distance to the wall, a group of the giants suddenly raised their round wooden shields in a protective carapace, a mimicry of Legion tactics. In the heart of that line of shields, Koltun caught sight of a battering ram.

  But this was no ordinary ram made of wood. No trees grew in the icy Wastelands. Instead, they carried an enormous battering ram formed from solid metal. Cheap steel and iron hammer-forged into a twenty-foot beam capped with a sharpened tip. A truly fearsome weapon, wielded by the mighty muscles of the giants below.

  They’re going for the gate!

  Koltun glanced up at Lieutenant Vorris. “What countermeasures have we got for that ram?”

  The Lieutenant’s expression went grim, hard as stone. “None.”

  Ice slithered down Koltun’s spine. No countermeasures, nothing to bite back at the enemy charging the wall. With that ram, it would be a matter of time—hours, not days—before the Eirdkilrs brought down the gate.

  Chapter Five

  Koltun’s mind raced. They had to bring down that ram. The survival of everyone in Highcliff Motte—and those beyond the Cliffpass—depended on stopping the Eirdkilrs here.

  His thoughts flashed to Arch-Guardian Dayn’s demonstration in the mine. If only we had a few of those flarequartz stones handy, we’d have this sorted. But wishing would do little to deal with their current problem. Until the Secret Keeper finished mining the stone, they wouldn’t—

  “Stone!” The words
burst from Koltun’s mouth. He popped up from behind the shelter of the wall, picked off an enemy archer taking aim at Lieutenant Vorris, and ducked back down. “Tell me, Lieutenant,” he shouted over the howling cries of the Eirdkilrs, “what did your miners do with all the useless stone extracted along with the gold and silver?”

  Lieutenant Vorris’ eyes narrowed. “The st—” He cut off with a sudden intake of breath, realization dawning in that moment. “Of course!”

  Whirling, the Lieutenant barked out an order to the nearest Legionnaire. “Corporal, take your platoon and get to the miners working the East Silver Shaft. Have them bring all the excess stone at once!”

  Confusion twisted the Corporal’s face into a frown. “Stone, sir?”

  “Just do it, man!” Lieutenant Vorris roared. “It’s our only hope of keeping the bastards away from the gate.”

  The Corporal was slower than the Lieutenant, but he, too, seemed to grasp the intention. “Of course, sir, right away!” He spun and raced along the ramparts, shouting for his soldiers to follow him. Five men broke away from the parapets and charged down the stairs.

  But Lieutenant Vorris wasn’t done barking orders. “Sergeant Nygar,” he shouted at a nearby soldier, “get me every shred of oil and liquor you can find in the fortress!”

  “Sir!” The Sergeant obeyed without hesitation, turning away from the defense of the walls and racing toward the muddy streets below.

  “Good thinking,” Koltun called to the Lieutenant as he shot another Eirdkilr. Stones would be a serviceable defense against the Eirdkilrs, but if they could use oil and liquor to set fire to the ram, they had a real shot of holding the barbarians at bay.

  “We’ve just got to survive long enough to get it all here.” Lieutenant Vorris crouched behind his shield as another flight of Eirdkilr arrows arced up toward the parapets. More of the barbarians had unslung bows and joined in the volleys. They couldn’t know the Legionnaires had no siege countermeasures, so they were expending their arrows keeping the soldiers’ heads down.

  Time we show them what happens when they piss off the Screaming Howlers!

  Koltun searched the ramparts until his eyes lighted on the figures he sought. Caela stood a few dozen yards to the east, with one-eyed Connell and the young Wallis at her side. Rock, Nouth, and Dannick had all reached the ramparts, taking up station to the west. Gladabar might have the ability to sleep through a battle, but he’d never miss a fight. He and the other two brothers in his triplet—Madden and Sadras—stood along the eastern cliff’s edge, using the stone and the Legion shields for shelter from the Eirdkilr arrows. Without Thog, still in the mine with Arch-Guardian Dayn, the Screaming Howlers had only a baker’s dozen to throw against the Eirdkilrs.

  But they’d damned well make sure the barbarians felt the sting of their wrath, hear the screams of their crossbow bolts.

  Koltun spun to Burgo. “Pass the word,” he shouted to the dark-haired Westhavener. “Bring down that ram!”

  Without question or hesitation, Burgo spun away and raced down the wall. Koltun didn’t bother to check—Burgo would relay the orders to the others, that much he knew for certain—but turned his attention to carrying out his own command.

  The Eirdkilrs had closed to within fifty yards of the gate. Laden by their heavy burden, even the giants could only lumber forward at a steady pace. Their long legs ate up the ground step by step, bringing them closer to their intended target—and all the Legionnaires it shielded.

  Not if I’ve got anything to say about it.

  Koltun spanned the crossbow, hung the goat’s foot on his belt, and drew out another bolt. A grim smile touched his lips as he settled the missile into its cradle. He sighted down the length of the shaft, past the sharpened steel tip with its precisely placed holes—holes that helped it fly faster while generating the piercing, shrieking whistle that gave the Screaming Howlers their name—and locked eyes on the foremost men in the Eirdkilr shield wall.

  One long breath, hold, and loose. The string snapped taut and the bolt leapt forward, slicing the air with its wailing cry. Koltun’s aim was true. The bolt slipped through a gap between two round wooden shields, finding Eirdkilr flesh. A barbarian screamed and dropped, his shield lowering. Just long enough for another crossbow bolt to cut down the man beside him, and a third to finish off another.

  Shrieking missiles sped toward the Eirdkilrs, widening the gap even further. Ten Eirdkilrs fell in the seconds it took Koltun to re-span his crossbow and nock another arrow, leaving the ram-carrying barbarians exposed.

  Eat this, you bastard!

  Koltun gripped the trigger of his crossbow, and the bolt sped toward the Eirdkilr supporting the very front of the ram. The barbarian fell with a strangled cry, bolt embedded between his ribs. His huge body tripped up the Eirdkilr behind him, causing him to stumble and fall. Another Eirdkilr died beneath the next whistling bolt, followed by more as the rest of the Screaming Howlers loosed.

  The Eirdkilrs raised their voices in roaring war cries and surged forward, shields upraised, to protect the vulnerable ram-bearers. But they moved too slowly. Koltun’s next bolt tore through an Eirdkilr’s face and drove deep into the arm of the barbarian opposite him. The two wounded barbarians screamed in agony and loosed their grips on the ram.

  Caela’s bolt punched through an Eirdkilr’s eye, just beneath the rim of his helmet, with such force his head snapped backward and slammed into the face of the barbarian behind him. Before the shields closed around the ram-bearers, two more bolts scythed down the Eirdkilrs supporting the front.

  Cries of pain and a loud WHOOMPH echoed from the ranks of Eirdkilrs, and suddenly their forward momentum stopped. The shields protecting the ram-bearers no longer moved, but remained motionless, joined by more and more of the giant barbarians defending the ram.

  “Hah!” Koltun shouted in triumph. The immense weight of the metal ram not only slowed down their movement; without enough hands to lift it, the Eirdkilrs had no hope of advancing.

  His momentary delight died a heartbeat later. More Eirdkilrs streamed toward the wall of flesh and furs, some raising shields to ward off the crossbow bolts while others stooped to lift the ram. Within a minute, the shield wall began to advance. The ram once more made its slow, steady journey up the Cliffpass toward the gate.

  “Shite!” Koltun growled a curse. They’d recovered faster than he expected. He ducked and cast a glance over his shoulder to the muddy streets of Highcliff Motte. No sign of the rocks, liquor, or oil.

  Looks like we’re doing this the old-fashioned way. He gritted his teeth. Fire until we’re out of bolts, then get some more!

  They might run out of bolts sooner rather than later. Already his quiver felt terribly light—he’d loosed close to half of his thirty-bolt supply. They had more back in their hut, but that meant sending someone to fetch them.

  At that moment, Burgo rejoined him at the center of the wall. “Want I should send young Wallis to fetch more bolts?”

  “Damned right!” Koltun growled as he loosed his bolt and ducked behind the safety of the parapet to rest and reload. Sweat streamed down his face, stinging his eyes, and fire burned in his arm and shoulder muscles. “Way things are looking, we might be at this all day!” He glanced up at the sky—the sun would set in a few hours, but there was no guarantee the Eirdkilrs would abandon their attack after nightfall. If anything, they might use the darkness to press their advantage.

  As Burgo raced off to pass word to Wallis, Koltun rose and brought his crossbow to bear on the enemy. He sent the bolt to its final resting place in an Eirdkilr’s chest, then paused just long enough to study the Eirdkilrs’ position. From where he stood at the center of the wall, just above the gate, he could only aim directly downward. The Eirdkilr shield wall was presented to his position, which left more gaps in their flanks. Yet if he didn’t keep them worrying about archers in front of them, they’d never leave their sides unguarded.

  Looks like I’ll have to pick my shots more carefully. H
e grinned and set another bolt into the cradle. And to think I nearly entered the Bloody Minstrel’s priesthood! He’d have missed out on all this excitement if he had.

  Rising, he brought his crossbow up and loosed the bolt in one smooth motion. Just in time to see an arrow slicing the air straight toward his face. He had no time to duck, only to throw his head to the side. The missile pinged off his helmet and ricocheted off into the air behind him, but the impact rattled his brain. The world spun violently about him and he staggered backward, reeling. He stumbled, fell off the crate, and nearly toppled off the edge of the wall. Something stopped him…barely.

  Looking up through blurry eyes, he found Lieutenant Vorris gripping the collar of his armor with one hand, shield raised in the other.

  “Don’t think I’m letting you get out of this that easily!” Vorris shouted over the howls of the Eirdkilrs and the shrieks of the Screaming Howlers’ crossbow bolts. A broad grin spread across his face as he hauled Koltun back onto the solid stone parapet. “Battle’s not quite over yet, Kolt.”

  “Aye.” Koltun steeled his voice to hide his nervousness at the near-brush with the Long Keeper. He gripped his crossbow tighter until the world stopped spinning and the tremor left his hands. Even after decades of battle, it never got easier to stare death in the face. “But I’d say it’s time to put an end to it.” He thrust his bearded chin toward the staircase. “Looks like your Sergeant came through.”

  Lieutenant Vorris whirled, eyes darting toward the parapet where the Sergeant he’d sent for oil and liquor came charging up the stairs, arms laden with clay jars, glass bottles, and even a few leather skins of wine.

  “Somebody bring me some Keeper-damned fire!” the Sergeant roared. A Legionnaire on the streets below raced toward a nearby brazier, scooped up a burning brand, and dashed toward them.