“That’s quite the if!” Burgo tugged at his dark beard. “They’re not exactly going to sit on their thumbs and wait for us to pick them off.”
Connell shrugged. “No, they won’t, but that’s never stopped us before.” He glanced around at the rest of their company. “And we’re not alone. We’ve got the support of a full Legion company—”
“And what a company they are!” Caela muttered under her breath, a scowl on her face.
“—and solid walls to shield us,” Connell continued, unfazed by his comrade’s interruption. “Our work’s cut out for us, sure, but that’s what we do, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Koltun interjected, “but it’s also not what we came here to do.” He turned to glance at Arch-Guardian Dayn. “Our mission’s to see the pair of you and the flarequartz safely back across the mountains. That has to be our priority.”
“But Kolt—” Thog began.
“But nothing.” Koltun cut the big Praamian off with a sharp slash of his hand. “You all know as well as I do that bringing that flarequartz back to the Princelands has the possibility to shape the outcome of this war. Likely even end it, once the Secret Keepers dream up weapons that can harness its power.” The explosion within the mine shaft had left a definite imprint on his mind of just how potent that simple mineral could be in the right hands. “General Traighan, Duke Dyrund, and the Prince all know it, which is why they assigned us to keep the Secret Keepers safe. It’s our duty to ensure that they get back across the mountains intact.”
A few of the Screaming Howlers opened their mouths to protest, but he glared them into silence. The purpose of their presence in Highcliff Motte had always been clear. That mission took priority.
And yet, he couldn’t simply sit by and do nothing. It wasn’t his way.
“Which is why I’m ordering you to accompany the Arch-Guardian back across the Cliffpass the moment he’s collected enough flarequartz.” He fixed his companions with a solemn glare. “It’s up to you to deliver him and his prize safely to his destination.”
“Up to us?” Caela’s eyes narrowed.
“It almost sounds like you’re not thinking of coming with us,” Thog rumbled.
“I’m not.” Koltun shook his head. “I’m staying. Ninth Company can’t do this on their own.”
“Damned right they can’t!” Burgo growled. “And neither can you. One crossbow won’t make much difference, even if that one is yours, Sarge.”
“Perhaps.” Koltun inclined his head. “But our orders are clear. The Secret Keeper is mission priority.”
“He is, but that doesn’t mean we all have to see him safely home.” Caela straightened, her eyes locked on Koltun. “Seems like escorting a Secret Keeper and a couple of barrels back to the Princelands is a job for three, maybe four Screaming Howlers.” She gestured to Wallis, the youngest of their number. “The lad’s up for it.”
Wallis sputtered a protest, but Caela drove on, ignoring him. “Dannick’s got a wife waiting for him in Wolfden Castle, and Sadras has his third on the way.”
“Fourth.” Sadras gave a crooked grin. “Iraina’s all but certain it’s twins.”
“Hah!” Caela clapped the man on the shoulder. “Congratulations, mate! You’ve just volunteered to lead the mission back home.”
“Rot that!” Sadras folded his arms over his chest, jaw thrust stubbornly. “You send me away, you’re stuck with two shit-for-brains that’ll get themselves killed doing something stupid. I’m staying. Send Nouth. He’s got to get back home to that sister of his, keep her brood fed and clothed the way he’s been doing all these months.”
Nouth, a blond-haired Lightmoor man, tried to protest, but Caela cut him off. “Done. Nouth, get ready to move out.” She glared the man into submission, and Nouth finally relented.
Caela’s smile hardened, her expression growing determined as she turned back to Koltun. “As for the rest of us, we’re bloody staying and fighting.”
“Caela—” Koltun started.
“Sorry, Sarge.” Thog’s rumbling voice cut off Koltun’s protest. “You’re stuck with us.” He folded his tree-trunk arms across his impossibly broad chest. “Like Glad’s lice, you’ll find we’re not that easy to get rid of.”
Gladabar unconsciously reached down and scratched his crotch, earning mocking laughter from his two brothers.
Koltun hesitated. He wanted to talk the Screaming Howlers out of the decision—the odds were stacked heavily against them, and staying to fight meant risking their necks against such a vast army—yet he could not. Would not. How could he dissuade them from making the exact same choice he had? Every one of them had joined the Screaming Howlers for this precise reason: to tip the scales of battle in the Legion’s favor, even in the face of near-certain defeat and death. Now, when it came time to face grim reality, they stood tall and strong.
Pride glowed within him. “So be it.” His voice grew gruff, hoarse around the lump rising in his throat. “We stay.”
Arch-Guardian Dayn cleared his throat, his means of drawing their attention. When Koltun looked over, the Secret Keeper held up his tablet. “Remember, I still need another day to collect enough flarequartz. Another day to help hold the walls.”
“Aye.” Koltun nodded. “Any chance you can use that big brain of yours to cook up some way of bringing down the Cliffpass behind us?”
Arch-Guardian Dayn’s eyes narrowed, deepening the lines around his mouth and forehead. After a moment, he erased the words and wrote a new message. “If you can buy me an extra half-day, I believe we can make it work.”
Koltun cocked an eyebrow, curious.
A grin broadened Arch-Guardian Dayn’s face. “It’s the perfect opportunity to field test exactly what the flarequartz can do.” Bradon’s excited expression mirrored his master’s, though it was tempered with a healthy dose of nervousness.
Koltun’s gut twisted. He’d seen what the mineral could do with the right application, but the idea of “testing” it with so many lives on the line left him uneasy. The last thing he needed was the flarequartz failing in the face of an oncoming enemy.
Yet the memory of the explosive detonation within the mine pushed back his uncertainty. If they could set that power against the enemy here and now, they had a chance. Not of holding the fortress—the enemy was too numerous, and there was simply no way to turn back that tide. Even if the Legionnaires had a thousand explosive-stone-filled cloth bundles to drop on the Eirdkilrs, it would only slow them down, not stop them. Ninth Company would run out of hands before the enemy ran out of bodies to throw at the walls.
No, the Legionnaires’ only hope here was to delay long enough to seal the Cliffpass. If the Swordsman smiled on them, perhaps they could do more than just bring down the cliffs—they might be able to collapse them atop the Eirdkilrs, depriving the enemy of a sizeable fighting force. Winnowing down the barbarians here could turn the tide of war on the western front.
One by one, Koltun searched the eyes of his Screaming Howlers. He had made his decision and, judging by the determined looks on their faces, so had they. Even young Wallis appeared determined, his fists clenched at his sides and his spine straight as a spear.
“A day and a half,” Koltun said with a nod. “Whatever happens, we hold that long.”
“A toast!” Gladabar’s voice rang out in the hut. The soldier produced a flask—from where, Koltun never knew, but the man seemed to always have one squirreled away—and popped the cork. “To valiant fools—”
“—and fine grog.” Sadras snatched the flask from his brother’s hand and poured a stream of the reeking brown liquor down his throat.
“Enough for all!” Madden, the third brother, grabbed the bottle, spattering droplets of the alcohol over Sadras’ face as he took a long pull.
“No there’s bloody not!” Gladabar scrambled in pursuit of his flask, scowling and wrestling with Sadras to get at his stolen drink.
Koltun got to it first. “I’ll take that!” He retreated toward the d
oor, holding up the half-empty metal bottle. “Keeper knows we’ll need every drop for the b—”
He never finished his sentence. The ringing, brassy cry of the battle horn shattered the night, blaring its warning throughout Highcliff Motte.
The Eirdkilrs had resumed their assault on the walls!
Chapter Eight
The Screaming Howlers were out of their hut and racing toward the southern wall before the horn’s clarion call fell silent. Koltun, nearest the door, darted out of the path of the stampeding soldiers. He knew full well that he’d never reach the parapets before his comrades, so his best choice was to let them race past and follow as best he could. With his quiver full, refilled before his visit to Captain Hadrick, he ran through the muddy streets in pursuit of his fellows. All around him, shouts of alarm and barked orders echoed loud in the night, accompanied by the splashing of heavy boots pounding through puddles of stagnant water.
As he reached the next intersection, he caught sight of the southern wall. Torches burned all along the parapets, casting their glow on the soldiers racing into position. Howling war cries echoed from beyond the gate. The first Eirdkilr arrows whistled through the air, but Lieutenant Vorris and his Legionnaires were prepared. They crouched behind their shields and the high stone wall, shielded from the storm of missiles.
Yet Koltun knew the arrows were only the distraction. The Eirdkilrs were making for the abandoned battering ram, using the cover of night to conceal their movements. A sound plan, one that could still work. The Eirdkilr archers could remain in the shadows below and loose arrows at any of the Screaming Howlers or Legionnaires that showed their faces.
But Koltun’s soldiers knew their work. They’d settle into positions as far from the torchlight as possible, using the solid stone parapet and whatever darkness they could find atop the walls to conceal them from enemy archers. This was a battle they had fought and won before.
Never with so few, though. The thought sent a tingle of dread down Koltun’s spine. He tried to push it aside, concentrating on running through the muddy streets toward the wall. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t fully shake off the icy grip of fear clutching at his chest. There was a chance they wouldn’t walk away from this fight at all.
No sense fussing about it now. Gritting his teeth, Koltun leaned into his run. The distance to the south wall seemed endless to his short legs, yet he forced himself onward. He had to reach the wall, had to join the battle beside his soldiers.
The first shrieks of Screaming Howler bolts joined the din of combat. One, two, four, seven. With terrible speed—and, he knew, uncanny accuracy, developed over years spent training with their crossbows—Caela, Burgo, Thog, Connell, and the rest of the soldiers sent their deadly missiles winging into the darkness.
Koltun hit the stone stairs at a run and scrambled up the dozens of steps that ascended to the parapets. A Legionnaire charged in the opposite direction, nearly bowling him over, and Koltun only kept his feet by throwing himself against the wall. The impact sent a sharp twinge racing down his left shoulder. Biting down on the pain, he continued his sprinting ascent of the steps.
BOOM!
The stone wall trembled beneath a thunderous impact. Staggering, Koltun barely managed to stay upright. A ball of ice settled in his stomach.
BOOM!
The Eirdkilrs had recovered the ram and reached the gate.
“Stones!” Lieutenant Vorris’ voice cut through the din of battle. The echoing calls of his fellow Lieutenants rippled up and down the fifty-yard stretch of wall. Even as Koltun reached the top of the staircase and raced onto the parapet, he caught sight of the men struggling to lift the massive stones hauled from East Silver Shaft. Not Legionnaires but miners, unarmored and clad only in threadbare tunics—men who had no business in battle.
Yet with so few soldiers facing so many Eirdkilrs, what choice was there?
Koltun raced toward Lieutenant Vorris, who stood on the wall immediately above the gate. The wall shook underfoot beneath another mighty impact from the ram, but before the thunderous report fell silent, the first of the miners reached the walls with their stony burdens.
“Make a hole!” Lieutenant Vorris called, tapping the shoulder of the Legionnaire directly in front of him. The soldier stepped back, opening a narrow gap in the shields presented to the enemy, just wide enough for the miners to hurl the stone over the wall.
Wide enough for an Eirdkilr arrow to slip through. One of the two miners suddenly jerked, his head snapping back, and collapsed to the parapet. Blood gushed from an arrow driven deep into his throat, and crimson stained the sharp tip protruding from the back of his neck.
The gap between the shields closed in the next heartbeat—a heartbeat too late for the dead miner.
“Get him out of here!” Lieutenant Vorris shouted at the miner’s comrade without so much as a glance down at the corpse. Koltun knew exactly what was going through the officer’s head and heart: nothing. The Lieutenant had no time for remorse or pity, not now in the heat of battle. There would be a time for all that later. Now, he had to be the focused, clear-headed and cold-hearted officer that gave the orders to keep his men alive. Koltun had been in that same situation far too many times over his decades of battle.
Without pause, Koltun vaulted the body of the dead miner, careful not to step in the blood slicking the stone wall, and raced toward Lieutenant Vorris. “Where do you want me, sir?” he roared to make himself heard over the war cries of the Eirdkilrs, the shouts of the Legionnaires, and the shrieking bolts loosed from the Screaming Howlers’ crossbows.
“Right here!” Lieutenant Vorris shoved him toward a pair of wooden crates that hadn’t been there earlier that day. “We need to get rid of those ram-carriers now!”
Without hesitation, Koltun leapt onto the crates and squeezed in between two Legionnaires. The crenellation of the parapet guarded his left side, and a heavy Legion shield covered his right. He had just enough room to peer out into the darkness below.
Keeper’s teeth! Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dark, fur-clad figures packed into the Cliffpass. Like hideous beasts out of a child’s nightmare, the giants screamed, shoved, and jostled against each other in their effort to reach the wall. Waving massive axes, spears, and war clubs, shields upraised against the return fire of the Screaming Howlers.
But Koltun had no time for fear. His hands moved with speed born of training and years of experience, spanning the crossbow, loading the bolt, and raising the weapon to his shoulder. The light of the torches burning atop the wall cast only a faint globe of light, perhaps twenty or thirty yards on all sides. The densely-packed enemy below appeared nothing more than a formless, faceless mass.
Koltun drew in a deep breath, pushing aside all thoughts of the battle around him. The world narrowed into a sharp point. Gone was the Legionnaire to his right, the stone to his left, the wooden crate beneath his feet. His eyes focused on the writhing, seething turmoil below, on the dark, fur-clad shapes. He locked on a single figure—just one, any one—to serve as the target for his bolt.
An Eirdkilr with a longbow drawn, arrow nocked, appeared beyond the steel tip of his bolt. Koltun’s right hand squeezed the trigger of his crossbow instinctively. The string twanged, the bolt shrieked off into the darkness, and the Eirdkilr archer’s head snapped backward.
Koltun had no time to watch the barbarian fall. He swiveled left, just enough to place himself safely behind the stone parapet, and set about reloading. Five seconds—span the string, nock the bolt, and grip the trigger—then he swiveled back toward the darkness to take aim again. He squeezed the trigger and sent his missile into an Eirdkilr’s chest.
All thoughts fled Koltun’s mind as he settled into the steady, relentless rhythm of his weapon. Swivel, reload, swivel, loose, swivel. Whenever he popped up, an Eirdkilr died. He barely heard the thunks of the Eirdkilr arrows driving into the shield guarding his right side, or the eerie crunching of heavy stones shattering shields and mangling flesh and bone. His wo
rld was consumed by nothing more than the unceasing movement of reloading and loosing his crossbow.
Again and again. Five bolts. Ten. Twenty. His arms, hands, back, and shoulders burned. The quiver on his hip felt light. He reached for a bolt and found none. His hands were already going through the motions of reloading before his brain comprehended. His quiver was empty.
Then came a new sound: screams, high and ringing, echoing with terrible pain. Koltun swiveled and found the Cliffpass suddenly awash with light. Pillars of great black smoke rose from beyond the wall, and beneath them flames of brilliant red, orange, and gold filled the darkness with blazing brilliance. With it came the stink of charred flesh, fur, hair, and burning wood.
“Again!” Lieutenant Vorris’ shout sounded so distant. Koltun blinked, found the officer standing at his side, a clay jar held upraised in his hand. The officer hurled the jar onto the Eirdkilrs below, and the screams of pain redoubled. Giant figures wreathed in flaming cloaks waded into the enemy clustered in the Cliffpass, wailing and thrashing about as fire roasted them alive. The Eirdkilrs were packed so tightly together that they could not escape their burning fellows; the flames leapt from barbarian to barbarian, setting nearly forty more men alight before the original handful were cut down or succumbed to the fire.
Suddenly, the Eirdkilrs were pulling back, racing down the hill and out of range of the pots of oil and bottles of liquor hurled by the Legionnaires atop the wall. Shrieking black fingers of death sped into the darkness after them, and another score of Eirdkilrs fell before the Screaming Howlers’ bowstrings fell silent.
The fog of battle still hung thick in his mind, and the night seemed awash in a blurring mist, with only a pinprick of the world visible. With effort, Koltun forced his eyes to blink, his thoughts to coalesce into coherence. He pulled himself back from the cold, calculating place he always went when sighting down the length of his crossbow and into the world of the living—and the dead.
The Last March: A Grimdark Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 6) Page 6